The Raven Girl

Chapter 5

The inn was lit up with firelight and, from outside, Asta could already feel its sticky heat resonating through the windows. She was bundled into the doorway, greeted by the roaring fire instantaneously, and dragged past tables full of men with dice and beer – all things which she was not so comfortable with but was not in charge of. In all honesty, she'd have rather had been alone in a cell beneath people's feet than here. Either way, she was imprisoned but the former took away the heat and the crowds that she disliked.

If only that optimistic eye had been implementable on everything else then perhaps she would've felt braver.

"Have you a space to sleep?" Sigurd asked, holding out a handful of coins to the innkeeper. "And a cup of ale, perhaps?"

The innkeeper – a stout, tired man – grunted in reply and gestured to the doorway opposite, filling a cup with what was left of their brew: a pale, feeble looking liquid definitely not suited to the tastes of the richer side of society. The barrel he'd drawn the ale from seemed to have a hole in it, likely gnawed by a rat hiding in the straw that carpeted the floor, and any remaining drink seeped out into the old, foul smelling flooring.

Sigurd downed the ale and handed the more or less empty cup to Asta with a "Here. Drink that." Sighing, she tipped the thing up and inhaled the dregs, spluttering when she found the liquid was mostly grain that the brewer hadn't bothered to remove.

"Another copper if you want breakfast tomorrow," the innkeeper muttered, holding out his palm until his precious coin was placed within it and all the while eyeing up a gambler who had thrown down his dice in despair and kicked over the table. It was likely that man wouldn't find a bed there tonight.

He pushed her over to the room with a fist wedged deep into the burn on her back. She could feel the pain spreading through her every nerve, but those nerves didn't seem to connect to her head and her mouth and that pain sounded as nothing more than a pathetic whimper.

When he'd carted her into the room, he closed the door behind them and turned to look for space amongst the sleepers. Many were bundled into just the one bed and those that could not fit a bed slept in the straw, wrapped in whatever they could find. Sigurd took out a rope and tied her bound wrists to a nearby bedpost.

"I doubt you'd get out of here without waking me first, but one can never be too careful with livestock." He grinned and kicked a bucket towards her, its contents sloshing at her feet. "You'll not be able to move, so I'll leave this within your reach. You can thank me for that."

She looked up at him with a blank, steadied gaze until he settled down in his own space, pulled a blanket about him and shut his eyes. Ignoring the rising stench, she kicked off her urine soaked boots and rung out her dress as best she could without the use of her hands before resting her head on the wooden post. Her neck was bound to ache like hell in the morning – something, she reminded herself, that wouldn't matter in the scheme of things. She would be relieved of that neck one way or another in a matter of days, depending on how long it took to travel the breadth of the country, north to south.

She closed her eyes, preferring to adopt a state of unthinking. The thinking was a major inconvenience. That, and silence too. The pair worked well together at leading her down a path of raging thoughts, self-pity, criticism and guilt. In fact, Sigurd's pointless chatter was far more preferable than her own mournful reflection, but she could already hear his heavy breath join that of the rest of the room's.

When dawn finally crawled in through the windows, travellers began to rise and Sigurd stirred after appearing virtually knocked out the whole night. Asta hadn't slept, but her neck and back ached all the same for it despite writhing about to find something the slightest bit more comfortable.

"Sleep well?" He laughed whilst picking at the knot that'd had Asta tied firmly to the bedpost. She clambered up to her feet and stretched out the crooks from her back.

They took a seat at the table where already sat several grumbling people who picked at the bowl they'd been served. Clearly, whatever was in those bowls wasn't great. The speed at which the food was doled out was, though, and not soon after they'd sat were they handed two bowls of bread soaked in lukewarm broth. Asta sat and stared out into the distance whilst Sigurd bolted down his meal. She wasn't hungry. She didn't want to eat.

Suddenly, she was brought out of her trance by the clap of his hand on the back of her head.

"Get that down your throat or I'll force it myself," he said. She nibbled at the edge of her bread. "I meant eat it, not dissolve it grain by grain."

Days past, slowly and painfully, and each minute dragged on for what felt like hours – that left ample time for thought and fear, hours and hours for her imagination to create her death. In the end, it became a grand spectacle that the whole country was present for and when the hangman asked for her last words, she'd fall to her knocking knees and throw up and forever be known in history as the cowardly raven, a craven traitor.

Her back ached from the endless riding; the saddle was hard and sore. The skin of her index fingers had rubbed away to a bright scarlet dampened only by the grime that had collected there. Half of her body had reached a numbness that sought to challenge the numbness of her mind.

Each evening she was presented with a bowl of stew: tasteless meat boiled down to nothing and vegetables blanched of colour, of which both were equally unidentifiable. Just as with breakfast, she had to eat it all and eat it fast or it was forced down her scalding hot, searing her tongue and flesh as it scraped down her throat. Her stomach protested after every mouthful, sure that the meal had no nutrients and that wouldn't make a difference whether she ate it or not, but Sigurd wouldn't have her waste a scrap of what was provided.

Exhausted, Asta slumped back in the saddle, embarking on yet another day's ride. The only sleep she got was on the road, where waking up was all too frequent because of the jolty pace they kept.

She shut her eyes. She opened them a second later.

Something had caught her attention, something she had not seen before. Perhaps she was delirious and her sleep deprived imagination had recreated the place of her nightmares, but there, in the distance, was a castle.

Not a small castle, not one that could've belonged to a lord. She'd seen plenty of them along her journey and had learnt not to fear their presence. No, the castle before them was far too large and far too fortified to have belonged to a simple lord and their arrival in the capital was long overdue. She sat up immediately. It seemed unfeasibly grand even from far away. Fear struck her and she felt nauseous, dizzy even. Her hands began to tremble; her whole body was shaking like a sapling in a storm. How long now?

"You're a sharp one, aren't you? Calle would've had a hard time keeping up with you."

"What?" she uttered through a closed throat. She couldn't breathe.

"We're close to the capital now," he said. "You know, there's many a common man who would be glad to see the back of this king – not that you should throw this kind of knowledge about – and welcome his brother to the throne. King Eirik has been waiting for the day a raven showed their face this side of the border for years because, even now, the people hate you more than they hate him. You'll be a good distraction, in your death."

She swallowed and wiped the sweat from her forehead as Sigurd galloped forward, following the path towards the slums of the city. All the while, Asta muttered last minute prayers beneath her breath. Maybe they'd let him fall from his horse now, crippled to the point he wouldn't be able to put up a chase when she fled the capital and returned to the north, returned home because then at least she would live. Better yet, let him die. Let him die, let him die, let him die.

Yet with those words on her lips, she knew that when it was her turn and she was strung up at the gallows, the gods wouldn't take pity. For those words, she would suffer in death, both in this world and the next. For those words, she would pay dearly.