by Susan Dexter
She reached a hand down to him. “Get up behind me. Last time you tried to see ahead, it didn’t work. Why’s it different now?” She urged Valadan back toward the farm buildings. “You didn’t fall on your head, did you?”
His explanation came in snatches, into her left ear over the thudding of Valadan’s hooves. “Always ran in cycles. . . it would leave me for a long while. Then all at once it would start up again, I couldn’t tell where I was, what was real, what was there and what was to be. It was strong as this horse, Lady, only I couldn’t ride it, couldn’t control it. It ran away with me, dumped me off when it chose. I want to find that Wizards’ City. Maybe someone there can tell me, help me—”
“Was it like this all winter?” She couldn’t recall him so distressed, not ever. Not even at the very first, when he’d been wholly an enemy and must have thought of her as such, too.
Kellis laughed, as if he knew what she was thinking. “You probably would have known, Lady! No, there was nothing, nothing at all. I’ve never had such a long peace from it—I thought it must have been something to do with that knock on the head my captain gave me. I thought he’d cured me of the cursed visions, and I was so gratefull—” He laughed again, a sharp bark like a fox’s. “And so wrong, as it happens.”
Valadan halted beside the barn. Druyan slipped from his back, dragging Kellis along by one arm. “What do you need?”
“Water,” he said, stumbling a little in her grip, then finding his balance.
Druyan let him go, snatched up a pail, and strode to the well. Kellis heeled her. When she’d filled the bucket, she thrust it into his hands. He accepted it, shivering, not looking into it directly.
“How do we do this?” Druyan asked doubtfully. “How will I see what you do?”
“I am going to sit down, because otherwise I’ll drop the pail,” Kellis said unsteadily. He drew a deep breath. “Showing you—I don’t think there will be any problem. So long as your skin touches mine, you should see whatever I do. It would probably be harder not to show you.”
Kellis seated himself cross-legged on the paving tiles that kept the mud around the well from becoming impossible. He braced the pail against his right knee and hand, and reached his left hand out to Druyan. She knelt and clasped it.
It was the insistent visions that had made Kellis leery of conning the songs of summoning. Each vision he managed to call seemed to drag another, unbidden one after it, and that uninvited kind hurt. They were sneaky, too, often biding their time for days ere they struck, like storms lurking just over the horizon, rumbling but not breaking. When those finally arrived, at the very least they’d inflict a blinding headache on him. More than once he had fainted. The worst time he could clearly remember, he had seen double images for endless days and had felt trapped, stuck fast between vision and reality, terrified to try to move one way or the other lest he choose wrongly, frightened he might never come out of it. Wisir was no help—the old man’s visions had never been painful, or so he claimed. Kellis had been compelled to leam to deal with the trouble all on his own.
To invite that again . . . already he felt the familiar coldness in the pit of his stomach, and the sweat was starting out all over him, in great drops. The day dimmed, as if he was about to swoon from lack of food, or blood loss. . .
I dont have to sing this one in, Kellis thought, dismayed. It is coming, whether I ask it or not. If I invite it, will it be better? Or worse?
You should know, he told himself. You had two years before old Wisir died. If you’d wanted to learn, you could have. But by the time it got into your thick skull that it wasnt all a game, he was years dead; this is all your own fault.
He unclosed his eyes and looked down into the water. For a moment the panic rose up, and he couldn’t even see the pail—just black spots before his eyes. Then, all at once, he felt the pressure of other fingers against his, warm where his own were cold. His sight cleared. He found a breath of air.
Quavering at first, then stronger as his throat loosened, Kellis sang up the vision.
Druyan could see into the bucket easily—the water was rocking side to side from being set down, little waves that slowly dwindled to stillness. The surface caught little light—both their shadows fell athwart the pail, and the day was fading. Kellis shivered once, then began to sing, in words she did not know. The water rocked again, more gently. . .
