Little! Little no longer! In love, his humanity restored, and likely to propose. Gar sat galvanized with apprehension, then remembered his mother's sage counsel and let it ebb...
And felt far more alone than he had in two years.
In the morning, Linda actually woke up and smiled. She was still too weak to hold her new baby, but her eyes spoke volumes as she gazed at the little bundle in Hazel's arms. Alea watched and marveled that a woman could go through so much pain, bring herself to death's door, knock, and manage to run away-and still think it all worthwhile!
"She has a reason for living now," Versey explained to her after breakfast, as they sat outside on the bench beside the door. "But she's so young!" Alea protested. "Surely she had reason enough already, especially with her husband! Or aren't they in love?"
"You saw them look at one another this morning, and how he caressed her hand," Versey answered. "Yes, that's reason to live-for the moment. It doesn't give you any stake in the future, though."
His words echoed inside Alea, in a hollow she tried to ignore. To hide it again, she asked, "What's your reason for living, then?"
"A wife and three children," Versey answered, "though I sometimes think she must have been crazed, to wed a man like me who must live on the leavings of others."
Alea stared. "But surely the people you tend provide for you!"
"Most of the time, they'd rather not even see me," Versey said with a sardonic smile. "If you don't believe in the gods, you'd rather not be reminded of them. Oh, each clan in the country will send me a pittance to make sure no other has a right to look down on them. We are the ones who keep the histories of our clans, after all, and remind them of their heritage."
"Surely they would listen carefully to you, then!"
"No one really pays much attention to the old ceremonies," Versey sighed. "The wandering bards, now, that's another matter. They're truly honored, since they bring news-and always compose a new ballad praising the valor of the clan who hosts them, every time they visit."
"Well, that's some respect for the old ways, at least," Alea said, "and the bards are trained much like Druids, aren't they?"
"Like it in that they learn all the old lore, and the craft of verse and lyric, aye. They know the stories of the gods, but not how to celebrate the rites."
"Well, I should think notl That's your province, and the clans have to come to you for that."
Versey shook his head. "The only time they send for me is when someone dies."
Shocked, Alea asked, "Not even when someone's ill?"
"You saw how it was with Linda." Versey nodded his head toward the doorway. "Two steps from her grave, she was, but did they call me? No. I heard the gossip and came for the deathwatch."
"But ... but ... if they pay no heed to the ceremonies, why call you when someone dies?"
"That's the one rite they do want." Versey nodded sagely. "Believe in it or not, no one's about to take chances with the Afterlife. No, a Druid must come to the wake and say the prayers to speed the soul's journey to the Afterworld. And the folk must sing a coronach, a lament for the dead, if a bard's not at hand."
"What will happen if they don't?"
Versey shrugged. "Who knows? But I believe that without a Druid's testimony, the spirit of the dead would not be honored by his ancestors' ghosts. I believe it, and so do the clans-or if they don't, they're not about to take the risk. How much does it cost them, after all? A night and a day of mourning, and a smoked ham or bull's hide for the Druid. Why take the chance?"
"Why indeed?" Privately, Alea was shocked, though she tried not to show it. How could the Druid by so cynical and still fulfill his office?
Because his belief was stronger than his disillusionment, that was how-strong enough to allow him to cope with the facts, strong enough for him to live in reality.
"You'll be off peddling again, then?" Versey asked. Alea nodded. "It's what I do."
"No it's not," Versey said.
Alea's heart skipped a beat. She stared at the Druid, wondering how he could have discovered that she was an off planet agent.
But Versey wasn't looking back; he drained his mug and stood up. "You heal as well as trade, and it's as a healer you shall go when you leave this place. I'll speak to Esau and see you have a proper escort."
Alea nearly sagged with relief.
Versey was as good as his word. In spite of their cynicism, the clan still seemed to respect the Druid's words, for when Alea left the next morning, she left with gifts and lavish thanks-and a guard of a dozen clansfolk, to see her to the next homestead.
