It hadn’t taken her, or them, long to discover who was tougher and more dangerous. That was after she’d stopped screaming in the dark each time she was locked away, after immeasurable days of being laughed at and beaten for daring to ask for a different cell. She’d learned to live in a state of watchful truce with the vermin, and to keep the big kitchen cat beside her. She’d named the ginger tom Dael when she’d first found him—a half-wild stable kitten willing to accept a bit of petting—and he became her ally when she brought him into the kitchen.
She should have taken Dael. She might have, if she’d known she was leaving. If she could have conceived of the possibility of leaving. Instead, she’d last seen him racing across the yard outside the kitchen door, tail high, dashing around the largest puddles as if by his quickness he could defy the downpour and stay dry. Then a senior Brownmother had appeared in the kitchen, her expression sending the two slow-witted drudges scrambling for shelter, her pointing finger stabbing at Vray, choosing her for some unspoken but certain doom.
Vray had followed her away from the kitchen, through corridors, into public areas of the House that had always been off-limits to her, knowing that she would be punished for being presumptuous enough to be there. She hadn’t wondered where she was being taken, or why. Curiosity wasn’t approved of. She was brought to one of the larger sick halls, and the Brownmother walked away.
Jenil’s voice, saying, “I see you’ve grown, in spite of her,” had been enough to send Vray into a dead faint.
That, and the fact that she hadn’t had time to steal any breakfast.
Since then she’d had several breakfasts. Midday meals had been less available, not because they were short on supplies, but because the Greenmother seemed in a hurry and resented any interruption to their progress. The first day’s travel away from Soza had included several long breaks. Vray could never have walked even those few miles otherwise. Jenil had cooked her a hot dinner, liberally spiced with odd things from her sack of medicines. Whatever was in the food made Vray sleep without dreaming, and walk the next day, and each day since, without feeling tired.
Without feeling anything, she admitted silently. She wished she could feel tired. Or frightened, or grateful, or anxious. Maybe she’d believe in this more if she could feel she was really here.
Wherever here was. Away from Soza. West of Soza, unless the sun had started behaving oddly. As oddly as the people they’d passed walking out the gates of the House. No one had seen them leave. People had looked right at them, but no one had seen. Jenil’s only comment had been a reassuring, “Don’t worry, dear. They’ll never even know you’ve gone.”
At least the wind was familiar. She didn’t mind it so much now. Blowing across fields and pastures and stretches of spring-green woodlands was a proper way for wind to behave. She felt no offense, or fear, at its steady tug on her robes and hair.
Jenil was offended about something. Vray hadn’t dared ask what and was afraid to guess. It was probably her fault, somehow. They hadn’t seen anyone else until yesterday. Then they almost met a troop of guards on horseback, escorting a group of young men and women on foot. Jenil had heard them coming and dragged Vray out of sight to hide in some mulberry bushes. Vray had spent the time cowering, while Jenil grumbled under her breath about too many guards taking too much advantage. But she had done nothing to stop them. Vray had been glad. Guards frightened her. She was grateful that the Greenmother had no more interest in encountering them than she did.
Jenil seemed determined not to encounter anyone. Not to be seen in Vray’s presence? You presume much, girl, Vray thought silently. You’re not that important. Not to a Greenmother. But if she wasn’t valuable to her, what were they doing out here?
No. Don’t ask questions. You won’t like the answers. One question kept occurring to her no matter how much she tried to put it out of her mind. Is someone dead? The King? Or Damon? Or Mother? That would change things. Sooner or later they had to arrive somewhere. Perhaps Jenil would tell her then.
* * *
The village square drowsed in midday solitude as Jordy led Stockings into the inn yard. The horse plodded along at his side, eyes half shut, totally oblivious to her surroundings. Jordy eyed the large front window of the inn, and Stockings’ inexorable course toward it. Shaking his head, he stopped and said, “Whoa.”
One, two, three, four. After each of her feet had taken another step, Jordy’s command filtered through to Stockings’ brain, and she halted.
