The Seeker

by Isobelle Carmody

  Zarak and Lina stood beside Jik, their faces openly envious.

  The three horses to travel with us had been supplemented by another. I would ride the stallion, who had told Alad haughtily that he would answer to the title Gahltha, meaning leader. Domick would ride a newcomer, a small, wheat-colored mountain pony with doelike eyes. Named Avra, she had been brought wild to Obernewtyn the previous wintertime, having injured herself in a fall. Alad told me she was the black stallion’s chosen mate. The two mares to pull the carts were Mira and Lo.

  The horses stood together as Alad harnessed and installed the hated bit and bridles. Privately, Alad had warned me Gahltha had chosen horses that were completely loyal to him. It was clear where their allegiance would lie if it came to a choice between equine and funaga aims. They would follow me as leader of the expedition only under instructions from the black horse.

  None of the equines seemed inclined to closer acquaintance, and I hoped I had not made a mistake in choosing Louis over a full Beastspeaking guilder. I could beastspeak, of course, but the animals were more receptive to those of the Beastspeaking guild.

  With Kella, Jik, and Darga in one cart and Matthew, Pavo, and Louis in the other, the caravans were authentically crowded. Gypsies traveled traditionally in extended family groups, singing and dancing for money and providing amusing and impromptu plays. The descendants of those who had originally refused Council affiliation, they were little liked or trusted for all their variety of skills. In some ways, it was a dangerous disguise, but it was one of the few ways a number of us could travel about without drawing attention. Travel was not undertaken lightly, for people everywhere were suspicious of strangers in their midst.

  To complete our disguise, we were unnaturally tanned and wore the layers of colored clothing favored by gypsies. The dark skin was the result of a powerful berry-based dye. I doubted anyone would have the slightest suspicion we were anything but a motley gypsy troupe.

  Rushton stressed the need to maintain our disguise at all costs. We had all set up coercive blocks that would erase our memories in an emergency. These were Obernewtyn’s safeguard in case one of us was caught and tortured. Only Jik had been unable to prepare a block, being too untrained. Domick or I could wipe his memory should it come to that.

  Rushton adjured us to work together and not to forget that each of the three aims in the expedition was equally important.

  At the last, he wished us good fortune. “This journey is the beginning of a new stage for us. I wish you success, for your sake and ours.” If anyone else noticed the slightly ominous note in his final words, it was not apparent.

  All Obernewtyn turned out to see us go, but the festival air did not last long. We had barely finished preparations when it began to rain heavily.

  I climbed awkwardly into Gahltha’s saddle, ignoring his derisive whinny. He might not want to be ridden, but he knew an incompetent rider when he had one.

  Wrapping an oiled cape about my head and shoulders, I nodded to Domick. We had decided he would ride in front of the carts and I at the rear, at least until we left the main road.

  The rain had sent everyone running inside, but looking back, I had a final glimpse of Rushton standing alone on the top step, apparently oblivious to the downpour.

  Even at that distance, I could see the same odd tension in his stance that had puzzled me in the turret room.

  I wondered what he was thinking and impulsively lifted a hand to wave.

  Instantly, he responded, raising his own hand. I stared over my shoulder until the gray curtain of rain came between us.

  I felt an unexpected regret at the thought that I would not see him again for a long time, perhaps many months if we failed to make it back before the pass froze.

  PART II

  THE LOWLANDS

  7

  I HAD BEEN nervous about riding and found it only slightly less traumatic than I had expected.

  Gahltha began instructing me the moment we left Obernewtyn. Under his terse instructions, I tied the reins to the saddle. When I did not know what to do with my hands, I clutched at the saddle, hanging on for dear life. Gahltha forbade this, saying I must learn to ride by balance before we reached the lowlands. A gypsy did not rely on hands or stirrups. This seemed impossible enough, until he warned me that I would also have to be able to ride without a saddle, since gypsies rarely used them. And no gypsy would be so inept a rider as me.

