Barrenlands
Barrenlands
Laine looked at Shette and blinked. For a moment, she'd been someone else, a young girl with vacant eyes and the look of old Solvany about her clothes and hairstyle, things he recognized from the few precious books his parents had collected. Her expression was dull; in her hand she held some kind of toy-a wand with brightly colored tassels, meant for a child half her age or less-and she'd been hitting her leg with it in monotonous rhythm.
And now he saw Shette again. Sandy-haired, light brown eyes, and built like their mother. Not very tall. Definitely not the lithe look she pined for, but instead sturdy, and just a little bit broad despite the lack of excess flesh on her frame. And, at this moment, definitely annoyed.
"What're you staring at?" she demanded, squatting by the fire to reposition the heavy iron fry pan over the hottest coals. Despite the fact that she was the daughter of a beef cattle farmer from westmost Loraka, she had a ribbon woven into the complicated plaits that were all the rage among the Solvany upper class.
"Not your hair," he told her, knowing that was her suspicion, and then winced inwardly-that'd teach him to get caught off guard.
She gave him a mighty scowl. "You mean you think it's so awful you can't even bear to look at it?"
"It's not awful," he said lamely, because, in truth, it was too delicate and fanciful to compliment her strong features, and Sevita, one of the whores who'd been coaxing Shette into friendship, should have known better. "It's-" and the other girl was back, sitting by a window, looking out without seeing as she slowly, deliberately, brought her head into contact with the brightly painted stone wall of a child's nursery. Again. And again. A smirch of blood stained the paint; behind her, there was some sort of crest, something he didn't recognize.
"What?" Shette said.
He shook his head and stood, although the fried ham was almost cooked, and the sliced potatoes he'd been watching on his side of the fire would surely burn without attention. He felt, suddenly, the need to get away from her, lest she turn into that other girl yet again.
"You're really getting strange," Shette muttered as he walked away from their fire and down along the string of wagons and fires on the road. They'd stopped early tonight for Bessney's loose wagon wheel, and there was plenty of light left to walk ahead on the road-but not until he told Ansgare he was going out. Ansgare usually ate with Machara and her sword company of two, whose small wagon brought up the rear of the caravan.
Halfway there he paused at Sevita and Dajania's colorful, enclosed wagon. They weren't immediately to be seen. Entertaining, probably, although they supplemented that profession by treating the minor ailments among the merchants. Well, maybe it was none of his business if they encouraged Shette to try out fancy styles her life would never have a need for. He was turning away when Dajania popped around the end of the wagon and said, "Laine!" in a delighted voice. He was not surprised to see her hair done up like Shette's. Sevita's work, all right.
"You two don't do her any favors, you know," he said.
Her mouth pursed in an exaggerated pout. Unlike Sevita, who was light on the powders and face paint, Dajania was bold in her appearance. Plump in all the right places, cheerfully inoffensive but not taking any slight without an instant response, Dajania co-owned the wagon she and Sevita worked out of-although Sevita's quiet voice always seemed to have the last say. Dajania trailed her hand along the edge of the wagon and sauntered out to him, hips a-sway.
"She's a girl, Laine," Dajania said. She stopped directly in front of him and draped her arms over his shoulders without invitation. "Girl's got to play with her hair and face. And she's a lot more grown up than you think she is."
Dajania was not the person he wanted to hear that from.
She grinned slyly, reading it on his ever-revealing face. "Poor dearie," she said. "Do we make you worry? And here we, of all people, should be giving you other things to think about." She pulled his head down and kissed him.
And kissed him.
"Dajania," he said, against her lips, holding his arms out to the side in supplication of sorts. "Mmph. Dajania-" Oh, what the Hells. He let his hands fall on her soft, ample hips and kissed her back. After a moment she came down off her tiptoes and pulled back from him.
"See?" she said. "You see what you're missing? And that was free. It gets better when you pay for it, dear."