And suddenly Druyan’s sight was full of carnage. There were buildings aflame, and terrified children ran screaming. There were men with short swords, and those distinctive round shields, and so much blood. . .
“Look for: something you can recognize.” Kellis’ voice grated into her ear. “The blood’s the same everywhere—”
Druyan obediently looked beyond the struggling. Somehow it was no longer night, there was light enough to let her see the landscape round about. A coast, the blue sea, a roundish harbor tucked under the headland. Where sea and land met reared a great broken cliff, the most stubborn parts of which still stood as tall, isolated stacks of rock, unreachable by any save birds. Atop the greatest, a single pine still lifted its storm-tom branches.
“Falkerry!” she cried, and sprang to her feet, loosing Kellis’ hand. He rocked back, reaching for the broken contact, slamming his bad shoulder against the well coping. His iight leg flailed out and upset the pail. Awash, Kellis struggled to his feet, to Druyan’s side. It took his eyes a moment to find focus again, and there was no blood in his face save a trickle from his bitten lower lip.
“Lady, what . . . where is that place?”
Druyan was distraught, as much as if the trouble had been at her own gate again. It took her a moment to hear the question.
“Falkerry? Where the Fal comes to the sea. I’ve kin there, an older sister, her family—” She thought of them in peril, real as if she’d seen their faces in the vision. Jensine, and four children she had never seen. . .
“Lady, they’re still safe. It hasn’t happened yet. . .” Kellis swayed, still chalk-white and hard put to stay on his feet.
“Unless you saw back!” Druyan remembered that possibility, horritied. “You said you don’t know, you can’t tell. What if—”
“Now you know,” Kellis whispered miserably, and sat down bonelessly on the coping. “Why I tried not to see, all that while. It’s never any help.”
It helped here, at Splaine Garth, Valadan snorted, and stamped. Druyan gazed at him with wide, wet eyes.
“They’re close to Keverne,” she whispered. “The duke could get help to them.”
“What?” Kellis was staring at her.
“I’m going to cry them a warning,” Druyan said, determination taking the place of panic.
Warning Falkerry
Kellis might not have the barest understanding of the distance separating the town of Falkerry from the farm of Splaine Garth, but Enna knew it very well, never mind that she’d never personally been better than a score of miles from her home.
“That’s days of riding, Lady! And on his say-so?” Enna’s eyes went hard. “This is what comes of refusing protection. He’s witched you, just as I feared.”
Enna had carefully introduced a nail into a seam of every bit of clothing her mistress owned, for safeguard against just such sorcerous mischief. Druyan had discovered and removed each one, amused and refusing to take the peril seriously.
“He didn’t lie about them coming here,” Druyan said, not really attending. Her thoughts were full of Falkerry. If she was too late. . .
“Proves he knows where his own bread’s buttered, that’s all! Even if he’s telling tme, you’ll never be in time,” Enna persisted.
“Valadan is swift as the storm wind,” Druyan declared, hoping speed was enough. She donned sturdy clothing, plain breeches and tunic, woolen cloth of her own weaving, to stand a joumey.
“In his day, Lady.” Enna tried without success to hide Druyan’s boots. “But he was no colt when you brought him here, and there’s eight years and more gone since.”
/> “Then he’s not fast enough to get me into trouble, Enna.” Druyan was out of patience. “Believe what you choose. But I am going to Falkerry.” She pinned her cloak securely.
“You might as well send word by the post riders!”
“I’m faster than the Riders.” Druyan stamped her feet firmly into her tall boots.
Enna threw her hands up. “They’ll know in Falkerry to keep an eye out for raiders.”
“They won’t mind getting sure knowledge.” Druyan clattered down the stairs, across the kitchen, and out into the yard.
Kellis stood by Valadan’s head, holding the reins, though the stallion wouldn’t have moved had an earthquake struck, without Druyan’s word. He had adjusted all the tack, added a saddlebag to hold a small amount of food for horse and rider. He held the stirrup for Druyan’s boot, looking worried.
