The Steerswoman's Road (27 page)

And then he finally realized that it had to be true. Ingrud
had recognized her, had been distressed, had talked about that steersman who
had quit the order. Attise had needed privacy to explain something to her. And
Attise sometimes knew things she should not, recognized connections invisible
to others, and pieced things together in a way unlike other people. Nothing was
as it had seemed.

To a steerswoman, lying must be like torture. Attise must
have been dreading every day, suffering through every conversation with a
stranger. It would make her quiet, so that she would not lie unless she had to.
It would make her angry, to go against her training so. And she would be bad at
it, as bad and as transparent in deceit as Attise was.

And it had to do with wizards. Attise was in danger from the
wizards; she was somehow a victim of theirs.

The steerswomen never used their knowledge or their intelligence
to hurt people. They knew more than anyone except the wizards, and they never
used it to control, never tried to have power over others. They were not like
most people.

They only cared about learning and discovering, and they
shared their knowledge joyfully. In that they were as innocent and direct as
children. Wiliam knew well the evil of using power against the innocent. He
had been helpless that time; this time, things stood differently.

Attise was watching him intently, without annoyance, without
anger, without fear or discomfort, without deceit. She was watching him like a
steerswoman, but her eyes held a question, and a steers-woman’s questions had
to be answered.

“I won’t tell anyone about you,” he said. “I won’t betray
you. I’ll help you, if I can.” And he could, he realized, perhaps better than
anyone else. He lifted his head a bit higher. “But, tell me, lady ... tell me
all about wizards.”

It was as easy as laughter, as natural as breathing, as
joyful as the swing in her step on the road. Attise the reluctant merchant fell
from her mind like a muddied cloak, and Rowan felt right in her heart for the
first time in what seemed like a lifetime. It did not matter to her that she
walked in danger; it only mattered that she could speak and act freely again,
and that the power given to her by her training and nature need not be hidden
like some secret sin. The one true concern she had was that she might die
before the puzzle was solved, and that would be tragedy indeed.

To protect the hope of an answer: that was the goal, the
duty and the pleasure. She felt it with more urgency than even the need of preserving
her own life. To stay alive served the goal.

And in the meantime, as she and her comrades clambered
alone, up and down the hilly countryside, she was doing what her spirit had
designed itself to do. She was answering questions.

“Since as far back as the Steerswomen’s records reach, there
has always been a wizard resident in the city of The Crags. This probably accounts
for the heavy-handed control Abremio holds; The Crags has never been without a
wizard. It depends on its wizard to a degree not found in any other holding.
Its politics depend on his decisions, and its workings depend on his magic. How
long this situation existed before our records, we don’t know.

“We do know that sometimes thereafter, a wizard became established
in Wulfshaven, on a far less formal basis. The log-books of the first
steerswoman, Sharon, make some oblique references to the event. In fact, it was
clear that she approved of it.”

“More fool she,” Bel muttered. The Outskirter fussed a moment
with the frogs on her cloak as the wind picked up and whirled it around her
legs. She had never resigned herself to the loss of her own piebald cloak, left
at the Archives because of its conspicuousness.

Willam looked at her, then checked Rowan’s reaction to the
seemingly heretical statement. But Rowan merely nodded.

“Yes. Sharon herself said that, over and over, at a later
date. A lot of her logbooks are filled with complaints about her own misjudgments.
But humans aren’t infallible, and conclusions depend on the knowledge at hand.”

She gathered her information and continued. “So, those two
holdings are the oldest. For many years there were only two wizards, and
believe it or not, there was no animosity between them.”

Willam was puzzled. “But they fight all the time, now.”

Rowan held up a finger. “That’s not quite true. They fight periodically.”

“Same thing.”

“Not at all.” Rowan was annoyed at that twisting of facts. “Get
your information right. They clash, regularly. In a large way, once a
generation. In a small way, several times, and you can count on two shifts of
alliance each generation.” Rowan found that the information that Hugo had given
her at the Archives was falling more clearly into place in the retelling, and
she reminded herself that such was often the case.

