Exile's Challenge (7 page)

Then Rannach spoke, pointing to the east, and the Matawaye called to the Grannach and the Grannach answered. Hands were raised in last farewell and the horses heeled forward. Arcole chanced a last glance back, and saw Colun wave even as the squat little man roared laughter.

Rannach and Kanseah took the lead as they rode slowly down the valley, and Yazte the tail. Morrhyn and Kahteney held the nervous Davyd in his saddle, talking the while. Arcole and Flysse came behind. Arcole thought she rode better than he.

“I'm not used to this,” he said.

“You're a gentleman.” Flysse chuckled. The wind coming down from the hills blew out her golden curls and her eyes sparkled: Arcole thought she looked lovelier than ever, as if this wild free life suited her. “You're accustomed to fancy riding.”

“I'm accustomed to civilized tack,” he returned, aware he sounded a little grumpy.

“And a stableboy to groom your horse at day's end,” she gave him back, “and hand you a stirrup cup, and pull off your boots.”

He affected an expression of puzzled solemnity. “Shan't you tend to those matters? Are they not wifely duties?”

Flysse said “No!” and pranced her mount close, threatening to dislodge him.

“God, woman!” he cried, his alarm not entirely feigned. “Shall you knock me down?”

“Do you expect such services of me,” she answered, smiling, “yes.”

His face grew serious a moment and he reached to touch her hand, then snatched it back as the gray skittered. “Those things are gone,” he said. “I'm not that man now.”

“No.” Flysse beamed and shook her head, so that sunlight danced in her hair. “And better for it, I think.”

“Yes.” Arcole nodded. Then indicated Davyd, ahead of them. “But I believe he'll need tender ministrations this
night. Do I recall my first venture ahorse, I could not believe so much of me ached.”

“Yes, poor Davyd,” Flysse said, her expression grown solemn. “I hope our new friends carry balms with them.”

The People lived largely on horseback, and children were set astride their parents' mounts when first they began to walk; for them, riding was natural as walking. What was a man without a horse? It had not occurred to any of them, that there could exist any folk other than the Grannach who did not ride, or would suffer pain from the experience.

Davyd did. Indeed, had Morrhyn and Kahteney not ridden beside him, and the pace not been slow, he would have flung himself from the saddle simply to escape the agony of the buckskin's bony spine driving like a hammer against his buttocks, whilst its ribs heaved between his legs, threatening to stretch his thighs and split him apart. He could not believe riding was so painful, or so uncertain. It seemed to him as unnatural as committing a ship to the unknown depths of the sea, and through all that long day he need tell himself he had overcome his fear of water, and therefore must surely overcome this newfound torture. Besides, Flysse was witness to his efforts, she apparently quite at ease on horseback, and it embarrassed him that he was so ungainly and felt so nervous. He'd not look a fool in her eyes, or in Arcole's, and so he struggled to ignore his discomfort and learn to master this unlikely new skill.

The pain helped in that: it consumed him, so that as the morning passed into afternoon and they did not halt, he began to forget his apprehension in the encompassment of the overwhelming ache that possessed his entire body. It was not so much the falls—for despite all the ministrations of Morrhyn and Kahteney, he still tumbled from time to time—as the unnatural position and the constant collision of his body with the horse's. He thought he would prefer the swaying deck of a ship to this, and that likely he should never learn to ride with the casual elegance the Matawaye displayed. But he gritted his teeth and determined not to give in to the pain, and must he sometimes blink tears from his eyes, then at least
he did not cry out—save when he fell—and told himself he was not a child to whine and whimper at discomfort, but a man who would suffer his fate in silence.

Still, he was mightily glad when they halted. He watched the Matawaye spring lithe from their saddles, Flysse and Arcole dismount slower, and endeavored to emulate them only to find himself seemingly paralyzed. His legs would not move; they seemed melded with the horse's ribs, and he fused in place like some animate equestrian statue. His left hand was locked around the rein, his right in the buckskin's mane, and try as he might, he could not force his fingers open. The buckskin whickered, tossing its head impatiently as it saw its fellows unsaddled and turned out to graze. Davyd mouthed a curse and closed his eyes as the others gathered round. He felt his cheeks grow hot and knew he blushed, and when he opened his eyes and still could not move, and saw Flysse frowning solicitously, he experienced a terrible chagrin. God, but she must think him a useless boy, a fool!

