The Sword-Edged blonde

by Alex Bledsoe

  This second horse image was formed of shiny black obsidian inside a wall of whitish slate, a reverse image of the first. Cathy also discovered that, if you stood in the right spot, a tiny chink reflected the sun so that the beast appeared to have one glowing, vaguely malevolent eye. This one also looked like a natural formation, but it seemed unlikely that two such identical mineral deposits would be found within a day’s walk of each other. We consulted the map again and set out for the third and final marker.

  Cathy never spoke of that night by the stream. She came back to camp fully dressed, went to sleep without a word and awoke at dawn just like always. She acted as if nothing unusual had happened, and I did the same. I couldn’t believe she was letting me off the hook so easily, and kept waiting for the blow I knew must be coming. But it never did.

  BACK IN THE present I murmured, “Easy, sweetheart,” to the horse as we reached the remains of the third marker. I’d taken an alternate route around the mountain’s base to avoid the treacherous ledge. “Nothing’s gonna gitcha.” Her hooves clacked nervously against the rocky ground, and she repeatedly tossed her big head. I didn’t understand why this one bothered her more than the other two, but I finally gave in and led her down the slope a ways before I returned to look more closely.

  When we first found it thirteen years earlier, the third marker had been a relief carving of a woman on horseback, done in the style of Delavan, far to the east. That puzzled me then, although I later learned the explanation. Hidden in a crevice like a shrine, it would’ve been invisible had Cathy’s map not been accurate and precise about its location. Once we found it, we knew our destination was near.

  But now that marker had been utterly obliterated. Someone had thoroughly chiseled the image out of its rock home and left a shallow, ragged crater. I could imagine how difficult carving it must have been in that narrow, tight space; getting both the tools and the elbow room to destroy it so completely must have been equally hard. Obviously none of Epona’s people could have done it, but who else would hate it so much?

  The area outside the crevice shrine provided a spectacular view of the mountains ahead. In the distance the tallest peaks, including Mount Ogachic itself, sported snowcaps testifying to their height. Nearer, the low ones cut jaggedly into the sky, so close together it seemed impossible anyone would travel, let alone live, here.

  Our old trail showed no sign of recent use. For all I knew, I was the first person to travel it since I used it to leave after the encounter with Epona. Here in the thin, dry air change came slowly; what changes waited in the hidden valley below?

  I was putting off the inevitable, but it seemed the right moment for reflection. I needed to make sure my head was on straight before I made the final part of the journey. I knew what I’d left in the valley ahead; I was less sure what I’d find now, or how I’d feel about it.

  My horse took me away from the shrine with all the alacrity the terrain allowed. We headed down into the complex series of passes and gullies that had once deposited Cathy and me at the doorstep of the Queen of Horses.

  OUR TRIP BACK then took quite a bit longer because we were on foot. Following the map, we descended from the mountains, emerged at last onto a tall, narrow ridge and stopped, breathless from both the exertion and the sight that greeted us.

  Below us stretched a small valley completely encircled by ridges and peaks. Unlike the rest of the Ogachic range or the land around Poy Sippi, this valley was alive with verdant foliage. Meadows and forests alternated on the rolling hills, and a network of small ponds and streams twinkled in the sunlight. It was so awash in trees and grass that it reminded me of the old stories of the Summerlands where folks waited between lives. “Wow,” I said.

  “How does nobody know this is here?” Cathy asked softly. I knew what she meant; the journey was arduous, but not unreasonably so, and with a paradise like this at the other end the path should’ve been well-worn by now. Hell, Poy Sippi was only three days’ hike away. But the trail we followed showed no sign of recent traffic.

  “I guess there’s no chance we’re in the wrong place,” I suggested.

  “I can read a damn map,” she fired back.

  “But there’s no roads, no trails, no smoke from fires.” The implication was plain: however beautiful, the valley appeared to be uninhabited.

  “We’re in the right place, according to the map,” Cathy insisted. Her fists clenched in frustration. “But so help me Goddess, if there’s no one here—”

  I pointed. “Look. Someone’s here.”

