Winds of Change (11 page)

Skif agreed; he could sense it. “What is it that you aren’t telling me?” he demanded. “Is it something about Nyara?”

The owl let go of Wintermoon’s finger, roused its feathers, and settled, staring at Cymry as if it found her fascinating. Wintermoon nodded. “I thought perhaps you might think that, and yes, it concerns the Changechild. But you must pledge not to take offense.”

:Offense?:
he asked Cymry.
:Why would I - oh. Of course. They still don’t trust Nyara, they want her under control, and they probably feel the same way about that damn sword.:

:Can you blame them?:
she asked reasonably.

:About the sword, no,:
he replied. Then, to Wintermoon, “You Tayledras don’t trust Nyara or the blade, do you? The rest of the Clan wants you to go along and make sure she isn’t out there trying to set up some more trouble for you.”

Wintermoon nodded. “Quite. I beg pardon, but that is only the truth of the matter. But, Skif - I do wish to help you, for yourself. You are not schooled in tracking, you have said as much yourself. Think of it this way,” he grinned. “I have no wish for your friend Elspeth to be sending me out in an ice-storm
to find
you!”

“Oh, I’m not that bad,” he replied with a rueful smile. “I’ve had
some
field training. But it was all in Valdemar - there were Herald way-stations all over.”

“And you cannot track or trail,” Wintermoon repeated. He turned to Cymry. “Lady, you cannot track or trail, either. Nor can you see as well at night as my Corwith and K’Tathi can. Nor do you know our territory.”

Cymry bowed her head in agreement.

“And Skif, I would like to help you, for I know that you feel very much for the Changechild.” His face sobered. “I do not know if the Changechild is near as dangerous as the Council think she might be. I think she deserves to have someone looking for her that will give her that benefit. I think it is a good thing for her to have someone besides yourself that will do that. You are a Wingbrother - but an Outlander as well. I am k’Sheyna.”

Skif was well aware of what the Tayledras meant; just as his own word would hold more weight in Valdemar than Wintermoon’s, no matter how many oaths the latter swore, so Wintermoon’s held more weight here. If there were any doubt as to Nyara’s allegiances, Wintermoon’s opinion might well be the deciding factor.

And it would be a very good thing to have company out there in the wilderness. . . .

:Take his offer,:
Cymry urged.
:He’s a good man; he could become a good friend.:

“All right, Wintermoon,” Skif said decisively. “I would be very, very glad to have you help me. Cymry wants you along, and I never argue with her.”

:Never?:
she snorted.

:Well - I never argue with you when you‘re right.:

“Good,” Wintermoon rose to his feet, then held up his wrist again. For the second time, a white shape dove past Skif’s ear; this time the owl came in from the side, then swooped up and alighted on Wintermoon’s gauntlet with grace and silence. “This is Corwith,” he said, transferring the owl to his other shoulder. “We three will be most happy to give you our help. Then I shall see you in the morning?”

“Make that when we wake up,” Skif amended. “It’s already morning.”

Wintermoon squinted at the west, where the moon was going down. “So it is. Well, the night is my chosen time of departure, when I am given a choice. That will be good. There will be fewer eyes that will see us leave.
Zhai ‘helleva,
Wingbrother. May your dreams bring you peace and good omens.”

“And yours - friend.” On impulse, Skif offered his hand; Wintermoon took it after a moment, clasping first his hand, then his wrist.

As Wintermoon vanished into the darkness under the trees, and Skif turned to climb up into the
ekele
that had been given him, Cymry reached over and nuzzled his shoulder.
:That was well done,:
she said warmly.
:I
like him. I think we might have accomplished more than we realized.:

:I think you’re right,:
he answered, yawning.
:I’ve got a good feeling about this.:

So good a feeling, that for the first time since Nyara disappeared, he fell asleep immediately, instead of lying awake and staring at the darkness. And for the first time, it was a calm sleep, untroubled by dreams of silken skin and crying, cat-pupiled eyes.

