by Gayle Greeno
Not paying any heed, Garvey grunted with effort as he sawed through Sarrett’s bonds, moved to free Towbin. Neither Addawanna nor Faertom made any effort to venture closer. Indeed, Faertom now stood facing away, oak-sturdy, head back-tilted as if he quested the way a hound searches a scent. Jenret fought the urge; attempt mindspeech and Garvey’d bowl him over. His momentary exultation evaporated at the uncanny stillness around him. “Boy’s good,” Garvey remarked as he unlocked Jenret’s wrist manacles. “Learn that at the Research Hospice, did he?”
A breeze stirred the crispness, fluttered bits of debris along the road’s shoulder, swept it toward them. With it swept the sound of horns, strident blasts unheard since Marchmont. Had Arras Muscadeine invaded Canderis? Brought an armed party across the border? Had Marchmont and Canderis’s new relationships faltered since his capture? “Ahem. Look as far ahead as you can, where the road bends. A gladsome sight.” Rising on his hind legs, Rawn’s long black sleekness emphasized an unvoiced exclamation.
Bits of color tantalized his eye, exotic swaths against the grays and browns and ochers of autumn. White and lavender snapping in the breeze, pale ice-gray with a vivid green zigzagged line so that the green almost writhed. The flags of Marchmont and Canderis! And carrying those flags, Guardians in their crested helmets and leather half-armor, maroon cloaks flaring behind them; Marchmontian soldiers as well, a cacophony of colors, reds and purples, yellows and blues, greens and oranges, sashes and slashed full sleeves rippling in the breeze, their armor polished and blued, sunlight exploding against it.
Horses cantered on, more soldiers and Guardians ranging into view, protectively clustered around highborn riders and several closed coaches. He’d dreamed of rescue, but nothing like this, and Jenret couldn’t fathom its significance, overawed despite himself.
Equally overcome, Garvey elbowed Jenret, forced him to abandon the vision, his dislike swelling as Garvey’s damaged face begged for reassurance. “We’ve had our differences, belike, but what in all the wide havens do ye say to a king?”
“King?” Jenret parroted the word, eyes drifting back as the procession inexorably neared, breaking and rising like seafoam. “King! Do you mean Eadwin’s with them? And the Monitor’s flag? Is he here, too?”
“But what do ye say to a king? How do I address him? What do I call him? I want to do right by him, he’s not just King of Marchmont, I’d guess he’s King of the Resonants as well.” He clutched Jenret’s tabard. “Mayhap they didn’t treat us well in the past, but they’re more kin to us than most of Canderis. What do I say?” Each tug at the tabard tilted Jenret precariously off-balance.
“He’s a pleasant, easygoing man, a bit younger than I.” He rescued his tabard from Garvey’s grip. The man looked petrified, and it pleased him no end. “Doesn’t stand on ceremony. Blessed Lady, Garvey, don’t fawn, just be polite.” Absurd to deliver lessons in etiquette in the midst of this ... this ... whatever it was.
“Royal progress,” Rawn contributed. “One of Doyce’s ideas in your absence. To show Canderis there’s nothing to fear from Resonants, that they’re as nicely normal as Normals, except for their mindpowers.” He’d settled on his haunches now and commenced washing his face. “I wish you could wash your face—looks as if someone spread paste over you. Don’t blame me if Arras Muscadeine smirks when he sees you. Clever of Doyce, wasn’t it?”
A quick finger-lick and a touch to his forehead convinced Jenret that Rawn was right, but nothing could be done to rectify it. As he watched, Addawanna and Faertom separated, each stepping to the shoulder to let the riders sweep through. Behind him the others whispered, fidgeting with pent-up excitement. With overwhelming certainty, he knew how young Davvy had felt that day as battle was joined, the swirling flags, the rising noise and pulsing anticipation, dreams of derring-do and heroism enflaming a boyish heart until he’d rushed heedlessly between the opposing forces. He was almost ready to enlist himself, and saw Garvey’d been similarly affected.
