Maggie watched from a distance as Cullen, Eryth and the other men drifted slowly off to sleep, warm and high-spirited from the whiskey she had plied them with. She sat by the dying fire, watching and thinking. The Sorcerer had rode to Drellbridge after finishing with the boy, off on some business Maggie did not care to know about. "Now what?" she thought to herself, squinting into the darkness, trying to find Aubrey's shape. "He's got the boy he wanted, the lad he's hunted for—Gods only know how long! What does he plan to do with him now, just leave him out in the snow with that wound?"
She chewed a rough thumbnail, and tried to remember how Eryth and his men had first fallen in with the Sorcerer. It had been a simple contract, at first—the boy Aubrey of Tirragen, live and whole, in exchange for magical protection from the troops of the King's Own who patrolled Fief Tirragen routinely. The band couldn't go hundreds of miles a-field to capture the boy, Eryth had argued. "I'll send him to you," the Sorcerer had answered, "I'll rout him from Corus like a whipped dog. All you need to do is lie in wait for him, when he comes through." It had started out as a bargain, easily enough, but soon the Sorcerer had gotten Eryth in his thrall—the tall, golden and icy man had resorted more and more to threats and intimidation. One night he had withered the outlaw's arm down to the bone, blighted it in order to ensure the submission of the man and his followers. Eryth wore a long glove over it now, but Maggie saw every day how it dangled uselessly at his side, how the bandit would occasionally cradle it against his chest, then let it fall again. Since then, it had seemed to Maggie like the Sorcerer had enslaved them all, holding them to his will with the chains of horror and fear. There was that strange impulse in him—he was not content with simply bargaining with them, but had to get his way by coercion, by terrorizing them into obedience.
"Perhaps that's what he wanted with Aubrey," she thought to herself, feeling as though a veil of mystery had suddenly been pulled away. "He wants power over him—but who is Aubrey, that his submission should matter so much to the Sorcerer?" She pulled her tattered brown cloak around her shoulders, restless. "What if I defy the Sorcerer?" she wondered, surprised by her own boldness. "If only I could break his hold over me, I would at least feel clean, unashamed. Aubrey...if I could only set him free, give him a chance to get away...that would go a small way towards undoing the evil I have helped the Sorcerer do..."
Another part of her mind rebelled at the thought. "Set him free?" it asked "Am I mad? He's a noble! I have no use for the likes of him, who have kept my folk down in the dirt for generations! If I let the Sorcerer have his way with the boy, he'll have what he wants, and leave me and mine alone."
She bit her nail again. "No that doesn't seem right—it wouldn't be for his sake, it would be for mine. If I let the Sorcerer have him—Gods above!—I'll never have a clean soul again."
Subtly, she reached into her pocket and felt the hilt of her paring knife; then she got up, and, moving with the silence that came from years of living an outlaw's existence, went to the oak where the boy was tied up.
*****
Aubrey spent most of the night beneath the tree, slipping in and out of sleep. He would dream that he was his father, rising up against King Jonathan with hate in his heart, and being cut down in the throne room in Corus. He would awake shivering, denying his relationship to the man in the dream, swearing to himself that he would never follow in his father's footsteps. Violent nausea filled him, but he bit his lip until the feeling subsided. The man who had come with Eryth was a mage, surely. Why would he be having these dreams otherwise? He wanted to sob, to cry out, but contained his raging emotions so that the sorcerer would not have the satisfaction of hearing his grief.
A twig snapped nearby. Aubrey nearly cried out, but a dirty, thin hand covered his mouth. "Quiet, tha'," Maggie hissed. "I took me well nigh an hour t' get enough drink into Eryth to get him tae sleep, so don't tha' go wakin' him!" She pushed Aubrey forward a little ways, and the young knife could feel a dull knife blade working at the ropes at his back. "I dinnae ken why I'm helpin' tha'," she muttered. "Yuir just a noble 'un, ye're of nae use tae me…" Her musing was broken by a low cry of triumph as a rope snapped and loosened around him. She helped him unwind it, then kicked it a little ways into the snow. Aubrey stood up a stretched.
"Thank you," he said gravely, meeting her eyes. She looked away, suddenly shy, and began wiping the knife blade with her tattered skirt hem. "Nae trouble, nae trouble," she said. "Here, let's go." She stuck the knife into her pocket, gave the rags which bound her feet a last tug, then moved towards the edge of the clearing.
