Clovermead stood up. “Sundrink’s coming with us,” she said to Sorrel and Lacebark. “She says I can ride on her.”
The thief glanced at the Tansyard. “It’s the head wound, isn’t it? The Demoiselle’s gone mad.”
“Clovermead is normally mad,” said Sorrel. He smiled faintly at Clovermead. “She was born with her brains a little rattled. But Master Eddish does have a point, Clovermead. Is this a safe plan?”
“I wondered that myself,” said Clovermead. “I think so. Don’t get too near her, though. She’s not fond of humans.” Very gently she scrambled onto Sundrink’s back. For a moment Clovermead thought the black bear would claw her to the ground—but Sundrink moaned, Lady, shivered, and settled down.
“I am not fond of all of them myself,” muttered Sorrel. He kicked Brown Barley in the flanks, and she went galloping. Lacebark’s roan stallion raced alongside the mare, and Sundrink pounded after them. Mare, stallion, and bear raced past the palisades that blocked the entrance to the Valley. Clovermead clung to Sundrink’s fur as tightly as she could, and held her head as still as possible. Even with Clovermead’s weight on her back, Sundrink easily kept up with Brown Barley and Lacebark’s stallion.
Once they were in the open Heath, they veered south along the grasslands that paralleled the Reliquary Mountains. Soon they came to the streams and rocky slopes of a hill that protruded from the Reliquaries, and Sorrel brought Brown Barley to a halt.
“I lost track of Snuff here,” he said.
Can you find the bear-priest’s scent? Clovermead asked Sundrink.
Sundrink nodded and began to snuffle among the rocks and weeds. After half an hour she caught Snuff’s odor. She growled to catch Sorrel’s and Lacebark’s attention, she beckoned with her paw, and they were after Snuff once more. Sundrink led them now, and they went slowly, so as not to lose the bear-priest’s trail.
They stopped for the night by a copse of fir trees that girdled a stream as it meandered down from the mountains. Sorrel made a fire, Lacebark collected branches for fuel, and they settled down for a meal of sausage, cheese, and rye bread. Clovermead slumped by the fireside. Do you want to join us? she asked Sundrink. The black bear had retreated from the blaze.
Maybe later, said Sundrink. I want to wander free of your weight for a little while, changeling. She nodded to Clovermead, to Sorrel and Lacebark, and stalked into the night.
Clovermead heaved herself up to a sitting position, and looked to the southern darkness. “Do you know what south Linstock’s like, Sorrel? Mother went down there a few times to look at the forts, but I never went with her. Mother’s oddly fond of deserts, but even she didn’t have a good word to say about the land down there. Desolate was the word she used. Is it as bad as all that?”
“Indeed it is,” said Sorrel. “The southern Heath is sand and granite underneath, and lava and ash above. It rains little enough near Chandlefort, but scarcely at all down in the Black Plain. Two great volcanoes dominate that land, Pearlash and Charbon. They have not erupted in centuries, but there are little volcanoes all over the Plain that spout lava most regularly. The Ladies Cindertallow built their fort walls around the few sizable oases hundreds of years ago. Outside the forts there are only mud holes, where bandits lurk or where hermits live upon lizards and pray to Our Lady.” He glanced at Lacebark. “But the thief is the expert on this land. Is that not why he has come along with us?”
“I came because Lady Saraband asked me to,” said Lacebark. “And, yes, I have been across the Black Plain a few times, Tansyard. Sometimes a thief needs a refuge, and the wilderness is a good one. Provided you know your way across it.”
“We are fortunate to have your expertise,” said Sorrel. “And blessed that you are susceptible to Lady Saraband’s charms. You are so handsome, thief: I rather thought it would be you who charmed the ladies, and not the other way around.” An edge of anger laced his voice.
“I think he tries that smile of his on every girl he meets,” said Clovermead, more loudly than she’d intended. “Not all of us smile back at him.”
“She tells the truth, Tansyard,” Lacebark said smoothly. “A great many young ladies are distressingly faithful to their true loves. Them I charm in vain.”
“I am glad to hear that,” said Sorrel. “It restores my faith in humanity.”
