“No!”
The shout came from behind Jame. She was thrust aside by a gnomish figure half swallowed by a gaudy coat. Graykin floundered over the rail and flung himself in the Caineron’s path. For a moment they wrestled with the spear, then Gorbel flung him aside, straight into Jame’s path as she also rushed forward. She and the Southron fell, both tangled in the folds of the Lordan’s Coat. Trinity, that stink . . . ! They heard a piping whistle of pain from the former wyrm, echoed by Graykin’s scream. Gorbel stood over the impaled, writhing darkling, fending off Jorin with the spear’s hilt.
Brier arrived. Jame shoved Graykin into her arms, saying, “Hold him,” then tackled Gorbel.
“Has everyone gone mad?” panted the Caineron from the ground where she had knocked him. “This is a darkling crawler!”
Jame freed herself and carefully withdrew the spear. It had caught the creature a glancing blow in the side, mid-thorax, that looked painful but not necessarily fatal. Then again, what did she know about the anatomy of such a thing? Venom had eaten away most of the spearhead. Avoiding the wound, she touched the crawler gingerly. It vibrated under her hand. Despite everything, it was purring. She wrapped it in her coat and picked it up.
“You never let me kill anything,” grumbled Gorbel, and stomped back into his quarters.
Jame took the darkling back up to Greshan’s quarters, curled in her arms, and fashioned a more comfortable bed for it in the chest where it had hibernated. Sleep had healed it once before, when Tori had sunk one of his daggers into its head. Perhaps it would again.
Emerging, she found Brier, holding the Lordan’s Coat.
“Where’s Graykin?”
“He collapsed. Dehydration, malnutrition, and exhaustion, your cousin figures. Maybe a touch of pneumonia too.” She spoke with the indifference of one to whom such things were not likely to happen, as if they were moral failings. “We took him to the infirmary and I’ve mounted a guard. He won’t be slinking back into the woodwork again.”
She handed the coat to Jame, who accepted it with a grimace. It was surprisingly rank and heavy, its rich, glistening colors like those of internal organs after a heavy meal. Poor Graykin.
“What am I supposed to do with this? It may be an heirloom, but God’s claws, it’s a filthy piece of work.”
Brier didn’t answer. By her silence, clearly she was glad that it was no business of hers.
With a sigh, Jame stuffed the offending garment into the chest full of stale underwear and locked it. She would worry about it later. Tomorrow—no, by Trinity, today—they started north, taking Graykin with them even if he had to go by litter. This wasn’t a healthy place for him. She hoped that with new interests and occupations, he would forget about all that had haunted him these past eleven days. Fresh air would do them both good.
Leaving the two chests and the door as shut as its burst hinges allowed, she went back to her quarters to snatch an hour’s sleep before the morning horn sounded.
XV
Winter’s Eve
The hanging man moved restlessly in the breeze under his oak bough, his feet barely clearing the tall, sere weeds that had sprung up between the River Road’s paving stones. His body had been encased in boiled leather, molded to his limbs and sealed with wax. Only his gaping mouth and distended nostrils remained open to the crisp afternoon air.
“So this is a watch-weirdling,” said Jame to Jorin and the rathorn colt, who leaned forward to snuffle suspiciously at the dangling figure, then to back off, shaking his head.
“No, he doesn’t smell very good. The point is that he’s supposed to smell us, or rather any iron on us, tack or weapons, and give warning to the Merikit village.”
They edged past. No wind blew, but the figure turned with them, gape-mouthed, creaking. The colt’s saddle was buckled and riveted with steel. For that matter, Jame wore her favorite pair of scythe-arms sheathed across her back. However, no sound issued from his desiccated throat. That was because Chingetai hadn’t properly closed his borders the previous Summer’s Eve in his grand grab to secure the entire Riverland.
Jame wondered if to be a weirdling was an honored post, or one reserved for criminals. Despite Index’s language lessons, she knew precious little about the people she was now approaching, except that their menfolk conducted elaborate rites to which the Four apparently paid attention, especially since she had failed to participate in them as the Earth Wife’s unlikely Favorite. Why did Mother Ragga want her on hand tonight? Generally, the Merikits’ rites corresponded to equinox and solstice, neither of which this was. However, they and the Kencyrath both were on the brink of winter, a significant time. There must be some ritual overlap.
Ahead to the left were the ruins of Kithorn. As she passed, Jame peered through the gatehouse into the empty courtyard. The weeds had grown high there between the flagstones since the equinox. Perhaps she was wrong and nothing was going to happen on Winter’s Eve. Perhaps this would be a purely social call unless, of course, someone tried to kill her.
An arrow thudded into the earth between Death’s-head’s front hooves. He recoiled onto his haunches, making Jame very glad of the high cantle that kept her from sliding off over his rump. With his head down and his forelegs up, he presented a front of solid ivory to his unknown assailant, but his ears flickered back and forth, an indication that he wasn’t sure how serious a threat this was.
Excited chatter burst from the bushes ahead, as if a nest of sparrows had been disturbed.
“ . . . ever see a horse do that?” one voice said, and another “ . . . tell you, it’s a rathorn! They say the Favorite rides one.”
“More often falls off, I hear.”
Two young Merikit emerged from the shrubbery. Both wore green tunics, trousers, and short cloaks, with golden chains around their waists, necks, and arms. Both had long, tawny hair and blue-gray eyes. The one carrying the bow, however, was a girl and the other a boy, the former around fourteen, the latter somewhat older.
Death’s-head came back down to all fours with a grunt and regarded them as curiously as they did him. Perhaps it was a good thing after all that Jame was riding him rather than the skittish Bel. Not that she had had much of a choice: sneaking down to the Mount Alban stables before dawn that morning, she had found Index curled up asleep in front of the Whinno-hir’s box stall, determined that Jame not leave without him.
Another time, she thought guiltily, she would bring the old scrollsman along, but not for this first encounter. She dismounted. On the ground, it felt strange to still be looking down on anyone, even if only by half a head, after so long among the Kendar.
“Hello. My name is Jame.”
“I’m Prid,” said the girl. “This is my cousin Hatch.”
“We’ve met. You plopped that accursed ivy crown on my head and shoved me into sacred space last Summer’s Eve.”
The boy grinned. “Better you as the Favorite than me.”
“Can I ride your rathorn?” asked the girl.
The colt bared his fangs and hissed at her through them. Both children retreated a step.
“I guess not,” said Prid in a rather smaller voice.
“You two were guarding the southern approach by yourselves?” Jame asked as they walked together toward the village, the colt wandering after them as if by accident.
“Not guarding so much as watching. The real threat are the Noyat to the north.”
“Hmm. Just the same, don’t underestimate Lord Caineron. I hear he’s getting fed up with your cattle raids.”
They both laughed. “Oh, he could never find his way into our hills. The land protects us, at least to the south.”
They might be right. Jame was well aware that she could never comfortably have made the fifty-some miles from Mount Alban since morning without the land’s help. Hopefully, that was a good omen for this visit.