To see if she wanted him to search, even though someone might notice what he was doing.
“I don’t—” Seraph stopped speaking abruptly.
Over Lehr’s shoulder, Seraph saw Benroln, Kors, and Calahar approach with intent. Isfain, the fourth man, was nowhere to be seen. The air of grim triumph Benroln wore was as damning as the guilt on Kors’s face.
She stepped around Lehr so she stood between him and the leadership of the Clan of Rongier.
“Is something wrong?” asked Benroln.
“I don’t know,” Seraph replied softly. “I think that’s something you can tell me. Where is Jes, Benroln?”
Benroln held his arms out open-palm to show her he meant no harm. “He is safe, Seraph. I won’t harm him unless there is no other way to save my clan.”
Seraph waited.
“Jes is in one of the tents with Isfain at watch.”
“What do you want?” she asked.
Benroln smiled as if to say, See, I knew you’d do it my way. Three days had obviously not taught him much about her—she hoped that her other secrets were as well-hidden.
“My uncle has been scouting for work for us, and he found some not five miles down the road.”
“What kind of work?” asked Seraph.
“There is a merchant who buys grain and hauls it to Korhadan to sell. Last year one of the farmers with whom he had a contract delivered his grain himself and cost our merchant money and reputation when he wasn’t able to deliver the grain he had promised his buyers. He went to the courts for redress, but they were unable to help him.”
“I see,” said Seraph neutrally.
“I want you to curse this farmer’s fields.”
“To teach him a lesson,” she said.
“Right,” he smiled engagingly. “Just like that man who assaulted Hennea.”
“But this merchant will pay you money.”
“Yes.” He didn’t even have the grace to look uncomfortable.
“And what will I get out of it?”
“Your family will have a home at last. A place where they fit in and no one taunts them for their Traveler blood. We will share with you all that is ours,” said Calahar, as if he were offering her a gift instead of blackmailing her.
Benroln was smarter than that. “Safety,” he said. “For you and your family.”
Seraph stared at them for a minute.
“You can’t hold Jes for long,” said Lehr confidently. “He doesn’t like strangers much—he’ll know that there is something wrong.”
He was right—or should have been. Seraph watched, but Benroln’s confidence didn’t falter.
“You have a foundrael,” she said, suddenly certain it was true. There weren’t many of them, but then there weren’t many clans left either. They weren’t such fools as to try to keep a Guardian prisoner without something to keep him under control.
“What is that?” asked Lehr.
“Guardians can be difficult to control,” she explained without looking away from Benroln’s face. “They are driven to protect their own at the expense of everything else. Sometimes their imperatives are inconvenient; guardians don’t follow orders well at all.” She wasn’t going to tell them how common it was for an Eagle to lose his daytime persona and become completely violent, even toward the people he had previously protected. “A Raven a long time ago came up with a solution. She created ten foundraels—collars that keep the Guardian from emerging—before she realized what the end effect of repressing a Guardian is.”
“What’s wrong with it?” asked Lehr. “Is Jes in danger?”
Seraph fingered the knife at her hip. “Let’s just say that if they thought they had problems with their Guardians when they decided to use the foundrael, they had real problems the first time they decided to take it off. The use of foundraels is forbidden except under the most dire conditions.”
“My father will keep him calm—your Guardian will experience no difficulties unless you give him reason to think that there is danger,” said Calahar, stung by the contempt in her voice.
“Seraph—I’ve looked all over…” Hennea’s voice died out as she recognized the confrontation.
“These men have taken Jes,” Seraph told Hennea. “So that I will aid them in cursing a man’s field. They will receive gold for their efforts.”
She saw Hennea’s face as worry faded, leaving behind a facade as cold as ice—just such a face had Hennea worn as she knelt beside the dead priest in Redern.
“They take gold to curse people?”
Seraph spat on the ground in front of Benroln. “They have chosen to forget who we are. But they have me at a disadvantage.” She shook her head in disgust and then looked at Lehr.
