The witch’s tones were wistful but resigned. *She speaks for me also, Selarra. I did not think. We will come to you near evening. Do listen for our arrival.*
*I shall. Ride carefully.*
Contact thinned and was gone. In a far camp a woman lay thinking deeply. It could be that those cursed filth had somehow broken the witch to their hand. Selarra would ride very carefully indeed. Aisling opened her eyes and released the witch’s hand. At the camp she spoke quickly before laying down her blankets. Wind Dancer appeared and snuggled in. She hugged him.
“Well for you that whenever you accompany me I always take your carrysack. You’d not be so pleased with this journey if you had to run afoot.” He chirruped to her, thrust his head hard against her shoulder, and settled in to sleep. As she drifted into slumber a small picture came to her of a cat draped comfortably across a saddle while a human, recognizable as Aisling, walked and trotted beside. Aisling slept, her mouth still curved in a smile at the picture.
They rose and ate at first light. Soon after, they rode on. The day and the riders were quiet. There was no light speech nor laughter. All were apprehensive save the witch, and she felt her heart silenced by yearning. Only in Estcarp would she feel safe again. Only there, where she had a place, respect, and honor.
The others were silent because they listened. They watched for birds to fly up or the quick sideways jump of a disturbed leaper. The wind blew toward them from the northwest. None of the three doubted that Selarra would be laying an ambush just in case. It was common sense, but none of them wished to die because a soldier shot too quickly. At last, toward mid afternoon Wind Dancer leaned forward from his carrysack. His paw patted urgently at Aisling’s neck.
She halted her horse to stroke him. “What is it?” She caught a blurred picture of soldiers in hiding ahead. Aisling drew out her pendant, sinking lightly into the silver mist. With Wind Dancer still in link she caught a glimpse of those ahead. They crouched in a thicket of old brush, by a rock above the trail. It was shaped like the head of a bear, and she noted it. The sight lifted her above the land. Her eyes swept back along the trail to where she sensed her own group moved.
Wind Dancer patted her again, and for a brief instant as his paw rested on her bared skin she had the scent of strange humans in her nose: the smell of horses, harness, and meat cooking on a fire. Ais-ling held up a finger to the breeze, looked down to where the trail curved along the side of the mountain, and smiled grimly. She sent her mount forward to swing it around before the line.
“They’re ahead. No more than half an hour’s ride. They wait above the trail for us to pass so that they may take us from behind.”
The witch stared. “Do you say that Selarra plans your murder?”
“No, but she fears, I think, that you may have been broken to our purposes. Ride on ahead of us. We shall wait ten minutes then follow more slowly. She must see that you are unharmed and free.” She looked the girl full in the eyes. “We have no wish to start some foolish fight with those who seek you, but if we are attacked we will not stay our hands. Ride on and see your friend understands.”
Wordlessly the witch drew ahead as Hadrann, Aisling, and Kee-lan kept their mounts from following. Keelan eyed his sister.
“She’ll be with her friends very soon. Is there need for us to wait once she is safe?”
His sister looked down as she thought. “I do not think there is a need, but we should be sure she is safe. Let us ride after her a ways. Until we see them come to meet her. Then we can ride away… slowly.”
Hadrann laughed. “So that if they really wish to thank us they have only to ride after us more swiftly.”
“And with their hands empty of weapons,” Keelan added.
“Exactly!” Aisling said dryly. “I find that while I am of the Old Blood even as they may be, I am also Karsten’s daughter and I do not quite trust those of Estcarp.”
Hadrann reached out to take her hand. “And is it not sad that this is so, that they feel the same way. They must; why else do they seek to see us first? We are all kin, the woman of Estcarp and we three. Yet we watch each other as if we were mortal enemies. I think this is why the geas was laid.”
“Yes,” Aisling answered him softly. “Yes. It is so. When Shastro and Kirion are dead another must be duke in Kars who has no dread of the witches. Let us first put our house in order, then may we open the door to kinfolk.”
She had remained in a light rapport with the pendant since the witch had ridden ahead. From that direction Aisling felt a sudden surge of emotion. She turned to look at Hadrann and her brother.
“She had met her friends. Let us ride on until we can all be seen. Do not talk. I wish to probe ahead.”
This time her linking was stronger. Her body swayed on the horse, but her mind hovered high above the narrow winding trail. She looked down with eagle’s eyes to where a tiny figure was talking, gesturing, to a group dressed as the border patrol of Estcarp. She counted ten, a common number for a patrol. She scanned the area but could see no others. Then below her the witch and the group’s leader broke away and rode back. It was enough. Aisling fell back into her body and looked out at her companions.
“The witch is returning with another: Selarra, their leader, I believe. Let us ride to meet them.”
She felt Wind Dancer scrambling from his carrysack and halted again to let him jump free. He landed neatly and trotted past them along the trail. Ahead she heard a cry of surprise and felt a sudden fear. What if they thought him to be attacking or some creature of the dark. Her mount was thrust into a wild gallop even as the thought hit home. She rounded the bend ready to cry out for his life only to find the two women dismounted and making a great fuss over the delighted cat. Aisling laughed, slowed her horse, and advanced, her hands held out empty but for the reins.
“I see one friend knows another.” She glared down at the purring cat. “Foolish beast. I feared they might think you attacking and loose an arrow at you.” Wind Dancer looked up and chirruped a remark that was clearly sarcastic: “And a thousand fleas to you also.”
She looked higher, into laughing eyes. “I think you must be Selarra?”
“I am indeed.” The smile vanished into a serious and formal salute. “Estcarp owes a debt to you, Lady. To the House of… ?”
From behind his sister Keelan spoke, not loudly, but his voice seemed to ring against the mountains. “That is my sister, the Lady Aisling. I am Keelan, heir to Aiskeep. My friend who stands with us is Hadrann, heir to Aranskeep.” He saw the stiffening, the halted move of hand to dagger.
“What you ask yourself is true. My sister and I are sibs to Kirion, the sorcerer of Kars. But, Lady Selarra, far more than any injury to you has he injured both of us. So much so that my sister lies under a geas of the Power. We must destroy both our brother and his puppet duke or die in that attempt.”
The woman addressed turned to the witch. “Does he speak truth?”
“The Power says he does.”
“Then I may thank him with all my heart.” She beamed up at Aisling. “Join our camp, Lady. Eat and drink in friendship before we must ride hard for the border.” Keelan led up the string of spare mounts. Selarra ran a knowledgeable eye over them. “Good beasts. We will take them with still greater thanks. Now, let us not stand here in the road. You have ridden all day and would enjoy a rest I daresay.”
Hadrann assented so heartily everyone laughed. He made a comic face, stood in his stirrups, and rubbed his backside, provoking still more amusement.
“I would not do for a borderer I fear,” he sighed. “You must have softer saddles or tougher skin. Mine is almost worn through. If you have food and drink for us why are we standing about here?”
Selarra led the way back, still chuckling. At the camp her patrol was drawn up in a line. The woman swung down and nodded to them. “We are all friends here. Bring the best we have to share.” She sat indicating that her people would care for the horses. Wind Dancer marched up and sat beside her purring. There were exclamations of wonder, and he looked smug. Dancer loved to be admired.