The Steerswoman's Road (28 page)

Returning to the fire site, he seated himself on the ground.
Rowan dropped to the ground beside him.

The paper was secured by twists, which he casually undid. Inside
was a quantity of black gravel that faintly glittered. Taking a pinch of the
gravel between his fingers, he crumbled it to powder onto the logs, creating a
thin line along the surface of each. Rowan noted that the lines continued from
each log to the next, creating a continuous network, then recognized that the
lines formed a hexagram. The final arm continued outward from the heap, ending
a foot outside the first circle. There Wiliam arranged Rowan’s little pile of
needles, adding one more tiny pinch of the black gravel. He paused a moment, studying
what remained in the paper; he had used less than a third of the quantity.

Finally he twisted the paper closed again and methodically
returned it to its place in his pack behind the tussock. When he returned,
Rowan wordlessly handed him her flints, and he gestured her back, doing it
twice before he was satisfied with her distance.

With his back to her, she could not clearly see what he was
doing, but from the sound it seemed nothing more than striking sparks into the
pile of kindling. He tried three times; then there was a sudden hiss, and he
stepped back quickly.

A line of sparking fire fled from the kindling, sped to the
logs, and raced along their lengths, spitting madly. There was a group of sudden
quiet noises from the wood, like gasps, and one log abruptly split down its
length with a loud
crack.
Rowan was aware of a sharp, acrid odor.

Flame flared, faded, leaped again, and then the fire settled
down to blaze in earnest. Bel fearlessly strode over, kneeled by the fire, and
peered at the still-sparking wood. “Can you make anything burn?”

The boy watched her broodingly. “No. I can’t burn stone. But
I can break it. It’s easy.”

“Is that when it becomes noisy?”

“Yes. Very. And dangerous.”

Rowan moved to Bel’s side. Each log, she saw, was burning
individually, along the line the gravel had traced. Using the toe of her boot,
she rearranged the wood so that the flames better fed each other.

Bel looked up at her. “Are you going to ask how he did it?”

She shook her head. “No.” But she sat up long that night in
thought, watching the fire.

They spent the next day following the narrow trail down one
ridge and up the next. The land began to open, and deep in one valley the
travelers came across an abandoned farm, with a burnt-out, ruined cabin. There
was no sign of the previous inhabitants, but when they crossed a fallow field
they found a low hill of violent green, such as grew where corpses were buried.
Rowan considered the extent of the mound and calculated. “More than those who
lived in that house. I suspect this was a battle site.”

“That definitely puts us in Shammer and Dhree’s holding?”
Bel asked.

Rowan shrugged. “That depends on which side won this particular
battle.”

The past winter and now the spring had claimed the land for
wilderness, all the shouts and the clash of arms lost in the past as though a
hundred years had gone. Only the mound remained, its shape unnatural, its green
too bright, feverish. The travelers stood silent for some time, each lost in
thought. A fresh light wind rose, and the grass shivered, then rippled like the
shining surface of a rising wave. The valley was a bowl of clean sunlight,
quiet, and when Bel shifted the creak of her gear was a sudden, strange, human
sound: an intrusion.

Willam studied the scene grimly. Bel looked about, faintly
puzzled. With a gesture, Rowan led her friends around the edge of the mound,
and they continued east.

They soon left the farm behind, and their spirits lifted
again. Rowan could ignore, briefly, the sensation that danger hovered somewhere,
like a high hawk, too far to see.

She studied the land about her, comparing it with the few
maps she had. As Attise, she had allowed herself only the sort that the common
folk usually carried: copied from those of the Steerswomen, but by a less
exacting eye, with less detail, excluding information not of interest to the
average traveler. Rowan made corrections and additions, and found satisfaction
in the routine.

With deception and manipulation abandoned, the three travelers
had learned to be at ease with each other, and the going was enjoyable for
itself. Rowan amused herself watching Bel’s reactions. “Everything keeps
changing,” the Outskirter commented. They were moving along a rocky ridge,
among stands of young pine.

“How so?”