“Stand your ground,” he ordered. Let them surround him, sweep over him like waves crashing on the shore, tumble Garvey away, unable to torment him any longer. “I’m coming, Doyce, ” he shouted, and damn Garvey if he tried to crash his mindvoice, cripple its wings! “I’m coming, Doyce, I love you!” The horses swerved around them, engulfing them in the rich, ripe smell of horseflesh, leather saddles, armor polish, and a host of other odors. They rode so tall in the saddles that they blocked the very sun, an animate forest of men. Beside him Garvey shook, vibrating like a tuning fork.
Three horses drew up in front of them: Arras Muscadeine on his battle stallion, Eadwin on a caparisoned gray and, on his left, diffident but comfortable, the honest, forthright face of Darl Allgood, receding hairline and all.
“Somerset Garvey, I presume?” The king’s gray dance-stepped, Garvey visibly wilting but holding his ground. “I’m told you’ve agreed to cede me something, or more accurately, someone? For the good of Resonants and Normals alike? A knotty choice but an honorable decision, I might add.” Despite his commanding position atop the gray, Eadwin appeared anything but regal, and his mouth quirked above his short beard. “I’m always pleased to meet a distant cousin from lands so long estranged. We’ve much to teach each other before you find your own road.”
“Sir, your kingliness, you,” Garvey sputtered to a halt and Jenret almost felt pity for him. “Past is past, but I want a future for us Resonants in this land that we love. If ye can aid us in that, I’d be much obliged.” He seemed to draw himself together, gain strength and humor. “And I’d be much obliged if you’d take this folly off my hands, Jenret Wycherley and his mates, sir. Their hearts were in the right places, but I’ve learned you can’t make others hostage to your fate. Will you relieve me of them, keep them safe? This one here,” he nudged Jenret, “has a powerful urge to return to his loved ones.”
For a moment Jenret’s ire overflowed. “I’m not a package, a parcel to be passed from one person to another!” Much as it galled him, he appealed to Arras Muscadeine. “Arras, I’ve got to get back to Gaernett, Doyce must be due any time now!”
Muscadeine fondled his mustache, hiding his mouth. “I’m sorry, Wycherley, but you’ve been remanded to the king’s charge to ensure nothing else untoward happens to you. Isn’t that correct, your highness?” he appealed to Eadwin, intent on petting Hru’rul, perched on his gold-tasseled pommel platform. “Alas, we won’t reach Gaernett for some time. Indeed, it’s our final stop on this tour of your fair land.”
“Well, fine! Ophar’s over there. Surely there’s no reason I can’t ride to Gaernett. Sarrett and the others can go with you or come with me as they like, but Rawn and I are going!”
“Wycherley, Wycherley, what are we going to do with you? And you look so pale, almost pasty.” By the Lady Above, how he disliked Muscadeine and his mincing, foreign ways! “Don’t you understand? The Monitor’s agreed you should remain in our care. You’ll go with us, like it or not.”
“Darl!” Desperate, Jenret swung on Darl Allgood. “Where is the Monitor? I saw his flag, where is he?”
“I’ll explain later, Jenret, but I’m temporarily acting on his behalf.” He massaged the bridge of his nose, grimaced, and finally took pity on the man. “Stop teasing him, it’s cruel. Jenret, Doyce is in Coventry with her family. We’re heading to Ruysdael first, and Ruysdael’s not far from Coventry. Best you go with us.”
Before he knew it, he was mounted on Ophar. Faertom and Garvey mounted as well but maintaining a calculated distance and disinterest between each other until the king gestured Garvey to ride beside him. Sarrett, Yulyn, and Towbin had chosen the carriages. “Where’s Addawanna? I’ve something she should see,” he whispered to Faertom.
“Oh, don’t worry. She said she’s bored with riding, too slow, so she’ll see us in Ruysdael.” The proximity of so many new Resonants left Faertom overwhelmed but happy, as if he’d cautiously determined a place might be found for him. In quick fragments he began filling in Jenret on what had
transpired during his absence, Allgood on his other side, interjecting and expanding as necessary.
News exhausted, Faertom left Jenret alone with his thoughts, until a mindvoice politely intruded. “Wycherley, I’ve a confession to make. Best you should hear now, not be surprised or shocked later. ” For the life of him Jenret couldn’t identify the voice though it sounded familiar, couldn’t judge from where it emanated, yet it felt intimately close. Ezequiel or Ignacio? He’d seen them riding near at hand, had waved. Commerce Lord Lysenko Boersma as well, who possessed at least minimal Resonant skills, and others whose names he’d temporarily forgotten, too distracted to wrack his memory. “Never ignore the obvious, Jenret. It’s me, Darl Allgood. High Conciliator, loyal Canderisian citizen, and closeted Resonant—until now. Though I’m not sure I’d have chosen to reveal myself if it weren’t for your aunt.”