She needed someone to tend Jes, someone he trusted who would sit by him calmly until she could get Benroln to take the foundrael off—the collars could only be taken off by the person who put them on. But Lehr was too angry, she thought in near despair; Jes would know that there was something wrong.
“Where’s Jes?” asked Hennea.
Seraph looked at the other woman’s expressionless face thoughtfully. “Kors,” she abruptly, “will take you to Jes. He’s being held with a foundrael—Isfain is supposed to be keeping him calm. I would appreciate it if you would do your best to see that Jes is not discomforted while I go with Benroln.”
“A foundrael?” If anything, Hennea’s voice was colder than before. A blush rose on Kors’s cheeks. Hennea’s mouth was tight with anger, but she nodded her head at Seraph. “I’ll take care of him—he’s been helping me knit in the evenings since we met up with this clan. Sometimes simple tasks help.”
“Thank you, Hennea,” said Seraph, feeling vast relief at Hennea’s confidence. She pointed to the tent entrance. “Gura. Stay. Guard.” The last thing she wanted was for one of these fools to get their hands on the Ordered stones. Once the dog was sitting where she’d asked him to, she said, “Lehr, my dear, it looks like you might miss the Hunt today. You will come with me—I have no desire to lose anything more than I can help on this fool’s errand.”
CHAPTER 12
Hennea stalked behind Kors, the canvas bag that held her needles and woolen thread clutched tightly in one hand. Her anger was partly self-disgust. She knew better than to getinvolved; that always brought unnecessary pain. Poor Moselm… he’d been such a kind man, uncomplicated. They’d been lovers before they’d been taken, but it had been little more than a convenience to both. Moselm’s wife had died several years before of one of the mysterious ailments that plagued the Traveling clans. They had come together for comfort.
But it was the Traveler’s lot in life to confront things that no one else would face. If Moselm’s death brought the light of destruction to the Path, he would have counted his life well-spent. But Jes…
There was no peace in dying among kinsfolk—and Hennea, like Seraph, knew that every minute that Jes spent collared by the foundrael brought him that much nearer to madness and a merciful death at the hands of those who loved him. She didn’t want to do that ever again.
That Travelers would come to this, Travelers sworn and taught to aid the solsenti. For gold and hatred they betrayed their oaths, and put a good man at risk—perhaps they all deserved the fate that the solsenti intended to mete out.
Kors, subdued and somber with doubt, led Hennea toward one of the more distant campsites. The clansfolk they encountered on the way bowed their heads and refused to look her in the eye. They knew, she saw, and they were ashamed—but angry at the guilt they felt. Before long, she thought, they’d turn that guilt into righteous indignation.
See what the solsenti have turned us into, they would say to one another, so lacking in pride that they could not even accept the responsibility for their own downfall.
Kors stopped in front of a large tent and they both heard Isfain’s harsh voice snap out. “Sit here and wait, boy, as I told you. Your mother has business with Benroln and then you may do as you wish.”
He
nnea’s eyebrows climbed. “Supposed to be keeping him calm, is he?” she murmured to Kors, pleased when she saw that he was unhappy with what they’d just heard as well.
She swept open the tent with none of the usual courtesies. Isfain was standing in front of her and she shoved him ungently aside to see Jes perched unhappily on a tall stool in the middle of the tent. It was the only object in the tent—if Benroln had indeed given orders to keep Jes calm he had failed marvelously.
“Woman, watch what you do!” snapped Isfain.
Evidently, he didn’t care for her entrance. She ignored him.
“Hennea,” Jes said in soft-spoken relief. “I need to see Mother.” One hand rubbed at the leather strap he wore around his neck, turning it about as if to find a buckle or lacing that wasn’t there. To Hennea’s eyes the leather was as smooth as if it had just grown around his neck.
“What are you doing here?” said Isfain. “Does Benroln know you are here?”
