“Let Bel tell it.”
The man was outraged. “I was there!”
“For only part.”
“I never left!”
“You slept.”
“Never! Well, yes, with the help of a goblin’s cudgel ..” But the cry had been taken up by the other Outskirters. The woman at the end of the table rocked indecisively a moment, then rolled her eyes and got to her feet. Somewhat shorter than expected, she climbed to stand on her chair so she rose above the listeners, her head up near the low rafters.
She gazed up at the air for a while, as if choosing her words. Though small, she looked strong and able. She kept her balance on the chair easily, feet planted wide in shaggy goatskin boots which were met at the top by leather leggings. Her sleeveless shirt was equally shaggy. Her cloak was made of the unmatched skins of seemingly dozens of very small animals, crudely stitched together. Rowan wondered if she was not too warm.
With a gesture that commanded instant silence, the barbarian began to speak.
“Silence and silence; the battle stilled.
The outcome delivered, foes dispersed:
Garryn’s gift. His was the guidance,
Warrior’s wisdom, and heart of wildness.”
Distracted, Rowan returned to her counting. The innkeeper finally spoke up. “What does it tell you, lady?”
“A moment.” She finished, then gestured for him to pass the wooden lump. She placed it on the edge of the mantel and turned it this way and that, comparing it to the beam. “It tells me the age of this tree.”
“The age?”
A grizzled elderly local spoke up. “One ring every year, on a tree.” He was seated on a stool by the hearth’s edge, his hands busy knitting a large square of off-white wool. Beside him, in a deeply cushioned armchair, an even older woman worked at needlepoint, her nearsighted eyes perilously close to the flashing needle. The old man grunted. “Don’t need a steerswoman for that. One ring a year.” The woman nodded, her work nodding with her.
“You can see the center of the tree, here. I can count all the way out to the edge: forty-three rings.” The innkeeper and the farmer peered up. “And this—” She turned the glittering wood object again. “See how close the grain is? It came from about this area. Where the tree is perhaps fifteen years old.”
Across the room, the quiet grew deeper as more people turned their attention to the Outskirter.
“The sun sank, urging us speed,
For in deep darkness, fire calls to Death,
To furies fouler, more fearsome than Man—”
Goblins were attracted by fire, Rowan remembered, only half listening. She clambered down from her perch, thanked the farmer, then settled on a lower stool. “Forty-three years old when it was cut down, ten years ago. And the jewels appeared at the fifteen-year mark, about.
Roughly, then, thirty-five years ago, these jewels and the tree came together.”
“Came together? But surely they grew there, magic and all?”
She smiled. “Possibly they grew there. Likely they were put there, that is, driven into the bark, just at the surface. Later, the tree grew outward, and the wood engulfed the jewels.”
“The tree didn’t grow them, then?” The farmer spoke up, indicating the innkeeper with a thumb gesture. “Like he’s always telling?”
Rowan looked apologetic. “I have one, found in a spadeful of dirt from an irrigation ditch, far from any tree. If trees grow them, then the earth does, as well.”
The old man spoke to the farmer. “She’s going to find out about them. That’s what they do, you know. Always asking questions, the steerswomen.”
“I thought they answered questions.”
“Of course!” He laid a finger aside his nose. “You and me, we ask the steerswomen. And they ask themselves. Answer themselves, too, they do, in the end.”
Rowan made to speak to the innkeeper, but found him distracted by the Outskirter’s poem. Apparently the goblins were attacking:
“The cries of the crazed ones, hefting cudgels,
Driving from darkness, drawn by fire,
Hunting heat, and knowing no hindrance
Of men, matter, arms, or means ...”
The steerswoman went to the innkeeper and got his attention. “Might I possibly borrow this piece of wood for a time? It would be good if I could show it to some people at the Archives.”