  A human figure appeared at the top of the nearest hill and descended the grassy slope. Something about its vaguely awkward movement held my gaze until suddenly I realized what I saw. “It’s a kid. A little girl.”

  The distance made it hard to guess her age, but the way she flounced down the hill implied she was about five. She had long dark hair decorated with multicolored ribbons, and her dress seemed too big for her. Cathy and I both scanned the surrounding hills and forests, but saw no other people.

  “She’s all dressed up,” Cathy said. “You think she’s lost?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “We can’t just let her run around loose, she’ll get hurt.”

  “Let’s just watch a while,” I said guardedly.

  Without warning, a herd of horses topped the same hill and bore rapidly down on the little girl. They were huge, wild animals, with no sign of the sleekness brought on by domestication. At the front of the herd, clearly its leader, ran a snow-white beast I assumed was a stallion. I estimated about two dozen of them, and the sound of their passage over the soft ground reached us like thunder heard beneath a thick blanket.

  Cathy and I both started forward, and simultaneously caught ourselves. We were several minutes away, at least; rescue was out of the question. The herd was on the child in seconds, swarming over her in a rumbling wave of hooves and snorts. “Son of a bitch,” Cathy muttered, expressing our mutual frustration.

  The horses turned at the bottom of the hill, ran along the flat, narrow gully and vanished. The soft grass bore the marks where they’d torn divots from the earth. My eye backtracked their passage, looking for the trampled corpse of—

  The little girl stood intact, upright and happily twirling right where she’d been before the horses appeared.

  “You see that?” Cathy asked, her voice soft with disbelief. “They missed her. They all missed her. What are the chances?”

  I shook my head. “I’d give a year’s pay for that kind of luck, though.”

  People appeared at the top of the hill. Even at this distance we heard the cheers and applause. Everyone crowded around the child as if she’d accomplished some miracle, which from our vantage point was certainly true. The adults were from a variety of races, and wore colorful clothes like you’d see at a festival. It was the wrong time of year for the harvest, and late for a spring fertility dance, but there was no doubt they were ready to celebrate. One woman scooped the girl in her arms and kissed her like only a mother would. The people disappeared back down the opposite side of the hill, the little girl perched on the woman’s shoulders, everyone still cheering. No one even glanced in our direction.

  As the noise faded, I said, “That was weird. Were you expecting this?”

  Cathy shook her head. “No way. I assumed I’d find Epona Gray alone.”

  “Well . . . I suppose it’s possible they have nothing to do with her.”

  She glanced skeptically at me. “You wanna bet?”

  I didn’t. We picked our way down the rocks to the tree line, and eventually emerged onto the crest over which the crowd had disappeared. And we saw where they went.

  A small village, hidden by the hills until you were right on top of it, awaited us. A dozen homes and some obvious common buildings circled a large central well. Each structure was in a similar style, bordered by either a small livestock pen or household garden. Neat stone paths connected them. In fact, the whole vista was so damn neat it rai
sed hackles on my neck, because it was completely empty.

  “Where is everybody?” Cathy asked.

  The valley forest bordered the far side of the village, and a dark opening indicated a wide trail into it. The grass appeared trampled in that direction, as if many people had entered the woods. “Must’ve gone in there.”

  “All of them?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Then we can at least go down and look around,” she said, and started forward.

  I grabbed her arm. “Hold on. This whole thing is creepy. We’re outnumbered, on unfamiliar turf and not even sure who we’re looking for. That’s not the best time to be caught snooping. I think we should just sit down here and wait for them to come to us.”

  She glared at me, then down at my hand, until I released her. “I know it’s weird,” she agreed. “That’s why I want to get this over with and get out of here. But you have a point.” I could tell admitting it was difficult for her.