Laine found himself unable to think clearly right at that moment. "Umm," he said. "Right. Ummm . . . have you seen Ansgare?"
She was laughing, quiet but taking no pains to hide it. " 'Course, dear. He's right where he always is, with Machara and her two. But he'll be round later this evening . . . why don't you stay and wait a while? I'll make sure you don't get bored."
Laine wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "Not tonight, Dajania," he said as he stepped back from her, stumbling a little.
Another pout, but there was still amusement in her amber eyes. "I'll get you in that wagon yet, Laine-dear. And I'll enjoy the look on that handsome face when I do."
Not while Shette is in this caravan, Laine told himself quite fiercely. The first year or so with the caravan, Laine had been faithful to his sweetheart at home. She'd gotten tired of his traveling ways and married someone else this spring-but by then the game between Laine and the whores was set, and he figured he enjoyed it as much as he would any single hour in their bed. But sometimes . . . well, sometimes they came very close to winning.
Fortunately, his brain was back in place by the time he made it down to Ansgare, along the second half of the caravan, another eleven wagons. Biggest train yet. As far as Laine was concerned, it was as big as it would get, no matter how the profits beckoned Ansgare. The travel was rugged but not impossible, but the magics were unpredictable. And as recent experience had shown, they were becoming more . . . focused. He wouldn't want to guarantee the safety of anyone as far away from him as the back of a lengthy caravan, not anymore.
It made him wonder if their very presence here wasn't stirring something up.
"Sit and have something to eat," Machara told him, when he'd arrived and said nothing after several minutes. Too lost in thought, even if it was no longer of Dajania's obvious skills.
He shook his head. "Shette's got something going up front," he said, and let Ansgare know he'd be walking ahead a way, scouting for spells in tomorrow's path. "Not that it'll mean we're safe in the morning," he added. "Not the way things have been going. But I'll sleep better all the same."
"Go ahead, son," Ansgare grunted around a mouthful of tough meat-fresh, at that, a mountain hare the tin merchant's young son had brought down with sling and stone, and presented to the caravan leader. "Just don't go so far a good yell won't bring someone running."
"No fear of that." He wasn't even wearing his sword. "I leave the fighting to those who do it best."
"Oh, you did well enough," Machara drawled. Short-cropped red hair, pale blue eyes, and generously freckled skin went far to hide the steel and professional skill that was Machara. Ansgare, a wiry man whose fencing skill lay in words and bargains, was smitten with her, for all that she was a decade his younger. If Machara had thoughts on the matter, she kept them to herself. "That was quite a pretty kill you made, that monster-that-wasn't-where-he-was."
He sketched her a noble bow. "Kind Machara. Just don't stop listening for that yell."
She raised her meat-tipped knife in acknowledgment, and he grinned back. But he thought, as he walked back along the line of wagons, that he would pick up his sword before he left Shette again.
He stopped long enough for some of the ham and potatoes-Shette had managed to keep them from burning despite his precipitous exit-but not any longer. "I'm going to walk on a ways," he told Shette, sticking his dish in a bucket of water to soak a while. Strapping his sword belt on, an act that was finally beginning to feel natural, he was walking away from their wagon when Shette's voice followed him.
"I want to come, too."
Spike snorted loudly, as though in emphatic agreement.
"Shette-" he started, and fortunately stopped before saying, It's you I'm trying to get away from tonight, because no matter what he really meant, he'd never explain his way out of that one. But over his quick meal, that vacant-eyed girl had returned yet again, this time allowing her limp limbs to be dressed by hands whose owners he couldn't see.
This sort of thing had never happened to him before. It had to be the area they were in, the vestiges of some strange spell, maybe one that had faded and eroded into something other than its original form. In any case, it wasn't something he wanted to deal with. It was distracting, and . . . disturbing.
"Shette," he said again, and firmly this time, "it's your turn to do the dishes." That, at least, was true. And by the angry mumbling behind him, she knew it as well.
