The Sword-Edged blonde (15 page)

Trudy impatiently put her hands on her hips. “Come
on
,” she snapped. “You’ve been lucky enough today.”

I wanted to lie down right there, but I knew I needed to get out of the tunnel and back to my job. I shook my head to clear it, a move I immediately regretted. Then I realized the soft voice I heard was not, in fact, my conscience chewing me out for being an idiot. It was a child’s voice softly repeating something.

It came from behind a tapestry hung over a crossing
tunnel we’d just passed. If we hadn’t stopped, I never would’ve noticed it. I lifted the heavy fabric and peeked around. The area was just a tiny side room, originally carved to allow miners to step aside when ore carts needed to pass. Small candles illuminated it, their light hidden by the thick curtain. The little bait girl knelt before an altar, her pudgy hands clasped together in prayer. “By Epona’s white mane, I ask that my wish come true,” she said in her singsong voice. On the altar was a single horseshoe, and on the stone wall it faced someone had crudely drawn a white horse.

Trudy pulled me back. “That’s none of your business,” she snapped.

“You’re right. Let’s go.” Some lies took longer to accept than others, evidently.

I stepped ahead of her, and realized she lagged behind for just a moment too long. I dodged sideways, and her knife stabbed right through the spot my kidneys occupied a moment earlier. I punched her with the heel of my palm right between her eyes. The blow stunned her, and the knife clattered to the stone floor. The noise carried, and would soon bring her preteen reinforcements.

I slammed her against the nearest wall. I was pissed off now, and took her knife hand by the wrist. “Your boss and I had a deal, you backstabbing little bitch,” I snarled. “Did she tell you to do this?”

“No,” she said, too dazed to lie.

I bent her last two fingers back until the bones snapped. She cried out in pain, and her eyes opened wide. I slapped her to keep her attention. “I’m not going to kill you because your boss was straight with me. Next time be a good soldier.” Then I shoved her to the
ground and went quickly up the ladder. No small, lethal hands reached to pull me back.

I
RETRIEVED MY
horse and crossed the bridge at the next open time for folks mounted on horseback, and eventually found the spot where, long ago, Cathy and I had departed from the road. Most of the forest had been cleared to build the newer buildings in Poy Sippi, but I still wandered for two days, trying to hit upon some familiar landmark that would orient me to the old half-remembered trail. Finally, just as I was about to admit defeat, I found the sign that had originally guided us.

I’d learned about that sign, and the others, after that first Poy Sippi lunch thirteen years earlier. Back then Cathy and I had crossed the bridge without incident and, after most of the traffic had dispersed onto other roads, we ducked into the woods that grew thick and heavy along the main highway.

We hunkered down out of sight behind a huge fallen tree. Cathy took a drink from her canteen and leaned back against the bark. Sunlight through the leaves dappled her face, and a breeze rustled her bangs. “I need a bath.”

“You’re not so bad yet,” I said as I took off my boots and stretched my toes.

She made a face. “Compared to that, I’m not. Did something die in your socks?”

“Keeps the bugs away.” I reclined and looked up at the patches of blue sky. I hadn’t noticed the color of the sky in a long time.

She closed her eyes. “I hate feeling skanky. Always have. It’s been the hardest part of this job.”

“Harder than fighting off grabby yahoos?”

She laughed. “Yeah, definitely.” Then she sat up and looked at me with careful, measuring eyes. I pretended I didn’t notice, but I did. She studied me for a long time before she said with certainty, “Eddie, you were right back at the Sway Easy. I should be able to trust you now. If I’m wrong about it, I deserve what I get.”

She dug inside her pack and pulled out the small map she’d previously consulted only in private. She unfolded it on the mossy ground between us.

“Here’s where we are,” she said, indicating a spot next to the river’s wiggly outline. “And here’s where we’re going. There’s no road or path; we have to look for landmarks.”

The destination seemed to be high in the Ogachic Mountains ahead. “What’s there?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Have no idea. Except that it’s where I’ll find the person I’m supposed to deliver this package to.”

