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Callan was up just before the sun, and it took all of Joss’s and Henrik’s energy to keep up with him as they prepared to leave. If Callan had any reservations against what he heard about Joss’s feelings toward Aric, he didn’t let on, too busy focusing on the rest of their journey.
They each had their own lingering soreness from the previous day’s ride, the chill from the early morning not helping, but Callan seemed less fazed by it than the others. Rationing the food again, their stomachs were still growling as they rode away from Master Greyson’s house. They were relieved there was no sign of him, so they nudged their horses into a gallop, following the small road that would merge back to the main one.
They kept the horses at a steady pace, passing by fields and orchards blanketed in mist, the crisp morning air sweeping past them as they continued on. They smelled the citrus and apple trees, and after a while, it was Henrik who suggested they take some apples to supplement their food.
“Very noble of you,” Callan remarked, reiterating Henrik’s previous comment.
“I learn from the best,” Henrik threw back as he trotted Bluebelle over to an apple tree. Reaching up, he began plucking a few good apples, stashing them into the pouches of his saddlebag. Joss and Callan kept watch, hoping to not draw too much attention to themselves, especially to those who were taking their goods early to the markets.
“Burnlyn,” Callan thought out loud as he stared off at the town sitting peacefully in the distance. “I wonder why a place so picturesque has such a severe name.”
“They used to burn people here,” Joss replied matter-of-factly, because that’s what it was: a fact, a part of the region’s history.
Callan looked at her hard, his lips forming a grim line. “Burn people?” he asked cautiously.
“It was their preferred form of execution,” Joss explained as Drakon pawed the ground, as if emphasizing the point. “It’s become costly now, but they still do it from time to time, for special occasions.”
Callan stared at her but then looked away, a brief glimpse of remembrance caught in his moving gaze. Perhaps a tutor had taught him long ago, or on his past travels he had come across the reason, told to him by a proud councilman or a bard from his songs. But the prince’s life had been extraordinarily busy, and despite all this land that would one day be his, he had clearly forgotten their past.
Unfortunately for Joss, history had repeated itself so much that it was just a part of the job.
“You didn’t think Henrik and I ventured beyond Galmoor, did you?” Joss asked, seeing the way his face fell from confusion to an embarrassed sort of awareness.
“I didn’t,” he admitted.
“We’ve been called to help out other towns when their executioners couldn’t do it. Burnlyn is the farthest we’ve ever been in this direction.”
Callan nodded but didn’t reply, scanning the land where the mist laid, enveloping the trees, fading them into the morning light.
“So,” Joss continued, offering a change of subject. “Almost five years at war. That must have taken quite a toll on you.”
Callan side-eyed her. “To put it mildly,” he replied, his gaze turning to the hills then. “If we keep up our pace, we’ll camp in the forest tonight and then reach Greywall by the next nightfall. We’ll use the hunter paths and avoid the next outpost in case anyone is following.”
Joss eyed him as he moved his horse forward into a trot when Henrik joined them, using part of his shirt to hold a few more apples.
“Did I miss anything?” Henrik asked as he stuffed the last of the stray apples into the pouch of Joss’s saddlebag. Holding onto the very last one, he rubbed the apple on his sleeve and offered it to her. When she shook her head, he took a bite of the sweet fruit.
“No, you didn’t miss much,” Joss replied softly. Seeing the prince putting distance between them, she pushed Drakon into a gallop with Henrik following along, eating his snack in between strides.
As they followed the road, Joss’s gaze followed the line of clouds in the distance, the storm that passed. Another was coming up from behind, the clouds less maddening than the previous one but still there, threatening rain. Dread sank into her bones at the thought of being out in the rain again. It also didn’t help that this part of the forest was rough with sharp slopes and steep ravines. She hoped they’d be able to find a cave or some sort of protection when the storm arrived.
The clouds continued to chase them into the foothills, and as they proceeded back into the forest, they moved off the main road onto a path resembling a game trail. Tossing the apple core he was finished with, Henrik pulled out the map and unfolded it, using his finger to find where they were. “Looks like we’ll need to stay north,” he told Joss, who kept pace with him as Callan stayed ahead. Folding the map and putting it back in its place, he then proceeded to fish through one of the pouches, producing the compass Hodgson gave them.
“So we can stay on track,” he explained when Callan stopped to eye them, wondering why they had slowed down.
Seeing the compass, the prince nodded. “Good job,” he complimented, though continued on at a trot to make up for the time he knew he had lost.
The trail started off no differently than the last one, winding around tall pines and undergrowth, pushing past fallen trunks and overgrown areas where the trail was sometimes hard to follow. Callan was relentless, a man on a mission as he continued on with Henrik keeping watch on the compass, making sure they weren’t veering too far off course. The more they rode on, the more the trails became a spider web, hunters and game sprawling out in different directions around the changing, rocky landscape. Trails had to diverge from rock formations rising and falling of their own accord, either puncturing the sky or denting the earth.
“We’re too far east,” Henrik called out, and within a few paces, Callan changed course, coming across another trail that sent them back in the direction they needed. They journeyed into a clearing, winding around boulders as the path turned into small broken rocks. Pulling the horses down to a walk, they tread cautiously, the smaller rocks and pebbles slippery underneath their hooves. Rounding past boulders, they found the ground rising suddenly, the forest hovering above them. Seeing the dirt path coming back into view, Callan pushed his steed into a gallop, charging up the incline that brought him back to the forest’s shade. Joss and Henrik followed suit, both hoping the contents in the saddlebags would endure due to their horses’ movements.