“It should,” said Clovermead. “Otherwise you’d be an idiot.”
“I know,” Sorrel said quietly. “Only a fool could think such things.” He shook his head. Then he smiled at Clovermead with friendly concern. “We should go to sleep. You still look wobbly, and I think you need to rest.”
“You’re right,” said Clovermead. “I am tired.”
They went to bed right after dinner. Clovermead tried to speak privately with Sorrel, but he avoided conversation. Idiot, thought Clovermead furiously. Why should I have to come talk to you? I’m the one who’s got the right to be angry. But that night Clovermead cried herself to sleep.
Snuff’s scent curved away from the Reliquaries the next morning, heading southeast. Sundrink tracked him through land that grew swiftly drier, and soon there was no more than thin grass underfoot. Snuff’s scent swerved south again, and stayed all day in that strip of flat, thin grassland. Scrawny herds of cattle grazed nearer to the Reliquaries, and the occasional herdsman watched the three speeding riders curiously. Clovermead felt a little better that day. By mid-afternoon her head had stopped aching.
The next morning Snuff’s scent veered southeasterly once more. The grass thinned and disappeared, they crossed the cracked flagstones of the West Pike, and they left behind the last of the Reliquaries’ streams. Now they rode through a pitch-black plain of old and crumbled lava, occasionally pierced by protruding chunks of granite. Crisscross ravines blocked their path, and forced them to swerve from side to side, seeking paths around the gullies.
They clambered farther southeast through the Black Plain the next day. Far to the south Clovermead saw two slumping mounds on the horizon—Pearlash and Charbon. To the southeast a low and spiny ridge of gray granite hills, streaked sulfur-yellow, rose up to divide the Black Plain from the valley of the Whetstone River. Lacebark called them the Fustic Hills. That evening the travelers camped in the open lava, barely protected from the wind by a knife-sharp ridge of black pumice. Directly south, toward Charbon, Clovermead could see an orange glow from a far-off crack of fresh lava. A low, hot wind, stinking of rotten eggs, blew gently at them from the liquid fissure. There was no wood, no grass, nothing at all to make a fire, so they ate their dinner cold. Drifting clouds obscured the moon.
This night Sundrink stayed by the others. She growled as she lay by Clovermead’s side. Then she stood up and paced angrily back and forth.
What’s wrong? asked Clovermead. Do you smell bear-priests?
No. Sundrink switched her small tail back and forth, and bit at the night air. She strode past Lacebark, who scrabbled out of her way. She whirled, headed back to Clovermead, and stood still. My mate died near here, she said abruptly. I recognize the scent of the land. Ursus’ blood-net danced through the Reliquaries, and we ran out here to escape it. Logscrape died of thirst in these gullies. She growled again, with an old sob in her throat. Uselessly. The blood-net came into the Heath the next month, and I was caught.
I’m sorry, said Clovermead. I—is there anything I can do for you?
To comfort me? Sundrink laughed bitterly. No. Only bear-priest blood can do that. And the promise of green hills. She sighed and settled down once more. Ursus will pay, she muttered. Her eyes glowed red in the darkness. After a while she fell asleep.
“Who does she want to kill?” Lacebark asked nervously.
“Bear-priests, mainly,” said Clovermead. “Ursus, if she could.”
“Don’t turn traitor, thief,” said Sorrel amiably. “Our furry companion will hunt you down.”
“The thought hadn’t occurred to me, Tansyard,” said Lacebark. “But I thank you for the suggestion.”
Cloverme
ad cleared her throat. “This really is a remarkably unpleasant land,” she said. “Why did the Cindertallows even bother putting forts here in the first place? There couldn’t have been more than a handful of people living here, and it’s not on the trade routes. You can float down the Whetstone to the Thirty Towns, or ride down along the Reliquaries if you have to. I’d stay clear of this stone yard.”