She ignored him again.
“It’s all right, Jes,” she said to the dark young man sitting restlessly on the battered old stool. “Benroln wants to force your mother to curse some poor farmer’s land for money. They’re holding you with an artifact that keeps your other spirit at bay—there’s nothing wrong with you. Lehr went with your mother.”
She didn’t know how much he’d understand in his current state so she was gratified when Jes’s swaying slowed down.
“They are safe?” he said.
“I don’t think that Benroln will be able to do anything to Seraph that she doesn’t want to happen. Lehr is with her.”
He swallowed, “And you are safe here.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “I’m safe with you. Would you help me with my knitting until your mother’s business is completed?”
She opened her bag and gave him a skein that she’d tangled just for this purpose. After a little hesitation he took it from her. He stared at it for a minute, but at last his long-fingered hands began to work patiently at untangling knots. The rough wool thread had a mind of its own, and it would take a while to unravel the mess she’d made.
She settled at his feet and began knitting with a ball he’d rolled for her yesterday. She leaned lightly against his leg, prepared to shift away if she made him uncomfortable. The long muscles of his thigh softened and relaxed, so she let him take a bit more of her weight.
She glanced into his eyes and saw the fury trapped impotently in the net of the foundrael. She shivered and looked back at the sweater she knitted. For a while he seemed calmer. Perhaps if the tent had not been so starkly furnished, or if that idiot Isfain had quit looking at Jes as if he expected him to explode, Jes would have been all right.
“I don’t like this,” said Jes, abruptly throwing his yarn on the ground. “I need… I need to be somewhere.”
Hennea looked up at him and saw the despair in his eyes. Enough, she thought. “Wait a moment,” she told him.
Kors was not a problem. He knew what was right when someone shoved it in his face, as much as he wished he didn’t. Isfain, though, Isfain might be more difficult.
He was one of those gifted with magic, though not Ordered. Hennea knew that other Ravens had a tendency to look upon unordered mages as weak, but she was not so foolish. A good wizard used subtlety as well as power, and like a well-knit wool sweater, their spells could be difficult to unravel.
The trick with wizards was not to give them time to do anything.
“Isfain,” she said simply. “Hush, be still.”
It wouldn’t have been worth doing to a Raven, because they needed neither word nor movement to call magic. A wizard could call magic that way, too—but it was a poor business they made of it. It would be a long time before Isfain worked his way free of her binding.
“What?” asked Kors incredulously, surprised at Hennea’s rudeness.
She put her knitting away carefully, then she took the yarn Jes had thrown and set it in the top of her bag. Time enough later to unspell it so it could be organized more easily.
“He’s too far,” she said.
“What do you mean?” asked Kors, who still hadn’t noticed that Isfain was now immobile because of her magic. He didn’t know what she was.
“Have you ever seen a Guardian released from the foundrael?” she asked. “It’s not bad if they haven’t been upset—but your Isfain precluded that.”
“Mother,” said Jes sadly.
She nodded. “I know. Lehr will keep her from harm, but that is your job. To protect your family.”
“Yes,” he said.
She turned to Kors. “If I were you I’d leave this tent, so that you aren’t the first thing he sees when he’s free.”
She’d given him warning enough. If he didn’t choose to follow… she relaxed as she heard him leave. Really, Kors wasn’t a bad sort.
“All right, Jes, I’m going to take this thing off.”
She reached up, but he caught her hands. “Can’t. Benroln said only him.”
“Well,” Hennea said. “I’m not as powerful as your mother, Jes, but I have spent a long time studying. I think I know how to take the blasted thing off. I’ll not lie to you, there is some danger—but not as much as leaving it on.”
“To me,” he said, catching her hands before she could touch the foundrael. “Not you.”
“Only to you,” she lied, but she’d had a lot of practice lying and it came out like the truth.
