Barrenlands
Barrenlands
Parry in fourth position, rotate wrist-riposte. Parry in first, riposte to flank; a little awkward, that move always was, so do it twice for every one of the others. Parry three, riposte, and there goes your head, sir. Quickly, easily, never the same sequence in a row, Ehren ran through the standard parry positions and their direct ripostes. With his arm relaxed, his mind relaxed, his moves fast and controlled-the practice dummy was doomed.
His saber was a heavier weapon than the ones the new Guards were making popular; theirs were basket-hilted creations with complex quillons and numerous counterguards, and fine blades with barely enough width for a good fuller. Their movements, in practice, were just as fine; they pit themselves against one another in bouts that were punctuated by triumphant yells and dramatic shouts of attack.
Herib, the Guards' master, had died with the others. Most of those who hadn't died had left the service in the year Ehren had been gone. And the remainder were like him, serving the king in new ways, ways that took them from the suddenly too-familiar grounds of the palace, and the ghosts that walked them. The current master was imported from Loraka, and had brought his own styles, his own type of weapons. These young men and women . . . they were pretty enough, they moved well-although Ehren would set them to a month's practice on distance drills. And they were brash and proud, and probably as loyal as any king could ask for. But . . .
Ehren remembered fights when the ground beneath his feet was uneven and slippery, sometimes with his own blood. He remembered grunts of pain, the quick panting of fear, and solid blades taking life from endless practice drills, moving quicker than thought, sliding along each other to break through guard and into flesh. Maybe he was old, and old-fashioned to boot, but he preferred to have a solid piece of metal in his hand, and not some stick. And among those fighting at his back, a certain number of scars was not a bad thing.
He realized he'd stopped killing the dummy in front of him. His sword was lowered, its tip hovering just above the floor. Time for a good bout with a whetstone instead. He looked over at the huddle of men and women who had stopped their sparring and were joking around, a shove here, a nudge there. It occurred to him that Varien, whatever his scheming-and Ehren was certain there was more to it than Varien claimed-was right in one thing: Ehren didn't seem to belong here any more.
He closed his hand over the ring, the emerald set in vines, that barely fit over the small finger on his left hand. For reasons of his own, Varien seemed certain Dannel and his family lived over the border, in the steep ridges of the Lorakan mountains that hugged both Solvany and Therand. A long journey from Kurtane, and a place filled with old magics.
Not anywhere Ehren wanted to be. But as his visit to Rodar earlier in the day had proven, he didn't have much choice in the matter-not if he wanted a chance to come back and continue the search for Benlan's killer that was, as far as he was concerned, still priority.
Rodar had been in his semi-formal receiving room, making a seamstress' life Hell by gesturing freely while she tried to fit the sleeves of the colorful shirt he wore. The person on the receiving end of the gestures was a First Level minister, and not one that held Ehren in any favor. Halden was First Level Minister of Diplomacy, and Ehren had disrupted more than one of his functions, implacably unmoved by Halden's protests when Ehren spotted something-or someone-that he felt might create a problem for King Benlan.
Halden had glanced away from Rodar just long enough to give Ehren a cold look and a nod of greeting. Rodar, when he saw Ehren standing in the doorway, greeted him cheerfully enough. "Ehren! It's about time you paid a visit to your king, instead of skulking up and down the coast."
Ehren held his tongue on the reminder of the reason he'd been skulking along the coast; Rodar was sincere enough in his grief for his father, but had been very good at pushing it to the back of his mind. Instead he said, "It'll be the last visit for some time, unless your majesty does something about it."
Rodar frowned. His face was long and narrow, and the fuzz-short hairstyle he'd adopted did nothing for his features. He flapped an arm in protest-narrowly avoiding the stick of the needle, to judge by the seamstress' alarm. "What do you mean? I was counting on you to stand with me for the fete next week. Halden's managed to gather all the First and Second Level families together-no simple task, ey, Halden?"
