Kiara settled down cross-legged on the mat. She closed her eyes to feel the wrongness about both eagles. Starting with the one on the right, she used that sense as she would use a crack in the shell of a nut to pry the mask back and reveal what it covered. She thought she’d done it.
But before she could open her eyes to check, Vatar placed a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t open your eyes, yet. Try it again with the other eagle. Practice . . . practice helps.”
It did feel a little easier the second time. When she opened her eyes, Thekila and Theklan sat on the grass mats across from her, grinning.
“Good work!” Vatar said.
Kiara turned to him. “Can you do that? Become an eagle?”
“I can. We all of us had to be able to fly to get here from Tysoe before Ramel makes it back with his story about the Exiles. I expect him to arrive any day now. They really convinced him the Spirit of the Wolf was with them.” One corner of Vatar’s mouth turned up slightly. “But it wouldn’t have been any kind of a test for you to guess which eagle was me. As an eagle, I’m several times as large as either Thekila or Theklan.”
Kiara’s brows knit. “Why is that?”
Thekila reached across to touch Kiara’s knee. “We’ll teach you more about shape changes later. When you’re ready. For now . . . the difference is because Theklan and I are Eagle Clan, and there are some places where the magic we—and you—get from our connection to our totem Spirits enhances our Valson or Fasallon magic. This is one of them. Vatar only gets a little second-hand help from the Spirit of the Eagle, because of his bond with me. The Spirit of the Lion is much more useful for him. And will be for you, too.”
Chapter 33: Escape
Zoria sat alone in her tent on a ridge just over the top of the mountain pass, trying not to panic. Since Platan and a few of the other men had arrived to take the women and children back over the mountains, she’d lived with a near-constant terror. Every step took her nearer to Loran and there was no place to hide. And nowhere—no one—to run to for help.
Going through with this forced marriage to Loran didn’t bear thinking about. She’d almost rather jump off the cliff just behind her tent. Almost. Zoria couldn’t remember what she’d ever found attractive about Loran. Well, he’d seemed so confident and strong, she supposed. She hadn’t realized that he was just a bully.
Nothing at all like Balan. She couldn’t help a small smile at the thought of the young man waiting for her back in Tysoe. He was everything that Loran never would be. Gentle and attentive. Honorable. Her smile widened. Funny and fun loving. She was pretty sure the only reason Balan had volunteered to help fight the Exiles was to follow her. She could imagine herself spending her life with Balan. That thought gave her a warm feeling down to her toes. But if she didn’t find a way to escape before they reached the new encampment—and Loran—then that other possible life would never happen. And that made her want to weep.
No. She had to remain strong. This could be her only chance.
The ridge meant that the women’s tents were spread out in a long arc, with the men sleeping in the open, nearest the track they’d been following. Platan had wanted to cram Zoria in with the handful of unmarried girls—all of them about thirteen. But she’d managed to insist on her own tent and, since all the other tents had been set up while they were arguing, hers was all the way on the far end, just beyond the giggling girls. This was the best chance she was likely to get.
Even so, she waited until late, until the only sounds from the camp were occasional muffled twitters from next door and the gurgling of the little waterfall tumbling down the cliff face on the other side of her tent.
Zoria blew out a calming breath and reached out with Far Speech. “Zoridan?”
“Zoria! Where have you been? I haven’t heard from you in so long, I was getting worried that something had happened to you. We all were.”
“It’s been hard to find a time and place where I wouldn’t raise suspicion, is all. Nothing’s happened to me. Not yet, anyway.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Zoria drew another deep breath and then explained about Loran’s plans for her as soon as they reached the Exiles’ camp.
“And you can’t just tell him no?” Zoridan asked, horrified.
“Apparently not. The Exiles have . . . changed the rules about that. Now, couples are just put together and expected to . . . make it work.”
“Why? I mean, I know Loran and his father are all about power, but why would the women let them get away with something like that?”
