Efri finds a cave.
“Cool,” she says into the dim mouth of it. She’s definitely not supposed to go in caves. There can be things in there – like trolls – and the passages can be dark and winding and before you know it you’re lost and you’re starving to death deep below the earth. That’s what everyone says.
She wants to go in the cave. She hopes the passages are dark and winding – she can map them. She can mark where she’s been with her stick. The goats can stay up above on the plains and eat the itchy grass while she charts the unplumbed depth of this random cavern forty minutes’ walk from Rorikstead. She knew this was a good direction to go in.
Sissel wouldn’t think so. Sissel would think it was dangerous. But Sissel’s not here today and it’s so much more boring when she’s not here. Efri’s gotten too used to the plains. They’re fine when she has a friend, but when she’s alone they just go on and on and on. (Maybe she could make friends in the plains. She’s thought about going up to the giants she sometimes sees and saying hello. But she’s not sure if they even speak the same language, and maybe even Efri isn’t quite gutsy enough to strike up conversation with a giant.)
But it’s fine. She’ll be fine as long as there are new things to find, like caves. Maybe there’ll be bones inside. Or mushrooms. Efri doesn’t really know what kind of things are normally in caves.
She beats her stick against the ground so the goats look up at her. “Stay,” she tells them, authoritatively enough that they might even listen, and marches into the cave-mouth alone.
(Even if the goats don’t listen it’s okay. It’s not like they’ll go missing – the plains are flat and bare around for ages – and she can just chase them and round them up again. It might be fun.)
The cave is mostly dark, inside. And it’s kind of wet – her shoes squelch on the ground. The walls are all rocky and dripping, with moss and things on them, but not much is growing from the ground. It’s all just dirt. Some stones. She picks up a pointy rock and puts it in her belt-purse for safekeeping.
There’s not any winding passages, either, which is a shame. Just walls. This cave is a bit of a disappointment. Sissel might have liked it better – she always likes small dark quiet places, and the cave is dark and quiet and much, much smaller than Efri hoped. It’s barely the size of her one-room house (though maybe a bit taller). She could walk all around it, see every nook and cranny and step on every bit of dirt, and she’d still be done before the goats even had a chance to wander off and go missing. Efri sighs, loud enough to echo off the wet walls, and turns to go.
And freezes.
Staring back at her from a recess just beside the way she came in is a sabre cat.
Efri whispers a rude word.
It’s huge. Twice her height, almost, with all this shaggy gold-brown hair round its neck and paws braced into the damp dirt beneath it. She’s always heard sabre cats were big but seeing it is something else. She’s heard they’re fast, too, can rip your throat out before you even blink. Damn it damn it damn it. Sissel would have told her not to come in here and Sissel would have been right.
Efri slowly, slowly, not even breathing, holding her stick out in front of her like it will do anything at all, reaches for her knife –
The sabre cat meows.
Efri almost drops her stick.
It does it again, loud and low and strangled, sounding more like a cow, to be honest, than any sort of cat Efri’s ever seen. It kind of recoils, like it’s trying to fit all its huge body further in the crevice it’s tucked into, and Efri has no idea why it would be but it really seems scared.
Hand on the pommel of her knife, Efri peeks around the stick braced in front of her and whispers, “Hello.”
The sabre cat lows again. It blinks its eyes hard, tail lashing at the wall behind it.
“Sorry,” Efri tells it, still whispering. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I didn’t mean to come into your cave.”
It makes a different noise this time, soft and feathery, and takes a half-step out of its corner – Efri flinches. It backs into the wall again.
Efri is pretty sure it’s not going to eat her.
“You’re not going to eat me,” she says, louder now, and it tilts its head. She’s not sure why it isn’t eating her, but she’s definitely not going to complain.
It slinks out of its recess in the damp wall. Efri stands very still. It pads towards her but stops before it comes too near, staying in the faint light coming in from the cave’s mouth.
It’s gold, Efri sees, a burnished sort of deep gold. Its fur is matted. There’s blood behind its front leg.
“There’s blood on you,” Efri says. It stares at her with big grey eyes and slowly inclines its head. There might actually be blood around its mouth, too – there’s some kind of dark staining there – and Efri wonders uneasily if maybe it’s just not eating her because it’s full already, but then it turns a little and oh. No, that’s not blood left from eating a messy meal. There’s a deep, ragged gash over its ribs, tucked behind the joint of its leg.
Efri’s untying her canteen from her belt before she even realises she’s doing it. She’s about to pop the cork, but then she thinks about it, and thinks that coming close to a sabre cat the size of a horse and messing with what looks like a very painful wound is probably the worst idea she’s had in at least the last month.
“Do you want me to wash that for you?” Efri asks, before thinking that that’s also one of the stupidest things she’s done in the last month, because what is it going to say, yes miss, please and thank you? The sabre cat looks at her like it agrees, staring with narrowed eyes and inclining its head and – “Wait,” Efri says, louder than she’d meant to, “are you nodding?”
The sabre cat nods.
She thinks it does, anyway, and she seems to be proved right, because when she approaches it careful as can be and trickles water on the nasty cut it winces, muscles coiling tight, but doesn’t bite her. She tips most of the water in her canteen over the wound – it’s not really bleeding, it’s old enough to be crusted and beginning to scab at the edges, but fresh enough that the water that runs down the cat’s dusty fur is pink – and then dabs it dry with her smock skirt. The orange cloth looks more red-brown at the ends, after, but it doesn’t matter, it’ll wash out.
“Can you understand me?” Efri asks curiously as she works, and the sabre cat nods, a rumbling like a purr starting deep in its belly. She says, “Huh. Cool.”
(That night, after she brings the goats into the garden, she pops in at Mralki’s inn and asks Erik – who’s helping cook in the back tonight – if sabre cats can understand people speech. He looks at her like she’s a bit daft and asks her to run a bowl of stew to Ennis’ table on her way out.
The next day, early in the morning, she finds the cave again. The sabre cat is there, huffing and squinting at her; its side is smooth and unblemished, as though it were never hurt at all.)
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