Passion Play (River of Souls 1)

Someone laughed, but it was a muffled sound, calculated not to carry forward. A moment later, one of the outriders passed Therez’s wagon. He looked young, with smooth round cheeks and a patchy beard. Catching her glance, he grinned.

“Volker, you piss-drinking whoreson. I said now.”

Therez flinched. The boy simply shrugged and urged his horse forward. Another rider followed. He looked a few years older than his partner. His dark brown face was leaner, and his eyes canted more, but she saw the resemblance between them. Both carried knives and clubs in their belts, but no swords.

By late morning the hay fields gave way to a stubbled expanse, then to green-gold meadows bordered by stands of dark-blue pines. Not long afterward, the caravan halted by a clearing to rest the horses.

Working in unison, Brandt’s crew swiftly unhitched the horses and tied them in pickets beside the road. Others had unloaded cooking gear, while Ulf, the cook, and his boys lit several fires. Mugs of hot coffee and slabs of bread toasted with cheese were the fare. Therez carried her portion to one side, where she found a seat on the grass.

Therez nibbled at the chewy bread, studying her new companions, crew and passengers alike. Most had settled around the wagons for their meal. A few, like Ulf and his assistants, still busied themselves with chores, eating as they worked. As Therez watched, she tried to guess where each one came from. Most, she could tell, came from the central plains—thick black hair and round, dusky brown faces. A few had the same borderland features and accents she was used to. Several more had the much darker coloring typical of men from Fortezzien and the other southeastern provinces; they spoke with a lilt and wore their hair tied back in complicated braids. Ah but that man over there, with the pale brown eyes, was clearly from the kingdom of Ysterien in the west.

Whatever their origins, the men who belonged to the caravan were mostly lean, their whipcord muscles hardened by years of hefting barrels and crates onto wagons. Some, like Volker and Brenn, were hardly more than boys.

The other passengers had collected into small groups, talking among themselves over their breakfast. The scholar sat by himself. Nearby was another solitary man, carving a stick of wood into pipes. Therez saw the tumbling troupe with their colorful tunics and knitted hose of southern style. The four or five families—she couldn’t quite tell them apart—looked like farmers on their way to Hammenz or Kassel. She would have to be careful. If asked, they might remember a solitary girl traveling to Duenne.

Volker was walking toward her, carrying a mug of coffee and a plate. He gave her a sunny, infectious smile. “Hello. I saw you this morning.”

She smiled back. “You rode past my wagon.”

He grinned. “You mean Otto’s wagon.” With his mug, he indicated the spot next to Therez. “D’you mind some company?”

She shook her head. With practiced ease, he settled onto the ground, sitting cross-legged with his plate on his lap. “So what’s your name?”

“Ilse,” she said, somewhat quickly. “My name’s Ilse.”

She had chosen the name while sitting in the wagon. A pretty name. Different from her own. It sounded odd on her tongue, but Volker didn’t seem to notice. “I’m Volker, in case you missed what Alarik was saying. Alarik Brandt—he’s the caravan master. Or did you talk to Niko? He’s the second. That’s him over there, by the piebald mare.”

He pointed toward a lean man in dusty brown trousers, who was wiping his face with his shirt. Before Therez could answer, the second outrider she’d seen earlier came up behind Volker. “She talked to Alarik. I saw her while you were busy with the horses.” He nodded at Therez. “I’m Brenn,” he said. “Volker’s my brother. Where are you bound?”

“Duenne … to my aunt’s house. She promised to find me work.”

She saw them exchange a glance. Was it her accent? No, Brenn was looking at her hands. “What kind of work?” he asked.

For that she had an answer, too. “Lady’s maid, if I’m lucky. I can stitch and sew and read a little.”

Again the brothers looked at each other. “We wondered about that,” Volker said. “You talk so pretty, like you don’t need to work.”

“Ladies’ maids talk pretty, too,” Brenn said quietly. Unlike his brother, he was studying Therez with a thoughtful expression.

Volker nodded. “So they do.”

Therez pretended an interest in the state of her skirt. “I need the work badly enough. My father and mother died, and, well, my aunt said she could keep me long enough to find a posting, no longer. Said I was old enough to earn my own living.”

Volker laughed. “Our da said the same.” He drank down his coffee and wiped his face with the back of his hand. “Say, I hope you didn’t let Alarik bully you into paying too much.”

“But don’t argue with him,” Brenn said. “He doesn’t like that. He—”

A string of shouted curses interrupted their conversation. Brandt was shouting to his crew, orders mixed with blistering threats. “Break’s over,” he barked at the riders. “Trim your tongues, stuff your pricks into your trousers, and get those wagons moving.”

Brenn and Volker shrugged, and with muttered good-byes they ran to their posts. Therez handed her cup to the cook’s boy and reclaimed her seat. Within a short time, they had retaken the road.

* * *

THE CARAVAN MARKED a dozen long dusty miles that day. With every one, Therez breathed more easily. So many hours for the maids to discover her absence. Another frantic hour while they searched the house and grounds. Some undetermined interval before they reported the matter to Therez’s parents. The questions, the accusations, the weighty silence of her father’s anger. She had difficulty imagining what came next. He might spend the day in isolation, working over his accounts. He might order a wider search. He might do nothing at all, consigning her to her fate as he would a cargo of spoiled goods, but she could not depend on that.

“How many weeks until we reach Duenne?” she asked Brenn that evening.

“Ten,” Brenn replied. “Maybe twelve. Depends on the rain.”