Laine stepped out onto the path ahead. It was clearer here, for it wandered through a thick grove of sumac. The first year of the caravan, Laine and Ansgare had spent no small amount of time and effort cutting through it, and every time they came this way, they had to take hand axes to the stubborn, quick-growing saplings that had sprouted anew. There was a quarter mile of the stuff, set on the slight slope sumac always favored. They gave way to grassy, scrubby rock soon enough, and not long after that, the path intersected the main Trade Road and led to Solvany.
He was nearly to the end of the sumac grove when his eyes got that strange, hard-to-focus feeling that meant there was magic around. He stopped short. No matter what was going on around him, when the magic tickled his eyes, he always stopped and added the extra bend of will that let him see what waited.
This time, he hesitated first. There was a sharp feeling to this spot, similar to what had surrounded the area where the acid-spitting creature had nearly gotten Shette. Laine rubbed his arm appreciatively; it was healed, but the skin was still pinkly shiny where the thing's spittle had landed. There was a certain subtle clarity to the feel of magic there-and here-that he'd not encountered in the previous two years of travel.
Feeling just a little silly, he drew his sword, and looked through the trees before him. Ordinary sumacs, the tallest of which was perhaps twice his height, dripping elongated spears of leaves and a few dried, leftover berry bunches from the previous fall's seedfest. And then . . . not. Suddenly, darkly reaching branches writhed before him, just out of reach-and by the Hells, they did try to get him, stiff wood turned to flexible tentacles and oozing . . . something.
Laine took a step back, his face scrunched in revulsion. An odor drifted out to him, a thick, gagging smell; he brought the back of his hand up to cover his nose and mouth. Not that it did any good. Something flittered across his vision, darting among the trees, and he didn't think it was a bird.
Ugh, he'd had enough. He stumbled back a few steps, and then a few more, before he dared to turn around and trot away with his back to the spelled area.
Once out of the sumacs, he moved up the hill a few feet and sat, only then discovering his sword was still in his hand. Carefully, he laid it on the hill, rescued it when it started to slide, and found a bit of grass hummock against which to rest the forte of the blade. Think, Laine, he told himself. Tomorrow we've got to get a caravan through here.
They could always accept a day or so of delay and cut a new trail-after all, there were more hands here than when Ansgare and Laine had first cut their way through. Laine grimaced at the thought nonetheless, and then realized that wasn't really what bothered him the most.
It was the feel and nature of the magic.
Until this point, the spells had been limited to one or two per trip, and always felt worn from years and miles of wandering the currents of the mountains. And they weren't site specific; they might trigger monsters from another plane of existence, or they might bring down blindness upon all within the influence of the spell, or they might make everyone too heavy to move. They rarely had a direct effect on the environment.
Rarely isn't the same as never. But never, he had to admit, had the spells felt so . . . anchored.
In the distance, a loud snort. Spike, Laine thought, distracted. But then the noise repeated, and it held the edge of alarm. Scrambling to his feet, Laine realized that the mountains had twisted the sound on him, and that it had come from the sumacs. Someone else on their road, coming from the other side? Who would dare it, without a guide?
The shout of alarm he heard was human, and he didn't hesitate any longer. He scooped up his sword and ran for the sumacs. And this time, when he reached the spell, he didn't have to make any effort to See it. It was triggered, all right, and there were figures within the odiferous, magicked sumac, thrashing against the twining limbs that reached for them, ducking the swirl and loop of a darting, airborne horde of . . . Laine squinted. Of . . . something really ugly with teeth and claws.
He set his jaw and ran into the dripping trees, heading for the man and his two horses. His sword ran interference for him, and he ducked and slashed, creating enough noise so the man heard him coming and froze an instant, focused sharply on Laine. Then the heavy-boned horse beside him screamed a challenge-a branch had draped over his poll and oozed down his neck, spiraling a tendril around the rein that rested there-and the man was in motion again, leaving Laine with the impression of economical deadliness.
