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With full night rapidly approaching, Orielle headed for the leaping firelight. The horses, surer-footed in the dark, followed without hesitation. Ghost kept shouldering forward to nuzzle her loosened hair. When she stopped to pick out her next steps, cautious of ankle-turning rocks in the near-dark, he shoved his nose into her neck and blew warm air.
She shoved his head away. “Don’t think that’s an acceptable apology for running off without me. I know you were scared. So was I.”
Ghost snorted and tossed his head.
The chestnut watched from the full length of its reins, keeping well back, a sign of distrust.
“And you—.” She pointed a stiff finger. “The both of you, going off with that Kyrgy knight without a nicker of protest, I daresay. You both should know better.”
The grey stretched out his nose. She obligingly scratched his chin. His long lashes half-closed when she transferred her scratching to his forelock.
Grim’s horse sidestepped. His head came up, then he shied, straining at the reins.
“Whoa, whoa, boy.” Then she caught the smell and gagged at the sweet sickness of it. Sparkles of light in a rainbow spectrum danced over the swiftly running river.
Escaping the smell, the big chestnut crowded forward. Orielle jumped in front of Ghost as the big horse plowed past her. Her arm wrenched forward, and she forgot the smell and the flashing lights as Grim’s horse towed her behind him. She dropped Ghost’s reins, yet the grey followed without urging.
She stumbled over a rock and twisted her ankle. “Whoa! Whoa!”
The horse stopped several feet beyond. Grabbing the stirrup, she staggered into his shoulder. The grey stopped behind them. When she caught her breath, she reached back for Ghost’s dropped reins. She peered past him, but whatever the lights and smell meant, she saw nothing.
Getting a better grip on the reins, she maneuvered around the big chestnut. The fire remained ahead, enticing with light and warmth. The river’s rush was a muted roar. They had an easy walk to the camp. “And let’s make it an easy walk,” she warned Grim’s horse, which flicked his ears at her.
She puzzled over the sparkling light while she led them along the shore.
The crunch of iron-shod hooves on the pebbly shore alerted Grim. He stood, arms akimbo as they came along the edge of the river.
The flames licked around a skewered fish. He glanced up and down the shore, then bent to turn the fish.
Orielle faltered. Do I tie the horses to a nearby tree or let them crowd around the camp? Ghost nudged her, so she led them past Grim and the fire and the fish and to the water.
The horses dipped their muzzles into the water. While they drank, she unhooked the waterskin and refilled it. Then she dug into the food bag and came up with two cakes of bread and pinches of salt for the fish. She turned and held them out to the Rho.
He extended his hand. She poured in the salt then handed over the journey cakes.
“We’ll sleep better with full bellies” was his first comment. “I’ve got trail oats in my off-hand saddlebag. The horses will need it. Give them a handful then tie them under that hickory.” He pointed to a tall tree with a curved trunk. Its golden leaves gleamed in the firelight.
She hadn’t crossed any wards. “Are we camping here by the water?”
“Farther upstream. I’ll take a torch from the fire.”
Linking protective wards in the full dark was troublesome, but she said nothing. She slipped Ghost’s bit before she fed him the oats. He snuffled her hand, wanting more. She shoved him away, dipped into the oak sack, and went to the chestnut, offering oats with her palm flat. He nosed her hand. Remembering the bit, she reached for it, but the grey nudged her arm. The oats scattered. The big horse backed up, tossing its head. She crowded with him, grabbing the reins at the bit and drawing his head down.
“My fault,” she murmured and slipped his bit. “But if you bite my fingers, we’ll have more than words.” She held the reins tight as she fetched more oats. Smelling them, the chestnut stopped pulling away. She opened her hand. “Good horse,” she praised as he lipped carefully over her palm. “Good horse. I haven’t forgiven you for back there, you know. You hurt my arm. You’ll need to make it up to me.”
The horse snorted. Finding no more oats, he pushed for the water. She let him pass, keeping the reins as she bent to wash her horse-nipped hand.
“What happened back there?”
Grim stood by the fire, testing the fish with a knife.
“I think we surprised a nest of sprites on the move. Whatever it was, your horse wanted out of there, and he towed me and Ghost after him.”
“Hunh. How did you find the horses?”
The question she had dreaded. “I didn’t. The Kyrgy knight, the one who named me, he gave them to me. He said we owed him nothing but our good will.”
That slanted Sangrior’s actual words, but Grim’s scowl, fiercer in the leaping fire-glow and shadows, didn’t ease.
“And the Lady?”
Ghost dropped his head to her hand and nuzzled, clearly wanting more oats. Orielle idly rubbed his nose then patted his neck before draping an arm over his shoulders. “Now that was curious. He said that Lady Skuld had dipped no claw in the exchange.”
“Skuld? He gave her true name to you?”
“Yes. I was shocked, too. I understand what he meant, but why did he say ‘no claw’? She has ‘dipped no claw in’.”
“If you saw her claws, you would know.”
“I thought the Kyrgy were like the Fae.”
“Dark Fae, aye. Dark appetites, dark dealings. Less likely to show mercy, more likely to enjoy cruelty. They play games with humans. And not your friend, for all that this knight seems to be courting you.”
He used the Lady’s word which reminded her of the Lady’s displeasure. And that roll of thunder when he shared his name. Did the Lady know that he’d also given her true name? Aligned with that revelation, his return of their horses seemed insignificant. “Me? I doubt that. It’s more likely a Kyrgy game with a human, just as you warned me.”
“You may make him remember being human.”
“Me?” she squeaked again. “No. No.” But she remembered Sangrior’s comment about ‘finders keepers’, the children’s charm. “We have the horses. Does it matter how?”
