I hurried upstairs, leaving the young woman slapping butter and cheese on the toast Nellia had brought in. Gerick’s room was perfectly arranged: bed, wardrobe, washing cupboard, a set of elaborate chess pieces meticulously aligned on an otherwise bare shelf. I searched the wardrobe and a small writing case, looking for some article that might hold enough of Gerick’s ownership to trigger a Finder’s magic. Clothing did not usually work well, Kellea had told me. For most people, too little of the self was invested in them. The dust on the chess pieces hinted they’d rarely been used. I settled for a pair of fencing gloves, thinking of Gerick’s intense desire to master the sword. Clearly his life had been lived elsewhere-in Lucy’s room, I guessed, where he felt safe. Inspired by the thought, I hurried to Lucy’s room and snatched up the reed flute he had made for his nurse.
Kellea tried the gloves first as they were Gerick’s own possession, but eventually she threw them aside and reached for the flute. Closing her eyes, she ran her fingers over the hollow reed, around the ends and over the holes. Then, she laid the flute on the table, and, motioning me to be patient, she sat on a stool beside the fire, propping her elbows on her knees and her chin on her clasped hands as she stared at nothing. Just as I concluded that time had come to a halt, she jumped to her feet. “They’re heading west.”
CHAPTER 13
West. I scribbled a message for Philomena, saying I’d received word of Gerick and was taking two companions to investigate. While Nellia helped Kellea pack food from the larder, and Paulo readied the horses, I changed into riding clothes, found us blankets and supplies, and rummaged through Gerick’s wardrobe for a heavy cloak and thick gloves for Paulo. I dared not bring soldiers along: Kellea was risking her life by using sorcery in the Four Realms.
Within two hours of Kellea’s declaration, Paulo, Kellea, and I rode into the night.
The moon was full and newly risen, its blue-white light so bright on the snow that we cast long shadows ahead of ourselves. Only the ring of hoofbeats on the frozen road and the occasional howl of a wolf broke the silence. We rode hard. By the time the moon shadows had shifted to lie long on the road behind us, the barren heath had yielded to more substantial hills, dotted with pine and oak scrub. Ahead of us lay a dark line that looked like the edge of the world-the Forest of Tennebar, an immensity of trees that stretched to north and south, and well beyond the rugged borderlands to the west, deep into Valleor.
Why Valleor? I could not shake the nagging suspicion that Darzid was taking Gerick to the Zhid. Yet, as far as I knew, the only way to take Gerick to Gondai was across D’Arnath’s Bridge. And the Exiles’ Gate-the fiery chamber where my brother had died and Karon had restored the Bridge-lay not in Valleor, but in the high mountains of southwestern Leire, many days’ journey from here. Were more of the empty-eyed warriors hiding in the wretched places of this world, feeding off of our misery?
Our heads were nodding, and we were about to lose the light of the setting moon, so we halted at the edge of Tennebar. The trees gave us some protection from the bitter wind that gusted from the north.
Kellea had taken the last watch. She woke Paulo and me shortly after dawn. Within moments we headed into the forest, eating bread and cheese as we rode. Tennebar stretched for leagues in every direction, its vast expanse scored by wide logging trails, as its tall, straight pines were much prized for building. The sun glittered on the frosty branches. Rabbits and foxes, startled by our passing, scampered across the sparkling snow, almost invisible in their winter white fur.
By midday we were climbing the first slopes of the Cerran Brae, the low range of forested peaks that formed the natural boundary between Leire and Valleor. As the way grew steeper, the road split. A wide wagon road angled south to cross the Cerran Brae by way of Cer Feil-the South Pass. From there one could descend into the valley of the Uker River and travel south to Yurevan or Xerema or angle northwest across the Vallorean Spine to Vanesta. The northern fork was a more direct route to Vanesta, but less traveled, for Cer Dis-the North Pass-was narrow and steep, reputed to be a haven for bandits. Traders generally stayed with the safer, if longer, southern route.
Kellea dismounted and walked a few steps along each branch of the road. For each way, she found a spot bare of snow, crouched down, and picked up a handful of damp dirt from the road, letting it fall through her fingers. When she returned and remounted, she led us north toward Cer Dis.
Night fell. We forged onward, able to follow the narrowing track for a while in the dappled moonlight. But as the way became steeper, Paulo worried about the horses’ footing in the inky shadows, so, despite my chafing, we made camp. Clouds rolled in, smothering the moon and stars. Late that night, at the end of my watch, it began to snow.
The next day was a blur of misery. The light never advanced beyond dawn gray, and the air grew colder as we climbed higher. We led the horses up the steep switchbacks, each turn looking exactly the same as the one before, each made more treacherous by the lightly falling snow. Every time we saw a break in the trees on the forested ridge above us and thought that at last we were nearing the end of the ascent, we would find yet another step in the contour of the land, another slope to be traversed.
By mid-afternoon we were above the tree line, climbing a rocky defile that did little to shelter us from the bitter wind and stinging snow. The light, such as it was, was going. We were exhausted, but we dared not stop. I wasn’t sure we could survive a night in such an exposed place, and I cursed my stupidity at setting out, two women and a boy on an unfamiliar road in the middle of winter.
Paulo was in the lead. He had sharp eyes for the trail and for anything that might be difficult for the horses. I kept my eyes on the too-large, slouch-brimmed hat he’d inherited from Graeme Rowan. It bobbed up and down with the boy’s twisting gait.
About the time the light failed, I realized that Paulo was disappearing downhill. The burning muscles in my legs rejoiced, and I mustered a few words of encouragement for my horse who had plodded along gamely throughout the grueling day. If we could just get down into the trees, find grazing for the horses, build a shelter, make a fire…
Any assumptions that the downhill path would be easier were quickly swept aside. The track was steep, narrow, and icy. We descended another series of switchbacks, scarcely able to see for the snow and the settling gloom. Darzid, Gerick, the search, everything receded in importance. The whole world was reduced to the next step… One foot in front of the other… don’t slip, don’t stumble, don’t imagine what lies down the impossible, dark slope at the end of each steep traverse. Shift the reins to the other hand so your fingers don’t get numb and drop them altogether…
A yelp from in front of me broke my concentration. The slouch-brimmed hat vanished into the murk. Paulo’s horse stopped dead in the track.
“Paulo!” I yelled over the blustering wind. No answer. I picked my way carefully around Paulo’s horse and the packhorse. It was fortunate I took care, for we had come to a set of snow-covered steps that signaled the end of one descent and the reversal of direction that would begin another. It appeared that at least one of the steps had been a false one, carved of snow instead of rock. Slide marks led right off the edge into the dark unknown below the trail.
“Paulo!” I screamed again. In a moment’s lull in the gale, I believed I heard a soft moaning just below me and to the left.