Gar strapped his pack shut and swung it up to his shoulders, then held out his hand to Rowena. "Thank you for your hospitality." He looked out at the assembled outlaws. "Thank you all."
They returned his thanks in chorus. Rowena smiled as she shook his hand. "Good luck on the road, peddler. We'd send an escort with you, but it would be more than likely to draw the anger of the next clan you met."
"Send me."
The crowd fell quiet, staring at the young man who stepped forward.
9
The outlaws all stared, astounded. Then Rowena found her voice. "Kerlew, are you sure?"
"Don't pretend you're sorry to see me go!" he said scornfully. "You've made it clear enough what you thought of me..." He looked around at the throng. "All of you."
"But we didn't know you were a seer," Rowena protested. "Oh yes, that has made a difference!" Kerlew snapped. "Now instead of deriding me for cowardice, everyone shies away from me as though the Second Sight were catching! No, none of you will regret my going. That is..." he turned to Gar"... if you'll have me for a road companion."
"Gladly." Gar's thoughts hummed with plans for training the boy's psi talents. "I warn you, though, I'm not the most congenial company."
"Really! And I suppose you think I am?"
"No, I think I know you well enough for that." Gar grinned. "Fetch your pack, then, and let's be off."
Kerlew brought his backpack out from behind him. "It's here."
"Are you sure of this?" Rowena frowned. "We may give you cold welcome here, Kerlew, but at least it's shelter."
"One companion will be enough." Kerlew gave her a harsh smile. "After all, is there any clan we could meet that will know me for what I am? No, I think I'll fare better as a trader."
"Then we'll send you with something to trade," Rowena said with sudden resolution, and turned to her band. "Everyone bring one thing, some small object that will do for a peddlers We can't let him go with empty hands!"
Fifteen minutes later, they strode into the forest. Kerlew carried a frame with two packs now, and the second held exquisite little carvings, polished semiprecious stones, and a few carefully wrapped porcelains.
"What songs do you know?" Gar asked.
"Songs?" Kerlew looked up in surprise. "Well, there's one about a hunter who's not very skilled."
"That will do," Gar said. "Let's have it."
Kerlew began to sing. After one verse, Gar recognized it and joined in on the chorus. Thus they strode off into the woodlands, roaring a song guaranteed to tell every outlaw and clan hunter for half a mile where they could find two wanderers.
Alea's escort were in a holiday mood, laughing and joking as they strolled down the dirt road. They kept a sharp eye for an ambush, but they weren't much worried; no clan would attack an escort party without asking their business. Seeing them prowl through the woods was one thing, but walking boldly down the road was entirely another; it generally meant that they were escorting someone, and anyone who would be escorted was sacrosanct. The Truce of Travel extended to return trips, too, so the Gregors weren't terribly concerned about mistakes.
But they weren't prepared for a single young woman, alone, who sat by the roadside on a boulder, watching and waiting. She rose as the party neared. Something about her struck Alea-perhaps the sense of stillness about her, or the intentness with which her gaze fastened on the traveler-woman. Alea held up a hand
. "Let's stop for a few minutes."
Agreeably, the party halted. Hazel raised a palm in greeting. "Good day to you, Moira."
"And to you, Hazel Gregor." But the young woman still stared at Alea.
Her gaze made Alea uncomfortable, but before she could say anything, Hazel asked in a half joking manner, "Have you found these travelers whose coming you've been preaching about, the ones who will put an end to the feuding?"
"One of them," Moira said, staring directly into Alea's eyes. "One of them, yes."
Alarm thrilled through Alea, and before any of the Gregors could think about Moira's meaning, Alea said, "You've been foretelling the coming of peacemakers?"
"To all the clans," Moira said, "or as many as I can find. Yes."
"What are you, then," Alea asked, "to tell the future?"
"Why, she's a seer, of course," Hazel said, "a seer and a Druid."
Alea stared in astonishment. Moira wore only the same loose shirt, loose trousers, and short coat as everybody else, though her jacket was gray, not plaid. Where was the white robe? The sickle at the belt? The wreath of mistletoe?