  It took great concentration to coordinate all the contortions Gahltha seemed to feel riding required.

  “Heels out so you do not jab me in the ribs, or I may forget and buck you off,” he sent. “Knees tight or you will be off the first time I stumble.”

  The first hours were punctuated by the horse’s staccato instructions. He made no comment to me except to give me orders. I had the feeling he was enjoying every minute of my discomfort.

  I noticed Domick casually slouched in his saddle as if it were an armchair and envied his skill and confidence.

  The rain continued throughout the remainder of the day, drumming steadily on my oiled coat and on the roofs of the caravans. The weather was so bleak that we traversed the tainted and storm-wracked pass almost without noticing. The last time I had gone over the stretch of tainted grounds, I had been journeying to Obernewtyn for the first time, filled with apprehension for the future. Now I was leaving, still full of apprehension.

  We passed the area without mishap and soon after left the main road for the White Valley. Fortunately, the floor of the valley was flat, and there was little undergrowth beneath the trees, else the carts would have been useless.

  I felt Jik clumsily seeking entrance into my thoughts. “Will the caravans be able to go through the Olden way?” he asked.

  “Pavo thinks so. He believes it was once an important Beforetime thoroughfare,” I sent.

  “Why doesn’t anyone else know about it?” he wondered. “I never heard any of the priests in the Darthnor cloister here mention it, and I never saw it on any of the maps.”

  The question had also occurred to me. “Pavo says it is probably because there has been no need of it, what with the main road. And no one much uses the White Valley. The highlanders believe it to be haunted.”

  When night fell, it was still raining. After a hasty conferral, we decided to go on as long as we could, since it would be impossible to make a proper camp or cook in the sodden valley.

  In the end, Gahltha was the one to call a halt, saying the horses pulling the cart needed to rest. I was surprised at his consideration, then reminded myself his concern was for the horses, not the humans. But I was glad to stop just the same. Climbing down from his back stiffly, I was convinced every bone in my body was fractured and wondered if it could possibly be any worse to ride bareback.

  Relieved of the hated trappings, the horses wandered off to graze, untroubled by the rain. Domick and I hung our soaking oil cloaks under an eben tree in the hope that they would dry by morning.

  We all climbed into one carriage to talk. Darga had jumped out the moment the cart stopped; even so, it was too cramped to change my damp clothes, so I wrapped a blanket around my shoulders.

  “We might as well close th’ flaps an’ keep out th’ night air,” Matthew said, tying the strings.

  Kella had lit two candles in shielded sconces, and the interior of the van glowed dimly in the flickering light. It warmed up quickly with the flaps closed, and I felt myself drifting off to sleep watching Jik and the healer prepare a simple nightmeal. I felt so tired, it was an effort to eat, but Kella insisted.

  I tried to shift my position, but my legs seemed to have set in their riding stance. Laughing, Kella produced a strongly scented green paste that she promised would ease the muscle strain.

  I sighed regretfully and imagined sinking into my favorite chair in front of the turret-room fire when Jik interrupted my weary daydream to ask why he had been included on the expedition.

  I had imagined Dameon would have provided some plausible reason, b
ut it appeared he had left it to me. Trying to give myself time to think, I asked Jik why he had not asked Dameon himself.

  He shrugged diffidently. “I thought somebody would tell me why eventually.”

  I nodded, deciding that I could not burden him with the true reason. “Your knowledge of Herder lore will be useful to us. We know so little about the practices of the priesthood or of their ambitions. They seem to be growing stronger and more powerful. And, of course, there is your knowledge of Sutrium.”

  Jik frowned. “I was taken by the priests when I was very young. I hardly remember it. I don’t know any more about Sutrium than you,” he concluded in a troubled voice.

  I patted his arm reassuringly. “Don’t worry about why you’re here. Just concentrate on remembering everything you can about Sutrium and the Herder Faction.”

  I heard squelching noises outside just as Gahltha’s cold probe slid into my mind.