"Let me help!" Laine yelled over the huff-huff-grunt of the lighter horse; it reared, kicking its hind legs out behind before its front legs touched back to the ground. Something grabbed his ankle-Hells, were the roots doing it too?-and Laine hesitated just long enough to slash it away; when he straightened he had to duck a flurry of leathery wings and grasping talons. But he was still moving, and as he reached the besieged trio, the man said, "Take him!" and nearly flung the big horse's rein at Laine, pausing at the last minute to shout, "It's safe!"
Laine was about to shout, "No it's not," as if that hadn't been obvious, harried as they were by tree and creature, when the big dark horse snaked his neck forward and snapped at him. Laine back-pedaled furiously, smacking into a tree and then reflexively leaping forward out of its unnatural grasp.
"He's safe, dammit!" the man said, and smacked the horse's butt as it passed him, still on its way to Laine. The horse pinned his ears, shaking his head in threat-but when he snapped, it was at the creature flapping above him.
Laine had no intention of trying to figure it all out. He reclaimed the rein he'd dropped and turned for the edge of the sumac, hauling the horse for only the first few steps. As soon as the beast realized he was heading for safety, he spurted into a powerful pounding trot, dragging Laine the last thirty feet. The sumac clung to Laine, ripping his shirt, a noise which only spurred the horse on. Once on a clear path, the horse snorted loudly half a dozen times, and when Laine would have turned to check on the animal's companions, he discovered the horse had other ideas. He scrambled to stay on his feet as the rein jerked him onward, and was unable to stop the horse until "Ricasso, whoa!" rang through the air from behind him.
It seemed, then, that they'd all made it out. But Laine suddenly felt like he was getting into something just as dangerous.
* * * * *
The big dark horse jigged beside him, and Laine kept an ever-wary eye on it as they finally approached the wagons, he and the oddly familiar man from the sumacs. His wagon seemed innocuously out of place compared to the horror they had just run through. It sat at the head of the caravan, square and solid, a sturdy four-wheeled box with a springed seat up front. The edges of the wagon body were lined with deep compartments that held provisions and equipment, and still left room for passengers or hay in the center. All very homey looking, and far too calm to be perched a quarter of a mile away from the hellish sumacs.
This particular camping spot was unusually generous with its space, a nice wide spot in the narrow valley they followed northward. There was even room to picket Spike and Clang between the wagon and the mountain that rose abruptly to the west of the trail. The couple dozen merchants and wagons strung out in a line behind his own wagon were barely visible; it was the everyday supper time noise and clatter that gave them away.
Shette was nowhere to be seen. At the back of the wagon, no doubt, cleaning up after supper, or using the dishwater, if it was clean enough, to do some laundry. She'd been bored lately. Well, he was bringing her something to make the day more interesting.
Spike's head jerked up from the hay Laine'd spread out for him, his ears perked at full forward. He gave a challenging snort loud enough to pop Laine's ears; there was a clatter from behind the wagon-Shette, no doubt, startled by the noise. That'd put her in fine fettle.
In a moment she came out from behind the wagon, the laundry bag still in her hands-but her purposeful strides immediately faltered. Laine didn't think he'd ever seen that stunned look on her face before.
He rather enjoyed it.
It was easy to put himself in her place, to see himself leading the big, handsome horse. Behind him was the stranger, leading a spirited, high-crested chestnut with a flaxen mane and tail. He was taller than Laine, and despite the bulk of the leather, metal-studded brigandine he wore, it was clear he was broad-shouldered, lean-hipped, and long-legged. His boots were faced with metal greaves, and his strides long and self-assured. Surprise, Shette.
Shette took a few steps closer to them, her mouth hanging open, and Laine smothered a grin. Then the big horse behind him stepped on his heel, and he had to take a few quick steps to keep his feet; when he looked up again, Shette had recovered her wits. She'd dropped the bag of laundry and was waiting with arms crossed.
