Maren Goldweaver's Arc

Chapter 36 of 42

They walked the ridge two more days before the ground began to slope. On the third morning, Kato lifted a hand and pointed through the pines. Water. The river ran wide and brown below them, moving fast at the middle and slow at a long bend. Kato led them down. "Shallow here," he said. "Waist deep. Maybe less." Maren looked at the far bank. Nothing moved in the trees. She hated that. She hated not knowing what the file meant. Her father had buried their name in a manifest for a reason, and she still could not read that reason. "If it's a trap," she said, "we walk into it blind." Miller adjusted the strap across his chest. "Then we don't walk in together. Kato and Gisela go ahead. Scout the road on the other side. We follow when they signal." Kato nodded once. Gisela was already pulling her boots off. They crossed in a line, Kato first, Gisela close behind, Maren and Miller trailing. The current pushed hard at Maren's knees. She kept her eyes on her sister's curls, bright against the water. They climbed the far bank wet to the thigh and lay flat in the ferns. "Tracks gone," Kato said. "River took them." Gisela squeezed water from her sleeve. "We've got maybe a day before anyone picks us up again." "Go," Miller said. "Both of you. Check the road east. We'll come when it's clear." Kato and Gisela slipped into the trees. Maren watched them go. She felt the small relief of hidden tracks and hated how quickly it faded. They waited. Ten minutes. Twenty. Then wheels, groaning on packed dirt. And a voice she knew. Gisela. Loud. Cheerful. Wrong. Maren was up before she thought. Miller caught her arm at the tree line and held. Through the brush she saw the road. An old wagon, a farmer in a straw hat at the reins, and in the back, sitting on sacks, Kato and Gisela. Gisela was laughing at something. Kato had one arm across his ribs like a man who had walked too far. Neither looked back. Maren pulled against Miller's grip. He did not let go. "It would have been suspicious not to take the ride," he said, low. "A farmer offers, you take it. Refusing gets remembered." "They're going without us." "They're going ahead. We'll find them again." The wagon rolled on. Maren watched until the road bent and swallowed it. Then she saw it, at the edge of the ruts, a small canvas bag. She stepped out and picked it up. Bread. Dried apple. A wedge of cheese wrapped in cloth. Enough for two, for a day. She held the bag against her chest. Miller stood beside her, watching the empty road. "Nine days," she said. "Now six." "We walk," Miller said. "We meet them at the place." She nodded, and they turned east into the trees.