“Oh, no, I’m a complete mongrel. Not only was my mother Thirteenth House, but she—or someone in her family—was a mystic. I can play serramarra well enough, but I’m only in the higher echelons on sufferance. If my father ever lost his standing among the marlords—or ever lost his patience with me—I’d be ostracized so quickly it would be hard for you to remember my face.”
Another sideways glance, this one accompanied by a quick little bow, neatly accomplished even from the saddle. “Serra Kirra, I do not believe I will ever forget your face.”
A giggle for that. “Well, no, you’re bound to remember me since I saved your life,” she said. “And now you’re bound to answer my questions, too, since you owe me for the favor! What makes you so different from the marlords and their kin? How have you rebelled against the strictures of the Twelve Houses?”
He gazed before him, his face meditative. “I don’t know that the rebellion has been by action so much as by attitude. The man I trust most in the world is the captain of my guard—a man not much different from a King’s Rider, in fact, all duty and honor and loyalty. He has run of my house and can interrupt me at any point, night or day. I dine with him and several of his officers at least once a week.” He shrugged. “But many an aristocrat will tell you he values his servants and his soldiers. I try to see every man as my equal—perhaps not in intelligence, perhaps not in wealth, but having some knowledge or some skill that I do not possess, as well as the intrinsic appreciable qualities that make him a good soul. I look everyone in the eye. I deal honestly with any man or woman. I admit, I haven’t looked ahead to marrying my children off to farmers’ daughters and merchants’ sons, but I wouldn’t disinherit them if that’s what they wanted to do.” He laughed a little. “Or so I say
now
, before I have a precious daughter who wants to go off to be the blacksmith’s bride. I may find myself a whole pile of class arrogance then.”
“I hope not,” Kirra said, speaking with assumed lightness. She had been stirred more than she liked to admit by his thoughtful avowal. Her father was something of an egalitarian, too, though she’d never heard him put the philosophy into words; merely, Malcolm considered any man good enough to use, and then reward, for service to Danalustrous. “I would like to see a blacksmith’s son running estates in Merrenstow someday!”
“Well, once I have a daughter and she grows up to fall in love with a smithy,” Romar replied, “I shall most certainly invite you to the wedding.”
“I shall most certainly come.”
Their conversation continued much this way for the next couple of hours, interrupted only by their infrequent stops for food or privacy. True to his self-description, Romar always spoke directly and with unforced respect to the other men of the party, asking them if they’d noted anything of interest on the road or how long they thought they might be riding this day. Justin seemed to take his fellowship as a necessary consequence of their proximity, a camaraderie that would last only for the journey, but he also seemed to find that completely understandable. Cammon, of course, blithely accepted Romar as a kindred spirit, a delightful new friend, and over lunch pelted him with questions about his capture and his escape.
“Did you kill any of the men who tried to abduct you? Did you know where they were taking you? Were you afraid? What did you think when Kirra appeared at your cell door?”
Romar answered everything patiently or playfully, laughing at the final question. “I thought, ‘They must have drugged my food. I’m having hallucinations. I better not eat tomorrow’s breakfast.’ ”
“Did you see her changing shapes, then?” Cammon said. “Everyone says it’s very unnerving, but I can’t follow it myself when Kirra and Donnal shift. They always just look like themselves to me. I mean, I
know
Donnal’s a wolf. I can see the wolf shape, but he still looks like Donnal. It’s hard to explain. But everyone else says it can be a little eerie to watch a transformation.”
Romar glanced at Kirra. “No, she didn’t wake me till she was standing before me in human shape. They say that sometimes a goddess will come visit you the night before you die. I didn’t want to die, but she looked like a goddess to me. That’s why I was hoping for hallucinations instead.”
After the quick meal, Romar volunteered to help Cammon refill the water containers in a sinkhole Donnal had found. Justin and Kirra worked in silence to erase evidence of their passage. But after a moment the Rider looked over at her with something of a smirk.
“There’s a lord who’s found something he likes,” he said. “You might tell your father you can find a husband on your own.”
Kirra felt a little chill pass over her. If Justin, the least sensitive of the lot, could see the little coil of attraction that was tightening around her and Romar, how terribly obvious must it be? “He’s just flirting, the way all nobles do,” she said in a neutral tone. “He’s married.”
Justin dropped a tin plate, his hand no doubt made nerveless by surprise. Not until he had picked it up and dusted it off against his trousers did he speak again. “He certainly doesn’t act like he’s married. And you don’t act like he is, either.”
She gave him a frosty look, wishing she had Senneth’s power but in reverse, so her glare could chill him into a statue of ice. “Since when did my behavior become a concern of yours?”
He shrugged. “Well, you’re always telling
me
when I do something you don’t like.”
“Again—”
“He seems like a decent fellow, though,” the Rider went on. “I can see why the king picked him for regent.” He shoved the plate and a few sundry items into his saddlebag and worked the buckle closed. “If he lives long enough to do the part.”
She tried to let go of her irritation and her little nugget of fear and turn her mind to other worries. “You think those men will come after him, then?”
Justin patted his horse on its nose and let the animal lip at his face for a moment. “If not them, others. He’s a target. He’s going to have to get himself an awfully good personal guard.”
“He says he has one back on his estates.”
“Well, then, let’s get him there as quick as we can.”
Hearing voices behind her, Kirra turned to see Cammon and Romar approaching, the younger man laughing at something the older one had said. She also saw Donnal sitting a couple of yards away, having arrived silently at some point during her conversation with Justin. His amber wolf’s eyes were fixed on her face; his own face, shuttered at the best of times, was absolutely unreadable now. She had no idea how long he had been there, what he had heard, what he had gleaned from his own observations.
