Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  Tarma winced in sympathy; her own bones ached in the cold these days, enough that rough camping left her stiff and limping these days for at least an hour after rising, or until she finished her warming exercises. She didn't like to think how much pain swollen joints meant.

  "Have you any plan?" the Archivist continued. "Or are we just going to run for it?"

  Tarma shook her head. "Don't you think it—Running off blindly is likely to run us right into a trap. We came out of the south, the Hawks are to the south and west—I'd bet the King's men'll expect us to run for familiar territory."

  "So we go opposite?" Jadrek hazarded. "North? Then what?"

  Tarma folded a shirt into a tight bundle and wedged it into the pack. "North is where Stefansen went. North is where Idra likely went. No? So we'll track them North, and hope to run into one or both of them."

  "I know where Stefansen intended to go," Jadrek said slowly, "I did tell Idra before she went missing. But frankly it's some of the worst country to travel in winter in all of Rethwellan."

  "All the better to shake off pursuit. Cough it up, man, where are we going?"

  "Across the Comb and into Valdemar." He looked seriously worried. "And winter storm season in the Comb is deadly. If we're caught in an ice storm without shelter, well, let me just say that we probably won't be a problem for Raschar anymore."

  "This is almost too easy," Tarma muttered, surveying the empty court below Jadrek's window. "Keth, is there anything you can't live without back in the room?"

  The mage pursed her lips thoughtfully, then shook her head.

  "Good, then we'll leave from here. Nobody's been alerted yet, and evidently Jadrek's in poor enough condition that nobody has even considered he might slip out his window."

  "With good reason, Swordlady," Jadrek replied, coming to Tarma's side and looking down into the court himself. "I can't imagine how I could climb down."

  "Alone, you couldn't; we'll help you," Kethry told him. "I can actually make you about half your real weight with magic, then we'll manage well enough."

  The Archivist looked down again, and shuddered, but to his credit, did not protest.

  They'd sent Warrl for a short coil of rope from the stables; there were always lead-ropes and lunges lying around, and any of those would be long enough. He returned just as Kethry completed her spell casting; they tied one end around Jadrek's waist, then Kethry scrambled out of the window and down the wall to steady him from below as Tarma lowered him. Before they were finished, Tarma had a high respect for the man's courage; climbing down from the window put him in such pain that when they untied him they found he'd bitten his lip through to keep from crying out.

  All their gear was still with the mares. When they'd left Hawksnest, they'd chosen to use a different kind of saddle than they normally chose, one meant for long rides and not pitched battles. Like the saddles Jodi preferred, these were little more than a pad with stirrups, although the pad extended out over the horse's rump. When Tarma carried Warrl pillion, he had a pad behind her battle-saddle to ride on; there was just enough room on the extended body of this saddle for him to do the same. So Kethry had no trouble fitting Jadrek in front of her, which was just as well—

  Jadrek had mixed something with the last of his wine and gulped it down before attempting the window. He was fine, although still in pain, when they started saddling up. But by the time the mares were harnessed and all their gear was in place, he was fairly intoxicated and not at all steady.

  They did manage to get him into the saddle, but it was obvious he wouldn't be staying there without Kethry's help.

  Warrl? Tarma thought tentatively.

  :All is well, mindmate,: came the reassuring reply. :There is no one in sight, and I am distracting the gate guards. If you go swiftly, there will be no one to stop or question you.:

  "Let's move out now," she told her partner, "while Furface has the guards playing 'catch-me-if-you-can' with him."

  Kethry nodded; they rode out of the palace grounds as quietly—they'd signaled the mares for silence, and now Hellsbane and Ironheart were moving as stealthily as only two Shin'a'in bred-and-trained warsteeds could. They managed to get out unchallenged, and waited outside the palace for Warrl to catch up with them, then put Ironheart and Hellsbane to as fast a pace as they dared, and by dawn were well clear of the city.

  "Any sign of tracking?" Tarma asked her partner, reining Ironheart in beside her as they slowed to a brisk walk.

  Kethry closed her eyes in concentration, extended a little tendril of energy along the road behind them, then shook her head. "My guess would be that they haven't missed the spy yet. But my guess would also be, that with all the mages I sensed in Raschar's court, they'll be sending at least one with each pursuit party."

