Points of Departure by Pat Murphy

Author:Pat Murphy [Murphy, Pat]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4804-8319-4
Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
Published: 2014-03-06T16:46:00+00:00

A scent of a charcoal fire—damp dismal scent in the early morning—but Tarsia did not stand on the cold slate of the roof. The wind that carried the scent of smoke blew back her hair and the sound of wings was all around her.

She stood at the Lady’s side in the chariot and the four hounds of the wind ran beside them. Far below, she saw the gray slate rooftop and the fluttering clothes on the line. Far below, the ancient towers of the city, the crumbling walls, the booths and stalls of the marketplace.

“This is your proper place, my daughter,” the Lady said, her voice as soft as the summer breeze blowing through the towers. “Above the world at my side.” The Lady took Tarsia’s hand and the pain faded away.

Tarsia heard a rumbling—like the sound of cartwheels on a cobbled street. Far below, she saw the towers shake and a broad, earth-colored face glared up at them. Shaking off the dust of the hole from which he had emerged, the giant climbed to the top of the city wall in a few steps. He seemed larger than he had beneath the earth. He stood on top of the old stone tower and reached toward them.

Tarsia cried out—fearful that the giant would catch them and drag them back to the earth. Back down to the smoke and the dust.

The scent of smoke was real. Tarsia could feel the damp grass of the riverbank beneath her, but she was warm. A cloth that smelled faintly of horse lay over her.

She forced her eyes open. A riverbank in early morning mist sparkling on the grass; a white horse grazing; smoke drifting from a small fire; a thin, brown-haired man dressed in travel-stained green watching her. “You’re awake,” he said. “How do you feel?”

Her head ached. She struggled to a sitting position, clutching the green cape that had served as her cover around her. Wary, used to the ways of the city, she mumbled, “I’ll live.”

He continued watching her. “You’re a long way from anywhere in particular. Where are you going?” His accent matched that of traders from the South who had sometimes visited the city.

She twisted to look behind her at the hills. She could not see the city, and she wondered how far she had come in the winding tunnels. “I came from the city,” she said.

“I’m going away from the city.” More alert now, Tarsia studied the white horse. It looked well fed. The saddle that lay beside the animal was travel worn, but she could tell that it was once of first quality. The cloak that covered her was finely woven of soft wool. A lute wrapped in similar cloth leaned against the saddle.

“I’m a minstrel,” the man said. “I’m traveling north.”

Tarsia nodded, thinking that when a person volunteered information it was generally false. No minstrel could afford a saddle like that one. She looked up into his brown eyes—noting in passing the gold ring on his hand. She knew she could trust him as a fellow thief.

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