Chapter 89: Saving a Stranger

The morning sun glinted off the gentle current of the river, birdsong mingling with the sound of water sluicing over smooth stones. Roland knelt ankle-deep in the shallows, hands rubbing a stubborn stain from a homespun shirt. Tall and broad-shouldered, his strong frame was already damp with spray, the light breeze tousling his blond hair into a tousled crown around his face. Sunlight caught the vivid blue of his eyes every time he glanced up, and his easy, warm smile had kept his younger sister Nessa laughing all morning.

Beside him, a girl of about fifteen, his sister Nessa, chattered away as she rinsed a worn dress. Suddenly, she froze, eyes going wide as she let out a shrill scream that startled the birds into flight.

"Roland," Nessa's voice broke into his thoughts. It was different this time, thin and trembling.

He glanced over his shoulder. She had frozen, her hands still plunged into the washwater, face gone pale.

"There," she squeaked, lifting one trembling arm to point downstream.

Following her gaze, Roland felt his own stomach tighten. A dark, crumpled shape was snagged against a gnarled branch where the river bent toward the reeds.

Without a second thought, he splashed into deeper water, boots slipping on slick rocks as he hurried toward it. Nessa followed close behind, fear pinching her brow as she struggled to keep up.

When Roland reached the figure, his breath caught. The body was a young man about his own age, his fine garments torn and smeared with mud, blood darkened his side, and one leg lay at an odd angle. His face was ghost-pale, lips bluish, dark hair plastered to his brow. His breath was faint but present- a miracle.

"He's alive," Roland breathed, his hands trembling slightly as he felt the shallow pulse in the stranger's neck.

"Oh gods," Nessa whispered, kneeling and touching the stranger's icy hand. "We must do something."

Roland wasted no time. Together, they eased the unconscious man up onto the grassy bank, careful of a deep gash along his ribs and an ankle twisted at an unnatural angle.

"He must have fallen," Nessa muttered, eyes already scanning for herbs they might use.

Roland was about to reply when distant voices reached them: a rough, commanding bark of orders carried on the breeze.

"Faster," someone growled. "He couldn't have gone far."

Both Roland and Nessa went still as deer.

Beyond the river bend appeared a mounted rider with a jagged scar slashing his cheek. A handful of men followed, their eyes sharp as they scanned the underbrush. Chainmail glimmered beneath dark cloaks, hands resting on the hilts of well-used swords.

"You heard the orders," barked the scarred man. "Dead or alive. No excuses."

Nessa grabbed Roland's sleeve. "Brother," she whispered urgently, eyes huge.

He nodded once, face gone taut and serious. Quickly, they dragged the unconscious stranger into a thicket of reeds that grew along the riverbank, their hands gentle but hurried. Nessa pulled a branch over them, breathless.

Boots crunched over damp soil just a dozen paces away.

"Fan out," the scarred leader ordered. "Check every hollow, every bramble. The lord will have all our heads if we let him slip through."

Roland felt his heart hammering in his chest as he pressed himself and Nessa flat to the ground, hands braced protectively on the unconscious man they had just pulled from death's hands. Blood trickled into the grass at their knees.

Somewhere above them, a raven cawed harshly and took flight. The river's cold rush filled their ears as the search party moved closer, and Roland held his breath, determined to keep this mysterious man safe whatever the cost.

"Keep looking," the scar-faced leader barked, his voice sharp as a blade. "No one disappears into thin air."

Boots splashed into the river as one of the men began to wade toward the reeds. Roland felt Nessa's fingers clamp onto his sleeve, her whole body trembling. He held up a hand in a silent signal for her to stay absolutely still. The unconscious stranger's damp hair brushed his palm as he crouched lower, shielding him.

The reeds rustled as one of the hired men pushed them aside, and Roland thought for a terrible instant they'd been seen.

But then a shrill whistle cut the tense silence.

"Over here!" someone called from further along the riverbend.

