Free Land of the Burning Sands by Rachel Neumeier Page A

kindness to me? Yes, thank you, much better,” he added, smiling, as Gereint climbed once more to his feet. “What will you do now? Head for Feierabiand by the fastest road?”
    “I suppose so. I hardly know.”
    “You need rest, more food, time to think. We have supper an hour after dusk. If you’re still here, I’d like to talk to you then, yes?”
    Gereint hadn’t expected this. He didn’t quite know what he’d expected. But he said, “If you wish me to stay, I’ll stay. Or if there’s something you want me to do, you can tell me now.”
    Amnachudran shook his head again. “I don’t think so. No. You need to, um, accustom yourself to the idea that you can choose your own course. No. Go for a walk. That’s a suggestion, not an order, yes? Do what you like. And if I see you at supper, good.”
    Gereint stared at him for a moment. “I have—it was—it’s been—” He stopped. Turned without another word, since coherence was clearly beyond him at the moment, and went out.
    He found a traveling pack in his room. A small hunting bow lay beside the pack, the kind meant for squirrels or birds. A dozen little arrows filled a small quiver. Gereint stood for a long moment, looking at the things. He didn’t wonder who had brought him a traveler’s kit: He knew it had been Amnachudran’s wife.
    He went quickly through the pack. A change of clothing, a blanket, a belt knife, cord. Travel food. A small bag of meal. A little oil. Flints. Candles. He laid a fingertip against one of the arrowheads and nodded. Squirrel and rabbit.
    At the bottom of the pack, he found the two books he’d brought away from Fellesteden’s house. Gereint looked at those for a long moment. Then he put everything back in the pack except the knife. He slid the knife’s sheath onto his belt, drew the knife, looked at it. Ran the tip of one finger down its length. Turned it over in his hand, trying the hilt. Touched its blade briefly to his lips.
    It was a good knife. Meant for nothing more dramatic than cutting meat or cord, slicing apples or green wood, but well made. Gereint gave it a little shove, pushing it toward the balance a fighting knife ought to have. To really alter it, he’d need tools and a forge. But he could do a little just by letting the knife know his preference.
    The frilly lady’s bed looked inviting. Gereint ignored it.
Go for a walk
, Amnachudran had said. He’d meant,
Test your freedom
. It was, of course, a perceptive suggestion. Gereint slung the pack over his shoulder, hung the little bow and quiver in their places, and walked out of the room. Down the hall. Down some stairs. It was a big house… down the largest hall he could find. He passed servants, who nodded. A pair of shaven-headed men-at-arms in livery, with swords at their hips, who also nodded politely but turned to watch as he passed. Cold ran down Gereint’s spine, prickled at the back of his neck. He forced himself not to look over his shoulder, and after a moment breathed again when he found that the men had not followed. He turned the corner and found the main door of the house in front of him. It led out into the courtyard, filled with people… hurrying about their business. Some of them glanced up at Gereint, a few with enough interest to make his skin prickle.
    But the courtyard gates were open. No one stopped Gereint from walking through them. In the light, with a clear mind, he could see how the road unrolled gently south and west through a pleasant patchwork of orchards and pastures.
    Gereint followed the road through the nearest orchard, nodding to the people he passed. He didn’t look back. He picked two apples—no one objected; one woman even looked up with a grin and a wave—splashed across a stream, put a gentle hill between him and the orchard, and turned across country, heading north. Glanced at the sun for his direction, turned east, and came back to the house from the northeast, where the quiet hills offered concealment. From