Renegade's Magic
Page 231

I found nothing to eat, but that didn’t surprise me. The prisoners were given little food, so scraps were unlikely, and even if there had been anything, birds and mice would have cleaned it up by now. I spent the evening turning more of the discarded leather harness into a sling, and then curled up around my hunger next to my small fire.
I awoke to light and birdsong. I lay still, curled on my side, looking at the ashed-over coals of my fire. I tried to think what I should do next. For so long, I’d wanted to see Epiny and Spink. I longed to know what news they had from back west. They’d be able to tell me what had happened here, if the King’s Road had been abandoned or merely delayed. I thought of Amzil and a small flame leapt up in my heart. Carefully, I shielded myself from it. Best not even to hope in that area. As deserted as this place was, did I hope to find better at Gettys? It might be no more than a ghost town. Best to take things very slowly. I tried to tell myself that was being practical, not cowardly.
Slowly I sat up, and for the first time let myself notice how different that movement felt. No heaving myself upright. I was as lean as when I’d been a cadet. Leaner, actually. I think the little tree had claimed every scrap of fat from me that it could.
I poked up the coals and then fed the small fire, banked it for later, and then looked critically at my hands. They still hurt from the small amount of work I’d done yesterday, but the skin was unmistakably thicker than it had been. The backs of my arms looked an almost normal color, and hair had begun to sprout on them again. I tried to think about the process I’d been through. What had Orandula done to me, that I’d emerged from my old body like an insect breaking out of a cocoon? But thinking about it only made me queasy. I told myself I was wasting the precious dawn hour and went out with my new sling to hunt. But my luck was poor, and I had to settle for two small fish instead. I roasted them on a stick over the coals. Afterward, my belly still rumbling, I washed my face and hands in the same stream where I’d caught my fish and considered my situation.
Ghost I might be, but my body told me I still had to eat. I had virtually no tools for surviving on my own. I’d been banned with salt from returning to the Specks: Gettys was my only logical choice. If it was deserted, I’d be able to scavenge. And if people were still here, I’d be able to see those I cared about. Even if I could not speak to them, I could listen in and discover how they were doing. Gettys, occupied or deserted, offered me my best chance to survive. So Gettys it was.
I made the decision. I struck out down the road for Gettys. It was a fine day. I was not as bothered by the sun as I had been the day before; I almost enjoyed its warmth. As I walked, I tried to refrain from wondering what I’d discover, but it was an impossible task. I entertained every possible scenario. Gettys would be deserted, a ghost town for this lone ghost to inhabit. The houses would be empty. No. The streets would be littered with the bodies of the dead. Perhaps Gettys would be a plague town, full of the sick and dying, finally destroyed by Speck plague. Or Gettys would be flourishing, but for some reason, all interest in building the road would be gone. In every case, I could not imagine what would happen next.
Noon came and went, and I hadn’t seen anyone on the road. Of course, no one had any reason to be there unless they intended to continue building it. For all intents and purposes, it led nowhere, except to a king’s frustrated ambition. When I reached the place where a wagon track diverged from the road and headed up to the cemetery, I halted. I was hungry and thirsty. My old cabin was in the cemetery. When I’d fled, I’d left a sword there, and other possessions. If they were still there, they were still mine. And I’d never had more need of them than now.
I trudged up the hill. I thought there were faint but recent wagon tracks, but it was hard to tell. The hoofprints were more distinct. A number of mounted riders had definitely been here very recently. When I crested the rise and saw the familiar rows of graves and the little cabin beyond them, I felt a wave of almost nostalgia. Despite the macabre surrounds of a cemetery, this place had been my home, and returning to it felt very strange indeed. As I drew closer, I listened for sounds of human habitation, but heard nothing. A faint trickle of pale smoke, a ripple in the air, rose from the chimney. If the caretaker was not home now, chances were that he would return shortly. I’d be wise to be cautious.
The place was more neglected than it had been when I’d tended the cemetery. The grass was longer on the graves, and the pathways not maintained. As I approached the little cabin that had been mine, I noticed that a window shutter hung loose and weeds had sprung up all around the entry. Yet a pair of very muddy boots outside the door gave notice that the place was not abandoned.