“Enna’s right, they will have a watch posted,” she said, leaning down. “I’ll tell them to look sharp tomorrow, that I saw a lot of ships coasting their way. They’ll believe that likelier than the truth.” She gathered her reins. “Expect me back in two days, and work wherever Enna wants you. Do what she says—unless it involves putting your head into a noose.”
Whatever Enna said. But all the woman gave him was a black glare, as Kellis slunk away to put the stone bulk of the barn between them.
She’s right—what sort of villain sends a lone woman of into the middle of a raid?
He couldn’t stop her going.
But it need not be alone.
There was need for haste. That black horse was fleet as a deer, and if he allowed it too much of a start, he would miss the way—and he must follow, having no idea of the land much beyond the farm’s boundary stones.
Despite that urgency, Kellis dared not risk shifting anywhere among the farm buildings. If anyone saw, they knew only too well how to hurt him. Sometimes the whole place seemed to him a field sown with iron—knives, tools, even pins. If he let himself think about it, the fear would stop his breath.
Away, then. He jogged silently past the far side of the smokehouse, out of sight of the kitchen yard, along the wall of the sheepfold. The pasture, that had to be it. The orchard was too nearby.
He halted for breath in a little swale, behind a thicket of raspberries. Running on two legs felt so awkward, Kellis knew he never had his full speed in that form. And he had no time to waste on it, truly.
Well, the spot he stood upon should be deserted till the bramble fruit iipened, and that was months off. It was as good as he’d get. Kellis dragged off his patched jerkin, slipped out of the tattered linen sark beneath. The breeze raised bumps on his bared skin. He tugged off his boots.
Before sane thoughts could bring him up short, his lips began to move. Kellis sang the wolf song as he skirmed out of his trews, the song that had last been on his lips on the far side of the salt sea, water no less bitter than the tears that ran unheeded down his cheeks till he had fur enough to stop them. Farther off, Rook gave one sharp inquiring bark.
The song ended in a low, plaintive howl. Wait for me, the silver wolf wished, as it ran toward the spot where its keen nose could begin to track the black horse and his rider.
Druyan had been slow, herself, to believe what Valadan was. A horse who spoke into her ears alone—that was one thing, and perhaps only a fancy, but a steed who never aged, who could outpace a hawk on the wing—that realization had taken her a long time to come to. She knew he loved to run, but generally when she felt safe to let Valadan do his best, they were alone, and she had no gauge of the distance or the rate at which he covered it, save that ’twas easy for him. She had raced him long ago, with her brothers and their friends, but Travic had not had any acquaintances in whose company he would have encouraged his wife to ride at breakneck speed. She did not keep Valadan a secret from her husband by design, but the result was the same as if she had. All the folk on the farm thought the stallion old because he had been there long and did not dream what feats he was yet capable of.
The winding of the lane kept them to a fast canter till they reached the main road—then Valadan’s tempo quickened and he galloped, his head stretching out before him, his body seeming to lengthen. As they reached the spot where the road ceased to be the shortest way of going, they left the track with a bound and struck out over the edge of the moor.
Then his four flying hooves seemed scarcely to brush the earth. Often Valadan had no hoof upon the ground, but was soaring like a swallow between footfalls, as free of all constraint as the wind that legend said had sired him. He swerved for nothing save deep water or bogs, and put to flight birds that could never hope to keep pace with him. The wind itself was pressed and could match him only in relays.
The sun broke the clouds just as it was settling into the sea. The vast sky went the color of the base of a flame. Pools of standing water shone like citrines among reeds and grasses so dark that they merged into masses like storm clouds.
Even cutting across the upland moors and shortening the distance the coast road would have cost, it should have been two days’ hard ride from Splaine Garth to Falkerry. Druyan knew Valadan could shave time from that—and knew they must. She had seen Falkerry by daylight, in the vision, and feared that the hour had been little past dawn. They must therefore run through the night—and she could only pray that come dawn, she would not be riding still over the moors, out of time, having misjudged her horse.
