by Gayle Greeno
The girded branch of a poplar testified where reins had been ripped free in haste, but few tracks showed clearly. It was equally possible that they’d departed along the hard-packed road. already the recipient of early morning traffic, including a herd of sheep, or that they’d bolted into the woods.
Voice rowling high and low, Saam scented the trail first, Rawn and Khar rushing to confer with the shadow-gray ghatt. Doyce suspected that Saam’s handicap, his loss of mindspeech, left his other senses sharper, more attuned to nature and his own personal world instead of sublimated in the all-important human-ghatt interaction. Jenret shifted, skittish at the delay, ready to swing down.
“What is it?” he called, his sharpness jerking Rawn to attention. The muscular black ghatt looked less than pleased at the interruption.
“Just wait, can’t you? Give them time to decide for sure.” Doyce studied her hands, toyed with the reins against the pommel platform, rather than stare down Jenret’s restiveness, not let it exacerbate her own. If he’s more impatient than I—and with less reason—we’ve landed in a fine fix, and I’ve packed patience in short supply after all this time. Can’t he tell how edgy I am?
“If you both go on like this you’ll be like two mirrors endlessly reflecting and reflecting and reflecting back on each other. Pity us ghatti caught in the middle.” Khar spared a thought in her direction, then went back to her conference with Saam.
She took a calming breath, held it until her lungs burned, and exhaled until she felt empty. It didn’t precisely calm, she decided, but it gave her something more immediate to think about. The darkness of the woods, deep hunter greens and soft charcoal blacks, green-grays and harsh blacks, tall firs and large-boled oaks crowding close and dense, snarled together, left her uneasy. Why anyone would want to live this close to a wilderness, she couldn’t guess. She’d cut through its outskirts more than once when pressed for time, but she hadn’t relished the experience, the brooding oppressiveness that weighed her lower and lower as if she crouched over Lokka for protection from some unseen force older than anything she’d ever known. If they had to journey deep into the High Firs, she wouldn’t be well pleased. Few ventured far into the High Firs, the ancient guardians of the Tetonords. Logging and hunting proved safer and easier elsewhere. Only the Erakwa leaving the southern borders of Marchmont after their summer’s hunting moved through with swift unconcern, finding trails and familiar scenes as easily as a resident of the capital navigated the maze of twisted, narrow streets that comprised the old quarter of Gaernett.
The ghatti returned, wending their way through the undergrowth without riffling a branch or leaf. With a low greeting cry Khar vaulted to her platform, followed a moment later by Saam.
She circled and settled. “Saam says they came out of the forest but left by the roadway. We think we can follow, now that Saam’s shown us what to feel for.”
Rawn stretched up and around, paws on Jenret’s shoulders, and butted him under the chin. “Aye, but we‘d better try to outrun the rain or even Saam will lose it entirely.”
“Then let’s ride!” And Jenret proved as good as his word, precipitously abandoning Doyce as he pricked his horse with his heels, the stallion’s muscles bunching and surging as he hurtled up the soft, loamy bank to the hard-packed roadway.
Poor Lokka, daydreaming, was hard-pressed to scramble after them, and Doyce restrained herself. No need to push too hard. Better to drop behind for the moment and build up speed on the roadway.
“Don’t worry.” The faintest feline smugness sweetened Khar’s tone. “Remember, we have Saam with us.”
“It’s not a contest, Khar. We’re both after the same thing—we all are. ”
“Mmph. Yes, but still ... we wondered.”
Leave it to the ghatta to prick your conscience, read your mind. She just hoped that Rawn was doing the exact same thing to Jenret. She leaned over the ghatta, pressing her in place on the platform and stretched herself against Lokka’s neck. “Tell Saam to hang on. Let’s close the gap!”
They rode achingly hard for the afternoon and into the night, traveling through three villages, stopping only to rest and water the horses and to ask a few questions. No one had seen anything of note. They tried a short detour onto a secondary road that Saam indicated, but it swung around the verge of a small, sedgy marsh area and then rejoined the main road they’d been following.
