A scuffing sound from a short distance away brought her out of her reverie. She clutched the knife and waited, tense, for whatever might be approaching – she wasn’t the only hungry beast out in this night. With care she moved her pot back from the fire and put another length of fallen branch onto it to build up its light. Her meal would have to wait until she dealt with the intruder.
The next sound was more like a foot-fall, careful and stealthy. Now Ninianee wondered if a person and not an animal might have made the sound, and she crouched, ready to fight, her knife clutched tightly in her hand. She peered toward the sound, wishing the mist would dissipate, for the firelight created more glare than vision against the drifting whiteness. Listening intently, she moved almost silently so that the fire was between her and the soft noises she heard.
“I told you there was nowhere you could go that I wouldn’t find you,” said Doms Guyon from beyond the lume of the fire. After a dozen heartbeats he strolled up to her, relief and something deeper in his light-blue eyes. “You can put the knife away.” He was in a pelgar the color of Nard-needles with a high neck and braided cuffs, over brikes of multi-ply knitted irytex-wool the color of fallen leaves – clothes Ninianee had never seen before. His boots, also, were new, as were his gloves.
“You’re alive,” she exclaimed.
“Unless you stab me,” he said easily.
She stared down at her hand, then back at him. “I thought . . . you’d drowned.”
“Understandable.” He touched her arm. “If I hadn’t known you were alive, I’d have thought the same about you, the river being so wild.”
Ninianee’s face grew sad. “Onpoleneraz and Ferzal. And all but the one mule.”
“And one pony. I have Womilaj – he’s tied at the edge of the copse. I have no idea where the mule is. Womilaj took some minor injuries in the river, but he’s sound enough,” said Doms. “You can travel faster now. You won’t have to walk all the way to Valdihovee.”
Ninianee sat down abruptly, her thoughts in confusion as she tried to work through all her emotions. “How do you . . . What is . . . How long have you . . . “ She picked up her cooking pot. “There isn’t very much, but you’re welcome to half.”
He seemed unfazed by her confusion. “That’s good of you. I have a bottle of pickled melon and a dozen strips of smoked venison – it’s tough but it’s good. I’ve also got a smoked goose, for tomorrow. We’ll need new supplies after that.” He smiled at her, firelight and something more shining in his eyes. “And I still have my pouch of gaylings and a few damzejes, maybe a dozen of them.” He laughed softly once. “I couldn’t untie the pouch-lacing while I was in the river, so – ” he broke off, and respected her.
“Where is the food?” she asked, too bluntly, she knew, but she was hungry, more so now that she knew she would eat more than bread in melted cheese, and she was afraid that at any instant she might wake up and find herself alone again, with only one meal left.
“In a case on Womilaj’s saddle. Shall I go fetch it?” He took a step away from her and was surprised when she reached out for his hand. “I’ll be back. I’ll bring Womilaj with me – how’s that?”
“Yes. Yes, if you would.” She released his hand self-consciously, and stepped back, watching while the mists enveloped him as he walked away from her camp, so that he disappeared among the trees into the twisting fog. Carefully she knelt down to put her cooking-pot near the blaze of the fire, but not so close that the cheese would burn. She wasn’t sure if she had seen Doms, although his hand felt real enough, or if this were an illusion, similar to Erianthee’s Shadowshows, and she was only trying to lessen her loneliness with his familiar and reliable presence. She had never used her talent that way, but she had never had cause to want to do so before. She resigned herself to his disappearance. Then the sound of pony’s hooves on the damp ground caught her attention, and relief washed through her again. She rose and swung around to face the sound. “Doms?”
“I’m here,” he said, coming into the firelight, his seal-brown pony behind him. As they emerged into the light, she saw how oddly the pony was tacked-out.
She stared. “That saddle – where did you get it? It’s from Eltsigaranth.” The high, rounded pommel was distinctive, and the dark, worked leather flaps could have come from no other place.
“And the bridle is from Veth. All of our Vildecazin tack was lost in the river.” He patted the pony’s nose and had his hand nudged in return. “I had these – saddle, bridle, halter, breastplate, and fittings – from traders wintering at Deneran.”
“Why Deneran?” she asked. They had passed that famous trading center shortly before the barge was wrecked – it was an old town located on a broad plateau half-way up the canyon wall with access to the river below and the table-land above, making it a popular stage on the up-stream voyages as well as an important center for shifting goods.
“It was the closest settlement to where I got out of the River Dej.”
Thinking back to the maps she had seen, Ninianee realized she must have been carried more than three leagues down-stream, while Doms had got out of the river in less than half a league. “Deneran. You were lucky.”
“I got caught in an eddy and was slammed into a boulder – dislocated my shoulder but was kept from being swept farther down the canyon. It didn’t seem too lucky at the time, but I suppose you’re right. The shoulder’s getting stronger every day, and I wasn’t carried much more than a third of a league from where the barge broke.” He went to unbuckle his supply-case from the saddle. “Food’s in here. Take what you want. There’s a large jar of mead, too. A night this chilly, a little mead will be welcome.”
“You’re right,” she said as he handed the case to her.
