The Desert Spear

mouse in its teeth. It laid the catch by Mrs. Scratch, and Renna thought it was a sign from the Creator himself.

    She waited for days, in case her father suspected she ’d overheard Garric. She went through the plan over and over in her mind, knowing this would be her last chance to escape. If he caught her and threw her back in the outhouse, she doubted she ’d survive, much less dare to run again.
    Her father came for lunch past noon each day, and took his time at eating before going back out into the fields. If she ran then, she could make it to Town Square with two hours of daylight left. Harl wouldn’t notice she was gone in time to follow before the corelings rose, and would have to wait till morning, or at least stop for succor along the way.
    If Cobie was in the Square, that left them the rest of the day to go up Boggin’s Hill and see the Tender. If not, she would run on up the road to Jeph’s farm. She’d never been there herself, but Lucik had, and said it was two hours’ walk up the north road from the Square. She should be able to run it in plenty of time, and Ilain would hide her if Harl came looking. She knew she would.
    When the day finally came, she was careful not to do anything out of the ordinary. She made her rounds and did her chores exactly as she had every day in the last week, careful to keep the pattern.
    Harl came out of the fields for lunch, and she had stew ready. “Stay for seconds?” she asked her father, trying to appear unhurried. “Want to finish out the pot, so’s I can scrub it and start fresh for supper.”
    “Ent gonna turn down another bowl o’ yer stew, Ren,” Harl said with a grin. “Shoulda had you at the pot all these years steada Beni.” He pinched her behind as she bent to fill his bowl. Renna wanted to dump the boiling stew in his lap, but she swallowed the urge and forced a giggle, giving him the stew with a smile.
    “Nice to see a smile on you, girl,” Harl said. “You’ve had a sour puss since yer sister and the young’uns left.”
    “Guess I’ve gotten used to things,” Renna managed, returning to her seat and having a second helping herself, though eating was the last thing she wanted to do.
    She waited a count of a hundred after Harl left the table, then got up swiftly and went to the cutting board where she had piled vegetables for a stew she never meant to make. She took the knife and went out to the barn.
    The only draft animals they had were the two mollies. Renna looked at them sadly, having cared for them ever since Harl brought the two foals home from Mack Pasture’s farm.
    Could she really do this? Harl’s farm was the only world she knew. The few times she had been to Town Square or Boggin’s Hill, she had felt suffocated by all the people, unable to understand how anyone could keep their head in such a crowd. Would they accept her? Did she really have a reputation as a whore? Would men try and force themselves on her, thinking her witless and willing?
    Her heart pounded so loud it was deafening, but she drew a deep breath and steadied herself until the knife in her hand stopped shaking, and she raised it determinedly.
    She cut all the saddle girths, and the harnesses to the cart, and the bridles and reins. She hammered the pin out of one of the wheels on the wagon and kicked it free, splitting the wheel with a stone axe.
    Letting the axe fall to the ground, she reached into her apron pocket, pulling out the long brook stone necklace Cobie had given her. She had known better to wear it when her father might see, but she had treasured it in her secret moments. She put it on now, and it felt right about her shoulders. A proper promise gift.
    Then she took up the skin of water she had hidden, slipped out the barn door, lifted her skirts, and ran down the road as fast as she could.
    The run was harder than Renna thought, if not longer. She was strong, but unused to running distances. Her lungs burned before long, and her thighs cried out in protest. She stopped when she had no choice, gulping water from the skin and panting hard, but she never rested more than a few minutes before setting off again.
    By the time she made it to the bridge over the brook, her eyes were blurry, and she felt drunk on Boggin’s Ale. She collapsed on the bank, dunking her face in the cold running water and drinking deeply.
    Her head clear for the first time in almost an hour, she looked up at the sky. The sun was dipping low, but there was time enough, if