Princess Nymeria's Arc

Chapter 3 of 32

For four days the wolf hunted while Nymeria kept the fire. Each morning it dropped a squirrel or a rabbit at her boots, and they split the meat between them. She grew stronger. Her legs stopped shaking. On the fifth day the reeds thinned, and she saw it. A village stood over the marsh water. Huts perched on tall wooden pillars. Rope bridges swayed between them. Smoke curled from cook fires. People moved along the walkways. Nymeria walked toward it with the wolf at her side. She was hungry for more than food now. She wanted a roof. A voice. Anyone who might help her reach the forest beyond the hunters' reach. The first fisherman saw her horns. He froze on the bridge. Then he ran. A woman gathering water looked up, dropped her bucket, and pulled her children inside. Doors slammed one after another. Bolts scraped shut. The whole village closed against her like a fist. They knew her horns. They knew what they meant. Kin to the king who hunted these marshes. Nymeria stopped at the edge of the water. The wolf pressed close to her leg. She had no crown to offer, no charm she would spend. She had only her face, and her face was the problem. One door stayed open. A little girl stood in it. She was maybe eight years old, thin, barefoot on the wet planks. She did not run. She did not scream. She stared at the horns the way other children stare at a bright coin. "Are you a monster?" the girl asked. Nymeria knelt so their eyes met level. "No," she said. "I'm tired. And hungry. My friend caught this." She held up the last of the rabbit. The girl studied the wolf. The wolf sat and let its tongue hang out. That decided her. She stepped onto the bridge, ran across it, and took Nymeria's free hand without fear. "You can eat at my house," the girl said. "Mama's out. But she won't mind." Behind their doors, the villagers watched through cracks. Nymeria felt their eyes. She followed the child anyway, up a ladder, into a small hut that smelled of fish and woodsmoke. The girl found bread and shared it. She did not flinch at the horns once. Nymeria ate. For the first time since her exile, a person had chosen to help her. Not for a crown. Not by any charm. A child had simply opened a door. But the meal did not last. Footsteps thumped on the bridge outside. The girls mother and father returned.