“I believe there were once ruby mines near the slopes of Charbon and Pearlash,” said Sorrel. “The forts were built to guard the caravans from the mines to Chandlefort. Those mines were exhausted some centuries ago, but by then the forts were already built. The Ladies Cindertallow did not want to spend the money to dismantle them, and they did not want to see them fall into other people’s hands. Besides, they served some use as bases to keep an eye on bandits, who ride across these barren lands to raid in all directions.” He smiled. “And I gather the Ladies Cindertallow found the forts useful as a way to express their displeasure at obstreperous lords and Yellowjackets. A five-year tour of duty in these wastes serves quite well to chasten most rebellious spirits.”
Clovermead laughed. “I’d come back crawling on my hands and knees for a chance to live in Chandlefort again! Ugh! Why did Snuff decide to come this way?”
“Because only a madman would follow him,” said Lacebark. He smiled. “Or a knowledgeable thief.”
“I begin to wonder about your knowledge,” said Sorrel. “Where exactly are these hidden ways of yours?”
“We’ll reach them tomorrow,” said Lacebark.
The next morning Lacebark led them northward, away from Snuff’s easterly trail. “Trust me, Demoiselle,” he said. “We have to go a little out of the way now, but we’ll catch up with your bear-priest.” He paused a moment. “Demoiselle, swear to Our Lady that you won’t reveal this path to anybody else. You too, Tansyard.”
Clovermead and Sorrel swore, Lacebark nodded with satisfaction, and he led them on a circuitous path through choppy land. Piles of black rubble alternated with spikes of lava, and Sundrink yipped as the spikes ground into her paws. After a while she grew quiet as the Plain beneath her feet grew smoother. Spurs of rock had been bashed off, and fissures had been filled in with pebbles. Clovermead turned her nose into a bear-snout, and she could smell the faint residue of horses. She looked to either side as she rode. Every few dozen feet a white blaze was scratched into a rock.
“Is this your hidden way?” Clovermead called out. “I don’t see that it’s much better than the open plain.”
“Wait a minute, Demoiselle,” said Lacebark. The trail turned a corner and began to descend. Walls of lava rose high above them, leaving little light. Brown Barley whinnied nervously, and Sundrink growled uneasily, but Lacebark beckoned them on. They turned another corner—and Clovermead gaped in astonishment.
A circular tunnel lay directly in front of them. It was twenty feet wide, and lit by dim light from the occasional cracks in the roof. The walls were oddly smooth, and the floor so flat that a horse could canter down it comfortably. The tunnel stretched straight to the southeast as far as the eye could see.
“Who made this?” asked Sorrel. His eyes were wide with wonder as he stared at the tunnel. “I have ridden the roads of the engineers of Queensmart, and marveled that they have survived the passing centuries so well, but I did not dream they could do a thing like this. And how could this be built and the secret be lost? I have ridden not five miles from here, and never dreamed this route existed.”
“No men built this, Tansyard,” said Lacebark. “This is Charbon’s work. She sent her lava flowing over the Plain, ages back, and here and there it scoured out tunnels beneath the surface. Thieves discovered them long ago. They’re useful if you want to disappear from a pursuing Yellowjacket and reappear somewhere a bit farther off from Milady’s justice.” He smiled sardonically at Clovermead. “Shall we ride?”
“This goes all the way to the Fustic Hills?” asked Clovermead.
“Lady, no! The longest of these tunnels is ten miles long. But if we hop from tunnel to tunnel, I think we can overtake your bear-priest.” Lacebark spurred his horse, Sorrel rode by his side, and Sundrink ran after them.
They rode through the same tunnel all morning long. Here and there they slowed down to avoid a heap of spiky rubble. Sometimes great, ragged holes split the ceiling, and they galloped at full speed while the sun lit their way; other times they trotted slowly in near darkness. The walls varied from black to dull brown or duller gray, with the occasional streak of rusty red. The air was cool, with a steady draft; the sunlight that peeked through provided little warmth. They shared the tunnel with a few scampering lizards and flittering bats; small, strange creatures glowed in dark corners, but nothing larger used the tubes as a den.
They came out of the first tunnel, and then they rode a mile-long twisting path around razor-sharp hummocks of lava to another tunnel. This one was shorter than the first, and that afternoon they spent more time in the heat of the spring sun. All told, they went through eight tunnels before dusk, and they traveled nearly thirty miles. They stopped at a mud hole filled with thick but drinkable water. There was a little bracken nearby, and they made a small fire for the night.
