Stormseer (Storms in Amethir Book 3) (18 page)

I am a horrible Aspirant
, she thought, going to tighten the dun's girth.
Perhaps Tanvel was right to suggest I marry Vistaren after all. It can't have escaped his notice that I've never communed properly with the god.

She vaulted into the saddle and guided the dun back to Yarro's trail. "I ought to give you a name," she told him. "What suits you? Sand? We're surrounded by enough of it, for certain. Sandy, maybe. What about that?" The horse made no response, but she decided it was a good name for him. It wasn't fancy like Firefoot, but it was a solid, dependable name for a horse that was shaping up to be a solid, dependable mount.

Master Tanvel had told her about the desert, but of course neither of them had known she would actually be traveling through it and into the foothills. She hadn't realized how very bleak and beautiful it would be. Harsh, she had expected; Tanvel had called the desert unforgiving. Azmei had known there was little water in the desert, but this utter lack of moisture, where even the plant life was tough and sharp-edged, was hard on the body.

They rode for perhaps another hour at a comfortable walk, Sandy picking his footing through the scrub and Azmei content to let him. Yarro's tracks were plain ahead of them, and she didn't think the boy would stop until it was dark. Tanvel had taught her about traveling in the wilderness, but the first time they had done so, he had allowed her to make the decisions. That first night, still a princess used to having a handful of servants always within call, she had traveled until it was too dark to see the road clearly. She had ended up setting up camp single-handedly in the dark, while Tanvel sat by the fire and waited for her to finish. She had learned then to stop while there was still light to set up camp, but she didn't expect Yarro to know enough to do that. Soon enough, she would catch up with him.

***

Yarro let Firefoot pick their pace once they were out of Meekin. The Voices whispered in the back of his head, urging him on, but he wasn't inclined to listen closely to them after what they'd made him do in the stable of the One-Eyed Pony. Besides, he knew enough to realize he would have a sore butt at the end of today's ride. He didn't think there was any reason to make it worse by trying to trot or even canter on their first day. There were a lot of things he didn't know, but he wasn't stupid.

ARE YOU SURE? asked the hissy, sibilant Voice he liked least. PERHAPS YOU ARE JUST STUPID ENOUGH TO NOT KNOW HOW STUPID YOU REALLY ARE.

"Maybe so," Yar said aloud. "I'm stupid enough to listen to you lot."

UNGRATEFUL BOY. WE SAVED YOUR LIFE.

"Maybe. But maybe you just like killing. I could have run away." But Yar knew that was oversimplifying things. He couldn't have run away without letting Firefoot be killed by those thieves. He had fought to save his horse as much as to save his possessions or his own life. He had bought Firefoot, but he was under no illusions that he owned the horse. This was not a creature to be possessed. He was a companion who allowed Yarro to ride along with him, nothing less.

They traveled at a slow pace, the Voices working harder and harder to get his attention. Yarro stubbornly pushed them away, focusing on Firefoot's ears, his mane, the gentle sway of his walking gait. He tried to enjoy the warmth of the sun on his right side, the light breeze that ruffled his hair. But eventually it became too insistent to ignore. Yar drew Firefoot to a halt, but before he could dismount, the vision was on him.

The woman from yesterday, with her golden eyes and daggers and wry grin, was staring at him. She had her hands on her hips and a look on her face that he couldn't read. She turned and shouted at Firefoot, who turned and ran away. When Yarro tried to intervene, the woman drew her dagger and her sword and shouted at him, too. Yarro tried to get away, but he tripped over his own feet and fell. She came towards him, her sword lifted above her head. She was going to kill him!

But she darted past him, her blades raised against some threat he couldn't see. Was she defending him? Or had she invited the attack? Yar craned around, trying to see what she was fighting.

Yarro's body outside the vision lost its balance and fell off the horse. He didn't come back to himself until the ground jolted him back. He lay staring up at Firefoot's belly and the darkening sky beyond, unable to breathe in or out, his eyes wide as he struggled for air that wasn't there. Finally he managed to suck in a short breath. He took another breath and another and rolled over onto his belly, away from Firefoot's huge hooves. The horse wasn't moving, but Yar didn't want to risk it.