Doyce wondered who’d be the first to call it quits for the night. The moon and her satellites rode high, though misted over, and the rain had held off, but a creeping ground fog writhed and twisted around them, tattered by the horses’ hooves, hampering visibility. Only the ghatti’s sharp vision had saved the rapidly tiring horses and their riders from several spills.
“Can we pick up the trail in the morning?” she asked Khar.
The ghatta conferred with Saam in falanese. “Yes, I’ll tell Rawn.”
“No, don’t,” she insisted too sharply. “He’ll tell Jenret and then he’ll know. . . .”
“That we all need to rest?” Khar finished for her. “You said it’s not a contest. Besides, there are ways, never fear. I’ll have Rawn tell Ophar.”
“Who?” Doyce lifted herself in the stirrups to test her leg muscles’ response. They worked—but complained.
“The stallion, silly. Did you neglect to ask his name?”
The two horses began to slow until, bit by bit, as if by mutual consent, they walked.
“I think the horses are tired.” She pitched her voice low and discovered it was almost swallowed by the mist.
“Aye,” Jenret grunted a reluctant concession. “Wouldn’t want to finish them on the first day out.”
“Perhaps we should stop for the night. Saam thinks he can pick up the trail come morning.”
“My thought as well. If this cursed mist isn’t confusing me, there should be a stream up ahead. Used to hunt and fish here as a boy, but I don’t think they’ve moved the stream since then.”
“Unlikely,” Doyce agreed, pleased by his attempt at humor.
They rode a little farther in silence until Jenret abruptly disappeared off the shoulder of the road, his form floating darkly in the mist, and then engulfed by it. She gasped in disbelief just as she heard him yell, “Over here!”
“Show-off,” she muttered and turned Lokka to follow.
Gamely launching herself into misty nothingness, Lokka landed without a misstep. The darkness seemed absolute, but she could hear the gentle plash of water and the rustling of willows. Khar and Saam hurled themselves down, into what, Doyce had no idea. She paused, then followed suit, dubious about what she’d find underfoot, but the earth felt firm and grassy, neither soggy nor yielding to the touch. So she wasn’t standing in the invisible stream. She jumped as the voice came at her shoulder.
“Strip Lokka’s tackle and I’ll take her down for water.” Doyce did and then set herself to searching her saddlebags by touch until she located the small rectangle, carefully padded in cloth. Packrat she might be, she decided with a burst of triumph, but it did pay to be prepared! The wrappings concealed a small, collapsible candle shield, each of its four paned-glass sides hinged to fold flat. She struck a lucifer, gladdened by the small, cheerful flame the stubby votive candle gave. May the Lady forgive her for using it in a place other than it was intended for.
Snagging her bedroll from her gear, Doyce spread it and then sat to consider the easiest, quickest meal, assessing the contents of first one pack, and then the other. The three ghatti materialized around the candle, purring excitement, eyes reflecting the dancing flame. Khar, with her white muzzle and front, was the most clearly visible, while Saam appeared wraithlike, and Rawn was darkly invisible except for glowing eyes. “Dinnertime?” she feigned innocence.
“Aawr! Rrow! Oh, yes! Quick!” No one had ever faulted the ghatti for not having healthy appetites.
She piled handfuls of dry trail food into three equal portions, each ghatt holding back until the others were served. The nuggets cons
isted of ground wheat and corn, dried liver, brewer’s yeast, fish oil, and shredded eschbeel leaves, something like spinach, she thought. While a steady diet of it spelled monotony, at least to her mind, it was nourishing, and none of the ghatti spurned it, at least for short periods of time. Three heads bobbed down as one and the ghatti began to gulp away. “For heaven’s sake, chew it a little at least! You’ll all have belly aches tonight!”
Khar’s head never lifted as she pursued the last elusive nugget, nosing and sniffing through the grass. “Didn’t plan on being awake to feel it. More?”
“That’s more than enough to nourish and sustain a working ghatt or ghatta,” came Doyce’s rejoinder as she cut bread and cheese and sausage for herself and Jenret. “Of course, there might be a bite of sausage for dessert, after we’ve eaten.”
The three sighed as one, swallowed audibly and genteelly backed away to content themselves with grooming until the proffered treat materialized.
