“A foundrael?” If anything, Hennea’s voice was colder than before. A blush rose on Kors’s cheeks. Hennea’s mouth was tight with anger, but she nodded her head at Seraph. “I’ll take care of him—he’s been helping me knit in the evenings since we met up with this clan. Sometimes simple tasks help.”

“Thank you, Hennea,” said Seraph, feeling vast relief at Hennea’s confidence. She pointed to the tent entrance. “Gura. Stay. Guard.” The last thing she wanted was for one of these fools to get their hands on the Ordered stones. Once the dog was sitting where she’d asked him to, she said, “Lehr, my dear, it looks like you might miss the Hunt today. You will come with me—I have no desire to lose anything more than I can help on this fool’s errand.”

CHAPTER 12

Hennea stalked behind Kors, the canvas bag that held her needles and woolen thread clutched tightly in one hand. Her anger was partly self-disgust. She knew better than to getinvolved; that always brought unnecessary pain. Poor Moselm… he’d been such a kind man, uncomplicated. They’d been lovers before they’d been taken, but it had been little more than a convenience to both. Moselm’s wife had died several years before of one of the mysterious ailments that plagued the Traveling clans. They had come together for comfort.

But it was the Traveler’s lot in life to confront things that no one else would face. If Moselm’s death brought the light of destruction to the Path, he would have counted his life well-spent. But Jes…

There was no peace in dying among kinsfolk—and Hennea, like Seraph, knew that every minute that Jes spent collared by the foundrael brought him that much nearer to madness and a merciful death at the hands of those who loved him. She didn’t want to do that ever again.

That Travelers would come to this, Travelers sworn and taught to aid the solsenti. For gold and hatred they betrayed their oaths, and put a good man at risk—perhaps they all deserved the fate that the solsenti intended to mete out.

Kors, subdued and somber with doubt, led Hennea toward one of the more distant campsites. The clansfolk they encountered on the way bowed their heads and refused to look her in the eye. They knew, she saw, and they were ashamed—but angry at the guilt they felt. Before long, she thought, they’d turn that guilt into righteous indignation.

See what the solsenti have turned us into, they would say to one another, so lacking in pride that they could not even accept the responsibility for their own downfall.

Kors stopped in front of a large tent and they both heard Isfain’s harsh voice snap out. “Sit here and wait, boy, as I told you. Your mother has business with Benroln and then you may do as you wish.”

Hennea’s eyebrows climbed. “Supposed to be keeping him calm, is he?” she murmured to Kors, pleased when she saw that he was unhappy with what they’d just heard as well.

She swept open the tent with none of the usual courtesies. Isfain was standing in front of her and she shoved him ungently aside to see Jes perched unhappily on a tall stool in the middle of the tent. It was the only object in the tent—if Benroln had indeed given orders to keep Jes calm he had failed marvelously.

“Woman, watch what you do!” snapped Isfain.

Evidently, he didn’t care for her entrance. She ignored him.

“Hennea,” Jes said in soft-spoken relief. “I need to see Mother.” One hand rubbed at the leather strap he wore around his neck, turning it about as if to find a buckle or lacing that wasn’t there. To Hennea’s eyes the leather was as smooth as if it had just grown around his neck.

“What are you doing here?” said Isfain. “Does Benroln know you are here?”

She ignored him again.

“It’s all right, Jes,” she said to the dark young man sitting restlessly on the battered old stool. “Benroln wants to force your mother to curse some poor farmer’s land for money. They’re holding you with an artifact that keeps your other spirit at bay—there’s nothing wrong with you. Lehr went with your mother.”

She didn’t know how much he’d understand in his current state so she was gratified when Jes’s swaying slowed down.

“They are safe?” he said.

“I don’t think that Benroln will be able to do anything to Seraph that she doesn’t want to happen. Lehr is with her.”

He swallowed, “And you are safe here.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I’m safe with you. Would you help me with my knitting until your mother’s business is completed?”

She opened her bag and gave him a skein that she’d tangled just for this purpose. After a little hesitation he took it from her. He stared at it for a minute, but at last his long-fingered hands began to work patiently at untangling knots. The rough wool thread had a mind of its own, and it would take a while to unravel the mess she’d made.

She settled at his feet and began knitting with a ball he’d rolled for her yesterday. She leaned lightly against his leg, prepared to shift away if she made him uncomfortable. The long muscles of his thigh softened and relaxed, so she let him take a bit more of her weight.

She glanced into his eyes and saw the fury trapped impotently in the net of the foundrael. She shivered and looked back at the sweater she knitted. For a while he seemed calmer. Perhaps if the tent had not been so starkly furnished, or if that idiot Isfain had quit looking at Jes as if he expected him to explode, Jes would have been all right.

“I don’t like this,” said Jes, abruptly throwing his yarn on the ground. “I need… I need to be somewhere.”

Hennea looked up at him and saw the despair in his eyes. Enough, she thought. “Wait a moment,” she told him.

Kors was not a problem. He knew what was right when someone shoved it in his face, as much as he wished he didn’t. Isfain, though, Isfain might be more difficult.

He was one of those gifted with magic, though not Ordered. Hennea knew that other Ravens had a tendency to look upon unordered mages as weak, but she was not so foolish. A good wizard used subtlety as well as power, and like a well-knit wool sweater, their spells could be difficult to unravel.

The trick with wizards was not to give them time to do anything.

“Isfain,” she said simply. “Hush, be still.”

It wouldn’t have been worth doing to a Raven, because they needed neither word nor movement to call magic. A wizard could call magic that way, too—but it was a poor business they made of it. It would be a long time before Isfain worked his way free of her binding.

“What?” asked Kors incredulously, surprised at Hennea’s rudeness.

She put her knitting away carefully, then she took the yarn Jes had thrown and set it in the top of her bag. Time enough later to unspell it so it could be organized more easily.

“He’s too far,” she said.

“What do you mean?” asked Kors, who still hadn’t noticed that Isfain was now immobile because of her magic. He didn’t know what she was.

“Have you ever seen a Guardian released from the foundrael?” she asked. “It’s not bad if they haven’t been upset—but your Isfain precluded that.”

“Mother,” said Jes sadly.

She nodded. “I know. Lehr will keep her from harm, but that is your job. To protect your family.”

“Yes,” he said.

She turned to Kors. “If I were you I’d leave this tent, so that you aren’t the first thing he sees when he’s free.”

She’d given him warning enough. If he didn’t choose to follow… she relaxed as she heard him leave. Really, Kors wasn’t a bad sort.

“All right, Jes, I’m going to take this thing off.”

She reached up, but he caught her hands. “Can’t. Benroln said only him.”

“Well,” Hennea said. “I’m not as powerful as your mother, Jes, but I have spent a long time studying. I think I know how to take the blasted thing off. I’ll not lie to you, there is some danger—but not as much as leaving it on.”