Maren Goldweaver's Arc

Chapter 42 of 42

They waited out the afternoon in the back room while the carter watched the front of the house. Maren kept the food bundle strapped high under her shirt, the shape of a late pregnancy pressing against the cloth. She sat on the floor with one hand on it, in case anyone glanced through a window. Gisela stayed by the shutter, watching the street through the crack. "He hasn't moved," Gisela said. "Two hours." "He'll move at dark," Kato said. "Or he'll bring someone." Miller checked the back door hinges and oiled them with lamp fat so they wouldn't groan. The boy sat on a stool in the corner, swinging his heels, the gold link already tucked into his boot. He watched Maren like she was a story his uncle had told him. "You walked this route?" Maren asked him. "To the patrol road," the boy said. "Not past it. Past it my uncle goes alone." Miller and Maren traded a look. Three days beyond the patrol road, and no one to lead. She pushed the thought down. At dusk the boy stood up. "Now." Miller lifted Maren against his chest before she could argue. Her arms went around his neck. The bundle stayed tucked under her shirt, a round weight between them. To anyone watching from the road, she was a wife too weak to walk, being carried to a bed she wouldn't reach in time. Gisela cracked the back door. The alley was empty. The boy slipped out first and waved them on. Kato went last, hand on the knife at his belt. They moved between houses, past a chicken coop, past a woodpile, out to a footpath the boy knew. Miller's breath was steady against Maren's temple. She kept her face against his collar. She didn't look back at the front of the house, at the carter, at whether he had turned to follow. The boy led them for two hours through low scrub and a drainage cut. He stopped at a stand of birches where the ground rose. Beyond the trees, a wide dirt track ran north to south, empty in the moonlight. "The patrol road," the boy whispered. "They pass twice before dawn. Cross fast. After that I go home." Miller set Maren down. She pulled the bundle out from under her shirt and stuffed it into her pack. Her stomach was flat again. She felt light and exposed. She knelt to the boy's eye level. "You didn't see us. You didn't take anything." He nodded, too quick. Gisela crouched beside her. "He'll talk," she said, low. "Boys talk." "I know." They watched him run back the way they'd come, small feet, no sound. Then Maren turned to the empty road, and to the three days of forest beyond it where no one on earth knew the way.