He was dubious, but reluctant to deny her. “Well, lady,” he said, “I’d hate to part with it. I mean, how I found it and all ... I’m sure it must be magic, and as it hasn’t done any harm yet, I suppose it must be doing some good.”
“I don’t really need it,” she admitted. “But it would be helpful.” A change in the reciting Outskirter’s voice made Rowan glance her way.
“Faltered finally, felled by this sword—” Bel stood straight and slapped the hilt with a gesture that tossed back one side of her cloak.
Her movement revealed, below the edge of her shaggy vest, an eye-catching belt of silver, decorated with flat blue gems.
Rowan handed the jeweled lump back to the innkeeper blindly and forgot about the man as completely as if he had vanished. Edging her way through the tables, she approached the crowd around the Outskirter woman.
“—held by this hand. So passed horror.”
Bel paused, then shifted her weight slightly, and the informality of the movement made it clear that the tale was over. There were murmurs of appreciation from those gathered and some table-pounding on the part of her Outskirter cohorts. She hopped down from the chair, with an unnecessary but clearly welcome assist from the field hand. He made a comment that Rowan could not discern but that made Bel laugh with plain happiness.
Rowan approached them, torn by reluctance and necessity. “Warrior?” she called, using the barbarians’ preferred form of address. The woman turned to her, curious, not annoyed by the interruption. “Might I speak to you?”
“You’re doing it.”
“I’m curious about your belt.”
Bel looked down at it herself, appreciating it afresh. “My father made it himself, a long time ago. So, there’s not another one like it, if that’s your interest.”
“Not quite. I wonder about those jewels, where they came from.” She saw suspicion rise in the other’s eyes. “I’m a steerswoman,” she hastened to explain.
Suspicion changed to interest. “Ha! I’ve heard of such before, though I’ve never met any. It means I can ask you anything I please, can’t I? And you have to answer?”
“If I know the answer, I have to give it,” Rowan admitted.
“That’s not always sensible. There are some answers one may need to keep to oneself.”
Rowan laughed. “The situation arises less often than you might think. Still, I’ll answer anything you like, but I’d first like to ask, if I may. Can you—” She tried not to glance at the field hand. “Can you spare some time?”
The barbarian considered, weaving minutely. Then, with an apologetic look toward her friend, she led Rowan to a table to one side.
Rowan briefly recounted her interest in the jewels and displayed her own shard. “I noticed the first as a charm in a witch-woman’s but in Wulfshaven. She told me where she’d found it; I was only interested because of its beauty. But when I came across another, in some arid farmland on the western curve of the Long North Road, I became more curious. There’s no similarity in the types of terrain where they’re found, as there ought to be. And they’re never found in a natural state; always polished, with some metal setting.”
Bel listened, then, with a new curiosity of her own, removed her belt and studied it. Rowan leaned forward.
The belt consisted of nine jewels shaped as rough disks, thickly edged with silver and connected by large silver links. The whole was finished with a heavy clasp in back. The jewels themselves varied more widely than any Rowan had seen before. Some had silver veins running from a central vein, as a leaf might; others had the same fine parallel lines as Row
an’s. There was one type totally new to her: not blue at all, but a solid rich purple, with rough veins so thick as to stand in high relief on the surface. “How old is the belt?”
The Outskirter calculated. “My father gave it to me some ten years ago, when he joined a war band in another tribe, for love of the woman who led it. I heard he was killed in a raid later. But he had it before as long as I can remember, which I admit is not many years. Twenty-one.” Something occurred to her. “No, here; there came a man looking for my father some years ago. He named him as the Outskirter with the blue belt, and said he’d heard of him from a tribe we had passed.” She paused, then shook her head. “Many years ago, well before I was born, my kin told me. So that he had it twenty-five, perhaps thirty years ago.”
“Did he say where he found the jewels? I have some maps; perhaps you can point it out?”
“I’ll be glad to try.”
Rowan led the barbarian back to her chamber, then drew out and displayed her charts. The small-scale map proved useless, as no part of it was familiar to Bel. The large-scale map was of limited use.