  I pulled aside the flap and looked into his dark, wet face, almost invisible in the night. Directly behind him, Avra was a pale blur.

  “What is it?” I sent, matching his brevity.

  “Avra found fresh equine tracks nearby, less than a day old. Funaga rode the equines,” Gahltha sent. “They traveled the opposite way to us, making for the main road.”

  “Maybe someone else knows about the Olden way,” Domick said when I told the others.

  I sent a questing thought to Avra. “Do you know how many funaga there were?”

  “More than here—two times more than here,” Avra sent, as shy as Gahltha was arrogant. I bit my lip.

  We had been incredibly lucky to miss the riders, but that did not solve the question of where they had come from. There were no mapped villages in the White Valley. But Louis said the highlands were full of small settlements unknown to Council mapmakers, made up of people who wanted to be free of Council domination without openly opposing it.

  “Perhaps the riders came from such a settlement,” he offered without conviction.

  “Perhaps they were hunting,” Domick said.

  I weighed the options. “We’ll stay the night here and leave at dawn.”

  I asked Gahltha to warn Darga and the other horses to keep an eye out for any sign of funaga that might give us a clue about why they had been in the White Valley. Then I dropped the flap, shutting out the bleak night.

  “He doesn’t like you,” Jik said in puzzled wonder.

  I nodded wryly. “Gahltha was badly abused by his old masters. I don’t think he likes any human.”

  “But it’s different at Obernewtyn. No one would hurt him there,” Jik said indignantly. “It’s not fair for him to blame us.”

  I smiled gently at his loyalty to his adopted home. “Not much in life is fair.”

  I realized Jik had not been able to hear Gahltha but had sensed the horse’s dislike. Such sensitivity to a beast’s emotions seemed to be a new use of empathising, or perhaps a new Talent altogether. I made a mental note to discuss it with Dameon when we returned.

  “What do you think those people were doing here?” Kella asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But if they are in hiding, they won’t want to see us any more than we want to stumble into their midst. I’m going to farsense the way ahead. If there is any sign of a settlement, we’ll change course and bypass it.” I closed my eyes.

  For a moment, I was half mesmerized by my own exhaustion and the monotonous sound of rain on the canvas roof of the caravan. I had forgotten how storms could affect my range. Pavo’s theory was that rain occasionally contained some sort of mild taint to which humans had adapted but which nevertheless acted upon Misfit abilities.

  I forced myself to concentrate, and then my probe was flying swift and low along the path we had planned to take. I touched briefly on the minds of various nocturnal creatures but found no human mind. At one point, I was startled when a cloud of shadowy birds rose, flittering and shrieking indignantly, disturbed by my scrying. Finding nothing, I came back along the same path, swinging out on both sides.

  My probe brushed briefly along the static barrier on the fringe of the Blacklands; then I went farther ahead, along the banks of the Suggredoon. I was surprised to realize we were less than an hour’s ride from the river. We planned to follow the Suggredoon down to where it disappeared underground at the foot of the Gelfort Range. Not far from there, we would find the Olden way.

  Making a last sweep of the area, I encountered a blank spot. I tried to penetrate it, but it was like trying to see in a blinding snowstorm.

  Defeated, I withdrew and opened my eyes.

  “Are ye all right?” Matthew asked.

  “Did you find anything?” Domick asked.

  I told them the result of my farsensing. “It sounds like Blackland static,” Matthew said.

  “It was like that but denser and cloudier,” I said. “Maybe it was tainted water.”

  “But no settlement,” Domick persisted.

  “I couldn’t sense even a single person, let alone a settlement,” I said, feeling relieved. “Maybe it was a hunting party.”

  Matthew looked doubtful. “I dinna think anyone would come here to hunt. T’would be like takin’ midmeal in a graveyard. Maybe it were soldierguards lookin’ for escapees or robbers?”

  I chewed my lip. “It wouldn’t be possible to have a machine that would create that kind of blocking static, would it?” I asked.

