Talon found his voice. “So we will winter then in Kiren and attack Ariye in spring.”
Drovic guffawed. “With barely two dozen riders? Your opinion of your own skill has grown beyond arrogance.”
“They’re more than enough to take or kill the Lloroi.”
Drovic sobered. “Son, you miss the point. If I wanted nothing more than the life of the Lloroi, I would have killed him decades ago. When we finally enter Ariye, it will not be as raiders, but as welcome elders ourselves.”
Talon tried to control his impatience. “You treat deception like a goal in and of itself, not like the tool it should be. You wait—for what? To lay traps, to bait the Ariyens?”
Drovic’s voice was cold. “To watch and judge the strength of the venges sent out by the other Lloroi. It is a measure of the Ariyen influence.”
“They are not the enemy—”
“A man can learn more about his enemy from the moments between the fighting than he can from his enemy’s battles. A fighting man has only four options: attack, defend, flee, or die. Once he commits himself, his tactics are predictable; his reactions can be controlled. A leader in peacetime, that is the man to watch. What does he do with his fighters? Does he keep them trained? Experienced? How ready are their weapons? What stocks of supplies are set aside to provide for them when they ride? How much do the elders support the continuous drain of resources to support those peacetime fighters?”
Talon searched his sparse memory. “Ariye once supported a wide-ranging action against Bilocctar’s raiders. It was difficult for Ariye. They hadn’t had to shift so many supplies or men before, or maintain camps so far from the towns. We laid out lines of scouts to watch.” There were wolves in his head, wolves in his memories. “There were cliffs, a river, the waiting, the fire.”
“Aye.” Drovic watched Talon closely. “We lost almost everyone.”
Talon’s voice suddenly caught in his throat. Wolves that had torn men off the edge of the humming mountain and dropped them three hundred meters to a gridded grave that echoed with ancient energies. The woman in the wolves—she had been there. He had seen her through the smoke. The gray fog in his head tightened with his recognition, and the wolfwoman seemed to vibrate with power. Energy that flowed, healed, soothed . . . “I tasted fear,” he managed. “Blood.”
Drovic’s voice was soft. “You lost many things in Ariye.”
“As did you.” Talon rubbed at his temple.
Drovic glanced back over the line. “I like this group of riders. I don’t want to lose any more.” As if that decided him, he nodded to the left fork. “We still need supplies. I’ll take four and go into town, do a little recon, buy what we need, see the healer for some more of your herbs. You take the rest and head north toward the Circle of Fifths. Scout the roads. Find us a way to Bilocctar that avoids the venges, and leave me a message in the cairn at Three Corners for the route. You know the codes.”
Talon eyed his father. There hadn’t been the slightest flicker in Drovic’s eyes when his father spoke of the herbs. “Scouting is a lonely job,” he said slowly. “I’d travel faster and leave fewer traces if I rode alone. I wouldn’t be seen as a raider.”
It might have been his imagination that Drovic’s face tightened; the older man displayed nothing in his voice. “You need some swords for protection.”
The words grated. “I’ll not hide behind your men—”
“They’re your men, not just mine.” Drovic grinned fiercely as he regarded his son. “But no, you were never one to hide behind the skirts and shields of others. You may have lost your strength and your mind, but at least you have not lost that.”
Obscurely, Talon was not pleased. “I’ll take my ten,” he conceded finally. “Mal, Dangyon, Wakje, Weed, and the rest. You keep the others.”
“As if I could take a group that large into town and not cause comment. Besides, Mal, Weed, and Ki are wounded.”
“They’re my riders.”
Drovic gave him a dark look. “Mal doesn’t even look like he’s healing. All three will slow you down.”
“Any number of riders will slow me,” Talon returned sharply. “It won’t matter that some are wounded.”
“Dammit, did your wounds also make you stupid as an effen? They’ll be deadweight in a fight, and you’re going to need every sword. I could take care of those three in two minutes or less—”
Talon cut him off with a sharp gesture and leaned close. His eyes were like chips of ice. “If you ever try to release even one of my riders, I’ll draw blade on you, father or not.”
