But thinking of Carey made Lady think of blood and wrongness, and having Ramble's ministrations comforted her. And thinking of Jaime and Anfeald . . .
The hay bale beside them made a welcome distraction, and for a long while, that was as far as she got; she and Ramble fed together—she neatly, he by tearing away great chunks of hay and trying to work it into his mouth before he lost any of it to the mild wind. Lady ate until her stomach filled, twitching her withers against the irritating movement of a wet, unfamiliar braid and its burden, the round black thing Mark had attached to her. The courier pouch, as unfamiliar as it was.
The courier pouch. The one she had to take to Jaime. She wasn't ready to leave the hay yet, not for good, but she lifted her head to consider the trail to Anfeald.
The ground beneath them was sloped; that around them, rolling. The clay and limestone soil supported tough, scrubby bushes with stout thorns, faded brown to her eyes and with plenty of room to navigate between clumps. The bushes themselves reeked of goat and goat droppings; the damp, cool air told her about the copious hares that frequented the area, and brought her the fading scent of pursan—a predator cat not quite big enough to threaten a horse, but all the same not a creature Lady wanted to encounter.
She eyed the trees on the opposite hill—stunted, bare-branched trees, just the thing for a medium-sized eater of things. She hoped, with the part of her that had learned to think more complexly since she'd added her human side to her makeup, to avoid that hill on the way to Anfeald. Beyond it, and who knows how many hills beyond that, mountains stabbed up at the sky like giant snow-capped teeth. She hoped, too, to avoid crossing such rough territory.
But she didn't know if they could.
Because she had no idea where they were, or how to reach Anfeald.
"I don't know ," Dayna said, glaring at Carey, unable to dampen her annoyance even at his pale face and tormented expression, his features suddenly tight and a smear of blood on his shirt that led her glance to his hand. "You cut yourself," she said. "You'd better do something about it."
A cough rumbled in his chest. "I will," he told her.
"I don't know ," Jaime said, glaring at Hon Chandrai. "I haven't authorized the use of any major magic, and Natt and Cesna are busy enough just keeping this hold secured and healthy. If you want to figure out who burst in on the eastern province, you're going to have to do it yourself."
Chandrai glared back at her. "We will," she told Jaime. "And you'd better hope we don't find you involved."
" I don't know, " Arlen said, staring with thoughtful but puzzled resignation at the hardened bloom of distortion by the edge of the narrow trail. Crowded by trees, darkened by shadow and early spring cloud-gloom, the spot had almost escaped his notice. "I think we're going to have to get involved. And sooner than I'd planned, at that."
Grunt bit the tender twiggy end off a tree branch and snorted wetly, not a comment Arlen found useful one way or the other.
Throughout Camolen, the meltdowns bloomed. Random blooms, some no larger than an apple, some big enough to flow across the horizon, engulfing all that stood in the way. Some met with old blooms, solidifying together in handshakes of startling vigor. Some made their own way. One small community became entirely circled, and immediately began rationing food while those within only hoped they lived long enough to starve to death.
Camolen knew.
Not the cause, not what to do about it, not how to stop it or in which direction they might run to escape it. But what had killed its wizards, what had left it without services, what had separated families and brought the daily life of its people to a terrifying standstill . . .
Camolen knew.
Chapter 23
Lady circled through the rolling hills, easing through the scrub, placing her feet carefully on the slick ground and keeping an eye out for the goats and their shepherd. The drizzle stopped; the clouds broke away into patches of sunshine. Bright, hot sunshine, a closer sky than she was used to. She stopped, closed her eyes, and let the warmth of it beat against her face, waiting for some internal signal, some tug that would tell her in which direction lay home .
Except a horse thrown from one world to another needed the chance to establish her sense of direction before she could call upon it. She knew which way lay east and west . . . but without an awareness of where she stood, not in which of those directions lay Anfeald.
Ramble followed along in her wake, never crowding her but never leaving much distance between them, happy to snatch at forming leaf buds, happy to be a horse again, happy simply to be with her. Now and then he came in close, resting his chin on her back before moving away.
She let him.
Eventually she led him back to the hay and they grazed at it like old pasture buddies, and then the sun was slipping down over the horizon opposite the toothy mountains. As darkness fell, she eased down to doze on her chest, legs curled cat-like to one side and her nose resting on the ground, upper lip drawn up just enough so her front teeth took the weight of her head.
Ramble moved in close, standing over her. Guarding for her.
She let him.
In the darkness, in her dozing state, she hunted for the Jess within her. For the human thinking that might sort out the details she'd noticed today and discern if not her actual location, the direction in which she ought to travel. Sometimes she could find that voice . . . sometimes it came to her in faint, simple directions. Now it was silent. Silent and grateful for the respite, imparting to Lady that this confused and wounded part of her wanted nothing but the solitude this form gave it.
Lady gave a resounding snort in response and climbed abruptly to her feet, shaking herself off and swishing her tail in brief annoyance. Ramble, startled awake, shied respectfully away; upon recovering, he arched his neck and nickered and came back to her all light on his feet, both proud and cautious.
Reaching her, he touched his chin to her back, lips twitching; after a moment he lightly groomed her withers while she nibbled hay.