  Pavo looked thoughtful. “That would mean someone had found a way to modify another Beforetime machine. The Zebkrahn took years to modify—first Marisa Seraphim, then Alexi, and then the Teknoguild worked to change what seems to have been no more than a thing originally devised to measure brain waves. Besides, I think you would know if it was a machine.”

  “It must be some sort of taint, then,” Domick said dismissively.

  It was a cold night. I slept restlessly, dreamed of running through dark tunnels, and woke with the feeling that I had forgotten something important. After racking my brain, I pushed the nagging feeling to the back of my thoughts.

  Pulling the flap aside, I was delighted to find sun streaming through the treetops. The others stirred in the blaze of light, blinking and groaning. The ground was soaking wet, and there was no question of lighting a fire, but it was lovely to stretch our legs and walk around. I was very stiff but suspected I would have been worse without Kella’s healer wizardry.

  Gahltha and the other horses emerged from the trees as we were finishing a scratch firstmeal. Darga accepted a bowl of milk with a polite flap of his tail. We tied the oilskins, which were still wet, on top of the caravans and washed our faces in a streamlet. Domick worried that the water might be tainted, but Darga pronounced it safe. He had an acute sense of smell and could tell when water was bad.

  We set off far more cheerfully than the previous day. I felt happier despite Gahltha’s insistence at my riding bareback. Mounting him was an awkward debacle, because my legs were too stiff to flex easily. But once up, I felt more comfortable than I had on the saddle, though less secure.

  The sun shone in a golden autumn way, and Jik played a jaunty harvest song on his gita, accompanying himself in a surprisingly sweet singing voice. Even grim Domick appeared to enjoy the impromptu concert, and the horses perked their ears as if they liked the sound.

  Later, I listened to a communication between Darga and Avra about funaga. I was amused to hear their interpretation of human parenting, but Gahltha snorted loudly at Avra’s observation that the children of funaga seemed less dangerous than grown funaga.

  “You do not know anything about the funaga and their ways,” he told her icily. “They are all the same. I have been beaten savagely by a funaga child who laughed at my pain and jeered when I bled. Like poisoned ground, funaga bear poisoned fruit.”

  I shivered at the venom in his voice.

  Gahltha’s pace quickened after that. On a flat stretch, he broke into a trot without warning, and I fell. My only consolation was that the wet ground was soft. My anger
made no impression on Gahltha, who insisted that I would not have fallen if I had been gripping with my knees the way I was supposed to. Louis laughed uproariously, and though the others restrained their amusement, my next fall sent them all into gales of laughter.

  I kept my temper with difficulty, realizing Gahltha sought to goad me. And I knew he was right, however sarcastic he was. I had been sitting lazily.

  By the time we stopped for midmeal, I was covered in mud. It was not worth changing, so I merely washed my hands and face to eat. The afternoon was worse than the morning, despite my forlorn hope for an easy walking pace. Gahltha decided I must advance to riding at a gallop. Only stubborn pride kept me from protesting that he was progressing too quickly.

  So we cantered and galloped, and when the wagons moved too slowly for Gahltha, he would ride ahead, then turn and ride back. By late afternoon, I was beginning to feel the rhythm of his movements. Once or twice I even found myself enjoying the speed.

  We had been traveling parallel to the Suggredoon most of the day, but soon after midmeal, the river broadened suddenly, swollen from the night’s rain. The undergrowth thickened, too, slowing the caravans to a walking pace. Avra went slightly ahead with Domick, seeking the easiest path for the caravans. Later, Gahltha and I took over, leaving Domick free to range farther ahead.

  We hoped to reach the foot of the mountains before nightfall, but Domick returned just as the sun fell behind the mountains. One look at his grim expression told us his news was bad.

  “I found the place where the Suggredoon goes under the mountains, but I couldn’t find any pass. We went a fair way up from the river, but there was nothing,” he reported glumly.

  “The distances on the map might be wrongly drawn, or the entrance to the pass might be sharply aslant so that you would have to be coming from the other way to see it,” Pavo said.