Drovic’s face darkened like basalt. “Go then, and ride like old women. Carry your wounded like baggage. Coddle weakness and indulge your childish sense of honor. Don’t cry to me when the county folk catch you because you couldn’t move quickly enough. Don’t wail to me when the venge comes down on your heads, when the trial block stands gray and waiting, when you waste yourself and the future of us all in a stupid, needless death.”
Talon’s jaw was tight. “How many times have you saved me when I should have died? Why do less for them?”
The man’s voice was harsh. “You’re my son.”
“They’re my men.”
“Chak take you,” Drovic snarled. “If you won’t listen to reason, I’ll do what you should have done days ago.” He drew his sword and spurred his dnu back toward Mal. Warned by their voices, the dour man instantly caught Drovic’s intent. Mal straightened abruptly and started to draw his sword.
But Talon’s blade was in his hand before he thought. His dnu shouldered Drovic’s aside so that the beast reared back and nearly unseated the older man. Talon’s blade was between them. His hand was steady as a badgerbear’s claw. His voice was soft. “You know me well, Father. I have never made threats. Only promises. You will not kill any one of my men.”
For a moment, he wasn’t sure Drovic would stop. There was a rage in the older man’s eyes and a blindness so sharply focused that he could not see his own son. Talon did not move. If a dnu stamped its feet, if a chunko bird cried, neither one noticed.
Slowly, Drovic lowered his blade. His dark-flecked eyes were steely, but his voice was calm. “Ride then, as you wish. You’ll do so whether I want it or not. But if you’re riding with wounded, you’ll take the whole lot of them, not just eight or ten, and you’ll stay away from the border.”
Talon knew which border he meant. “And you?” he said stiffly. He did not quite withdraw his sword.
“Cheyko, neBrenton, and Slu.”
“You should ride with more protection.”
Drovic glared at the mimicry in his voice. “You’ve stood up for your riders like a leader should. But push your luck and I’ll tear that little-boy sword from your hand and feed it to you for breakfast. Those three are enough to take care of my needs and yours.” Talon knew he meant the herbs.
“My needs are changing,” Talon muttered.
“On that, we are agreed.” Drovic’s voice was dry. “We’ll meet at Racton.”
Talon shook his head. “Lind.”
“That’s too close to Ariye.”
“Hardly. It’s four days from the pass, the same from Ramaj Bilocctar, and offers a road to Nadugur.”
Drovic’s eyes narrowed. “You’re pushing me more than is wise.”
“As you taught me to do,” Talon retorted.
His father’s face was dark. “Lind, then, in two days.”
“Lind,” Talon agreed. “I will be there.”
“Be sure you are, or I’ll come hunting you again.”
Talon smiled slowly. “It might be me who goes hunting.”
“If it is still your fist on the reins.”
Talon’s grin became wolfish. He made as if to turn away, but Drovic’s hand shot out. For an instant, as the older man’s hand closed on his arm, Talon could not breathe. The hardness of Drovic’s grip was a wave of black agony. The gray that had kept his mind from his pain could not compensate for the sudden physical vise. Wolves howl
ed. Talon’s muscles went rigid with a burning spasm. Blinded, he forced himself to remain upright.
“You have enough herbs in the meantime?”
“Enough,” he managed truthfully. He would not be taking more. But he could not see his father, and his heartbeat was throbbing up in his neck. Light was fire; his colon was tight as a wire. It was all he could do to keep his eyes open and control the spasm of pain.
“I’ll bring enough for the ninan.” Drovic released his grip.
“Good.” He bit out the word. He sensed his father turning away and said softly, “Ride safe.”
Drovic hesitated but did not turn around. He merely reined his dnu off to the side so that Talon’s riders could gather.
Ride safe; with the moons. Talon’s mind supplied the rest of the blessing that Drovic refused to say. He forced himself to raise his arm to give the riding signal. The wolves, waiting for this, howled. Freedom. The hunt. The woman. Find.