“Someday you’re going to misjudge the distance, my friend, and find yourself paying compensation for a trampled fence or broken window.”
Jordy turned toward the inn door. “Never, Herri. Undependability isn’t one of Stockings’ faults.”
The innkeeper descended the two steps into the yard to join Jordy in contemplating horse and wagon. “You made good time.”
“Aye. The weather helped.”
“Any luck finding oranges?”
Jordy stepped up to the wagon and unlashed the tarp, while Herri went to the back to lower the tail board. He leaned one elbow onto the bed of the wagon and reached for a crate as Jordy flipped the tarp aside and said, “See for yourself.”
One of the innkeeper’s large, meaty hands pried open the crate with a single well-placed jerk. He plucked an orange from the topmost layer and squinted at it. “Very nice.”
“There are two more crates just like that one. Yours, if you can use them”
“I can use twice that, and you know it.” Herri replaced the orange and straightened. He laced his fingers over his apron and tilted his head slightly to peer under the half-furled tarp. “Don’t I see others under there?”
“You do, but they are for Cyril.”
Herri made an exasperated noise at the back of his throat. “Must you torment me?”
“Offering three crates of oranges when you ordered only two?” Jordy’s face crinkled into a smile. “That’s more than generous.”
“I don’t suppose it occurred to you to get six crates for the inn and two crates for your loving wife?”
“Not if I wanted to leave room for the rest of my goods.”
Jordy jumped into the wagon and pulled the other two crates toward the tail board. Getting down on one knee, he slid a few bolts of cloth toward the front of the wagon, then beckoned the innkeeper closer. “These might interest you, Herri.”
A pair of squat, dark brown barrels were lashed snugly to the right side of the wagon. Herri’s eyes widened with appreciation. “That’s not Dherrican ale?”
“Never say I don’t give due consideration to your welfare.” He began to unfasten the lashings, then paused. “You do want them, I suppose.”
Herri growled. “You’ve a wicked streak in you, carter Jordy. Worse than the children, you are, trying my patience.” He stopped, looked up and down the wagon, then turned full circle, scanning his yard and the square beyond. Jordy expected some joke about his having traded his son for the ale. Instead he found himself under his friend’s sharpest scrutiny. “Jordy, you haven’t lost Tob, have you?”
“No. Of course not. I dropped him at the high meadow to tell Cyril and Kessit we’re back.”
To his surprise, his explanation only seemed to make the innkeeper more uncomfortable. “Kessit. If only you’d waited.”
Jordy dropped over the side of the wagon and faced Herri squarely. “Out with it, man. What’s happened?”
“Kessit’s son, Pross. They’ve taken him away.”
* * *
Pross’ family had one of the small farms occupying the fertile lowland between the river and the north ridge. To Tob’s eye the decorative carvings on house and outbuildings were far more attractive than some of the ornate metalwork he’d seen used in places like Hillcrest and Edian. Pross was always surprised when Tob insisted that Broadford was the best village in the world. But then, Pross never ventured far from home, so his imagination elaborated on the tales he’d heard, making other places seem more marvelous than they
actually were. Tob enjoyed the differences in the many places his father traded, but he preferred Broadford. And, for visual variety and sheer three-dimensional exuberance, he preferred his friend’s house above any he’d seen.
Tob pushed open the gate—its two posts adorned with six different species of fish cut into the wood—and started across the yard. Several geese took offense and fled, hissing, toward the pond at the back of the house. Their complaint brought Pross’ mother out onto the porch. “Tob?”
“Good morning, Jaea,” Tob replied cheerfully. “Where’s Kessit, please? My father has a delivery for him.”
“Oh. You’ve just returned.”
Her voice made Tob suddenly uneasy. She came down from the porch, her hands twisting together until the knuckles bulged white beneath her skin. Tob tried to ignore her tension.
“Yes. Dad hopes we can get the stonewood unloaded before dark. That’s why he needs Kessit. And Pross, of course.”
Compared to Tob’s mother, Jaea was a small woman. When she stood directly in front of him and put her hands on his shoulders she had to look up slightly to catch his eye. “Tob, where’s Jordy now?”
