Return to Kinthaldith

A novel by Meredith Skye

The sun was up before Risser bothered to rouse himself out of bed. His head hurt a little from drinking the night before, but it wasn't too bad--compared to sometimes.

Risser threw off his blankets and forced himself into the cold morning air. Winter hadn't fully come yet; despite the chill, Risser decided it wasn't too cold for a bath. He'd picked this spot for the nearby pond because the one thing he hated about camping was the lack of opportunities for a good bath. He pulled the cloak around his shoulders, got some clean clothes, and headed up the hill for the pond.

He felt no need to rush this morning and so walked at a leisurely pace, needing the time to think now that he was sober again. Without Jesh, there was no point in going to Talleighdoran except to admit his failure. He cursed himself lightly for letting Jesh go. He'd heard him packing up last night and sneaking out of the camp, but he hadn't stopped him.

At least Jesh would live. Risser's conscience felt relieved at the thought, and he felt almost cheerful this morning.

At the pond, Risser stripped and plunged in, shivering. Involuntarily, he cried out at the cold and hurried to wash off with a small bar of soap. He could only stand a few minutes before climbing out of the water.

As he dried off and dressed, he tried to imagine the excuse he might give the Bishop and the other lords. He was drunk, and the boy slipped away from him. What could he do? They would be angry, but his honor would be safe. He could ask for their help in hunting Jesh down. But then, he worried, they might succeed. But--not if he took his time getting there. He was wounded--he couldn't travel fast. They would see that.

Vigorously, he toweled off his hair and then combed it. Where would Jesh go, though, and how would he fare? Not very well, he thought, with a twinge of guilt. He may even die, but at least it won't be at my hand, Risser thought. Jesh had a fighting chance, anyway.

On the way back to his tent, Risser heard a rustling sound behind some bushes. He froze. Had the assassin tracked him? Carefully, he set down his armload of stuff, glad he had dressed back at the pond. Stupid to have left his sword and gun back in the tent, but at least he had a knife. He drew that and moved forward cautiously.

For a moment, Risser felt a slight sense of panic at being alone. Even though he was doing much better, he was still wounded, and he doubted he could carry all the supplies, especially if he suffered any more wounds. He'd have to abandon most of his things and travel light. He regretted the loss of Jesh; letting him go had been rash.

The man behind the bushes took no notice of his approach and did not attempt to stay quiet. Perhaps Risser could take him easily without any further harm to himself.

Risser sprang on the unsuspecting man and got his knife on his throat, ready to slit it if need be. The man dropped an armload of wood and struggled against Risser wildly.

"Help!" the man shouted. Instantly, Risser recognized the voice--it was Jesh.

"Oh, it's you," said Risser and let him go. Jesh whirled to face him while stumbling back a few paces. "What are you doing?" Risser demanded, annoyed as well as a little confused.

Jesh stared at him. "Getting firewood."

The wood lay scattered on the ground, attesting to the truth of it, but Risser was sure Jesh had left last night—or had he only imagined it? Had the boy come back? He cursed under his breath. "Are you deaf? I said I was going to kill you!" Yet here was Jesh, going about his chores as though nothing had happened.

"I heard you," said Jesh. He knelt down and began picking up the scattered wood.

"I thought you'd run off," said Risser.