Halden turned a poisonous gaze on Ehren. "Indeed, quite a difficult one, your majesty. Pinning down your First Level secretary and the Second Level commanders took considerable persistence. But the effort is well worth it, to celebrate the start of your second year of rule."
"Exactly. It's an important occasion, and I want Ehren there." Rodar's jaw set, but it only served to make him look slightly petulant instead of determined. For once his arms were still, his fists resting at his waist, but the seamstress had paused in her efforts to look at Ehren with an expression that wavered between intimidation and curiosity.
"Varien has other plans for me," Ehren said. He'd come straight from his discussion with the wizard, fully aware that he was carrying weapons only the King's Guards were allowed to bear in the king's presence. He rested his palm over the cold, smooth curve of his sword hilt; a subtle reminder of his status that Rodar missed completely but Halden did not. The smaller man's nostrils flared slightly, and he looked away. Ehren said, "Yours is the final say in this matter, Rodar. The Guard is yours."
Halden shot him a quick look of anger, and suggested, "I'm sure Varien has good reason to request Ehren's services, your majesty."
"What could be more important than having him at my side?" Rodar asked, in complete sincerity. "He's ranking Guard, and he was my father's most trusted protector."
Halden contrived to look reluctant; Ehren suppressed a flash of irritation as Rodar picked up on it. "What's wrong?" the king asked. "Is there something I should know?"
Halden said carefully, "There has been some discussion of this, your majesty. While it's true Ehren was an important part of your father's court, some of the First Level have been concerned about the appearances of maintaining his presence."
"What do you mean?" Rodar demanded. "How is it supposed to look? All of Solvany's monarchs have had their Guards beside them."
"Exactly." Halden nodded with satisfaction, as if the conversation had taken just the spin he'd been aiming for.
Ehren gave him a cold look, entertaining a brief fantasy of breaking the man's nose. That would have shut him up quick enough. . . . The seamstress, a mature woman who knew well enough when to disappear, quietly moved back from Rodar's side to discreetly fiddle with some bright corded trim in her basket.
Halden seemed oblivious to Ehren's inner seething. "Ehren is your father's Guard, sire, not yours. It might not be the wisest thing to retain him. And celebrating the onset of your second year of rule by reminding the Levels-and all their family-that you have come upon your rule young, and through the tragedy of your father's death, cannot be a good thing in any case."
"My age has nothing to do with it!" Rodar said, but his voice squeaked a little in the saying of it. He gave Ehren a worried glance. "Do you really think . . . ?"
"I think," Ehren said without hesitation, "that a king should weigh the advice he's given against his own judgment. And I think your father would prefer to see you as well-protected as possible, given what did happen to him."
Halden ignored Ehren. "It's time to establish your own court, sire, and your own Guard. All the rest of the palace shows the force of your personality; no one would mistake it for your father's." He left the conclusion dangling.
Rodar glanced at Ehren and then quickly away, perhaps knowing the decision was already in his eyes. "I'll have to think about this, Ehren."
And Ehren knew when there was no point in pushing a young monarch's patience. He might need it for another time. "Thank you, your majesty," he said. Halden, he gave a hard look, and no acknowledgment.
A few hours later Rodar sent Ehren a sincere but firm note validating Varien's assignment. And Ehren, exasperated and angry, went straight to the Guard practice room. If nothing else, it was time for him to check in with the new Guard master, a position that had not been filled between the slaughter of Guards and king, and the time Ehren had left Kurtane, hot on the heels of fleeing conspirators.
Now, his frustration appeased through physical effort, Ehren shoved the dummy back against the wall. When he turned around, the little group of Guards was moving his way. He recognized a few faces then-at least two of them had started training before Benlan was killed. Jada and Algere were their names, and it was Jada who stopped in front of him, her broad, pleasant face troubled beneath its freckles. As he recalled, she was normally cheerful, more than a little flirtatious, and unquestioningly dedicated.