“My father told me he found them on Dust Ridge, out on the blackgrass prairie,” the Outskirter said. “But I don’t find that here.”
“What direction does it lie from where we are?”
“Due east. At a guess, I’d say three months’ march.”
Rowan measured out a distance with calipers. The location was situated in the vaguest part of the map, solidly in the Outskirts. She had no information about the area.
She sat back, silent. Bel watched her with interest, making no comment. “I’ll have to go there,” Rowan said finally.
“My war band returns tomorrow, in that general direction. They won’t take you all the way, but you’ll do well to travel with them as far as you can. It’s no place for casual visitors.”
Rowan proceeded to put away the charts. “A good idea, but I have things to attend to first.” She gave a small grimace. “I’ll have to return to the Archives and tell the Prime my plans. I’ve neglected my usual route as it is, following the lead on that charm the innkeeper keeps.”
“This Prime is your leader?”
“Not in any usual sense. She doesn’t command. She’s ... central. She keeps things in order; she’s a final source. Her opinion carries weight, and her suggestions are usually followed. But she doesn’t completely control me, or any steerswoman. Still, I don’t think she’ll be happy to hear I want to spend all my attention on this one problem ...”
Bel watched as Rowan organized her possessions with practiced efficiency, packing away those things not necessary in the morning. Presently the Outskirter spoke. “Where do these Archives lie?”
“West,” Rowan said. She discovered a clean mug and with a gesture offered Bel some wine from an open jug. “North of Wulfshaven.” She poured for herself also, and sat. It came to her that Bel probably had no idea where Wulfshaven was, or what lay to the north of it. “I’m sorry, did you mention that you had a question?”
“Yes,” the Outskirter replied. “You’re going back? Farther into the Inner Lands?”
“That’s right. Four weeks’ journey, perhaps, considering the spring rains I’m likely to meet. Or, I may do better to go south on the Long North Road, to the sea. I can halve the time, if I happen to meet a ship traveling in the right direction.”
The Outskirter sipped. “I’ve never seen the sea.” She raised her cup a little. “Nor tasted wine as good as this. None has made it out as far as my tribe’s lands.” She looked at Rowan, her head tilted to one side. “What’s it like, the sea?”
Rowan settled herself into an explanation. “Large,” she began, but Bel spoke again before she could continue.
“May I travel with you?”
Rowan was taken aback. “That’s not your question?”
“No. I’m curious, the Inner Lands sound so different. I was going to ask you what life is like there, but if I travel with you, I’ll find my own answers.”
The steerswoman looked at her again, studying her anew. Dark eyes, large eyes full of intelligence. An Outskirter with curiosity.
Rowan considered her usual displeasure in traveling with company. She had done it before, for convenience or added protection in difficult regions, but she had never found it comfortable. There were always compromises, the need to consider the other’s personality and quirks. Such things tended to accumulate, eventually requiring major adjustments in Rowan’s natural behavior. It became irksome.
But this barbarian, this warrior, seemed somehow cleaner, more direct than other people Rowan met. But not uncomplicated, not without depth. Rowan considered the improvised poem. A woman with such a talent was certainly no common barbarian. Also, she seemed genuinely friendly and was manifestly no fool ...
Her request made sense; an Outskirter, even traveling alone, would be considered a threat by any people she might meet. Steerswomen, on the other hand, were usually welcome everywhere.
Rowan found herself intrigued, interested, and suddenly pleased with the idea. “We leave in the morning.”
Bel laughed happily, an honest, cheerful laugh. They spent the evening discussing routes.
In the morning the innkeeper breakfasted with them, resting from the duties that had roused him well before dawn. “Feast or famine, see. A week of good business, then they all leave at once. Those barbarians were out early.”
