And the enemy wasn't likely to share.
She Felt Sister Lashan—or rather, Need—studying the situation through her eyes. She wasn't certain how Need felt about it, but it looked pretty hopeless from here. The group that had captured the novices seemed to have divided up. This was the hindmost bunch, and the girls they guarded seemed to be the ones in the worst shape. Most were in deep shock; some were comatose, and carried on wagons. The rest hardly seemed aware of their surroundings. None of them were going to be of any help at all—at least, not until Vena could physically get Need into their hands, for contact-Healing was one of Need's abilities. But that could only happen after they were rescued, and not before,
So just how was one half-trained Mage-Smith apprentice going to successfully take on twenty or more well-trained fighters?
:Cleverly, of course,: Need's voice grated in her mind. :There are twenty or more tired, bored, careless males down there. What do you think would distract them the most?:
"Women?" she whispered tentatively, thinking of conjuring an illusion of scantily-clad girls, and getting into that camp under the cover of the excitement. But then what? The illusion wouldn't hold past the first attempt to touch one of the girls, unless Need could somehow make it more than mere illusion—
Her teacher made a mental sound of contempt. :And a troupe of dancing girls rides up out of nowhere. I don't think so, dear. These are also seasoned fighters; they're suspicious of anything and everything. Try to think like one of them. Look at their camp; what are they doing?:
As if she hadn't been doing just that, ever since they cleared a space for the first tent, and freezing her rear of, too. "They're eating," she offered tentatively.
:Closer. What are they eating?:
Vena's mouth watered as she stared down at the fire. "Looks like winter-rations. Beans and bread, I think"' Oh, she would gladly have killed for some of those hot spiced beans and a piece of bread.... "I don't see—"
:Meat, Vena. They don't have any. They're on winter-rations, and they haven't been allowed time to hunt, so they don't have any meat. And these are fighters; they're used to having it. They don't seem to have any wine, either, but I can't think of a way to get that to them without making them suspicious of their good fortune. Back down the ridge, slowly. I'm going to try calling in an elk. I used to be good at this.:
In the end, it was a deer Need managed to attract, and not an elk, but in all other ways it was precisely what she wanted. Old, with broken antlers, already looking thin this early in the winter, the aged animal would not have outlasted the snows. Vena followed her directions carefully, as they poisoned the poor beast by means of counter-Healing, hamstrung one leg, as if it had just escaped from a wolf, and drove it over the ridge and down into the enemy camp,
The men there fell on the weakened beast, seeing only their good luck, and never thinking that there might be something wrong with it other than exhaustion and injury, The toxin Need had infused into the deer's blood and flesh was only slightly weakened by cooking. A clever poison, there was little or no warning to the victims of their fate; most ate, fell asleep, and never woke. By daybreak, all twenty men were dead or dying—and Vena came down into the camp to dispatch the dying, and found herself in charge of eleven of her fellow novices.
Not one of whom could be trusted even to look after the others, much less find her own way back to safety.
Confidently, she turned to Need for advice.
:Damned if I know what to do with them,: the blade replied. :I can Heal their injuries, but the rest is up to you. Demonsbane, girl, I only made blades before I made myself into one! You're the one with the hands and feet, and they know you, they probably never even met me! I'm fresh out of clever ideas. Time for you to come up with one or two.:
So it was up to Vena to deal with the girls; to try to rouse some of them from their apathy, and to figure out what to do with the rest. And to drag the bodies of the poisoned fighters out of the camp, to get her eleven charges fed and sheltered, to make sure the horses were tended to.
It was nothing less than hard labor, although she gave herself a selfish moment to build the fire back up, and warm herself by that fire until her bones no longer ached. Then she took a little more time to stuff herself on the bread and oat porridge (not beans, after all) that was cooking over the fire—avoiding the charred venison and the pot of venison stew.