  "Anything you can do about that?"

  "Some." She reformed that tendril of energy into a deception-web that might confuse their backtrail. "Listen, we need supplies; how about if I lay an illusion on you and 'Heart and you go buy us some at the next village we hit?"

  "How about if you spell all three of us right now? Say—old woman and her daughter and son? Nobody knows Shin'a'in battlemares out here, and 'Heart and 'Bane are ugly enough to belong to peasants: you needn't spell them."

  "Huh; not a bad thought. What about Warrl?"

  :I can seem much smaller if I need to.:

  Kethry started. "Furface, I wish you wouldn't just speak into my mind like that—you never used to!"

  :My pardon. I grow forgetful of courtesy. How does the Wise One?:

  Jadrek was three-quarters asleep, slumped forward in Kethry's hold, his head nodding to the rhythm of Hellsbane's hooves. Kethry touched his neck below his ear lightly enough not to disturb him. "All right; his pulse is strong."

  :If you would have my advice?:

  When the kyree tendered his opinion, it was worth having. "Go ahead."

  :Rouse him up and make him speak with you. He will do his body more harm by riding unconscious.:

  "On that subject," Tarma interrupted, "how long can you keep our illusions going? What kind of shape are you in?"

  Kethry shrugged. "I've been mostly resting my powers so far. I can keep the spell up indefinitely. Why?"

  "Because I want to stay under roofs at night for as long as we can. Rough camping is going to be hard on our friend at best—be a helluva note to save him from assassins and lose him to pneumonia."

  Kethry nodded, thinking of how much pain the Archivist was already in. "What kind of roofs?"

  "In order of preference—out-of-the-way barns, the occasional friendly farmer, and the cheapest inns in town."

  "Sound, I think. Pull up here, I might as well cast this thing now, and I can't do it on a moving horse."

  "Here" was a grove of trees beside the road; they got the horses off and allowed them to browse while Kethry concentrated.

  Warrl flung himself down into the dry grass, and lay there, panting. He was not built for the long chase. Before too very long, Tarma would have to bring him up to ride pillion behind her for a rest.

  Kethry got Jadrek leaning back against her, then spread her hands wide, palms facing out. A shell of faint, roseate light expanded from her hands outward, to contain them and their horses. Tarma could see her lips moving silently in the words of the spell. There was a tiny "pop" like a cork being pulled from a bottle; then Tarma felt an all-too-familiar itching at the back of her eyes, and when she looked down, she saw that she was wearing a man's garb of rough, brown homespun instead of her Kal'enedral-styled black silks. So Keth was going to disguise her as a young man; good, that should help to throw off nonmage spies.

  Jadrek was now an old, gray-haired woman with a face like a wrinkled apple, and a body stooped from years of hard work. Behind him, Kethry was a chunky, fresh-faced peasant wench; brown-cheeked, brown-haired and quite unremarkable.

  "Huh," Tarma said. "This's a new one for you. You look like you'd make some dirt-grubber a great wife."

  Kethry giggled. "
Good hips. Breed like cow, strong like bull, dumb like ox. Hitch to plow when horse dies." As Tarma stifled a chuckle, she turned her attention to her passenger. "Jadrek, wake up, there's a good fellow." She shook his shoulder gently. "Open your eyes slowly. I've put an illusion on us all and it may make you dizzy at first."

  "Huhnn. I... thought I heard you saying that...." The Archivist raised his head with care, and opened eyes that looked a bit dazed. "Gods. What am I?"

  "A crippled-up old peasant woman. Warrl says you'll do yourself more harm than good by riding asleep; he wants you to talk to me."

  "How... odd. I thought I heard him speaking in my head again. I seem to remember him saying just that...."

  The partners exchanged a startled look. Evidently Jadrek had a mage-Gift no one had ever suspected, for normally the only folk who heard Warrl's mindvoice were those he intended to speak to. That Talent might be useful—if they all lived to reach the Border.

  "Let's get on with it," Tarma broke the silence before it went on too long, and glanced at the rising sun to her right. "We need to get as far as we can before they figure out we've bolted back there."