"Ehren," she said. "You've only been back a few days, and we've heard . . . already you're off again?"
"We wanted to see you," Algere said. "We've honed our swords down to nothing, waiting for you to get back with some word of Benlan's killers."
"Is that what happened to those weapons?" Ehren said, deadpan. "I wondered."
It took them a minute; it was one of the young women in the back who giggled. Then Algere snorted, and nodded back at the other end of the paneled wood floor, where the Guard master was checking the practice equipment. "Varien seems to have connections in Loraka. He's been encouraging Rodar to make more open trade agreements. You should stick around, and get an idea of just how many things have changed around here."
Ehren gave a short shake of his head. "Politics," he said. "I'm off over the border myself. Have a couple of things to check out."
"Benlan?" Jada asked, coming alert. "Or the border gang we've been hearing about?"
Border gang? "Neither that I know of. But I get the feeling . . ." Varien wanted him out of the way, all right, and Ehren was beginning to understand why. There was too much happening here, too much that needed careful watching. He didn't complete the thought out loud, but instead said, "If any of you need to get in touch with me, you can have a message sent to the border crossing. I'll get it."
Jada and Algere exchanged a puzzled look; the younger Guards behind them didn't pretend to understand.
"Listen," Ehren said. "Rodar is a young king. No younger, perhaps, than his father when he took the throne, but sometimes age isn't all in your years, if you take my meaning. There are plenty of people who'll see this as an opportunity. Preventing such opportunities is what the Guard is all about."
"Ehren, if you know something, maybe you should tell us," Jada protested.
Ehren shrugged. "If I knew something, I would."
"Then," she said calmly, her hand on the hilt of her sword, "we'll be forced to beat it out of you." Behind her, the other young Guards stared at her in alarm, and then at Ehren, to see how he would take it.
"Will you, now," he said, a slow smile finding its way to his face. He didn't feel like playing, not now. But this was an opening-an invitation back into the world that should have been his-and he wasn't about to ignore it. He took a deliberately menacing step forward, raising his sword into second guard. The group scattered as Jada abruptly realized she'd neglected to free her weapon before she'd started this game, and she back-pedaled furiously, trying to unsheathe it before he was on her. It was a quick-paced contest; they kept an open distance in unspoken regard for the fact that while Jada had on a leather practice brigandine, Ehren did not. Her moves were cat-swift and light, and he kept his the same, using wrist and fingers instead of brute strength-though she kept him on his toes with her frequent use of the sword point.
Around them, the others shouted encouragement, and Ehren laughed when she managed an especially quick disengagement and slipped through his guard; his parry was a close thing. She was laughing, too, but her eyes widened in surprise when his riposte tagged her side. She gave a theatrical death groan, but Algere was ready to take her place, and the battle raged up and down the practice room until Ehren ended it by dramatically disarming his fifth-sixth?-opponent and saluting them all.
"Now," he grumbled loudly, "I'll have to rest for an extra day before I leave."
Jada was on the floor, giggling. Unrepentant. Ehren grinned down at her. But her expression suddenly faded and Ehren followed her gaze to find the Guard master coming up beside him-he didn't even know the man's name, for glory's sake-holding out one of the extra practice brigandines.
"I would be honored," the man said, his Lorakan accent strong. "Someone should have seen to our introduction when you first returned. My name is Gerhard."
Ehren looked at him a moment, seeing in the man's almost expressionless face a resolute duty. Of course Gerhard would feel obliged to offer himself for a bout, after this. And in the man's expression, as well, was a glimmer of resignation, which could only mean one thing. Ehren gave Gerhard a sudden grin, and shook his head, blowing the drop of sweat off his upper lip. "If you'd managed to save me from them, perhaps," he said. "There's not much left of me, now."
Gerhard lowered the brigandine; if there was relief on his face, it was well hidden behind his amiability. "Another time, perhaps."