Laine stopped at the wagon tongue, offering no explanation of it all but a tired and wry grin-not that Shette gave him a chance. Her eyes widened, and she blurted, "You stink!"
Laine's sharp reply, half-framed, was drowned out by Spike's abrupt braying, a greeting to the two horses who were wet with nervous sweat and not particularly interested in introductions. Behind Laine, the man snapped his horse's lead rope and said firmly, "Settle down." Shette's eyes went to him, and her face had a strange expression-almost disbelief.
"Are you all right?" Laine asked her, amused-and then amused again at the incongruity of the question. He was the one with smelly sumac ooze on his shoulders and muck on his boots, his black hair ruffled and messed, sweat dripping off his nose . . . he thought Shette did well when she stifled her sudden laugh.
"Am I all right?" she repeated. "I should be asking you! What's going on, Laine?" She gave the man and horse behind Laine another look, one that grew bolder when no one challenged it. "Who's this?"
"Ehren," the man said. "Your brother helped me out of a bad spot. I'd heard there was magic wandering around, but I never expected such an . . . intense spell."
"Neither did I," Laine grumbled. Or such an intense smell, for that matter. "We need to talk to the caravan master, Ehren, and let him know you've joined us. Not to mention that we've got to find another way through to the trade road."
"I'm not at all sure I've joined you," Ehren said. "But we'll talk to the master. After I've checked my horses."
"I can go get him," Shette said. "And I'm sure I can find someone with supper still on-I'll bet you haven't eaten."
Laine raised an eyebrow at her, suspicious of such cooperation, but said nothing except a mild, "Let's take care of the horses first, and give Ehren a few minutes before he has to face Ansgare." Ansgare was likely to react strongly to the notion of a blocked road and a stranger on it, no doubt about that. She made a face at him, but it was a quick one, and then her eyes were on Ehren again.
"Just pull that saddle off," Ehren said to Laine. He was already working at the ties on the chestnut's pack-though the animal didn't strike Laine as a pack horse at all. "We'll hobble Ricasso; Shaffron won't stray from him."
The horses were still nervous enough that Laine never would have chosen to leave one of them untied, but he didn't say so. Instead he flipped the stirrup over the saddle and tugged at the girth. When he glanced up, he discovered Shette had moved closer, and was extending a hand to pet the big black horse, murmuring some soothing nonsense.
"No, Shette!" he cried, lunging for the reins underneath the horse's chin just as the animal laid its ears back, flinging its head up and baring its big yellow teeth. Shette stumbled back in astonishment as Laine was swept off his feet and tossed to the ground, but Ehren was swift on those long legs, and left the chestnut to snatch the cheekpiece of the black's bridle. He snapped something quick and hard and gave the bridle a meaningful shake.
The horse subsided; it lowered its head and flapped its thick mane against its neck as though nothing had happened. Shette stared at the creature, appalled-an expression she couldn't manage to tuck away before Ehren glanced at her.
"I'm sorry," he said. "It's best if you don't try to touch them. I should have said something right away."
"That's all right," Shette said, her voice uncertain; she glanced down at Laine as though looking for guidance. "I . . . imagine you had other things on your mind."
From the ground, Laine grunted, recovering from his awkward sprawl. "This horse has given me more bruises in one evening than Spike's managed in the last month," he said wearily. "And that's saying something."
Ehren's mouth quirked-humor, and apology as well. He leaned down to take Laine's arm and help haul him up.
At Ehren's touch, Laine stiffened, every muscle jerking to attention. The clash of steel and eyes watching him and blood and cries of pain and fire across his throat-his legs gave way, his arm slipped out of Ehren's grasp, and he landed in a heap, on the ground again. Ehren hovered over him, surrounded by an aura of dark and ominous colors. Dangerous.
"Laine?" Shette's concerned voice sounded so very far away.
Laine took a big gasp, and blinked, and then frowned to find the earth so near again. "What the Hells?" he muttered.