  So we sat on the top of the hill, clearly silhouetted against the sky. We both kept one eye out for the rampaging wild horses, but they did not reappear. I also belatedly noticed that none of the livestock pens held anything larger than a goat; nor, I realized, could they. Even taking into account the odd ceremony we’d witnessed with the child, it seemed strange that an isolated settlement would allow a herd of such monumentally useful animals to run wild.

  Hey, I thought. That’s it. It wasn’t a near-accident, it was a ceremony. But what did it signify?

  The sun passed midday and descended, blinding us since the village lay to our west. Cathy yawned and stretched out flat with her arm over her eyes. “Wake me if anything happens,” she muttered, then began to snore. A big butterfly landed on her knee, basked there for a while, then flew off.

  At last, near sundown, the people we’d seen earlier emerged from the forest trail. It was a bastard to see through the glare, but they appeared to have returned from a community picnic or party. Many of them seemed a little drunk, young couples walked arm in arm, and fathers carried weary children. Most reached their homes without even glancing in our direction, but at last, one very tall man pointed at us. Several others joined him, and finally a dark-haired woman strode out of one of the houses. She looked in our direction, listened to something the tall man said, then started up the slope toward us. The tall man followed.

  I lightly kicked Cathy. “We’re on.”

  She awoke instantly. We stood, drew our visible weapons and placed them on the ground at our feet. Cathy stepped slightly in front and crossed her arms. “I’ll do the talking,” she said. “You just look mean and keep your eyes open.” That was fine with me; I could watch more closely if I didn’t have to be charming.

  The woman was in her late thirties, dressed in a low-cut purple gown. Festive flowers dotted her straight, thick hair. She had a strong face, and when she got close enough, called out neutrally, “Hello.”

  “Hi,” Cathy said as they stopped before us. “We have a package to deliver. We’re looking for an Epona Gray.”

  “Then lucky for you we have one.” She smiled, and the seriousness melted. I got no bad vibes from her at all; although she bore an unmistakable air of authority, she seemed earthy, self-assured and, at heart, kind.

  The tall man, however, was a whole different story. He stood over six and a half feet, wore his hair military-short and had the knack of watching without appearing to be. His arms were bare and, like mine, bore a network of fine pink scars from sword cuts. We both knew fellow soldiers when we saw them.

  He nudged my sword with his foot. “Zuberbuhler Warmonger with a weight-balanced hilt. Big knife for a delivery boy.”

  Nothing clever came to mind, so I let it go. Cathy said, “He’s just hired muscle, tough guy. There’s no need for a pissing contest.”

  “There never is,” the woman agreed. “Mr. Carnahan’s old habits die hard.”

  “That’s how they get to be old habits,” Carnahan said. He slipped his boot under my sword’s blade, then kicked it up into the air. I reflexively caught it without breaking eye contact, a feat I was never able to manage again in my life. But at least the one time that I got it right, it counted. Carnahan’s eyes widened in surprise, but so slightly only I noticed.

  I slipped the weapon back in its scabbard. “Thanks.”

  “Come on, you two,” the woman said patiently.

  “Yeah, don’t forget who’s paying you,” Cathy added, but I saw from her glance that she agreed this Carnahan bore watching.

  “Sorry,” the big man said. “Guess that’s not very friendly.” He offered me his hand. His grip, even restrained for politeness, could twist off a crocodile’s head.

  Cathy cleared her throat and he turned to her. “Cathy Dumont,” she said as she shook his hand. “Dumont Confidential Courier Service.”

  “You’ve picked a fine day to visit,” the woman said. “We’re finishing up a celebration, and it’s almost time to open this year’s sacred wine. Why don’t we go down and relax a little.”

  “Is Epona Gray celebrating?” Cathy asked.

  The woman looked at her carefully for a long moment. “She surely is,” she answered enigmatically.

  We followed them down the hill into the village. Giddy people milled about, watching us but not making a big deal of it. One little boy fell into step beside me; I noticed that he mimicked the way I walked.

  “Get outta here, Randy,” Carnahan told the kid. His voice was gruff but not mean. The boy instantly ran off.

