Parthenal, as usual, was awake before the others. Rothir was still snoring gently beside him. There was a rustle from Arguril, getting ready to wake; but Parthenal felt no inclination to jump up himself. He lay on his back and looked at the last stars in the western sky before the daylight overwhelmed them.
As he watched them fade into the blue glow of dawn he allowed himself, for a moment, to think of the person he had wanted for so long. Still did want, too often, he admitted to himself, since he could admit it to nobody else. Certainly the only person he had ever loved. If he could love, as opposed to simply want: that seemed sometimes doubtful.
And these were stupid thoughts for a cold dawn, with a day of hard activity ahead. He sat up and Rothir snorted into wakefulness.
“Get up, dwarf,” said Parthenal.
“Urgh,” said Rothir, his broad back emerging from his blanket. Parthenal thought that perhaps he was wrong about being unable to love. He loved Rothir, if affection and respect and familiarity were love. Maybe they were worth more than love. Then, for a second time, he pushed all such pointless thoughts away.
Once the troop woke there was little time wasted. They were all ready to set off again within a quarter-hour: indeed, Arguril was mounted before that, impatient to be gone. There had been some debate the previous evening as to whether he should take with him Eled’s scroll. It had been decided that he should. It was a risk, but the risk of Huldarion receiving no word at all was worse.
And the word of the Farwth was what they had been sent all this way to gather – along with any information they could get about the current positions of the stonemen. Hence they had scouted the area, trying to ascertain where the enemy bases were, and how great their numbers.
Too great, was the answer. As for their bases… They were growing, constantly shifting along vast stretches of the Darkburn, chiefly to the river’s south but increasingly crossing the water to move north and west. Parthenal had seen their tents, flimsier than Thield’s but more far numerous. Their camps seemed better organised than he had expected; for their stone crowns, and the drugs they took to endure them, did not encourage independent or coherent thinking. The stonemen’s aims – as far as he could gather – were to hunt, to fight, to kill, or else to die. Organisation was not a strong point.
However, they were adept at tracking. Or at any rate, the darkburns that ran before them were. The only advantage of that, he thought, was that it meant the stonemen could not ride: horses would not tolerate being so close to a darkburn for so long. The stonemen only tolerated it because they were drugged by ethlon or whatever else they dosed themselves with. But they had to hunt on foot.
The strange woman had got up and was talking caressingly to her donkeys in some unknown language. It bore no relation to Standard; and he felt suspicion all over again of her swift grasp of Vonnish. When she saw him looking she gave him a smile, as if she couldn’t help herself.
“I’m telling them to keep up with us today,” she said. “They haven’t got as much to carry now, so they should cope.”
Parthenal nodded. Talking to donkeys? She wasn’t that simple, surely. Was she really just a pedlar? What pedlar chose to cross the wilderness around the Darkburn – let alone a female one? And she knew Bruilde. That ought to be in her favour. But it wasn’t.
“We won’t be travelling fast,” said Tiburé, carefully mounting her own horse onto which Rothir had already lifted Eled. The injured man looked tired and drawn: when Parthenal spoke to him he seemed hardly to be there.
Parthenal felt a small ache of compassion and fear. He was fond of Eled, who was usually so cheerful, thoughtful, keen to please. But Eled was better off at the moment if his mind was somewhere else; so Parthenal let the compassion slide away.
Tiburé was right – they did not travel fast. Despite his tiny dose of ethlon, Eled was sleepier than on the previous day. Once they left the crags behind the going was good, yet Tiburé’s only attempt at cantering was quickly curtailed when Eled began to slide off the horse.
It was frustrating, for Parthenal knew that they would soon arrive at the more difficult terrain along the Thore – the river which ate its way down through the northern hills to wind east of the Gyr, and eventually meet and swell the Darkburn. On the rocky cliffs above the Thore they would have to dismount and lead the horses; and then trek miles upriver to find the crossing place, for there was no bridge across the chasm.
“Too slow,” muttered Rothir.
“I know.” Parthenal glanced over at him sceptically. “Do you think that Narba gains any benefit from having only you on his back instead of the other two, dwarf? I’m not sure he feels any difference.”
“Just because you’re a beanstalk,” said Rothir. Then he looked back at the woman, who was in turn looking back at her donkeys trailing in the rear. “Are you all right, Yaret?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m just keeping an eye on the donkeys. I can’t believe they actually found me.” Again she smiled, and Parthenal recalled the joy with which she’d greeted the returning animals last night. It had transformed her face. Some of that light and gladness was still there. It might have made her attractive if other attributes had been different.