"Battle shock," Ehren said, his voice sounding deliberately even, and extended a hand again. This time Laine made it to his feet without incident, though the world around him seemed further away than the images and sensations in his mind. He shook his head, a dog shaking off water, and reached for the saddle again, forcing his body to behave.
"Just what did you run into up the trail?" Shette asked suspiciously, holding out her arms for the saddle Laine pushed at her. Ehren continued to watch him, obviously not sure it was safe to leave Laine to his own devices just yet.
"Nothing you want to get close to," Laine assured her, finding that intense and recent experience to be something he could focus on. "Some kind of spell on the sumac grove. The trees were . . ."
"Alive," Ehren supplied, finally turning back to the chestnut, whose fidgeting had not taken him all that far from his equine buddy, after all. "Slimy and alive."
"Blackened, slimy and alive," Laine decided, seizing the chance to act like a big brother instead of a vacant-minded clod. "Their branches were like cold, oozing fingers. Just imagine, Shette-going through that grove at night, with sumac fingers reaching for your neck . . . in the darkness . . . silently. . . ."
"Stop it," Shette snapped.
"And what were those bat things?" Laine said, a genuine question this time, and aimed at Ehren. "Have you ever seen anything like that before?"
Ehren flipped the pack tarp neatly off the chestnut's load; it settled to the ground behind him. His face looked strained, Laine thought, finally noticing the details of this world again. "Not before, and never again, if I have a choice. They were quick. I'm lucky they only got me once."
"You were bitten?" Shette asked, and hastily set the saddle on end just beneath the wagon. "Are you all right?"
"Bitten or clawed, it's hard to tell," Ehren said, glancing down at his wrist as he finished unloading the horse. The pack frame fit around the animal's very normal saddle, and Ehren lifted it off. "It's not deep. But I suspect it's some kind of poison."
"Why didn't you say something?" Laine asked. He'd been about to lead the big horse to the side of the wagon where Spike wasn't, but he stopped short.
"Either it'll kill me or it won't," Ehren said, pulling the saddle from the chestnut's back and handing it to Shette, who hadn't managed to move after the revelation that Ehren had been injured. Laine saw the wound then; it didn't look deep, but the parallel marks were vivid, raised and puffy-and the whole wrist was swollen in an alarming-no, wait a minute. That was just the thick, strong wrist of a swordsman. Still, the poisoned scratches needed tending.
Shette exchanged a look with Laine, and he suddenly knew what she was thinking. Dajania was as close as they got to a physician on this caravan, and he bet she didn't want to let Dajania anywhere near this man.
Ehren smiled, a wry expression. "If it was going to kill me, I imagine we'd know it by now."
"You don't look very good," Shette said doubtfully, and he didn't, Laine realized. All that sweat wasn't from their exertion, and that sudden flush of color wasn't, either.
"I don't feel all that good," Ehren said. "But I've lived through worse."
"Oh, I don't know," Laine said brightly. "You haven't met Ansgare yet."
* * * * *
Ansgare turned out to be a spare man, bearded and probably older than he looked. Ehren respected him immediately; his expression was a keen one, and he didn't waste much time bemoaning the turn of events, despite Laine's warning. Ansgare wasn't happy at Ehren's appearance, but as he pointed out, the road belonged to no one, and any fool was welcome to bumble along without so much as a cottage witchy to help him. His real concern was getting around the sumacs, and to that end, he left Laine's wagon to gather up the caravan members and total up their hand axes.
Ehren did not give any explanation for his presence-he wore his King's Guard ailette, and that was enough. No one pushed him, although Shette's curiosity was almost palpable. She was a sheltered young woman, one who seemed to know the practicalities of life but had obviously never suffered greatly because of them. She and Laine were manifestly of the same blood, and Shette was a feminine version of Laine's sturdy muscled form, of medium height and with the same general cast of feature.
