Princess of the Midnight Ball - Jessica Day George [2]
“Oh, my weary, weary bones!”
Galen stopped trudging with a start as someone echoed his thought. On the side of the road, a bundle of rags rearranged itself into a very old woman in a tattered dress and shawl. She stared up at Galen with bright blue eyes, her back bent and humped.
“Hello there, young soldier!”
“Hello there, goodfrau,” he replied.
“I don’t suppose you have anything for an old woman to eat?” She smacked her lips, revealing very few teeth.
With a groan Galen took off his pack and laid it on the ground. He groaned even louder as he lowered himself to sit next to the old woman. “Let’s see, shall we?”
He didn’t feel, as some other soldiers did, that the rest of the country owed him something. They had fought a war, true, but it was their job. The civilians had continued their jobs as well. Seamstresses had sewed, blacksmiths shod horses and made nails, those farmers not pressed into service had continued to farm. And Galen’s parents had instilled in him a deep respect for women and his elders, and the ancient creature before him was both.
He rummaged in his pack. “I’ve drunk the last of my water, but I do have a swallow of wine here in this skin,” he said, laying it before them. “I have three hard biscuits, a wedge of old cheese, and a packet of dried meat. I also have some late berries I picked this morning.” He felt a pang at offering these up: he had been saving them as a special treat. But he would feel even worse if he denied this old woman something that might give her pleasure as well.
“Not enough teeth for the dried meat, or the biscuits,” she said, grinning to reveal even more gaps than Galen had noticed before. “But I wouldn’t mind a little cheese and wine, just like the fancy folks in the palace feast on.”
Galen had two of the hard biscuits, and wished afterward that he had not. He had no water, and the old woman swallowed the wine in one gulp. Then she ate the cheese with much eye rolling and lip smacking, until he found himself smiling at her gusto.
Arching one eyebrow, the crone looked at the berries. “Care to share, dearie?”
“Of course.” Galen pushed them closer to her. She took a handful and slipped them into her mouth one at a time, savoring them as she had the cheese and wine. Glad that she had not taken the entire bag for herself, Galen scooped up his portion and ate them with equal pleasure.
“Returning from the war, are you?” Now that her hunger was sated, the old woman looked Galen over.
“Yes, goodfrau,” he said shortly. He didn’t want to know the name of the grandson, or great-grandson, who had been lost to an Analousian bullet.
He rewrapped the remaining biscuit, folded the cheese cloth and the berry bag, and stowed everything neatly in his pack. He put the wineskin on top, hoping to beg a swallow or two at the next farmhouse. “I was on the front lines.” Galen wasn’t sure why he added this, but it was his one source of pride. He had been to the front lines, and he had survived.
“Ah.” The crone shook her head sadly. “A bad business, that. Worse than it needed to be, you know.” She laid a finger alongside her crooked nose, winking.
Galen shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
She just sucked her teeth and nodded wisely. “Just you remember: when you make a deal with them as lives below, there’s always a hidden price.” She nodded again.
“I see,” Galen said in confusion. “Thank you.” He didn’t see. In fact, he thought the crone was quite senile, but it was hardly any of his concern. “I’d best keep on while there’s still