“There aren’t enough women among the Exiles. So many died crossing the southern mountains.” Zoria choked back the thought that her own parents had been two of those casualties, killed in an avalanche. “Nertan and Wartan worry about that becoming a source of trouble among the men. So . . . they decided not to wait around for couples to sort themselves out by trial and error and just . . . choose for them. Usually as some sort of reward. It’s not about making anybody happy.” She sighed. “Just my bad luck they hadn’t already fixed Loran up with someone else—because Nertan didn’t want to be accused of favoritism toward his children.”
“Well, even if Loran were already married, wouldn’t they have just chosen someone else for you?”
“I suppose so.” Zoria tried not to let the thought that anyone would have been better than Loran leak through. Some of it must have reached Zoridan, though.
“If it’s been that bad, you should have told me sooner.”
Zoria huffed a laugh. “And what could you have done about it from the far side of the mountains?”
“I could have flown over those mountains to help you.”
“No.” Zoria suddenly realized there was one vital piece of information she hadn’t had a chance to share. She hadn’t known about it until the straggling column of women and children had started on the road to the mountain pass. “They’ve built something they call a ballista, Zoridan. It’s . . . a really big, powerful bow mounted on a frame. It can shoot . . . well, they’re more like spears than arrows . . . but it can shoot much farther than an ordinary bow. Far enough to reach you or Quetza in flight. You can’t fly near the Exiles, now.”
“Yes. We know about the ballista.” Zoridan replied. “They’ve built one in their camp by the river, too. But the point now is to get you away from them before they take you straight to Loran.”
Zoria didn’t disagree with that. She just didn’t see a way to accomplish it. “How?”
“Well . . . where are you now?”
Zoria described the current camp.
Zoridan was quiet so long she almost thought she’d lost the contact. Talking to someone else? She didn’t think he’d been passing what she was saying to Orleus and the others. No. There hadn’t been the kind of pauses usual in those exchanges. She decided to test it. “Zoridan?”
“One moment,” came the reply.
Huh! Did he think she could keep this up all night? Sooner or later someone—some guard walking around the camp, maybe, or some woman going out to relieve herself—would notice that Zoria was using Far Speech. And wonder why.
Just as she was about to shut the connection down, Zoridan reached out to her again. “Zoria. You still there?”
“Yes, but I can’t keep this channel open much longer without someone noticing.”
“All right. So, do you think a mountain antelope could get down that cliff face below you?”
Zoria gasped. “I can’t—”
“Actually, you can. It’s your best chance. If you can get down that cliff, it’s highly unlikely that any of them can follow you. Directly anyway. Or not more than one or two of them, at least. Do it during the night, when you can get away unseen, and they might not even realize you’re gone until morning. And there won’t be any tracks for them to follow. Not on stone. When you get down, stay close to the stream and Balan will come for you. I don’t think the Exiles know about his avatar. I’ll meet you lower down.”
&n
bsp; Zoria sucked in a shaky breath. She’d spent almost three years unable to shift out of her avatar, trapped in the antelope form. Until Vatar returned to the Valley and used a rare form of magic to release her. “But . . . what if I get stuck again?”
“Then we’ll take you straight to Vatar and he’ll free you again. He only left here a couple of days ago. It’ll be all right Zoria. Anyway, it’s a better chance than letting you get any closer to the main Exile camp. Loran might get . . . impatient. And come to get you before we can, otherwise.”
Merciful Maker! That sounded very much like something Loran would do. Which risk was worse? Well, as Zoridan said, there was a cure for one of them, anyway. Zoria swallowed hard. “Okay.”
“Go now. Or . . . well, as soon as you can get away unseen. Balan’s already on his way to meet you.”
“All right.” Zoria drew in another deep breath and stepped out of her tent.
