“Did they teach you about Deniers?”
Vaelin frowned, remembering one of his father’s infrequent explanations. It had been the first time he saw the city gate and the bodies rotting in the cages that hung from the wall. “Deniers are blasphemers and heretics. Those who deny the truth of the Faith.”
“And do you know what happens to Deniers, Vaelin?”
“They are killed and hung from the city walls in cages.”
“They are hung from the walls whilst still alive and left to starve to death. Their tongues are cut out so their screams will not disturb passers by. This is done purely because they follow a different faith.”
“There is no different Faith.”
“Yes there is, Vaelin!” Erlin’s tone was fierce, implacable. “I told you I had been all over this world. There are countless faiths, countless gods. There are more ways to honour the divine than there are stars in the sky.”
Vaelin shook his head, finding the argument irrelevant. “And that’s what you are? Deniers?”
“No. I follow the same Faith as you.” He gave a short bitter laugh. “I’ve little choice after all. But Sella has a different path. Her belief is different, but just as true as yours and mine. But if she’s taken by the men hunting us they will torture and kill her. Do you think that’s right? Do you think all Deniers deserve such a fate?”
Vaelin studied Sella. Fear dominated her face, her lips trembling, but her eyes were untouched by her terror. They stared into his, unblinking, magnetic, questing, making him think of Master Sollis during that first sword lesson. “You can’t trick me,” he told her.
She took a deep breath, gently disentangled her hands from Erlin’s and signed: I am not trying to trick you. I’m looking for something.
“And what’s that?”
Something I didn’t see before. She turned to Erlin. He will help us.
Vaelin opened his mouth to retort but found the words dying on his lips. She was right: he would help them. There was no complexity to the decision. It was right, he knew it. He would help them because Erlin was honest and brave and Sella was pretty and had seen something in him. He would help them because he knew they didn’t deserve to die.
He went into the shelter and returned with the yallin root. “Here.” He tossed it to Erlin. “Cut it in half and smear the juice on your feet and hands. Whose scent do they have?”
Erlin sniffed the root uncertainly. “What is this?”
“It’ll mask your scent. Which of you do they follow?”
Sella patted her chest. Vaelin noted the silk scarf around her neck. He pointed at it, motioning for her to hand it over.
My mother’s, she protested.
“Then she’ll be glad it saved your life.”
After a moment’s hesitation she undid the scarf and gave it to him. He tied it around his wrist.
“This is disgusting!” Erlin complained smearing the yallin juice on his boots, face contorted at the pungent stench.
“Dogs think so too,” Vaelin told him.
After Sella had anointed her own boots and hands he led them into the densest part of the surrounding woodland. There was a hollow a few hundred yards from the camp, deep enough to hide two people but offering little protection against expert eyes. Vaelin was hoping whoever hunted them wouldn’t get close enough to see it. When they had settled into the hollow he took the yallin root from Sella and smeared as much juice as he could squeeze from it on the surrounding ground and foliage.
“Stay here, keep quiet. If you hear the dogs lie still, don’t run. If I don’t return in an hour head south for two days then circle west, follow the coast road north, stay out of the towns.”
He made to leave when Sella reached out to him, her hand hovering close to his. She seemed wary of touching him. Her eyes met his again, not questing this time, just bright with gratitude. He smiled back briefly and was gone, running full pelt towards the hunters. The sparse woods blurred around him, his hunger wracked body aching from the effort. He pushed his pains away and ran on, the scarf on his wrist trailing in the wind.