  They stopped at a good-sized village; there was a market going on, and Tarma rode in alone and bought the supplies they were going to need. By mercenary's custom, they'd kept all their cash with them in moneybelts that they never let out of their sight, so they weren't short of funds, at least. Tarma did well in her bargaining; better than she'd expected. Even more encouraging, no one gave her a second glance.

  Poor Jadrek had not exaggerated the amount of pain he was going to be in. By nightfall his eyes were sunken deeply into their sockets and he looked more than half dead; but they found a barn, full of new-cut hay, dry and warm and softer than many beds Tarma had slept in. The dry warmth seemed to do Jadrek a lot of good; he was moving better the next morning, and didn't take nearly as much of his drugs as he had the day before.

  And oddly enough, he seemed to get better as the trip progressed. Kethry was wearing Need at her side again, after having left the ensorcelled blade with her traveling gear in the stables. Tarma was just thanking her Goddess that they hadn't ever brought the blade into their quarters—no telling what would have happened had it met with the counterspell on their rooms. Of a certainty Raschar would have known from that moment that they were not what they seemed.

  Fall weather struck with a vengeance on the sixth morning. They ended up riding all day through rain; Rethwellan's fall and early winter rains were notorious far and wide. Jadrek was alert and conversing quietly and animatedly with Kethry; he seemed in better shape, despite the cold rain, than he'd been back at the palace. Now Tarma wondered—remembering the enigmatic words of Moonsong k'Vala, the Tale'edras Adept—if Need was working some of her magic on Jadrek because Kethry was concerned for him. It would be the first time in Tarma's knowledge that a male for whom Kethry cared had spent any length of time in physical contact with the mage while she was wearing the blade.

  As for Kethry caring for him—they were certainly hitting it off fairly well. Tarma was growing used to the soft murmur of voices behind her as they talked for the endless hours of the day's ride. So maybe—just maybe—the sword was responding to that liking.

  As the days passed: "Keth," she asked, when they'd halted for the night in the seventh of a succession of haybarns. "Do you remember what the Hawkbrother told you when we first met him—about Need?"

  "You mean Moonsong, the Adept?" Kethry glanced over at Jadrek, but the witchlight she was creating showed the Archivist already rolled up in a nest of blankets and hay, and sound asleep. "He said a lot of things."

  "Hai—but I'm thinking there's something that might be pertinent to Jadrek."

  Kethry nodded, slowly. "About Need extending her powers to those I care for. Uh-huh; I've been wondering about that. Jadrek certainly seems to be in a lot less pain."

  Tarma snuggled into the soft hay, sword and dagger within easy reach. Behind her, Warrl was keeping watch at the door, and Ironheart and Hellsbane were drowsing, having stuffed themselves with fresh hay. "He's not drugging himself as much, either. And..."

  Kethry settled into her own bedroll and snuffed the witchlight.

  "And he's not the bitter, suspicious man we met at the Court," she said quietly in the darkness. "I think we're seeing the man Idra knew." Tarma beard the hay rustle a bit, then Kethry continued, very softly, "And I like that man, she'enedra. So much that I think your guess could be right."

  "Krethes, ves'tacha?"

  "Unadorned truth. I like him; he treats me as an intellectual equal, and that's rare, even among mages. That I'm his physical superior... doesn't seem to bother him. It's just... what I am. He'll never ride 'Bane the way I do, or swing a sword; I'll never be half the linguist he is, or beat him at chess."

  "Sounds like—"

  "Don't go matchmaking on me, woman!" Kethry softened the rebuke with a dry chuckle. "We've got enough on our plate with tracking Idra, the damned weather, and the mage we've got on our backtrail."

  "So we are being followed."

  "Nothing you can do about it; my hope is that when he hits the Comb he'll get discouraged and turn back."

  Tarma nodded in the dark; this was Keth's province. She wouldn't do either of them any good by fretting about it. If it came to physical battle, then she'd be able to do some good.

  And for whatever the reason, Jadrek was able to do with less of his drugs every day, and that was all to the good. They were making about as good a headway with him now as they would have been able to manage alone. And maybe...

