The Castle Of Hape. Caves Of Fire And Ice. The Joining Of The Stone

How had he come so silently, slipping up on her? Her muscles were tense and ready to thrust, her blood surging with warlike reflex. Then she felt embarrassment, for he was only a small, elderly herder staring up at her, gentle of face, surprised by her quick, violent action. His voice was soft and even now, as if he spoke to a nervy beast.

“Sheath your sword, lad.” He stepped back away from the tip of her blade. “Sheath it, I’ve no quarrel with you, nor mean you harm.” He watched her lower her blade a trifle. “Hungry? Are ye hungry? Come on to the fire, then, lad. Don’t be standing here staring, riling my goats all to thunder. Come down to the fire and settle. Who be ye, lad, coming out of the night so?”

 

 

 

TWO

 

The herder turned his back on her, plainly expecting her to follow as he made his way back toward the fire. He must be simple, turning his back on a sword. Or could this man be a Seer, know she meant no harm? She sought into his mind warily. But no, only a simple man. Trusting her. He led her to the fire, stooped to turn the roasting meat. Her sword swung against a boulder, ringing sharply, and a buck, startled, snorted. The animal stood just beyond the fire, a big Cherban buck with horns as long as her sword and nearly as sharp. Maybe this herder had more protection than she had guessed. The man had turned, was surveying her with surprise, now that he could see her clearly in the firelight. “Why it ain’t a lad at all!” He took in her knotted dark hair, the curve of her breast beneath her tunic, her thin-boned face. “A lady—in fighting leathers!” He studied her with interest. “Old, scarred leathers, and stained with blood, looks like.” He reached to touch her sword, took it from her in a gesture innocent and bold.

She, always so quick and careful, let him take it with quiet amusement. He held it close to the flame where he could make out the intricate carving of birds and leaves with which the handle was fashioned, the clean, sharp blade. Then he raised his eyes to her. “A fine sword, lady. Fine. It was made with great skill. And with love.”

His words brought unexpected pain. She looked away from him, felt gone of strength, wanting to weep for no reason. Made with love. Brotherly love, maybe. No more. She straightened her shoulders and stared at him defiantly, reached out for her sword. “How would you know if it was made with love? That is skill you see. Only skill in the casting of the silver.”

“All skill, lady, is a matter of love. Have you not learned that? I hope you know more about the use of the sword than you do about a man’s mind.”

“I know about its use. And I know more about men’s minds than—” She stopped, had almost given herself away in anger. Stupid girl. Shout it out. Tell him you know all about men’s minds, can see into men’s minds, tell him you’re a Seer! And who knows what they do to Seers in this time. Kill them? Behead them? Better collect yourself, Skeelie, find out where you are—and when—and stop acting like an injured river cat.

“Ain’t never seen a lady got up so in fighting leathers.”

She wanted to say, Where I come from it’s common enough. She wanted to say, What year is this that women don’t fight beside their men? But even in her own time, the women of the coastal countries had not fought so. Only the women of Carriol. She cast about for some question she might use to find her way here and realized how little she had prepared herself. So engrossed with getting into Time, she had given little thought to coping once there, or to an explanation for stepping out of nowhere. What plausible excuse did she have for traveling in these mountains when she did not know the customs, or where she was? Eresu knew, she was glad it was night. In the daytime she would have had some hard explaining to do, had he seen her appear suddenly from thin air.

“Not much of a talker, are you lady? Hungry? The haunch should be ready soon.” The little man had a lopsided grin, and as he moved to turn the meat again, she could see he was lopsided in the way he walked, with a deep limp. He fussed about the meat, then at last settled down against a boulder. “Sit yourself down, lady. There’s a log there. I am called Gravan.”

She sheathed her sword and sat down astraddle the log so she could look away from the campfire, behind her. She did not give her name. That smudge of dark against the stars was tall mountains. Surely she was in the Ring of Fire.

Or on the edge of it. “The deer meat smells good,” she said quietly. “The deer are plentiful?”

He gave her a puzzled look. “Scarce as teeth in a frog. Came on this one crippled.” He paused, rummaged in his pack for a wineskin, took a swig and passed it across to her. “Things in those mountains that kill deer, lady. Wolves. Fire ogres. Chancy traveling for a lady,” he said without malice. “Chancy—if you be traveling alone. . . .”