Dragonfly

My faith was like one of those bogs out there--I thought it was all green and pleasant until I tried

trusting myself to it, then I fell through." She clutched her hands together in a tense, desperate knot. "I'm drowning."

Ramil, who had never stopped to ask himself what

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he really believed, tried to imagine what it was like to be her, a person whose whole life had

been governed by an acute sense of her Goddess. He guessed a little of the emptiness and the

fear that Tashi was feeling. He thought he'd saved her from Fergox, but now he realized he'd

only brought part of her with him. If he was to do his job properly, he would have to help her

escape this too, unlikely though he was as a defender of the Blue Crescent faith.

"You think this just because he told you he bribed the priests?"

She nodded.

"Well, I've known for ages that he did that--the rumors have been around for years."

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"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"No, it's supposed to make you realize that, once you were made into the Crown Princess, how

you got there no longer mattered to everyone else."

"It matters to me--it will matter to my people."

Ramil ran his fingers through his hair in exasperation. "Look, I don't know very much about your

faith but if it's anything like mine, I'd be wondering if the Supreme Being ca

like Fergox in his or her plans.

You might be where you are now because your Goddess exploited the

Spearthrower's greed. Maybe she wants you here."

Tashi opened her eyes. His dark gaze was fixed on her, full of compassion.

"Do you think that's true?" she whispered, hardly daring to allow herself to hope.

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"Oh, Tashi, I don't know." Ramil rubbed his face, not feeling up to this deep discussion, though he knew it was vital. "I've never claimed to know what's true when it comes to the big questions

of religion. I'm just an ignorant boor, remember."

She smiled at the reminder of her own rash words. Ramil felt an urge to kiss her sweet, sad lips,

but instead reached out and took her hand.

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"What I do know, Tashi, is that it is possible and preferable to the alternative explanation that Fergox is in control of all our destinies. And I suppose the only way to find out who is right is to

live our lives as if we do have faith in our Father--or Mother in your case. It seems to me that in

the end your Goddess and my God are two sides of the same Creator."

Tashi knew she had reached a turning point. She could continue on to despair, following the

path pointed out to her by the Spearthrower, or she could listen to Ramil and walk the way of

faith with nothing but hope to guide her. She knew which she wanted to choose, if only to spite

Fergox. Not the most admirable reason, but it would have to do for now.

"Thank you, Ram. I take back what I said about your being ignorant. I think you are wiser than

me."

"So you'll help us in this mad jaunt of ours through occupied lands, fleeing all the soldiers of the Empire?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," she said, picking up her bowl.

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Chapter 10

The Fens in winter were a strange place, home to wild birds with eerie calls that sliced through

the thick freezing mists curling off the water. The reeds were frosted white, pale ghosts of their

green summer selves. The cha

Black eels could be glimpsed rolling in the muddy water beneath, their skins shining with an oily

sheen. The riders had to pick their way through the paths, often trusting themselves to unsafe

causeways and bridges as they headed deeper into the marshy lands. They saw only a few

people, most of whom travelled by flat-bottomed boats, going about their secret business away

from the highways of Fergox's empire. Wherever the three travellers could, they avoided being

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seen, hiding in the rushes until the waterpeople had passed.

Finding shelter at night was the main problem as they had now gone beyond Gordoc's

knowledge of these lands. After the mill, they had risked spending the dark hours in a

fisherman's empty hut, horses and humans crowded together for warmth. The rotten hull of an

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upturned boat hosted them the third day from Felixholt, but by the fourth they were in the

empty flats of the true Fens and were facing a night in the open.

Ramil looked down at the golden head of the girl sitting in front of him, who was wrapped in

scarf, cloak, and his own arms, but still she shivered. He wondered if she would survive a cold

night outside. Her wound was healing slowly and she winced with the pain any time she moved

her leg. Luckily no fever had set in--perhaps it had been too cold for that.

"We'll stop early tonight," Ramil a

Gordoc nodded. "Aye, Ram. We have to keep her warm."

The level space between two stands of rushes offered as good a campsite as any they would find

for miles. A willow tree wept in one corner forming a natural barrier against the snow falling

gently from the sky. The clouds were iron grey like an old bruise.

Tashi accepted Gordoc's help to dismount. "I'll go and bathe my leg," she said, limping out of the clearing, carrying with her a broad strip of cloth.

"Don't go far!" warned Ramil.

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"I won't--I can't," she called over her shoulder.

Together Ramil and Gordoc gathered some dead branches littering the space beneath the

willow and began to build a fire. The horses stood patiently under the tree, cropping the meager

winter grass that poked through the thin layer of snow. The blue roan shook his mane. Ramil

looked up.

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"What's the matter, Thunder?" he asked the horse. He'd given the stallion that name because

his coat reminded Ramil of a stormy sky.

The stallion shifted his hooves, his twitching muscles betraying that he was nervous about

something.

"I think there might be trouble," the Prince told Gordoc in a low voice. "Which way did Tashi go?"

Before the giant could answer, there was a shout from the eastern edge of the clearing. Five

men leapt out of the rushes, whooping and wielding pikes.

Ramil dived for his sword, still on the saddle, but was knocked back by a blow from the butt of a

pike held by a tall red-haired man. He tumbled to the ground, a boot pressed to his throat.

Gordoc was roaring with fury, hemmed in by four men prodding him with the points of their

weapons like a wild bear baited by huntsmen.

"What are you doing in our lands?" demanded the red-haired leader. He and his fellow bandits were dressed in strange clothes, muddy brown and green like the landscape, allowing them to

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creep up unseen upon their prey.

"They must be spies!" snarled a swarthy man, jabbing Gordoc in the stomach.

"Those horses--and the saddles--that's imperial gear," a

"Speak!" barked the leader.

Ramil struggled onto his knees, nursing his chest where he had been struck.

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"We stole them," he said, taking a guess that the Spearthrower's men were not welcome in this company.

"They lie," said the swarthy one. "They smell of Fergox and his thugs.

They've got this far. We'll have to kill them or they'll take back news of us to the occupier."