Watersmeet by Ellen Jensen Abbott Page B

down the last bite, he crawled out of the cave. She followed, groaning as she got to her feet in the sharp, cold air. Haret had already pulled his heavy bag over his shoulder, thrown some dried leaves over their footprints to the cave, and begun to walk. With a sigh, Abisina lifted her own bag, but she yelped when it hit her hip and shoulder. Haret stopped and looked at her. Abisina tried to adjust her under-shirt, but it stuck to her shoulder. She yanked harder and the shirt ripped away from her skin. The spot where her bag had rested was rubbed raw and now bled afresh.
    Haret came closer and glanced at the wound. “Ready to give up?” he asked, arms folded.
    Abisina shook her head without looking at him.
    “Look at yourself, human! You’re bruised, bleeding. I know every skinny muscle in your body is screaming. Admit it. You can’t do this. Tell me how to get to Watersmeet. I’ll take you back to my grandmother—at an easy pace.”
    In answer, Abisina returned her bag to her shoulder, gritting her teeth against the pain. She stared at Haret defiantly.
    “Give me the bag,” he said finally.
    “What?”
    Instead of answering, he grabbed the strap, tugged it off her shoulder, and started walking.
    She stumbled after him, head low, cheeks red with anger.
    Abisina passed the next few days in a numb stupor. At dusk, Haret would shake her awake and wait as she ate a few mouthfuls of bread. And before they set out, always the same question: “Ready to give up?” These were the last words either would speak until the next evening when he asked the question again: “Ready to give up?”
    The farther they got from Hoysta’s, the more often Haret stopped to bend down and examine the ground, grabbing a fistful of dirt and sniffing or tasting it, running his hand over a tree trunk as if reading the bark. Begrudgingly, Abisina admired his skill. She had taught herself to track and hunt in the woods of Vranille, but her skills were clumsy compared to his—and that was in daylight! As dawn softened the blackness in the east, they would stumble into a cave, under an overhang, or into a clump of trees to sleep away the day huddled under their pelts until Haret shook her awake again.
    They continued to head northwest, through forests and low mountains no Vranian had ever seen before. Abisina saw little herself. At dusk and dawn she glimpsed variegated-green forests, a mix of the lighter broad leaves and the sharp needles of firs and pines. Now and then, she heard the distant chatter of water flowing over rocks. Owls hooted, wolves cried, and animals scurried in the undergrowth. A few terrifying times, she spotted the leaping flames of centaurs’ fires and heard their raucous singing. Her hand would reach for her absent bow, and Haret would strike out on a new course away from the danger. Nothing else broke her walking-trance and the realities of tired feet, cold hands, and sore thighs.
    A couple of weeks into their journey, Abisina woke without Haret shaking her. She knew that something was different. In the mouth of the cave, snowflakes fell thick in the twilight. Haret sat before a small fire, twisting the Obrium necklace, its light dancing on the ceiling.
    Abisina shut her eyes and felt the wash of loneliness brought on each time she saw the necklace. Haret was silent as she got to her feet and tried to stretch her taut, aching muscles. But when she bent down to roll up her bed, he grunted, “We’re not traveling today. Too much snow.”
    Abisina stopped rolling and stood where she was. She relished the idea of sitting by the fire wrapped in warmth or getting some extra sleep, but she did not relish being in a small cave with Haret, who still sat holding Sina’s necklace.
    “I—I need you to put it away,” she said.
    “What?” He looked up at her with a frown.
    “The necklace—my mother’s necklace.”
    Did he see her tears? Would he care if he did?
    But he stuffed the necklace back into his tunic with a— Is it