“There’s a blanket, as well. Drugh-ox wool. Not too big, but enough to keep both of us warm if we lie side-by-side.” He managed an apologetic half-smile. “You won’t regret it.”
“You tell me that,” she said, watching him uncertainly.
“Because I mean it,” he said. “My feelings haven’t changed – I’m content to wait until you share them.”
She said nothing in response to this, masking her confusion with pretending to be busy with the contents of his supply-case. “A honey-comb, and dried lantern-fruit. You have excellent foodstuffs.”
“As your Official Suitor, I can’t very well let you starve.” His smile flashed and was gone. “During the long wait of winter in Deneran, merchants will sell the most astonishing things, just to keep in practice, I think. Most of them have been at Deneran for three months and more. I was a novelty, and they were happy to have me.” Doms bowed as if he were on stage. “They were all of them bored and glad of anything new. If I juggled a little – one-handed until my shoulder improved – or sang one of the scandalous ditties they liked so much, they would give me some of their better goods for very low prices, in appreciation for being entertained.” He took another bag from the saddle, this one of soft leather buckled closed. “There’re clothes in here. You can find garments more to your taste than what you have on at present.”
“Which you chose for me?” she asked incredulously.
“I was planning to find you as soon as I could travel.” He went silent, then continued softly, “I’m sorry I took so long.”
“Why did you bring clothes for me?” she pursued.
“Well, the full moon is almost here, and I knew I would find you eventually, so yes, I did make a selection for you, considering what the Change can do to your clothes. Two pair of brikes, a dolaj and a pelgar. I didn’t try to choose skin-clothes, or zenfts. I knew you would want to select your own.” He watched her try not to explore the bag. “If you don’t like what I’ve got, we’ll replace them with new garments in Vercaz-Old-Fortress in the next few days.”
“Vercaz-Old-Fortress?” Ninianee asked, startled. “How long will it take us to get to it?”
“If the weather stays clear, we’ll be there in two days’ time.” He paused. “Assuming
the full moon doesn’t create too much of a problem.”
Ninianee flinched. “How can I know what will become of me,” she rejoined with an edge in her tone. “Or what kind of a problem the Change will present.”
Doms held up one hand. “I didn’t intend to impose any assumptions on you. But you will agree, if you Change into a moon-hound or an Aon-bear it would be more difficult to deal with than a redcoon or a very large tisslet. Or perhaps a thimble-pig – a remarkably big one, but still – ”
Her spurt of laughter startled her – she rarely found her Changing amusing. “But I could be a drouch or a Pomig frost-leopard. They would be more than difficult.”
“While you’re at it, what about a zyriha-cat? Aren’t they more dangerous than frost-leopards or drouches? Even at a third their grown size, you could be hard to handle.” He took another, smaller case off his saddle. “Here. You’ll want this.”
“What is it?” She held up the case, puzzled.
“Ympara-oil and salt, and three porcelain vessels for offerings. I doubt you’ve been observing any Traveling Rites since you climbed out of the river.” He waited a long moment. “You may want a little extra protection at the full moon.”
She opened the case and saw that it contained the items he had described. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He came to her side, speaking gently. “I’ll do what I can for you, but until we find out what we’re dealing with – ”
”I know. I know.” She went back to the chest with the food. “Smoked venison? It should be all right with the cheese-and-bread. Nothing fancy, but it’ll hold us through the night and into the morning.” Saying that, she bent down to keep the melted cheese from scorching. “I have a wooden bowl. We can share it, or I can eat from the pot, and you from the bowl.”
“Or we can use the small platter in the case,” he suggested. “Then we can share more easily.”
She nodded and wrapped the frayed end of her sleeve around her hand in order to pick up her cooking pot by its stubby handle. Something struck her as she set the pot down on a small stump. “You aren’t frightened, are you?” she asked incredulously. “I mean, of my Change?”
“The only thing that frightens me about it is that you may be hurt while you’re Changed,” he said with complete sincerity. “And that is fear enough for me.”
She stared at him as if seeing something in him she hadn’t noticed until now. “You don’t worry about what I might do while Changed?”
“A little, but not as much as I fear for your safety, particularly on the first night, when the animal is at its strongest.” He pulled out the platter. “Here. The cheese should be poured out while it’s still soft.”
Baffled and elated for reasons she couldn’t entirely comprehend, she accepted the platter and gladly turned her attention to the mundane task of serving their evening meal.
* * *
The Blue Hound lay half-a-league off the main road at the edge of a wilderness preserve belonging to the Priests of Dallan-Noj where they kept one of their many retreats. Kloveon and his men and wagons had traveled all night and half the following day after their battle to reach it, and all of them were shocked at the sight that greeted them upon their arrival. Until the conjure-storm the inn had boasted thirty apartments under its roof, two public dining rooms, and a large tap-room. Now it had only two rooms suitable for habitation, but the landlord offered them at once when he read the safe-passage from the Emperor. “There’s bunks in the barn for your men,” he went on to Kloveon. “But the lady – ”
”The Duzeon,” Kloveon corrected him. He rubbed the cut and bruise on his cheek, and inadvertently made it bleed again. The gesture showed his skinned knuckles and two badly torn fingernails.
