Return to Kinthaldith

A novel by Meredith Skye

They made good progress in the morning. Risser was feeling better, and they kept a quicker pace now. Still, they rested fairly often.

Jesh began to hope for the future. Perhaps he could persuade Lord Risser to let him live and convince him to help with the resolution.

In the afternoon, the clouds darkened, and the rain came in torrents, drenching both of them, but they kept going until early evening. The cold was beginning to get to Jesh, but he was even more worried about Risser; this rain couldn't be good for his wound.

Finally, Risser stopped. "We'll camp here," he said.

They both worked to put up the tent, a struggle in this rain and mud. Once it was up, Jesh set the supplies inside the tent. When he went to enter the tent, Risser stopped him.

"This is my tent," said Risser as if to turn him away.

Jesh stared at him, incredulous. "What about me?"

"Sleep under that tree," suggested Risser, pointing to a scrawny tree not far from the tent. Risser handed him his bedroll.

Exhausted, Jesh stumbled over to the tree and stared at the rain-soaked ground, which mostly turned to mud. There wasn't a dry place anywhere to lay his bedroll out.

"Come on," Risser said, taking Jesh's arm. Risser followed him back to the tent. "Inside," Risser said when he hesitated. "Take your shoes off," Risser raised his voice to be heard above the storm.

Jesh entered the tent and took off his shoes. He dropped his bedroll and bag on the floor. A lantern hung on a post, giving light. Risser entered the tent, tied it shut, and shed his boots.

Risser threw himself on his own bedroll, which was already neatly laid down. "Are you daft? It's pouring rain out there."

"But you said..." Jesh began but stopped, confused, not sure what to say.

Risser stared up at him with a playful look in his eye. Realizing that the lord was joking, Jesh sat down and stared back at him.

"Forget cooking," said Risser. "Some bread and cheese will do."

Jesh nodded, found the food supply bag, and took it out. He gave some to Risser and kept a portion for himself. Hungrily, they both ate.

"This bread is terrible," said Risser. "I could make better bread than this."

Jesh looked at him doubtfully.

"They could flavor it by adding spice; even a little fennel would help. Plus, it needs more salt--it's tasteless. And it's too heavy--they put too much flour in it."

Now Jesh believed he really meant it. "How do you know so much about cooking?"

Risser smiled. "I like to eat well—is that a crime?" he asked haughtily. "And anyway, I'm out in the woods a lot or on my own. You could take lessons. Your cooking is getting better, but it's still pretty terrible."

Risser was never one to give too many compliments. For a while, they ate in silence. Risser studied Jesh quietly. "So tell me, how did my father die?"

Surprised, Jesh looked at him. The question seemed genuine. "Three people, all with masks on, attacked your father."

"Where were his bodyguards?" Risser asked, angry.

"I don't know. They'd fallen behind us," said Jesh. "The men grabbed Lord Demminsantlan's walking stick and began hitting him with it. When I tried to stop them, they hit me with it a number of times. I ran and called for help but couldn't speak the language. I didn't think anyone could understand, so I ran back inside. Your father lay on the floor, bleeding and nearly unconscious."