“He was going to the inn.”
“He’ll know then,” she said. Tob wondered if she was talking to herself, since the comment made absolutely no sense to him. “Is he expecting you there?”
“Yes, Jaea.”
Her hands on his shoulders squeezed him once. He was sure it was meant to be a comforting gesture, but he didn’t want to think he might need comfort at the hands of Pross’ mother. If he hadn’t just been home he would have feared bad news about one of his little sisters, or even Cyril herself.
“Go to your father,” Jaea said. “Tell him Kessit will be at the inn this afternoon. Get along with you now.”
Jaea was a pretty woman. Her rich brown hair was only lightly streaked with gray, and she had a pleasant face. Tob knew it was absurd to be suddenly, uncontrollably, terrified of her. Yet all he could do was nod, spin around, and bolt through the gate.
* * *
Stockings drowsed comfortably in one of Herri’s loose boxes and the oranges and ale were safely stowed in the kitchen before Jordy was ready to sit down with his friend near the hearth in the main room. By that time, a small group of people had collected around Herri’s two largest tables, some because they made a habit of taking their midday meal at the inn, others drawn by the sight of Jordy’s wagon in the yard. Amid a general murmur of greetings, Jordy sat down next to fisherwoman Canis.
She laid one hand briefly on his arm. “What news of the kingdoms, carter?” Her words, pitched at a normal conversational level, still silenced everyone in the room. “Will there be battle?”
“I wish I knew,” Jordy said. He searched the faces around him. “There’s been no word of trouble from the borders. Did they say anything when they came? Did they show interest in any of the other young people?”
“My sons were on the river, and my grandson is not yet weaned, thank the gods. It’s as well you had Tob with you, or they may have taken an interest in him.”
Jordy scowled at her. “He’s still a boy.”
“He’s as big as you are, Jordy,” said the smith’s mild voice. Lannal had the hard-muscled arms and shoulders necessary for his craft. His diffident personality tended to startle people who did not know him well.
“Tob is nearly my height,” Jordy conceded, “but he hasn’t filled out yet. Strength counts for more than size.”
“Tell the guard that,” Canis countered. “They seem to go on first impressions.”
Herri emerged from the kitchen, a plate in one hand and three mugs of dark beer in the other. He put the plate of cold chicken and bread pudding in front of Jordy, then took a seat next to Canis. He passed one mug to Canis, one to Jordy, and kept the third for himself. “Kessit is going to be lost without him. Pross did all the planting last year, did you know that?”
“Aye, I knew.”
Across the table from them, Lannal cleared his throat nervously. “Jaea and Kessit tried to reason with the corporal, Jordy. After they took Pross away, Jaea went to the Greenmother in Garden Vale. She wasn’t there, but the Head of the Brownmother House thinks she’ll be willing to go to the king and speak in Pross’s behalf.”
Jordy almost choked. Canis pushed his beer toward him and he took a long swallow. When he could speak, he exclaimed, “Greenmother! Jaea should know better. I’ll grant the Mothers due respect as teachers and healers….”
“Since when?” Herri interrupted him. “You won’t even offer one a civil good morning.”
Canis laughed.
A flush warmed Jordy’s neck, but he ignored it, and Herri. Lannal dropped his gaze to the table. “The Greenmothers claim more influence than they actually possess,” Jordy insisted. “It’s not a Greenmother’s place to speak to a king on our behalf.”
“No,” Lannal offered, “it’s a wizard’s place. But we haven’t any.”
“We don’t need any!” Jordy said, exasperated. “We can speak for ourselves!”
“We can speak,” Herri agreed in his most reasonable tone. “But who says the king will listen?”