“Yes, yes.” He glanced at the improvised stretcher on which Erianthee lay, pale and still as if in a trace. “I can summon one of the priests at the wilderness, if you like. They can perform the Rites for the Lost. They should be able to provide you solace and arrange for – ”
“She’s not dead, and we’re not in mourning, thank you anyway,” said Kloveon a bit testily.
“Then she is under a spell – it could be one of Malefic Intention,” the landlord said, his voice rising.
Kloveon held up the safe-passage from Riast, and said, “Whatever her condition, the Emperor enjoins you to house and protect her.” His face lost some of its handsomeness as he leaned forward. “I have pledged to guard her with my life. Can you refuse her so little as a bed?”
This sudden assertion shook the landlord, who stepped back. “She may stay here, but none of my people will attend her.”
Kloveon accepted his terms. “All right. Her maid will look after her, as will I. We’ll need only standard service from your staff – that they bring food and firewood and attend to the room, not to the Duzeon.” He paused, considering another request. “If the Priests of Dallan-Noj have a physician at their center, a few of my men were injured yesterday driving off men in masks, and the magic we’ve used to treat them is wearing off. And I’d like a healing-plaster for this.” He touched his face along the trail of blood.
“I’ll send a messenger at once, Mirkal.” The landlord respected him deeply as if to make up for his original suspicious reception. “How bad are the injuries? Do you need a nurse as well as a physician?”
“Two are fairly severe, one is more painful than dangerous, one has a number of bruises, and one man was struck a heavy blow on the side of the head and is still having problems. The physician can decide if nursing is needed in addition to whatever treatment is offered.” Kloveon thought that weighing how badly outnumbered they had been against how they had fared, their over-all condition was better than he had any right to expect. He also knew that without the manifestation of Zaythomaj, the Retributionist, most, if not all, of them would have perished at the hands of the twenty-seven masked men they had engaged on the road.
“Would spells help?” the landlord inquired.
“For a short time, probably. We’re used a few just to get here. But the men need proper treatment, and soon. Magic doesn’t last long with such injuries. The men must have medicine.” Kloveon didn’t bother to offer his usual, ingratiating smile, but met the landlord’s gaze sternly. “Soon,” he repeated.
“Of course, of course,” said the landlord, and struck a small silver gong with a mallet. “Konemaz! Take the little carriage over to the Priests of Dallan-Noj. Tell them we need their physician, and quickly.”
A youth with a cast in one eye appeared and said, “When?” in a tone of voice that suggested any request made of him was an imposition.
“Now. At once!” The landlord made shooing motions to hurry him on his way. “No lollygagging.”
“I’ll go,” said the lad with no curiosity, and ambled out into the inn-yard. “Too bad about the woman.”
“She’s not dead!” Kloveon shouted, and turned back to the landlord without apology. “Where are the rooms you have for us?”
“In the south wing, here. Above us.” He pointed at the ceiling. “The stairs are on your left at the end of the corridor. They’re a little rickety just now, so you’ll have to watch your step going up. There are two doors on the corridor. Both are available to you.”
“Very good. We’ll get her upstairs, then.” He signaled to the men bearing the stretcher. “Take her up and put her in the more comfortable bedroom of the two – which would that be?”
“That will be the one above the smaller dining room,” said the landlord.
Kloveon made a small respect to the landlord. “You heard him, escort. I’ll fetch Rygnee. And landlord, the maid and I will take our evening meal upstairs. See that we don’t have to wait long.”
The escort soldiers did as they were ordered, moving as carefully as they could. They picked their way up the wobbly stairs and chose the room on the west for Erianthee since it had the larger bed and it was warmer than the room on the east. They had barely finished moving Erianthee into the bed when Rygnee rushed
in and took over caring for her.
“Don’t be rough with her. She has to be handled gently. Gently.” She pulled one of the soldiers back from the bed, frowning portentously. “I can manage now, thank you.” Giving the men a minor respect as a dismissal, she set to work covering Erianthee with the vast comforter that lay folded across the end of the bed. She shook it out to fluff up the down inside it, and draped it over Erianthee’s recumbent form, trying to keep from fussing over her. At last Rygnee was satisfied with Erianthee’s repose, and stepped out of the bedroom into the sitting room to see if the chests and trunks had been carried up yet. She found one trunk and Kloveon standing near the fireplace.
“They’ll bring wood up shortly,” he said to Rygnee. “How is she doing?”
“The same,” said Rygnee, suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of futility. “If they’ll bring up a tub of hot water, I’ll bathe her. That may help. She often bathes after a Shadowshow.”
“Then she’ll have her bath,” said Kloveon, but faltered as he saw the distress in Rygnee’s eyes. “What worries you so much?”
Rygnee looked away from him. “I’m afraid she might not waken, or if she does, she’ll be . . . different than she was. More like her father. Less than she was. Not herself.”
“She’ll be Erianthee,” said Kloveon with a certainty that went beyond what he actually felt.
“But . . . if she isn’t . . . what then?” Rygnee asked, so tentatively that Kloveon realized how deep her distress went.
Agnith's Promise: The Vildecaz Talents, Book 3 Page 17
