The next day they moved on. Fortunately, from the very dawn, the sky had been covered with a gray veil of clouds, so the sun did not beat down, but neither did it rain.
They rode at an even, measured pace. The landscape around them gradually changed: the neat fields divided by hedges were left behind, giving way to wilder wastelands overgrown with heather and sparse bushes. The wind blew stronger here, carrying with it the smells of damp earth and wormwood.
Anastas held himself straight in the saddle, but every movement was difficult. The pain in his shoulder had become a dull ache, reminding him of itself every other time he pulled the reins. However, outwardly he remained absolutely impassive. But controlling his thoughts was even harder.
Memories of the previous night gave him no peace. He still remembered the feeling of warmth and the smell of Thomas's hair. The man caught himself time and again with his gaze returning to the back of the youth riding ahead. Anastas mentally cursed himself for this weakness, but couldn't help himself.
Thomas, for his part, rode in silence, immersed in himself. Yesterday's fear, humiliation, and the opium haze were gradually letting him go, leaving behind only physical weakness and muscles aching from the long ride. The cool wind chilled his face, bringing a long-awaited feeling of freedom. From time to time, he cast short glances at Anastas, then at Eist, and a warm feeling of gratitude spread in his chest. They were so different, but both of them were his only support right now.
Closer to noon, Eist, who was riding a little ahead and setting the pace, raised his hand, stopping his horse by a small, reed-grown stream.
"Halt," the mercenary commanded, jumping to the ground.
He walked over to the water, uncorking his flask.
"How is your shoulder, Stas?" an anxious voice sounded from behind. The youth stepped closer, peering into his pale face. "You don't look well today. Is the wound bothering you?"
"Everything is fine," Anastas replied. "Just a long road. You should rest more yourself instead of worrying about me."
Eist, who was collecting water nearby, chuckled quietly under his breath but said nothing.
They spent no more than half an hour by the stream. They ate some bread and meat, washing it all down with cold water. Each was lost in his own thoughts, listening to the rustle of the wind and the measured murmur of the water.
When they got back in their saddles and continued their journey, the gray veil of clouds above their heads thickened slightly, heralding the approaching twilight. Ahead of them lay many miles of road, cold nights, and the uncertainty of the Scottish lands.
Eist rode a little ahead, and Anastas kept a heavy, thoughtful gaze on his back.
Outwardly, he appeared calm, but inside, an unresolved question was brewing that gave him no peace. Again and again, he replayed their first meeting in his memory. Eist didn't fight like ordinary mercenaries or port cutthroats. His stance, the way he held his weapon and dodged blows, his movements—all of it resembled Anastas's own fighting style. And the fact that Eist not only recognized this style in Anastas, but also mastered a similar one himself, was not just a coincidence. It was almost impossible.
Seizing the moment, Anastas touched the reins. The black stallion obediently quickened its pace, and he drew level with the mercenary.
"You never did say where you're from, Eist," Anastas said, not turning his head, as if the question had been asked out of boredom.
Eist cast a sidelong glance at him, but his face remained impassive.
"Does that really matter on the road, commander?" the mercenary replied with his usual, light drawl. "The road makes everyone equal: lords and vagabonds alike."
"Your fighting style... it's not local. You speak perfect English, but you have an accent. Barely perceptible, but it's there."
Eist fell silent, then the mercenary slowly turned his head. A strange, enigmatic half-smile played on his lips. Something deep and mysterious flashed in his gray eyes.
"Depends on what exactly you mean, my lord," Eist replied quietly. "My first homeland or my current one?"
The words hung in the air.
Anastas froze. The hand gripping the reins trembled, and the black stallion shook its head in displeasure, feeling the rider's tension.
The first homeland...
He rolled the question around in his head, and a chill ran down his spine. Everything inside him turned upside down. Could Eist really... too? Could he too, like Anastas...?
But Eist suddenly laughed.
The laugh shattered the hanging tension. The enigmatic expression vanished from his face, replaced by his usual, carefree cheerfulness.
"You should see your face right now!" Eist joked it off, shaking his head. "You really know how to build up the mood. Everything is much simpler. My ancestors are immigrants from the German Empire. My great-grandfather moved here many years ago, but at home, we often spoke German and honored old traditions. Hence the habits, and that very accent that gives you no peace. No terrible secrets, I swear."
Anastas nodded slowly, feigning understanding.
"I see," he responded dryly, pulling the reins slightly to slow his pace and let the mercenary ride ahead again.
Anastas knew languages perfectly well. In his youth, he had studied German. The way Eist spoke had nothing in common with the German language.
He's lying.
Eist simply didn't want to show his cards. He hid behind a convenient lie, skillfully turning the conversation into a joke as soon as he realized he had come too close to the line. Anastas didn't insist on the truth—he wouldn't tell him anyway. But now he knew for sure: Eist was not at all who he wanted to appear to be.
Now every word the mercenary dropped, every movement of his, was subjected to even greater doubt.
"What are you thinking about, Stas?" Thomas's voice pulled him out of his reflections.
The youth drew level with him; his bay mare stepped measuredly next to Anastas's black stallion. Thomas's face, despite the fatigue, looked calm, and his fair hair was tousled by the wind.
"Nothing important," Anastas replied. He shifted his gaze to Thomas, allowing himself to linger on his features a little longer than usual. "Just assessing the road. It should get colder by nightfall."
Despite the fact that the conversation about the homeland and accent was left unanswered, Anastas had no intention of backing down so easily. He caught up with Eist again after some time.
"I'm sure a man like you has his own unfinished business," he said, looking straight ahead at the road. "We are deeply indebted to you for your help in London, Eist. From here on, we'll manage ourselves. We no longer need an escort."
Hearing Anastas's words, Eist was not in the least embarrassed by such a blunt hint.
"Business?" Eist shrugged lightly, casually tossing the reins from one hand to the other. "I'm a free bird. My business is wherever I feel like being."
He turned his head and looked at Anastas with a gaze in which mischievous, almost defiant sparks danced.
"Besides, to tell the truth, I feel damn good in your company," Eist continued. "Think for yourself: together we took care of those bastards in the woods, broke into a brothel, and successfully escaped. After everything we've been through, we're practically kin. Leaving family would be a piggish thing to do on my part."
Anastas fell behind. He had suffered defeat again. The mercenary was intentionally staying close, and Anastas could swear that Eist was doing it because he derived a perverted pleasure from watching his torment.