They had stayed here so long because she had begged him to. Because for the first time in her life she had made friends. Standing in the center of the little cottage, her head almost brushed the rough planking of the loft. Da was a shadow in firelight, half formed, half sunk in gloom, but she could see him clearly despite the dimness. It was a joke between them: salamander eyes, named for the salamanders, the tiny spirits who inhabited the element of fire. Liath remembered seeing them, many years ago before her mother died, their forms as liquid as water, their eyes sparks of blue fire.
No longer. No matter how closely she peered, no matter how long, she saw only flames leaping and sparking in the hearth, consuming the wood until it burned as red coal, ashes sifting down to make a dark blanket beneath.
“She is not strong enough yet,” he said into his hand.
“I’m strong, Da. You know that.”
“Go to bed, child. Keep the book with you. We’ll take what we need in the morning and go.”
She swallowed tears. They would go, and leave behind two years of contentment. This was a fine place, this village, or had been at least until Frater Hugh had arrived last autumn. She could not bear the thought of leaving her friends behind: two friends—imagine!—as close as if they were her own kin, of which she had none. Only her father.
But they would go. Whatever drove Da drove her along with him. She would never abandon him.
“I’m sorry, Liath. I’m a poor excuse for a father. I haven’t done well by you. I should have—” He shook his head. “I was made weak by blindness.”
“Never say so, Da!” She knelt beside the bench and hugged him. He had aged so fast in the past two years, since that beating in Autun. His hair was now gray, that had once been rich brown. He walked bent over, as if under an invisible burden, who had once strode hale and straight. He drank enough ale for four men, as if to drown himself, despite that they could not pay for so much. There was little enough work to be had in such an isolated spot for a man who was no longer strong enough for field labor, whose only skills were drawing hex signs against foxes around hen coops and setting down on parchment or strips of bark the words of women and men wishing to make contracts with colleagues many leagues away or send letters to relatives. But they had managed.
“Go to bed, daughter,” he repeated. “We must leave early.”
Because she did not know what else to say, she did what he had asked of her. She kissed his cheek. She let go of him and stood. Pausing by the fire, she searched in the flames but the parchment was burned to nothing. To ashes. Her father sighed heavily. She left him to his thoughts, for certainly she could not fathom what they were or where they led him.