Roads Require Destinations

Ailis

The first thing freedom gave me was another piece of bread.

I distrusted it immediately.

Not the bread itself. The bread seemed excellent. Coarse, warm in the middle, and large enough that I could smell yeast before the woman carrying the basket reached me.

The problem was that she put it into my hand and walked away.

I looked after her.

No instruction.

No expectation that I carry anything in return. No warning about crumbs. No one standing nearby to decide whether I had done enough work to deserve it.

I waited several breaths in case she came back and explained the mistake.

She did not.

So I ate the bread.

Apparently freedom involved considerably less supervision than I had expected.

Tessa sat beside me beneath the canvas awning the Aedrathi soldiers had erected below the stronghold. She finished her portion before I had swallowed half of mine and glanced at what remained.

I broke off a piece.

“No.”

“You were looking.”

“I was not.”

“You were.”

“So were you before they gave it to you.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“It was not mine yet.”

Tessa stared at me.

I considered this argument perfectly sound.

She apparently did not.

I put the bread into her hand anyway.

She ate it.

That settled the matter.

Beyond the awning, Aedrath’s¹ army continued taking Veyrath apart.

Weapons went into one pile. Linen into another. Wounded soldiers passed downhill toward the healers. Winged averrens stamped beside supply wagons while men shouted in a language I could barely separate into individual words.

And somewhere above us, General Aodren’s soldiers were still searching rooms.

Every room.

I had told myself not to think about that again.

I thought about it again.

A clerk sat behind a narrow table at the far end of the shelter.

Parchment. Ink. Two pens. A small dish of sand.

People went to him one at a time.

He wrote things down.

My stomach tightened.

“Tessa.”

“What?”

“I think they are taking names.”

She looked toward the table.

“Probably.”

I wiped my fingertips against my skirt.

That was ridiculous. I knew my own name.

I had given it often enough.

Ailis.

Sometimes Ailis Edevane.

Once, a long time ago, Lady Ailis Edevane.

No one had forbidden me from using the title after Veyrath conquered Eilin.² There simply stopped being circumstances in which anyone cared that I had possessed one.

The difference was smaller than I would have expected.

My turn came.

The clerk looked older up close. Gray showed at his temples, and ink stained one cuff of his wool coat.

“Name?”

“Ailis Edevane.”

He wrote it down.

Just like that.

I watched the pen move.

There was something unsettling about seeing my name placed onto Aedrathi parchment without anyone changing it.

“Age?”

“Twenty-two.”

“Place of origin?”

“Eilin.”

His pen stopped.

Of course it did.

People always paused at Eilin.

It was a small kingdom even before Veyrath conquered it. Afterward, people spoke of it the way they spoke about houses after fires: with sympathy, curiosity, and a quiet desire to ask whether anything useful had survived.

“Taken from there?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“How long ago?”

“Five years.”

He wrote.

“Family?”

My mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

Five years was long enough for people to move.

To marry.

To die.

To learn how to live without you.

The last thought came too easily.

I disliked it and put it somewhere else.

“My parents were in Eilin when I was taken.”

“Names?”

I gave them.

He wrote those down too.

“Do you know whether they live?”

“No.”

The word felt ugly.

He did not make me repeat it.

“Anyone else you could go to?”

I thought of cousins whose faces had already begun blurring at the edges of memory. Neighbors. Families who had once visited ours for winter dinners. Ronan --

No.

I stopped there.

“I don’t know.”

He made another mark.

“What work were you made to do?”

“Mostly textiles. Embroidery. Mending. Garments when they needed them.”

“Skilled embroidery?”

“Yes.”

That sounded arrogant.

“I mean, I was trained before.”

That sounded worse.

His expression did not change.

“Were you paid?”

“No.”

Of course not.

But something about having to say it made heat creep into my face.

Five years of work. Fine thread passing through my fingers. Linen repaired. Borders finished. Sleeves embroidered for women who complained if one leaf sat a finger-width higher than another.

No coins.

Nothing I could put into my own hand and say, Mine.

The clerk finished writing.

Then he asked, “Do you wish to return to Eilin?”

I stared at him.

“Now?”

He blinked. “No.”

“Oh.”

That was better.

“When the roads are secure. We are recording where people wish to go.”

Wish.

I looked beyond the awning.

The road disappeared past the tents and curved around the hillside.

I had wanted to go home for five years.

That should have been the easiest question anyone had ever asked me.

Except I did not know what home looked like anymore.

Was the Edevane house standing?

Did someone else live there?

Were my parents alive?

Would anyone recognize me if I walked through the gate?

Would I recognize them?

I hated that last question most.

“Is Eilin safe?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

I looked at him.

He did not soften it.

Did not pretend.

For some reason, that made me trust him more.

“Can you find out?”

“We can try.”

Try.

I could work with try.

“Do I have to decide now?”

“No.”

My shoulders loosened before I could stop them.

The clerk noticed.

He politely pretended not to.

“Aedrath is arranging temporary lodging and food for those without somewhere safe to go. You will not be required to remain once the roads reopen.”

“So I may leave.”

“Yes.”

“And if I have nowhere to go?”

“You need not leave merely because you can.”

I sat very still.

There it was again.

A choice.

I had thought freedom would feel like doors opening.

Nobody had mentioned how many doors there might be.

“I left something inside,” I said.

“A possession?”

“My shawl.”

His expression changed slightly.

“Blue wool,” I added.

That did not improve matters.

“Where?”

“The embroidery room.”

“No civilians are being allowed back inside yet.”

“Oh.”

“If recovered goods are sorted, you may be able to claim it.”

I nodded.

The shawl was only wool.

Wool could be replaced.

Except it had been made in Eilin. Except I had repaired the hem myself. Except it was one of the few things left that had belonged to me before I became something belonging to Veyrath.

So perhaps it was not only wool.

I thanked the clerk and stepped away.

Tessa took my place.

I sat outside the awning with another piece of bread Mara had somehow acquired.

This time I did not pretend I did not want it.

Progress.

The road remained visible beyond the camp.

Nobody guarded it against me.

Nobody had told me where I must go.

For five years, I had imagined freedom as the absence of someone else's decision.

I had never considered that it would leave the decision with me.

Tessa returned and sat close enough that our shoulders touched.

“Where do you think you’ll go?”

I watched a wagon disappear around the bend.

“I don’t know.”

The answer had frightened me yesterday.

Today it sounded almost like possibility.

I took another bite of bread.

“I think I would like to find out.”