“Aunt? Mahafny?” What in the blazes had she been up to now?
“Yes, Jenret. Mahafny’s discovered a machine that reveals which people are Resonants, which people have the talent buried deep inside them. I’m afraid I was her first discovery, though. The shock caused Kyril to suffer a mild heart attack, or so we think. Once Mahafny has him settled in Gaernett with Marie, she’ll be along to join us. She and her marvelous machine. ”
Sarcasm on the “marvelous”? Jenret wasn’t sure. Mockery perhaps, and self-mockery at that. What had his aunt discovered, and what did she plan to do with it? To voluntarily identify oneself as a Resonant was one thing, another to be involuntarily exposed, especially now, with things so unsettled. No doubt Mahafny saw it as a eumedico paradox—the need to hurt before one could help. And a part of him wondered what the machine, Mahafny’s marvelous device, would reveal about Doyce? Did it matter, would he love her more if she truly possessed such skills, love her less if she didn’t? Never! She was Doyce, his second heart, and uniquely what she was. But the nagging curiosity continued.
Cross-legged on the old horse blanket, Davvy opened the sketch pad, planted it in his lap. He fumbled through the nubs and pieces of colored chalk left over from Doyce’s and Francie’s childhood, more intent on keeping a covert eye on Doyce than searching out any particular color. Didn’t matter, he couldn’t draw very well anyway. Brown it was. Good, he could do leafless trees, scraggly lines off a thicker vertical base line. Francie had patiently pointed out that each type of tree boasted a distinctive shape, that they could be identified even without their leaves. A branch was a branch to him.
Besides, he wanted to see if Doyce were going to do it again, there in the arbor. Go all distant and blank as if she inhabited another world. Mayhap there was nothing to worry about. After all, Khar was with her, and Khar wouldn’t let anything happen to her. He rubbed the chalk sideways, smeared it with his thumb, not so much to make his art imitate nature but because he enjoyed messing around. Could make good clouds, no, great clouds that way. Clouds were his specialty.
Another side glance. Yes, there she went—was doing it again, whatever it was. Would it hurt the babies? Should he check? She looked the same and yet so different when she got that way. He groped for another piece of chalk, decided to try drawing the arbor—doing crossed lines that made diamonds was easy. And it was easier to watch her watching whatever it was she watched in her head. Did Khar watch with her? Impossible to read any of the ghatti, they always looked totally innocent or totally guilty.
Matty hitched the roll of furs higher on his hip and whistled to Kharm to attract her attention, the ghatta transfixed by a meandering, pale yellow butterfly that lacked the courtesy to remain still while she sniffed it. It floated erratically, Kharm following, rearing on her haunches, batting at empty air. “Won’t stay put! I just want to smell it.”
“It’s not a flower. Come on, there’ll be others,” he promised. “Look, you can see more all along the road. Maybe another will cooperate. ” Lined with some sort of spindly but exuberant weed, or maybe it wasn’t a weed, with tiny, densely yellow blossoms the color of egg yolks, the roadway was packed smooth, the winter’s ruts filled, high spots graded. Impressive, all in all, as were the tended fields on each side, some already green with crops, others in the process of being planted. Workers of both sexes and all ages spared the time for an occasional wave or hallo in his direction, courteous but busy.
Six silver fox pelts remained from his share of the Free Stead trapping, a far more generous bounty than he’d expected. Udemans had told him to save the fox pelts for a buyer in Roermond, someone who’d asked specifically for them last fall. The rest of the furs he’d traded as he traveled from Free Stead toward Roermond, crossing the Kuelper’s upper reaches, although now he headed west and south. South it might be, but he still journeyed fairly far to the north, indeed not far distant from the Tetonords. Where he’d go after Roermond he wasn’t sure. At least in his recent wanderings Kharm’s peculiar skills at Truth-Seeking hadn’t been necessary. A relief, that.