“I don’t quite see why a thief would need this sort of tunnel,” said Clovermead as they ate beef jerky for dinner. “Who’d chase you so far from a town that you’d need to duck into these tunnels?”
“I’ve had a checkered career, Demoiselle,” said Lacebark. “More highwayman than thief, if truth be told. Yellowjackets patrol the roads of Linstock. I’ve had to dash into the Black Plain often enough.”
“Clovermead said you were not a fighter,” said Sorrel. “How did you manage as highwayman? Surely cutpurse is more in the line of a thief afraid of blood.”
Lacebark chuckled. “The secret is to find a coachman even more afraid of blood than you are, and draw a knife on him. They’re more common than you’d think. Or sign up as coachman yourself, rifle through the luggage atop the coach one night, and ride off into the Heath before daybreak. And I don’t faint in a fight. I’ve finished some brawls standing. I’m just not a soldier.” His smile faded. “I hadn’t been in a real battle before the bear-priests attacked us in the Heath. I had not guessed how . . . much fighting terrifies me.”
“I have been scared in battle too,” said Sorrel. For a brief moment he glanced at Lacebark with grudging empathy. “Though I am startled that you have lived so long and avoided battle entirely. There has not been much peace in Linstock of late.”
“I’m from Queensmart. I told the Demoiselle that when we first met.”
“I remember,” said Clovermead. “You don’t have much of an accent, though.”
“I wandered from home long since—first in the Thirty Towns, afterward in Linstock. I try not to sound like a stranger.” Lacebark turned back to Sorrel. “It was peaceful enough in the Thirty Towns until Ursus attacked Queensmart. And I’ve sidestepped the wars since. I knew my luck would run out someday.” He shrugged. “It turns out to be now.”
“I wonder that you agree to accompany us so near to danger,” said Sorrel. “It sounds out of character for you.” He smiled without humor. “Even considering the charms of the Lady Saraband.”
“You underestimate her charms,” said Lacebark. His eyes unfocused, and he smiled. “She is lovely.”
“So everyone says,” said Clovermead sourly. “I expect they’ll still be saying it when she’s ninety. The rest of us are pretty, or cute, or have a good personality, but she’s lovely. It could drive a girl to makeup and perfume.”
“You need not bother, Demoiselle,” said Lacebark. “The Lady Saraband’s loveliness is inside.” He shook his head, and now he stared at unseen wonder. “I saw it while she wept.”
“And so her tears make you a brave man,” said Sorrel disbelievingly.
“Indeed,” said Lacebark. He stretched his arms, then stood. “My legs are cramped. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He ambled out of sight, out of earshot.
Sorrel was silent for a minute. “Am I mad, Clovermead?” he asked abruptly. “I look at the two of you, and I think—I cannot say it out loud. Ever since you first mentioned his name, you have talked of him as if you held some guilty secret inside you. Sometimes you blush when you look at him. Sometimes the thief smirks when he sees the two of us together, as if he knew all our secrets. But he seems besotted with Saraband—to his heart, if I am any judge of character. And I think—” He took a ragged breath. “I would have sworn you loved me still. But I do not know, when you look at him so. And I have been away so long. Perhaps you have changed. And you have been so distant—”
“You’ve been distant lately, not me,” said Clovermead.
“True. I am sorry, Clovermead. I have not behaved well.” He took a deeper breath, as if preparing for a blow. “Please tell me, what is going on?”
It took you long enough to ask. Her heart hammered. “I could have kissed him,” said Clovermead. At least that’s out of the way. She looked almost fearfully at Sorrel.
His face was blank. The Tansyard sat very still. Firelight flickered on his tattoos.
I guess you’re not going to make this any easier for me. “He flirted dreadfully with me when I first met him in Chandlefort. And I liked flirting with him.” Slowly Clovermead told everything she had said and done with Lacebark. “It wasn’t so much at the end of the day, but I didn’t want to say anything about it. I figured that all I could do was hurt you if I talked about it. And maybe staying silent hurts you more. I don’t know.” Sorrel hadn’t moved.
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