Yes. It was a single word, but the packsong tightened around him like a vise. For an instant, his breath was cut off again. Then it released, and the pain began to soothe. Yes, he told himself savagely. I could leave Drovic and the raiders, but I could also take them with me. Mine, to follow me, not him. Mine to hunt with the wolves. And I want that sense of gray. I want the hunt, the feel of wind that doesn’t stink of human blood. I want that woman, that wolfwalker who forces the wolves to my mind. His focus narrowed, and he felt the wolves focus with him. He felt time, the Gray Ones, the roads closing in on a point that he could not yet quite see. The forest seemed tight as he led his group away; the moons seemed to hang low in the sky. He could not tell if it was the pain from his wounds or the sense of being herded that laid the shudder over his shoulders like a spiderweb.
Drovic gestured for his three riders to hold back and watched his son move away. In minutes, each party was lost to the others, their sounds deadened by the trees. But Kilaltian had hung back, and Drovic motioned for him to come close.
“So you are letting him lead without you?” Kilaltian asked as he drew up.
Drovic’s answer was curt. “I’m letting him run out his impatience.”
“He’ll see this as his chance for freedom.”
“Let him. Better to find out his weaknesses now than lose because of them later.”
Kilaltian absently fingered the hilt of his knife. “He might surprise you.”
“Aye. He is stronger than he appears, and ambitious as always.”
Kilaltian noted the pride that Drovic could not quite hide. “He cannot be trusted with the payroll and stashes,” he warned sharply. “He’ll try to use them to set himself up as leader.”
If he hasn’t done so already, Drovic thought dryly. “He cannot best me.”
“And Aranur of Ariye?”
“Aranur is gone like a drunk’s stash of whiskey. Whatever he thought to be to Ariye, Talon and I will be more.” He gave the other man a hard look. “And while I’m gone, you will be there to keep him from straying—you and Ki.”
Drovic had almost added something else, and Kilaltian regarded him carefully. Was there another worlag in the wood-pile? And if so, what guarantees had Drovic made about Kilaltian in his own small band of riders? The core group of Kilaltian, Darity, Sojourn, and the others knew Drovic’s secrets, his dreams, his fury, and like a pack of wild dogs, they fought to drink the blood of the prey he fed them. But even as a raider, Drovic was still Ariyen. There might be things about the man that even Kilaltian didn’t know. He kept his voice mild. “Ki seems to have acquired other loyalties.”
“Then make sure Fit knows what to do.”
Kilaltian studied Drovic carefully from beneath his sculpted eyebrows. “So, you really would kill your own son if he crossed you—and after all those years of waiting for him to reach the point of usefulness.” He shook his head, studying Drovic’s shuttered expression. “Aye, I guess you would,” he said with bald approval. “You nearly did before.” He held up a hand to stop Drovic’s snarl. “I’ll speak to Fit tonight.” He cantered after the other raiders.
Drovic watched them disappear into the forest. His goal seemed to be riding him down, whether he wanted it or not. If Talon stayed with the raiders, he would commit to the goal and become the figurehead Drovic needed. If he rode away, he would die. Drovic nodded to himself in grim satisfaction, ignoring the twinge in his chest. Either way, he would have revenge on Ariye. He didn’t let himself consider that there might be another option.
XXVI
Ember Dione maMarin
Some people sink roots;
Some take their roots with them;
Some people seek knowledge;
Some gather and give it;
Some people trade the question
For the answer;
Some people trade the answer
For the question.
—The Cozar
Dion’s group caught up with the trade wagons by late afternoon. The wagoners couldn’t help but see them coming. Their three dark shapes glittered like black jewels along the snow-white road.
As Dion and the others came within bowshot, the four rear riders lagged so that they blocked the trail. The cozar wagons did not stop—they could not and keep their momentum. On roads as steep as these, the wagons would not halt until they reached the goal of the wide, paved courtyards of the next passhouse.
Dion pulled up when she was close enough to speak without shouting. Tehena and Kiyun remained slightly behind her. In the cold, each rider was haunted by the ghost clouds of his own breath.
“We greet you,” one of the men said.
“We greet you,” Dion returned flatly.
The cozar studied the three. Dion had given the caravan greeting of equals, neither accepting nor asking for a welcome nor extending one, and it gave the men pause. Their wariness did not surprise her. Usually only the last caravans and a few desperate travelers would take the passes so late.
