Keesha snorted softly, not needing Mindspeech to tell him he was thinking straight.
:Well, I suppose you’re right, as usual,: Tomar admitted. He glanced to the west, at the sun sinking closer to the horizon. :We’re going to have to find a place to camp for the night. If I remember, there’s a sheltered grove with a clearing in it not all that far ahead. Has a stream for water, and the trees offer some protection. Let’s make for it, Keesha, and let tomorrow take care of itself.:
Once they’d reached the grove, Doron and Jergen had hobbled the horses and now stood watching Ferrin sift through the packs they’d stolen from the merchant’s caravan. Doron hunched his shoulders, feeling unease in the group rising. What they’d hoped would be goods they could barter in return for food and clothing turned out to be books. Books! As if any one in this area of Karse cared for books, even if they could read. He could read and cipher some; his parents had sent him to what passed for a village school in these parts. Not that he was all that interested in sitting down and plowing his way through a thicket of words or numbers. His parents had held lofty expectations for their only son: perhaps he could become a scribe who traveled from village to village, writing down various agreements between villagers, to be sanctioned later by local priests.
So much for that wish. His parents had died of a winter flux, and he, at the awkward age of twelve, became an orphan. All that schooling and he didn’t know a damned thing about farming. His aunt and uncle had taken over the little farm with the intent of keeping it in the family. Their attitude toward Doron had been much the same as if they’d been caught out in a violent storm with no cover handy. For several years, they’d tried their best to make a go of it but, having little experience farming, they’d finally sold the land to a neighbor. Now sixteen and finding himself cast adrift, he’d tried to live on what little money his aunt and uncle had granted him from the sale. He’d done odd jobs here and there, but when his money ran out and no one seemed likely to hire him, he’d joined Ferrin’s band of outlaws, choosing that life over starving to death.
They had become his family. Been so for nigh on five years.
Books.
“Damn it to all the hells!” Ferrin exploded. “Who be interested in books?”
“We could always use ’em for fuel,” Chardo ventured. “Burn right nice, I think.”
Ferrin growled something. “Won’t get us no food, Chardo, or d’you think you can eat words?”
Chardo subsided. Doron shifted uneasily as Ferrin opened the packs from the second horse.
“Well, now. What we got here?” Ferrin lifted something and held it up for inspection. His big hands tore open the bindings. “By all the demons below!” he bellowed. “Paper! Books and paper!”
Doron cringed. And for this Gerran lay dead behind them?
“Could be worse,” Jergen said, “village priests always need paper. They might even find somethin’ to use in them books there.”
Ferrin angrily jammed the paper in the pack. “You best hope that be so,” he snapped, “or we may go hungry real soon!”
“Least we got waybread to eat tonight,” Chardo said.
“Gettin’ sick of that stuff myself,” Doron offered in a conversational tone. “Glad we got some supplies waitin’ for us when we get home.”
Ferrin muttered something vile under his breath. At least he hadn’t lashed out at Doron’s comment. It was just bad luck. Real bad luck. How was anyone to guess the merchant would be carrying items that weren’t in demand out here on the border? Nothing anyone could do about bad luck.
“Wish things been different,” Chardo said. “Wish we could’ve got somethin’ worth while.”
Sudden noise made them all turn. They’d left Vomehl at the edge of the grove, bow in hand, to serve as sentry in case the caravan guards had followed. Or, Vkandis forbid, some of the Guild had turned up. Vomehl rode into the clearing by the stream, his face hard to read in the dusk.
“Someone comin’,” he said, tethering his horse to a tree. “Seen ’im a ways off.”
Doron stiffened, his hand automatically going to his sword.
“Recognize ’im?” Ferrin asked.
“No. Light not the best, but I could see enough. White horse and white rider.”
A chill ran down Doron’s spine. White horse? White rider? That could only be a Herald. A Herald from Valdemar! What in Vkandis’ name was a Herald doing out in this part of the borderlands?
“A demon-rider on a hell-horse?” Chardo shuddered in an automatic response to fear. “You sure?”
“Trust my own eyes,” Vomehl said. “Be headed our way.”
Ferrin straightened, a look of anticipation crossing his face. “Our luck’s turned. Comin’ in from behind you?”
Vomehl nodded.
“Then we be less’n charitable not to welcome ’im to our fire,” Ferrin said with a nasty grin. “Doron, you and Jergen hide left of the trail. Chardo, me and you wait to the right. Vomehl, you and that bow of yours make this demon-rider and his hell-horse wish they’d never come this way. Now, move!”
Tomar rode toward the grove, deep in thought. Though fairly new to his Whites, he had asked for, and been granted, leave of absence to seek out kin in Karse. As far as he knew, he still had aunts, uncles, and cousins living near the edge of the border between Valdemar and Karse, and for years he had wanted to seek them out. Tomar always wondered what had happened to the relatives they had left behind when he and his family fled.
His father, mother, and sister had settled into a fairly normal existence in Valdemar, made all the more secure because of Tomar’s Gift. Now, after attaining a position none of them had ever dreamed of, his heart had turned to the rest of his family. With the possible normalization between Karse and Valdemar, it seemed a good time to make the journey.
:You don’t think this is a stupid idea, do you, Keesha?: he asked.
:Why should I think that, Chosen? Family is always important. And this gives you a chance to see your home-land again.:
Tomar smiled. He looked ahead at the large stand of trees, just about where he remembered it from his earlier days in Karse. The light was fading fast, and the sooner he and Keesha found a place to camp, the better he would feel. He had seen no one on his journey through the borderlands thus far, only a remote farm or two. Aside from that, he imagined they would encounter few people. He still felt it a bit risky to be riding as a Herald into a country that had been an enemy for so long, despite all the reforms of the Son of the Sun.
And yet, given the choice of venturing into his native land disguised and riding a horse of no distinction, he had been unwilling to leave Keesha behind. Oh, Keesha could ghost after him, but the physical closeness of Companion and rider was one thing Tomar did not want to lose.
:Nor do I,: Keesha said. :It would have been lonely without you on my back.:
The warmth of their bond filled Tomar’s heart with joy. How could anyone be more fortunate than to have been Chosen by such a being as Keesha? Wise—so very, very wise—elder partner in all he did, she filled an inner space he had not realized lay empty.
Reaching the edge of the trees, he rode a bit to his left, then cautiously urged Keesha forward down the trail he found. The light was getting chancy enough that he did not want to risk a fall on uneven ground. It grew darker under the trees, and he radiated his concern to his Companion.