“So. That’s how matters remained, for nearly two hundred
years. Around that time, the lands around the Greyriver began to increase in
population. As the town at the river’s mouth became an important port, dragons
appeared, first in small numbers, then greater.” She noticed Bel’s sidelong
glance and continued. “At the same time, two new wizards established
themselves. One took residence in the port and immediately took the dragon
problem in hand. No one contested his holding, least of all the townspeople,
and the town even took its name from its first wizard.”

“So there was a wizard Donner who did what Jannik does now?”
Bel asked.

“Who’s Jannik?” Will queried.

“The wizard in Donner,” Bel supplied. “He controls the dragons
there. Or doesn’t, depending on his mood.”

The boy turned his wide copper gaze back to the steerswoman.
Despite herself Rowan felt a shift in her breath. Those eyes, so strange in
color, were so beautiful. He was a beautiful boy, and would be a handsome man
one day soon.

“But which wizard is after you?” Willam pressed.

Rowan had explained her mission to him. “We don’t know for
certain. But there’s good reason to suspect that it’s Shammer and Dhree.”

“And that’s where we are now, in their territory.” He seemed
to give the fact careful consideration.

“Possibly.”

He nodded grimly. “Good.”

“There’s no reason to be pleased about it.”

“I agree with him.” Bel was a few steps ahead, and Rowan,
perturbed, moved up to where she could watch her friend’s expression.

The Outskirter continued. “I’m tired of this. I don’t mind
danger, but I don’t like it forever waiting just out of sight. I want to see it
face-to-face, or I want it to go away.”

“It will go away,” Rowan assured her, “when we reach the Outskirts.”
She smiled a little. “Then you’ll only have your old familiar dangers.”

“I’ll be glad to see them,” Bel admitted. She looked at the
sky and at the track ahead. “And it’s time we found a place to spend the night.”
The Outskirter lengthened her stride and pulled ahead on the trail.

The steerswoman watched a moment, then returned to her explications
to Willam. “Now, the second wizard, a woman, claimed the upper Wulf valley. The
area was largely uninhabited at that time, and she lived, for the most part,
the life of a recluse—”

Will interrupted. “But what do they do?”

“Do?”

“What kind of magic? Is it different for each wizard?”

Rowan considered. “Not really. Any specialties they favor
seem to be based on their situation. Jannik in Donner has control of the dragons,
but there’s no indication that another wizard couldn’t do the same. Corvus, in
Wulfshaven, has knowledge of the movements of sea creatures and the weather,
but he’s based in a major seaport, where those things are of vital interest to
everyone.”

He brooded a moment. “Abremio seems to be able to do anything.”

“So I hear. I’ll ask you about him at length, in a bit,”
Rowan said. “You have firsthand knowledge.”

“But I’ve never seen him do what I do.”

“And what exactly do you do?”

He hesitated. “Well, I’ve told you ...”

“Yes. Rocks and tree stumps. Digging wells.” She spotted
Bel, who had wandered off the path ahead looking for a discreet campsite. They
exchanged waves, and Rowan led Will toward the Outskirter. “You’ve told me what
it’s for, or at least the use you put it to. But how exactly do you do it?”

“Well, I place the charms around the object, or under it, or
in a hole ... Then I have to put fire to them. That has to be done from a
distance—”

“How? Magically?”

“No,” he admitted, embarrassed. “I tried that, but I can’t
make it happen. I use a burning arrow. Or sometimes, a sort of path made out of
straw, or crumbled bits of another charm.”

“And then?”

He shrugged uncomfortably. “When the fire reaches the
charms, the spell releases.”

“And it’s not good to get in the way,” Rowan added, remembering
his earlier description.

“That’s right.”

Rowan nodded. “How do you make the charms?”

He did not answer. Rowan stopped and turned to face him, one
hand on his arm. He avoided her glance, looking pained and unhappy; it was an
expression she had seen before, on a few other faces.

“Will,” she said, “I’m glad you’re traveling with us. I like
you. And I think that on this journey, I can use all the help that I can get.”
She paused. “I’m not a real steerswoman at the moment, but the time will come
when I shall he again. You can refuse to answer me now, but you can’t forever.”

