Barrenlands (The Changespell Saga) (6 page)

"I'll know when that spell is trigged," he'd told Ehren. Along with, "You are to ensure that there will be no interference from them— no threat to Rodar. In whatever way is necessary."

"I'm no hired killer," Ehren had told him, as bluntly as was his wont. And Varien had just smiled. For the Guard... the Guard had been his life. Benlan's trust in him had fueled bone-deep loyalty at an early age, loyalty to the royal blood— even if the current king was in fact a royal pain in the ass.

Ehren frowned now at the memory, and swung into the saddle. The ring nagged at him, and although he expected it would lead him in the obvious direction— through the trade route pass to Lake Everdawn, and down through the gentler hills beyond into Loraka proper— he intended to ride the area around the border station, and see if the feeling waxed and waned. It had certainly done nothing but intensify as he approached the border, so Varien had, indeed, aimed him in the right direction.

Shaffron bobbed his head impatiently, his fine neck arched and as noble as it could possibly be. With his copious copper-flaxen mane and tail and the fine T'ieran-bred features that hid the true wealth of sturdiness beneath, he was a lady-pleaser, the horse that drew the attention— though Ricasso was the real pet, the one who wanted scratches and murmured words.

Ehren gave Shaffron the slight shift of leg which meant
go
, and Shaffron, pleased to be free of the pack and ever the glorious show-off, jigged a fancy sideways prance down the Trade Road to Lake Everdawn.

Ehren let him play. He was more interested in the ring against his finger, and the careful inspection he received from the few travelers he passed. Suspicion seemed to be the one thing that united them; he noticed not one of them was traveling alone, but always in pairs— or more. He didn't spend much time in this part of the country, but even so their sullenness— the quick glances of distrust they gave him— struck him as odd.

But even odder was the road branch he ran into a quarter mile out, off to the south and into territory that had been largely impassible since the Border War several hundred years earlier. It was too risky, full of stray floating magics and fading ambushes and spells of confusion, all ready to snare the unwary traveler— but the ground showed definite signs of ongoing use.

Someone, it appeared, was overcoming the dangers.

He kept Shaffron to a cautious walk and investigated half a mile of the new road— finding that it turned rough fast, with barely an impression of wagon wheels as a guide. Once it crossed the river— via a crude, man-built ford that wouldn't last long against the rush of the water— the north-south line of ridges rose again, enfolding the twisting road and any unwary travelers upon it. Complete with wild, leftover magics.

But the ring practically purred upon Ehren's finger— and the moment he turned Shaffron around to return to the station, it quit. Sulking, he would have called it, if he was wont to make light of Varien's magic. Shaffron remained unaffected, settling into a steady, rolling canter with his characteristically high leg action— leaving Ehren plenty of opportunity to digest what he'd learned.

There was a new road. It led south into the Lorakan mountains, a rough territory of unfriendly magics; its end point was unknown.