Where had they been on Versey? Why should a woman Druid dress in the robes of her order any more than a man? "You've found one of them?" Hazel asked in skeptical amusement. "Where, may I ask?"
"Here," Moira said. "Right here."
"Here? But there's only..." Hazel caught her meaning and turned to Alea. "You?"
The other Gregors muttered to one another in consternation.
"You're a peace-preacher?" Hazel asked, gawking.
"I'm a healer," Alea said over her sinking heart, "and a trader. Healers hate the fighting that maims people, and, frankly, feuds are bad for the peddler's business. I don't preach peace, but I would find it awfully convenient."
"How long a march is it from wanting peace, to preaching it?" someone asked, scowling.
Alea couldn't tell who it was; they were all scowling now. She turned to them and said, "There's no danger in preaching peace, if the preacher doesn't belong to a clam"
"There's truth in that," Hazel said grudgingly. "That's half the reason we always welcome Moira, though we know we'll have to endure her cant."
"And the other half?" Alea asked. "She's a Druid."
It was nice to know the clergy were still honored a little. Alea turned back to Moira. "Perhaps I should become a Druid."
"I'll be glad to teach you," the young woman said, "if I travel with you."
The Gregors turned to exclaim to one another, almost in alarm.
"Peace, friends!" Alea called, smiling. "You'll be passing me on to another clan soon enough. Surely you can't object to escorting both of us for a few more miles." Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Moira relaxing a little.
The Gregors didn't look convinced.
"Of course, if you really don't want to, we can always go on by ourselves."
"No, we can't have that," Hazel said quickly. "If anything happened to you, our honor would be stained for years." She turned to Moira. "None of your preaching, though, not while we're with youl We're enjoying the journey and we don't want it to become a burden!"
"I'll not talk peace while I'm with you," Moira promised, smiling.
"Then come along." Alea held out a hand. "Tell me what else you foresee."
"The lady was buried in the high chancel. And the lord, he was buried in the choir." And out of the lady grew a red rose bush, And out of the lord a sweet briar.”
"They grew till they crept up the walls of the church, And climbed each side of the spire, Where they met and twined in a firm love-knot, For all true lovers to admire!"
Gar nodded his approval. "Very good. A most charming conceit."
"They'd have had a right to feel proud," Kerlew said, "if they'd been alive to see it." He looked around at the trees to either side of the road. "Can't be much of anyone nearby, or they'd have challenged us an hour ago."
"They certainly must have heard us," Gar agreed, "but who would trouble two honest peddlers?"
"There are other outlaws besides Rowena's band," Kerlew told him.
"Why would they want to attack two madmen?"
Kerlew stared at him a moment, then grinned. "Who but a madman would sing at the top of his voice in the forest, eh?"
"Who but a madman would want to attract attention?" Gar returned. "Not that we..." He broke off, staring at Kerlew. Kerlew stared back.
"Ouch," Gar said tentatively. "Your shin?" Kerlew asked. "How did you guess?"
"Because mine hurts, too."
As one, they turned and looked down.
A score of people blocked their way-and they needed a score, for they were only two feet tall. The ones right next to the travelers held spears pressed just under the peddlers' knees.
"Who are you," one of them asked in a high, reedy voice, "to go singing so loudly in our woods?"
Gar stared; they were most amazing little people. Each brandished a spear and held a cocked crossbow too, for they had four arms. They wore kilts and garlands of flowers and leaves, and their heads were covered with fur, not hair, fur that was gray and tawny and orange and brown, but it stopped at forehead and cheeks, leaving eyes, noses, and mouths bare. Their ears were pointed, but high on the sides of their heads. Their button noses were triangular, the mouths lipless, and their eyes had vertical pupils. The resemblance to the fairies Gar had seen was striking, their descent from cats just as clear. "A cousin species," he murmured.
"Cousin? To whom?" the leader demanded.
"To a hawk," said the outlaw. "My name is Kerlew."