Skif tied the final knots on his packs, expecting at any moment to have a
hertasi
pop its head over the edge of the treehouse with a summons from Wintermoon. It was difficult to tell time here, where the position of the sun was obscured by the towering trees and where the temperature seldom varied by much, but he thought he’d awakened about noon. There had been cheese, fruit, and fresh bread waiting in the outer room of his little treehouse along with all of his belongings and Cymry’s tack, brought from the gryphon’s lair. By
hertasi
or one of the scouts, he presumed; they were the only ones who knew where his possessions were, besides, of course, the gryphons. He and Elspeth had stayed with the gryphons since they had first arrived here in k’Sheyna territory; they were kindhearted creatures, but certainly not pack animals; he’d assumed he would have to go fetch all of the gear himself. This was yet another instance of Tayledras thoughtfulness; or at least, of
hertasi
thoughtfulness. He was even more surprised and delighted to discover that every bit of his clothing had been cleaned and neatly folded before being put in the pack, and all but one of his hidden knives and garrottes from said clothing laid out neatly by the pack.

Old habits die hard.

He descended long enough to clean himself up at a hot spring set up as a kind of bathhouse - and to thank the first
hertasi
he saw for having his things brought. He found the lizard first. He was a little ashamed that he couldn’t tell the diiference between individual lizard-creatures; surely there was a way, and it seemed doltish not to know it. He covered it as best he could by asking the diminutive creature to pass on his thanks to the others. The
hertasi
didn’t seem to mind. In fact, it thanked
him,
and showed him where to go to bathe and find provisions for his journey.

Back in the treehouse, he launched into packing feverishly. The strange provisions he’d gotten from a hidden kitchen area - learning only then where all the food for the celebration had come from - weighed much less than the dried fruit and beef and travelers’ bread that the Valdemaran forces, Heralds and Guards alike, carried into the field.

Just so that they were marginally edible. Marginal was all he asked for.
They can’t taste any worse than the clay tablets they expect Karsite troops to eat. Starch for shirts or old glue would taste better.
That much he was certain of; some folks would rather eat their saddles than the Karsite field rations.

“I trust you are ready?” Wintermoon called up from below, startling him. He went to the balcony, and looked over the edge.

Beneath him were the scout - now with his hair bound up in a tail and wearing clothing identical to the kind Darkwind had worn - and a pair of handsome
dyheli
stags. One carried a light pack, the other did not even have a cloth on its back. Beside them was Cymry, looking up at him with merry blue eyes, as if she was amused by his startlement.

“I’m ready,” he replied to all of them. “I’m pretty much packed. Look out, I’m going to toss the stuff down.”

Wintermoon and the rest backed up a little, giving him room for the drop. He dropped the saddle and the pack containing his clothing and nonbreakables over the edge of the balcony; he brought the rest down the staircase, slung over his back.

By the time he reached the ground, Wintermoon had already saddled Cymry for him, and was waiting for the rest of the gear. “You should try the Shin’a’in saddles,” the Tayledras scout observed, as Skif pushed aside an enormous leaf that overhung the trail to join them. “I think you both would find them more comfortable.”

“Maybe,” Skif replied, dropping his pack on the ground, and holding up the hackamore for Cymry so that she could slip her nose into it. “But the Shin’a’in don’t have to contend with anything other than the plains. We’ve got a lot of different terrain to cross, a lot of jobs to do, and sometimes we have to be able to sleep in the saddle or strap ourselves on because of wounds.” He faltered for a moment, as an ugly memory intruded; he resolutely ignored it, and continued. “I’ll try their saddles some time, but we’ve put a lot of time and work into that design, and I’m not sure there’s any way to improve it.”

Cymry nodded, which apparently surprised Wintermoon. Skif was going to ask where his birds were, when one of them dropped down out of the tree to land on the laden
dyheli’s
pack, and the other followed to land on the unladen one’s horns. The stags were both evidently used to this; the second
dyheli
held his head steady until the owl hopped from the horns to Wintermoon’s shoulder. “Mobile tree branches,” the Tayledras grinned.