The great wooden door swung open, spilling gray daylight across the floor. Tob offered a few polite nods to the adults present as he headed for his father’s table. Jordy tried to see him as a stranger might. He was a bit large for his age, but then he took after Cyril’s people. He had his mother’s black hair and midnight-blue eyes as well as her skin, the pale brown of fall grasses, which would deepen toward bronze over the course of a summer spent on the road. Cyril’s father and brothers would have towered over Jordy by a head or more. Tob showed every indication of inheriting that trait as well. Still, there was no mistaking him for a mature young man. His face was still a child’s face, smooth and slightly rounded. His muscles lacked definition and his voice, when he spoke, was still an unbroken treble.
“Dad, I saw Jaea. She said she’d send Kessit, but I think there’s something wrong.”
“Pross is gone. He’s been taken to be one of the king’s guard.”
“Taken?” Tob repeated blankly. “Just like that?”
Canis stomped one booted foot on the floor. “Of course, just like that. That’s the trouble! In my father’s day, we didn’t have guards terrorizing honest, hard-working people. In my father’s day, we rarely saw the guard at all. All they did was keep the roads free of wandering Abstainers. We had wizards to work weather magic, and a Greenmother in every village.”
“We also,” Jordy said dryly, “had plague.”
“We can blame everything on that,” Herri said, and began gathering up mugs for refilling. “Which accomplishes nothing. As Jordy keeps telling us, we can’t recapture those days.”
Another impatient stomp interrupted him. Canis gave Jordy a sideways glare as she addressed the room at large. “Recapture! He treats half of what we used to have as exaggeration, and the rest as sheer fantasy. Of course he wouldn’t want to recapture that.”
“What I believe or don’t believe makes no difference,” Jordy shot back in his own defense. “Whether the gods and their power are real or not, we no longer have wizards to work with them. Whether the kingdoms used to coexist peacefully or not, they lost their stable borders in the years after the plague, and none of the kings wants to re-establish them.”
“They might go on gathering youngsters for the guard,” Lannal said quietly. “But if they do, who’ll be left to raise food?”
No one had a ready answer to that.
Chapter 16
Tob drew his hood down over his forehead and watched the water drip past his nose. Contrary to their hopes of the morning, but in keeping with his father’s more recent mood, the clouds had darkened as they had struggled to unload Kessit’s stonewood at his shop. By midafternoon the rain had begun. Tob hated unloading in the rain. Every time they moved the tarp to get at one item, water leaked in somewhere else. Tob was certain his boots had doubled in weight from the
mud they picked up in one farm yard after another. Everything took longer than usual, no one invited them in for a drink or something to eat, and Stockings’ always questionable ability to watch where she was going deteriorated completely in the wet. This meant Jordy had to squelch along beside her, one hand on her halter to guard against her stumbling to her knees in some puddle. That left Tob perched on the driver’s seat, reins slack in his hands, guilty because he couldn’t help with the horse, miserable with the damp. He wondered if it was raining where Pross was. Would he learn to fight on horseback, and go galloping across the country, taking other young people away from their homes? No, that didn’t seem likely. Probably, he’d just be a regular guard, destined to march off to a disputed border somewhere.
Tob stared at his hands. He’d never known anyone who had killed another person. Would it feel the same as it felt to slaughter a sheep? He didn’t think so, but he couldn’t be sure. Pross would learn the answer, if he wasn’t slaughtered himself first. If he survived, would he be allowed to come home? If he did come, would he have anything to say to a boyhood friend who knew nothing of man-killing?
Too many questions. From the way the adults had been behaving all afternoon, Tob knew they expected the worst. Everyone spoke to Kessit as though his son were already dead. But he’s not, Tob wanted to yell. Guards didn’t go to a lot of trouble to carry off some woodworker’s son simply to kill him. If they wanted someone dead, they cut him down on the spot. Or so people said. Tob had never seen such an execution. He thought his father had, although Jordy called it murder.
Tob shifted unhappily on the seat. Pross had to be alive. He was just living somewhere else for the summer, that was all. That had to be all.
Ahead of him the horse shook her head irritably. He heard his father’s startled protest as she tossed her head, pulling on his arm and splattering him with her mane.
“Easy.” Jordy turned sideways, watching her feet as he steadied her. “No mischief now, you foolish beast.”
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