If the man on watch or anyone else was around, she could just pretend to be on her way to the latrine. No one could blame her for that. Looking around, she saw the watchman—or at least a man she assumed was the on watch—walking back in the other direction. Good. One less thing to worry about. None of the other women were outside their tents that she could see. Zoria slipped around to the back of her tent and approached the edge of the cliff.
It wasn’t exactly a cliff, though it was too steep for a horse—or a person—to attempt. It was exactly like the slopes mountain antelopes lived on, though. Ignoring the nervous fluttering in her stomach, Zoria stood there for a moment, trying to call up her avatar—and failing. She was too afraid of getting stuck again. She breathed deeply for a moment.
There was more than one kind of being stuck, though, wasn’t there? And being stuck as an antelope—while not an experience she wanted to repeat—hadn’t been nearly as bad as being stuck with Loran for life would be. And there was a good chance Vatar could rescue her from her avatar again, if necessary. That didn’t keep her breath from speeding up at the thought. The top of this cliff would be a really bad place to suddenly get dizzy. She took a step back and tried to calm herself.
After a moment Zoria inched toward the cliff edge again. She really couldn’t just stand out here much longer. Someone might notice. The moon, such as it was, had gone behind a cloud. It was so dark down there. Hard to see anything at all, really, but the ribbon of white where the little stream spilled down the slope. A white antelope would stand out like the full moon in the night sky. Hmm. A black avatar would be much more useful right now. And maybe . . . just maybe that would be enough change from her former avatar to get her past this panicky block. Worth a try.
The image of a black mountain antelope was just enough different that she was able to push herself into the image. Then she was leaping down the steep slope. When she’d first taken her avatar, Zoria had reveled in playing on the slopes above the Academy, leaping from rocky shelf to ledge to boulder, so the motion came easily now.
Zoria paused to drink where the stream broke its fall in a crystal pool before spilling over the ledge to continue its fall. The moon had freed itself of the clouds and sparkled on the water. Somewhere along this stream Balan would find her. The thought warmed her. But wait . . .
“Zoridan?”
“Yes. What’s wrong?” Zoridan’s reply came back so quickly—and at this late hour of the night—he must be waiting up to hear from her.
“How is Balan going to find me? There must be hundreds of streams in these mountains.”
“You’re coming down the same path you took going over the mountains last year. And Quetza and I flew over then, remember? Quetza led him to the right stream. And we’re both waiting for you.”
“Oh.”
“So . . . were you able to shift to your avatar?”
“Yes . . . well, not exactly. I had to change the color to black. That was better for going down the slope without being seen anyway. And . . . just enough different that I could manage it without panicking.”
“Good thinking.”
Zoria whipped her head around at a shout from above, her heart pounding.
“What is it?” Zoridan asked.
“I think they’ve discovered I’m gone.”
“Get out of there. Hurry!”
Zoria leapt down the slope again, sending smaller stones skittering ahead of her. The sound must have attracted the attention of someone with good night vision, because she heard a cry of “There!” above her. She tried to hurry, but it wasn’t safe to go too fast on this slope. If anyone in that camp had a mountain avatar, this was going to turn into a race.
More stones bounced past her. Zoria paused long enough to look behind. Merciful Maker! Someone had a mountain cat for an avatar. Unless that was a real mountain cat. Were there mountain cats in these mountains? Either way, this could be bad. Mountain cats were nearly as sure-footed as antelope on steep slopes and faster—at least over short distances.
Zoria ran as fast as she dared, keeping as close to the waterfall as she could. Her cloven hoofs might just give her an advantage on the slippery rocks within the spray zone. Besides, her only hope of help was somewhere along that watercourse. How much farther down? Surely the stream was still too shallow for Balan’s avatar.
The path down from the pass switch-backed across the slope, angling closer to the stream. Zoria’s alarm spiked as she realized other Exiles were chasing down that track after her. Most on horseback, a few in predatory avatars—including Platan’s black wolf. There was a good chance they’d catch up to her where the path came closest to the water. If they got there first, she’d be caught between them and the mountain cat chasing her down the slope.