What were the Voices trying to tell him? Was the woman going to kill him? Or was she part of the war the Voices talked about? Yarro shivered. Either way, she was dangerous. He was glad he had gotten away from Meekin when he had. Wherever the Voices were leading him, he was at least away from her.

Leg muscles screaming, Yar managed to climb to his feet. It was almost completely dark now. He should have stopped sooner so he would be able to see where he was sleeping. He must have lost hours to that vision. Cursing himself, he wound his fingers in Firefoot's mane and started looking for a good place to spend the night.

He stubbed his toe and yelped in surprise. Only his grip on Firefoot's mane kept him upright, though he had to scramble for his footing. The horse didn't seem to appreciate being used as a prop; he snorted and shifted away from Yar, which made him lose his balance entirely and fall to his knees. He stayed there for a while, feeling tears sting his eyes. It wasn't fair. He hadn't asked to be different. Why couldn't he have just been like his brothers? Why did he have to hear Voices? If he'd been normal, he wouldn't be out here stumbling around in the dark like a blind man.

ISN'T THAT WHAT YOU ARE? hissed the most slithery of the Voices. A BLIND MAN WHO CAN'T SEE ANYTHING CLEARLY, EVEN IN HIS OWN MIND.

"Shut up," Yarro choked. Was that really one of the Voices, or was it his own thought? Did it matter? "I hate you."

He pushed himself to his feet and stretched his hands out in front of him. He transferred his weight to the back foot and slid the other forward slowly, sweeping it from side to side until he was sure the way was clear. Then he stepped onto that foot and repeated the process with the back foot, bringing it forward in a tentative step. After a few halting steps like that, the movement got easier. He still couldn't see much, but at least he didn't think he was going to fall over something.

He almost jumped out of his skin when his fingers felt something. He realized before shouting in terror that it was his horse. He swallowed his alarm and said, "Hello, Firefoot."

The horse whickered at him and stayed there, letting him touch without actually supporting him. That was okay. Yarro was just glad the horse hadn't run away and left him all alone.

NOT
ALL
ALONE, whispered the Voice. YOU HAVE US.

"Some comfort," he muttered to it. He closed his eyes, just to see if it made any difference. He quickly opened them again. There wasn't much light, but there was some. A glow in the east told him the moon was beginning to rise. He looked around, trying to see if he could tell what was nearby.

Firefoot walked into his hand, pressing him away from the direction he'd been going. Yarro let the horse nudge him about twenty paces. Then the horse quit walking. Yarro took a couple more steps on his own, then realized he couldn't feel the horse's shoulder under his fingers any more. He stopped and turned around.

Firefoot's bright hide gleamed faintly in the moonlight. The horse was standing still, watching him. Yarro wondered if horses could see better in the dark than people.

"You want to stop?" he asked the horse.

The horse didn't answer, but Yarro shrugged and walked back to him. "Here, then?" The horse snorted and lowered his nose to touch the ground. Yarro leaned down to peer at whatever had caught Firefoot's attention. It was a few wisps of grass. He ought to take the horse's saddle off, he supposed. He hadn't bothered replacing the halter that had chafed at Firefoot's ears, but he'd thought he needed a saddle to hold onto. Not to mention he needed to tie his pack to something.

"All right, hold still," Yarro mumbled. He got the saddle off Firefoot's back and dropped it to the ground, wrinkling his nose in disgust. It was wet underneath. He yawned and fumbled a piece of bread out of his pack. "Do you have enough grass?" he asked Firefoot, who still didn't answer. But he thought he heard the sound of grass ripping in the horse's teeth.

Yar sat down next to the saddle. It smelled of leather and horse. He wrinkled his nose again but didn't move away from it. He could use the saddle as a pillow, maybe. He wrapped himself in his cloak and tore off a bite of bread. After a few more minutes, he was fighting off yawns between every bite. He washed down his last bite with a gulp of water and curled up, tucking his hands and feet inside the thick wool of his cloak.

