Hearts in Zenith (Four Husbands and a Lover)

27. The Venerable One

My body yearned to curl up on the fluffy furnishings of Ondrey's nest, close my eyes and worry about the rest of the barbarians in the morning. Furs had a slight stink of a wild beast, but they looked darn cozy.

"Do you still wish to see where Yadwiga makes her camp?" Ondrey asked with a refreshing directness.

I followed suit. "Yes."

Miccola rolled her shoulders till they cracked. "Fine, let's go then. We're done here anyway."

I picked up my cloak from where I had stretched it out to dry. It was warm, but stank of damp wool. Lovely.

"Escort Phedoxia to her tent, please," I asked, still wrinkling my nose. "It shouldn't be hard to find Yadwiga's fire. I'll go alone with Ondrey."

Sleep fled my lieutenants' eyes as if by magic, replaced by concern, but they recognized the dismissal. Miccola's fingers squeezed my elbow when she pushed past me out of Ondrey's tent, a 'be vigilant' pinch. Phedoxia didn't inflict further injury on my person. Her narrowed eyes conveyed a sterner message. As if I couldn't handle one man!

Outside, fires crackled in the gusting wind, showering hunched sentries with sparks no matter which way they turned. They cursed and spat on the logs, adding to the hissing of the damp, resin-weeping firewood. It smoked more than it burned.

Ondrey was a silent presence behind my right shoulder.

I twisted my head till I could see his eyes. Nothing ominous flickered in them, despite the reddish glint of reflected firelight. "Which way?"

"Toward the forest," he said cryptically. "Then you'll see."

We walked a little, to the temporary barricade of sharpened stakes. I put my hand on and shook it. It held fast, despite springing a little. It would stop a galloping horse. "Do you expect an attack?"

"I always expect an attack."

A man after my heart! That's why I tried to keep disdain out of my next question. We were at the edge of the camp already. All the tents stood at our backs. He just wanted to talk to me alone, confess that the witch was a figment of folk imagination. That he used the legend to usurp the chain of command. Not that he wasn't capable, and I understood the plight of being dismissed as unworthy of a position-- anyway, I asked him as evenly as possible, "So, where to now?"

His hands lowered onto my shoulders—not an unpleasant sensation of a large warm body behind me, his beard tickling my forehead—to turn me a bit to the left. He pointed, nearly brushing my cheek with the fluffy cuff. "Can you see this light over there?"

No. Yes. A red glimmer, no bigger than a star in the sky, trembled between the trees. "An old woman sets her tent this far out?"

"Not a tent. It's a cabin."

I could hear his strong heartbeat. His pulse didn't speed up at all. He probably spoke the truth.

"Yadwiga has a hunting lodge here? How fortuitous."

"You may say that. The forest witch has her lodgings wherever there is a heartwood. Her cabin moves through it."

"The cabin moves? How? Drawn by what?"

"Under its own power. It has legs. Chicken legs, to be precise."

There was only one rational explanation why our conversation was developing along these lines.

"I don't smell the drink on your breath, Ondrey. Is it Ashanti or a similar herb?"

"No, Your Grandissima. I'm sworn to abstain from all worldly pleasures, including spirits, opiums and... things, until--"