This was why Shin‘a’in battlesteeds were so famed—and why the Clansfolk guarded them with their very lives. Between their intelligence and the training they received, battlesteeds were nearly the equal partners of those who rode them in a fight. It was in no small part due to the battlesteeds that the Shin‘a’in had remained free and the Dhorisha Plains unconquered.
But they were rare; a mare would drop no more than four or five foals in a lifetime. So no matter how tempting the price offered, no battlesteed would ever be found in the hands of anyone but a Shin‘a’in —or one who was pledged blood-sib to a Shin‘a’in.
These horses had been undergoing a strenuous course of training for the past four years, and had just been ready this spring to accept permanent riders. They were trained to fight either on their own or with a rider—something Kethry was grateful for, since she was nothing like the kind of rider Tarma was. Tarma could stick to Hellsbane’s back like a burr on a sheep; Kethry usually lost her seat within the first few minutes of a fight. But no matter; Ironheart would defend her quite as readily on the ground—and on the ground Kethry could work her magics without distraction.
Both battlesteeds were mares; mares could be depended on to keep their heads no matter what the provocation, and besides, it was a peculiarity of battlesteeds that they tended to throw ten or fifteen fillies to every colt. That meant colts were never gelded—and never left the Plains.
This time when Tarma left the Liha‘irden encampment, it was with every living soul in it outside to bid her farewell. The weather was perfect; crisp and cool without being too cold. The sky was cloudless, and there was a light frost on the ground.
“No regrets?” Kethry said in an undertone as she tightened Ironheart’s girth.
“Not many,” Tarma replied, squinting into the thin sunlight, then mounting with an absentminded ease Kethry envied. “Certainly not enough to worry about.”
Kethry scrambled into her own saddle—Ironheart was nearly sixteen hands high, the tallest beast she’d ever ridden—and settled her robes about herself.
“You have some, though?” she persisted.
“I just wish I knew this was the right course we’re taking ... I guess,” Tarma laughed at herself, “I guess I’m looking for another omen.”
“Lady Bright, haven’t you had enough—” Kethry was interrupted by a scream from overhead.
The Shin‘a’in about them murmured in excitement and pointed—for there, overhead, was a vorcel-hawk. It might have been the same one that had landed on Kethry’s arm when Tarma had been challenged; it was certainly big enough. This time, however, it showed no inclination to land. Instead, it circled the encampment overhead, three times. Then it sailed majestically away northward, the very direction they had been intending to take.
As it vanished into the ice-blue sky, Kethry tugged her partner’s sleeve to get her attention.
“Do me a favor, hmm?” she said in a voice that shook a trifle. “Stop asking for bloody omens!”
“Why I ever let you talk me into this—” Tarma stared about them uneasily. “This place is even weirder than they claim!”
They were deep into the Pelagir Hills—the true Pelagirs. There was a track they were following; dry-paved, it rang under their mares’ hooves, and it led ever deeper into the thickly forested hills and was arrow-flight straight. To either side of them lay the landscape of dreams... or maybe nightmare.
The grass was the wrong color for fall. It should have been frost-seared and browning; instead it was a lush and juicy green. The air was warm; this was fall, it should have been cool, but it felt like summer, it smelled like summer. There were even flowers. Tarma disliked and distrusted this false, magic-born summer. It just wasn’t right.
The other plants besides the grass—well, some were normal (or at least they seemed normal), but others were not. Tarma had seen plants whose leaves had snapped shut on unwary insects, flowers whose blooms glowed when the moon rose, and thorny vines whose thorns dripped some unnamable liquid. She didn’t know if they were hazardous, but she wasn’t about to take a chance; not after she saw the bones and skulls of small animals littering the ground beneath a dead tree laden with such vines.
The trees didn’t bear thinking about, much. The least odd of them were as twisted and deformed as if they’d grown in a place of constant heavy winds. The others ...
Well, there was the grove they’d passed of lacy things that sang softly to themselves in childlike voices. And the ones that pulled away from them as they passed, or worse, actually reached out to touch them, feeling them like blind and curious old women. And the sapling that had torn up its roots and shuffled away last night when Tarma thought about how nice a fire would feel ...
And by no means least, the ones like they’d spent the night in (though only after Kethry repeatedly assured her nervous partner that it was perfectly harmless). It had been hut-sized and hut-shaped, with only a thatch of green on the “roof”—and hollow. And inside had been odd protrusions that resembled stools, a table, and bed-platforms to a degree that was positively frightening. A lovely little trap it would have made—Tarma slept restlessly that night, dreaming about the “door” growing closed and trapping them inside, like those poor bugs the flowers had trapped.
“I’m at the stage where I could use a familiar,” Kethry replied, “I’ve explained all this before. Besides, a familiar will be able to take some of the burden of night-watch off both of us, particularly if I can manage to call a kyree.”
Tarma sighed.
“It’s only fair. I came with you to the Plains. I took a battlesteed at your insistence.”
“Agreed. But I don’t have to like this place. Are you sure there’s anything here you can call? We haven’t seen so much as a mouse or a sparrow since things started looking weird.”