He let her set her hands on the soft band around his neck. The leather was soft and new-looking, as if it had been tanned yesterday instead of centuries ago. That made it easier, because she knew which one it was.
“No,” he said, pulling her hands away again.
“It’s all right,” she said.
“No,” Jes said again. “The Guardian will kill the big man. That would be bad. He thinks that killing would be very bad for us. Killing is bad, but he would have no choice. He is very angry.”
Hennea considered him. Everyone had a tendency, she thought, to ignore the daylight Jes in their fear of the Guardian. Oh, Seraph loved him in either guise, but she treated him with the same indulgence and discipline that she treated their dog and the others followed her example.
Jes, thought Hennea, was more than just a disguise where the Guardian resided. Impulsively she put her hand, still clasped loosely by his, on his cheek. He closed his eyes and leaned against it, moving so the light stubble, new-grown since his shaving this morning, prickled her fingers.
He was just a boy, she thought, uncomfortable with the instant response his innocently sensual gesture had called from her.
He might be right about killing. The Order of the Eagle came only to people who were empathic, a rare gift and usually weak. If Jes were a strong enough empath, killing might very well be enough to damage him.
“The Guardian won’t calm until we take it off, Jes. He’ll just feel worse and worse,” she said, though she didn’t move her hand from his face. “The longer we wait the more difficult it will be.”
He nodded, but didn’t open his eyes. “He’s so angry,” he said. Dark lashes brushed her fingertips, and she shivered.
He looked at her then, his eyes dark and hungry. “You could make him not angry,” said Jes. “He likes you, too. Kiss me.”
His suggestion startled her. She’d never heard of anyone trying something like this. Likely because only an idiot would think of kissing an angry Guardian.
Her lips were still canted in a smile when they touched his. It was an innocent kiss at first, because he called that from her—though not without arousal. His lips were a little chafed, and the rough surface scraped hers in butterfly-wing caresses.
She could feel him tense when her hands touched his neck again, so she opened her mouth to nip lightly at his lips, distracting him from what she did.
It distracted her, too—but not so much that she fumbled the Unlocking.
As soon as she finished, fear washed through the tent like a flash flood, taking her br
eath with its strength. She dug her fingers into Jes’s shoulders, which had turned to iron. But he didn’t fight her as she held him to her and touched his lips with her tongue.
Fear had driven away the embarrassment she felt at seducing him, but it hadn’t erased the desire he called from her. When he took charge of the kiss, she softened for him and allowed him to vent his fury into passion.
It was the Guardian who gentled the kiss again and shifted his weight away from her. He rubbed his face against hers, like a cat marking his territory, and then pulled away despite the tension that shook his body.
“Benroln has Mother and Lehr?” he asked hoarsely.
She had to clear her throat before she could say anything. “Yes,” she said.
She averted her face, knowing her cheeks were red, so she didn’t have a chance to move away before he touched her again. He pulled her against him, and set his chin on top of her head.
“We’ll go find them,” he said. Then he must have noticed Isfain, because he stiffened.
“What have you done to that one?” he growled.
She used the excuse of looking at Isfain to step out of Jes’s arms. “Not as much as I’d have liked to,” she said. “Benroln was young when he stepped up to the leadership—if I understand the history that led to this stupidity. But you,” she tapped Isfain’s nose reprovingly, “you knew better. He was your sister’s son and you taught him poorly.”
“Release him,” said the Guardian.
She cocked her head at him warily. “Why?”
When he growled at her, she found herself smiling despite the way the skin on her back flinched. “I think we’d better just leave him as he is until we find Lehr and your mother, don’t you?”
“Soft-hearted,” he said.
“Better than soft-headed,” she replied. “Should we go after Lehr and Seraph?”
He stepped around her and held open the tent flap. “I’d rather eat someone,” he said—she thought it was for Isfain’s benefit, but she wasn’t quite sure. “But we’ll head out looking for Mother first. Is Gura here?”
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