And it was where he had to go.

~~~~~

"No, sir, you can't mean to do it." The young Border Guard gave an emphatic shake of his head and spat around the corner of the guardhouse, into the weedy growth that held its ground despite heavy traffic.

Ehren raised an eyebrow, amused. "I guess I do, at that." He waited for the man to check a small wagon for contraband— mostly, materials too similar to those Solvany produced on its own— and said, "Tell me about that road. Until this afternoon, I didn't even know it existed."

"Ain't but a couple years old," the man said. He was young, without much more than a scraggly assortment of hairs on his upper lip, but he talked as though he'd been in the Border Patrol guard forever. Ehren kept his amusement to himself. "Some Therand merchant— guy named Ansgare— found himself a fellow who can avoid the magics, even with the way they wander around."

"Any half-trained apprentice can do that." Ehren felt horse lips nibbling surreptitiously at his shirt and twitched his shoulder up to bump Shaffron away.

"Not this, they can't. This fellow— he's young, too, maybe a couple years older'n me— just sees them naturally. He don't know a thing about casting spells, or setting charm warnings. He just
sees
the wrong places, when everyone else'd walk right into 'em. So he guides Ansgare's merchants straight from the Therand pass, along the mountains to us. Cuts off lots of time, and they aren't paying any of the Lorakan road tariffs."

No small matter, and no small advantage. Since the Border Wars, traders between the two countries had been forced to circumvent the Barrenlands by swinging east through Loraka— a country isolated by the abrupt and rugged series of ridges between its inner lands and its western border against both Solvany and Therand.

The mountains restricted travel to that single trade route — from the Therand pass northeast to Lake Everdawn, and then along the Eredon River to the Solvany pass. It was a long trip, and there was a high price for the safety offered by the bevy of Lorakan wizards who patrolled and warded the road.

But the very difficulty of obtaining Therand products created a demand for them— horses of Shaffron's breeding, or fine, soft woolen cloth— while the Therand-born developed a taste for the salted, north coastal fish of Solvany's fishing fleet. Running goods from one country to the other had become a major source of income for the entrepreneurs of both.

Ansgare's new route probably cut his travel time in half— an advantage worth the risk of following some youngster's unusual Sight. Ehren fingered the ring on his little finger and thought of Varien's veiled threats, layered on top of one another— the hints that many of the First Level no longer trusted Ehren. That they were looking for a reason to cast him out of the Guard, and maybe into a dungeon.

The road forward was uncertain. The road back... was rutted and filled with dangers he had not untangled yet, any more than he could untangle the magics ahead.

He gave the Border Guard a wry crook of his mouth. "It can't be any worse than what waits for me back in Kurtane."

"Yessir," the guard agreed, patently not understanding in the least. "Can I offer you any provisions to get you started?"

"That would be welcome," Ehren said, pushing Shaffron's questing lips off his shoulder once more.

Do better to lay in a supply of luck.

~~~~~

CHAPTER THREE

Laine looked at Shette and blinked. For a moment, she'd been someone else, a young girl with vacant eyes and the look of old Solvany about her clothes and hairstyle, things he recognized from the few precious books his parents had collected. Her expression had been dull; in her hand she'd held some kind of toy— a wand with brightly colored tassels, meant for a child half her age — and she'd been hitting her leg with it in monotonous rhythm.

And now he saw Shette again. Sandy-haired, light brown eyes, and built like their mother. Not very tall. Definitely not the lithe look she pined for, but instead sturdy and just a little bit broad despite the lack of excess flesh on her frame. And, at this moment, definitely annoyed.

"What're you staring at?" she demanded, squatting by the fire to reposition the heavy iron fry pan over the hottest coals. Despite the fact that she was the daughter of a beef cattle farmer from west-most Loraka, she had a ribbon woven into the complicated plaits that were all the rage among the Solvany upper class.

"Not your hair," he told her, knowing that was her suspicion, and then winced inwardly— that'd teach him to get caught off guard.

She gave him a mighty scowl. "You mean you think it's so awful you can't even bear to
look
at it?"

"It's
not
awful," he said lamely, because, in truth, it was too delicate and fanciful to compliment her strong features, and Sevita, one of the whores who'd been coaxing Shette into friendship, should have known better. "It's..." and then that other girl was back, sitting by a window…looking out without seeing as she slowly, deliberately, brought her head into contact with the brightly painted stone wall of a child's nursery. Again. And again. A smirch of blood stained the paint. Behind her, there was some sort of crest, something he didn't recognize.

"
What
?" Shette said.

He shook his head and stood, although the fried ham was almost cooked, and the sliced potatoes he'd been watching on his side of the fire would surely burn without attention. He felt, suddenly, the need to get away from her, lest she turn into that other girl yet again.

"You're really getting strange," Shette muttered as he walked away from their fire and down along the string of wagons and fires on the road. Only half a day from the junction with the main trade road and they'd stopped early for Bessney's loose wagon wheel. Plenty of light remained to walk ahead on the road— but not until he told Ansgare he was going out. And Ansgare usually ate with Machara and her sword company of two, whose small wagon brought up the rear of the caravan.

