Wind from a Foreign Sky (The Tielmaran Chronicles, Book 1)

Chapter 1
 
Gaultry never carried her knife on market days. No one carried weapons on market days, and everyone agreed it made for fewer fights--or at least fewer serious fights.
But for Gaultry, shedding her knife was only the first part of a day-long trial. Market day in Paddleways village meant changing her hunting hose for long skirts, her knife belt for her Aunt Tamsanne's good red sash. Worse, market day meant trying to cut a convincing figure as she haggled with the village crowds.
It felt unnatural. When the villagers looked at her, it seemed they always saw her aunt, who was commanding and wise, or her sister, who was charming and wise, before they saw Gaultry, who suspected she didn't impress anyone as either of these things. Somehow, dealing with Gaultry, the village people always knew that they could hold to their price, and get it.
But today, much to her surprise, it had been different. Today, with the breaking of the new spring, she had begun to find her feet as a trader. Mother Liese, the baker, let her have a third loaf of bread without arguing, and Coln, the village blacksmith, gave her a score of nails for half the price she'd been expecting. So what if Coln teased her that the look of surprise on her face was worth what he lost on the price. "Let a wild rabbit out of a trap, you get the same expression!" He laughed. But so what? She'd got her price. Her clever older sister could scarcely have done better with an hour of hard bargaining.
Tamsanne would be pleased when she got home. Tamsanne had assured her niece numerous times she'd find her place in the world of tongues and trading. Gaultry had always found it hard to believe her.
But not today. Gaultry was finished with her business by early afternoon. She declined a surprising offer from Coln and his wife to stop in for an early tea.
"Tamsanne's expecting me, " she had told the friendly blacksmith.
"Then plan to say for tea next time," Coln pressed her. "That's Prince's Night. Annie can ready a cot for you if you'd like to see the fireworks. "
"Next time won't be until after the Maying Moon. Tamsanne wants me at the cottage for Prince's Night."
"Making you miss the Prince's marriage celeberations here in the village? That's not kind. "
Gaultry shrugged. "Paddleways will be too crowded for the likes of me. I won't want to come. "
Coln, who was stocky, not at all shy, and loved to drink a holy day thorugh, did not believe her. "Tell Tamsanne there's places for you both if she changes her mind."
"I will," Gaultry said, hoping he didn't think her rude. "It's a kind offer."
Afterwards she packed up to head home with bundles that were far heavier than she had hoped for.
It was a long three miles from Paddleways village to Aunt Tamsanne's cottage. Gaultry's satisfaction with the day's good trading lightened her step for the journey and it was a pleasantly sun-filled day for the walk.
The first mile was fields, empty today save for the wild birds. Then came a shallow ford with ancient stepping stones, washed a little too far apart by years of winter flooding to be usable. Beyond came the great woods, Arleon Forest. Past the ford, the track dwindled to a narrow path, hemmed in on either side with tender spring shoots. Gaultry folded the hem of her skirts into her sash and quickened her pace. She was eager to reach home and put aside her market clothes.
The path wound deep into the woods, first across a broad marshy bowl, and then up through a heavily forested boulder slope. Gaultry concentrated on the rising ground, her pace steady as she picked her way among the rocks, her big pannier basket balanced on one hip, a clutch of string bags on the other. The young huntress was a strongly built woman, with long legs and the efficient grace earned of her many years spent roaming the woods. She had come this way to market since she was a very young child, and Tamsanne had held her hand to support her. In those days, even empty-handed, the climb had not been so easy. Remembering, a smile crossed her lips.
Settling into her pace, she began to whistle.
She turned a corner, passed between a pair of ancient, moss-covered oaks, and stepped into the grassy clearing that marked the start of the pine plateau. Intent on the ground under her feet, the warmth of the early afternoon sun as it slanted down through the trees and touched her back, she was not at first aware that she had company.
Eight men were waiting for her in the clearing. Mounted men, with lean soldier's horses, dun and gray. But these men wore dirty leathers and dark cloaks instead of soldier's gear and armor, and insignia or heraldic badges were conspicuously missing from their shoulders. Behind them, spread loosely among the spindle-trunked pines, were half a dozen hunting dogs, coarse runners with ragged gray fur and orange-brown predator's eyes. They had waited so quietely for her, men and dogs both, that Gaultry was deep in among them before she even realized that they were there.
The dogs gave her the first warning: ears folded, tails low, and eyes suspicious; she could tell at once that they were set against her. Two men shifted, closing a loose wall across the path behind her.
Her hand went reflexively to her belt, but, of course, it was market day. No knife.
"Good afternoon, Gaultry Blas." That was the leader, a heavy man with land yellow hair and three days of beard on his chin, a makeshift captain's sash of red buckram looped over one shoulder. He took his horse a few paces towards her, close enough that Gaultry could smell the sweet grain on its breath. "We've been to some trouble to find you."
Gaultry didn't know him, or any of the others. She could think of no reason for the men to want to assault her, and was for a mad moment more puzzled than alarmed. Surely her successful day's shopping from the village could not be the lure?
"What do you want?" she asked. Even to her own ears, her voice |sounded high and unconvincing. This was the worst thing she could have said, and the worst way she could have said it, both confirming her identity and admitting fright. "Who are you? What do you want?" More foolish questions. She bit her lip to stop herself from asking the same wrong questions a third time, and moved her basket from her hip to her front, where she could hold it shut with both hands.
The men were enjoying her fear. Looking from one face to the next, she tried to guess what it meant that they were here, set to attack her in Arleon Forest. This was a planned attack. A random attack she could perhaps understand, but this?
The leader, grinning at her obvious confusion, dismounted, and stepped forward. He was taller than Gaultry, and heavily muscled. His frame seemed very broad and strong as he came towards her. "Who are we? Why, we've been sent as saviors, Gaultry Blas. We've come all this way to make you safe." He grinned again, suddenly nasty. "Did you ever guess such a shy, pure girl as you could be so threatening?"
Gaultry retreated one step, then another. She wished that she had her knife, that she wasn't encumbered with a day's worth of shopping, that she knew what in the great gods' majesty the man was going on about. They could not be forest outlaws--Tamsanne, her aunt, had a pact with the local outriders. Indeed, anyone local, even a renegade, would have known better than to attack one of Tamsanne's nieces. Any other day Gaultry would have been armed, able to protect herself. But today, loaded with market goods, encumbered by cursedly billowing skirts--
The leader made a signal with his hand. His men closed off the path. One man chirruped to the dogs, and the whole pack of them were on their feet, whining, nervous, and eager.
Their leader was very close now. Beneath pale, straw-colored brows, he had guarded, orange-brown eyes--a predator, like his dogs. He held her eyes with his, the smile beneath them...