Followed by Fros(51)

I reached into my dress for my coin pouch and pulled it free, working open the cord-closed mouth. The first man looked at me hopefully, but when I poured out half the coins into his hand, his eyes turned round and awed. It was as if he had never seen so much money in his life. Perhaps he hadn’t. I had unknowingly given him enough to buy a camel. He seemed unfazed by the cold emanating from my gloved hand. I smiled at him, feeling the weariness of my long walk drain away.

The rest I handed to the second man, who mumbled something incoherent and bowed to me. I shook my head and said, “Jya,” meaning no, for I made no sacrifice; I had everything I needed, and the coins I’d been given were excessive. I glanced over my shoulder before continuing on my way.

I had almost reached the city’s edge when I saw one last beggar, a woman who looked to be in her forties, with a mashadah of her own wrapped about her head, and a tattered shirt and skirt covering skin riddled with stretch marks. She was washing what looked like a long sock in a shallow puddle in the street. Where the water had come from, I wasn’t sure. My guess was that it must be from one of the camel troughs around the corner.

She glanced to me, unperturbed by my appearance, and continued kneading and folding the sock in the muddy water.

I had no coin to give her, and I dared not ask the others to spare some of what I had given them, but I could not walk by and do nothing. My cold heart wrenched itself, sending shivers down my back and arms.

I searched myself for something to give her—even my head scarf would be an improvement over what she wore. But as I reached for it, I touched my braid and had a thought. An uneasy thought, for I had always been fond of my hair, and despite its grandmotherly color, I considered it to be one of the last vestiges of beauty I had left.

I stepped forward and in Hraric said, “May I talk to you? I won’t hurt you.”

She glimpsed me for only a moment and nodded her head, tirelessly working on that sock that would never get clean.

“I come from Iyoden, in the north,” I explained slowly. “In Iyoden, girls sometimes sell their hair for money. Do they do that here?”

She paused in her washing; I noticed her cracked knuckles. With a frown she pulled up the edge of her mashadah, revealing a scalp almost void of hair, save for a few scraggly pieces. I could only imagine such a thing coming from either abuse or illness, but I did not inquire.

I pulled my own braid over my shoulder and rubbed it between my fingers. I took a deep breath and said, “Could you use this?”

Now she looked at me with the sort of stare to which I had grown accustomed.

“It won’t hurt you, and you can dye it,” I said. “Could you sell this?”

She hesitated for a long moment, glancing between my face and my braid. She finally nodded slowly, unsure.

“Do you have a knife?”

Hesitant to take her eyes off me, the woman reached behind her and pulled out a small paring knife, the dull blade barely two inches long and rusted at that, the sort of knife used in a kitchen for things like potatoes and radishes. I took it from her. Though she flinched at my cold aura, she did not move away from me.

I grabbed my hair at the nape of my neck and set the knife against the top of the braid. I admit I hesitated for a moment, but I knew the hair would grow back. Besides, I really had no need for it. I carefully sawed through it with the dull blade until the last strand came free—about three feet of hair. To my own shock, when I held it out to her, it was not white as an old woman’s, but a soft blond, the color my hair had been when I was seventeen. I marveled at it for a moment. Severed from me, the locks no longer held the curse.

“Gold,” she murmured, for blond hair was nowhere to be seen in the Southlands.

I smiled and handed her the braid, which she took with delicate fingers. “Sell it for as high as you can,” I insisted.

She nodded and quickly scrubbed her eyes with the back of her hands.

I smiled, feeling light within, and for a fleeting moment I did not feel cold. Standing, I handed her my head scarf as well. I didn’t need that, either; I hardly had trouble keeping off the sun.

I walked back to the caverns without a real path to follow, but I felt so glad inside, sweeter than a hundred honey taffies. Almost enough to forget the soreness in my joints, my bones of ice. The cheer morphed into a strange sort of fullness as I continued on my way, so much so that I almost wanted to thank Sadriel the next time I saw him.

The trek to the cave, much of which was uphill, would have made a normal woman sweaty and sunburnt, but I was just breathless, and my thinning slippers and the hem of my dress were dirty. I hated to do it, but I would have to ask for new shoes the next time I saw Aamina. Preferably sturdier ones.

As I neared the mountains, I spied someone leaning against the lip of the cavern by my door, feeding his camel from a wide canvas sack. I could not help but smile when I recognized Lo, still dressed in his indigo uniform, but free of his helmet and mashadah. When he saw me, my short, uneven hair tousled by the wind, he made no gesture other than raising one eyebrow.

“What is this?” he asked, fastening the feeding bag to his camel’s saddle.

I touched the frayed ends and shrugged, pausing a moment to catch my breath. “It’s a long walk back here; I didn’t want to carry the extra weight.”

He smirked. “I would not say it is becoming, but it suits you. But why have you gone to the city again, and without a ride or escort?”