He trusted that he had not shown his brief disappointment at the Gyr cave when he had realised Yaret was a woman, rather than a slight and not unappealing young man. It had been a jolt to his consciousness, and not a pleasant one. How could he be attracted to a woman? Even one in breeches.
“We don’t want those donkeys holding us up,” he muttered to Rothir in Vonnish. “I hope they won’t give us trouble.”
“Why should they?” Rothir countered.
“They’re already lagging behind. And we could really do without a passenger.”
“Eled is the passenger – and he wouldn’t be here without Yaret. She’s cared for him tirelessly, without a word of complaint. She’s asked no questions either.”
“Why not? Stupidity or cunning?”
“Neither,” said Rothir tolerantly. “Just common charity, which you’re a little short of at the moment.”
“Maybe I am.” Parthenal sighed. “I’m frustrated. We should all be half-way home to Thield by now.”
“You voted for Farwithiel.”
“I did. But it’s going to take forever to get there, and then get back home again.”
Rothir studied him. “It’s not like you to be so impatient.”
“It’s not like you to be so resigned, dwarf.”
That was a word that was almost the same in Vonnish as in Standard. Yaret, riding just behind them, must have heard it; for in the pause that followed she asked,
“Why do you call him dwarf?”
Parthenal slowed so that she could catch them up: a reluctant attempt at common charity.
“Rothir is a dwarf,” he said.
“But he’s not that much shorter than you are,” she objected. “And he’s probably heavier.”
“Much heavier,” said Parthenal. “He’s disproportionate. Too broad in the body, legs too short.”
“Hardly,” said Yaret.
“Thank you,” said Rothir.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, whether in amusement or puzzlement he could not tell.
“So what does he call you?” she asked Parthenal.
“I am unfailingly polite,” said Rothir.
“Hah,” said Parthenal. “Any name he can think of. But he doesn’t have much of an imagination.”
“Give me some ideas. What should I call him?” Rothir asked her, surprising Parthenal; for Rothir was not generally so open with new acquaintances. After a week on the road together she must seem like an old one. It would take more than that for Parthenal to trust her.
“Oh… Well, I suppose most people could be labelled as some sort of animal,” she said, looking ahead at the others. “So Arguril is a hunting dog. Tiburé is a lioness. Maeneb is a hare.”
Parthenal was momentarily taken aback by the insight of these assessments.
“And Parthenal?” said Rothir.
“Polecat,” said Yaret, evidently without thinking, because her smile faded as she looked at his forbidding expression. He let all his suspicion and disapproval show. Polecat?
“And I suppose I’m a bear,” said Rothir.
She considered this. “No. I’m not sure what you are. Silly idea, forget it. Do you think it’s going to rain?”
“Not for a day or two,” said Rothir. “But it’s always foggy around Farwithiel.”
“Is that the place we saw from the crags that was covered in cloud?”
“Yes.”
“But you won’t be going that far,” said Parthenal.
“I know. It’s a pity,” she said. “Back home in Obandiro we have a story about a strange land that is always surrounded by fog.”
“And what is inside the fog, in your story?” asked Rothir, with interest.
Yaret glanced back at the donkeys again, seeming to give herself time to think before she answered. “Well, there is a tree.”
“A tree,” repeated Parthenal.
“Yes.” She shrugged apologetically. “I am allowed to say so much, but the rest of the story is Ulthared. That means, in our land, it is a thing forbidden to speak of openly. Like Thield is for you.”
“What?” At once, by instinct, his hand was on his sword hilt.
“What do you know about Thield?” asked Rothir. He did not seem to be angry.
She spread her hands. “Nothing. I don’t know who or what it is, except that you keep mentioning it in your conversations. And Parthenal’s reaching for his sword proves it is both significant and Ulthared. If you want to keep it secret you should really call it something else.”
“You should really stop noticing so much,” said Rothir drily. “How do you talk about things that are Ulthared without calling them by name?”
“There are ways.”
“And how many things in your country are Ulthared?”
“Some.”
“I expect you cannot tell us how many, because it is Ulthared.”
“Quite.”
Rothir grinned. “Well, we are paid back for our secrecy,” he said.
“I have not asked to know any of your secrets,” she replied. “I merely mention that they are not quite secret enough.”
“Acknowledged.”
She turned to Parthenal. “Nor yours,” she said formally.
What was that supposed to mean? She couldn’t have guessed that fast. Although his secret was not a secret in this company, it was one that it was not always safe to tell elsewhere – in Kelvha, for example. It was certainly Ulthared where some people were concerned.
