“Get on, get on!” The driver lashed at his lead pair, whip merciless around their ears as the horses shied from the assault of the icy water. Men leaned into ropes twisted into the harness of each beast to drag the horses onward. The animals plunged forward, straining at their collars. With a mighty effort, they hauled the heavy cart clear, shaking and sweating, rewarded with slaps of delight, soft words and handfuls of fresh grass. The carter was soaked, but beamed with relief. His livelihood was across the river intact.
As the rest of the wagons made the crossing, I noticed Usara arguing with the merchant waiting by the last cart and I ran back across the bridge. “What’s the problem?”
“I don’t think we should risk this man in the cart.” Usara’s displeasure was clear beneath his tight politeness.
“Hory can’t take the bridge,” protested the merchant.
Hory lay on muddy blankets in the bottom of the wagon, both legs now crudely splinted, thick bandages holding green-stained dressings in place.
“You’ll use magic to get him across the water, won’t you?” I queried mildly.
“Of course,” said Usara, exasperated. “Why ever not?”
I saw fear darken Hory’s eyes. “You can trust him,” I reassured the man.
Hory’s mouth set in an obstinate line. “The ford’s sound enough. I’ll trust to that.”
“Your choice.” I took Usara by the elbow to force him out of the way. “Let the runes roll how they choose.”
Usara’s indignant reply was lost as the wagoneer whipped up the horses and drove them into the punishing stream. The cart slipped sideways at once with no weight of cargo to steady it. Hory clung to the sides, white with fear and cursing fit for a mercenary. The wagoneer lashed the beasts but the cart was increasingly dragged askew. If Hory went into the water, he wouldn’t surface again.
“Do something, Usara,” I urged.
“Why should I?” snapped the mage with ill-suppressed fury.
“Fair enough.” I folded my arms. “It won’t be the first time stupidity’s been the death of someone.”
Usara shot me a fulminating glance but shook his cuffs loose from his wrists. With a flash of golden light that left the sun colorless, he sent a shaft of magic into the water. The river seethed around the wagon in a boiling confusion of gold, azure and sapphire and the horses fought against their reins as the carter clutched them in shock.
“Get them moving, you fatherless son of a pox-addled whore,” snarled Usara. Hearing him swear like that outweighed the treat of the magelight for me. The carter brought his whip down on the wheel horses, lashing until the weals on their rumps were edged with blood. I looked across the river to see open mouths and wide eyes on every face as the wagon hauled out onto the shallow slope, the last faint tendrils of magic light fading from its wheels with the water dripping onto the muddy turf.
“Me, I’d have let them drown,” ’Gren commented. Sorgrad was a few paces behind.
“But you’re not a mage of Hadrumal, trained to use your magic for the greater good, are you?” I gave Usara a friendly smile.
The wizard muttered something under his breath, gave Sorgrad an entirely unwarranted look of annoyance and stalked away. He was breathing heavily, cheeks sunken beneath his angular cheekbones and weariness plain in the sag of his shoulders.
“It really does take it out of them, doesn’t it?” Sorgrad remarked thoughtfully.
“It does,” I agreed. “Good thing really, given what he might be able to do if he put his mind to it.”
’Gren had an unfamiliar saddlebag slung over one shoulder and I realized the raiders were nowhere to be seen. “Where did our friends go?”
“Took themselves off back toward Medeshale,” Sorgrad replied.
With a burst of activity the other travelers departed, keen to make up lost time or anxious to get away from Usara’s magic. The Forest Folk began dismantling their bridge and I saw Orial had returned with a litter of rough-cut branches and colorful cloth for Zenela.
“Your outdweller man is a mage?” The good-looking lad came over, eyes bright with curiosity.
“My friend,” I corrected him. “Yes, he is a wizard.”
“This magic, how is it learned?” he asked, evidently intrigued.
“It’s a power one is born with.” I turned my mind to my original purpose. Good deeds today might put me in credit with Saedrin; what I wanted for this life was credit with Messire and with Planir. “Do the Folk have magic among themselves?”
We walked behind four well-muscled lads supporting Zenela’s litter.
The lad shook his head. “No, we have no enchantments.”
I kept my tone light. “Not at all?”
“No. So, what brings you to the greenwood at this season?” He was looking hopeful.
“I have a book of ancient songs, some written in the tongue of the Folk.” I smiled, encouraging. “I want to learn more about them.”
If I could get Frue singing those old ballads, I could look for anyone showing any particular interest or recognition, I decided. We made our way through glorious spring green, creeping carpets of blue hornflower mimicking the bright sky above. Of course, in most old ballads the crucial revelation enabling the lost prince to prove his claim generally falls into his lap three verses before the end. Real life has never proved that easy in my experience.
The settlement Ravin led us to came as something of a surprise. I hadn’t exactly been expecting savages sitting under the trees and waiting for the nuts to fall, but I’d been imagining shelters made of leafy branches or some such. We found a broad clearing and Folk busy around a loose scatter of round dwellings cloaked in thick mats of woven tree bark. A woman was hanging brightly patterned bedding out to air over a wooden frame polished with use and children were playing happily with some half-grown pups by her door. Another circle of women was sitting busy with leatherwork and sewing. The younger ones exchanged lively banter with lads stacking firewood in precise cones close by. All wore close-tailored leather leggings with tunics of varying lengths and cut. The younger men favored a sleeveless style displaying muscular arms to best advantage while most of the women opted for plenty of pockets. So much for the exotic mysteries of the wildwood. This was domestic enough for Ryshad’s mother.
“That’ll be for us.” Frue nodded at a group busy making a new house. One girl was digging out a fire pit while another piled stones ready to line it and a third marked out a circle on the swept turf. Four older women were making a long, flexible lattice of fine wands pierced and tied with leather thongs while a couple more carried over rolls of woven matting.
“Bring her in here.” Orial appeared at a door with a spray of greenery fixed above the lintel. The litter was laid down and Frue carried Zenela into the low house. Curious, I followed to see her settled in a bed frame strung with tanned skins and covered with a woolen coverlet that could have come from any town in Ensaimin. A paroxysm of coughing left Zenela gasping, tears on her cheeks and fear in her eyes.
“Sit her forward and unlace her gown,” Orial ordered. Frue leaned Zenela against his shoulder and Orial rubbed an oily salve into the girl’s back, pungent with garlic and something else that I couldn’t identify. I coughed. There might be mysteries for apothecaries here but I saw no sign of the intense mysticism of the Soluran healers who’d mended Halice’s leg.
“Breathe out, slowly and steadily.” Orial bent her ear to Zenela’s mouth, felt the beat of her heart in her neck and then pulled down her eyelids with a gentle finger to check the color of her blood. Just like any apothecary I’d ever visited. “Now, settle yourself and try to sleep a little.” She shooed me and Frue out with one hand and I saw Zenela’s eyes were already drowsy. I wondered just what was in that rub.
Frue pushed past me and went to speak to Ravin. Sorgrad, ’Gren and Usara were nowhere to be seen and I was uncertain what to do. I didn’t like the sensation.