She freed the novices from their cages in the four prison wagons, but most of them didn't recognize her, and the ones that did reacted to her as if they'd seen a ghost—terrified and huddling speechless in the corners. She tried not to look too closely at them after the first encounter; the girl wasn't one she had known, but her eyes were so wild, and yet so terrified, that she hardly seemed human anymore.
She led the girl, coaxingly, away from there, across the snow, and into the only wagon without bars and chains; the one that held the provisions. When she offered the girl a blanket, taken as an afterthought from one of the bedrolls beside the fire, the poor child snatched it from her, and went to hide in the darkest comer of the wagon.
She repeated the process until she got them all herded into the wagon, where they huddled together like terrified rabbits, their eyes glinting round and panic-stricken from the darkness of the back.
During the long process of getting her former fellow students into the provision wagon, she'd tossed out everything else that had been in there. Now, in the last of the daylight, she sat on a sack of beans and went through everything she had thrown on the ground, and all the personal belongings that were still in the camp. She felt very strange, rifling through other peoples' possessions, at least at first. But soon sheer exhaustion caught up with her and she no longer saw them as anything other than objects to be kept or discarded in the snow. Blankets went straight into the wagon behind her; hopefully, the girls still had enough wit left to take them. The best blankets she kept for herself, as well enough food for the girls for a few days more, and in a separate pack, provisions for herself.
Finally, the unpleasant job she had been avoiding could be put off no longer. She tethered all the horses next to the wagon, then harnessed up one, the gentlest, the one she had marked for her own. Trying not to look at the bodies of her former enemies, she threw a hitch of rope around their stiffening feet, and towed them one by one to a point far beyond the camp, leaving them scattered around a tiny cup of a valley like dolls left by a careless child.
Then she returned to the shelter of the wagon, and the non-company of her charges. All of that work had taken another precious day. She got the girls fed and bundled up in blankets as best she could, spending a sleepless night listening to the screams of scavengers when they found the bodies, and making sure none of the eleven wandered off somewhere on her own. It was, possibly, worse even than the nights she had spent waiting for the raiders to return.
In the end, it was the horses that gave her the idea of how to move them, and what to do afterward. Vena was a country girl; where she came from, a horse was a decent dowry for any girl. A pair of horses apiece ought to be enough to pay for their care until someone could come get them, later.
She roused six of the girls to enough self-awareness and energy that they could cling to the saddle-bow of a horse—even if half the time they stared in apathy, and the other half, wept without ceasing. The other five she put in one wagon, with the rest of the horses following behind, tethered in a long string. Then she coaxed Need into using her magic to find the nearest farm. It proved to be a sheep-farmer's holding rather than a true farm; hidden away in a tiny pocket-valley, she would never have found it if not for Need.
To the landowner she told the truth—but cautioned him to tell any other inquirers a tale she and Need concocted, about a plague that caused death and feeble-mindedness, killing all the men of a village where she had relatives, and leaving only the healthiest of the girls alive. She offered him the entire herd of horses (save only the one she had chosen for herself) to tend to the novices. Her
only other condition was that as soon as possible he was to send a message to the nearest temple of the Twins, telling what had happened and asking for their aid for the girls.
As she had expected, the offer was more than he could possibly refuse, and when Need read his thoughts to be certain he would keep the bargain, she found no dishonesty. Winter was an idle time for farmers and herders; he had a houseful of daughters and servants to help tend the girls. And sons to find wives for... it would be no bad thing to have a mage-talented girl for a bride for one of his boys. Such things tended to breed true even if shock made the girl lose her own talent, and a man could do much worse than have a wife who could work bits of magic to help protect herself and her home, and to enrich the family, if she was able to keep practicing. Hedge-wizardry and kitchen-witchery was easy to learn; it was having the power to make it work that was granted to only a few.
She agreed on their behalf that if any of them chose to stay with him and his boys, there would be no demands for reparations from the Sisterhood. Then she saddled and mounted her horse, and turned back to the hunt.