“Any trouble on the road ahead?” she asked him. She always talked to him, no matter what form he was in, because she knew he understood her. He would understand her even if she spoke some language he’d never heard before, some tongue she had fabricated on the spot. The connection between them had always gone that deep.
He didn’t answer, of course, just came fluidly to his feet and padded over. She put her hand down and he nuzzled at her fingers, then sent his tongue in one quick, sticky lick across her palm. That made her laugh, and she bent down to ruffle both his ears, putting her nose against his cold black one, daring him to lick her chin, her mouth. But he didn’t. He waited for her to release him, then turned his head away to give an appraising glance to the two men who had just arrived. Cammon had instantly gone to Justin’s side and was telling him some story in a lively voice, but Romar was standing on the edge of the camp, watching her. Watching Donnal. Kirra knew he must be wondering just why she had been so eager to champion the friendships between serfs and serramarra and just what her relationship was to the shiftling at her feet.
IT was nearly sunset when the attack came. They were riding through a little gully, and Justin had just said, “This would be a nice place for an ambush,” when Cammon cried out a sharp warning. They had bunched together against the oncoming dark, so Cammon and Donnal were both with the main party, and Donnal immediately loosed a low growl of menace.
Instantly, the men raised their swords and formed a neat circle with Kirra in the middle. Cammon quietly called out numbers and details. “Two over the hill, both on foot. Two before us and one behind, mounted. Another one some distance ahead—I guess in case one of us tries to run.”
“Fair odds,” Romar said, not sounding at all discomposed. Kirra could not help but notice that he seemed perfectly at ease with Justin’s borrowed blade in his hand. “Do you think they’ve come across us by chance, or that they’ve been hunting for
me
?”
“This place, probably bandits,” Justin said, his gaze fixed on the top of the hill where Cammon had indicated two of the attackers lay. “We’re in open territory between Tilt and Merrenstow—not that well patrolled. And the force isn’t big enough to have been sent after you specifically.”
“The ones ahead of us are coming closer,” Cammon reported.
Justin glanced down at Donnal, who was standing stiff-legged and snarling a little ahead of Cammon’s horse. “Guessing this lot will be more impressed by a man with a sword than a wolf at our feet,” the Rider said, his voice carefully holding no hint of command. “Extra blade on Cammon’s saddle if you want to fight that way.”
Kirra’s attention was caught by Cammon’s yell and the sound of pounding hoofbeats, so she missed the moment when Donnal transformed. Suddenly, she was in a thicket of upraised swords and descending arms and struggling bodies. Donnal was at a disadvantage on foot. “Donnal!” she cried, kicking her feet from the stirrups and scrambling up so she was almost standing in the saddle. “Take my horse!”
She sensed Romar turn wildly her way, a bloodied blade in his hand, but she was already changing shapes. “Kirra!” he cried. She thought he grabbed for her, but the world was first hazy, and then very, very clear. She flung herself from the horse’s back just as Donnal leapt up to take her place. She shot herself in a straight line for the top of the gully, the ambush site where one man still waited. She was not high enough, she did not have the altitude for a truly dizzying, spectacular plunge, but she could frighten him well enough. She was a spring hawk, small and light-bodied but bred for hunting. She aimed herself directly at the man who was just now cresting the hill and starting to clamber down.
The horse shied before the man reacted, and then he flung up his sword arm as if to stab the hawk from the sky. She loosed a shrill, furious cry and dove for him, a short quick plunge, catching one eye with the point of a talon. He shrieked and dropped his sword, clutching at his face, snatching at empty air as if to catch and strangle her. She dove again, raked her claws across his scalp, coming away with hair and skin and blood. Now his screams were truly unnerving, and he had both hands up to his head as he writhed in the saddle. His horse whickered and backed up, dancing away from the battle scene below and acting as if it wanted to throw the rider from the saddle.
Kirra didn’t figure this assailant would be much of a factor in the remainder of the brawl.
She beat her wings to attain some altitude and circled once over the gully where the main skirmish was going on. The men of her party had the clear advantage, all of them still mounted and in fighting mode, while one opponent lay lifeless on the ground. Three men to four, even if one of those men was Cammon. Kirra cawed out a guttural greeting and Donnal looked up quickly to spot her overhead. He pulled his horse around and followed where she led, straight to the covert where the final bandit lay, awaiting any who tried to flee. The man was ragged and almost as thin as his blade, but he willingly crossed swords with Donnal for a brief, spirited encounter.
Red and silver hell, the man looked like he hadn’t eaten for a week; the whole lot was probably just as shabby. Kirra felt a sudden reluctance to mete out the ultimate punishment, and by the careful feint of Donnal’s weapon, she could tell he felt the same. She waited for an opening, then swooped down in a swift, threatening dive to claw for the outlaw’s face and shoulders. Like his compatriot, he flung his hands up to protect his head and cried out in deep disquiet. Donnal lunged for him again, pricking the man’s rib cage and opening up a red gash. Donnal pulled back; Kirra dove down and raked her claws across the man’s forearm.
It was enough. The man jerked his horse around and pounded off, abandoning the fight itself and any assistance he might render his friends. Donnal stood up in his saddle to watch him go, then settled back and glanced up at Kirra. Sunset was painting a vivid scarlet across the western horizon, and his dark face looked ruddy and smiling.
“That’s taken care of the whole crew, I think,” he said. He crooked his arm as if to offer her a perch, but she wanted to be sure there were no more enemies lurking just outside Cammon’s circle of perception. She drove her wings down hard, then skated along the higher air currents, making a wide, slow loop around the gully where they’d been attacked. Nothing to be seen, so she widened her search, perhaps a mile in each direction from the central point. Twice her circuit intersected with the path of Donnal’s last opponent, still racing away as fast as his horse would take him. She followed him for a while, curious to see if he would hook up with others, but he seemed most interested in fleeing far enough to save his own life.