“What sort of tree?” asked Rothir.
She shrugged again. “Ulthared. All I can tell you is, the tree has a place in the stories by our bard Madeo.”
“Stories, plural?”
“There are a number of them, stories within songs, all about the same thing,” she said after a moment.
“Which is….”
“Ulthared.”
“Of course,” said Rothir. He seemed to be enjoying himself; whereas Parthenal wasn’t. He felt like cursing every time Eled needed readjusting on the saddle or Yaret hung back to urge on her donkeys. It was all so slow; and he was aware of growing snappy.
Yaret looked at him sidelong and moved forward to talk to Maeneb – or rather, to try. Parthenal noted with grim amusement that she got little encouragement from her new companion. He could have told her beforehand that it would be a wasted effort. The hare: it fitted. Maeneb was not exactly timid, but she was apart. Aloof. Quick-moving, distant, wary. After a while Yaret gave up.
They meandered on until Tiburé called a halt. Eled needed yet another rest. So they stopped beneath a grove of barrel-trunked trees in milky sunshine, and tried to relax while Eled slept.
Feeling too restless to keep still, Parthenal left the others sitting while he strolled around. When he was a little way past the trees, he became aware that Yaret had followed him.
He turned to face her. “What is it?”
“I did not mean to offend you by anything I said before.” Her face was earnest. “I would not want to make an enemy of you.”
“We are not enemies,” said Parthenal, although an inner voice still growled, Really? Polecat?
“I’m glad of that. You would not be a good man to have as an enemy.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re dangerous,” she said, as if it was obvious.
“Despite my secrets?”
“I do not ask about your secrets.” She looked at him steadily. “Although I think I may know one of them.”
He thought, if she makes a derogatory remark I may just kill her. “Go on.”
“I think you might be what in Obandiro we call sideways.”
“Sideways.”
“So that you look sideways for a partner, towards your fellow-men, not opposite towards women.”
“I see. So what is the opposite of sideways?”
“Well, it’s opposite,” she said, “or occasionally both.”
“And which are you?”
“I am opposite, I think,” said Yaret.
“You’re not sure?”
“Who is ever quite sure, in all circumstances? But if I have offended you by saying this I am sorry, again. It is not a matter for offence in Obandiro and none is intended.”
“What made you think I might be sideways?”
“The way you looked at me,” she said, “when you thought I was a man. I’ve seen that look before, but not while I’ve been wearing breeches. Is Rothir also sideways?”
“Rothir? No.”
“I only ask because he is your partner.”
“Not in that way,” said Parthenal. He did not know whether to feel annoyed or not. There was no condemnation in her manner. But within the troop only Rothir ever referred to the matter openly. “And you cannot be sure that I am sideways either. Do not think that.” Nonetheless he knew he had already as good as admitted it.
“Of course not.” She gave him a slight bow.
“Donkey,” added Parthenal, as a small revenge.
She smiled. “Thank you. I am happy to be a donkey.”
“Really?”
“Of course. You could have said much worse. I think they’re getting ready to set off again.”
“Wait. Why did you follow me to tell me this?”
He could not read the expression in her eyes. Yet her tone was gentle.
“Because you need to be more careful,” she replied.
As they remounted the horses Parthenal wondered if she really wanted to demonstrate some sort of power over him. But it was also true that he should have been more careful. It didn’t matter this time, but it might have. She had detected it so fast. Would everyone be able to see the desire that flamed into his eyes? Polecat. It was too perceptive, and he didn’t like it.
This time they rode on with Maeneb holding Eled up on the horse before her; unwillingly, Parthenal could tell. Maeneb’s aversion to touching other people was not so great that she could not overcome it, but it meant that she did not keep as firm a grasp on Eled as she should have done.
Or possibly Eled himself was not coping so well. Time after time he slipped and had to be hurriedly readjusted in the saddle, and all too often needed lifting down so that he could lie exhausted for a few more moments on the grass. Rothir knelt next to the young man, talking quietly to him and trying to reassure him that they did not need to hurry.
But all the time Parthenal was conscious that the stonemen might still be on their trail.
“This is taking far too long,” he muttered to Tiburé while Eled dozed. “If we are being followed, they could catch us before sunset at this rate.” When he scanned the landscape, it was impossible to see far through the scattered clumps of trees.
“Maeneb? What do you hear?” asked Tiburé.
“I can hear nothing while I’m riding up behind Eled,” complained Maeneb. “It’s too distracting.”
“But now?” coaxed Tiburé.