"Another time," Ehren agreed. He looked at the Guards before him, and nudged Jada with his toe, catching her eye with a look that stopped her amusement cold. "You remember what I said," he told her. He stepped over her, raised his sword in a brief salute to them all, and left the practice room. There were still some places in this palace where he belonged, after all.
* * * * *
The bright chestnut gelding gave the mildest of impatient snorts and tried to rub his nose on the inside of his foreleg. Ehren let the reins slip through his fingers to accommodate the horse, a sensible but often hot-blooded creature named Shaffron. Today, however, Shaffron was tired. It was the end of a long day, and Ehren was stretching it out even longer to get to the station at the border crossing. Seventeen days of travel, taking back roads across the breadth of Solvany from coastal Kurtane to the eastern border crossing into Loraka, and he was too close to the border station to stop for the night in the middle of nowhere.
Shaffron, satisfied his nose was properly tended, commenced to shake, rattling Ehren's teeth with the unexpectedness of it. Ehren swore mildly at the horse; Shaffron lowered his head, jingled the loose shanks of the bit, and waited for Ehren to decide what would happen next. Thrushes rustled in the underbrush around them, offering occasional liquid notes of evening song.
"You should have been born a mule," Ehren told his mount. "Ricasso never does things like that." Ricasso was a stouter, taller gelding who had never decided if he wanted to be brown or black and thus was a muddle of the two; he waited at the end of his lead with palpable patience. Today he carried supplies instead of carrying Ehren; yesterday he had taken the front. The two horses had served him like this, sharing pack and saddle duties, for the year Ehren had moved along the coast. They were a team, now, well-trained and in superb condition. He conversed with them without reservation and on occasion would have sworn they spoke in return.
But when he nudged Shaffron forward, Ricasso followed grudgingly, and his first step made a clinking noise. Damn. Loose shoe. Ehren had a moment's wistful thought-he might make it to the border station just fine, since they were on the main road now, smooth and well-tended-but it wasn't worth the chance the shoe might tear off, taking with it crucial chunks of Ricasso's hoof. "All right, boys," he said out loud. "That's it for the day."
He found a place in the scrubby woods to lead the horses away from the road. No water, but they'd watered thoroughly within the hour and done nothing but walk in the cool of the evening since. He'd eaten well at noon, too, paying king's coin to a couple making a go of it on this hard soil, in the shadow of the mountains. Those jutting Lorakan ridges rose suddenly at the border, as though some force had wrinkled the earth like a piece of cloth, and Solvany west of the mountains was an arid place, little populated.
Amidst the ever-bolder thrushes and a quietly calling cuckoo, Ehren built a small fire for some tea and went about unsaddling the horses. As the daylight faded, he applied a brush to the sweat marks on Shaffron's back; Ricasso was browsing, trailing his lead rope and never straying far from his partner. It was Ehren's thoughts that kept straying, back to the young couple that had fed him. They'd been so nervous at his approach, even though he'd been wearing ailettes-painted leather squares tied off the point of his shoulder-with the Guard crest on them. Just imagine if you'd been wearing your mail or brigandine, he told himself, working at the crusty hair across Shaffron's loins while the horse stretched his lips in silly foal faces of enjoyment.
But a moment later the animal's head went up in the air, his diminutive ears pricked tightly up and forward. Ten yards away, Ricasso mirrored the movement.
"Company, then, boys?" Ehren murmured. In a moment he heard it, too; conversation, a little loud, and only two of them unless the third simply never got a word in edgewise. There was barely enough daylight for him to pick out their shapes as they approached, on foot, and then stopped, looking at his fire. Shaffron snorted; Ricasso echoed it.
"That decides it," one of the men said. "Care for some company?" he called to Ehren.
"As you please," Ehren told him, not particularly pleased himself.
