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Gauvain endured only the expected physical challenges of aching feet, inadequate food, and dirt as they made their way through the hills. His much reduced band of eight included two members of council, one hopelessly out of shape; the two apprentices, who treated the entire voyage as a lark; one guard who doubled as a hunter; and two bearers.
That fool Cedric was determined to install himself as leader of their expedition, the person designated to make their case to the powers that be, and no doubt see his name glorified by singlehandedly resolving the drought problem in Borgonne. This despite his inability to maintain the pace, which seven days’ walking had done nothing to improve. No amount of explaining the actual political structure, or lack thereof, in the Midland dissuaded him, nor did the blatant fact that the man would be helpless as a newborn out here in the hills without the others’ support.
“Sir?” Amalie showed proper respect, although he frequently doubted her sincerity.
“Yes?”
“His Excellency says to tell you he believes it’s time to stop for the midday meal. And Zanthan’s blister is no better. He’s struggling to keep up.”
Gauvain, who had been covering ground and pulling the others along in his wake, reluctantly drew to a halt, suppressing a smile at Amalie’s determined use of the absurd moniker Cedric favored. “I think not,” he said in answer to her first statement. “It’s still at least an hour until noontide.”
“The mayor’s legs bother him, sir. Shin splints, unless I miss my guess.”
The sound that escaped Gauvain was less a sigh than a snort of exasperation. “Have you any remedy that might enable his legs to carry him a few more leagues? I for one am ready to be out of these hills.”
Although ethereally beautiful, they felt... off. A wrongness, like magic gone astray, unable to find a master. Just yesterday the bearer Zanthan had reported that he’d been stalked as he assisted with the hunt for their evening sustenance. Nobody saw or heard anything, but Zanthan hadn’t been able to shake the feeling of being watched, and not in a friendly way.
If nothing else, Gauvain was more than ready for a hot bath and clean clothes.
“No, sir. This is about conditioning, not medicinals. He refuses to stretch. The blister I can deal with, but it would require a few minutes.”
“You recommend that we stop early, I take it?”
The girl shrugged. “I don’t want to. But given the situation...”
They both looked back. Their contingent had strung out to the point that the ones lagging could not be seen around the last bend. Only Ester, the apprentices, and the hunter matched his pace. That wasn’t good. Failure to keep up could lead to the same result as on their first foray, with members of the party disappearing along trails that didn’t exist, and no way to locate them.
They ought to match his pace, or so he argued with himself. The leader shouldn’t have to slow down.
Gauvain was out of patience with the whole lot of them. The sooner they reached the Motherhouse, the better.
“Very well. Pass the word. We’ll stop as soon as we’ve forded the stream ahead.” He could see what appeared to be a pleasant enough grassy area alongside the water.
Amalie flashed him a grin. “Will do.” The girl headed back toward the end of the line.
“And in future, stay with the stragglers,” he shouted to her. “We need someone with Entrée to protect them.”
“Reed can do it,” she shouted back.
Gauvain plodded on, dreading lunch. The worst aspect of this whole venture, in his opinion, was the convivial gatherings at mealtimes.
Three more days. Or maybe five, because they couldn’t possibly be traveling as quickly as Willow and her companions had. An interminable five days of plummeting morale, escalating minor health issues, and his nerves frayed to snapping, and they’d be out of the hills. The Motherhouse, for all its cold, imposing stone buildings and isolation, had never sounded so welcome.
Removing his boots to wade across the ford, he wondered if they knew of his party’s approach, and just how welcoming they would prove to be.
~~
ONCE THEY EMERGED FROM the hills, the remainder of the walk involved skirting a massif towering over the valley that was home to the Weavers’ Motherhouse. Being to the south of them, the massif, an odd, irregular formation unconnected with any other outcropping, cut out the sun for part of the day. Despite this, the spirits of Gauvain’s party buoyed as they neared the end of their journey, leaving the hills behind, and after spending the final two days walking through a lush, green forest without the taint of the spells, his ragged group was in a festive mood when they came to the cross trail that led to their destination.
Years ago, in a wild and poorly planned escapade, he and Duncan had escaped their training to explore this other, unknown land. He wondered how many of the Weavers he’d met then would still be here, and if he’d recognize them – or they him. Willow, when she graced his dining room, obviously knew Arwen and Ezra.
