The Free Marches breathed differently. Gone was the sulfurous choke of Heaven's Reform, replaced by the damp, fecund scent of marsh grass, wet earth, and open water. Gone was the crushing pressure of pursuit, leaving an almost unsettling void filled by the drone of insects, the splash of unseen creatures, and the mournful cries of marsh birds. Gaius and Preston moved through the vast, watery landscape with a wary grace born of habit, but the frantic edge was dulled, replaced by a deliberate, watchful calm.
Their willow-shrouded sanctuary by the lake became a temporary anchor. For three days, they rested, truly rested. They slept long hours wrapped in cloaks still damp but no longer icy. They fished, not just for survival, but with a quiet efficiency that bordered on contentment. Gaius crafted better traps from willow withes, while Preston proved adept with a sharpened stick, spearfishing in the shallows with surprising accuracy. The silence between them, once heavy with fear, now held the comfortable weight of shared labour and exhaustion slowly receding.
"Still think I'm just a pretty nuisance, Grumpy?" Preston asked one afternoon, holding up a fat, silver perch skewered on her makeshift spear. Her honey-blonde hair, washed clean in the lake, was tied back with a strip of leather, and the scratches on her face were fading. The drab "Perry" persona was shed; Preston Lily stood revealed, not as a fragile noble, but as a capable, albeit occasionally still haughty, survivor.
Gaius, skinning a rabbit he'd snared that morning with a quiet efficiency that spoke of kitchen experience, grunted. "You spear fish like a hungry otter. Still noisy when you trip over roots." But there was no bite in his words. He nodded towards her catch. "That one's big enough to smoke."
The rhythm of preparation began. It was a different kind of urgency, not driven by hunters, but by the need to capitalize on this fragile peace and prepare for the journey west. They gathered materials with practiced eyes. Gaius selected straight saplings of alder and willow, cutting them with his stolen kitchen knife. Preston gathered armfuls of long, pliable marsh reeds and bundles of fragrant, insect-repelling sagebrush.
Building the smoke hut became their shared project. Gaius lashed the saplings together into a conical frame near the shore, well away from their sleeping area. Preston wove the reeds tightly around the frame, creating thick, insulating walls, leaving a small opening at the top for smoke to escape and a low entrance covered by a reed mat. Inside, Gaius built a shallow fire pit, lining it with flat stones.
"Learned this from a trapper who wintered near the Plythe stables," Gaius explained as he carefully arranged green alder branches over the stones. "Alder smoke is sweet. Good for fish. Sage keeps the flies off."
Preston watched, absorbing the knowledge. "Mr. Blair teach you the knife work?" She gestured to the rabbit pelts stretched on willow frames nearby, drying in the dappled sunlight. He'd scraped them meticulously, the fur clean and supple.
A shadow crossed Gaius's face, brief but deep. "Some. Mostly observation. And necessity." He didn't elaborate. The cook's sacrifice was a wound still too fresh, a debt that fueled the quiet fire within him. He focused on the fire, coaxing it to life with dry tinder, letting the flames catch the green wood, producing thick, white smoke rather than open flame. "Fish."
Preston handed him the cleaned perch, and several others they'd caught earlier. Gaius threaded them onto green willow rods and suspended them inside the smoky cone, high above the smoldering branches. He adjusted the reed mat at the entrance, controlling the airflow. The sweet, earthy scent of alder smoke began to permeate the air.
While the fish smoked, they turned to the rabbit meat. Gaius sliced it thin with practiced precision. Preston gathered more sage and found wild garlic growing near the water's edge, its pungent aroma sharp in the marsh air.
"Jerky," Gaius stated. "Salt would be better, but this will do." He showed her how to rub the sage and crushed garlic into the strips of meat. They laid the strips out on flat rocks in the full sun, turning them periodically. The marsh air, though humid, had a drying quality under the spring sun.
The days fell into this new rhythm. Hunt. Fish. Preserve. Rest. The smoke hut became a constant, a pillar of sweet-smelling industry. Pelts accumulated – rabbit, a water vole Preston surprisingly trapped, even the pelt of a small marsh fox that ventured too close to their camp, providing tough meat but a surprisingly fine, russet fur. Bundles of smoked fish and drying jerky grew.
One evening, as they sat by a small, well-contained fire, the first stars reflecting in the still lake, the comfortable silence stretched. Preston was mending a tear in her tunic with a bone needle and sinew thread she'd meticulously prepared. Gaius was sharpening his knife on a smooth stone, the rhythmic shhhk-shhhk a familiar sound.
"You never said," Preston began, her voice softer than usual, not looking up from her mending, "what the 'X' stands for."