  The woman led us to one of the larger common buildings. On the closed door was a white horse head symbol identical to the first marker we’d encountered. The woman stepped onto the small porch and opened the door, then stepped aside in a formal, practiced way for us to enter.

  We both stopped. Cathy said, “Just so you know, we’re not planning to stay for church,” and glanced back at me. I saw the tense, suspicious look in her eyes, and wished Carnahan wasn’t directly behind me, blocking any quick retreat. But we had no real choice. I followed Cathy into the temple with every sense straining for danger.

  SIXTEEN

  Inside was a quaint little temple big enough for perhaps twenty people at a time. A huge white horse head silhouette in mosaic tile dominated the far wall, with a low altar before it. A cauldron, charred from much use, sat over a fire pit in the center of the room. Half-moon benches circled the cauldron. The woman closed the door from the outside, leaving us alone in the room with Carnahan.

  Then another woman emerged from a side entrance carrying a fresh bundle of grain, oats by the look of it. She placed it on the altar then turned to us. She had long wavy hair streaked with gray, and wore several symbolic necklaces. “Hello,” she said. Her slight accent identified her as Ginstrian, from the far west.

  “Epona Gray?” Cathy asked, all business.

  The woman looked carefully at her, just as the other one had done on the hill. “If I am . . . what happens?”

  “If you are, I give you a package, you make your mark on a receipt and we all go our merry way.”

  “What sort of package?”

  Cathy sighed impatiently. “Ma’am, I am tired, and frustrated, and really just want to be rid of this thing, okay?” She pulled the small box from her pocket. “This is it. I have no idea what it is, or even who sent it. I just got paid to put it in your hands.”

  The woman reached for the box, but just as her fingertips touched it, Cathy yanked it back. “If you’re Epona Gray,” she added.

  The woman smiled contritely. “All right. I’m not Epona. I’m her assistant. My name is Nicole Ritter.”

  “Assistant?” Cathy repeated disdainfully. She gestured at the temple. “Then is she the priestess here or something?”

  “Something. She’s also very ill.” She said this as if the words didn’t quite convey the meaning.

  “Then maybe we should get this to her quickly,” Cathy snapped as she returned the box to her pocket.

  “I could sign for it,” N
icole said. “Epona wouldn’t mind.”

  Cathy shook her head. “Sorry. From my hand to hers. That’s what I was paid for.”

  “We could take it from you,” Carnahan said. There was no malice or threat in his voice, just a simple statement, and that made him scarier.

  I turned to him and kept my voice just as neutral. “Might be harder than you think.”

  “Mr. Carnahan, we’re not that way here,” Nicole said firmly. To Cathy she said, “I would really prefer not to take you to Epona right now, miss. Both for her sake and yours. But . . .” She bit her lip as she thought.

  Then she stepped close and looked intently into Cathy’s eyes. Cathy tensed but didn’t move away, almost like the woman had instantly transfixed her to the spot.

  “Do you know the goddess inside you?” Nicole asked, so softly I barely heard it. “Are you a spiritual woman?”

  Like a contrite little girl Cathy said, “I don’t . . . ” The she blinked to break the moment. “I’m a busy woman,” she said in her normal voice. “If it’ll simplify things, we can leave my muscle-boy here. He gets in the way more than he helps, anyway.”

  Nicole pondered this a moment, still looking Cathy over. “Very well,” she said at last. “I’ll take you. Give me a few minutes to change clothes. Mr. Carnahan, since you and this gentleman seem to have so much in common, why don’t you entertain him until we return?”

  Carnahan looked at me like you would an ingrown toenail. But he said, “Sure.”

  Nicole excused herself into a back room. Cathy put her hand on my arm and leaned close. “If it seems like I’ve been gone too long, don’t wait for an invitation. Come find me.”

  “My plan exactly,” I replied quietly.

  Cathy nodded, then said for Carnahan’s benefit, “Then go play with your new friend. But don’t get so drunk we can’t leave when I get back.”