This time she saw Jenret before he spoke and handed him a slice of bread laden with meat and cheese. Asa’s wife had baked the day before, and the bread was still crusty, lightly charred at the bottom, moist within. He took it and juggled it one-handed as he sat cross-legged on the other side of the shielded candle.
“The horses are watered and tied so they can graze. Don’t you want a fire?” The last came indistinctly through the mouthful of food Jenret wolfed down. She cut more without asking, piled the bread high, and he snatched it with contented greed. She’d forgotten how much more it took to fill a man. But then, Oriel, despite his bulk, had been a finicky eater.
“I brought water back, too. We could make cha.”
“I’d be asleep before it could boil.” She groaned as she pulled her knee tight to her chest, then thrust it straight. The candle flame barely illuminated his face and his hands floated like pale, disembodied moths against the dark of night and his clothing. Why did he always wear black?
“Sore? At your age you have to be careful about that sort of thing.”
Doyce surged to her feet, ignoring the pain, and the ghatti started, ears laid back as they glared around. “Old? Yes, I am, and not about to lie about it! But I’ll outride you and outlast you, you black-shirted, fragranced fop, and just you remember that!” She paced, strides rigid with anger, stopped with her back to him, staring into the night, saying nothing more because she dared not. She’d allowed him to score without really trying, and her overreaction humiliated her. He’d struck sparks off her like a piece of flint.
“Touché! It’s said that with old age there’s a lessening of one’s sense of humor—I guess it’s true.” Cool amusement in his laugh. “If it’s any consolation, I’m thirty-two, nearly your age. So let’s save the feistiness for later when we may need it.”
Inwardly cursing herself for flaring up, Doyce sat back down and tugged off her boots, taking comfort from the well-worn leather. The release of pent-up hostility had felt good, even though she knew it was misdirected. Oh, for a decent night’s sleep to loosen tension, let her regain her perspective. But not much chance of that, not lately. She’d sleep for a thousand years if the world would only let her. Folding her tabard for a pillow, she wriggled into her bedroll and turned to blow out the candle, then spoke. “When you get to be my age you get cranky if you don’t get enough sleep ... and have loved ones murdered and maimed and find more bodies along your path.” It was as close to an apology as she could approach.
“I know.” Then, quieter still, as if it had been dragged out of him. “I’m sorry. ‘Twas meant to tease.”
“I know. Good night.”
“Sausage!” Two voices cried in her mind while the third one rowled aloud.
“Oh, damn, Jenret. Slice them some, would you? I promised and I forgot.” Laughing, Jenret complied, and satisfied purrs mingled with the willows’ dialogue with the stream.
Byrta shifted on the straw pallet, reached to finger the bandaged splints that encased her leg from her foot to above her knee. It felt as if she’d been embraced by a picket fence; it itched already, and she focused on that minor indignity rather than on the pain that shrouded her like a second skin. With a sleepy hand she searched for a straw, anything she could slide beneath the bandages and scratch with, muttering, “There ought to be enough of them around, we’re in a barn, aren’t we?” and then gave up and dozed.
Perched on a hay bale, knees drawn up, arms folded tight around them, the urchin-child looked from Byrta to the ghatta, P’wa, sitting by the pillow, then back again. Light from the lantern hung on the nail from the loft beam cast long and short shadows, bars of light and dark across the figure on the bed as the girl watched. Tiny, white teeth nibbled at her lower lip. She was nine, and small for her age, and the size of her responsibility filled her with awe. Wally had gotten to ride the sway-backed old mare to fetch the eumedico, but afterward, her father had said it was her task to watch over the Seeker for anything she might need. She even had an old chamber pot at the ready, just in case. She might be only nine, but she’d trained three on it already, and three more to go. The thought made her sigh, just enough so that the ghatta noticed her movement. It flicked an ear, setting its ear hoop swaying, and the child wished she had jewelry of her own, but her Da said they were all his crown jewels, and that they needed no others.
It had struck her as strange that the Seeker wanted to stay in the barn, rather than the house where it was more comfortable, but she had worried it through until she thought she understood. In the big house you were never alone, never had enough privacy, bustle and bedlam galore, though. The more she thought on it, she didn’t blame the Seeker for her polite insistence on staying here until the eumedico decided she had stabilized enough to move her to the Hospice. Besides, the Seeker said that her brother knew to find her here and would be coming soon. Then she’d be able to watch two Seekers and two ghatti, both twins, so the lady had said. The Seeker stirred, gave a grunt of pain, and raised herself on her elbows, stared around, unsure until she saw the child’s smile.