The little man gave him a glare that should have bored a hole in his forehead. "Hawks quickly learn to beware of us."
"I have learned it already," Kerlew said with complete sincerity, and bowed. "I honor you, Old One. I would never hunt one of your kind."
"Nor would it do you any good," the little one retorted, "for we are expert at hiding."
"You certainly must be," Gar said, "for you appeared from nowhere."
"And will disappear as quickly, when we have done with you." But the little one was clearly flattered, fairly preening.
"Done with us?" Kerlew's eyes were wide, and a drop of sweat trickled across his brow.
Gar could feel his fear and read the flashes of gruesome scenes from old folktales that flickered through his mind-and Gar noticed that the Wee Folks' spears and arrows may have been tipped with flint and copper, but looked very sharp nonetheless. "Why, what will you do?"
"Let you go your way, if we decide you are unlikely to harm us or the forest," the leader answered. "The first of your kind hunted us down one by one, and chopped down the trees to plant your silly crops!"
So, then. They were a native species who had been solitary, as most cats are, but who had learned to band together to survive in the face of human settlement. "And if you decide we are not?"
The leader didn't answer, only smiled, revealing rows of pointed cat teeth.
Kerlew swallowed thickly. "There are tales. Those who offend the Wee Folk see their cows go dry, their chickens lose their feathers, their hogs go loose to lose themselves in the woods."
"Those are mere punishments," the elf said disdainfully, "warnings that the farmer has offended us, and can yet mend his ways."
"What if he cannot mend his ways?" Gar asked. "Or comes to the forest to hunt?"
The little one dismissed the question with a gesture. "A buck or two we do not mind, if all its meat is eaten. But wholesale slaughter, now, that offends us."
"Or injuring your own kind," Kerlew muttered.
The whole band set up a yowling complaint, and the leader, hissed, "It were better for such a hunter to have died on the horns of his prey!"
Gar could see that half their power was simply the superstitious fear that generations of Wee Folk had built up in the humans, but he was very curious as to the other half. "If you can make cows go dry and chickens lose their feathers, you must be masters of herb lore."
"We are tha
t," the leader snapped, "and can make humans break out in boils and shingles, too!"
"Or worse." Kerlew licked his lips and confided to Gar, "There are tales of people who have fallen in their tracks, then wakened to find they had lost the use of one whole side of the body-or even dropped dead!"
So the Wee Folk had spread rumors exploiting strokes and heart attacks-or could their herbs really have caused them? Gar realized that a whole planetfal of alien plants might well have produced chemicals that could maim or kill Earth folk.
But that cut two ways; Terran spices and substances could be lethal to the natives. "That may be true, but you dare not go into a house or barn that is protected by Cold Iron."
Most of the elves hissed and shrank away, but the leader stood its ground and grinned again. "Of course we dare! Cold Iron does not taint the air beneath it, after all."
"Very true," Gar said thoughtfully, "but what happens if it touches you?"
More hissing, and the elves who didn't, spat curses in their own language instead. "We sicken, it is true..."
"Or die, if the iron pierces you?"
The band howled and surged forward, spears jabbing upward.
"Peace, peace!" Gar stepped backward quickly. "I only ask! I didn't draw my own blade!"
"Why ask if you know the answer?" the leader demanded. "I only guess," Gar said. "I don't know. Cold Iron poisons you, doesn't it?"
"As our shards and points poison your kind, when we have dipped them in the blood of the forest!"
Poisoned arrowheads, then, coated with sap or extracts of plants humanity's forebearers never knew.
The elves howled approval, shaking their weapons.
"There is no defense against them," Kerlew said to Gar under cover of the noise. "They shoot tiny darts from hiding that melt in the wounds. No one can ever see their ambush before the point stings."
Gar could believe it; the Wee Folk must have been adept at hiding and at camouflage. "We can always duck."
"Do you truly think so?" The leader grinned, raising its spear. "Try it, mortal man! You shall even see when I throwmuch good may it do you!"
A Wizard In a Feud Page 10