She let him.
Before the sun rose, they fell to the hay again, leaving only scattered remnants for the wayward goats, and when Lady lifted her head from the meal, she hesitated for only an instant . . . and then led them away from the mountains. She didn't know the mountains; she'd never seen them. As unfamiliar as the rest of the territory looked, the mountains were even more so . . . and horselike, right or wrong, her decision was made. Soon enough she found a path, trodden more by petite cloven hooves than man or horse, softer ground to save their unshod feet. She took it, winding through the hills, heading down away from the sun, pausing every couple of hours to browse on what forage she could find, ever mindful that Ramble had never been a courier's horse, never been introduced to rough country.
She showed him the knack of tucking his quarters to go down steep hills, and of using crabbing sideways steps when steep ground got slick. She showed him river crossings, with slow careful movement against fast current and deep water—and once, how to swim without panic. She introduced him to the buddy system when the small black flies swarmed, he who had spent so much of his life in stalls and alone; they stood nose to tail and kept each other's faces clear of the pests as they dozed.
They bucked themselves awake in the cold mornings, rolled as day cooled into evening, and snatched burgeoning spring greenery along the way. And though Lady, standing with her head high as if she could see all the way to Anfeald, had disturbing flashes of blood and Carey and urgency , for the most part . . .
She was a horse. No human rules shaping her equine behavior, no human puzzlements deviling the Jess in her. Just she and Ramble and days on the hoof, steadily heading for more settled territory and roads she hoped would take her to Anfeald.
Ramble, for the first time in his life fulfilled with activity and interaction, ceased to aim his mouth at everything in sight, and had no chance to act up out of boredom. He stayed polite and respectful and even worshipful, and when Lady felt the first restless signs of her
season coming on, he courted her.
She let him.
Every morning after Arlen ate whatever rude meal he had available—sometimes cold cheese and sausage, sometimes hot homemade mealcakes—he checked Grunt's back for tender spots and carefully saddled and loaded their gear. And every morning Grunt never failed to lift his head from whatever rude meal he had available—sometimes forage, sometimes hay—to cast Arlen the most reproachful look he could muster.
"It's not far now, Grunt," Arlen would tell him. "Not far at all."
It was always a lie. But he didn't think Grunt ever caught on.
"Give it time," Mark announced.
"That's all they said?" Dayna asked skeptically, eyeing Carey.
Carey himself said nothing, aside from a baleful glance at Wheeler—who very wisely refrained from the I told you so to which he might have laid claim. After a day at Marion General Hospital in an expensive health care system that Mark took for granted but Carey found foreign, offensive, and occasionally frightening, he was in no mood for I told you so . Especially when he hadn't wanted to go in the first place.
"Did they buy your story?"
"It would have helped if I had the faintest idea what flag football is ," Carey said.
"A game—"
"You said. They wanted details. Concussive hemoptysis, they called it, and couldn't find any bruises, so they wanted details—they thought it might have been caused by some disease process and not a game."
Mark waved a dismissive hand. "I told them we'd gotten too manly and fire-snorting; they bought it. And the tests didn't show anything else."
"I would be astonished," Carey said with weary dignity, suppressing the now miserable ever-present impulse to cough simply because once he started, there'd be blood before he stopped, "if your health care tests could detect an expired composting spell."
"So they said give it time," Dayna repeated.
"And no more football, take it easy, report back if it gets worse or fails to get better, and follow up with my own doctor when I get back home," Carey said, adopting a dutiful tone.
Dayna gave him a dark look, blue eyes shadowed by her lowered brow and down-tilted head. "Home," she muttered. "I'm working on it."
They were two horses as if they'd never been anything else, and if Lady's message cannister hadn't rolled and bumped against her shoulder with her movement, she might have forgotten the complexity of her own nature.
A courier. On the job, and forging her way through remote, unfamiliar territory to reach her home stable.
Avoiding hazards, avoiding people, letting Ramble claim her for his own—with Lady making their decisions and Ramble fully occupied making sure no other stallion had the chance to steal her away.
Given their isolation, he'd gotten a little desperate; she'd once seen him posturing to a baffled deer, and he filled the unfamiliar territory with ringing calls any time he scented a stray mining pony or a farmer's plow animal. He had no Jess-voice in his head, cautioning quiet—a voice that drove Lady to jog away at a ground-eating pace no matter the terrain when he pulled such nonsense, until he had to choose between keeping his noise and keeping up.
He always chose keeping up.
After a time the downhill travel leveled out, the paths and trails turned to rutted roads—travelways without anything but the most rudimentary spell protection, full of potholes and wheel ruts and blessed with a centerline of thick, early-blooming wildflowers, most of which were delicious. The trees grew taller and thicker, and their tender tips tasted less acidic than those over which Ramble had been making faces.
Along with the dried stems of the previous fall's grasses, they began to find the first spears of new grass—and, by now plagued by constant hunger, they slowed to search out these greens. Once or twice upon passing farmland, Lady found ways to circumvent the fencing and they snatched a clandestine meal among herds of cattle which ignored them. Once or twice—more frequently, now—they came upon areas of strange and contorted landscape from which they bolted away with great drama, returning to their original direction miles later and with no ill effect.