She knew what they saw as they studied her group: three figures who could as easily have been raiders as venge riders or journeyers. Her silver healer’s circlet was hidden beneath the war cap, which in turn was hidden beneath the layers of fur that made up her alpine cap. The wolves had been out of sight all day, hunting near the trees for the air pockets of snowbears and the winter dens of rabbits. They would not follow her much farther up the pass—they could not, unless she fed them. So there was nothing to identify her as a wolfwalker—nothing except the claw marks that wracked the left side of her face; the posture of a scout, which she could not hide; and the color of her eyes.
The four men before her were as nondescript. Each had the careful, wary strength that spoke of a lifetime of riding. Their bows were strung, their arrows ready but not nocked. The tallest one was also the youngest, but there was nothing of inexperience in his eyes. The lead drover was thicker around the middle, his nose was flattened, and one cheek was oddly sunken, as if it had been shattered and badly healed. The man beside him was as thick, but with piercing blue eyes. This man barely glanced at Dion. Instead, he kept his gaze on Kiyun. The fourth rider was oldest, with brown eyes and brown-gray hair, a long, rangy frame, and a face carved like a hatchet. The cuffs of that man’s jacket had a thin band of red and brown cutting through the fur.
In the distance, the wolves became restless. You do not greet your packmates properly.
Dion smiled faintly at their obvious worry. We’re still sniffing noses, she told them.
Gray Murah whuffed her disgust in the snow, and Dion resisted the urge to wrinkle her lips. The older female’s message was clear: You are stronger than them. They will accept you if you nip at their hindquarters and show them their place in your pack.
Her mental voice was dry. Thank you, Gray One, for the advice. She projected an image of herself with a mouthful of trousers, and the wolfpack snorted with laughter.
The lead drover cocked his head to eye her more carefully, as if he could feel her communication, and behind Dion, Tehena’s pale eyes glittered
.
Finally, the lead drover said, “We welcome you.”
Dion inclined her head to acknowledge his words. Her own response came automatically. “We have salt to share.”
The cozar did not smile, but he lost some of his wariness. “Have you needs?”
“No.”
Her answer was short but not impolite. Fourteen years ago, she had left Randonnen with a wagon train, and the language patterns she had learned with those cozar and with others since then had been set in memory along with her link to the wolves. Her terse answer was expected from someone who knew their way, and the stocky man barely hesitated with his introductions. “I am Iles; the young one is neCot: Samoska—” He indicated the man with the sharp blue eyes, then nodded toward the hatchet-faced leader. “—Berelto.”
“Dion,” she said with no expression. As he had done, she used a slight nod, rather than a gesture, to indicate her friends. “Kiyun, Tehena.”
The young man, neCot, gave her a curious glance, but the older, hatchet-faced man simply turned with the others and left the three to fall in behind.
Dion and the others lagged behind the wagons in the center track where the snow was churned to slush.
“Friendly folk,” Kiyun murmured.
“They are cozar,” Dion returned absently.
Tehena pulled her scarf more closely around her chin. “At least we were accepted with the caravan. They’re picky enough about their traveling companions that I was half afraid they would leave you behind,” she cast at Kiyun.
“Huh.” The bulky man snorted. He clenched and unclenched his hands to get the blood moving again. “We could have frozen into three-year ice caps by the time they offered that welcome.”
The lanky woman raised a skinny eyebrow. “And we could offend them enough to spend another night in a snow cave. I’ll take the wolfwalker’s approach, terse as it is.”
“No titles,” Kiyun commented.
Tehena nodded. “They don’t use them.”
“They don’t use them in greetings,” Dion corrected. “They believe it is prideful and arrogant.” She shrugged at Kiyun’s raised eyebrow. “To introduce yourself with a title makes it seem as if you’re trying to be better than the other person, or that you’re trying to introduce yourself not as who you are, but as your accomplishments—which might mean nothing in their world. The cozar are judged on what they do now, not on what they accomplished before.”
Silver Moons, Black Steel Page 27