because the men crowding in behind her didn’t give her any choice. It was only as she stepped across the border and looked back to see a very thin, red line behind her heels, that she realized just what she’d done.
She had just sentenced herself to death—and not just from the Guild’s bright swords.
It was, as Quinn had said, common knowledge that to cross the border without leave meant death by any one of several means, ranging from a long, slow, lingering illness to a sudden collapse. It was also said that those of noble enough blood could come and go as they pleased, but she had never met anyone noble to ask them. And given that she was nothing more than a common young woman of a score-and-seven, her blood would not save her.
“Well, get on with ye, girl,” said a rough voice from behind her. “Or at least get out of the way!”
She found herself pushed aside by a burly trader who apparently was in a hurry to be about his business. She looked to her left. A wagon was receiving its passengers, having already been loaded with whatever cargo it was carrying.
“Where is that wagon going?” she managed, looking at another man who was moving past her.
“Gairn.”
Aisling heard shouts behind her, shouts that made her blood run cold because she recognized the Guildmistress’s voice. She turned, because it was what she was accustomed to doing, though she could hardly bring herself to look and see what the woman would do.
The Guildmistress was holding aloft a sword, stained with blood. She looked at Aisling, her gaze making the distance between them seem much less than perhaps it was. It was a look that left Aisling feeling as if she had lost control of her form. She took a step toward the border, but before her foot touched the ground, she found herself jerked backward.
“Oh, nay, you’re not going there,” a voice said firmly.
Before she could do so much as squeak, she was pulled out of the torchlight, away from that thin bloodred line that meant the difference between life and death.
The thought was halfway across her mind that Euan had caught her and was helping her to safety when she looked up at the man who was pulling her quickly into the shadows. To her surprise, she found it was the peddler she occasionally borrowed books from. Actually, she had once purchased a book from him, a book she had residing in a pocket she had made in her skirts, a book she had paid dearly for and never allowed to leave her person. But why he should find himself where he was at the current moment was one of the more baffling things in an evening that had been full of things she hadn’t expected.
“But the weaving mistress—” she protested.
“Dead, most likely,” he said briskly. “Count yourself lucky you aren’t as well.”
He shoved a bundle into her arms, then took hold of her long braid. She started to ask him what he was doing when she saw a knife flash in the darkness and felt a tug on her skull.
She gaped at him. “You cut off my hair!”
“And if they catch you, they’ll cut your throat,” he said harshly. “Those are lad’s clothes. Go put them on.”
They were out of the light but still within earshot of a great deal of shouting. Aisling wished she had even some idea what the peddler’s name was, because she would have used it repeatedly whilst cursing him, but unfortunately all she could do was splutter at his nameless self. She flinched at the increase in the shrieking coming from the border, then decided that whatever else she chose to do, doing that thing as a lad would be much safer than as a woman. She ran behind an enormous boulder, then threw on the clothes the peddler had given her. She didn’t care about their condition.
She retrieved her precious book from her pocket, then shoved it into the waistband of her trousers. She pulled her tunic down, then drew a cloak around her shoulders. She came out from behind the boulder on legs that were so unsteady beneath her, she felt as if
She had just sentenced herself to death—and not just from the Guild’s bright swords.
It was, as Quinn had said, common knowledge that to cross the border without leave meant death by any one of several means, ranging from a long, slow, lingering illness to a sudden collapse. It was also said that those of noble enough blood could come and go as they pleased, but she had never met anyone noble to ask them. And given that she was nothing more than a common young woman of a score-and-seven, her blood would not save her.
“Well, get on with ye, girl,” said a rough voice from behind her. “Or at least get out of the way!”
She found herself pushed aside by a burly trader who apparently was in a hurry to be about his business. She looked to her left. A wagon was receiving its passengers, having already been loaded with whatever cargo it was carrying.
“Where is that wagon going?” she managed, looking at another man who was moving past her.
“Gairn.”
Aisling heard shouts behind her, shouts that made her blood run cold because she recognized the Guildmistress’s voice. She turned, because it was what she was accustomed to doing, though she could hardly bring herself to look and see what the woman would do.
The Guildmistress was holding aloft a sword, stained with blood. She looked at Aisling, her gaze making the distance between them seem much less than perhaps it was. It was a look that left Aisling feeling as if she had lost control of her form. She took a step toward the border, but before her foot touched the ground, she found herself jerked backward.
“Oh, nay, you’re not going there,” a voice said firmly.
Before she could do so much as squeak, she was pulled out of the torchlight, away from that thin bloodred line that meant the difference between life and death.
The thought was halfway across her mind that Euan had caught her and was helping her to safety when she looked up at the man who was pulling her quickly into the shadows. To her surprise, she found it was the peddler she occasionally borrowed books from. Actually, she had once purchased a book from him, a book she had residing in a pocket she had made in her skirts, a book she had paid dearly for and never allowed to leave her person. But why he should find himself where he was at the current moment was one of the more baffling things in an evening that had been full of things she hadn’t expected.
“But the weaving mistress—” she protested.
“Dead, most likely,” he said briskly. “Count yourself lucky you aren’t as well.”
He shoved a bundle into her arms, then took hold of her long braid. She started to ask him what he was doing when she saw a knife flash in the darkness and felt a tug on her skull.
She gaped at him. “You cut off my hair!”
“And if they catch you, they’ll cut your throat,” he said harshly. “Those are lad’s clothes. Go put them on.”
They were out of the light but still within earshot of a great deal of shouting. Aisling wished she had even some idea what the peddler’s name was, because she would have used it repeatedly whilst cursing him, but unfortunately all she could do was splutter at his nameless self. She flinched at the increase in the shrieking coming from the border, then decided that whatever else she chose to do, doing that thing as a lad would be much safer than as a woman. She ran behind an enormous boulder, then threw on the clothes the peddler had given her. She didn’t care about their condition.
She retrieved her precious book from her pocket, then shoved it into the waistband of her trousers. She pulled her tunic down, then drew a cloak around her shoulders. She came out from behind the boulder on legs that were so unsteady beneath her, she felt as if
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