It had grown dark while Shette scavenged some semblance of a meal for their guest. By the time she presented it to him, Ehren was no longer in the mood for eating. His wrist throbbed with pain and his blood pounded in his ears, but when Shette fretted about it, he shook his head. "If it was going to get worse than this, I expect it would have done it by now," he told her, once again. He was even pretty sure he was right.
He was sure about something else, too. This road was the quickest way to Dannel, and therefore the quickest way to get this over with, and back into Solvany doing what needed to be done. But every throb of his wrist reminded him it wasn't a road he could take alone. As cavalier as he'd been about the wound, it had been a much closer call than either Laine or Shette knew-the beast who had done this had barely touched him, just a whisper of claw against skin that hadn't even left a mark. At least, not at first.
No, this wasn't a road he could take alone. But it was a road he had to take. And that meant staying with the person who could See the dangers of the road and avoid them. It would slow him down-but in the end it was still faster than taking the Trade Road.
Shette had said something; Ehren missed it. He shifted his weight, resting his wrist across his knee, and gave her a quick smile. Not encouragement, exactly; reassurance, perhaps, for the worried expression that had appeared on her face. They sat together on the other side of the wagon from the mountain, where the boys were hobbled for the night-away from the mules. The night was warm enough and bright enough that neither had suggested stirring up the dying dinner fire, but other cookfires were still blazing away. Dots of light traced the slightly curving line of the caravan behind Laine's wagon, and someone near the middle was playing a cheerful air on a stringed instrument, occasionally accompanied by a chorus of untuned but enthusiastic voices.
They were alone; Laine had recently taken his blankets and said his good nights. Shette seemed apologetic about it, when in fact Ehren was wishing he could do the same without slighting the girl. But Shette was wound up and talking on without the benefit of encouragement.
"He hasn't been sleeping well," she told Ehren. "It's been such an odd trip-not that I'd know, it's my first time out. But all the magic we've been running into has been hard on him, I think. He dreams . . ." she trailed off, creating a sudden silence that even the faraway singing didn't puncture. One of the tiny scrub owls finally filled her silence with its call.
But she'd given Ehren something to think about-her brother. He had plenty of questions about Laine, and wasn't quite ready to ask them straight out. Sideways, for now. "He mentioned the monstrosity you ran into earlier," Ehren said; it'd been a brief exchange of words outside the sumac grove. He looked over at her, caught her staring at him in the darkness, and let her go when he could see from her expression that she was probably blushing. "I gather he has some sort of Sight."
"He's the reason Ansgare can run this caravan," Shette said, with a touch of pride Ehren doubted she would show in front of her brother. "He's always been able to See things. That's what makes it so strange . . . he doesn't have a drop of wizard potential in him-at least, that's what the old village witchy said when he was my age."
Ehren shifted on his borrowed blankets. Touchy moment here, when asking more could clam her up, just on general principles. Not everyone who was brushed by magic wanted to talk about it. Off to the side, both his horses heard some sinister noise, and snorted suspiciously. "All right, boys," he murmured to them, and added casually to Shette, "It took that long to get him to a wizard?"
Shette's mouth opened, but closed again, and she looked away. Sudden discretion, then. "We only went into the village once a month or so," she said finally, her voice low. "We live in the foothills of these mountains, just this side of the Therand border. There aren't a lot of people there, and the village isn't close."
Ehren knew of the area. To some extent, it explained Shette's unworldly ways. Not many folk chose to live in the hard border mountains when lusher Therand land was so close-only those of scrappily independent bent who were not inclined to pay the clan tithes, nor want the clan protections.
She dared to glance his way again, and seemed reassured by the bland interest on his face. "It didn't come out strong in him till then," she added, though it sounded lame to his ears. It must have to hers, too, for she suddenly stood, and said, "Ansgare's going to get us up early, I bet. Best go to sleep. I'm going to."
She left Ehren to his aching wrist and thumping head, and the quiet conclusion that Laine, at least, had more of a story to tell-and it was a story Ehren knew he had to hear.