They were now weeks, not days, behind the enemy, but he was burdened with wagons and hysterical girls, and Vena was alone, and now a-horse. As she turned her mare's head back along the trail, Need finally spoke.
:Demonsbane, girl! Why didn't you put that fatuous sheep-brain in his place? Brides for his sons—what did he think you were, some kind of marriage-broker? And where did he ever get the idea any of them would want to live out their lives making hero-charms and tending brats and lambs?: The sword grumbled on, for a while, and Vena let her. The novice had plenty of other things to think about; most notably, finding the now-cold trail of the rest of the captives. It wasn't easy, not with two weeks' worth of wind and weather eating at the signs.
But she had the right gear for the job, at last. Sheepskin boots and coat, woolen leggings, sweater and cotton undertunic. And all the provisions and equipment she needed.
Or at least, all that she needed until the next encounter.
But she told herself she wasn't going to think about that until it happened.
Finally she found the track, half-melted prints of hooves and wagon-wheels in the snow, and Need finally finished venting her spleen.
Vena waited for a moment, both to be sure she had the trail and to be certain Need was talked out. "Look," she pointed out, "After everything those girls have been through, one or more of them are bound to change their minds about a life dedicated to High Magery and the Sisterhood. That farmer was trustworthy and kindhearted; not a bad thing in a father-in-law. And the boys were a little rough around the edges, but no worse than the lads in my home village. You and I can never give back what those girls—our Sisters—have lost, but we can at least give them options."
Need stayed silent for a moment. :You could be right,: she finally said, grudgingly. :I don't like it, but you could be right.:
Vena decided not to tell her that she was having second thoughts, herself... she doubted she'd survive long enough to consider being a farmer's wife. Right now, despite this early success, she wasn't going to give herself odds on that.
Nyara woke with the sun in her eyes, and for a moment, her arms and legs still ached with that long-ago cold; her hands expected to encounter those heavy blankets instead of furs, and she was exhausted with a phantom weariness that vanished as soon as she realized who she was, and where.
Phantom weariness was replaced by real weariness. She lay where she was for a moment, despite her resolution of the night before to get up early to fish. Dream-quests did not, as a rule, leave her tired. Nor did they leave her feeling a weight of years....
:That's because I never took you back so far before,: Need said, and it seemed as if the sword was just as tired as her student. :I've granted you what I seldom grant my bearers; now you know the name I had forgotten, my name as a human.:
But that wasn't what mattered to Nyara; suddenly she sat bolt upright and stared at the sword leaning against the wall with a feeling of anger and betrayal. "You didn't help her!" she accused. "You didn't help her at all!"
:I did what I could,: the blade replied, calmly. :I was new to my form and my limitations. I had as much to learn as she did, but I didn't dare let her know that, or her confidence would have been badly undermined. I've had a long, long time to learn more of magic, Nyara. I didn't know a fraction then of what I know now.:
Nyara stared at the sword propped in the corner, aghast. "You mean—you did not know what you were doing?"
:Oh, I knew what I was doing. I was herding us both into trouble. But what else was I going to do? There were all those youngsters in danger, and if Vena and I didn't do something about it, nobody would.:
Nyara blinked, and started to say, "But that's not f—"
:Fair? No, it wasn't. Not to Vena, not to me, and certainly not to the novices.: The blade's matter-of-fact attitude took Nyara aback.
She climbed out of her bed of furs as her thoughts circled around something she could not yet grasp. Need was not cruel—not on purpose, at any rate. She was driven by expediency, and by a dedication to the longer view. But she wasn't cruel....
So what was she trying to say?
She had sacrificed herself for the bare chance of saving the novices through Vena. The girl herself had done the same. And it was all so unf—
It was unfair. But so was what Father did to me, what he did to the Hawkbrothers, what happened to the gryphons....
Life was unfair. She knew that, and so did Need. But she'd been complaining about that unfairness a great deal lately.
