My companions had gone their own way, establishing camp in the same hollow where the vanished traveler had left piled saddle and gear. Jervon tried the experiment of turning our own beasts into the square with the three desert horses and they appeared also to respect the wand barrier so that they need not be put on grazing ropes.
Only I was far too impatient to remain in camp awaiting a return that might or might not come. Having proven I could not ride into the wood, I was determined to attempt it on foot, with the turf torn by hoof marks for my guide.
My start was brisk enough, and neither Elys nor Jervon attempted to argue me out of it. It was not until I was some distance along my chosen path (so was I strengthened in stubborn determination) that I realized I could not move fast, nor could I touch any of those hoofprints with my boots. Rather, without any volition, I was zigzaging back and forth just to avoid that.
An uneasiness was growing in me for which I could not account. I persevered but against a growing sense of danger, of opposition, so that my pace grew slower and slower, in spite of my will to push on.
It was not that I was fronted by any visible wall forbidding entrance to the wood. No, rather my energy was steadily sapped, my will itself weakened with every step I fought to gain. I decided that I was not repelled by fear itself, rather a growing awareness that I was intruding rashly, rudely, on private ground, that I ventured where I had no right to go without invitation.
Even though I had come near under the outstretched branches of one of the tall trees, I realized that my hope of traveling farther was done. This was forbidden ground. Reluctantly I turned back, faced toward camp. Then it was as if a strong force swept me up, a storm of wind (though not a leaf rustled, none of the tall grass rippled) pushed me away, heavy at my back. I had dared to approach a guarded refuge—the wood was a sanctuary—but not one for those of my kind.
6
Kerovan
As I sat with what I hoped was an appearance of ease. The sun shining on that band of metal, I was certain the stranger’s oddly set eyes widened. For a moment, perhaps two breaths, his gaze held on that. Then he dropped his reins in turn, the shadow steed standing quiet, all four feet planted rock fast, as its rider’s hands arose in an answering gesture of peace. At least in this much he followed Dale custom.
Cautiously, half fearing that my horses might come to life and bolt, I slipped from the saddle. None of the three moved as I watched them warily before advancing through the tall grass toward the cat-crowned man.
He waited until I was a sword’s length away before he spoke—soft slurred words with a lilting cadence. He might have been reciting some formula. I shook my head, then replied in Dale speech:
“Greeting to a sharer of the road; may the—” I hesitated now. I could not wish him Flame Blessing—such words might be an insult to one who worshiped other powers. Nor could I, in all honestly, call upon the Flame myself, since I was marked as one with no right to the belief of true men.
He frowned. For the fist time there was a shadow of expression on his impassive face. Had a faint tinge of surprise also crossed it for an instant? When he spoke again he used Dale speech, accented, but clear.
“Where ride you, man?” He made the word “man” sound like a title of disrepute.
“In search of—” I hesitated again. To inform the first comer of my reason for riding the Waste was folly.
“In search of—” he prompted. Now it was true he wore an expression and it was grim. “Old treasure, of scrap heaps to burrow in, scavenger?”
His hands dropped, not to seize sword as I had first thought, rather to gather up reins. I knew he was preparing to ride on where my mounts would not follow. At that moment I knew fear. For I had a strong feeling if he went I would not again see him or discover more of his kind, while it could well be he represented just those I had been sent to find.
“I am not a hunter of old metal—a scavenger.” I hastened to say. “I ride with a message.”
“What message and to be given to whom?” He was plainly impatient.
“The message I do know—but to whom it is to be delivered—of that I am not sure.”
“Riddles!” he snapped scornfully.
“Not riddle but ignorance. I am out of the Dales where there has been war for two years and more . . .”
He had been on the point of turning his horse, now he stayed that movement.
“War.” Again there was scorn in his tone. “One petty lord man against his fellow, quarreling over half a hillside of near-barren land.”
His contempt for the Dalesmen was open. I half agreed inwardly that he was right. That was all that war had been for years—hot family feuds in which men died, to be sure, but there was no wide ravening of the countryside.
“This is true war,” I made haste to explain. “Invaders from overseas such as we have not seen before, using new and terrible weapons.” There was no need, I decided, for me to explain that most of those weapons had been by now rendered impotent through some lack we did not understand. “All the coast they hold and now they sweep farther inland. Always they bring reinforcements. We die and there are few to fill our empty saddles, or even horses to wear those saddles.”
He leaned a little forward, his eyes narrowed. By some trick of the light they yet showed, within their depths, tiny glints of flame such as I had seen earlier in the cat eyes of his helm crest.
“So—why do you then come to the Waste—you in warrior mail? Do you run?”
Temper unleashed or leashed I had long ago learned to use as a weapon. I did not need to show any inner fire in answer to his taunt upon this occasion.
“I bring a message, as I have said.” I decided there was only one way I might achieve my purpose after all—and that was with the truth. “We have taken prisoners and they have talked. Their story is that what they seek is a source of power, and it lies to the west. We think that they believe this. Therefore, it is not our Dales that is their final goal but perhaps—this—” I made a gesture to include the meadow in which we stood. Once more the wristlet blazed. “Your land—and perhaps those you name kin.”
He made a sound deep in his throat, a snarl such as a cat might voice. Now he pointed to my wristlet.
“Where got you that?” he demanded.
“By chance—I found it in a stream in the Dales.”
He smiled, the lift of his lip resembling a cat baring fangs—though the teeth he displayed were no different than my own.
“And where got you those?” This time he pointed to my hooves.
I answered steadily enough.
“My birthright—or birth curse. I have heard it said both ways in my time.”
Again those narrowed eyes studied me closely. When he spoke some of the hardness was gone from his voice.
“I think you may have found those who will listen to your message—or may find them after I take council. Your animals”—he glanced disdainfully at the fear-struck desert horses—“cannot follow our trails. Their breed would die of terror were one of my people to approach them closely. I go now to my pack lord. If he wishes to see you I shall return—Man of the Dales.”
He pointed now to the north.
“There is water there and good forage. If you wish—camp and wait.” He had turned his mount, now he looked back over his shoulder.
“I am Herrel.”
I was startled. It is one of the strong beliefs of my people, who know the Power only slightly, that to give one’s name to a stranger is a dangerous thing—since a man’s name is an important part of himself and he can be influenced through it. Still this stranger had just, by that standard, shown great trust in me. I answered as quickly.
“I am Kerovan.” To that I added no title or lordship, for such were mine no longer.
He sketched a salute with his free hand, then rode without looking back again, while I followed his advice in leading my now-more-biddable mounts on toward that campsite he had indicated.