:Do you think—:
:Chosen!: Keesha’s Mindspeech was suddenly urgent. :Horses ahead. We need to get out of this place. This could be very bad for us!:
Tomar came alert in an instant. He reined Keesha around. :Where?:
Keesha screamed.
It was a scream of both a horse and the mental cry of a Companion. Tomar grabbed for the saddle as Keesha reared. A heavy weight tore him from her back. He landed hard on the ground, partially smothered by two large men who pinned him down. His last view of Keesha was of his Companion racing off toward the edge of the grove. He heard the thrum of an arrow being released as a searing blow of pain ripped across his consciousness.
Blackness filled his mind.
Doron stared at the bound Herald who lay unconscious by the fire. Vomehl had returned, his head hanging and a sour look on his face. He’d loosed several arrows, but he knew he’d hit the hell-horse only once.
Hell-horse. Doron grimaced. The Son of the Sun had said there were no hell-horses, no demon-riders. Most everyone in Karse would be slow to change long-standing beliefs about the Heralds of Valdemar and their unnatural mounts. But change they must, because it was the will of Vkandis, spoken through the Son of the Sun.
Ferrin sat next to the Herald, a calculating expression in his dark eyes. Chardo and Jergen had passed out waybread, and everyone had settled down to eat. Doron kept glancing at the Herald. There was something familiar about the man, but Doron couldn’t place it. Chewing the last bit of waybread, he washed it down with a cup of water from the stream. Damn! What was it? Why was this Herald so familiar?
“What you goin’ t’do with ‘im?” Vomehl asked.
“What d’you think?” Ferrin answered. “Ransom ’im. ’Magine his folk will pay a pretty price to get ’im back again.”
Doron wiped his nose to keep his expression hidden. Oh, yes. A pretty price. And just who could they find who’d negotiate that?
The Herald groaned slightly and stirred as best he could, bound as he was with stout ropes. Ferrin leaned over, grasped the man by his hair, and lifted his face to the firelight.
“What you be doin’ here?” he demanded.
“Think he understands you?” asked Jergen.
“Don’t know,” Ferrin growled, throwing an icy look in Jergen’s direction. “Maybe.”
“And maybe not.”
Ferrin hissed something under his breath and let the Herald’s head fall back. But in that short time, Doron suddenly realized why the Herald seemed so familiar. It was his face, the set of his eyes, his chin, his cheek bones. Take away the passage of time that changed the features of anyone who survived childhood and what was left? He could swear he’d seen this man before, years back, when both of them were young.
When he’d escaped the Fires himself because his own witch-powers hadn’t grown strong enough for the priests to notice.
The small birthmark over the Herald’s right eye convinced him.
Vkandis protect! This man was his cousin!
Tomar opened his eyes and winced in pain from the blow to the back of his head. Firelight flickered across the features of those who had ambushed him. Sitting directly next to him was a big man whose face was unforgiving as a slab of rock. The other men were of all sorts: tall, short, light-haired and dark. One and all, they went clad in rough-spun clothes, their boots scuffed and worn, but their weapons were clean and appeared well cared for.
He closed his eyes again, tried to ignore his headache and the anxiety twisting his heart.
:Keesha! You’re hurt! Did they—:
The response he received from his Companion melted the ice in his soul.
:I’ll be fine, Chosen. I’m in a little pain, but all right. The arrow grazed the top of my neck. I was very lucky that the archer’s aim was a little off. And you?:
:Bound. Head hurts. There are five of them, but you know that. Bandits, I suppose. Where are you?:
Wry amusement filled Keesha’s reply. :Close. Sneaking around in the trees. Unfortunately, there are too many of them for me to be of much help getting you out of there. The man who wounded me is no mean shot. We’ll have to think of something else.:
The big man sitting next to Tomar said something in Karsite.
:Don’t let them know you speak the language,: Keesha said. :Play ignorant. That could aid us in the long run.:
Tomar nodded inwardly. Easy enough. Maybe, just maybe, he could change their attitude toward one they had always considered an enemy. Perhaps they had yet to hear the words of the Son of the Sun that Heralds were not demons. Or they had, and their ingrained superstitions still held them fast. Yet he might be able to use his Gift to ease them from their hatred and fear, to make them comfortable in his presence.
:I’m going to try it, Keesha. I’m going to project what Gift I have. It could turn things around enough for them to let me go.:
:I’ll be watching, Dear Heart. And I’ll never be far away. That’s not a bad idea. I wish you luck with it.:
Ferrin gave up trying to get a response from the Herald. Doron frowned. Ferrin’s reaction wasn’t what he was used to seeing. In the past, he would have tried to beat his victim into talking, sometimes merely to take out his frustrations. But Ferrin only sat staring at the Herald, a somewhat puzzled expression on his face.
“Now what we goin’ to do?” asked Jergen. “He don’t speak our language.”
“I’ll think of somethin’,” Ferrin said.
Doron sat frozen, shaken by the knowledge his cousin lay tightly bound by the campfire. When he’d seen the birthmark, that was all he needed to be convinced the Herald was Tomar. It had been a sad day for Doron when he’d learned Tomar and his family had fled Karse all those years ago. Not that they were all that close, though they had become friends. Farms hereabouts lay far enough apart that folk seldom got together unless it was to help each other during harvest. But those days still remained fresh in his memory. He and Tomar had played together, had wound up in the trouble young boys could so easily find. When Tomar began to exhibit his witch-powers, Doron had first reacted in fear. He wasn’t afraid of Tomar—well, not exactly. No, he was more fearful Tomar would be given up to the Fires if any priest recognized what he might become.
And now Doron faced a terrible conflict. He couldn’t let his long-lost cousin be harmed, yet his loyalty to his companions was all he had left in the world. They were what passed for family, had been for years.
An odd feeling of ease stole through his mind. He glanced at Jergen and Chardo and saw they’d relaxed some, weren’t as edgy as before. Even Vomehl had set his bow aside, no longer keeping it trained on the Herald. Doron’s own inner power reacted to something he couldn’t place a name to. He felt certain, however, Tomar was its source.
“You said our luck’s changed,” Vomehl said. “How be that, Ferrin? We got ourselves a demon-rider with nowhere to take ’im.”
“I said I’d think of somethin’,” Ferrin said, rubbing his stubbled chin.
“Who we goin’ to take ’im to?” Chardo asked.
“Maybe one of the priests could arrange for ransom,” Jergen suggested.
“Don’t think so, Jergen,” Vomehl said. “Likely his fellow demon-riders will come lookin’ for ’im, and then where will we be?”
“I said I’d think of somethin’,” Ferrin repeated.
Doron blinked in amazement. Not even a moon-turn before, Ferrin would have backhanded the man foolish enough to question him. Now, all Ferrin could say was he’d think of something.