“Do you know this person’s name?”

She nodded. “Epona Gray.”

“A woman?”

“Sounds like it.”

I looked at the map. Our destination really was in the middle of nowhere. “Does it seem odd to you that a woman would get a package way out here?”

“Depends on the woman, I guess,” she said. “Or the package.”

“I don’t know anything about either,” I pointed out.

She looked at me again for a long, quiet moment. Something had changed in her expression. “Yeah,” she said at last.

She peered over the log to make sure we were alone,
then unbuttoned her shirt. Strapped around her stomach was a soft fur-lined belt, and in it she’d stuck a thin sealed parcel no bigger than my hand. She pulled it free and handed it to me.

I examined the box. It was a faceless wooden case, tied with string, and the knot had been sealed with unembossed wax. It could hold nothing bigger than my hand. When I shook it, a single large heavy object slid around inside. “Sounds like a rock.”

“Might be,” she said as she put it back and buttoned up her shirt. I realized I hadn’t even glanced at her to see what skin she might reveal.

We waited until dark, then crept back onto the road. There wasn’t much traffic at night, and the nearly full moon provided plenty of illumination. A breeze blew from the east, keeping the air cool and clear. Something about the combination of wind, moon and silence made us speak softly; it was the kind of night that, in retrospect, earns the name “magical.” At the time, though, it was just another night on the job.

Cathy told me about her first delivery, escorting a valuable show dog through fairly harmless territories to the home of its new owner. It had been just her and the dog, a medium-sized wolfhound, walking together for two weeks. The customer tried to stiff her for her fee because the dog had replaced so much flab with muscle. He was not successful.

“That poor dog used to howl at the moon for hours every night,” she said wistfully. “It was the saddest, loneliest sound you can imagine. She never had a proper home, just kennels and dog shows and such. The lady who sold her had never even petted her. I would try to calm her down, comfort her, and it would work for a
while. But then she’d move away from the fire and just howl some more.”

I had my hands in my pockets and looked out at the trees tinted blue by the moonlight. Our footsteps were the only unnatural sounds. “Sounds like she had a tough life,” I agreed.

She kicked at the road’s surface. Without looking at me she asked, “Want to know a secret?”

“Sure.”

Her voice grew softer. “One night, when she seemed so alone and pitiful . . . I howled with her. I took off all my clothes, danced around in the moonlight and
howled
. . . .” She smiled at the memory.

For some reason this made me uncomfortable. “How much had you been drinking?”

She laughed quietly, musically. “Oh, I was cold sober, Eddie, just like I am now.” She twirled slowly, like a child, and looked up at the sky. “You think she’s a goddess?”

“The dog?”

“No, the moon. Priestesses say it’s the light of the goddess. They say her tug makes women bleed once a month so we can have kids. What do you think?”

“I dunno.”

“I hope she is. I hope there’s a goddess somewhere who hears all those howls in the moonlight.”

“It’s not my area of expertise.”

She laughed again and danced ahead of me. Her long shadow reached down the road. I’d never seen her like this, so . . . uninhibited. Janet had the same paradoxical quality, as if more life experience somehow made her more innocent. A big knot of conflicting feelings fought unsuccessfully to untie itself in my gut.

After that little outburst, we walked in silence until, past midnight, we made camp. I watched her sleep for a long time, enjoying the play of firelight on her features. She had great lips, I belatedly decided—full enough to be delectably pouty in the right circumstances.

A wolf howled in the distance, too far away to be a threat. And I had to admit, the urge to howl along was pretty damn strong.

F
ollowing the map, Cathy and I hiked into the Ogachic Mountains. There was no existing trail, so we had to work with the terrain. It grew harder as we climbed higher, rocks replacing dirt and trees giving way to bushes and scrub. It seemed unlikely that this was really the most efficient way to get to our destination, but the map gave us no alternatives, and I knew nothing of this area.