“We have them,” he agreed, “and whatever bargain you made with the Kyrgy knight, we’ll figure a way out.”
Orielle liked that we. Whenever trouble crashed onto her from pranks with her friends, she had borne the punishment and penance alone. To have someone offer help, to know he stood beside her—a sparkling joy seeded within and grew quickly. Bravely, she confessed more. “He knew the horses were ours. He said the bow has your tang.”
A tricksy dance of the flames flickered in his eyes. “Tang—scent, same thing.”
“That sounds like a predator tracking a scent.”
“I did say the Kyrgy aren’t friends.”
“But—he returned the horses. He only wants our good will in return, Grim. He said the horses are a gift from him to us.”
“Us? Or to you?” He snorted. “I doubt this knight considered me. The Kyrgy ignore the Rho. He’s courting you. A wizard of the mighty Enclave. Courting you at the Lady’s behest.”
Orielle crossed her arms. “She called me Not-Wizard.”
“When he named you Aiwaz Solsken, she didn’t blast him.”
“You said she was displeased. You said the Kyrgy give no gifts. But here are the horses, a gift from a Kyrgy knight. Not a bargain.”
“Leave the horses and come eat.”
He had the fish divided and the salt sprinkled on the steaming white flesh. Her mouth watered; her stomach rumbled. She started to lead the horses back to the trees.
He snapped up. “Where are you going?”
“To tie the horses.”
“Mine will stay ground-tied.”
“Unless we’re attacked again.”
“He’ll fight first.”
“Ghost will wander.”
“He’ll stay with his new-made friend. Come on. You can have the rock.”
The rock was scarce ten inches high, yet her bum would be out of the damp. And a flat surface capped pebbly sand. “You?”
“I can stand.”
Abandoning the argument about the horses, she dropped the reins and entered the fire’s sphere of warmth. She kited her skirts so the hem wouldn’t soak up the damp shore.
The fish was excellent. Neither spoke as they ate, picking out bones before scarfing up the salty flesh. Orielle flicked the tiny bones into the fire where they vanished with a sparky flare. The oat cake crumbled. She caught each crumb.
“Jam,” she sighed and licked her fingers.
“What?”
“I miss jam.”
“What kind?”
“Strawberry. Peach. Apple conserve. Blueberry. Grape.”
“Not blackberry?”
“Seeds.”
He offered a hand up. While she dabbled her fingers in the river, he retrieved a long stick lying behind her rock. In seconds it flamed for a torch. “Come see our camp.”
The fire cast a welcome warmth. The broad shoreline gave a good view of any approaching predators. “Are we not camping here?”
“We’re farther upstream, well away from the smell of fish. We don’t want predators drawn to the smell.”
“I’ve never set camp wards in the dark.”
“I have.”
Orielle caught the horses. Ghost had strayed back to the water. Ears flicked forward, he stared across the stream. Darkness cloaked the world beyond the firelight. The big chestnut drowsed, ignoring even her hold on the reins. Whatever had snared the grey’s attention, he came willingly when she tugged the reins.
Damp as the shoreline was, she still asked, “Aren’t you going to put out the fire?”
“What’s to burn?” he countered. “Rock and sand?”
She wasn’t ready to abandon the dispute about the Kyrgy. While she had only the barest knowledge gleaned from tomes written hundreds of years before, Grim had active knowledge. Yet he’d said they were Dark Fae, and Fae lived centuries. The writer of Creatures of the Hinterland might have met Lady Skuld. Didn’t that make the tome active knowledge of the long-lived Kyrgy?
Trailing behind, a horse at each shoulder, she called up to Grim. “I told the knight that we killed a wyre. I said that was a gift for the Lady Bone.”
He swung about. The torchlight cast a golden glow, making him the sun’s kin along with her. The world had shrunk to him and the horses and herself in the sphere of light. The pebbly sand crunched at their passage. The river’s constant voice, dimmed by the night, seemed muted. “What else?”
He didn’t say it on a sigh, waiting for her to dole out all of her mistakes. He asked because he would need the information. It armored him, armored them both, like his mail shirt did.
“I told him about the wyre’s partial shift and his glowing eyes and what that meant. He was surprised.”
“Is that a guess, Orielle?” He turned back and continued leading.
“The Kyrgy are hard to read. They’re so still.” She remembered the displacement, caught between the hard rock gripped by her toes and an icy frost that emanated from the knight. She saw again the slow rise and fall of the horse’s silvery mane. “His horse reacted. It tossed its head. I know that could mean much more than a controlled reaction sensed by his horse. But the knight said the Lady dislikes wyre, especially sorcered wyre. He agreed to tell her of the wyre. He wanted to see the grave. Proof of my words, I suppose.” The wight had taught the lesson of never deceiving a Kyrgy.
He stopped again. She gained several steps and caught his grin. “Clever city lass. You’ve overpaid the debt.”
“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
“Lady Bone will decide if it is.”
Grim didn’t ask the question she expected: What’s the knight’s name? Sangrior. The name rang within her. And she realized that she’d known his name, long before he said it. Had he planted his name in her mind when he named her Aiwaz Solsken?
Or when he gave her Lady Skuld’s name.
And she knew Volk, who had leashed the wight. She knew more names.
No names spoken, Lady Aiwaz.
The words rang in her ears, louder than the jingly bridle rings and the iron hooves on pebbles and the river’s incessant singing. The words had Sangrior’s voice. She shivered in the returned chill. Ghost snorted.
No names, she agreed. If saying a Kyrgy name brought them near, she would stick with Lady Bone, not the name that the sword knight had revealed.
