“And very likely we will not survive.” He rubbed her palm absently. She wouldn’t swear that he even knew he was doing it.
“We will,” she said. She caught his hand in both of hers, gripping hard enough to hurt. “Fenris, we will survive.”
He gave a half smile and a small nod. She could tell that he was humoring her, and she recalled the look in his eyes when she had yelled at him that he might die when that drunk had pulled a knife. He doesn’t want to die, I don’t believe he does, but … it’s like he expects to. Like it’s inevitable.
Like he doesn’t mind.
“Suppose we do survive. What happens then?”
“I don’t know.” Marra looked at the fire. “I suppose I go back to my convent and work on my embroidery.”
“Mm.” He squeezed her hand again, then released her and began to put out the fire. “Well, if you find that your convent needs someone to split firewood, it happens that I know a fellow…”
* * *
Two days later, they reached the capital of the Northern Kingdom.
She had been keeping her head down, hoping not to be recognized, and mostly watching the dust-wife’s feet. When they topped a small rise and the dust-wife stopped, Marra looked up for the first time in what felt like hours.
The prince’s city shone savagely before her, high walls leading in an endless spiral to the Northern palace. People streamed through the gates, vanishing into the maw of the city, and all she could think was that there were so many people, hundreds, thousands, all of them living in the prince’s city and loyal to him and what was she? What were five against so many? What could they do?
It is too much, she thought bleakly. We have grand plans, but in reality? Most likely we’ll get into the city, and look up at the palace, and talk and plan and talk some more, and eventually realize there’s nothing we can actually do, and leave again. That’s the way it happens outside of the stories.
The weight of this thought was suddenly very real, more than a feeling, a physical burden, heavy in her stomach and tight in her chest, and before she realized, she staggered unsteadily to the side of the road and went to her knees, out of the way of the crowd of traders and pilgrims. None of them looked at her. A dusty, weeping woman meant nothing, not with the sight of the city so bright and cold and hard before them.
It was Bonedog who noticed first. He put his paws on her shoulders and licked her face frantically. There was enough of the glamour for his tongue to feel wet, but he could not actually touch her tears.
“Good boy,” Marra whispered. “Good dog.” He was a good dog. Even if his master failed to save her sister or her kingdom, she had done one good thing—giving Bonedog a second chance.
Then Fenris was beside her, putting his arm around her as he had in the goblin market. He half lifted her, his great strength no longer shocking, and moved her farther out of the way of the crowd.
Fenris. Yes. There are good men in the world, and I have met one. And he is my friend, whatever else happens.
“Easy,” said Fenris. “Easy. Are you hurt?”
It was such a decent, obvious, ridiculous question that she found herself laughing, the quiet, gulping laughter that comes with tears. “No,” she said. “No, I just…” She waved her hand toward the city. “We’ll never do this, will we? This is all completely absurd. We can’t do this. It’s impossible.”
“You wove a cloak with nettle thread,” said the dust-wife, standing over her, “and built your own dog out of bones, and now you are concerned about what is impossible?” She shook herself and all the jars and bottles in her pockets rattled like a porcupine’s quills.
Marra began to feel embarrassed, not just for having dragged the others with her on this absurd mission, but also for having had the poor taste to have a breakdown in the middle of the road. “I’m sorry,” she said. Fenris helped her to her feet. His hand against her back was warm and strong. Bonedog lashed her shins with his tail.
“Oh, my dear,” said Agnes, sliding her arm through Marra’s. “It’s all right. It’s all just a little overwhelming, isn’t it?” She found a slightly crumpled handkerchief and passed it over to Marra. “You’ve done so much and here we are and now it feels like there’s so much left to do, doesn’t it?”
Marra accepted the handkerchief. If she’d had more energy, she’d be alarmed at how well the woman had read her. Yes. It did feel exactly like that. She had done so much and was so tired and how could it only be the beginning?