They blundered through the brush toward him, and Ehren sighed, resigning himself. "What's on the fire?" the second man said, a solidly padded outline with a voice that sounded head-cold hoarse; an assortment of snuffling sounds reinforced the impression.
"Not much," Ehren said. "Tea, if you'd care to share it."
"Oh, good, he's a generous sort," the first man said. They arrived in the firelight; the first man was scruffy and sported an ill-tended beard, while his well-padded partner was vigorously wiping his nose on his sleeve. Charming. They wore rough brigandines with ailettes Ehren couldn't read in the darkness; he tried to remember if the border was patrolled this far out.
"Border patrol?" he asked, setting aside the horse brushes to pour himself some tea. "You'll have to provide your own cup, unless you care to wait for this one."
"Yeah, a patrol of sorts," the allergic one agreed. "Never mind the tea. We've got our own drink." And so they had, a leather bota with something stronger than tea, no doubt. With any luck they'd fall asleep early and not snore too loudly.
Ricasso gave a mutter of a snort, letting the world know he wasn't sure of these newcomers.
"He's got two," the bearded man said. He looked at his companion and without a word they jerked their long narrow swords free of their scabbards. Ehren froze.
"No harm to you, fellow, unless you give us trouble," the stout man said. "All we want's your horses. Seems fair, don't it, the two of us with no horses and you with two all to yourself?"
"Fair depends on your point of view, I expect," Ehren said, holding his arms out to the side, one hand still gripping his cup. He could probably clear his sword before either of these two could reach him, but-not just yet.
"You just move aside," the bearded man said, edging toward Shaffron, waving his sword to herd Ehren to the other side of the fire. Step by step, careful not to offend, Ehren moved, gaining a little more distance between them.
Covered by his partner, the sniffling stout man did a quick search of the ground around the fire. "Got saddles?" he demanded.
"Two," Ehren said. But you've got to get the horses first. "And don't mix them, or the boys will get saddle sores."
"The boys," the bearded man repeated mockingly. "Isn't that sweet." His eyes still on Ehren, he groped for the saddle on the ground by the horse, fighting the tangle of girth and stirrup leathers. As the man tugged the saddle blanket free and tossed it at Shaffron's back, the horse snorted. Jerking against the insubstantial tree that held him, he neatly stepped sideways. The blanket slid to the ground.
Ehren smiled. The stout man scowled at him and muttered at his partner, "Hurry up, will you?"
But when the bearded man reached for Shaffron's lead rope to steady him, the horse grunted and struck at him with a front hoof; the man leapt back with a curse. Ehren dipped his tea at the stout robber in toast and took a sip.
"Ninth Level, just get the beast!" the stout man snapped, and wiped his nose again, shifting his gaze between his partner and Ehren, between impatience and growing uncertainty. What to do with a man who drank his tea as he was robbed? "Try the other one first."
With a glance at Ehren, and another at the snorting, walleyed prancing of Shaffron, the bearded man sheathed his sword, an angry motion that jammed the weapon home. He grabbed up both saddle and blanket, heading out for the rustle in the scrub that was Ricasso.
"Wrong saddle," Ehren said.
The stout man snarled, "Shut up!"
They could see nothing of horse nor man, despite the clear light of the brightening stars, but the course of events was obvious without such cues. Ricasso's snort, the man's harsh command to stand, the slap of the saddle against the horse's back. A peculiar, solid thud, the snapping twigs of a body falling through brush. Agitated hoofbeats and a fading sigh of a moan that was not repeated.
Ehren looked the stout man in his piggish little eyes and said, his smile suddenly gone dangerous, "I told him it was the wrong saddle."
The stout man hesitated; his sword wavered. "Endall," he called uncertainly, and turned his head ever so slightly, as if he might see through the dark brush to his partner. Ricasso snorted.
Ehren had the distance that made it safe to unsheathe his weapon; he threw the tea on the ground, reached for his sword hilt-and the stout thief broke. Dropping his guard, he turned and fled.
