It had been a long time since Jeren had been on a horse. Used to relying on her own body, it came as something of a shock to find that she was now at the whim of a sullen and self-obsessed beast with no more sense than a block of wood. Once she’d considered herself a fairly good horsewoman, but not with this creature.
A week out of Sheninglas and there was no sign of Shan. She’d thought he would come back, that first night, and every night since. She’d never believed he would leave.
Just another example of what a fool she had become.
She stared ahead of her, the lazy gait of the horse lulling her to sleep again. And she almost welcomed it, but this time she shook it off. Better to put it behind her. She was in no position to stop him and she needed the information he provided.
Not with all the refugees from the Holtlands relying on her, looking for her to lead them. Not with her duty to them rearing its head once more. Not when, in a fit of grief, she had accepted it.
Elayne drew up alongside her, far more comfortable in the saddle than Jeren. Well, she’d spent the last six months or more on the move, at Vertigern’s side, Jeren supposed. The once awkward warrior woman seemed so much more at home in her own skin now, comfortable, confident, and yes, happy.
“How are you, Lady Jeren?” she asked in a placid voice. Strange that she was so soft-spoken and shy when not in battle. She was a formidable warrior, but take away her sword and armour and she was lost.
“I’m fine.” Belatedly Jeren remembered her manners. “Thank you, Elayne.”
Elayne nodded and chewed on her lower lip. “Are you... I thought it might help to talk.”
Jeren gave her a long hard stare. “About what?”
“Your husband?”
“He’s scouting ahead.” She turned her gaze ahead, kept her face immobile. At least she hoped that was all he was doing. Days had passed and he hadn’t reported back. She could still feel a sense of him, not so very far ahead. But Shan moved so much faster than a human, certainly faster than this large a number. Kiah’s occasional returns were a comfort. At least she knew he was still alive and not yet in River Holt lands. At least she knew he was out there somewhere, not exactly perhaps but in a vague sense, like an instinct.
Elayne closed her mouth with a snap. “You’re angry with him now.”
“Yes. Very.” And with them. And with herself.
With Gilliad, with the Holtlands for pulling her back, with her ancestors for stealing magic to begin with and letting her end up in this nightmarish position.
But at the moment, mostly with Shan.
She was, indeed, angry.
Instead of saying any more, Jeren ground her teeth together until her head started to throb.
Angry didn’t begin to cover it.
The bustle of the camp never failed to leave Jeren bewildered and more than a little confused. The Shistra-Phail moved with quiet efficiency, their whole lifestyle devoted to quick movement, with a nomadic route that safeguarded their people. She set up the tent with the same ruthless competence Shan had taught her. Not so the Holtlanders. In the brief time since they’d called a halt, the Shistra-Phail camp had been erected and food was already being prepared. The Holtlanders were still arguing.
Glad though she was that the Ariah, Indarin and a number of the warriors and seers had agreed to come with them—for a time at least—it embarrassed her to see the lack of organisation at the heart of her own people. She was gazing in dismay at Vertigern arguing about where the pavilion should be set up, when Fethan appeared at her side.
“Lady Jeren.” He gave a brief bow. It made her instantly suspicious. “If all is in order, the seers would like to offer their assistance.”
She eyed him warily. Ever since she had turned down a place among the Seers, Fethan had been hostile. More than hostile.
Still, there was no point in hammering another nail into that coffin. She needed all the help she could get on this march. “In what way?” She purposely kept her voice as calm and considerate as possible. A thin smile played across his lips. It made her blood turn to ice.
“Since the Shaman has been stripped of his powers, the Seers wish to offer their assistance in your training in the use of your abilities. There is no other alternative. I’m sure you see the logic of this.”
She returned her attention to the tent. The one she had shared with Shan. She tightened the guy-rope as she would a garrotte. “And whom do you suggest should instruct me?”
He drew himself upright. “I would have that honour.”
Jeren fought to keep her face composed. There was nothing else for it and he knew that. She needed to know how to use her powers, especially if she was to use them to stop her brother.
Because that was what she had to do now.
For everyone’s sake.
“I will consider it, Seer.”
“Consider it quickly, Lady Jeren. You’re running out of companions.”
She launched herself upright, turning on him, the sword already in her hand, the steel ringing with her anger. Fethan stepped back, startled and suddenly unsure. A fierce satisfaction raced through her, dark rage centring on him as prey, as an enemy.
But one she needed.
“You know who I am, do you not?”
A hush around them told her that the exchange had not gone unnoticed. How could it not in a group on the march, in a camp so hastily put together? Hurried footsteps, hushed voices, outrage, interest, all these things surged around the edges of her consciousness, but she pushed them away. The calm centre of the storm, that was what she had to be. Because if she lost control—
The sword trembled in her hand.
“Jeren?” It was Vertigern. Good natured, well meaning, thoroughly out of his depth in this horrendous affair, a warrior desperately looking for someone to follow rather than to lead himself.
“I’m in the middle of a discussion, Vertigern.”
He cleared his throat so that his voice came out as calmly as hers. “I can see that. But Lady Jeren... we have need of you. Could you finish this... debate later?”
She exhaled slowly, gripped the sword a little more tightly, and felt its magic ripple through her. Abruptly the anger was gone.
Shame filled her like a mouthful of ashes. She pushed herself away from the Seer and turned around.
Every eye was trained on her. Vertigern, Elayne, the Ariah, Indarin, Leithen... all of them. And there was fear in their eyes. Buried deep perhaps, but there all the same.
Had people looked at Gilliad this way? She had. She knew she had.
“Later, yes. Fethan, I’ll think about your suggestion and let you know. Later.”
Shan had never underestimated the movement of a march before, not this badly. Part of him wanted to blame Anala, but that wasn’t true. When he’d left, he hadn’t been planning on returning. Not until Gilliad was dead. So intercepting Jeren’s army on the move had never occurred to him. He’d been heading for River Holt, for Gilliad and hadn’t thought of what would happen after that.
No, he hadn’t thought at all.
The wolf cub slowed him down and he’d gone the wrong way twice. Something else he never did. And something he couldn’t blame on anyone else —neither Anala’s ghost, or this new exuberant pup, who couldn’t really keep up with him yet. The joy of the bonding wasn’t lost on him, but the growing need he felt to get back to Jeren ate away at its core, leaving him on edge with desperation. He couldn’t shake the feeling that she needed him. He’d made a terrible mistake.
Shan traced his path back along the hilltops then down into the trees towards the main road the Holters would surely follow. By tracing the route they would take, he should be able to meet them. So why wasn’t it working?