The Faeries' Harp

9: Into the Unknown

Riding with Saoirse and Bergljot proves less difficult than Rhys thought it would be. After the initial shock wore off, he settles into some semblance of comfort with the rhythm of Bergljot’s gait. The path twists and turns and has many dips and rises in it, so Bergljot cannot maintain a particularly swift pace, although it’s still faster than they had been moving when he and Saoirse were on foot. In spite of their speed, however, he still feels like they’re being watched, and he hates the feeling.

“How long have you been riding?” Rhys asks Saoirse, more to distract himself from their circumstances than from any real desire to know.

“Forever, feels like,” Saoirse answers. She is no less uneasy than Rhys but hides it better. “Formal lessons started with a pony when I was eight. I was always underfoot, bothering the stable boys and the like. The stable-master at the time—I called him Sir Arlington—took it upon himself to teach me.”

“Why him, and not your parents?”

“My mother died when I was very young, and Lord Rioghnan…saw to it that I was fed and clothed and did what he had to do to keep me from bothering him. Belatedly he realized that I could be most profitable to him married off and so he made sure that I…was educated as daughters from wealthy families typically are.”

“Oh.” Rhys hadn’t imagined her circumstances to be how she’s described them. He’s certainly had to make do with fewer material comforts than she has, but he and Evelyn always had each other, and his father, before he left.

“What sort of education did you get, in that village?”

“Some basics in the schoolhouse. Reading, writing, arithmetic. Plenty of hands-on learning, in the garden, helping with chores and such.”

“Any trade or apprenticeships?”

“I’ve had to try my hand at a lot of things, since…since my father walked out.”

“What? You mean he just…up and left one day, out of the blue?”

Rhys cringes at her words. Feeling him tense behind her, Saoirse feels awful.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…I just…. It’s hard to fathom,” she excuses herself.

“It’s all right,” Rhys replies woodenly.

“No, it’s clearly not. I shouldn’t have said it. I knew it still pains you—”

“And what does that matter to you? We’re not likely to see each other again, once I get back home, and even if we did, it’s not like we’d be allowed to be friends or anything.”

“What makes you say that? I’ve never been much for rule following. Who put these ideas in your head? What cause have I given you to think so ill of me?”

“Never seen a rich person genuinely care about people with no money or noble lineage.”

“Well. I can understand why you wouldn’t believe me. But I’m not Lord Rioghnan, nor anything like him, and as long as we’re stuck here together, we’re going to have to work together. Will you give me a chance?”

“Does riding with you not count as giving you a chance?”

“I’d like to be friends, if we can. If that’s not…possible, I understand.”

“You want to be friends with me.” Rhys can hardly believe his ears; saying the words out loud himself makes them even less credible. “Saoirse, I’m nothing. No money, no status, no—”

“And neither am I, anymore. I’ve run away from home, rejected my father, stolen his goods….” She takes a deep breath, steadying herself. “We may have come from very different places, but at least in this place, we are the same rank, the same status. And if you think I’m annoying or overly pushy or a reckless twit, and that’s why you don’t want to be friends with me, that I could understand—”

“That’s not it,” Rhys interrupts, laughing a little in spite of himself. “It’s just…hard to believe that you would want to be friends with me. After Pa left, Ma and I had nothing. The rest of the village pitied us, but the people I’d thought were friends became distant. I couldn’t hang out with them, because I always had to work, and….”

“I’m so sorry.” The words feel inadequate, but Saoirse doesn’t have another way to express what she’s feeling.

Just then, Bergljot comes to a halt. They’ve come into something of a clearing, and it seems as good a place as any to take a break.

“It’s nothing you’ve done,” Rhys tells Saoirse.

“Perhaps not, but that doesn’t mean I can’t sympathize.”

Even as they speak, both of them hear the strange, lilting voices in the trees again, seemingly all around them. Saoirse’s eyes grow wide, and Rhys’s hand wraps around the handle of his knife. Bergljot prances in place, ready to bolt at the slightest sign of trouble.

“Show yourselves!” Saoirse demands suddenly, projecting resolute confidence despite the inner quaking of her nerves.

There’s the noble blood, Rhys thinks sadly, though he cannot help but admire her.

The voices in the trees fall suddenly and eerily silent. Even the birds are quiet. Everything is unnaturally, oppressively still. Rhys’s admiration for Saoirse quickly turns to nauseating unease.

“I don’t like this,” he whispers.

“Nor do I,” Saoirse mutters. “Bergljot, fancy a run?”

The horse needs no further encouragement. She whinnies a sort of battle cry and charges headlong into the forest as fast as her legs can carry her, carrying Saoirse and Rhys along for the ride.