“That’s because they don’t want you to see them. Relax, we’re going to stop soon; we’re almost where I wanted to go.”
“How can you tell, if you’ve never been here?”
“You’ll see.”
Sure enough, Tarma did see. The paved road came to a dead end; at the end it widened out into a flat, featureless circle some fifty paces in diameter.
The paved area was surrounded by yet another kind of tree, some sort of evergreen with thin, tangled branches that started a bit less than knee-high and continued straight up so that the trees were like green columns reaching to the sky. They had grown so closely together that it would have been nearly impossible for anything to force its way between them. That meant there was only one way for anything to get into the circle—via the road.
“Now what?”
“Find someplace comfortable and make yourself a camp wherever you feel safest—although I can guarantee that as long as you stay inside the trees you’ll be perfectly safe.”
“Myself? What about you?”
“Oh, I’ll be here, but I’ll be busy. The process of calling a familiar is rather involved and takes a long time.” Kethry dismounted in the exact center of the pavement and began unloading her saddle-bags from Ironheart’s back.
“How long is ‘a long time’?” The paved area really took up only about half of the circular clearing. The rest was grass and scattered boulders, a green and lumpy rim surrounding the smooth gray pavement. There was plenty of windfall lying around the grassy area, most of it probably good and dry, dry enough to make a fire. And there was a nice little nook at the back of the circle, a cluster of boulders that would make a good firepit. Somehow Tarma didn’t want even the slightest chance of fire escaping from her. Not here. Not after that walking sapling; no telling what its mother might think about fire, or the makers of fire.
“Until sunset tomorrow night.”
“What?”
“I told you, it’s very complicated. Surely you can find something to do with yourself ...”
“Well, I’m going to have to, aren’t I? I’m certainly not going to leave you alone out here.”
Kethry didn’t bo
ther to reply with anything more than an amused smile, and began setting up her spell-casting equipment. Tarma, grumbling, took both mares over to the side of the paved area and gave them the command to stay on the grass, unsaddled and unharnessed them, and began grooming them to within an inch of their lives.
When she slipped a look over at her partner, Kethry was already seated within a sketched-in circle, a tiny brazier emitting a spicy-scented smoke beside her. Her eyes were closed and from the way her lips were moving she was chanting. Tarma sighed with resignation, and hauled the tack over to the area where she intended to camp.
It had lacked about a candlemark to sunset when they’d reached this place; by the time Tarma finished setting up camp to her liking, the sun was down and she was heartily glad of the fire she’d lit. It wasn’t that it was cold ...
No, it was the things outside that circle of trees that made her glad of the warm glow of the flames. The warm earthly glow of the flames. There were noises out there, sounds like she’d never heard before. The mares moved over to the fireside of their own volition, and were not really interested in the handfuls of grain Tarma offered them. They stood, one on either side of her, in defensive posture, ears twitching nervously.
It sounded like things were gathering just on the other side of the trees. There was a murmuring that was very like something speaking, except that no human throat ever made burbling and trilling sounds quite like those Tarma heard. There were soft little whoops, and watery chuckles. Every now and then, a chorus of whistlers exchanged responses. And as if that weren’t enough—
Through the branches Tarma could see amorphous patches of glow, patches that moved about. As the moon rose above the trees, she unsheathed her sword and dagger, and held them across her lap.
“Child—”
Tarma screeched and jumped nearly out of her skin.
She was on her feet without even thinking about rising, and whipped around to face—
Her instructor, who had come with the first moonlight.
“You—you—sadist!” she gasped, trying to get her heart down out of her throat. “You nearly frightened me to death!”
“There is nothing for you to fear. What is outside the trees is curious, no more.”
“And I’m the Queen of Valdemar.”
“I tell you truly. This is a place where no evil can bear to tread; look about you—and look to your she‘enedra.”
Tarma looked again, and saw that the mares had settled, their heads down, nosing out the last of the grain she’d given them. She saw that the area of the pavement was glowing—that what she’d mistaken for a soft silver reflection of the moonlight was in fact coming from within the paving material. Nor was that all—the radiance was brighter where Kethry sat oblivious within her circle, and blended from the silver of the pavement into a pale blue that surrounded her like an aura. And the trees themselves were glowing—something she hadn’t noticed, being intent on the lights on the other side—a healthy, verdant green. All three colors she knew from Kethry’s chance-made comments were associated with life-magic, positive magic.
And now the strange sounds from outside their enclosure no longer seemed so sinister, but rather like the giggling and murmuring of a crowd of curious small children.
Tarma relaxed, and shrugged. “Well, I still don’t exactly like this place ...”
“But you can see it is not holding a threat, hai?”
“Hai.” she placed the point of her blade on the pavement and cocked her head at him. “Well, I haven’t much to do, and since you’re here ...”
“You are sadly in need of practice,” he mocked.
“Shesti!” she scoffed back, bringing her sword up into guard position, “I’m not that badly off!”
By day the circle of trees no longer seemed quite so sinister, especially after Tarma’s instructor had worked her into sweat-dripping exhaustion. When dawn came—and he left—she was ready to drop where she stood and sleep on the hard pavement itself.
