Balkis looked away uncomfortably. “I trust you, as I said— you have a good heart. You have defended me—now I will defend you, and helping one another, we might well come unscathed to the land of Prester John.”
“Prester John!” Anthony breathed. “Is his kingdom your homeland?”
She saw the wonder and longing in his face, and said, “It is the land of my birth, yes.” Later she might explain that she had grown up far to the west, in Allustria, but that could wait. “I know not the way, though—I was sent here by magic.”
“Magic! You have sorcerous enemies, then?”
“It would seem so,” Balkis admitted, “though I had not thought I had offended anyone.” No one but thegur-khan and his chief priest, said a small voice within her mind, but she ignored it—surely the men of the horde would have slain her, not exiled her. “Travel with me,” she urged, “and I shall find a way for you to cope with whatever trials we meet. When our journey is done, you shall see the land of Prester John.”
“The enchanted kingdom!” Anthony said, staring off into space at his own dreams. Then he came back to earth and frowned. “I could not leave my father and brothers to worry, though.”
“Then leave them a note,” Balkis suggested.
“A note?” Anthony said in surprise. “But I am only a peasant! I cannot write!”
“I can.” Balkis felt a surge of annoyance. Really, did the boy know nothing?
Only what mattered: how to be kind and gentle—and how to defend a friend.
“If you could write a note for me,” Anthony said slowly, “Father could take it to the priest to read…”
“Then let us do so.” Balkis looked about her. “Charcoal will do for the writing, and a clean board will serve for parchment.”
“I shall fetch them.” Once decided, Anthony had no hesitation. He descended the ladder, found charcoal at the forge and scrubbed a board clean, then dictated the letter. He choked over the words, and Balkis feared he would change his mind and stay, but when the message was written, Anthony fetched a coil of rope and two waterskins, then led her out to the smokehouse and gathered a dozen sausages. Balkis changed into a cat and leaped up to his shoulder, and equipped only with food, water, and rope, they set off down the hillside.
Anthony hesitated only as the sun rose before them. “The cows…”
“Your brothers will milk them when they come looking for you,” Balkis meowed at him. Or for me, she thought.
Anthony looked up at her in surprise. “You can talk in that form, then?”
“Try to stop me,” Balkis retorted. “Have you heard anyone say where the land of Prester John lies?”
“North,” Anthony answered.
“North let us go, then”
Anthony nodded, turning so that the sun was on his right, and set off diagonally across the hillside. Balkis looked back, wary that his brothers might try to track him and make him come back. She murmured a verse in Allustrian and a small whirlwind blew up, following them and obliterating their tracks with blown snow.
Satisfied, Balkis turned and looked forward again. For a moment her conscience hurt—it was good for her to have a road companion, but was this leave-taking good for Anthony?
Then she remembered the beating, and it firmed her resolve—this couldn't be worse, surely. If Anthony had been a boy in his teens, not yet ready to face the world on his own, it might have been different—but he was a man who would have already married and left home if there had been more women in his country. He was ready to go out into the world on his own, past ready—and if he didn't like Prester John's country, he could always come home. In fact, she could make sure he had a horse and a mounted escort—and money enough to set his father and brothers in his power for a change. She relished the thought as Anthony finished traversing the hill and struck a set of icy ruts that served as a road leading northward. “We have begun our journey, Kit!” he said, exulting. “I mean, Balkis.”
“We have begun indeed, son of men,” she agreed, “and begun well.”
The road stretched out before them, all the way home to Maracanda.
The road may have led toward the north, but it also led downward. Toward evening it rose again for a mile to a ridge that fell away to a valley floor. As they descended, the road slanting toward the stream below, Balkis noticed that the drifts by the roadside scarcely came to Anthony's knees, and saw dripping icicles on the bare branches whenever they passed a stand of birches.
As they strode lower, though, the sun hid behind the peak at the western end of the valley and the dripping lessened, then stopped as the air chilled, leaving the icicles frozen again. It was the mountains' height that had brought them snow, Balkis realized, and the lower they went, the warmer it would be, as she expected from a southern climate. “When we come out of the mountains to the plains,” she asked, “will there still be snow?”
“I doubt it,” Anthony said. “The flatlands are always oven-hot when we visit them in the summer, and they must be warm enough for crops to grow even now.” He made a face. “The air is thick with heat and moisture, though. It will be painful to breathe.”
Balkis hid a smile. She didn't doubt Anthony's words—for a man raised to breathing the thin, dry air of the mountains, the lowland air must indeed seem like soup.
The ground leveled about them, and they were so far below the ridge that the land lay in twilight. Suddenly a partridge burst from cover almost beneath Anthony's nose.
“Good hunting!” Balkis cried, and leaped down off Anthony's shoulder.
“Good indeed,” he said, and she heard a hissing. She looked up to see a circular blur above his raised hand; then his arm whipped down and the partridge gave one raucous cry and fell out of the sky.
Shaken, Balkis stared up at her gentle Anthony as he wrapped the strings of the sling around its leather pouch and tucked it back in his belt. “I think we shall have fresh meat for dinner,” he said, “not merely boiled jerky.”
“It would seem so,” Balkis replied. “Do you always carry that with you?”
“Of course,” Anthony said. “You never know when dinner will spring up before your eyes. Do not people carry slings in your homeland?”
“Not in the cities,” Balkis said, “but we find our dinners in the marketplace there.”
“Ah.” Anthony nodded, understanding, and went to fetch the partridge.
Balkis decided that perhaps he didn't need quite so much help as she had thought.
They ate in companionable silence. Balkis changed back into a woman for the occasion, reasoning that her larger stomach could hold more food, which would sustain her longer. She told herself it had nothing to do with Anthony's admiring glances—but she did relish them. She was beginning to enjoy the strange, warm sensation those looks raised in her. Besides, the feeling was less intense in human form.
As she wiped her fingers on a tuft of dead grass, Anthony said, “Shall we play the old game, then?”
“What?” Balkis stared at him, trying to decide whether or not to feel insulted.
“The game,” Anthony explained. “You saw us at it last night, did you not? I have played at telling the old tales in verse as long as I can remember.”
“Oh! The old tales,” Balkis said, relieved. “It is not a game with which I am familiar, Anthony. Besides, I may not know your tales.”
“How diverting!” Anthony exclaimed. “A new tale! Make up whatever comes to your mind, then.”
“I—I do not know if I can.” But Balkis realized what a rare treat this must be for him, to start not only the verse but also the whole saga, with no one to object. She couldn't disappoint him. “I shall try, though…”