Chest heaving, Zoria paused for just an instant on a flat space. She gathered herself and leapt over the rushing stream. Her hooves slid on the slippery rocks on the far side and she nearly toppled back into the rushing cascade. She scrambled for purchase, barely saving herself from the fall, and then leapt on down the slope. The mountain cat might follow her to this side, but the Exiles on the track wouldn’t be able to.
Zoria didn’t stop until she’d reached the bottom of the cliff. Her legs were shaking from the exertion, but she’d need to run her fastest from this point. She couldn’t rely on the stream to protect her any longer, because it flowed over a nearly-level area just ahead, slowing and even pooling. The Exiles would be able to cross it, here. And their horses could probably run faster than she could. If she stuck to the trees, they might not see her . . . but that would mean moving farther away from the stream and her only hope of help.
Either way, she had to decide right now, because it wouldn’t take long for her pursuers to catch up. The trees, then. She’d try to stay close enough to the tree line to keep the stream in view.
She had only taken a few steps when a huge splash from the stream startled her into stopping. Her heart hammered. Had they caught up to her so quickly? But no. A huge, wet-slick white head emerged from the water. It was a familiar shape, if a little too large and much too white to be natural. Zoria blinked. A giant lake otter? Here? That had to be Balan.
“Zoria, hurry! They’re not far away. Can you change back?”
Zoria drew in a deep breath and released that part of her concentration that had been holding the mountain antelope form. And breathed out in relief as she shifted back. “How do you know how far they are?”
“Zoridan’s up there. Keeping an eye on them.” At her sharp intake of breath, he added, “Don’t worry. They can’t see him against the dark sky.”
“So, now that I’ve changed back, what am I supposed to do now?” Zoria asked.
“Come to the—Look out!”
Balan surged out of the water just as Zoria heard a snarl behind her. She spun around to find herself face-to-face with a mountain cat, either the same one that had been chasing her or another. By its stone-grey coloring, this one, at least, was a real mountain cat, not someone’s avatar. And it was just about to spring. Instinctively, Zoria backed up a step.<
br />
A blur of white, dripping water, leaped in front of her, growling at the mountain cat.
“Balan, no!”
Balan paid her no attention. The mountain cat swiped at him with its wicked claws, but Balan moved in, biting at the cat’s throat. In an instant, there was only a writhing, grey and white blur as the cat and the otter wrestled, bit, and clawed each other.
Zoria wrung her hands. She picked up a heavy branch that lay nearby and held it as a club, but the shapes were moving too fast. If she tried to hit the cat, there was just as good a chance that her blow would land on Balan instead. What could she do? Balan was going to get himself killed protecting her if she didn’t do something.
As quickly as the confrontation had started, the cat gave a yowl of pain and broke away, dashing for the cover of the trees. Balan turned to her. She supposed that flash of white was not intended as a threat, but as the nearest his otter form could come to a grin. Blood dripped from a gash on one shoulder and there were deep punctures in one of his ears.
Zoria rushed to him. “Oh, Balan. You’re hurt. You shouldn’t have done that. That mountain cat could have killed you!”
He stood up on his hind legs, using the thick tail for balance, and placed a paw on her shoulder. “Because otters spend so much of their time playing, people forget that they’re basically water weasels. And there aren’t very many creatures that are fiercer fighters than a weasel. That cat never had a chance.”
“I was scared for you.”
Balan’s toothy grin just got wider—and a little more frightening . . . at least, if she hadn’t known this was really Balan.
He turned his head at something she couldn’t hear. A warning from Zoridan? “Come on. We need to go.”
“How?”
He moved back to the edge of the stream. “Hurry. Hold on to my back. We’ll go down the stream much faster than they can ride after us.”
Zoria stepped toward him cautiously. “What do I do?”
War of Magic (Dual Magics Book 4) Page 22