Gaius paused his sharpening. The sound of the knife stopped. He looked into the fire, the flames dancing in his ash-silver eyes. "Nothing. Everything. A crossing out. A question mark." He picked up a stick and drew a large 'X' in the dirt by the fire. "Plythe is dead. What comes next…" He shrugged. "Is unknown. X marks the spot of the unknown."
Preston considered this, tying off her thread and biting it clean. "Seems a bit… bleak. And impractical. You need a name in the Free Marches, if we're going to trade." She gestured towards their growing cache of pelts and preserved food stacked neatly under a waterproof oilskin they'd fashioned from the fox bladder.
Gaius grunted. "We trade for what we need, then move on. No need for names beyond 'seller'."
"People remember faces, Gaius X," Preston countered, a hint of her old imperiousness returning, tempered by pragmatism. "Better they remember a name we choose than one they invent. Or worse, the one on the bounty posters that are surely filtering this way eventually." She poked at the fire with a stick. "What about… Ash? Suits the hair. Suits the… flavor of your mood most days."
Gaius stared at her. "Ash?"
"It's better than X," she insisted. "Stronger. Less like a mathematical variable. Ash can be fertile ground, you know. After the fire." She met his gaze, her hazel eyes serious in the firelight. "We burned our old lives. Maybe something new grows."
He looked back at the 'X' in the dirt, then slowly dragged his foot through it, erasing it. He said nothing, but Preston saw the faintest nod, almost imperceptible. A concession, perhaps. Or just weary acceptance.
The next morning, they broke camp with efficient silence. They packed their hard-won goods carefully: bundles of smoked fish wrapped in broad leaves and oilskin, strips of sage-and-garlic jerky, the carefully rolled pelts. Their packs were heavier now, laden with the promise of barter.
Following the lake's outflow, they entered a broader network of channels and reed beds. They moved with less stealth now, though caution remained ingrained. They poled a makeshift raft Gaius had lashed together from buoyant reeds and fallen branches, navigating the shallow waterways. Preston pointed out edible water plants – cattail roots, watercress – supplementing their preserved food. Gaius identified bird calls, noting the absence of certain predators that might indicate human habitation nearby.
After half a day's travel, the reeds thinned. They poled around a bend and saw it: a rough trading post. It wasn't much – a cluster of low, sod-roofed buildings built on stilts above the marsh, a sturdy dock extending into deeper water where a few flat-bottomed punts were tied. A faded sign, crudely painted with a leaping fish and a bundle of furs, creaked in the breeze: HENGE'S CROSSING.
They beached their raft discreetly downstream and approached on foot, their packs heavy. The air smelled of woodsmoke, cured fish, and damp wool. A few rough-looking individuals – trappers by the look of their gear, a couple of weathered farmers – moved between the buildings. Eyes turned towards them, assessing, wary but not overtly hostile. This was the edge of civilization, where strangers were common but trust was earned.
A large man with a thick, grey-streaked beard and arms like tree trunks emerged from the largest building, wiping his hands on a leather apron. He eyed Gaius's ash-silver hair, Preston's fine features beneath the wear and tear, and their laden packs with open curiosity.
"New faces," he rumbled, his voice like stones tumbling. "What brings you to Henge's? And what've you got to trade that ain't trouble?" His gaze lingered on the hilts of their knives – Gaius's kitchen blade, Preston's stiletto – not with fear, but with the recognition of people who knew how to use them.
Gaius stepped forward, meeting the man's gaze. He felt the weight of the lie, the necessity of the new skin. "Ash," he said, the name feeling strange but solid on his tongue. He gestured to their packs. "Pelts. Smoked fish. Jerky. Looking for hard travel bread, salt, flint and steel. Maybe a better knife." He paused, then added, "And news of the road west."
The man – Henge, presumably – nodded slowly. "Ash, eh?" His eyes flicked to Preston. "And the lad?"
"Perry," Preston said instantly, her voice pitched lower, her posture subtly shifting into the weary peasant boy she'd resurrected for the occasion. "Helpin' Ash."
Henge grunted. "Well, Ash, Perry, let's see your wares. Trouble walks many roads, but good pelts and smoked fish are welcome at Henge's, long as the trouble stays outside." He gestured towards his doorway. "Come on in. We'll talk trade… and roads."
As they followed Henge inside the dim, smoky interior of the trading post, the smell of cured leather and dried herbs thick in the air, Gaius felt the unfamiliar weight of the name settle. Ash. It wasn't Plythe. It wasn't a noble legacy. It was something forged in flight, tempered by betrayal, and now, perhaps, bartered for salt and a better knife. Beside him, Preston – Perry for now – moved with a watchful alertness, her hand not far from her hidden stiletto. The ease of the marsh was behind them. The negotiation, the first step into the wider, uncertain world of the Free Marches, had begun.