At last, just above the tree line on one rocky face, we found the first landmark: a horse’s head, in silhouette, painted in white on black granite.

The image was about four feet across, and right at eye level. While Cathy checked the map, I scratched at the paint; it did not flake off. “This is some heavy-duty artwork. Whatever they used, it sealed pretty good.”

“Have to be to survive the weather up here,” Cathy said. “The winters get vicious.”

I knew a bit about art from my childhood tutoring. This wasn’t in the usual regional style, which favored a flatter, more abstract approach. The horse’s silhouette was entirely realistic, down to the slightly parted
lips and flying mane. Then I noticed something unexpected.

I got very close to the fine detail work along the mane’s fringe and squinted. “Wow,” I whispered. “Cathy, this isn’t paint.”

She looked up from the map. “What do you mean?”

“This is . . . quartz or something. Some other kind of rock. Inside the granite.” I ran my hand over it, and only the slightest bump marked the border of the image. “This is a natural formation.”

She joined me and peered at the seam between the two rocks. I was suddenly, uncomfortably aware of her proximity. “Rocks can do weird things sometimes,” she agreed. “Back in Bonduel, there’s a mountain in the shape of an old man’s profile. It looks just like somebody carved it, but it’s all natural.” She turned, and our faces were inches apart. She looked into my eyes, glanced away, and looked back. “Nature can be pretty powerful,” she said.

Her eyes were hazel flecked with gold. I asked softly, “Weren’t we supposed to avoid a white horse?”

“Only if a woman was riding it.” She licked her lips, and I realized my own were suddenly dry.

I broke the moment and stepped away. My face felt unaccountably hot. “So which direction now?”

“Northwest,” she said quickly, looking down at the map. “The next landmark is about a day’s walk away, if the terrain’s not too much more difficult.”

The landscape cooperated and we made it halfway before darkness forced us to camp. It was one thing to use an open road at night, but neither of us wanted to climb over unfamiliar ridges and chasms we couldn’t see. We picked a hidden area next to a small stream,
sheltered on three sides. If we kept our fire small, we’d be invisible.

O
VER A DECADE
later, I stood before that same flat rock again. The weather was a little cooler, but the sunlight shone on its surface just as brightly now as it had done on that long-ago day. The white quartz deposit still stood out starkly against the gray-black granite. But the equine shape I remembered as so definite was now . . . vague. It could still be seen as a horse’s head. It could just as easily be a wolf, or the bow of a ship, or a random geological formation that resembled any one of a dozen things if you looked at it cockeyed.

I put my hand flat against it just as I’d done thirteen years earlier. It felt weathered and smooth. No marks of workmanship showed; no one had altered it. Either I remembered it wrong, or . . .

There was less point in speculating now than there had been then. Then, our ultimate goal had been a mystery tugging us on. Now I knew where I was headed, and what awaited me.

I climbed back onto my horse. I don’t know when I began to think of her as “mine,” but somewhere between Arentia and here, I’d actually grown a little fond of her. I still didn’t trust her, but I felt I could turn my back to pee without risking a kick to the head. That was a big change. As we picked our way along, I considered names for her. None of the possibilities clicked.

By nightfall, I reached the stream where Cathy and I had camped before. Given what happened, there was no way I’d use the same spot, so we crossed the stream and continued on until it was so dark my nameless
horse refused to proceed. But ultimately, it didn’t matter where I slept. The memories were just as vivid.

I
T HAD BEEN
a warm night back then. As always, Cathy and I put our bedrolls on opposite sides of the fire. I lay awake staring up at the stars. Tendrils of smoke from the dying fire made gray shifting shapes in the moonlight. I felt tense, and couldn’t place the reason for it. I was absolutely sure no one followed us, especially no mysterious woman on a white horse, and this whole delivery trip should be over in a couple of days. I’d get the rest of my money and be free to continue wandering. And if I wanted to return to Bonduel with Cathy, to help her with her business or for any other reason, there was nothing stopping me. But did I want that?