Maeneb tilted her head, her eyes half-closed. Parthenal listened to the wind in the trees; the snuffling of a horse: tried to hear what Maeneb heard, and failed.
“I hear them,” she said at last. “A great number, I think, many more than we expected. But they’re quite distant to the south and west, many miles away.”
“Well, that’s something,” said Tiburé. “Is Eled ready? Let’s move on.”
Parthenal helped Eled back on to the horse with a pang of pity, which he suppressed. Were he in the same situation, he would not want pity. If pity had its way they would not move Eled at all. He slapped Eled’s good leg and said,
“All right?”
“All right,” said Eled, who clearly wasn’t. The pity surged through him again.
Once they were moving on, Yaret said quietly, “What does Maeneb listen for? Can you say, or is that Ulthared?”
Parthenal thought it probably was, but Rothir answered.
“She can sense where people are.”
“You mean… sense their minds?”
“Yes.”
“Is this a common talent amongst you, reading minds?”
“Oh, definitely,” said Parthenal. “We can all do it.”
“You are joking?” She looked alarmed.
“We don’t read minds,” said Rothir. “And neither does Maeneb. She senses people’s presence and their moods. She may read the tendency of their thoughts, but I think that’s all.”
Parthenal said, “Maeneb is half of a different race. So she is not quite the same as the rest of us.”
“No, that’s obvious,” said Yaret, turning to check for the donkeys. They were a long way behind, and she pulled on her horse’s reins. “Dolm! Hurry up. What is it?”
“They will come if we ride on,” said Rothir.
“But they shouldn’t be this slow. I think there’s something wrong with Nuolo.”
“She looks all right to me,” said Parthenal impatiently.
“She’s uncomplaining. Donkeys don’t show pain the way that horses do.”
“We can’t afford to stop, and waste more time,” he said, exasperated.
Reluctantly, Yaret continued to ride on; but with many a backward look. After another mile the trailing donkeys were almost out of sight. She whistled several times and then stared hard at them.
“It’s Nuolo,” she said under her breath, and before Parthenal could try and stop her she had dismounted. She ran back over the uneven ground towards the donkeys, with greater swiftness and agility than was currently possible on horseback.
“Can we not just leave those dratted donkeys?” muttered Parthenal. When Yaret reached them she began to carefully examine Nuolo, checking her hooves and running a hand along her legs.
“Eled needs to get off again,” warned Maeneb. Parthenal let out a sharp sigh of vexation, and went to lift Eled from the horse and set him down to slump against a tree.
The donkeys and Yaret came straggling up to meet them at a snail’s pace. It was obvious to him now that Nuolo was going lame; she walked haltingly, her head dipping.
“Have a look at her,” said Rothir to Parthenal, so with another sigh of exasperation he went over to examine Nuolo, handling her gently; more gently than he would a horse, for her legs felt fragile by comparison.
He straightened up and stroked her. Her delicacy touched him in a way that he did not bother to define. Delicacy was weakness. “She’s got a swollen knee joint,” he said. “She may have twisted it.”
Yaret, her face full of distress, said, “That’s bad, isn’t it? She really needs to rest.”
“We cannot slow down for the donkeys,” Parthenal told her.
“But Nuolo can’t keep up,” said Yaret. She gazed at her donkeys. “Perhaps I should stay here with them while she heals.”
“No. That would not be safe,” said Tiburé emphatically. “You would have no means of escape if the stonemen caught up with you. You’d be far safer to continue with us to the cliffs along the Thore. From the far end of the cliffs, if all is clear, you can continue northward towards your own country.”
Yaret gazed at the donkeys. He saw her face changing, turning resolutely grave.
“I shall have to leave them here,” she said at last.
“You can still bring Dolm,” said Rothir.
“I can’t. He won’t come without Nuolo. And I can’t leave her on her own.” She began to unload the donkeys’ packs and strap them on to Poda. The smallest bag she transferred to her own back. “I should have looked after them better,” she murmured.
“How?” demanded Rothir.
“They’ll be fine here,” said Parthenal bracingly, because he was desperate to move on. “The stonemen won’t hurt them. They aren’t interested in donkeys. And this is good pasture for them. They’ll thrive while Nuolo recovers. In a few weeks when all danger is past you can always come back and look for them.”
“Yes.” She knelt and embraced Nuolo’s long pale head, talking to her in a low voice. She did the same with Dolm, stroking his ears as she spoke to him. Then she stood up and climbed back onto Poda.
“Let’s get moving,” she said, and looked straight ahead, expressionless, as they began to ride away. All her former joy had vanished.