Ehren's sword rang free of the scabbard; he leapt over the little fire and ran for Ricasso, unwilling to expose his back to the bearded man however unlikely the threat. He tripped over the saddle, a dark bundle on the ground, but saw the man clearly enough-a bigger dark bundle of flaccid muscles that did not respond to the nudge of his toe. Maybe dead, maybe not; certainly hurt. Ehren jerked the man's Lorakan-style sword free of its scabbard and threw it into the scrub. When Ricasso jigged up to him, rolling high snorts of excitement, Ehren grabbed the lead rope and swung up onto the animal.
The sturdy, big-boned horse crashed through the brush as though it wasn't even there, the wide warmth of his body solid between Ehren's thighs, his movements full of power. His heavy hoof-falls steadied as they gained the road, and though he snorted eagerly, his canter remained even as they reached and passed their quarry.
The stout man had taken a quarter mile at full run and his stride was turning to a stagger. When a shift of Ehren's weight brought Ricasso broadside in his path, the man stumbled to a stop, almost losing his balance.
Even so, it was only an instant before he managed to reverse track and head for the brush-though suddenly Ricasso was in his way there, too. It took three such tries, with Ricasso cutting him off more quickly each time as he understood the game. Finally the thief stood still, panting. Without much hope, his eyes half closed and his head tilted back with his exhaustion, he said, "Please . . . don't kill me."
"If I killed you, I'd have to carry you," Ehren said. He rode up close and nudged the man with his booted toe, nodding back the way they'd come. With resignation and no few furtive glances at the brush, the man obliged.
They'd only gone a few steps when Ehren realized Ricasso's gait was subtly uneven. Grabbing the horse's mane, he leaned over the sturdy line of Ricasso's shoulder and looked at his foot as it stepped in and out of view. In the darkness it took several paces, but by then he was sure. "Damn," he muttered, and at that moment, he saw a dark flash of movement on the other side of the horse.
Ricasso sprang forward instantly, and Ehren reached down to haul the thief back by his greasy shirt collar. "Don't tempt me," he growled, giving the man a little shake. "Now that Ricasso's lost that shoe, I'm really mad."
* * * * *
Morning confirmed Ehren's hope that Ricasso's hoof had taken only minor damage. He pulled the shoe off the other front hoof to balance the horse out and resigned himself to walking until he reached the border station. Shaffron bore the pack and Ricasso carried his own saddle; the thief's bound hands were tied to one stirrup, and after his surreptitious attempts to loosen the rope annoyed the horse into snapping at him, he was docile enough.
The second robber was dead and still lay where he'd fallen, his chest crushed and bearing the clear imprint of two hooves. In the daylight, Ehren discovered their ailettes were nothing more than a meaningless combination of crests-Border Patrol, King's Guard, Local Guard-enough symbols of authority to catch the eye and make any law-abiding man at least hesitate.
It made him think of the young couple and their trepidation at his approach. And that made him wonder what was going on in the borderlands, and what news he had missed as he'd scoured the coastal areas of Solvany. But gentle prodding got him no answers from his prisoner, and he left it at that. For now, it was the Border Patrol's problem.
Ehren crossed the Eredon River bridge and reached the border station at midday, his feet more sore than he liked to admit. He turned the thief over to the youth and middle-aged veteran there, told them of the body alongside the road, and wondered out loud at the paucity of traffic that morning. He got plenty of cooperation with handling the thief, but only shrugs in response to his deliberately idle questions, so he took Ricasso into the crossroads beyond the border station. It was actually a small collection of amenities-an inn, a modest number of merchants under one roof, and what Ehren was looking for: a series of corralled shelters with a grain shed and a farrier's anvil and forge in the midst of them. Behind it all was a barn for the higher paying customers.