Cedric, who had planted himself at the head of the expedition and refused to budge, however much his pace slowed them, called a halt at the junction. They shucked packs and used some of their water stores to wash faces and hands. Barely sufficient, in Gauvain’s estimation, and a waste of time. No doubt he smelled as bad as the rest of them, but they had been on the trail for fourteen days, after all. To his disgust, Cedric fished his sash and badge of office from the bottom of his pack and placed them across his ample girth. Gauvain held out only the faintest hope that he could manage not to make a fool of himself and, by extension, the entire party.
Then they turned left and struck out on the four-hour exertion that carried them to decent food, hot water, and a possible amelioration for their looming food shortage.
~~
FROM HER PERCH HALFWAY up the western edge of the amphitheater slope, where she was unwinding in the shade of a tree before supper, Quinn watched as an oddly assorted group of people straggled from the trail leading to Ezra’s compound and stopped in front of the Centra. Activity on the green slowed as everyone’s focus turned to the newcomers. A woman, five men, two teenagers, disheveled and one of them with a limp.
Quinn settled down to enjoy the show.
The limping man, a round popinjay dressed in tattered finery and wearing some kind of emblem on a chain, appeared to lead the group. He looked around as if trying to decide where best to announce their arrival. Then, after a whispered consultation with the man behind him, tall, dark, and aristocratic even in filthy garb, he made for the Centra’s door.
That door opened and Arwen stepped out. She wore a long skirt with her tunic, despite the heat, and had donned both her Scribe’s sash and the other one, thinner and of a pale blue with a white border, that fitted over it and marked her as head of council.
The popinjay directed his tottering steps toward her, looking for all the world as if he was preparing to welcome them all to his court. Bryar should be here to see this; the scene unfolding below her could fuel his songs for a year.
Arwen ignored the round man completely, her eyes fixed on the tall one behind him.
“Gauvain. You made it.”
Their hands joined. Quinn left her place on the slope and headed downhill. This was too good to miss.
“After some travail, yes. How good to see you again, Arwen.” Their words floated on the still air. So this was Willow’s Gauvain. His voice, in the baritone range, sent a shiver up Quinn’s spine. A little too resonant, a little too commanding, even in the neutral exchange taking place below her.
“And you. You’ve changed little.”
He smiled. “If only that were so. Age encroaches on all of us, but you have only improved. You were gangly back then.”
“And with terrible manners. You must be exhausted.” Her gaze encompassed the group, including the man fingering his chain and shooting irritated looks at Gauvain. He sputtered and strutted, trying to insinuate himself into the conversation. They both ignored him.
“As you might expect, we are tired, filthy, and hungry. I assume you expected us.”
“Naturally,” Arwen said, not mentioning that they had been uncertain about the size of the delegation or when they would arrive until after they cleared the hills.
So, Quinn thought, the dominance game begins.
More interesting, however, was that Arwen and Gauvain still held hands.
By now most of the council had assembled, watching with varying degrees of amazement, amusement, and curiosity as the newcomers shuffled about, waiting for whatever came next.
Gauvain released Arwen and turned to face his group. “This is Arwen, who heads the Weavers’ council.” He quickly named his companions.
“Rooms await you in the guest lodge,” Arwen said smoothly. “You remember where that is?”
“Of course.”
Arwen clapped her hands, and a messenger kid appeared. “Lute here will see to checking you in with the registrar and show you the amenities. Supper will be served in an hour, but I’m sure you will feel more comfortable if you wash first.”
Quinn wrinkled her nose. The whole dining hall would feel more comfortable, she wagered.
“You will find fresh tunics in your rooms. These will carry you over until we can clean your own garments for you. After supper, I suggest we meet, however briefly.”
The rotund man elbowed Gauvain to the side and planted himself in front of Arwen. “Madam, I am the head of Orlan council and the leader—”
“Happy to meet you.” Arwen turned away as one of the teenagers, about the same age as Willow’s daughter Romarin, stepped forward.
“Ma’am?” she said. “Is there a Healer available? We’ve heard about your Healers. There are several injuries. Minor, but could become worse if not seen to.”
“Certainly. Your name again?” Arwen looked at the girl with interest.
“Amalie, ma’am.”
