spare

That would be just my luck—to get killed by the Erkynguard in the middle of a war for trying to steal shoes." A little of Miriamele's annoyance had dissipated. "You probably stole enough things and got away with it when you were living at the Hayholt. It will only be fair."' "Stole? Me?" "From the kitchens, constantly. You told me yourself, although I knew it already. And who was it who stole the sexton's shovel and put it in the gauntlet of that armor in the Lesser Hall, so that it looked like Sir Whoever was going out to dig a privy pit?" Surprised she had remembered, Simon let out a quiet, pleased chortle. "Jeremias did that with me." "You dragged him into it, you mean. Jeremias would never have done something like that without you." "How did you know about that?" Miriamele gave him a disgusted look. "I told you, you idiot, I followed you around for weeks." "You did, didn't you." Simon was impressed. "What else did you see me do?" "Mostly sneak off and sit around mooning when you were supposed to be working," she snapped. "No wonder Rachel had to pinch your ears blue." Offended, Simon straightened his back. "I only sneaked off to have some time to myself. You don't know what it's tike living in the servants' quarters." Miriamele looked at him. Her expression was suddenly serious, even sad. "You're right. But you don't know what it was like being me, either. There certainly wasn't much chance to be off by myself." "Maybe," Simon said stubbornly. "But I'll bet the food was better in your part of the Hayholt." "It was the same food," she shot back. "We just ate it with clean hands." She looked pointedly at his ashblackened fingers. Simon laughed aloud. "Ah! So the difference between a scullion and a princess is clean hands. I hate to disappoint you, Miriamele, but after spending a day up to my elbows in the washing tub, my hands were very clean." She looked at him mockingly. "So then I suppose there is no difference between the two at all." "I don't know." Simon grew suddenly uncomfortable with the discussion; it was moving into painful territory. "I don't know, Miriamele." Sensing that something had changed, she fell silent. Insects were creaking musically all around, and the shadowy trees loomed like eavesdroppers. It was strange to be in the forest again, Simon thought. He had grown used to the vast distances to be seen from atop Sesuad'ra and the unending openness of the High Thrithing. After that, Aldheorte seemed confining. Still, a castle was confining, too, but it was the best defense against enemies. Perhaps Miriamele was right: for a while, anyway, the forest might be the best place for them. "I'm going to sleep," she said suddenly.

She stood up and walked to the spot where she had unrolled her bed. Simon noted that she had placed his bedroll on the far side of the campfire from her own. "If you wish." He couldn't tell if she was mad at him again. Perhaps she'd just run short of things to say. He felt like that around her sometimes, once all the talk of small things was finished. The big things were too hard to speak of, too embarrassing ... and too frightening. "I think I'll sit here for a while." Miriamele rolled herself in her cloak and lay back. Simon watched her through the shimmer of the fire. One of the horses made a soft, contented-sounding noise. "Miriamele?" "Yes?" "I meant what I said the night we left. I will be your protector, even if you don't tell me exactly what I'm protecting you from." "I know, Simon. Thank you." There was another gap of silence. After a while, Simon heard a thin sound, quietly melodious. He had a moment of apprehension before he realized it was Miriamele humming softly to herself. "What song is that?" She stirred and turned toward him. "What?" "What song is that you were humming?" She smiled. "I didn't know I was humming. It's been running through my head all this evening. It's one my mother used to sing to me when I was little. I think it's a Hernystiri song that came from my grandmother, but the words are Westerling." Simon stood and walked to his bedroll. "Would you sing it?" Miriamele hesitated. "I don't know. I'm tired, and I'm not sure I can remember the words. Anyway, it's a sad song." He lay down and pulled his cloak over him, abruptly shivering.

The night was growing cold. The wind lightly rattled the leaves. "I don't care if you get the words right. It would just be nice to have a song." "Very well. I'll try." She thought for a moment, then began to sing. Her voice was husky but sweet. "In Cathyn Dair there lived a maid," she began. Although she sang quietly, the slow melody ran all through the darkened forest clearing. "In Cathyn Dair, by Siiversea, The fairest girl was ever born And I loved her and she loved me. "By Silversea the wind is cold The grass is long, the stones are old And hearts are bought, and love is sold And time and time the same tale told In cruel Cathyn Dair. "We met when autumn moon was high In Cathyn Dair, by Silversea, In silver dress and golden shoon She danced and gave her smile to me. "When winter's ice was on the roof In Cathyn Dair, by Silversea, We sang beside the fiery hearth She smiled and gave her lips to me. "By Siiversea the wind is cold The grass is long, the stones are old And hearts are bought, and love is sold And time and time the same tale told In cruel Cathyn Dair. "When spring was dreaming in the fields In Cathyn Dair, by Silversea, In Mircha's shrine where candles burned She stood and pledged her troth to me. "When summer burned upon the hills In Cathyn Dair, by Siiversea, The banns were posted in the town But she came not to marry me. "By Silversea the wind is cold The grass is long, the stones are old And hearts are bought, and love is sold And time and time the same tale told In cruel Cathyn Dair. "When Autumn's moon had come again In Cathyn Dair, by Silversea, I saw her dance in silver dress The man she danced for was not me. "When winter showed its cruel claws In Cathyn Dair, by Silversea, I walked out from the city walls No more will that place torment me. "By Silversea the wind is cold The grass is long, the stones are old And hearts are bought, and love is sold And time and time the same tale told In cruel Cathyn Dair .

.." 'That's a pretty song," Simon said when she had finished. "A sad song." The haunting tune still floated through his head; he understood why Miriamele had been humming it all unawares. "My mother used to sing it to me in the garden at Meremund. She always sang. Everyone said she had the prettiest voice they'd ever heard." There was silence for a while. Both Simon and Miriamele lay wrapped in their cloaks, nursing their secret thoughts. "I never knew my mother," Simon said at last. "She died when I was born, I never knew either of my parents." "Neither did I." By the time the oddness of this remark sifted down through Simon's own distracted thoughts, Miriamele had rolled over, placing her back toward the fire—and toward Simon.