Murtagh

Murtagh took another sip of ale and smoothed his beard while his mind raced. The conversation had gone from amusing to deadly serious. If he said the wrong thing, he could send Essie careening down a path she would regret—and he knew he would regret it if he didn’t try to talk her back onto the straight and narrow.

Careful now, he thought. “And where would you go?”

“South,” said Essie firmly. She’d obviously already considered the question. “Where it’s warm. There’s a caravan leaving tomorrow. The foreman comes here. He’s nice. I can sneak out, an’ then ride with ’em to Gil’ead.”

Murtagh picked at the tines of his fork. “And then?”

The girl sat up straighter. “I want t’ visit the Beor Mountains an’ see the dwarves! They made our windows. Aren’t they pretty?” She pointed.

“They certainly are.”

“Have you ever visited the Beor Mountains?”

“I have,” said Murtagh. “Once, long ago.”

Essie looked at him with renewed interest. “Really? Are they as tall as everyone says?”

“So tall the peaks aren’t even visible.”

She leaned back in the chair, tilting her head toward the ceiling as if imagining the sight. “How wonderful.”

A snort escaped him. “If you don’t count being shot at with arrows, then yes…. You do realize, Essie Siglingsdaughter, that running away won’t solve your problems here.”

“Of course not.” Silly, her expression said. “But if I leave, then Hjordis can’t bother me anymore.”

The utter conviction of her tone nearly made Murtagh laugh. He hid his amusement by taking a long drink from his mug, and by the time he finished, he’d regained his composure. “Or, and this is just a suggestion, you could try to fix the problem instead of running away.”

“It can’t be fixed,” she said, stubborn.

“What about your parents? I’m sure they would miss you terribly. Do you really want to make them suffer like that?”

Essie crossed her arms. “They have my brother and my sister and Olfa. He’s only two.” She pouted. “They wouldn’t miss me.”

“I very much doubt that,” said Murtagh. “Besides, think what you did with Hjordis. You helped protect the Fulsome Feast. If your parents understood the sacrifice you made, I’m sure they would be very proud.”

“Uh-huh,” said Essie. She didn’t seem convinced. “There wouldn’t have been a problem if it wasn’t fer me. I’m the problem. If I go away, everything will be aight.” And she picked up the apple core and threw it into the fireplace.

A whirl of sparks flew up the chimney, and the sizzle of water boiling into steam sounded above the crackling of the logs.

The girl’s sleeve had ridden up, and on her left wrist, Murtagh saw a twisted scar, red and raised and thick as a rope. His lips pulled back from his teeth, and in an overly casual tone, he said, “What is that?”

“What?” she said.

“There, on your arm.”

Essie looked down, and a flush darkened her cheeks and ears. “Nothing,” she mumbled, tugging the cuff down.

“May I?” Murtagh asked as kindly as he could, and held out a hand.

The girl hesitated, but at last she nodded, timid, and let him take her arm.

She turned her head away as he gently pulled back the cuff of her sleeve. The scar crawled up her forearm all the way to her elbow, a long, angry testament to pain. The sight of it put cold fire in Murtagh’s veins, and he felt a sympathetic pang from his own furious mark, on his back.

He lowered Essie’s sleeve. “That…is a very impressive scar. You should be proud of it.”

She looked back at him, confusion lurking in her eyes. “Why? It’s ugly, an’ I hate it.”

A faint smile lifted his lips. “Because a scar means you survived. It means you’re tough and hard to kill. It means you lived. A scar is something to admire.”

“You’re wrong,” said Essie. She pointed at a pot with painted bluebells on the mantel. A long crack ran from the lip of the pot to the base. “It just means you’re broken.”

“Ah,” said Murtagh in a soft voice. “But sometimes, if you work very hard, you can mend a break so that it’s stronger than before.”

The girl crossed her arms, tucking her left hand into her armpit. “Hjordis an’ the others always make fun of me fer it,” she mumbled. “They say my arm is as red as a snapper, an’ that I’ll never get a husband because of it.”

“And what do your parents say?”

Essie made a face. “That it din’t matter. But that’s not true, is it?”

Murtagh inclined his head. “No. I suppose it isn’t. Your parents are doing their best to protect you, though.”

“Well, they can’t,” she said, and huffed.

No, they probably can’t, he thought, his mood darkening even further.

She glanced at him and seemed to shrink in her seat. “Do you have any scars?” she asked, soft, uncertain.