"Where did you get the water anyway?" he asked between bites.
"Ah," Naitachal said, settling down next to him and starting on his own breakfast. "There is a shallow spring down the side of this ridge. Not more than a trickle, but it was enough to water the horses and bring a bucket full up here for you. It was to be your drinking water, not your bath."
Alaire grinned, for by now the shock of the icy water had worn off. It's hard to be mad at him for too long, especially when he lets me sleep and catches and fixes breakfast. Then his mood brightened even more.
We could arrive in Rozinki today. There will be an inn with real baths!
They packed and loaded the horses, but before leaving Alaire sought out the spring. It was a mere trickle, as Naitachal had said, but it was very fresh.
And very cold, he rediscovered as he splashed some on his face.
When he bent to drink, he felt something distinct, and familiar. A wave of weak magic passed over him.
He froze momentarily, then resumed drinking, sati- ating himself while pretending to ignore the magical probe that had fixed on him. It felt warm and tingly, like a large beam of sunlight; but unlike sunlight, this had a feeling of control behind it. Who was controlling it, he couldn't guess, but he had the distinct impres- sion it was coming from the direction they were traveling towards.
Good gods, he thought, still acting oblivious to the probe.
Who in the world could be doing that?
He returned to camp, but as he left the well behind him, the magical eye followed. You're a mere mortal, remember? You don't know it's there. You can't know it's there. Only a Bard or a mage could feel it.
Before he reached the horses, he felt the probe shift, weaken, then vanish. Relieved, he quickened his pace, eager to tell his Master about this unexpected intrusion.
He found Naitachal adjusting the bridle on his horse, but as soon as Alaire drew closer he felt the probe again. This time the magic only brushed past him, for it focused on the Bard instead.
The Dark Elf turned, and met Alaire's eyes with his own. Alaire nodded, ever so slightly.
"Are you ready to travel?" Naitachal asked Tension colored his words, which seemed to say, Ah, so you feel the probe too? Alaire nodded again.
"Yes, I believe so," he said, trying to approximate the same tone. "I wonder if -- ah -- we're going to see any natives today?"
Naitachal mounted his horse, and looked do Alaire.
"Perhaps. I suspect they'll see us first."
They rode for close to an hour, making idle con- versation about the weather. That wasn't hard to manage, for it deteriorated into a cloudy, cold morn- ing, threatening rain or, more likely, light snow. The mysterious probe followed them and Alaire tried to conceal his unease; it was as if a giant something was looking over their shoulder, listening to their every word.
Then, suddenly, the probe vanished.
Moments later, Naitachal chuckled. "My. That was interesting."
"It was a probe, wasn't it?" Alaire said, sensing it was safe to talk. "A Watch-Spell? Who was it? One of our mages?"
Naitachal snorted. "Hardly. It came from Sumo- men. I suspect it was one of their court mages.
Amateurish, if you ask me. We've been approaching their border for some time, but they're only now aware of it. And they tipped their hand."
Alaire had to agree; it was quite possible to Watch-Spell without alerting the subject. The wizards of Suinomen should have been more careful than that.
"If we were an invading force, they'd be in real trouble by now."
"Indeed." Naitachal frowned. "It leads me to won- der if we were right, and they want our mines to the west. They certainly weren't paying any attention to this route, until now."
During the latter half of the afternoon, the weather continued to turn. What had been nothing more than a chill in the air became a frosty winter blast, a hard, cold wind that hit them head on, from the north.
Naitachal, as usual, seemed to be taking it all in stride. Out came the winter coats, complete with hoods that buttoned closely under the chin. Alaire's hood seemed a bit oversized and hung low over his face. This obstructed his view somewhat, but the dieren clothing kept out the cold perfectly. The outfit even included thick dieren gloves, a necessity when riding.
There was another advantage to the hoods; he saw right away that the one on the Bard's coat conc Naitachal's ears and a good part of his face; he didn't look like an elf, unless seen from close up.
The sudden change in the weather made Alaire wonder if a mage had brought the cold down on them, to discourage further travel northwards. He said as much to his Master.
Naitachal shrugged the suggestion off. "I doubt it.
This is simply what the weather is like around here.
Frankly, I doubt their mages could cook something up this dramatic."
That afternoon they crossed the Suinomen border.
They found no guardhouse or barriers, just a strange stone pillar on the Althean side. Naitachal translated a series of elven runes which covered the marker. The odd message warned all elves, Dark and White, to stay away from Suinomen. It said nothing specific, accordi Naitachal, just a general stay out to all elves who saw it.
Alaire thought it might be a forgery by the Suinomen government, to persuade magic users to turn back.
The Bard shook his head. "There is a residue of elven magic on the writing," Naitachal said. "They could never have forged that."
Alaire felt strangely uneasy the moment they crossed the border into Suinomen. Not only was he leaving his home behind, he felt as if he had passed a point of no-return, and that the odds were he would never go back....
Oh don't be stupid, he scolded himself. You're see- ing bogeys under the bed again. People go across borders all the time and nothing more happens to them except a pleasant or unpleasant journey. You're not a Druid or a Cleric. You can't foretell the future.
You're just a bardling, and this is just a border like any other.
The terrain leveled out as they drew closer to the sea. The fens and marshes were clearly overrunning the western side of their trail. Alaire winced as he imagined the difficulty in taking a horse through those miserable bogs, particularly in this cold. The air here was thicker and damper, and redolent with the scent of the marshlands, a mingling of sea scent and decay- ing vegetation.
Naitachal had trotted up ahead a few horselengths to the top of a rise, then reined his horse to stop.
"Come up beside me and stop," the Bard said, b Alaire could see what had attracted his attention. "I see someone approaching."
Alaire's head came up, as if he could scent some danger in the air like a hound. Naitachal didn't seem too concerned yet. Nevertheless, his hand was on his hilt, and Alaire thought it prudent to follow his example.
Presently two riders rode over the next rise. They were several hundred paces away, and it was difficult to make out much more than that the newcomers were also muffled in heavy dieren-wool coats. The two parties regarded one another in an uneasy silence for several moments, then the others nudged their horses forward again.