“No. It was real then, and it was real last night. We stayed in the house as Baglos said, and he told us stories to take our minds away from it. He says these Zhid feed on fear.”
“Listen to your foolish talk. You must be rid of those two, Seri. Send them away.” He unstacked a nest of iron pots. Into one he threw some bits of rope. Into another he dumped a wadded cloak, three spoons, and a battered tin of tea.
“Exactly so. I’m taking them to see a man I know in Yurevan. Jaco, you—”
“Taking them? Yourself?” For the first time I seemed to get Jaco’s attention. His head shot up from his puttering. “Never heard anything so foolish. Why would you do that? Who is this man?”
“Someone who might be able to help unlock D’Natheil’s confusion.”
“You need to tell me… who is it? What’s his name?” His brow was creased, his face red. “So’s I can find you if need be. Maybe I ought to go with you. Yes, that’s what I must—”
“His name is Ferrante, a professor at the University who knows about the J’Ettanne. He used to live just outside of Yurevan. I don’t even know if he’s alive.”
Only after I so stupidly blurted everything out did I think what a predicament I was leaving Jaco in. “Listen, I know the sheriff is your friend, but you mustn’t tell him any of this. Rowan fought at Avonar. Leiran soldiers slaughtered everyone in the city just because some of the citizens were sorcerers. They burned the sorcerers and their families and friends. Even their children, Jaco. Rowan helped them burn the J’Ettanni children.”
Jacopo stopped his work and pulled out his pipe. His fingers were shaking as he worked to fill it, spilling the fragrant tobacco all over the floor until he threw pipe and bag down in annoyance, and sank onto one of his wooden stools, his back to me. “No. I won’t say aught to him. I’ve been thinking you’re right. It’s not such a good idea to bring in Graeme. He’s still got to take you to Montevial in the autumn, and I don’t know he could lie to the king.”
Though he had finally yielded to my opinion, I was astounded. Jacopo had been after me for ten years to trust Graeme Rowan. He must be truly afraid. I laid a hand on his hunched shoulder, but he didn’t turn around. Perhaps he was weeping or embarrassed to show his fear. “Autumn is months away, Jaco. You mustn’t worry so much. This mystery has got my blood running again. That can’t be a bad thing, no matter what comes of it.”
“Give up this sorcery business, girl. It’s vile. Wicked.” His plea was a plaintive chant such as a child might use to ward off evil spirits. “Send this prince away. He’ll be the death of you.”
“I detest D’Natheil,” I said to Jacopo’s back. “He’s a bully and a brute, and I can’t get rid of him soon enough. But I won’t give him over to Evard or Darzid or the sheriffs of Leire. And that means I have to go with him. He and Baglos would be lost or arrested within a day, and Ferrante won’t trust messages—not in this matter.” And now for the awkward part. “I do need your help, Jaco. I’ve got to have two of Emil Gasso’s horses.”
“The horses”—Jacopo scratched his head slowly with his wide fingers—“yes, I’ll get you the horses. A loan, mind! But you’ll have to wait a day, as I can’t deal with Gasso until tomorrow. Too much to do here; boat due within the hour.” He glanced toward me, and then stood up and went to work again, sticking his head deep in a barrel of rusty tools and tossing one after another onto the floor. “I’ll bring you the horses tomorrow midday. It’ll do you good to rest up before traveling so far.”
To wait another day was a dreadful risk, but I couldn’t press Jacopo’s generosity any further. “You’re a good friend, Jaco. We’ll meet you tomorrow at the spring on the ridge. We can’t be at the cottage when Rowan returns.” I waited for him to answer, but he only grunted and dropped an old pump handle on the floor. “Tomorrow then.”
I had to pass Emil Gasso’s stable on the way out of town, and on a whim decided to stop in. Gasso was a small-time horse breeder who had been hit hard by the constant levies for the Isker war. When I told him that Jaco would buy his horses and tack for a reasonable price, he was so delighted that he said I could take the horses with me. He would trust Jacopo for the money. I couldn’t believe my good luck.
One of the horses was a huge chestnut with powerful legs and fire in its eye. The other was a smaller roan who nuzzled my hands and my pockets. “I think we’ll let D’Natheil ride your friend, and you’ll stay with me,” I said to the roan. I considered going back to tell Jacopo about Gasso’s generosity, but the morning was escaping. So I started up the trail to the cottage, riding the sweet-tempered roan and leading the chestnut.
CHAPTER 16
Less than an hour after my return from the village, I led D’Natheil and Baglos onto an obscure track that led over the ridge and down into the deep forest. D’Natheil rode as I knew he would, as if he’d been born in the saddle, a primitive exuberance in the man matching that of the fire-eyed chestnut. As for me, what I had told Jacopo was the truth. My blood raced as it had not in ten years, and I spent a great deal of the day marveling at what a short time it had been since Midsummer’s Day, when I’d believed I would never feel anything again.
By early afternoon we came to the crossroads at Fensbridge. At Fensbridge market Baglos traded an unmarked coin of silver for boots and sword for D’Natheil, the latter old-fashioned and dull, but decently made. The young man hefted the weapon and grunted in satisfaction, if not pleasure.
From Fensbridge you could cross the river and travel the main road south back to Dunfarrie and Grenatte or ride north to Montevial, as Rowan and I did every fall, or you could take one of several roads west into the foothills of the Dorian Wall. Straight west would lead to the high, rugged country at the base of the mountains. Our northwest route would take us through the forested, rolling borderlands all the way to the Valleor highroad, a well-traveled way across the border. Those who wished to avoid border checkpoints could leave the highroad and find innumerable secondary paths into Valleor. Karon had often used them on his private journeys, and such was my intent.
By nightfall the morning’s excitement had long dissipated. I was saddle-weary, and a day’s contemplation had convinced me that my plan had more holes than a moth-eaten cloak. I had no assurance that Ferrante was even alive, much less residing in the same ivy-covered country house where Martin had first met Karon. And I had only the most faint supposition, entirely unsupported, that Ferrante knew whether there had been more than one J’Ettanni survivor of the slaughter at Avonar. And yet, the history professor had been a close friend of Karon’s father, the one person outside of Avonar that any of the sorcerers would go to for help. I hoped he would tell me what I needed to know without my having to recount Baglos’s fragmented stories of Heirs and enchanted bridges.
We camped for the night in dense forest. The air was humid and still, smelling of old leaves and moldy earth. We would see rain before morning. D’Natheil worked at sharpening and polishing the battered sword. After some rapid speech and hand gestures from Baglos, the Prince began to run two fingers over the weapon slowly, touching every part of the dully glowing surface. I believed enchantment flowed from his touch.
Watching the Prince intently, the Dulcé retreated to the log where I sat by the fire. I leaned toward him and whispered, “What’s he doing?”
Baglos jumped, as if he had forgotten I was there. “Oh, I told him—It’s just—to keep its edge and strengthen it… to enable it to serve him, a Dar’Nethi warrior can give a weapon his blessing. He has lived his whole life with swords,” he said softly, “and wielded them as a man when he was scarce taller than the weapon. But never before has he managed to do this. It was said that he would try too hard, get angry, and stop before he could get the rhythm of it. Now… I’m not sure he understands what he does.” After a while, Baglos sighed and set about cleaning up the supper things and laying out D’Natheil’s blanket.