Halfway there he paused at Sevita and Dajania's colorful, enclosed wagon. They weren't immediately to be seen. Entertaining, probably, although they supplemented that profession by treating the minor ailments among the merchants. Well, maybe it was none of his business if they encouraged Shette to try out fancy styles her life would never have a need for. He was turning away when Dajania popped around the end of the wagon and said, "Laine!" in a delighted voice. He was not surprised to see her hair done up like Shette's

"You two don't do her any favors, you know," he said.

Her mouth pursed in an exaggerated pout. Unlike Sevita, who went light on the powders and face paint, Dajania kept a bold appearance. Plump in all the right places, cheerfully inoffensive but not taking any slight without an instant response, Dajania co-owned the wagon she and Sevita worked out of— although Sevita's quiet voice always seemed to have the last say. Dajania trailed her hand along the edge of the wagon and sauntered out to him, hips a-sway.

"She's a
girl
, Laine," Dajania said. She stopped directly in front of him and draped her arms over his shoulders without invitation. "Girl's got to play with her hair and face. And she's a lot more grown up than you think she is."

Dajania was
not
the person he wanted to hear
that
from.

She grinned slyly, reading it on his ever revealing face. "Poor dearie," she said. "Do we make you worry? And here we, of all people, should be giving you
other
things to think about." She pulled his head down and kissed him.

And kissed him.

"Dajania," he said, against her lips, holding his arms out to the side in supplication of sorts. "Mmph. Dajania..."
Oh, what the Hells
. He let his hands fall on her soft, ample hips and kissed her back. After a moment she came down off her tiptoes and pulled back from him.

"See?" she said. "You see what you're missing? And that was
free
. It gets better when you pay for it, dear."

Laine found himself unable to think clearly right that moment. "Umm," he said. "Right. Um. Have you seen Ansgare?"

She was laughing, and taking no pains to hide it. "He's right where he always is, with Machara and her two. But he'll be 'round later this evening— why don't you stay and wait a while? I'll make sure you don't get bored."

Laine wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "Not tonight, Dajania," he said as he stepped back from her, stumbling a little.

Another pout, but there was still amusement in her amber eyes. "I'll get you in that wagon yet, Laine-dear. And I'll enjoy the look on that handsome face when I do."

Not while Shette is in this caravan
, Laine told himself quite fiercely. The first year or so with the caravan, Laine had been faithful to his sweetheart at home. She'd gotten tired of his traveling ways and married someone else this spring— but by then the game between Laine and the whores was set, and he figured he enjoyed it as much as he would any single hour in their bed. But sometimes...

Sometimes they came very close to winning.

Fortunately, his brain was back in place by the time he made it down to Ansgare, another eleven wagons along. Biggest train yet— and not likely to get any bigger, no matter how the profits beckoned Ansgare. Not with the magics going unpredictable and— as recent experience had shown— more...
focused
. He wouldn't want to guarantee the safety of anyone at the back of a lengthy caravan, not anymore.

It made him wonder if their very presence here wasn't stirring something up.

"Sit and have something to eat," Machara told him, when he'd arrived and said nothing after several minutes. Too lost in thought, even if it was no longer over Dajania's obvious skills.

He shook his head. "Shette's got something going up front," he told her, and let Ansgare know he'd be walking ahead a way, scouting for spells in tomorrow's path. "Not that it'll mean we're safe in the morning," he added. "Not the way things have been going. But I'll sleep better all the same."

"Go ahead, son," Ansgare grunted around a mouthful of fresh meat— a mountain hare the tin merchant's young son had brought down with sling and stone and presented to the caravan leader. "Just don't go so far a good yell won't bring someone running."

"No fear of that." He wasn't even wearing his sword. "I leave the fighting to those who do it best."

"Oh, you did well enough," Machara drawled. Short-cropped red hair, pale blue eyes, and generously freckled skin went far to hide the steel and professional skill that was Machara. Ansgare— a wiry man whose fencing skill lay in words and bargains— was smitten with her, for all that she was a decade his younger. If Machara had thoughts on the matter, she kept them to herself— and Ansgar thought no one knew. "That was quite a pretty kill you made, that monster-that-wasn't-where-he-was."