But the mares needed more than browse and grain, they needed water. There was no water here save what they’d brought with them. And Tarma dared not truly sleep while Kethry remained en-wrapped in spell-casting.
So when the first hint of the sun reddened the sky, she took Hellsbane with her and cautiously poked her nose out of the sheltered area, looking for a hint of water.
There was nothing stirring outside the circle of trees; the eerie landscape remained quiet. But when Tarma looked at the dirt at the foot of the trees she saw tracks, many tracks, and few of them were even remotely identifiable.
“Kulath etaven,” she said softly to her mare, “Find water.”
Hellsbane raised her head and sniffed; then took two or three paces to the right. Tarma placed one hand on the mare’s shoulder; Hellsbane snorted, rubbed her nose briefly against Tarma’s arm, then proceeded forward with more confidence.
She headed for a tangle of vines—none of which moved, or had bones beneath them—and high, rank bushes, all of which showed the familiar summery verdancy. As the pair forced their way in past the tangle, breaking twigs and bruising leaves, Tarma found herself breathing in an astringent, mossy scent with a great deal of pleasure. The mare seemed to enjoy the odor too, though she made no move to nibble the leaves.
There was a tiny spring at the heart of the tangle, and Tarma doubted she’d have been able to locate it without the mare’s help. It was hardly more than a trickle, welling up from a cup of moss-covered stone, and running a few feet, only to vanish again into the thirsty soil. The mare slurped up the entire contents of the cup in a few swallows, and had to wait for it to fill again several times before she’d satisfied her thirst.
It was while she was awaiting Hellsbane’s satiation that Tarma noticed the decided scarcity of insects within this patch of growth. Flies and the like had plagued them since they entered the Pelagirs; as a horsewoman, Tarma generally took them for granted.
There were no flies in here. Nor any other insects. Curious ...
When the mare was finished, Tarma guided her out backward, there being no room to turn her around; it seemed almost as if the bushes and vines were willing to let them inflict a limited amount of damage in order to reach the water, but resisted any more than that. And as soon as they were clear of the scent of the crushed vegetation, the flies descended on Hellsbane again.
An idea occurred to her; she backtracked to the bushes, and got a handful of the trampled leaves and rubbed them on the back of her hand. She waited for some sort of reaction; rash, burning, itching—nothing happened. Satisfied that the vegetation at least wasn’t harmful, she rubbed it into the mare’s shaggy hide. It turned her a rather odd shade of gray-green, but the flies wouldn’t even land on her.
Very pleased with herself, Tarma watered Ironheart and repeated the process on her. By the time she’d finished, the sun was well up, and she was having a hard time keeping her eyes open. She was going to have to get some rest, at least.
But that was another advantage of having battlesteeds.
She loosed Hellsbane and took her to the entrance of the circle. “Guard,” she said, shortly. The mare immediately went into sentry-mode—and it would take a determined attacker indeed to get past those iron-shod hooves and wicked teeth. Now all she needed to keep alert for was attack from above.
She propped herself up with their packs and saddles, and allowed herself to fall into a half-doze. It wasn’t as restful as real sleep, but it would do.
When hunger finally made further rest impossible, it was getting on to sunset—and Kethry was showing signs of breaking out of trance.
She’d carefully briefed Tarma on what she’d need to do; Tarma shook herself into full alertness, and rummaged in Kethry’s pack for high-energy rations. Taking those and her waterskin, she sat on her heels just outside of the inscribed circle, and waited.
She didn’t have to wait long; Kethry’s eyes opened almost immediately, and she sagged forward with exhaustion, scarcely able to make th
e little dismissing motion that broke the magic shield about her. Tarma was across the circle the instant she’d done so, and supported her with one arm while she drank. Kethry looked totally exhausted; mentally as well as physically. She was pale as new milk, and scarcely had the energy to drink, much less speak. Tarma helped her to her feet, then half-carried her to the tiny campsite and her bedroll.
Kethry had no more than touched her head to her blankets than she was asleep. She slept for several hours, well past moonrise, then awoke again with the first appearance of the lights and noises that had so disturbed Tarma the night before.
“They seem to be harmless,” Tarma began.
“They are. That’s not what woke me,” Kethry croaked from a raw throat. “It’s coming—what I called—”
“What did you call, anyway?”
After a swallow or two of water, Kethry was better able to speak. “A kyree—they’re a little like wolves, only bigger; they also have some of the physical characteristics of the big grass-cats, retractile claws, that sort of thing. They’re also like Gervase’s folk; they’re human-smart and have some gift for magic. They’d probably do quite well for themselves if they had hands instead of paws—well, that’s one reason why some of them are willing to become mage-familiars. Another is gender. Or lack of.”
“Get‘ke?”
“Kyree throw three kinds of cubs—male, female, and neuter. The neuters really don’t have much to do in pack-life, so they’re more inclined to wander off and see the world.”
Kethry broke off, staring over Tarma’s shoulder. Tarma turned.
In the opening of the tree-circle where the road turned into the paved “court” was—something. It looked lupine—it had a wolf-type head, anyway. But it was so damn big!
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