“The Outskirts are much the same everywhere. The only differences
come when you get closer to the Inner Lands, like the approach to Five Corners.
But here, you’ll have one kind of tree for a while, then pastures, then flat
land, like the mud flats in Donner. Every place is different, with different
kinds of life.”

Rowan nodded. “Certain terrains encourage certain types of
vegetation and certain types of animals.”

“There aren’t many different animals in the Outskirts. It’s
the goats and us, for the most part.”

“And the goblins.”

“Yes. And the demons. And insects.”

They continued in silence for a while. Halfway up the ridge,
the view was clear to the north, and the two women paused. Half a mile away,
pines gave way to maple, which carpeted the hills to the horizon. Far off, a
line of silver indicated a distant lake.

Bel looked up at the sky, as if expecting it, too, to be
different from the Outskirts. “The Inner Lands seem to go on forever.”

“They don’t,” Rowan told her. “They end to the north, just
past the land where I was raised. It’s red earth there, and no one’s been beyond
it yet. There are a few mountains visible to the west. I often wondered about
them. They’re probably an extension of the same range that runs north from The
Crags.”

Bel puzzled that over, trying to piece together Rowan’s
picture of the world. “And what lies west of those?”

Rowan looked dissatisfied. “No one’s been there to report.
Or perhaps some of Abremio’s minions have gone, but they haven’t given out any
word.” She mused for a moment, then continued. “The southern shore of the
Inland Sea is inhabited, too, but not to any great distance. The vegetation
gets odd farther south, and it’s hard to introduce anything useful. It might
be a worse version of what you have in the Outskirts.”

Bel nodded. “Goats.” She adjusted her pack and began to continue
the ascent, tugging the reluctant donkey’s lead. “You need goats about if you’re
going to spread the greengrass. They’ll eat anything.”

Rowan followed, sidestepping on the steep ground. “They can’t
eat redgrass or blackgrass.”

The Outskirter looked back. “Of course they can. Our herds
do it all the time. We couldn’t survive if they didn’t.”

“It must be a different type of goat.” With dust from their
scrambling rising around her, Rowan’s mind filled with speculations and calculations.
“That might explain a great deal. It might even be one of the reasons the Outskirts
keep moving.”

Bel was puzzled. “Moving? How can they move?”

Pausing to brace herself against a splintered tree trunk,
Rowan gestured out at the far horizon. “East. The Outskirts have been shifting
for hundreds of years, and the Inner Lands spreading behind them. You can trace
the shift by comparing the maps at the Archives. Some thousand years ago, this
was the Outskirts.” Bel took a moment to peer about in plain disbelief. Rowan
laughed. “It’s true.” She continued. “Your goats might do well in the south.
What a difference that could make to the people there ...” They continued on
silently for some time, the steerswoman lost in thought.

Bel watched her with amusement. “You’re going to be writing
a lot tonight again, aren’t you?”

“What?” Rowan came back from her preoccupation with difficulty.
“Yes, I suppose I am.” Since Willam was in their confidence, she openly treated
her folio like a proper steerswoman’s logbook, crowding the pages with her
close, eccentric handwriting.

“Don’t you sleep anymore?”

“Too often, and too long,” she replied distractedly.

Will came back up the trail to meet them. Like a ranging puppy,
he had the habit of “following from in front,” as folk called it; he would lope
ahead, just out of sight, double back to check their position, receive some
unspoken confirmation recognized only by himself, then wander off again when
his curiosity got the better of him. Generally Rowan simply swung along at her
own efficient pace, with the ease of the long-distance walker, and Bel ambled beside
her tirelessly, taking a step and a half to Rowan’s one.

“I flushed some turkeys up ahead,” Willam informed them
breathlessly when they reached the ridgetop. “They didn’t go far. I’m sure I
can get one for our dinner.”

Rowan grinned. “That’s a good idea. You give it a try.”

Since she had dropped her disguise, the change in her
relationship with the boy had altered astonishingly. She often wondered how she
had ever found him difficult. It had seemed before that he was always in the
way, always had to be considered and planned around—a mere nuisance. She had
never understood what Bel saw in him.