Fear not.
She felt the warm body beneath her give another great bound, and the air rushed past her cheeks like a cold river. The humrnocks of grass whipped past them like clouds harried by a storm wind. The river of air became a mighty flood.
Often Druyan would have halted to rest the stallion with a spell of wa1king—but whenever she drew rein, Valadan snorted and dragged on the bit till she gave in and let him go forward freely once more. His joy flooded through her, powerful as the wind, so that she forgot the reason for their running for long moments and rushed through the darkness without the least anxiety. Druyan had misjudged her horse—but not on the side of the scale she had expected. Time itself was left behind, as Valadan raced through the night. The drum of his hooves was like wind-lashed rain only more rapid.
They fetched up at Falkerry when the sun had risen half a hand above the horizon, riding in a pale-yellow sky. The sea lay still in the cool blue shadows cast by the headland—the lone pine upon its lonelier stack was just touched with gold on its topmost branches, like a gilt windvane topping a barn. There was, Druyan saw with a pang of relief, no pall of smoke rising from torched buildings. There was a little fog, drifting over the sea. The land itself was clear.
Moor-pastured horses raced alongside them, inspired by their intrusion. Despite a night of running, Valadan was still in good form—none of the free horses stayed at his side for long. He did not deign to notice their shadowing—he did not so much as flatten an ear to warn them off. He simply ran on, till they dropped away, to pretend to crop the dewy grass as if there had not been a race but a coincidence in their courses.
Ahead lay a little round tower built on a high outthrust of land that would be a sea stack when another twoscore of winter stonns had quarried it loose from the cliff. Druyan steered toward it. As she neared the gateway, one half of the tall portal was swung aside and two riders emerged, single file in the narrow way. They were clad all in sea blue, save for the gray cloaks of unwashed black-sheep’s wool that protected them from the daily rains they encountered. Druyan halted and saluted the lead horseman with a question.
“Rider, are you bound for Keverne?
“I am.” The lead post rider smiled—Keverne would be the end of his circuit, and he could depend upon a few days’ ease before setting out once more. Also, it was a short day’s ride from Falkerry, one of the easiest stages in his rounds. “Have you a message?”
“I saw six black-hulled ships yesterday,” Druyan said tersely. “Heading this way.”
The Rider’s easy good humor slid from his face. He t
urned to his companion. “Tamsin. Get the captain of the watch out here, now! Where are you from, Lady?”
Druyan dodged the question, for he would not believe her answer and might thereby doubt her warning. There was no time to waste on that nonsense. What she had said was true, but she must lie to support it. “My drovers and I are bringing a herd to market. I came ahead, to tell what I’d seen.”
“Well you did. Six ships . . .” The Rider stood in his stirrups, trying to scan the sea. “If they come in here, they’ll have the tide.” He sniffed. “Maybe the wind, as well.” There was a tang of salt in the air.
After a few moments, a stocky man came afoot through the gate. “Kernan, that idiot lieutenant of yours said you wanted me. Why aren’t you on your way back to Keverne? My breakfast’s getting cold.”
“There’s raiders seen,” the captain informed him.
“What? I didn’t hear any alarm—”
“They weren’t seen here, Uwen, but you’d better look sharp. Six ships is too big a force to be content with stealing the odd pig from a steading. Six ships is trouble.”
“Who says six ships?” The watch captain’s eyes flicked about. “Her?”
Druyan nodded, swallowing the implied insult. Valadan was snorting and raking the dirt with his off forehoof, irritated for her. “Yesterday.”
“You’re sure ’twas six? You’re sure ’twas ships, come to that? Not some village fishing fleet trying to get a catch in?” He yawned, and squinted toward the sea sparkle. “I don’t see any ships.”
“If you wait to prepare till you see them, you’ll have left it too late!” Druyan protested. “I rode all night to warn you—”