“No,” she said to the fourth or fifth invitation to stay. “No, we must go, today.” And today meant as soon after breakfast as possible. Aris, moved by the same inexplicable urgency, took their gear out to the horses and found them already saddled. Seri, he thought, must really be in a hurry; he wondered when she had found time to slip out and saddle them.
They were well away before the sun entered the hollow, this time riding sunrising, into the light, as their need suggested. They followed a beaten track that ran along the high ground most of the time.
About halfway through the morning Aris said, “Do you think it’s the gods, or Gird, or something else?”
Seri’s frown meant concentration, not annoyance. “I’ve been trying to think. Up until the iynisin attacked us, everything seemed normal, didn’t it?”
“I thought so. I was surprised that you’d gotten permission for us to leave, but nothing more.”
“There was nothing strange about that; the Autumn Rose and Raheli and Cob all thought you should have the chance to travel and try your healing elsewhere, ’stead of becoming one of Luap’s scribes. And they thought we’d do well together. Rahi said I’d been watching you heal even before Gird knew about it, so they might as well trust me.”
“So it started with the iynisin attack,” Aris said. “Or was it before?”
“Before?”
“When you were talking to me about Luap, about mageborn and peasant, and which I’d chosen.”
“No.” Seri shook her head. “It couldn’t have been that.”
“It didn’t sound quite like you—the Seri I knew.”
“How not?”
“Mmm. Angrier. And I couldn’t believe you would stop trusting me, just because I tried to be fair about Luap.”
“I’m sorry. I remember feeling suddenly furious, hot all over. You’re right, that wasn’t like me, most of the time.” They rode in silence a few moments, then Seri turned to him with a strange expression. “You don’t suppose . . .”
“What?”
“Torre’s Ride,” she said softly. “It’s a test, like Torre’s Ride—could it be?”
Aris snorted. “That’s ridiculous. It—” He grabbed wildly at the saddle as his horse bolted, bucking and weaving. Seri’s exploded too, pitching wildly and then bolting in a flat run to the north. Aris managed to stay on until his horse, too, gave up bucking to run after Seri’s. His breath came short; he felt sore under the ribs, and the horse ran on and on. By the time it slowed, they were far from the track they had been following; a wind rose, whipping the grass flat in long waves, obliterating the pattern of trampled grass that might have led them back to it.
“And now we’re lost,” he said to Seri, who was hunched over, fighting for breath.
“I’m right,” she said a moment later. “And don’t argue again. It’s a test.”
“Fine.” Aris waited until he could breathe more easily, and said, “And perhaps we should start figuring out what kind of test involves iynisin, elves, thunderstorms, and horses that come out of nowhere and run forever without sweating.” For the two horses were not breathing hard, and no sweat marred their sleek hides.
“And a dying man who needs our healing.” Seri straightened up and stretched her back. “And getting lost.” Then she reached over and grabbed Aris’s arm. “Look at them.”
He looked. Their two horses had their muzzles together, and each had one eye rolled back to watch its rider. “They know,” he said. “You mischief,” he said to his horse. He felt its back hump under him, a clear warning. “No, I’m sorry. Don’t do that again; I’ll fall off. But you do know, don’t you?”
“Gird’s horse,” Seri said. Her eyes danced. “These are the same kind.” Her horse stamped, hard, and shook its head. “Or—similar?” Both horses put their ears forward and touched muzzles again, then blew long rolling snorts.
“Gods above,” Aris said. “We are right in the middle of something—I wonder if Torre ever felt confused.” He felt suddenly better, as if he’d solved the puzzle. But he knew he hadn’t.
Seri grinned. “Remember when we were very young, and used to hide in the garden and tell stories?”
“Yes, and you always said you wished we could have a real adventure.” Aris chuckled. “And I thought you’d grown out of that.”
“Never,” Seri said. “Nor have you; I remember who got stuck up in the pear tree.” Her face sobered. “Father Gird wants us to do something,” she said. “And even if we hadn’t stumbled into the iynisin; he’d have found some way to test us. He wasn’t one to send untrained farmers into battle.”
“We’re supposed to be trained already,” Aris said. “All those years in the granges, as yeoman-marshals, as Marshal-candidates—”
“So we’ve survived the tests. We’ve learned to share our talents. We’re more ready now than we were.” Seri looked cheerful; Aris hoped she was right.
“When we find out what it is he wants,” Aris said. “If we’ve finished the tests.” Seri grimaced and put out her tongue.
The two horses stiffened, then threw up their heads and neighed. Out of a fold of the ground rode a troop of nomads on shaggy ponies. All carried lances; the nomads called out in their high-pitched voices.
They came back to Fin Panir leaner, browner, and far more cautious than they’d left. The gate guards didn’t recognize them or the horses, but when they gave their names said they were wanted at the palace. “Why?” asked Seri. Aris thought he knew; his hands prickled. He led the way, his bay picking his way neatly through the crowded lower market.
“Aris!” Luap, crossing from the palace to the Hall, stopped in midstride. “Is it really you? We need you.”
“Who is it?” He was already off the horse; Seri slid off hers. A stableboy came running out; the horses let themselves be led away.
“Arranha. A few days after you left—” Luap told the story as he led them quickly into the palace. “We’ve tried everything—herblore, young Garin—and it’s not enough. He hasn’t died—I suspect that’s Garin’s doing—but his arm’s swollen to the shoulder and he weakens daily.”
Aris said nothing. He loved the old priest; he wondered why the gods had let him leave Fin Panir if Arranha was going to be in danger. When he came into Arranha’s room, he stopped short, shocked. Arranha had always been “the old priest” to him; he had known Arranha was older than Gird. But he had been so vigorous an old man, so full of life . . . and now he lay spent and silent, his body fragile and his spirit nearly flown. Awe flooded him. Was this Arranha’s time, and had the god he had served finally called him? He could not interfere with that.
He put his hands on Arranha’s shoulders; at once the magery revealed the dangerous fever in the wounded arm. It had seeped even past his shoulder, into his heart. Aris let his power flow out. He felt the resistance of a deepseated sickness, and worse than that Arranha’s lack of response. He had given up; although, he breathed, he would not struggle against death any longer.
Seri put her hands on his; Aris looked up, surprised into losing his concentration. “We work together,” she said. He nodded. He could feel her power pulsing through his hands and into Arranha. “Gird loved and trusted him,” Seri went on. “Gird wants him to live; he must help Luap with the mageborn in the west.” Slowly, Aris felt the sickness yielding, first from Arranha’s heart, and then fingerwidth by fingerwidth down his arm. The swollen tissue shrank; the angry reds and purples faded. He could feel that Arranha breathed more easily; his pulse slowed and steadied. Finally, even the purple bite marks which had oozed a foul pus faded, and Arranha’s hand lay cool and slender on the blanket once more.