Sleep came in fragments.
Cadarn would drift off, then snap awake at phantom sounds—footsteps that were just settling wood, voices that were just wind, the clatter of weapons that was just Mara banking the fire.
Each time, his hand would go to his shoulder, expecting to find the wound opened again, bleeding, infected. Each time, he found only clean bandages and the deep ache of healing tissue.
Healing. That was optimistic.
Surviving. Barely.
At some point deep in the night, Mara appeared beside him with a wooden cup.
"Drink this."
"What is it?"
"Willow bark tea. For the pain. And probably tastes like tree piss, so get it down quick."
She wasn't wrong. The tea was bitter enough to make his face contort. But within a quarter hour, the screaming in his shoulder had dulled to a manageable roar.
"Better?" Mara asked.
"Considerably. Thank you."
She settled into the chair Jens had vacated earlier. In the firelight, she looked older than Cadarn had first thought—maybe late fifties, with the kind of weathered face that came from hard work and harder years.
"Can I ask you something?" she said.
"You can ask."
"What did you do? What's so important that people are hunting you with poisoned arrows?"
Cadarn stared at the ceiling beams. "I knew something I shouldn't have. Tried to forget it. Couldn't. Now people want to make sure I either tell them what I know or take it to my grave."
"That's the vaguest answer I've ever heard."
"It's the safest one. For both of us."
"Is it true? What you know?"
"Yes."
"Is it important?"
He thought about Duke Theodric. About the baby switch. About three kingdoms mobilizing for war over a lie.
"Yes."
"Then maybe you should stop running." Mara leaned forward. "My grandfather used to say: 'Truth's like blood. You can hide it for a while, but eventually it finds the light.' Maybe it's time to let yours find the light."
"Your grandfather sounds like he never met anyone with a sharp knife and questions."
"He was tortured by border raiders when I was twelve. They wanted to know where the village stored grain." She met his eyes. "He told them nothing. Died telling them nothing. Because some things matter more than dying easy."
Cadarn had no response to that.
They sat in silence for a while, watching the fire burn low.
"The people hunting you," Mara said eventually. "They're not going to stop, are they?"
"No."
"And wherever you're going—whoever you're trying to reach—it's important enough that you're willing to die trying."
"I don't want to die trying. But I want to keep running even less."
Mara nodded slowly. "Then let me help."
"You already helped. You cut poison out of my shoulder and didn't ask for payment."
"That was human decency. This is something else." She stood, moved to a chest in the corner, and pulled out a bundle wrapped in oilcloth. When she unwrapped it, Cadarn saw a long knife—good steel, well-maintained—and a small leather pouch.
"This was my son's," Mara said quietly. "He went to war eight years ago. Border conscription. Never came home." She set the knife and pouch on the table beside him. "The knife's balanced for fighting, not work. The pouch has fifty silver in it. Not much, but it'll buy you a few nights' shelter and food."
"I can't take your son's—"
"He's dead. He doesn't need it." Her voice was flat. "But you do. And maybe if you reach whoever you're trying to reach, maybe if you tell whatever truth you're carrying, maybe it'll save someone else's son from dying in a pointless war."
Cadarn's throat tightened. "I can't promise that."
"I'm not asking for promises. I'm asking you to try." She moved back to her chair. "Tomorrow, before first light, Jens will take you to the old timber road north of here. It's overgrown and unused, but it heads toward the northern territories. Follow it for two days and you'll hit the Stonewood. From there, I can't help you. But it'll get you clear of the immediate search."
"Why are you doing this?"
Mara was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Because my son died in a war started over a duke's pride and a king's stubbornness. Because I've spent eight years wondering if his death meant anything. And because maybe—maybe—helping you means something."
She stood and moved toward the sleeping area where Jens was already snoring softly.
"Get some rest, Doctor. You'll need it."
"Mara?"
She paused, looking back.
"Thank you. For everything."
"Thank me by living. And by making sure whatever you know is worth all this blood."
Then she was gone, disappearing behind a hanging curtain that divided the room.
Cadarn lay back, exhausted but unable to sleep. The knife and coin pouch sat on the table beside him, solid and real in the firelight.
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the shutters.
Somewhere out there, soldiers were camped, waiting for dawn to resume their hunt.
Somewhere out there, Garrett was being interrogated—or was already dead.
Somewhere out there, Bram was...
He didn't let himself finish that thought.
Instead, he focused on breathing. On the ache in his shoulder that meant he was still alive. On the fact that tomorrow he'd be moving again, running again, trying desperately to reach safety before his luck—what little he had—finally ran out.
But tonight, in a small cottage in a forgotten village, he was warm and bandaged and not alone.
It was more than he deserved.
It was more than he'd had in years.
It would have to be enough.