“It’s a long march back to the Outskirts,” Bel said, examining her gruel as if she had never before seen the like. “It’s best to cover as much ground in the morning as possible. It makes for a longer rest in the evening.” With a discerning eye she studied the row of little condiment jars on the table, experimentally combined two on her meal, and seemed pleased with the effect.
“Did everyone leave?” Rowan asked the innkeeper.
He jerked his head in the direction of the back rooms. “The pilgrims are snoring—and making an unholy racket of it, as well. The caravan was gone before light, and the soldiers just left. Scattered every which way, they did, on some wizardly errand, I suppose.”
They stood at last before the door. The air was cool with mist, and the sky was white with the cloud-diffused sunlight. The road south was deserted, the few shops and houses just beginning to come to life. The jingle of a donkey cart could be heard, hidden by the mist, and the air was still in the way that always presaged furious heat for the afternoon.
The yawning serving girl handed them packages of trail food, and Rowan reached in her pocket for some coins for the innkeeper. He pushed back her hand. “No, lady, business has been good; and I’d have to be doing poorly indeed to make a steerswoman pay for lodging.”
Embarrassed, she thanked him quietly and put her money away. She was always disturbed by such moments, always gratified and always vaguely ashamed. She felt she would never get used to it.
Bel stood expectantly silent a moment under the innkeeper’s gaze, then resignedly pulled out a small silver coin and handed it to him. “Tell your cook to put tarragon in the stew,” she advised, then ambled off without a backward glance. Rowan hurried to catch up, then fell in step beside her.
2
Bel and Rowan had chosen to travel south from the inn at Five Corners, down to the mud flats and the dreary port of Donner on the mouth of the Greyriver. The road was broad and well established, as it represented the southern end of the Long North Road, one of the few major caravan routes. It was presently deserted, and the travelers walked alone as the darker north forest gradually gave way to a wood of silver birches, bare but for handfuls of tiny bright green leaves at the very ends of the branches. The Outskirter watched everything about her with lively interest.
“Is this very different from the land where you live?” Rowan asked.
Bel nodded, a broad movement. “Mostly in the color. The farther into the Outskirts you travel, the duller the colors grow. Trees are green, while they last, but they thin out quickly. And the animals are fast to find any greengras
s that makes its way that far.”
A clearing appeared on the left-hand side of the road, and they found themselves passing a meadow aburst with dandelions. On the far edge stood a small cabin, a corral nearby holding a crowd of white goats.
There was a faint rustling in the greengrass nearby. The movement caught Bel’s eye. “Ha!” A stone was in her hand and out of it in an instant; it contacted with a faint thump.
She went to the spot and came up with a small rabbit. She waved it happily at Rowan and laughed. The steerswoman found herself laughing, also; Bel’s pleasure was neither innocent nor childlike, but it was wonderfully direct. They continued on, Bel expertly gutting their dinner as she walked.
“What kind of dangers do you meet here?” the Outskirter asked.
“Wolves,” Rowan said. “But they’re not common, and they tend to stay clear of the road, save at night. On the other hand, bandits are attracted for the same reason the wolves stay away. The road’s not well traveled this time of year, so we’ve less danger of bandits.”
“But more of wolves?”
“Somewhat. Rarely, a goblin band will find its way to these parts. When we get to the mud flats we may have to watch for dragons; it’s a breeding ground. Still, they’ll be small ones. I understand the local wizard considers them his job. Unusual responsibility on the part of a wizard.”
Bel digested all of that. “It’s a very rich land, and a soft one. A raid wouldn’t risk much, and could stand to gain a lot.”
Rowan stopped dead in surprise. In her enjoyment of Bel’s company she had forgotten what the woman was. She hurried to catch up again. “Of course, the people cooperate against any large dangers. They can be surprisingly well-organized.”
“We’ll deal with that if it comes up.”
“They’ll hardly extend their hospitality to you if they think you may be an advance scout for a war band.”
Steerswoman - 01 & 02 The Steerswoman's Road Page 2