without the catafalque to drag me, I might not have been able to move at all.
I could feel blood sticky on my feet against the smooth stone of the station floor, and I wondered if I was leaving a trail of red footprints like the sea maiden in the story. My neck was bleeding, too, where the soldering had left rough edges, and there was the heat of bruises across my shoulders. Art lucky to have come so far without worse injuries, I told myself, and then, in proof or mockery, my foot came down on something that burned it. I yelped like a kicked dog, my whole body jerking sideways, and had it not been for a hard- callused hand that closed around my upper arm, the combination of my unwise movement and the drag of the chain would have put me on the floor.
“Steady, m’lord. You stepped on a cinder, that’s all.” A Corambin voice, like Intended Gye’s. A soldier— the same one who had saved me before?
“Leave him be , Oddlin!” shouted someone else, and I recognized a sergeant’s voice when I heard it, even with Corambin vowels.
“Thank you,” I said in a whisper as raw as the bleeding places on my neck, and the hand was gone. I followed the pull of the catafalque, limping now, trying to keep my burned instep from touching the floor. Trying not to think about the possibility of more cinders.
Then the pull changed, becoming slower and . . . upward? A ramp beneath my feet, stubbing my toes, and I understood: we— the catafalque, the oxen, and I— were being loaded into a baggage car.
The prospect was actually less unpleasant than the idea of being chained in a passenger car with Glimmering for several hours.
The catafalque halted. I heard the sergeant’s voice again, this time ordering one of his men to block the wheels and another to help the driver with the oxen. Someone bumped me in passing; I edged to my right, away from the ramp and the open door. Three cautious, shuffling steps, and my outstretched arm found the wall of the car. It would have to do, for I did not think I could keep on my feet any longer. Whether was grief or blindness or something else that weakened me, I knew not, but a journey that would ordinarily have been a pleasant morning’s walk had left me exhausted. I put my back to the wall and sat down, drawing my knees up under my chin so that I might be as little in the way as possible. Did not truly expect that to be enough, and it was not. I barely had time to feel relief at having my weight off my aching feet before the sergeant was shouting, equally at his men and at me; I was dragged upright again and pushed hard enough that I could not brace myself. I staggered forward, my hands coming up reflexively, and collided with the side of the catafalque. A hard boost from someone and I was sprawling across Gerrard’s shins. “You’ll be out of the way up there,” the sergeant said; I bit my tongue and did not ask, Out of the way of what?
In another moment, I found out. The noise was unmistakable, even if it made no sense here, clattering hooves and an aggrieved noise somewhere between a moan and a yell: the bawl of a cow who did not want to go where she was being driven.
“Cattle,” I said blankly.
“His Grace’s gift to the Seven Houses,” said someone, most likely Oddlin, who had helped me before.
“Cattle?” said I, still not quite able to believe it, but then the first of the cows came up the ramp, and if anyone answered me, I had no hope of hearing it.
The half- wild shaggy Caloxan cattle were small but hardy, and their milk was richer than that of their larger and more placid cousins. Listening to the soldiers and the cowherds cursing each other and the cattle indiscriminately, I realized I ought to be grateful to be up on the catafalque, out of the way of boots and hooves alike. But Gerrard was lumpy and dead underneath me, and one good kick from a cow might have put an end to this wretchedness, even if for only an hour. I was not grateful.
I was, though, exhausted, and willing to
I could feel blood sticky on my feet against the smooth stone of the station floor, and I wondered if I was leaving a trail of red footprints like the sea maiden in the story. My neck was bleeding, too, where the soldering had left rough edges, and there was the heat of bruises across my shoulders. Art lucky to have come so far without worse injuries, I told myself, and then, in proof or mockery, my foot came down on something that burned it. I yelped like a kicked dog, my whole body jerking sideways, and had it not been for a hard- callused hand that closed around my upper arm, the combination of my unwise movement and the drag of the chain would have put me on the floor.
“Steady, m’lord. You stepped on a cinder, that’s all.” A Corambin voice, like Intended Gye’s. A soldier— the same one who had saved me before?
“Leave him be , Oddlin!” shouted someone else, and I recognized a sergeant’s voice when I heard it, even with Corambin vowels.
“Thank you,” I said in a whisper as raw as the bleeding places on my neck, and the hand was gone. I followed the pull of the catafalque, limping now, trying to keep my burned instep from touching the floor. Trying not to think about the possibility of more cinders.
Then the pull changed, becoming slower and . . . upward? A ramp beneath my feet, stubbing my toes, and I understood: we— the catafalque, the oxen, and I— were being loaded into a baggage car.
The prospect was actually less unpleasant than the idea of being chained in a passenger car with Glimmering for several hours.
The catafalque halted. I heard the sergeant’s voice again, this time ordering one of his men to block the wheels and another to help the driver with the oxen. Someone bumped me in passing; I edged to my right, away from the ramp and the open door. Three cautious, shuffling steps, and my outstretched arm found the wall of the car. It would have to do, for I did not think I could keep on my feet any longer. Whether was grief or blindness or something else that weakened me, I knew not, but a journey that would ordinarily have been a pleasant morning’s walk had left me exhausted. I put my back to the wall and sat down, drawing my knees up under my chin so that I might be as little in the way as possible. Did not truly expect that to be enough, and it was not. I barely had time to feel relief at having my weight off my aching feet before the sergeant was shouting, equally at his men and at me; I was dragged upright again and pushed hard enough that I could not brace myself. I staggered forward, my hands coming up reflexively, and collided with the side of the catafalque. A hard boost from someone and I was sprawling across Gerrard’s shins. “You’ll be out of the way up there,” the sergeant said; I bit my tongue and did not ask, Out of the way of what?
In another moment, I found out. The noise was unmistakable, even if it made no sense here, clattering hooves and an aggrieved noise somewhere between a moan and a yell: the bawl of a cow who did not want to go where she was being driven.
“Cattle,” I said blankly.
“His Grace’s gift to the Seven Houses,” said someone, most likely Oddlin, who had helped me before.
“Cattle?” said I, still not quite able to believe it, but then the first of the cows came up the ramp, and if anyone answered me, I had no hope of hearing it.
The half- wild shaggy Caloxan cattle were small but hardy, and their milk was richer than that of their larger and more placid cousins. Listening to the soldiers and the cowherds cursing each other and the cattle indiscriminately, I realized I ought to be grateful to be up on the catafalque, out of the way of boots and hooves alike. But Gerrard was lumpy and dead underneath me, and one good kick from a cow might have put an end to this wretchedness, even if for only an hour. I was not grateful.
I was, though, exhausted, and willing to
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