:Very good, kitten,: Need said in her mind. :You've figured that part out. I find it a wonder that you can even grasp "unfairness", knowing so little else in your life besides it. I am still working on that; it seems inconsistent with what your thrice-damned father taught you. Know this, though: oftentimes the concept of fairness can be a wall to accomplishing what must be done. Worrying over fairness can sometimes impede justice, and that in itself is not fair.:
Nyara nodded, as more awareness of Need's teaching came to her.
:Now let me show you what real unfairness is....:
Vena clung with her fingers and toes to the side of the cliff, and prayed that Heshain's Thought-seekers would not find her....
Chapter Seven
Darkwind had been struggling for several days now to maintain his dignity, his composure, and above all, the signature Tayledras detachment, and failing dismally. The cause, ever and always, was Elspeth. He wondered if all teachers felt like this, or if he was particularly blessed—or cursed—with a student so intelligent and quick that she threatened to run right over her hapless instructor.
"I can't keep ahead of her, and sometimes it's all I can do to fly apace with her," he confessed to Treyvan, as he helped the gryphon affix a set of shelves onto a wall of an interior room, a bit of work that only small, nimble, human hands could manage. Treyvan and his mate had expanded the original lair quite a bit since things calmed down, reconstructing the original walls of the building that had stood here, then creating several rooms where there had once been only two. Why the gryphon would want shelves, he had no idea—but then, there were a great many things he still didn't know about the gryphons. For all he knew, they collected hertasi carvings and wanted to display them.
Darkwind hammered on a stake and tied support cords from it. Finished, flat boards such as the gryphons had discovered were hard to come by, and he wasn't going to waste them on wall mounts; he was using a variation on the Tayledras' ekele construction, that of anchored, co-supporting lines.
"Ssso what iss the trouble?" the gryphon asked genially. "You have had much more tutelage than she, and access to more knowledge." He lounged in the corner and watched Darkwind with half-lidded golden eyes, not out of laziness, but because he had just eaten, and the gryphons, like the raptors Darkwind knew so well, rested after filling their crops.
"I can't do everything," Darkwind admitted, with a touch of
annoyance. He shook his hair out of his way, and aligned the support he was working on with the others. "I haven't actively worked magic in years, and my memory of what to do is a little foggy. My magical skills are—well—as stiff as muscles get if not exercised regularly. And, the Mage-Gift fades if not used."
"Asss any other attribute," the gryphon agreed. "Asss in hunting, sswordsskill, or musssic."
"Well, mine's creaky with disuse," Darkwind sighed, "And I can't re-learn everything I'd forgotten and teach Elspeth, too. It was all right when she didn't know anything about mage-craft, because I could set her to work on something basic, while I practiced something else. But now—that won't work anymore,"
The gryphon stopped in the middle of a lazy stretch, and blinked at him, claws still extended, back arched. "Ssshe isss that quick?"
"She's that quick," Darkwind told him, setting the last support firmly into the wall. "The problem is that her people have made quite a science of mind-magic, and she's very good at it. Although she says she isn't particularly outstanding." He snorted. "Either it's the one and only time I've caught her being modest, or her people are frightening mind-mages. Good enough to stand equal with an Adept."
"And in mind-magic there isss enough sssameness to give her a basssisss in true magic," Treyvan supplied. "Isss there alsso enough sssameness to causse her trouble?"
Darkwind wedged the heavy shelf into the support-loops and eyed it critically, ignoring the question for the moment. "How level do these have to be?" he asked. "What are they for?"
"Booksss," Treyvan replied, completing his stretch. "Jussst booksss, many of them. Ssso long asss they do not fall, it iss level enough."
Books? Where is he getting books? He sighted along the shelf again. It slanted just a bit, but not enough for most people to notice. Or it just might be the uneven stone floor that gave the illusion that it slanted; it was hard to tell. It would certainly do for books—wherever the gryphons had gotten them. And whatever they planned to do with them. He couldn't imagine them reading, either—
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