After a time . . .
She lost her interest in Ramble's attentions, quite abruptly no longer feeling the need. Ramble stopped guarding her quite so jealously and began to treat her more gently, more protectively—more warily, as well he might any mare in foal.
And Lady was content. Despite the unending search for enough food, the ribby look of her sides and the ragged condition of her hooves, she was content. Relentless travel aside, she was content. Content enough that one day after too many days for a horse to count, she looked at Ramble and looked at the pleasant spring-fed glade through which they traveled and she had the sudden impulse to stop. To stop traveling, to stay here and eat her fill day after day, swishing flies from Ramble's face and nibbling the itches at his withers, taking off into fits of sudden bucking play any time she pleased, and pretending not to notice when the small, battered, black cylinder taped and sewn to her mane finally fell off.
The horror of it hit her like a weighted quirt.
Blood. Carey. Arlen dead. Her friends in trouble. All of Camolen in trouble.
Depending on her.
She shied at nothing in the middle of the perfect glade, violently startling aside to race away with her tail clamped tight and her ears laid back. Ramble, sure they were under attack, startled in the opposite direction.
And Lady ran. Vaulting fallen branches and sudden dips, dodging thickets . . . she ran like a horse driven, unable to slow until finally she tired, failed to see a root hump, and tumbled, rolling over her shoulder and slamming up against a tree, her legs in the air like a bug on its back.
Noble courier mare.
Besieged by thoughts and emotions too complex for a horse to process or even outrun, she reacted instinctively to save her own sanity. She reached for the familiar touch of the spellstone braided into her upper mane and— She changed.
So many days of living as a horse—for all practical purposes, a wild horse—had left its mark on her.
Her skin stretched tightly over her ribs; her thick, coarse hair no longer hung evenly down her back but fell ragged, as when she'd first become Jess. Her tough feet felt worn and tired, her bare skin absurdly sensitive to the air and to the leaf mat beneath her back. And even human, she found herself so overcome with so many different emotions that she simply rolled over to her side, curled up, and cried. So much intensity to fit inside one frail human body . . . fury and fear and sorrow and worry and guilt, so much guilt . . .
And all the implications of the changes within herself. As Lady she'd known instinctively; even Ramble had known. As Jess she knew with both her heart and mind. She covered her low stomach with long fingers splayed out, found it as flat as ever. Too flat. But she knew what triggered that protective, possessive gesture.
That which she had wanted so badly. That which she'd thought to conceive as a woman, to carry as a woman, to bear as a woman.
The child she'd wanted— they'd wanted—but not of Carey. Never of Carey, never of any human.
She thought she'd known all along that this was the way it would have to be, and she'd been unable to face it. Unable to bear the conversation with Carey . . . just as she didn't know how she could tell Carey of this new life within her . . . this legacy of hers, and of the changespell that had brought her together with Ramble.
She wondered if he'd realize the irony of it . . . that this child, whatever form it took, had happened only because of Carey's own decision to change Ramble to a human for his own purposes—and then because of his inability to accept the limits she set when that change led to naught.
No answers. No easy new human life for Ramble. No understanding, not between Carey and Ramble, not between Carey and Jess.
Only between Jess and Ramble.
Exhausted, more so than she could ever remember, Jess slept. And when she woke, cold and stiff and cramped, she hunted through herself to find all her emotions drain
ed for the moment, the storm faded down to something she could live with. More importantly, something Lady could live with. She studied the terrain, the types of trees, the soil, the roughly uneven ground, and put the observations in context with everything she'd seen since arriving so far from Anfeald. Southeast . Very east, to start with. And they'd traveled roughly west; time to add a northern slant, and see if she couldn't recognize the next main road they hit.
On the way to Anfeald. No more wavering, no more lingering in pleasantly perfect glades. Shivering now, Jess fixed her purpose in her mind, most firmly in her mind . . .
And triggered one of the changespells to take her back to Lady. To find Ramble . . . to find Anfeald.
And maybe along the way to find herself.
Jaime lost track of the time—days and hours and weeks, all of which were subtly different from those of her own world.
She found it easier that way. Not because of the differences, but because it dulled the part within herself that noted the exact passage of time and tried to calculate the odds that Arlen was okay and yet had still not contacted anyone.
But Arlen wasn't stupid. If he—if any —of the Council wizards had survived, he could certainly figure just as well as she that his best chance of future survival—and of figuring out the mess in which Camolen found itself—was to hole up and play dead.
Just not this dead, Arlen. Not this long.
But then again, she wasn't paying attention to the time. She wasn't . She wasn't wondering why she hadn't heard anything from Carey, Dayna, and Jess, especially after the most recent arrival-magic over which she'd recently been questioned. She wasn't wondering why late winter had turned into spring and she still found herself alone here, running the hold with Natt and Cesna and Linton while the new Council—she'd never think of them as anything but the new Council—hid behind its secure walls in Kymmet and still, as far as anyone could tell, was no closer to understanding why the Council had died in the first place, or why even everyday spells now often went awry.
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