“So I see. I told Elspeth that I was going out to hunt for Need,” Skif told the scout, “I told her that I didn’t think we could afford to have a major power like that out loose and not know where it was or what it was doing. She agreed, but I don’t think she believed that was the only reason.”

“I doubt you could fool your friend on matters of the heart,” Wintermoon replied. “At least, not for long. Except, perhaps, for her own; I have noted that few people are good judges of their own hearts.”

Skif flushed, and decided not to answer that statement. “Have you got any ideas about where we should start looking?” he asked instead. “I mean, I know you haven’t had much chance to think about this since last night, but - ”

“Actually, I have,” Wintermoon interrupted, surprisingly. “I spent some time last night reviewing what I would do if I were in her place. So I know where she might be, I think - or rather, I know where we need not look. Here - ”

He pulled out a map from a pouch at his belt and spread it on the ground. Skif pulled the last buckle on Cymry’s packs tight and crouched down on his heels beside the scout. Cymry craned her neck around to look over his shoulder.

“ - here, is the Vale.” Wintermoon pointed at an oval valley on the rim of the crater-wall that marked the rim of the Dhorisha Plains. “Nyara will not have run to the west, neither south nor north; to the west and south were her father’s lands. To the west and north,
that is
untamed, un-healed, tainted land, full of creatures that are as bad or worse than anything that her father commanded.”

“And she knows this?” Skif asked.

Wintermoon snorted. “She cannot have avoided knowing. No matter how closely he kept her mewed, if she had any contact with the world outside his walls, she would have known. We had intended to bracket the area between this Vale and the new one - well, that is of no matter now. She will not have gone west unless she is an utter fool. Nor will she have gone south.”

“Because that’s the Dhorisha Plains,” Skif said, absently, studying the map.

“Yes. So, that leaves east and north. She may have gone east - she
can
go east - but here - ” he indicated a shaded area on the map. “This pattern means that the lands here
are
healed. If she goes there, she will encounter farms and settlements. If she goes further, she must meet towns, villages, and people who are unused to seeing creatures that are not wholly human. She will surely encounter trade-roads, traders, caravans. No, I do not think she would go very far to the east.”

“And if she went due north?” Skif asked.

“Ah - again, she will encounter a border, this time the territory guarded by another Clan. They may not be as kindly disposed toward her as we. Certainly, since they will not know her, they will regard her with suspicion and even hostility.” Wintermoon sat back on his heels. “So you see, she must be within
this
area.” His forefinger described a rough oblong on the map. “Those are the lands we once claimed, but we have let run wild, as we pulled back our borders.
That
is where I think we shall find her.”

Skif nodded, and considered the map. “None of it is very far from where the scouts patrol,” he observed. “In fact, we
could
go out there and start our search, and come back to the Vale every few days to see how matters are progressing here - and whether or not we’re going to be needed after all.”

“My thought exactly,” the scout said, picking up the map and folding it. He stood up, stowing the folded parchment in his pouch again. “In this way we fulfill our own wishes and our duty to the Clan as well.” He gave Skif an odd sideways grin that Skif returned.

“Why do I have the feeling that you’re as good at that as I am?” he asked slyly. “Getting your own way by threading through rules and obligations, I mean.”

“What, I?” Wintermoon replied, widening his eyes innocently. Then he laughed. “Come, we are birds of the same flock, you and I. We know each other. Yes?” He turned and mounted the second stag bareback, saving Skiff from having to answer that question.

Skif took his time mounting, settling himself into the saddle with a sigh. Not that he didn’t enjoy partnering with Cymry, but it had been a long journey and he’d been glad it looked as if they were staying in one place for a while. Well, it
had
looked that way, until he’d realized that Nyara was gone and wasn’t coming back. Now they were on the trail again. . . .