Chapter 6: Coldwater

Coldwater sat in a bowl of grey hills, and there were no trees on any of them.

We rode in on the sixth evening with eleven grain wagons behind us.

I had thought the pack would cheer.

They didn't.

They stood along the road in wool coats, women and old men and a great many children.

They watched the wagons go by as if the sacks might vanish.

A small boy with hollow cheeks reached out and touched a sack as it passed.

His mother pulled him back, then slowly let him touch it again.

Torin rode beside me and said nothing.

His jaw was set so hard I could see the muscle jump.

"Tell them to take what they need," I said.

"It's your father's grain."

"It's your wife's grain. I'm the one who sent it. Tell them."

He looked at me properly for the first time since the wedding.

Then he stood in his stirrups and called out to the road:

"Open the sacks. Feed the children."

The sound that came back was not a cheer.

It was something older and rougher, a hundred people breathing out at the same moment.

I looked at the sky until my eyes dried.

Hester found me in the yard and took the reins from my hands.

"You've got something on your face," she said. "I'll pretend I don't see it. Come inside. The hall's cold, but the soup is only slightly bad."

The soup was a thin barley broth and I ate two bowls.

The hall was long and low and stone, with a fire at each end and not nearly enough chairs.

Torin did not come to dinner.

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