“Thank you for alerting me, Amalie. I will arrange for a Healer to meet you in the common room at the guest lodge. Perhaps you could inform the registrar of your party’s needs?”
“Happy to. Can I watch?” Amalie blurted.
“As long as none of the participants objects.” The girl darted away. Arwen nodded, as if confirming something she had sensed. “One of yours?” she asked Gauvain.
“Yes. She’s done well on this trek. She’s tended to all manner of scrapes and blisters.” Gauvain’s stance indicated his willingness to take credit for the young woman’s accomplishments.
Arwen ended the impromptu meeting, letting her gaze pause on the blustering man in the sash and chain but giving him no particular acknowledgment. “Join me for supper?” she asked Gauvain.
“With pleasure.”
With a final nod, Arwen turned to Daren, who represented the Healers’ guild on council. They spoke briefly, then the group broke up, the newcomers following Lute to the guest lodge, Daren setting off to deputize a Healer.
Quinn grinned as she joined the remaining councillors trickling into the Centra, assuming Arwen would want to meet with them before the meal. Neatly done. Arwen had, without pulling rank, established herself and Gauvain in command of this encounter and set up a preliminary channel to gain information. She was more than a Scribe; she was a master diplomat as well.
~~
ARWEN STOOD AT THE table in the conference room, eyeing her council. “Initial opinions?” she asked.
Cynth from Healers, Fergus from Bards, and Quinn were present; Daren would join them as soon as the newcomers were seen to. Cynth was a reserved woman, observing more than participating; as expected, she looked at Fergus, then at Quinn.
Fergus grinned. “You fair skewered them, Arwen,” he said. Although learned and capable, Fergus tended to see the humor in situations, a trait frequently needed on council these days. “That strutting little Cedric, he fancies himself their leader. It’s obvious Gauvain’s the power, but the woman, Ester... I liked the look of her. As for the rest, we’ll make them comfortable. They’re extras.”
“The young people may not be,” Arwen said. “The girl especially. There’s powerful Entrée there, and with an interest in Healing. Is there any chance Willow will be coming up to the Motherhouse this summer?” she asked Quinn.
“Not as far as I know. She’s... nesting?”
“She’s in love, and building a relationship with Joss, who has his own adjustments to make.” Arwen’s voice was momentarily gentle, as if Quinn and Willow were still her students. “But the girl... I believe she has the makings of a Healer, which is training she won’t get in Borgonne. They don’t distinguish affinities the way we do.”
Daren entered the conference room in time to hear the last remarks. “I agree,” he said. “She’s thirsting for knowledge. The lad, Reed, I’m less sure about. He may well be suited to their teachings. A Mage, interested in power workings.”
“Which, for obvious reasons, I prefer not to encourage.” Arwen twitched her long skirt and sat. Cynth followed suit, then Fergus; Quinn and Daren remained standing, Quinn fighting the urge to pace. “So. Strategies for this evening?”
“Casual,” Fergus said.
“Cedric might think otherwise.” Arwen smiled; she had noticed the man’s absurdity, for all that her attention had appeared focused on Gauvain.
“Oh, my dear,” Fergus said. “You can shut him down, surely. Although you’ll have to give him his due tomorrow.”
“When we should be much more formal,” Quinn put in. “Keep things controlled. Do we expect any problems? Would they dare exert force through the Aura?”
“As a means to dominate? It’s only Gauvain and the children,” Daren said. “The kids should be excused from any formal talks, as should the other men. We limit participation to Gauvain, Cedric, and Ester. They’re the ones with the temporal power.”
“Let’s suggest the men go to the village,” Cynth said. “They may be more comfortable there and find others with their interests.”
Quinn grinned. “And the young people will find their own contemporaries. I expect all the apprentices from both sides of the hills are curious.”
“And then we learn their true intent for being here.” Arwen eyed them all. “I will want all of you present, unless something truly urgent comes up. We will keep tomorrow’s initial contact as short as possible, then meet in camera after it. I refuse to be pressured or rushed. Assuming they are here about their drought, the problem won’t be solved in a day.”
The bell rang in the dining hall. “Shall we dine with them?” Fergus, ever the social one, asked.
“By all means. Let’s keep things convivial as long as we can. but listen for undercurrents. There’s a political agenda that may threaten us, and the sooner we grasp it, the better.”