He hitched Shaffron outside one of the corrals and had to stop the farrier's hand as it reached for Ricasso's lead. "She's safe," he told the horse distinctly, not once but three times, waiting for the animal's ears to swivel forward again, and then pressed the rope into the burly woman's hand within the horse's field of view. "Just don't let anyone else try to handle him," he told the woman dryly as she eyed the horse askance.
Ricasso calmly eyed her back. At sixteen hands and with a trace of draft blood in his veins, his superbly conditioned bulk was more than intimidating. But in the end the woman sighed and bent to examine the horse's hoof, having apparently decided to trust Ehren's confidence in the matter.
She grunted over the chunks of missing hoof-Ricasso's hoof walls had ever been liable to crumble-and said, "I'll have to make him a pair. Don't have anything this big on hand right now."
"He toes in a little on the left side," Ehren said. "He'll do better if you leave a little length to the shoe on the outside."
She grunted again, a noise he took to be assent, and led Ricasso to the hitching rail by her anvil.
Ehren stripped Shaffron of his packs, gave the horse a quick curry, and saddled him up again. Then he hesitated, looking at the ring on his little finger.
Just as Varien had told him, it pulsed against his skin. No longer just a ring, it now had many roles. Somehow Varien had used the ring, and the blood tie from Benlan to his brother Dannel, to create the vaguest of guides. Ehren didn't understand how it worked; nor did he understand why it was then necessary to trigger one last spell to confirm the bloodline when he was with the royal family in their self-imposed exile: Dannel and his T'ierand-blood wife, with whatever children they might have had. Varien wanted them confirmed, and would know when the spell was triggered.
And then, he told Ehren, Ehren was to make sure there would be no interference from them, no threat to Rodar. In whatever way was necessary. He made it just as plain that failure in this matter would be considered the same as treason; at the very least, Ehren would be cast from the Guard.
"I'm no hired killer," Ehren had told him, as bluntly as was his wont. And Varien had just smiled. For the Guard . . . the Guard had been his life. Benlan's trust in him had fueled bone-deep loyalty at an early age, loyalty to the royal blood-even if the current king was in fact a royal pain in the ass.
Ehren frowned now, at the memory, and swung into the saddle. The ring nagged at him, and although he expected it would lead him in the obvious direction-through the trade route pass to Lake Everdawn, and down through the gentler hills beyond into Loraka proper-he intended to ride the area around the border station, and see if the feeling waxed and waned. It had certainly done nothing but intensify as he approached the border, so Varien had, indeed, aimed him in the right direction.
Shaffron bobbed his head impatiently, his fine neck arched and as noble as he could get it. With his copious copper-flaxen mane and tail and the fine T'ieran-bred features that hid the true wealth of sturdiness beneath, he was a lady pleaser, the horse that drew the attention-though Ricasso was the real pet, the one who wanted scratches and murmured words.
Ehren gave Shaffron the slight shift of leg which meant go, and Shaffron, pleased to be free of the pack and ever the glorious show-off, jigged a fancy sideways prance down the Trade Road.
Ehren let him play. He was more interested in the ring against his finger, and the careful inspection he received from the few travelers he passed. Suspicion seemed to be the one thing that united them; he noticed not one of them was traveling alone, but always in pairs-or more. He didn't spend much time in this part of the country, but even so their sullenness, the quick glances of distrust they gave him, struck him as odd.
But what was even odder was the road branch he ran into a quarter mile out, off to the south and into territory that had been largely impassable since the Border War several hundred years earlier. There were too many stray magics floating around, fading ambushes and spells of confusion, ready to snare the unwary traveler. Someone, it appeared, was overcoming the dangers.
He kept Shaffron to a cautious walk, and investigated half a mile of the new road, finding that it turned rough fast, with barely an impression of wagon wheels as a guide.