The countryside looked incredibly rich, almost alluvial. Apparently the Spray had once curved through here long ago, before slicing a loop to straighten itself farther north. Oddly enough, no houses dotted the fields.
“They’re all up ahead.” Kharm danced along, hoping for a butterfly who wouldn’t object to a questing nose.
The sun high overhead made Matty think longingly of lunch, the food in his pack less than appealing if there were a chance for fresh bread, perhaps some early greens. Greens in Free Stead had meant spruce cha. He pattered along barefoot, no need for Flaven’s boots or the wooden clogs on this smooth roadway. Besides, best start toughening his feet for summer.
At last, scattered houses began to appear, built closer and closer together as he reached the heart of the village. All in all, a prosperous, contented place from its looks, not as large as Neu Bremen but somehow more house-proud, more community-oriented. Each house, unique as it might be in its recycled construction materials, looked tidy and well-built, effort taken. Many had been whitewashed, affording a uniformity their eclectic building methods and materials couldn’t provide. But the little touches, shutters on windows, careful plantings of flowers in boxes, made him feel as if he’d landed in a pretend place, existing as it was supposed to, not the scrambling survival that sapped hope and joy and initiative in his accustomed world-view. Either the Roermonders thumbed their noses at any Plumbs that might explode or constantly rebuilt with renewed determination not to let the land conquer their spirits or their community.
Despite the sun’s indication of lunchtime, not many people were about, mostly children. A young fellow about his age planed planks set between two sawhorses, the growing pile of wood curls indicating he’d been hard at work for some time. A group of children clustered around a rain barrel set at the corner of a house. They shoved, jostled for position, shrieking and yelling, jumping back, elbowing closer, the center of their attention a boy of about nine. He wielded a wooden paddle with both hands, the kind usually used for doing laundry, for punching and stirring clothes after scalding water had been added to the big tubs. The paddle lifted, then lowered, the boy intent on sinking something deep into the barrel, swishing the paddle from side to side. They looked as if they were having fun, and Matty thought of the childish games he’d played with Henryk, the sillinesses they’d devised, mimicking adult work.
Without warning, Kharm erupted in an earsplitting shriek and rushed toward the children, wedging between bare legs, upsetting the youngest child, who plopped straight-legged on its fanny. A fretful wail emanated from the child, boy or girl, Matty wasn’t sure. The young man momentarily stopped planing and glanced over, only to shrug resignedly at the racket. Matty caught his eye as he dropped the fur roll and ran to retrieve Kharm.
“Help me!” Kharm cried as she leaped to the rain barrel, precariously balancing on its rim. A hiss and glare at the blond boy with the paddle made him retreat the length of the handle, but he stubbornly retained his grip, the paddle itself still submerged. She hissed again, made an unsteady grab for it, claws extended
as she fished for the blade.
“What’s the matter, what’s going on?” The children squirmed as he broached their circle as best he could, picking up a four-year-old and redepositing her behind him, tickling a larger boy until he writhed out of reach. A terrible consciousness of his status, an outsider, a stranger invading children’s territory haunted his every move. Not that he’d harm a child, but they couldn’t know that—nor would,their parents. A delicate situation fraught with potential misunderstandings, to say the least. “Kharm, they’re just children, having fun,” he protested. “What harm are they doing?”
The ghatta’s claws sank into the paddle, almost dragged it clear of the water. The boy on the other end fought to retain control, ram the paddle into the barrel’s depths. “These sweet little humans,” she hissed, “are drowning a ghatten!” Her snarling expression indicated she was ready to scramble up the handle, lash at the boy.
Alarmed, Matty leaned over more heads, grasped the boy’s wrist with one hand, the paddle with the other. “Let go there. Let’s see what we’ve got.” The boy refused to yield and Matty squeezed harder—better than slowly prying loose fingers one by one. “Come on, hand it over, that’s a good fellow.” The “good fellow” was not obliging, a snarl to match Kharm’s most ferocious distracted Matty as a bare heel lashed his shin, tried to hook itself behind his knee. The handle’s knobbed end swooped periously near the bridge of his nose, threatened to smash it as they struggled. Embarrassing to not be able to overpower a child this size, but he didn’t dare use excessive force. Finally relinquishing his grip on the handle, Matty swept an arm around the boy’s waist, hoisted him clear.