The longer he lay there, the colder he felt. He hadn't realized how much heat Firefoot had provided while Yarro was on his back. And just moving must have kept him warmer, too. He shivered, his body wracked with yawns so deep they shook him, but too cold to fall asleep. A single almost-sob escaped him, and then he remembered that he'd brought a blanket too. He fished it out of the pack and wrapped it around him, cloak and all. It eased the worst of the cold. He wasn't completely warm, but he was able to stop shivering.

Yarro at last closed his eyes and slept.

***

If Azmei hadn't been watching for the boy and his horse, she would have missed them in the dark. As it was, she might have anyway, if not for Firefoot's greeting whicker. She stopped walking, shortening Sandy's lead and bringing his head down.

"Hello?" she said softly, but there was no response. She peered through the darkness and finally made out the huddled shape of Yarro sleeping on the ground, curled tightly into a ball. If the idiot boy was so cold, why hadn't he built a fire? Shaking her head, Azmei led Sandy off some distance and found a camping spot for herself.

By the time she'd scraped together some kindling, she had familiarized herself with the makeshift camp Yarro had claimed. Camp, she thought, was too generous a word for it. The spot itself was fine—off the road by about thirty paces and sheltered by a rise in the ground and several bushes. But what had he been thinking, to simply curl up on the ground without bothering to tether his horse? She shook her head and bent to breathe life into her fire.

Perhaps the guards at the gate hadn't given Yar the same lecture they had given Azmei about bandits and the dangers of the wild. She wondered idly if it was because he wasn't female. But no, she'd heard them start in on the man behind her as she was riding away from the city. Perhaps he just hadn't paid attention. It was more than possible, considering the daydreamy way he seemed to go through life.

Once she had gathered more sticks for later and started boiling water to brew some tea, Azmei found a good stone to prop her pack against. She spread her blanket on the ground and sat on it, keeping her cloak on and pulling the blanket up to cover her legs. She was far enough away from Yarro's camp that he probably wouldn't even notice her in the morning, in the unlikely event he should be up and moving before she was. She doubted he would be. He couldn't possibly be used to traveling as far as they had come. They were only two leagues or so outside the city, but it was enough that he would be feeling it tomorrow.

The water was beginning to spit and hiss, so she dropped in a ball of compressed tea leaves and took the pot of water away from the heat. She would nestle it in near the fire to keep the liquid warm and it should last her most of the night. She hadn't had much chance to sleep late into the day these past three years, but she had discovered she didn't mind that so much as long as she had at least a few gulps of hot tea to start her morning.

She poured some tea into a heavy clay cup and settled back against her pack. She would sleep for two hours or so, then wake to check the fire and her surroundings. In the meantime, she let the heat of the fire lull her into a doze.

She woke again to the sound of screaming.

"Sleeping gods!" she swore, jerking to attention. It was Yarro, and he sounded like he was being murdered. She struggled out of her blankets and ran towards his camp, drawing her sword. As she approached, she couldn't see the source of danger. She dropped into a half-crouch, slowing her pace to give herself time to find the boy's attacker. But there was nothing.

His horse snorted and shifted away as she got to the camp, but the only thing disturbing the horse was Yarro's screams. He was tangled in his blankets, flailing as if struggling against an unseen enemy. His eyes were closed.

Azmei sheathed her sword in annoyance. A nightmare, that was all. But what should she do now? Should she wake him? It probably wasn't the best idea to let him keep screaming, since there might be other ears out there to hear. But she didn't want their next encounter to be colored by fear.

Still. It was cruel to let him keep suffering. With a sigh, Azmei crouched an arm's length from his feet and grabbed one to shake it. "Yarro!" she called softly. "Wake up, friend! Wake up!"

It took longer than she'd expected for him to rouse from his dream. When he did, he went still except for his heaving chest, staring up into the dark sky.

"It was just a dream," Azmei told him.