“Flicker,” Chang said from the hearthside. “Name’s Flicker.”
He caught the image. A lot like Shadow, only light, not dark. She was picking up the other business, too, and while neither of them was acutely embarrassed—she was no junior—he felt himself pushed and set upon by his own horse. In most respects he and Burn were a match. Not in this.
“Sorry,” he said, and squatted down, arms on knees, as far away from her as he could and still feel the fire. “My horse is a fool. You want to quiet it down?”
“They’re all right.”
“Are you? Hands and feet?”
“All right.” Her feet were bare. She wiggled toes, and meanwhile downed a piece of biscuit—she’d found them; chased it with spirit-laced tea.
She seemed to be. So he got up and got several of the shelter’s blankets down from the shelf, <intending wrapping up in them, intending sleep, him with his blankets, her with hers,> and he didn’t invite approaches. She and her horse seemed all right, he was entirely sorry he’d given her a hard go-over and kept her out in the cold—but wherever she’d walked from, those feet hadn’t been cold as long as his had, and Tarmin’s troubles weren’t just today’s event. A day ago—at least. She’d been somewhere safer than he had.
She mumbled, “Two days. I think it’s two days.” <Fire. Rogue-feeling.> She gave a shiver, and poured more of the spirits into the tea. Offered the bottle to him.
He wanted more awareness than that while he slept, though he was very glad to see she would sleep soundly.
She gave him a narrow look, thinking, <rapist.> Or that was the uncharitable way his mind interpreted it.
“No,” he said, taking offense. But her thoughts were skittering about so fast he couldn’t catch them, a lot about people he didn’t know, a lot about a camp he thought must be Tarmin, about a jail and an alarm in the night.
Not comfortable thoughts to sleep with. There was <anger,> when they got loose, and <desire to kill,> but he didn’t think—he didn’t thinkit was an unnatural anger, or an unnatural pain. It just resonated too well with his own, that left him touchy and on the edge.
She took a precautionary look toward the door, <checking the latch,> then wrapped her two blankets around herself, with a persistent thought about a man—a rider—<in this place. Anger. Two women, both riders. Both very young. Deep anger.>
<Fire. Shots going off.
<Wanting them. Here.>
He understood that, God, he wished he could put a damper on that feeling, smooth it down, ease the pain, distance the memories. It was her lost partners she’d looked to find when she’d smelled the smoke and come battering at the door.
<“Who areyou?”> with so much anger—
<Rogue-feelings. Scattering. Wanting kill, shooting horse, horse with blonde child, wanting—this—wanting—this—>
Then it went away. Guil got a breath. The horses did, snappish and dangerous in a closed space.
While Tara Chang sat in her blankets, rested her head on her jacketed arm and stared bleakly into the fire.
Guil sat there a moment—asking himself what he’d let in and what was over there with Burn.
Grief, he decided. A day old, no more. A loss that racketed off his own, and left him raw-nerved. He probably made it worse for her—couldn’t help but make it worse for her.
<Still water, > he sent, kept it up until the horses had calmed down, until he saw the woman sigh and settle, and felt the ambient quiet enough to dare let go and try to relax.
The mattresses on the bunks might have warmed if he’d dragged them over and left them an hour or so at the fireside; but right now he was exhausted and the hearthstones were warmer. He took his own couple of blankets, laid his pistol down, wrapped in them and lay down in the fire-warmth, head on his much-abused hat and scarf, that he stuffed under him from where he’d dropped them.
He was still cold—as if ice had gotten clear into the core of him, and another wave of it was coming out to chill his skin. He lay there by another heavy-coated, living body, as cold as she was, with no erotic notions whatsoever and wondering if he dared shut his eyes.
But in a few moments of quiet, Burn and the mare were back to their quiet muttering of grunts and sniffing and sneezing—
The mare was tired, snappish, and out of sorts. Burn, going too far, nearly got something important nipped. He heard the row. More, he felt it, and twitched into a spasm of cold chill, knees drawn up, and wishing intensely that Burn would quiet the hell down.
The woman in front of him was a solid sleeping lump now. Two drinks, as tired as she looked to be, and probably the roof could fall on her unnoticed.
Probably it was safe to shut his eyes and get some sleep. He didn’t have any reason to doubt her. Burn didn’t doubt the mare, and kept at his courtship, somewhat more gingerly—which didn’t make Burn’s rider more comfortable. Guil turned over, arranged his arm over the gun and belt beside him.
In very remote case, he was sure. But he didn’t believe in deliberate chances.
Meanwhile the horses were bickering, Burn was exhausted, sore, and impatient, having made the one perilous try at a chilled, sore-footed, sore-backed mare, and settled to a sullen male posturing— imaging <handsome horse, male, male, male horse,> until Burn’s male rider was <desperate, mad male human, trying to rest. Burn lying down.>
Burn wouldn’t. The mare was on her feet. Burn was <handsome young male.> Burn wasn’t going to lie down in the presence of any <female horse standing.> If Burn deigned <mating with cold, wet female.>
“God.” Guil took several deep breaths, and imaged, < Horses lying down,> loud and mad. Which was fit to wake his own bedmate. So he sent, <Quiet horses. Beautiful mare. Lying down mare.>
The mare settled down fairly abruptly, imaging—he was sure it was the mare—<sore legs, sore back.>
Burn postured, Burn circled twice, lifted and flagged his tail, preened a foreleg, finally—
<Rump down,> Guil sent furiously.
Burn preened the other foreleg, and gracefully, gracefully, settled to a noble resting posture—not damned comfortable, but, hell, <handsome horse,> Guil agreed, asking himself if he’d ever in his human life possibly been such an ass.
<Aby laughing, and him chasing Burn across the hillside.
<Aby laughing and laughing.>
He grew warm, finally. He shut his eyes, drifted toward sleep, listening to another shifting-about with the horses. Horses didn’t mind resting their legs, but give it about an hour and a healthy horse would be up to sleep a while standing; and down again, when he tired of that—they weren’t quiet sleeping partners, unless the night was very cold indeed.
Which it wasn’t, with the fire going.
And now—
Now Burn wanted <outside, call of nature.>
God.
But Burn had to. It wasn’t Burn’s fault. Sex failed and the other urge of nature took over. You couldn’t ask Burn to wait. You could want to shoot him—but, hell, you woke up, took your gun to guard the door, you got up—
He let Burn out. He stood there against the wall, freezing in the brief blast of cold air, testing whether human beings could nap standing up—he could manage it.
But now that Burn was outside, the mare wanted <out.>
Fine. <Mare outside.> He couldn’t keep his eyes open. He opened the door and Burn wanted in where it was warm. Immediately. Burn came in, radiating cold, covered with snow. Shook himself.
Guil shut his eyes, folded his arms tightly to keep himself from folding over in the middle, braced his heels, and waited for the mare. While the wind shrieked over the loose shingle.
In not so long the mare wanted back in and he wearily opened the door, accepted another horse shaking herself and spattering snow about, as he shut the door and double-checked the latch, arguing with himself that the mare was perfectly sane, that possibly now that the horses were settled, he might settle.