The established Trade Road to Lake Everdawn, worn to stone and dust and wheel ruts, ran along the pass made by the Eredon River. East of the lake, the hills turned mild enough that passage into Loraka had been forged by man, and not water. But this road . . . well, calling it a road was generous by any standards. Once it crossed the river-via a crude, man-built ford that wouldn't last long against the rush of the water-the north-south line of ridges rose again, enfolding the twisting road and any unwary travelers upon it. Complete with wild, leftover magics.
And there was no doubt the ring was happy about Ehren's course. It practically purred upon his finger. The moment he turned Shaffron north to return to the station, it quit. Sulking, he would have called it, if he was wont to make light of Varien's magic. Shaffron settled into a steady, rolling canter with his characteristically high leg action, leaving Ehren plenty of opportunity to digest what he'd learned.
There was a new road. It led south into the Lorakan mountains, a rough territory of unfriendly magics; its end point was unknown. And it was where he had to go.
* * * * *
"No, sir, you can't mean to do it." The young Border Guard gave an emphatic shake of his head and spat around the corner of the guardhouse, into the weedy growth that held its ground despite heavy traffic.
Ehren raised an eyebrow, amused. "Why, I guess I do, at that." He waited for the man to check a small wagon for signs of contraband-mostly, materials too similar to those Solvany produced on its own-and said, "Tell me about that road. Until this afternoon, I didn't even know it existed."
"Ain't but two years old," the man said. He was young, without much more than a scraggly assortment of hairs on his upper lip, but he talked as though he'd been in the Border Patrol guard forever. Ehren kept his amusement to himself. "Some Therand merchant-guy named Ansgare-found himself a fellow who can See the magics and avoid them, even with the way they wander around."
"Any half-trained apprentice can do that." Ehren felt horse lips nibbling surreptitiously at his shoulder and twitched his shoulder up to bump Shaffron away.
"Not this, they can't. This fellow-he's young, too, maybe a couple years older'n me-just Sees them naturally. He don't know a thing about casting spells, or setting charm warnings. He just sees the wrong places, when everyone else'd walk right into 'em. So he guides Ansgare's merchants straight from the Therand pass, along the mountains to us. Cuts off a lot of time, and they aren't paying any of the Lorakan road tariffs."
No small matter, and no small advantage. Since the Border Wars, the man-made, magic-kept Barrenlands had separated Solvany and Therand. Trade between the two countries had been forced to circumvent the barrier by swinging east through Loraka. Loraka had kept well to itself during the Solvany-Therand conflict, and was further isolated by the abrupt and rugged series of ridges between its inner lands and its western border against both Solvany and Therand.
The mountains restricted travel to only one route-from the Therand pass northeast to Lake Everdawn, and then along the Eredon River to the Solvany pass. It was a long trip, over a month, and though the road was kept warded and safe by a bevy of Lorakan wizards, there was a high price for using it.
But the very difficulty of obtaining Therand products created a demand for them-horses of Shaffron's breeding, or fine, soft woolen cloth-while the Therand-born developed a taste for the salted, north coastal fish of Solvany's fishing fleet. Running goods from one country to the other had become a major source of income for the entrepreneurs of both countries.
Ansgare's route cut his travel time in half, Ehren guessed. An advantage worth the risk of following some youngster's unusual Sight. Ehren fingered the ring on his little finger and thought of Varien's veiled threats, layered on top of one another, the hints that many of the First Level no longer trusted Ehren-the most visible of the King's Guards, and the one who hadn't been there when Benlan died. That they were looking for a reason to cast him out of the Guard, and maybe into a dungeon.
The road forward was uncertain. The road back . . . was rutted and filled with dangers he had not untangled yet, any more than he could untangle the magics ahead.
He gave the Border Guard a wry crook of his mouth. "It can't be any worse than what waits for me back in Kurtane."
"Yessir," the guard agreed, patently not understanding in the least. "Can I offer you any provisions to get you started?"
"That would be welcome," Ehren said, pushing Shaffron's questing lips off his shoulder again. Do better to lay in a supply of luck.