“Are you sure of this?” Rowena frowned. “We may give you cold welcome here, Kerlew, but at least it’s shelter.”
“One companion will be enough.” Kerlew gave her a harsh smile. “After all, is there any clan we could meet that will know me for what I am? No, I think I’ll fare better as a trader.”
“Then we’ll send you with something to trade,” Rowena said with sudden resolution, and turned to her band. “Everyone bring one thing, some small object that will do for a peddler! We can’t let him go with empty hands!”
Fifteen minutes later, they strode into the forest. Kerlew carried a frame with two packs now, and the second held exquisite little carvings, polished semiprecious stones, and a few carefully wrapped porcelains.
“What songs do you know?” Gar asked.
“Songs?” Kerlew looked up in surprise. “Well, there’s one about a hunter who’s not very skilled.”
“That will do,” Gar said. “Let’s have it.”
Kerlew began to sing. After one verse, Gar recognized it and joined in on the chorus. Thus they strode off into the woodlands, roaring a song guaranteed to tell every outlaw and clan hunter for half a mile where they could find two wanderers.
Alea’s escort were in a holiday mood, laughing and joking as they strolled down the dirt road. They kept a sharp eye for an ambush, but they weren’t much worried; no clan would attack an escort party without asking their business. Seeing them prowl through the woods was one thing, but walking boldly down the road was entirely another; it generally meant that they were escorting someone, and anyone who would be escorted was sacrosanct. The Truce of Travel extended to return trips, too, so the Gregors weren’t terribly concerned about mistakes.
But they weren’t prepared for a single young woman, alone, who sat by the roadside on a boulder, watching and waiting. She rose as the party neared. Something about her struck Alea—perhaps the sense of stillness about her, or the intentness with which her gaze fastened on the traveler-woman. Alea held up a hand. “Let’s stop for a few minutes.”
Agreeably, the party halted. Hazel raised a palm in greeting. “Good day to you, Moira.”
“And to you, Hazel Gregor.” But the young woman still stared at Alea.
Her gaze made Alea uncomfortable, but before she could say anything, Hazel asked in a half joking manner, “Have you found these travelers whose coming you’ve been preaching about, the ones who will put an end to the feuding?”
“One of them,” Moira said, staring directly into Alea’s eyes. “One of them, yes.”
Alarm thrilled through Alea, and before any of the Gregors could think about Moira’s meaning, Alea said, “You’ve been foretelling the coming of peacemakers?”
“To all the clans,” Moira said, “or as many as I can find. Yes.”
“What are you, then,” Alea asked, “to tell the future?”
“Why, she’s a seer, of course,” Hazel said, “a seer and a Druid.”
Alea stared in astonishment. Moira wore only the same loose shirt, loose trousers, and short coat as everybody else, though her jacket was gray, not plaid. Where was the white robe? The sickle at the belt? The wreath of mistletoe?
Where had they been on Versey? Why should a woman Druid dress in the robes of her order any more than a man? “You’ve found one of them?” Hazel asked in skeptical amusement. “Where, may I ask?”
“Here,” Moira said. “Right here.”
“Here? But there’s only…” Hazel caught her meaning and turned to Alea. “You?”
The other Gregors muttered to one another in consternation.
“You’re a peace-preacher?” Hazel asked, gawking.
“I’m a healer,” Alea said over her sinking heart, “and a trader. Healers hate the fighting that maims people, and, frankly, feuds are bad for the peddler’s business. I don’t preach peace, but I would find it awfully convenient.”
“How long a march is it from wanting peace, to preaching it?” someone asked, scowling.
Alea couldn’t tell who it was; they were all scowling now. She turned to them and said, “There’s no danger in preaching peace, if the preacher doesn’t belong to a clan!”
“There’s truth in that,” Hazel said grudgingly. “That’s half the reason we always welcome Moira, though we know we’ll have to endure her cant.”
“And the other half?” Alea asked. “She’s a Druid.”
It was nice to know the clergy were still honored a little. Alea turned back to Moira. “Perhaps I should become a Druid.”
“I’ll be glad to teach you,” the young woman said, “if I travel with you.”
The Gregors turned to exclaim to one another, almost in alarm.
“Peace, friends!” Alea called, smiling. “You’ll be passing me on to another clan soon enough. Surely you can’t object to escorting both of us for a few more miles.” Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Moira relaxing a little.
The Gregors didn’t look convinced.
“Of course, if you really don’t want to, we can always go on by ourselves.”
“No, we can’t have that,” Hazel said quickly. “If anything happened to you, our honor would be stained for years.” She turned to Moira. “None of your preaching, though, not while we’re with you! We’re enjoying the journey and we don’t want it to become a burden!”
“I’ll not talk peace while I’m with you,” Moira promised, smiling.
“Then come along.” Alea held out a hand. “Tell me what else you foresee.”
Gar nodded his approval. “Very good. A most charming conceit.”
“They’d have had a right to feel proud,” Kerlew said, “if they’d been alive to see it.” He looked around at the trees to either side of the road. “Can’t be much of anyone nearby, or they’d have challenged us an hour ago.”
“They certainly must have heard us,” Gar agreed, “but who would trouble two honest peddlers?”
“There are other outlaws besides Rowena’s band,” Kerlew told him.
“Why would they want to attack two madmen?”
Kerlew stared at him a moment, then grinned. “Who but a madman would sing at the top of his voice in the forest, eh?”
“Who but a madman would want to attract attention?” Gar returned. “Not that we…” He broke off, staring at Kerlew. Kerlew stared back.
“Ouch,” Gar said tentatively. “Your shin?” Kerlew asked. “How did you guess?”
“Because mine hurts, too.”
As one, they turned and looked down.
A score of people blocked their way—and they needed a score, for they were only two feet tall. The ones right next to the travelers held spears pressed just under the peddlers’ knees.
“Who are you,” one of them asked in a high, reedy voice, “to go singing so loudly in our woods?”
Gar stared; they were most amazing little people. Each brandished a spear and held a cocked crossbow too, for they had four arms. They wore kilts and garlands of flowers and leaves, and their heads were covered with fur, not hair, fur that was gray and tawny and orange and brown, but it stopped at forehead and cheeks, leaving eyes, noses, and mouths bare. Their ears were pointed, but high on the sides of their heads. Their button noses were triangular, the mouths lipless, and their eyes had vertical pupils. The resemblance to the fairies Gar had seen was striking, their descent from cats just as clear. “A cousin species,” he murmured.