The scar-faced leader cursed and jerked his chin. "Move," he snapped, his boots sinking into the muddy riverbank as he turned. "He can't have gotten far on that leg. Spread out along the forest trail."

The sound of horses shifting and voices fading into the distance loosened a knot in Roland's chest. Nessa let out a shaky breath, sagging against him as the last of the men disappeared into the trees.

Still, Roland held his breath a few more heartbeats before carefully parting the reeds. No one was in sight.

"Come," he whispered urgently to Nessa. "Help me."

Together they eased the stranger deeper into the shelter of the reeds, toward a small, hidden hollow beneath the roots of an old willow that bent over the water. The roots created a cradle-like pocket, dry and sheltered enough to hide him until they could tend his wounds.

Nessa dug into the satchel at her hip, hands trembling as she pulled out a strip of cloth and some clean linen.

Roland's brow furrowed as he glanced at the stranger's face, pallid but undeniably regal despite the grime and blood. Even unconscious, there was a kind of proud bearing in the man's features that spoke of a life far different than his own.

"Who are you?" Roland muttered under his breath.

Nessa began tearing the linen into bandages. "He's lucky," she murmured, though worry pulled at her words. "If they'd found him, they'd have killed him without hesitation. What could someone like him have done to draw such men?"

Roland's lips pressed into a tight line. "I don't know," he replied as he carefully began to check the stranger's ribs for breaks, hands practiced and gentle. Blood soaked through the dirtied but fine tunic he wore, fine enough to mark him as nobility and an unfamiliar signet ring glinted on one finger.

And beneath it all was a single, nagging thought that had begun to grow: whoever this man was, saving him was going to change everything.

Nessa paused, her hands tightening on a roll of bandages. "What will we do now, Roland? Bring him home?"

He glanced toward the forest, where their pursuers had vanished, then back at the unconscious figure between them.

"Yes," he answered finally, resolute. "But we must be careful. Someone powerful is looking for him. And until we know who… we must trust no one."

Roland glanced up at the darkening sky. The light was bleeding fast into dusk, and with it came a rising chill that made Nessa shudder.

"We can't leave him here," he decided at last, his voice quiet but firm. "Help me lift him."

Together they eased the stranger up between them, careful of his wounded side. His weight was substantial, lean muscle under soaked clothes, but Roland was strong from long days working their little farmstead, and Nessa bore up what she could. Every so often the man gave a faint groan, as though some distant part of him clung to life, and Nessa whispered a gentle reassurance under her breath.

The path back to their small house ran along the forest's edge and across a narrow wooden bridge. They took the route slowly, careful with every step so they wouldn't stumble. The light was fading, and Roland kept glancing over his shoulder, listening for any sound of pursuit. Nothing but the rustling of leaves and the occasional call of a distant nightbird.

By the time they reached the edge of their property, Nessa was trembling with exhaustion. Roland kicked open the gate and steered them toward the back door, pushing it open into the warmth of their little kitchen.

"Here," he murmured, "lay him on the bed."

Nessa grabbed a blanket from a chair as Roland lowered the stranger onto the worn rug. Blood stained his shirt in jagged patches across his ribs, and Nessa knelt immediately to tend him, pressing clean cloths against the wound to staunch the bleeding.

The glow of the firelight painted his face in warm golds and oranges, his hair tangled and damp across his brow. Nessa paused a moment to look at him more closely. Even in his battered state, there was something striking about him, a noble bearing that was impossible to hide.

"Do you really think they'll come looking here?" Nessa's voice was hushed, eyes searching her brother's face.

Roland pulled the door bolt across and set a chair against it for good measure. "If they do, they'll have to get past me," he answered, going to draw water from the pail to wash their hands.

And as Nessa smoothed a blanket over the stranger's chest and began murmuring a prayer for his recovery, she wondered who exactly they had brought into their home and what trouble might follow him.