The Lady at the River's Edge

33 - Familiar Faces

She dressed quickly. While Bolya at least had the decency to walk off upstream to wait for her, the memory of his wandering gaze was still vivid. She looked back at the taltos before leaving, but the old woman was again so absorbed in washing herself, it felt a waste of breath to bid farewell. She hurried along the path to where Bolya awaited her, and with hurried strides they made for the camp.

"So all along, you knew who I was?" Erzsebet asked as they walked. "Where I had come from?"

The man grunted. "You gave us your name. I did not think you meant to hide who you are."

"Not hide, so much as... Well, I didn't expect you to know."

He glanced over at her, and though his standard grimace did not shift, something in the lines around his eyes hinted amusement. "Your father treated often with us, through envoys–the Pheasant first among them. We know the names of all the children of the castle–on the night of young Antal's birth, twelve goats were brought to us, to share the celebration." He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I am shamed to say, it is only by Péter's grace that we can remain here, living as we do. What little we've heard from the other remaining tribes, they must live in deep hiding, far from any Christian settlement, or they risk discovery and destruction."

Erzsebet gave a sound of wonder. "I never knew–no wonder my mother sent us to you..." Then the implication of his words surfaced. "Wait, my father's grace–then have you not heard?"

Catching her tone, Bolya stopped and faced her. "Heard what?"

"The castle is taken, my father captured. The palatine–an evil man, a demon in human guise–now holds Petervarad."

The grimace on Bolya's face deepened as he considered this news. "We have seen strange men on horseback take to the roads around Árpatarló. We saw smoke on the horizon."

"You aren't safe here any more, none of you! You have to leave, you have to–" Erzsebet stopped, turning around. "We need to tell the taltos!"

"Calm yourself," said Bolya–as if that ever helped. "We will hear what news the Pheasant brings, and then discuss with the táltos in the evening."

"That might well be too late!" Erzsebet cried, turning back to implore him. "The castle was taken a week ago, Bolya! And you cannot trust this Pheasant, whoever he is–there are some who betrayed my father's house to win favor with the palatine. Our chamberlain opened the gates to the enemy!"

The warchief's frown deepened, but still he did not seem to take her words to heart. "We have had long dealings with the Pheasant. If treachery was in his heart, we would know."

"You can't always know what will change a man," Erzsebet argued. She had meant to push on, but a new thought sprouted, tempted her with its fruit. "If you will not run," she ventured, "would you fight?"

The question brought a new light to his eyes, but just as quickly as it flared up, it was tamped back down. "We are no great force," he said. "To storm a castle–"

"You owe my father," Erzsebet argued. "You said as much yourself. Once the palatine is settled, he'll scour these lands, put all your people to the sword. Will you simply wait for it? Fight or flee, Bolya. What do you choose?"

But he was shaking his head. "There are but twenty men among us who might do battle, and one warchief. We can do nothing against the men of steel but die."

"Is there less honor in dying on the field than in fleeing it?"

He took the rebuke poorly, turning his dark gaze upon her–but even then, it was clear he regretted refusing. "There is no longer honor in war, castle-child. War is now just another pastime of the lords. They are greedy, so they send soldiers to their death to claim new lands and gather up new trinkets." He sighed, his expression softening, moving from defensiveness to defeat. "The time of worship upon the battlefield is passed. The altar of Hadak Ura is bare. The ways of our fathers have no place in this Christian kingdom."