“Stiff, eh?” Arcole set a hand on the buckskin's neck. “Me, too; and I've ridden before. The first time is always the worst.”

Davyd nodded silently, quite unable to speak for the mortification he felt. The pain was nothing compared to this humiliation.

Arcole chuckled and slapped Davyd's thigh, which somehow Davyd did not feel, and said companionably, “I remember my first time—two grooms had to lift me down. Shall I help you?”

Davyd nodded again.

“Then let go the rein.” Gently, Arcole prised his fingers open. “And the mane, eh?”

Davyd made his unwilling hands obey.

“Now ease your legs and swing down. I'll catch you.”

Davyd tried to follow the instruction, succeeding in pitching sideways off the horse so that the buckskin snorted and skittered. Arcole caught him, grunting as his own back protested, and lowered him to the ground. Davyd swayed, the world spinning around his head for a moment. His legs seemed not to be there, or the fleshly columns unboned: he sagged, thinking he must fall down. Arcole held him upright
and he clutched helplessly at the older man, who set a supportive arm around him and said, “Let's walk a little, eh? Until you've your balance back.”

Davyd doubted most sincerely that he could walk—perhaps might never again—but Flysse came up on his other side and put an arm about his waist and offered him her shoulder, so he took it and ground his teeth and forced himself to pace out the painful steps.

He was surprised that in a while a measure of normal feeling returned and he could walk unaided, albeit like some frail ancient. He ached all over, and could not understand why his arms and shoulders hurt so. The rest was obvious—human legs were not designed to enwrap the barrel of a horse's ribs, nor buttocks to suffer the assault of the animal's spine. But why did
all
of him ache so? As they walked slowly back to where the Matawaye were already setting up camp, he noticed that they were all somewhat bowed of leg, and wondered if they were somehow designed by God to fit astride their animals, or grew on horseback. He, he knew beyond doubting, was not.

Morrhyn smiled with puzzled sympathy as they approached, and held up a pouch, speaking.

Davyd was altogether too immersed in discomfort to attempt to understand, and it fell to the others to explain as best they could.

“I think,” Flysse said, “that he's some ointment might help you.”

“I think nothing can help me,” Davyd moaned in reply. Then cursed himself for acting the child and straightened his back—which sparked fresh shivers of agony. “I'll be all right.”

Arcole said mildly, “My first time, I lay in a hot tub for hours. Then my mother rubbed me with liniment for another.”

“Did it,” Davyd asked, hoping he did not sound too desperate, “work?”

Arcole nodded solemnly: “After a few days.”

Davyd said forlornly, “Oh, God!” And then miserably, “There's no hot water here. Not for a tub.”

“Even so.” Flysse nodded in Morrhyn's direction. “Likely our new friends have medicines that will help.”

Davyd nodded and walked stiff-legged to Morrhyn.

They had halted in the lee of a tall bluff where a cascade sprang out from the rock to arc down into a stone-encircled pool before spilling over to feed a stream that ran swift to the west. A mountain meadow spread green below the cliff, wind-sculpted pines and green ash trees rustled in the breeze, and blooms of yellow and blue quilted the grass. Swallows darted overhead and the descending sun lit cliff and meadow and water with mellow radiance. Morrhyn took Davyd's arm and led him past the pool, around a spur of overhanging stone to another basin.

This was not fed by any cascade, but rather from some internal source that agitated the surface with gaseous bubbles. The air shimmered there and smelled of sulfur. Morrhyn pointed at the pool and spoke. Davyd listened, struggling to understand, but what knowledge of the People's tongue the Dreamer had instilled in him seemed blurred by his pain. Still, Morrhyn's gestures made clear that he wished Davyd to undress and climb into the water. Davyd looked around. The steaming basin was hidden from the campsite, but even so he hesitated, thinking that Flysse might come seeking him and find him naked. The notion was simultaneously alarming and exciting, and he blushed afresh.