  She fell asleep before she could finish the thought.

  Now they were getting into the Comb, and as Jadrek had warned, the Comb was no place to be riding through with less than full control of one's senses.

  The range of hills along the Northern border called the Comb was among some of the worst terrain Tarma had ever encountered. The hills themselves weren't all that high—but they were sheer rock faces for the most part, with little more than goat tracks leading through them, and not much in the way of vegetation, just occasional stands of windwarped trees, a bit of scrub brush, rank grasses, and some moss and lichen—enough browse for the horses—barely, and Tarma was supplementing the browse with grain, just to be on the safe side.

  It had been late spring, still winter in the mountains where Hawksnest lay, when they'd headed down into Rethwellan. It had been early fall by the time they'd made it to the capital. It had been late fall when they bolted. Now it was winter—the worst possible time to be traveling the Comb.

  Now that they were in the hills the rains had changed to sleet and snow, and there were no friendly farmers, and no inns to take shelter in when hostile weather made camping a grim prospect. And they no longer had the luxury of pressing on; when a suitable campsite presented itself, they took it. If there wasn't anything suitable, they suffered.

  They'd been three days with inadequate camps, sleeping cold and wet, and waking the same. Kethry had dropped the illusions two days ago; there wasn't anybody to see them anymore. And when they were on easy stretches of trail, Tarma could see Kethry frowning with her eyes closed, and knew she was doing something magical along the backtrail—which probably meant she needed to hoard every scrap of personal energy she could.

  Jadrek, predictably, was in worst case. Tarma wasn't too far behind him in misery. And sometimes it seemed to her that their progress was measured in handspans, not furlongs. The only comfort was in knowing that their pursuers—if any—were not likely to be making any better progress.

  Tarma looked up at the dead, gray sky and swore at the scent of snow on the wind.

  Kethry urged Hellsbane up beside her partner when the trail they were following dropped into a hollow between two of the hills, and there was room enough to do so. The mage was bundled up in every warm garment she owned; on the saddle before her the Archivist was an equally shapeless bundle. He was nodding; only Kethry's arms clasped about him kept him in the saddle. He had h
ad a very bad night, for they'd been forced to camp without any shelter, and he'd taken the full dosage of his drugs just so that he could mount this morning.

  "Snow?" Kethry asked unhappily.

  "Hai. Damnitall. How much more of this is he going to be able to take?"

  "I don't know, she'enedra. I don't know how much more of this I'm going to be able to take. I'm about ready to fall off, myself."

  Tarma scanned the terrain around her, hoping for someplace where they could get a sheltered fire going and maybe get warm again for the first time in four days. Nothing. Just crumbling hills, overhangs she dared not trust, and scrub. Not a tree, not a cave, not even a tumble of boulders to shelter in. And even as she watched, the first flakes of snow began.

  She watched them, hoping to see them melting when they hit the ground—as so far, had always been the case. This time they didn't. "Oh hellfire. Keth, this stuff is going to stick, I'm afraid."

  The mage sighed. "It would. I'd witch the weather, but I'd do more harm than good."

  "I'd rather you conjured up a sheltered camp."

  "I've tried," Kethry replied bleakly. "My energies are at absolute nadir. I spent everything I had getting that mage off our trail. I'd cast a jesto-vath, but I need some kind of wall and ceiling to make it work."

  Tarma stifled a cough, hunched her shoulders against the cold wind, and sighed. "It's not like you had any choice; no more than we do now. Let's get on. Maybe something will turn up."

  But nothing did, and the flurries turned to a full-fledged snowstorm before they'd gone another furlong.

  "We've got to get a rest," Tarma said, finally, as they gave the horses a breather at the top of a hill. "Jadrek, how are you doing?"

  "Poorly," he replied, rousing himself. The tone of his voice was dull. "I need to take more of my medicines, and I dare not. If I fell asleep in this cold—"

  "Right. Look—there's a bit of a corner down there." Tarma pointed through the curtaining snow to a cul-de-sac visible just off the main trail. "It might be sheltered enough to let us get a bit warmer. And the horses need more than a breather."