Often, Henrik would call out the direction and Callan would follow, and it wasn’t until the sun had crossed overhead that the forest suddenly opened up and the path disappeared, plummeting into a sheer cliff. Pulling the horses to an immediate stop, the three gazed out into the rolling forest that stretched for miles. Fog still hovered in some parts, and in the far distance the deep grey clouds were smeared downwards, the telltale sign of rain.
“He was right, this thing is a little fickle,” Henrik murmured as he tapped at the compass, finding the arrow spinning, pointing in a different direction than what was previously suggested.
Callan huffed in his seat, steering his horse back around, agitated. “I should have done this alone,” he growled, his glare never missing its mark on them.
“We’re just trying to help—” Henrik was saying, cut off by Callan who kicked his horse in the sides and rode away. “What a dick,” Henrik added, glaring after him, “and I hope he does hear me.”
Joss stared out at the emerald green land, spotted in blues and browns; at the clouds swirling in white and grey against the sky, a deep robin egg blue. Tired, she let out a quiet sigh while turning Drakon around. “Let’s not lose him,” she reminded Henrik, pressing her heels into the horse, who moved fluidly into a gallop.
“He’s a very ungrateful prince,” Henrik called from behind, as if she needed to be reminded.
In her mind’s eye, Joss saw Callan’s wrists and body again, how many scars encircled and ruined his skin. She remembered the way he shied away from conversations about his time at war; at how agitated he could become, despite how cordial he was otherwise. “It’s not that he’s ungrateful,” she assessed. “He’s scared.”
The two followed the path back, the land dipping like waves, which they both had to agree was a little fun, enjoying the sensation in their stomachs as the ground fell downwards before rising back up. When the ground leveled back they found Callan, stopped in the middle of the path with the reins lose in his hands, his body relaxed as if he were waiting.
Drawing their horses down to a walk, Joss realized Callan wasn’t waiting; he was looking up. Following his gaze, she immediately stopped Drakon, Henrik mimicking her actions when he saw it too.
In between the branches in a tree just across the way, they could make out the outline of a body. It was swinging slightly from the rustling wind that picked up, and despite the chirping birds, no one missed hearing the squeaking of the rope.
As if out of duty, Joss moved Drakon past Callan, drawing a little closer for a better view.
“He’s a soldier.”
Joss halted her horse, startled as she glanced over her shoulder at Callan, who remained staring up into the tree. Facing forward again, she knew this wasn’t uncommon; she and Henrik had found bodies like this before and had to dispose of them, which they always dreaded. Performing hangings was one thing; they could be quick, controlled. These ones were always harder, the bodies more decomposed, the environment a pain because one of them would have to climb the tree to cut the body down. Joss could feel that familiar flutter in her chest right when they’d have to take action in recovering the deceased.
“Should we cut him down?” Henrik spoke up, feeling the same old habit.
“Leave him.” It came out gruff, though Callan’s look softened a bit, a resigned expression crossing his face for his fellow soldier. “Which way do we go now?” he was asking, forcing the subject to change.
Joss overheard Henrik fiddle with the compass, giving his directions. While she should have turned around, she pressed forward, guiding Drakon farther from the path. Closing in on the tree, she stopped her horse when she caught sight of the saddle and bridle nestled at the base of the trunk, evidence he had let his steed go free. Next to the horse’s belongings were his; the sword he would have used in battle now stabbed into the ground like a tombstone, his helmet sitting on the hilt as if to mark his name.
Looking straight up, she found the body was in the early stages of decomposition, likely a day old. Rigor mortis had locked his muscles in place, making him look like a hanging statue as his garments fluttered in the wind.
Despite knowing he was a soldier, she looked at his face and hair as if to make sure she didn’t know him. Oliver’s hair would be a shade darker, she remembered, picturing the last time she saw her younger brother. No, the hair was different; much different. Her shoulders fell a little, the weight of wondering loosening its hold on her. Because while he didn’t have Oliver’s hair color, he also didn’t have Aric’s; the hair length similar, but the coloring not as gold.
Blinking back the relief, she pulled on the reins, turning her horse around and trailing back to Henrik and Callan.
No words were exchanged as Callan pressed on, never looking back as he followed the path away. Henrik came next, and then Joss, trailing behind.
As they were beginning to round past the tree, she stopped. Something pulled at her, and pivoting Drakon back around, she stared up at the body for a moment.
Who lost you? she wondered. Who did you leave behind?
The scene became different then, a single soul who had set everything free before himself. The somberness was heavy as she brought her fingers to her lips, kissing them and then placing her hand over her heart, an affectionate goodbye she always watched others make before they saw their loved ones leave, either for war or for the grave.
She didn’t know him, didn’t know his life or his name. But she could at least bestow the sentiment, human to human. She could at least say goodbye to him for those who didn’t get to.
And as Joss turned back around, pushing Drakon into a gallop to catch up to Henrik who was waiting for her in the distance, she ignored the gust of wind that blew throughout the trees, not hearing the squeaking of the rope that seemed to call out in ‘thank you.’