Bare feet scuffing the straw, the child marched to the makeshift table, an upended wooden fruit crate, that held a mug of water and pills in a saucer. The saucer was her contribution, chipped, but still pretty with its flaming red poppies, sole survivor of a long-gone set and hers alone now. “Think ye should have the pills agin? It bay’int long after dark—moons have just risen.” She reached out a hand, circumspect in front of the ghatta, and brushed the woman’s forehead with her wrist. “You be feverin’ still,” she scolded.
“Take the pills and send the child along to bed,” P’wa advised.
“But they’ll be here soon,” Byrta protested, managing a smile in the girl’s direction as she mindspoke P’wa. “And those pills leave me wooly-headed, half-here and half-where I don’t know. I don’t want Bard to see me like that. ”
“But they ease the pain, don’t they? Take them. Let the child get her sleep as well. You know she won’t budge unless she thinks you’re tucked in for the night.”
She made a grumbling noise, then halted as the child skittered at the sound. Scooping the pills from the saucer, she tossed them into her mouth, the child anticipating and handing her the mug, water slopping in her hurry. “Thank you, Lindy. Now why don’t you go into the house and get some sleep with the others?”
The child hung back, stubborn about abandoning her duty. “What if your brother comes while ye be sleepin’?”
The thought of Bard made her smile. “I’d know—awake, asleep, or dead.”
Nimble as a grig, the child hopped up the hay bales and turned down the lantern until only a firefly speck remained, then dropped to the floor. She left with a whispered “good night,” pale braids swaying and bouncing to her skip-steps. She knew what she’d do, no bed for her yet, she’d make the Seeker a custard despite the lateness, give her something nourishing but pleasant to eat, to share with her brother when he arrived. Mam wouldn’t begrudge the eggs and milk and sugar, she knew, though she’d begrudge the no
ise this late if she wasn’t mouse-quiet. And the ghatta would probably like to lick the bowl, she decided.
Byrta drifted off as the pain diminished, sighing a little at her inability to keep her eyes open. P’wa, as well, napped in relief, then awoke and decided on a meander around the barnyard to stretch her legs. She, too, had been swept off the horse when it shied, and while she landed with more grace than Byrta, the landing had bruised, made her stiffen later with the enforced sitting and watching, the worry. She twisted her tail, even that hurt, then slipped through the door into the pleasantness of night.
The child, Lindy, placed the last custard cup in the pan of hot water and startled, sharp ears catching the sound of a horse being walked slow and stealthy toward the barn. She grabbed up the empty mixing bowl, ready to rush out to welcome the Seeker’s brother and the ghatt, when she realized the rhythm of the sounds indicated not one horse, but two. Puzzling it over, she eased the door open just enough to let her stand, eye to the crack, and strain to see. But the horses were riderless; whoever they belonged to was already in the barn. She nibbled at a braid-end, rubbed the tip across her lips. And then something struck her as very odd, wrong, left her clutching the bowl so hard she came close to halving it like a walnut. Neither horse had a pommel platform on the front of the saddle. If not the Seeker-brother, then who?
An explosive growl detonated darkness outside, and she sensed more than saw the fluid motion of the black and white ghatta racing toward the barn. She could detect the ghatta’s shame at her momentary desertion and measured her own against it. Hadn’t Da told her to watch over the Seeker? The child flung herself after the ghatta, casting a longing look back at the safety of the kitchen, the upstairs where her parents and brothers and sisters slept the sleep of the righteously exhausted after a day’s mowing.
“Bard?” Byrta half-woke as a hand touched her shoulder. But the hand pressed her backward, as did the hand on her other shoulder, pinning her to the mattress. Yet another hand slapped a moist rag over her mouth and nose. The sickly-sweet smell made her cough, gag, and she awoke in earnest, dread rippling through her, jangling at her pain. Not Bard! Who? Where was P’wa?