Morrhyn spoke again, pantomiming the ache-boned stance of a man in pain, bending his back and rubbing at his buttocks with such an expression of feigned agony that Davyd must laugh. The bright blue eyes caught his and twinkled, then Morrhyn pointed toward the camp and shrugged, and patted his buttocks again. Then thrust a finger at the pool and held up the pouch, straightening his back and sighing in exaggerated parody of relief.

Davyd understood, even without the benefit of language: he nodded and began to strip. And as he did, he wondered that he trusted this silver-haired man like no other, save Arcole. It was as if the dreams had bonded them: he could not doubt Morrhyn.

Save, perhaps, for an instant as he entered the water. It was so hot he thought his skin must sear, and as he disturbed
the surface he inhaled a lungful of thick, sulfurous air that set him to coughing, his eyes watering. He spat, looking to Morrhyn, who gestured that he immerse himself. There was such calm confidence in the Dreamer's eyes that Davyd felt his doubts assuaged. Morrhyn would not, he somehow knew, allow him to come to any harm. He felt the wakanisha marked him for some purpose he could not yet properly comprehend, nor would until they were able to speak properly; converse as … not equals, for he recognized that Morrhyn owned such knowledge as he could only guess at … but as if he were Morrhyn's pupil, and all that knowledge his for the asking.

So he lay down in the vaporous water and felt it ease his aches, the fumes no longer stinking but soporific. He sighed happily and closed his eyes, stretching out until only his face rose above the water. He would have slept there—should have been quite content to spend the night in that comfortable embrace—but Morrhyn touched his shoulder and spoke, and when he reluctantly opened his eyes, handed him a pinch of some herb. He swallowed the stuff, and in a while felt a vague and pleasant numbness pervade his limbs, as if the combination of the hot spring and the herb dismissed the day's pain.

He was reluctant to emerge, save that his belly began to rumble and he saw the sun fall down below the western hills. Morrhyn indicated that he should dry himself and dress. So he climbed out, marveling that he could move limber again, and followed the wakanisha back to where a fire was lit and the evening meal cooking.

Flysse looked up as he approached and smiled. “You seem recovered.”

“I am,” he answered, returning her smile, “thanks to Morrhyn. And there
are
hot baths to be had.”

“Where?” Arcole asked eagerly. “Lead me to it, I beg you.”

Davyd laughed, all discomfort forgotten. This was, he thought, a fine land.

Morning delivered a sky of pure blue striped with windblown ribbons of high white cloud. A breeze rustled over the lush grass of the meadow, the ripples like the swell of some green land-birthed ocean spread with a wrack of bright flowers. Birds sang a welcome to the rising sun, and from downslope a fox barked. Davyd emerged rested from the tent to find the Matawaye already preparing breakfast. He went to join them, smiling, his aches quite forgotten.

Arcole and Flysse rose slower. Both had availed themselves of the hot spring, but neither had enjoyed the benefit of Morrhyn's restorative herbs, and both felt somewhat the rigors of the previous day.

“I grow old,” Arcole grunted as he laced his breeches.

Flysse laughed, combing her hair, studying the result in the mirror Marjia had gifted her. “You grow thin,” she said. “You need some fattening—padding for that saddle.”

“I surely need some kind of padding,” he returned. “God, what did Morrhyn give Davyd, that restored him so?”

“Shall we ask for some?” she wondered, her eyes bright with amusement for all she put a solemn and solicitous expression on her face. “Can you not manage?”

“No,” he said quickly, “and yes. I shall doubtless get used to this before long.”

Flysse nodded gravely, marveling at the vanity of men, which they named pride. Davyd, she thought, had been consumed with agony this last day, and would not admit it for fear he lose some notion of himself in the acceptance. Arcole, for all he had withstood the rigors of the journey better, was still in some discomfort, but would not ask for help, lest she
or the Matawaye think the less of him for it. She found that difficult to understand—surely it was no loss of self-respect to ask help of friends? She finished her toilette and suggested they eat.

“Best flesh out those thin, old bones.”

Arcole scowled at her, then laughed. “Do you not suffer at all? Not even a little?”

“No,” she answered. “But then I'm accustomed to riding so. I'm not a lady, remember.”

He looked at her, no longer laughing, and shook his head. “You are, and do you deny it, I shall take offense.”