By Any Other Name

Two

"Who are you?" he inquired.

"No one," she countered.

"Well, why is no one running about my lands with torn clothes and a bloody dagger?"

She didn't answer him then. Just fixed her gaze in an emboldened glare and stood her ground. Curious.

"What happened to you?" he tried again but was met with the same cold silence. The girl was stubborn. It was infuriating. After a moment, he sighed. "Well, I'm not going to leave a maiden alone in the forest. At least allow me to escort you home."

"No!" she exclaimed and then it was as if she were even more aware that the two of them were not alone. She glanced uncomfortably at the men around them who kept their keen eyes on her, bows still raised in anticipation of any attempted skirmish. "I mean, I don't have a home. I did. But I'm afraid I don't anymore. I can't go back."

He studied her for a moment, tilting his head to one side inquisitively. He placed a hand on his chin and held that hand up at the elbow, taking a step backwards to survey her. Her dress was stained and mangled but beneath the filth was fine silk. It was neither ragged nor old but seemed almost new and desirably fashioned with unique features that Sterling hadn't seen in any of the gowns that the provincial noblewomen wore. She spoke with the accent of the gentry, not the harsh vowels and drawling consonants of the common folk. And there was the matter of her posture, poised and perfect even in this time of great stress. Even now, torn and tattered as she was, he imagined he could install a book atop her head and it would reside there flawlessly balanced.

"You speak rather eloquently for no one," he told her and was impressed to find that the only hint of her surprise was the slight parting of her lips. Otherwise, her composure remained perfectly intact.

"My father was a librarian," she finally confessed. He smiled, pleased to be making progress in this otherwise obstinate exchange. "A good one. He liked to fancy himself a historian of sorts as well. He made good money on a few projects for important lords such as yourself. That is, until he got into gambling. He had some debts. Some men came to collect and he couldn't pay so they slit his throat right in front of me. Then they came for me but I ran. They followed me for most of the night but I think I lost them."

She looked away from him for the first time, down to her mud soaked shoes and ruined dress and he was reminded of the terrified young girl he had initiated this conversation with. The men behind him stirred, obviously changing their opinions on the threat level of this situation. Sterling had never considered himself to be in any sincere jeopardy but he could not deny the impression that something was not quite right. Her account appeared supported by the evidence as well as any tale could be but it was the slight perceptions that urged his reluctance. A librarian's daughter who wielded a knife with the dexterity of a trained soldier? A young girl who witnessed her father's slaughter before her very eyes just a night previous but met them now confident and unyielding?

"What about the blood?" Sterling probed. The girl looked down at her ruined dress and the crimson stains that blotched it. She stared at them for a moment, as though she hadn't realized they were there until he had indicated them.

"My father's," she told him.

"No. On the dagger."

She glanced down at the blade in her hands and then back to him. Her eyes met his and he understood. He had seen that expression before in his own father's eyes when he had returned from the southern war. He had seen it in the eyes of his own men, of all the men who had been of fighting age when the war began. It was still there now, haunting their countenance as they drank at a bar or conducted their business. It was the look of someone who had seen death up close and perhaps had produced a bit of it themselves.