He stuttered a bit. “I know that. It’s just—maybe I won’t be
able tell you anything, not ever.”

“How so?” Ahead, Bel hailed them again, but Rowan ignored
her.

“Well ...” His face worked with thought. “There are some
things the wizards don’t ever tell the folk. About how their magic works.”

“There are many things the wizards don’t explain,” Rowan conceded
cautiously. “The reasons behind their actions, their shifting allegiances, and
the workings of their power.”

“And we don’t know why.”

“Correct.”

“But that’s just it!” He swallowed. “We don’t know why they
hide those things. Maybe there’s a
reason;
maybe it’s the right thing to
do. Maybe it’s something people shouldn’t know.”

Rowan said nothing, but let him work through the problem
alone. On the horizon, the westering sun cut below the heavy bank of clouds
that hung above like a flat ceiling. For a moment the world turned gold and
dove-gray, and a fine drizzle fell briefly, then ceased. One part of her mind
noted that there must be a rainbow somewhere over her right shoulder.

“This magic I can do, it’s just something I figured out for
myself,” Willam went on. “There was nobody—” He struggled for a moment. “There
was nobody wiser than myself to tell me what it means, or what to do about it.
I just don’t know enough. Maybe it would be terrible if anyone else knew how it
worked. Maybe it’s terrible that I know.”

“And how am I to judge, without information?” Rowan said.

He shifted the pack on his back and used both his hands in a
wide, pleading gesture. “Lady—Rowan, I’m going to be a wizard someday. When I
am, if I find that they’re keeping their secrets for some mean reason, I
promise you that I’ll tell you everything, anything. But until I really know it’s
safe, please, don’t ask me to do something that might be bad.” He dropped his
hands, looked stricken. “I can’t do anything that hurts people.”

He stood before her, a tall boy, bigger than his years,
strong for his age, more intelligent than his peers, possessing some secret
power—and begging her, humbly, to not make him hurt anyone.

“You’ll be a poor wizard,” Rowan said. “Or, you’ll be the
best of them.” She turned away and walked toward Bel’s waiting figure.

He caught up with her in two long strides. “You won’t ask me
again?”

“I’m going to think on this awhile.”

Bel had found a clearing a few paces off the south side of
the trail. A damp circle of ashes showed where some previous traveler had
camped, months earlier. A tangle of low birches surrounded it, and Bel was
using the branches to create a rain fly from the merchant Attise’s cloak. She
had refused to abandon it when Rowan returned to using her own gray felt cloak,
declaring it to be too useful.

“We’ll need a fire tonight, with this damp.”

Rowan scanned the sky and decided that the mist would continue
to midnight without converting to a proper downpour. “If we can get one going
at all, we might be able to keep it all night.”

Bel was digging in her pack for the trail provisions
purchased in Kiruwan. “If we can find dry wood after all that rain.”

Rowan and Willam foraged through the underbrush and managed
to acquire a pair of stout damp branches, which Willam cracked methodically
and effortlessly across his knee. A handful of dry twigs and needles from the
lee of a lone fir tree was the best that could be found for kindling, and Rowan
plied her flints doggedly, creating a series of merry little blazes that
guttered dismally against the logs. As she tried with one last pile of needles,
Willam spoke up reluctantly. “Let me try.”

Rowan eyed him a moment, then rose, slapping the damp from
her trousers.

Willam went to his sack, opened it, inserted one hand, and
felt inside carefully. What came out was one package, the size of his fist,
wrapped in oilcloth. Rowan moved closer to observe, and Bel watched him
cautiously from across the clearing. He spared the Outskirter a single glance,
then studied Rowan, his face unreadable. Perhaps it was a surrender of sorts,
or a bargain: he could not tell her, but it seemed that he was going to show
her.

The package unrolled to reveal a layer of wool, and nestled
in it, separated from each other, were three objects wrapped in paper. Willam
removed one, carefully rolled the others back into the oilskin, and replaced it
in his pack, which he carried to the edge of the clearing and secreted behind
a weedy tussock.