* * * * *
It was Shette's curse to be a light sleeper, and to be lying out under the stars with her brother. When her eyes flew open, she knew she'd heard something; it was only when Laine, lying ten feet away on the other side of the mostly dead fire, grunted again, that she realized what it had been. Dreams again.
With a sigh, Shette sat up, letting her blanket fall to her waist. It was a dead calm night, with no breeze against her face to stir the warm humidity, nothing to cover Laine's noisy dreams.
Or not-dreams. Dreams were what she called them to annoy him, to be little-sister smart. They both knew that whatever he saw in the night, it was more than simple wanderings of his mind, no matter what that old village witchy had said. Their parents had realized it early on, when Laine casually referred to things in their own past that he'd had no way of knowing. And since they'd seemed upset, Laine had become careful not to let that dream knowledge slip any more. But they all knew it was there-just as Shette knew, without being told, that those moments from the past were not for the ears of others.
He seemed to have quieted now. Good. It was a shame they'd started to come back, these visions of his. As he'd grown, they more or less faded, but starting with the previous spring, two years after he'd left home to guide the caravan through the magical hazards with his unmatching eyes, they'd been back in force. Wintering at home had made their reemergence obvious to a light sleeper like Shette, if not to their parents.
Such knowledge had made good ammunition when she was pestering him to take her on the route this year.
She flipped a hand at the bug whining near her ear and considered her brother. As brothers went, she supposed he wasn't so bad, but their isolated childhood left her little to compare him with. He was handsome enough, in a brawny sort of way; at fifteen years, Shette was discovering she preferred to eye a man built long and lean-Ehren flashed unbidden through her mind's eye-so it had taken the earthy teasing of the caravan whores to make her see anything in her brother. They liked his eyes, which were nearly always filled with guileless humor, and which had slightly down-turned corners that at the same time made him look puppy dog sad. And they especially liked the way a body had to get close to tell the difference between the black eye and the blue one.
Laine made another little noise, as if someone had stepped on his stomach. Shette sighed, a dramatic sound. Despite the irritated way she occasionally poked him awake, she'd learned long ago that it was best-and safest-not to disturb him in the middle of these spells. Once he'd blacked her eye; once he'd been dazed for hours. It never lasted long, anyway-in a few minutes she could go back to sleep.
Another grumble of sound from Laine, another sigh from Shette, as only a wronged fifteen-year-old can sigh. She hadn't taken the stupid dreams into account when she'd begged to see a little of the world with her brother. Of course, she hadn't taken magical monsters or handling Spike into account, either.
Laine jerked; the faint starlight dimly picked out the features of his face, the tightened muscles of his neck. The noise he made was harsh, torn from deep inside. Shette didn't like it.
"Laine?" she said. "Laine, wake up."
His body arched and jerked, and suddenly she didn't like it at all. "Laine!" she said sharply, getting on her hands and knees and leaving the blanket behind. She heard the dull thud of his head hitting the ground as he spasmed again, saw his fingers splayed out stiff, then suddenly clutching at nothing. "Dammit, Laine!" she cried, forgetting she wasn't supposed to use such language. She grabbed his arm, finding the muscles clenched so tightly she might as well have been holding oak. Thud went his head on the ground, as he arched back so hard she swore she heard him creak.
"Laine, stop, stop!" In desperation, she threw herself over his broad chest and held him tightly, riding him as she would a pony. "Laine!"
He gave a great gasp and fell limp, drawing in air as though he'd been drowning, his chest heaving up and down beneath Shette. She held him tight, feeling very much five years the younger, and at the same time somehow older, protective. "Laine?"
"Shette. What . . . ?"
"Dreams is what," she said, anger stirring in the wake of her fear. "I hope it was worth all this trouble, whatever it was."
"Not a dream," he whispered, still breathing heavily, bringing one arm up to rest over the back of her shoulders. He patted her once or twice in an absent and consoling way. "Definitely not a dream."
She knew. And she sure didn't like it.