Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

They had had to camp in the rain the night before, and it seemed they would have to do it again tonight. The only inn along this stretch of road stood on the banks of a river, and its lower floors were flooded out. The best the innkeeper could do was direct them toward the nearest high ground and wish them luck.

The days were long at this time of year, and Egil could see clear sky ahead. Cynara was not averse to going on, though he was less sure of Bronwen. When they sloshed past the hill, on which a fair-sized village of tents had sprung up, she seemed hardly to notice.

He frowned. Was the girl ill?

:Rohanan says no,: Cynara replied, though he had not meant the question for her.

Egil trusted Cynara implicitly. Even so, he had the same strange feeling just then as he had about the weather. Something was odd and growing odder the farther he rode.

The promise of brightness floated ahead, always at the same distance. The rain slackened, but the clouds above the Heralds were as thick as ever. Thunder grumbled inside them.

Egil’s thought brought Cynara to a halt. Rohanan went on a few strides but then stopped as well, turning his weary head and drooping, dripping ears to stare at them.

“We’re riding in circles,” Egil said.

“We’re not.” Bronwen’s retort was pure reflex. But then she twisted in the saddle, staring as her Companion did, in a kind of baffled anger. “What do you mean? The road is as straight as it’s supposed to be. We haven’t repeated any turns.”

“We haven’t,” he agreed, which only baffled her the more. “Oddities, the Queen said. Strange things surrounding a certain valley to the south. We push on through storms that refuse to stop, moving slower and slower, and now we’re at a standstill. We seem to be moving, the land seems to be changing, but the horizon never shifts.”

“That’s what it does,” she said. “It’s the horizon. It’s always in front of us. We can’t ever reach it.”

“We can’t,” he said, “but what’s under the horizon ought to change. And it’s not.”

Comprehension dawned in her face. “It’s like one of your classes. Question after question, and the answer’s never any nearer.”

“It’s never any farther, either. The answer is always right in front of you. You just have to understand how to see it.”

“Well, how do we see this?” she demanded.

“We stop asking the same question over and over,” he said.

She did not understand, but her Companion did. His head came up; he snorted. His tail lashed like an angry cat’s. Even Bronwen’s unshakable seat rocked visibly as he launched himself upward toward the line of light that had tantalized them for so long.

Cynara gave her Herald more warning. It was the highest jump she had ever tried. The mud sucked at her; the rain and wind tried to beat her back. She shook them off with as much impatience as he had ever seen in her.

The storm rose like a wall, crested, and sank away. Egil braced for the landing—even a Companion might come down hard after such a leap.

She landed like a feather in a wash of clear golden light. Egil stared at the green field around them, the clear sky overhead, and the sun riding low over a line of deep blue hills. There was no sign of the storm.

None at all. Heralds and Companions were dry, warm, and unvexed by muddy feet.

“Now that was odd,” Bronwen said. “It must have been magic.”

“Or something like it,” he half-agreed. “This must be the Osgard Valley, which means that Shepherd’s Ford must be—”

:There.: Cynara’s head was up and her ears were pricked. The field rolled down from where she stood toward the setting sun, and a cluster of walls and roofs lay not too far ahead, with the glimmer of a river running through it.

The river was running high and quick, as it should in the spring, but it was well shy of flood stage. Wherever the rains had been, they had not caused trouble here.

The town was a clean and pleasant place. It was full of gardens, all in bloom, and there were two inns, both of which looked well and tidily run. Egil might yet find himself lodging at one or the other, but the tickle in the tailbone that had brought him here was urging him to look at the riding school before he went anywhere else.

It had been market day in the town, and a few booths were still up, selling spring lettuces and bright ribbons and an array of saddles so fine that even in his current state Egil would have stopped to admire them, if Bronwen had not pushed on past.

The last thing he needed was to lose his intern just before they reached their destination. She was drawing all the attention, as usual; people saluted or called greetings, and a few edged a little too close, trying to touch her Companion.

Cynara could have tolerated that, but Rohanan was young and a stallion and it was spring, and within a furlong he was ready to jump out of his skin. Bronwen did not look too comfortable, either.