II. Entanglement

      The swift onset of evening in the high Storlains welled a breath of dire cold off the glaciers, even in summer. Arithon shivered, chilled since the cloud-bank that rolled over the peaks had shrouded the sunlight. Caught in the gloaming with clothing and hair still damp from his wash in a freshet, he secured his gleaned bundle of rushes. Then he turned his dispirited steps towards the cabin in the ravine.

      Night’s gloom deepened his cankered malaise. He skirted the feathered boughs of stunt firs, unmoved by the primal thrill of a wolf pack howling beyond the ridge. The vigorous rustles of nocturnal creatures failed to shake off his low spirits. Though a night and full day of hard labour had laid Vivet’s knifed attacker to rest, the nameless man’s violent passage left a nagging sense of unease.

      No record remained to decipher the final words left unsaid. Arithon’s sensitive talent had failed to sift meaningful clues from the roiled cascade of the regional flux lines.

      That arcane endeavour, and the back-breaking chore of hauling loose stone for a grave cairn, yielded an exhaustion without numb relief. Subsequent pursuit of wild herbals fell short as a peaceful distraction. Scraped hands and the ache of spent muscle could not blunt the appalling wound to his spirit.

      Arithon had never grappled the scope of such pain. The brute history packed into a sliver of crystal seared his heart-strings to anguish and unreeled a desolate future.

      Last place on Athera he wished to revisit, the cabin offered the nearest shelter. He needed the immediate warmth to dry off and sleep before he moved on.

      The rose tint of the afterglow bled from the ranges as he retraced his path down the remnant track, cut by the harness mule that had once hauled an ice cutter’s sledges. Spent, he crossed the streamlet and mounted the log stair, zigzagged upwards from the deep ravine. His arrival at the derelict shack found no one inside. The unlatched door swung open to fastened shutters and quiet.

      Except yesterday’s velvet-thick darkness had changed. No longer musty, the air wore the spiked fragrance of balsam. The boards underfoot were swept clean of debris. Once his fumbling, chilled hands lit a spill, he took stock of Vivet’s industrious tenancy: a bed of cut pine boughs arranged in one corner; also a table fashioned from the salvaged wreck of a muleteer’s sleigh. Logs hewn from a deadfall served as makeshift seats, with birch kindling stacked by the hearth.

      The axe wielded to split the stockpiled fuel seemed nowhere in evidence.

      Arithon ignited the woodchips in the grate. The quickened flame melted the shadows and confirmed: the tiny cabin lay empty around him, with Vivet gone off on her own.

      The small blaze burned fast. Arithon added more logs. Then he shed the cross-strap of his baldric, unslung his sheathed sword, and settled to rest by the fireside with the black blade propped against his bent knees. He soaked in the heat, grateful for privacy. Later was soon enough to assist Vivet’s busy intent to claim residence. Since noose traps for game were best set before daybreak, he catnapped, forehead braced on the crooked forearm that cradled his weapon.

      If the exquisite enchantments forged into the weapon spun him uncanny dreams, he was not given solitude to plumb their content. The scrape of the door, then the icy draught wafted over the threshold signalled Vivet’s return.

      Snapped awake, Arithon surged erect in apology. “I shall leave at once for your peace of mind.”

      But if his presence seemed cause for dismay, the woman did not shrink from the surprise encounter. The knot torch in her hand revealed tidied hair, russet coils pinned at her nape with a hazel sprig still jewelled with peridot leaves. She carried two woodcocks strung up by the legs. Also a resourceful haul of wild berries, tubers, and greens, bundled up in her mended overskirt. Pale cream, marked with bruises, her oval face turned. Wide-eyed, she regarded him.

      “Please stay. I don’t fear you.” The hatchet looped through her sash lent teeth to a statement at odds with her tremulous grip on the brand.

      Moved under the whispered flutter of flame, Vivet spilled her bounty upon the crude table.

      “I brought food for two. In case you came back.” She nodded towards the evergreen bed, where the brightened light showed a cache of muddied belongings. “My things tumbled down-slope in the scuffle last evening. I saw your work during my search to recover them. You need not have shouldered my troubles to start with, far less stayed on to give decent burial to a criminal stranger’s remains. A meal’s the least you deserve for the kindness.”

      Pain hitched her hesitant step. The livid bruises on her throat and neck strained her voice husky with swelling. Defiantly able to fend for herself, she jammed the knife used to dispatch her assailant into the boards, then attacked the gruesome task of dressing game.

      Her presumptive gesture of repayment galled. Arithon shook off a stab of pique. Tired past sense, he recovered his misplaced courtesy. “At least allow me my fair share of the plucking.”

      “I require no help!” Vivet’s quaver banished him to a safe distance.

      Arithon tried conversation to soothe her jagged aggression. “You mentioned before you were on your way home?”

      Vivet’s pinched mouth jerked. “Why not say what you think?” Knife brandished to lop off the birds’ heads, she sighed. “Surely you’d say these rugged mountains are no place for a woman alone.”

      Which venomous bitterness attacked first in assumption: that men believed female vulnerability invited the opportune assault of a predator. Masterbard, healer, Arithon let her stung denouncement flounder in silence.

      For a while, only the torch-flame whickered in dialogue with the drawing blaze in the fire-place.

      Vivet presently dropped the halfway-gutted bird and banged down her fists. “Damn you!” Outrage pointed enough to drill flint turned her battered face towards him. “You act as though naught in the world has gone wrong!”

      But the purple contusions on her flesh shouted testament to the contrary.

      To stand with a sword, even sheathed, posed a threat. Arithon tucked up and sat by the hearth. He laid the shining, obsidian blade flat, deferent to the axe she kept within reach. “Should I forget? You knifed your attacker.” Arms folded atop his bent knees, he added, “I’ve witnessed your courage. Therefore, I’m able to bow to your fears without prejudice.” His grave regard was an initiate sorcerer’s,