"You mean Moonsong, the Adept?" Kethry glanced over at Jadrek, but the witchlight she was creating showed the Archivist already rolled up in a nest of blankets and hay, and sound asleep. "He said a lot of things."
"Hai -- but I'm thinking there's something that might be pertinent to Jadrek."
Kethry nodded, slowly. "About Need extending her powers to those I care for. Uh-huh; I've been wondering about that. Jadrek certainly seems to be in a lot less pain."
Tarma snuggled into the soft hay, sword and dagger within easy reach. Behind her, Warrl was keeping watch at the door, and Ironheart and Hellsbane were drowsing, having stuffed themselves with fresh hay. "He's not drugging himself as much, either. And ..."
Kethry settled into her own bedroll and snuffed the witchlight.
"And he's not the bitter, suspicious man we met at the Court," she said quietly in the darkness. "I think we're seeing the man Idra knew." Tarma beard the hay rustle a bit, then Kethry continued, very softly, "And I like that man, she'enedra. So much that I think your guess could be right."
"Krethes, ves'tacth"
"Unadorned truth. I like him; he treats me as an intellectual equal, and that's rare, even among mages. That I'm his physical superior ... doesn't seem to bother him. It's just ... what I am. He'll never ride 'Bane the way I do, or swing a sword; I'll never be half the linguist he is, or beat him at chess."
"Sounds like -- "
"Don't go matchmaking on me, woman!" Kethry softened the rebuke with a dry chuckle. "We've got enough on our plate with tracking Idra, the damned weather, and the mage we've got on our backtrail."
"So we are being followed."
"Nothing you can do about it; my hope is that when he hits the Comb he'll get discouraged and turn back."
Tarma nodded in the dark; this was Keth's province. She wouldn't do either of them any good by fretting about it. If it came to physical battle, then she'd be able to do some good.
And for whatever the reason, Jadrek was able to do with less of his drugs every day, and that was all to the good. They were making about as good a headway with him now as they would have been able to manage alone. And maybe...
She fell asleep before she could finish the thought.
Now they were getting into the Comb, and as Jadrek had warned, the Comb was no place to be riding through with less than full control of one's senses.
The range of hills along the Northern border called the Comb was among some of the worst terrain Tarma had ever encountered. The hills themselves weren't all that high -- but they were sheer rock faces for the most part, with little more than goat tracks leading through them, and not much in the way of vegetation, just occasional stands of wind-warped trees, a bit of scrub brush, rank grasses, and some moss and lichen -- enough browse for the horses -- barely, and Tarma was supplementing the browse with grain, just to he on the safe side.
It had been late spring, still winter in the mountains where Hawksnest lay, when they'd headed down into Rethwellan. It had been early fall by the time they'd made it to the capital. It had been late fall when they bolted. Now it was winter -- the worst possible time to be traveling the Comb. Now that they were in the hills the rains had changed to sleet and snow, and there were no friendly farmers, and no inns to take shelter in when hostile weather made camping a grim prospect. And they no longer had the luxury of pressing on; when a suitable campsite presented itself, they took it. If there wasn't anything suitable, they suffered.
They'd been three days with inadequate camps, sleeping cold and wet, and waking the same. Kethry had dropped the illusions two days ago; there wasn't anybody to see them anymore. And when they were on easy stretches of trail, Tarma could see Kethry frowning with her eyes closed, and knew she was doing something magical along the backtrail -- which probably meant she needed to hoard every scrap of personal energy she could.
Jadrek, predictably, was in worst case. Tarma wasn't too far behind him in misery. And sometimes it seemed to her that their progress was measured in handspans, not furlongs. The only comfort was in knowing that their pursuers -- if any -- were not likely to be making any better progress.
Tarma looked up at the dead, gray sky and swore at the scent of snow on the wind.
Kethry urged Hellsbane up beside her partner when the trail they were following dropped into a hollow between two of the hills, and there was room enough to do so. The mage was bundled up in every warm garment she owned; on the saddle before her the Archivist was an equally shapeless bundle. He was nodding; only Kethry's arms clasped about him kept him in the saddle. He had had a very bad night, for they'd been forced to camp without any shelter, and he'd taken the full dosage of his drugs just so that he could mount this morning.
"Snow?" Kethry asked unhappily.
"Hai. Damnitall. How much more of this is he going to be able to take?"
"I don't know, ske'enedra. I don't know how much more of this I'm going to be able to take. I'm about ready to fall off, myself."
Tarma scanned the terrain around her, hoping for someplace where they could get a sheltered fire going and maybe get warm again for the first time in four days. Nothing. Just crumbling hills, over-hangs she dared not trust, and scrub. Not a tree, not a cave, not even a tumble of boulders to shelter in. And even as she watched, the first flakes of snow began.
She watched them, hoping to see them melting when they hit the ground -- as so far, had always been the case. This time they didn't. '*0h hellfire. Keth, this stuff is going to stick, I'm afraid."
The mage sighed. "It would. I'd witch the weather, but I'd do more harm than good."
"I'd rather you conjured up a sheltered camp."
"I've tried," Kethry replied bleakly. "My energies are at absolute nadir. I spent everything I had getting that mage off our trail. I'd cast a jesto-vath, but I need some kind of wall and ceiling to make it work."
Tarma stifled a cough, hunched her shoulders against the cold wind, and sighed. "It's not like you had any choice; no more than we do now. Let's get on. Maybe something will turn up."
But nothing did, and the flurries turned to a full-fledged snowstorm before they'd gone another furlong.
"We've got to get a rest" Tarma said, finally, as they gave the horses a breather at the top of a hill. "Jadrek, how are you doing?"
"Poorly," he replied, rousing himself. The tone of his voice was dull. "I need to take more of my medicines, and I dare not. If I fell asleep in this cold -- "
"Right. Look -- there's a bit of a corner down there." Tarma pointed through the curtaining snow to a cul-de-sac visible just off the main trail. "It might be sheltered enough to let us get a bit warner. And the horses need more than a breather."
"I won't argue," Kethry replied. "I can feel 'Bane straining now."
Unspoken was the very real danger that was in all of their minds. It was obvious that the snow was falling more thickly with every candlemark; it was equally obvious that unless they found a good camp-site they'd be in danger of death by exposure if they fell asleep. That meant pressing on through the night if they didn't find a secure site. This little rest might be the closest to sleep that they'd get tonight.