But now she saw what Bel had seen: a big healthy lad, strong
and intelligent, always trying to please. He was by nature cheerful, yet when
Rowan answered questions he was all attention, wide copper eyes focused on her
face in utter concentration. She began to learn the style of his intellect.
Less quick, less flashy than the sharp minds she knew among the steerswomen,
Willam tracked down her ideas doggedly, winning his understanding more by single-minded
persistence than native talent. Once understood, the information the
steerswoman imparted became like rain on dry ground; it soaked in deep, and
made something grow—something he could use, either to nourish himself, or to
turn into a weapon in his private war.

The change, she knew, was only in herself; she was relieved
of deception, and her mind was free to work on its familiar paths. She recognized
for the first time that lies worked damage in two directions.

Willam had strung his bow and was giving more of his attention
to the tops of the trees than to the path he was walking. He stubbed the toes
of his oversized sandals.

“Shall I take your pack?” Rowan volunteered. “I wouldn’t
want you to fall with it again.” She laughed. “I don’t think my nerves could
take it.” The donkey was carrying hers and Bel’s.

“If you walk carefully,” Willam replied reluctantly. “You
can’t stomp down on each step the way you do.”

His demonstration of the previous day had impressed her. “I’ve
seen how you carry them.”

He surrendered the surprisingly heavy pack and jogged ahead.
Rowan, in odd high spirits, amused herself by imitating his walk. There, she
thought, now I’m carrying magic. But it was mere words; she felt no different.

All that remained, she reminded herself, was to get to the
Outskirts. No wizard intruded there, and in the anonymity of the ranging
tribes, she and Bel could make their way to Dust Ridge and see what might be
found. There lay the greatest concentration of the jewels; so beautiful, so
mysterious—and so seemingly useless.

The detour to Kiruwan had taken them off their projected
path. They were north of the Upland Route, and Rowan was leading the trio due
east. They would cross the Long North Road well north of Five Corners, which
suited her well, as it was the area she had covered immediately following her
training, and so was intimately familiar with it.

Willam planned to part with them when they crossed the Long
North Road. He would follow it, either south to Jannik, or north to Olin’s
holding. Rowan had suggested Jannik, despite Will’s dislike of Blue wizards;
Jannik had a known home, while the location of Red Olin’s keep was still a
mystery. Additionally, Olin was the most capricious and peculiar of all the
wizards.

Up ahead, Willam had left the trail and was moving
cautiously and quietly among the trees. Rowan and Bel dropped farther back and
finally stopped, not wishing to alert the game.

The boy was out of sight when Rowan heard the soft sound of
the how’s release. High to the left, the branches of one tree shivered, and
amid the drumming of wings, four birds burst from the greenery, leaving one
behind, thrashing in the leaves.

Wiliam was standing at the foot of the tree when Rowan and
Bel reached him. “It’s stuck,” he said disgustedly. “Can someone give me a
boost?”

Rowan looked up and spotted the bird, impaled flapping on
the long arrow, lodged among the close branches. “You’re a good shot.”

She carefully set his pack on the ground, and by climbing on
her shoulders, Wiliam was able to reach the lowest branches. He clutched one
and swung himself onto it, then continued up nimbly.

Bel watched dubiously.

“There aren’t any tall trees in the Outskirts,” Rowan said,
remembering.

“No. There are a lot nearby, where the Inner Lands meet the
Outskirts.” Bel tilted her head for a better angle. “But I’ve never seen anyone
go up one. He looks like one of those wood gnomes.”

Far above, invisible among the leaves, the boy gave a
cheerful whoop. “I can see past the next ridge from here! Wait ...” Twigs
rustled, and a few moments later the turkey fell to the ground at Bel’s feet,
quiescent. She inspected it, very pleased, then found a leather thong to tie
its feet to her belt. It was a good-sized bird, and Rowan found herself speculating
about nothing more esoteric than the nearness of dinnertime.

But shortly she looked up at the treetop again. There was no
sound or sign from Willam. Disturbed, she called up to him.

His voice came down. “Wait ...”

Beside Rowan, Bel was instantly alert.

“Someone’s coming,” Will said, and his next words were
masked by the sound of his rapid descent.