Yaril came winging back, touched down, changed to childshape. Brann pulled her up before her once again, so they could talk without having to shout. “Nothing,” the changechild said, “No turn-offs far as I dared fly. But there’s a weak spot in the hedge about twenty minutes on, a place where one of the bushes died.”
Brann started to protest, but Yaril shook her head. “It’s all there is, Bramble. Well contrive something. Now move.” She slid of changing in midair and went soaring away on hawk wings. Brann urged Coier into a gallop and followed her, feeling a surging exhilaration at the power under her. The hedge on the left grew wilder and even the meager signs of tending evident before vanished completely, straggly canes encroaching on the paving.
Yaril stood in the road, waving at a thin spot where the canes had withered away and the few leaves clinging to branchstubs were wrinkled and yellow. Without hesitation, Brann turned Coier off the road and drove him toward the brittle barrier with voice, heels and slapping hands. Head twisted back, snorting protest, he barreled through into a long-neglected field that was grown to a fine thick crop of weeds in the center of which stood a shapeless structure with much of its thatching gone, its stone walls tumbled down, the stones charred black in spite of the rain and the many that had gone before. She rode Coier into the meager shelter through a door where half the frame still stood, the other half lay in splinters among the charred stones and twisted weeds. The roof that remained was sodden and leaking but it kept out the worst of the wet. She dismounted with a sigh of relief and trembling legs, glad to be out of that depressing incessant beat-beat on her body and head. She closed her eyes and leaned against the endwall, dripping onto the bird dung, weeds, old feathers, bits of thatching that lay in a thick layer over the beaten-earth floor. But she couldn’t stay there. She looped the reins about the remnant of the door frame, then ran back to Yaril.
The changechild was dabbling in the mud, resetting the clods that Coier’s hooves had thrown up, helping the rain wash away the deep indentations his iron shoes had cut into the mud. The hole in the hedge looked wide as a barn door; Brann tried to drag a few canes from the live bushes across the gap but that didn’t seem to do anything but make the opening more obvious. Yaril straightened, the mud sloughing off her, leaving her dry and clean. She saw what Brann was doing, giggled. “Don’t be silly, Bramble.” The pet name seemed to amuse her more and she laughed until she seemed about to cry, then pulled herself together. “Go on,” she said, “get into shelter. Jaril’s coming, be here soon to keep watch when I can’t.”
“Can’t?”
“Watch, then scoot.” Yaril giggled again then stepped next to the twisty trunk of the bush and changed. With startling suddenness she was a part of the hedge, as green and vigorous, wild and thorny as the bushes on either side of her.
Shaking her head at her lack of thought, Brann trudged to the burned-out structure, barn or house or storage crib, whatever it was.
She stripped off her sodden clothing, rubbed herself down with one of her blankets, stripped the saddle and bridle off Coier and rubbed him down until she was sweating with the effort, doled out a double handful of cracked corn onto his saddle pad. She tied on his tether and left him to his treat, then got out her old filthy shirt and trousers, slipped into them. At least they were dry. She wrinkled her nose at the smells coming from the dark heavy cloth, but soon grew used to them again. She folded the damp blanket into a cushion, sat down with her back against the rough wall and was beginning to feel almost comfortable when Jaril walked in.-They’re almost here,” he said. “You’ll hear them soon.” He squatted beside her. “Far as I could see, they didn’t investigate any of the turn-offs, they’re coming straight ahead, pushing their horses hard, on the chance they can overtake you.”
“What happens when they wear out their mounts and still haven’t come on us?”
“Raise the countryside I expect. Listen.”
Through rain that at last was beginning to slacken she heard the pounding of hooves on the worn stone paving of the highroad. Coier lifted his head and moved restlessly. She got to her feet and stood beside him, a hand on his nose to silence him if he decided to challenge the beasts on the far side of the hedge. She listened with her whole body as they went clattering pounding splashing past without slackening pace, the noises fading swiftly into the south.
She let out the breath she was holding. Jaril squeezed her fingers gently.-I’m off, Bramble. Better I keep an eye on them awhile more.” He looked around.-I think you could chance a fire, Yaril’ll get you the makings, dry them off. You might as well eat something now, it could get harder later.” Then he was a mistcrane stalking out the door. Brann followed him, stood watching his stilting run and soar, beautifully awkward on the ground, beauty itself in the air. She stood wiping the damp off her face, suddenly and simply happy to be alive, delighted with the water running from her hair, the breath in her lungs lifting and dropping her ribs. She stood there long enough to see Yaril dissolve out of the hedge and come walking through the wet weeds, a slight lovely sprite, a part of her now, her family. She smiled and waited for Yaril to reach her.
BRANN WOKE FROM a long nap to find the afternoon turned bright as the clouds broke and moved off. Yaril was sitting in silence, staring into the heart of a little fire, her face enigmatic, her narrow shoulders rounded, the crystal eyes drinking in and reflecting the flames. Brann felt an immense sadness, a yearning that made her want to cry; it wasn’t her own grief but waves of feeling pouring out of Yaril. For the first time she saw that they’d lost as much as she had, drawn from their homeland and people as she was driven from hers. And there was very little chance they’d ever return to either homes or people; they were changed as she was changed, exiled into a world where there was no one to share their deepest joys and sorrows. Brann licked her lips, wanted to say something, wanted to say she understood, but before she could find the words, Yaril turned, grinned, jumped to her feet, tacitly rejecting any intrusion into her feelings. “Jaril’s on his way back.
Rain’s over, we’ll ride tonight and if we can, lay up tomorrow.”
Brann yawned. “What’s he say?”
“Temuengs went on till the rain stopped, but they finally had to admit they’d missed you. There was a bit of frothing at the mouth and toing and fming-” Yaril giggled-“then the enforcer rode on for Tavisteen, your favorite empush started back, he’s sending the Temuengs one at a time down side roads to stir up the local occupation forces and looking careful at the hedges as he goes past. Time I got back to being a plant. It’s boring but not quite so bad as being a rock.” With another giggle she got to her feet and ran out.
Brann followed her to the opening, watched her dart through the weeds to the hedgerow, merge with the green. Shaking her head, she turned away to fix herself a bit of supper while she waited for Jaril to arrive.
THE MISTCRANE FLEW ahead of them, searching out clear ways, leading them along twisty back roads that were little more than cowpaths. Moving mostly at night, ducking and dodging, watching Temuengs and their minions spilled like disturbed lice across the land, nosing down the smallest ways, Missing her sometimes by a hair, a breath, Brann wormed slowly south and west, heading for Travisteen though that grew more and more difficult as the hunt thickened about her. The children stole food for her, corn for Coier to keep his strength up because there was never enough rest and graze for him. She grew lean and lined, fatigue and hunger twin companions that never left her, sleep continually interrupted, meals snatched on the-run. Five days, seven, ten, sometimes forced into evasions so tortuous she came close to running in circles. Yet always she managed to win a little farther south. Twice Temuengs blundered across her, but with the children’s help she killed them and drank their lives, passing some of that energy on to Coier, restoring the strength that the hard running was leaching from him.