Aubrey paused a moment, baffled. She wanted to come with him? Why? He reeled suddenly, feeling the effects of his blood loss earlier. Scowling, Maggie came back, and pulled his arm over her neck and shoulder, supporting him. He had no choice but to take her help, it seemed.
She chewed a rough thumbnail, and tried to remember how Eryth and his men had first fallen in with the Sorcerer. It had been a simple contract, at first—the boy Aubrey of Tirragen, live and whole, in exchange for magical protection from the troops of the King's Own who patrolled Fief Tirragen routinely. The band couldn't go hundreds of miles a-field to capture the boy, Eryth had argued. "I'll send him to you," the Sorcerer had answered, "I'll rout him from Corus like a whipped dog. All you need to do is lie in wait for him, when he comes through." It had started out as a bargain, easily enough, but soon the Sorcerer had gotten Eryth in his thrall—the tall, golden and icy man had resorted more and more to threats and intimidation. One night he had withered the outlaw's arm down to the bone, blighted it in order to ensure the submission of the man and his followers. Eryth wore a long glove over it now, but Maggie saw every day how it dangled uselessly at his side, how the bandit would occasionally cradle it against his chest, then let it fall again. Since then, it had seemed to Maggie like the Sorcerer had enslaved them all, holding them to his will with the chains of horror and fear. There was that strange impulse in him—he was not content with simply bargaining with them, but had to get his way by coercion, by terrorizing them into obedience.
"Perhaps that's what he wanted with Aubrey," she thought to herself, feeling as though a veil of mystery had suddenly been pulled away. "He wants power over him—but who is Aubrey, that his submission should matter so much to the Sorcerer?" She pulled her tattered brown cloak around her shoulders, restless. "What if I defy the Sorcerer?" she wondered, surprised by her own boldness. "If only I could break his hold over me, I would at least feel clean, unashamed. Aubrey...if I could only set him free, give him a chance to get away...that would go a small way towards undoing the evil I have helped the Sorcerer do..."
Another part of her mind rebelled at the thought. "Set him free?" it asked "Am I mad? He's a noble! I have no use for the likes of him, who have kept my folk down in the dirt for generations! If I let the Sorcerer have his way with the boy, he'll have what he wants, and leave me and mine alone."
She bit her nail again. "No that doesn't seem right—it wouldn't be for his sake, it would be for mine. If I let the Sorcerer have him—Gods above!—I'll never have a clean soul again."
Subtly, she reached into her pocket and felt the hilt of her paring knife; then she got up, and, moving with the silence that came from years of living an outlaw's existence, went to the oak where the boy was tied up.
*****
Aubrey spent most of the night beneath the tree, slipping in and out of sleep. He would dream that he was his father, rising up against King Jonathan with hate in his heart, and being cut down in the throne room in Corus. He would awake shivering, denying his relationship to the man in the dream, swearing to himself that he would never follow in his father's footsteps. Violent nausea filled him, but he bit his lip until the feeling subsided. The man who had come with Eryth was a mage, surely. Why would he be having these dreams otherwise? He wanted to sob, to cry out, but contained his raging emotions so that the sorcerer would not have the satisfaction of hearing his grief.
A twig snapped nearby. Aubrey nearly cried out, but a dirty, thin hand covered his mouth. "Quiet, tha'," Maggie hissed. "I took me well nigh an hour t' get enough drink into Eryth to get him tae sleep, so don't tha' go wakin' him!" She pushed Aubrey forward a little ways, and the young knife could feel a dull knife blade working at the ropes at his back. "I dinnae ken why I'm helpin' tha'," she muttered. "Yuir just a noble 'un, ye're of nae use tae me…" Her musing was broken by a low cry of triumph as a rope snapped and loosened around him. She helped him unwind it, then kicked it a little ways into the snow. Aubrey stood up a stretched.
"Thank you," he said gravely, meeting her eyes. She looked away, suddenly shy, and began wiping the knife blade with her tattered skirt hem. "Nae trouble, nae trouble," she said. "Here, let's go." She stuck the knife into her pocket, gave the rags which bound her feet a last tug, then moved towards the edge of the clearing.
Aubrey paused a moment, baffled. She wanted to come with him? Why? He reeled suddenly, feeling the effects of his blood loss earlier. Scowling, Maggie came back, and pulled his arm over her neck and shoulder, supporting him. He had no choice but to take her help, it seemed.