Finding the Way and Other Tales of Valdemar (4 page)

“Not without hands. Feed yourself, Lady,” Sherra replied. “There should be plants on this island you can eat, and I’ll point them out. Just stay within earshot and don’t go too near the water’s edge.”

:Why?:
the Companion asked.

Just then, a couple of ducks landed near where they had come ashore. And before Sherra could answer—

A massive pair of jaws containing far too many teeth erupted out of the water, snapping shut on both the birds.

The jaws vanished with a splash, leaving behind only a couple of feathers.

Sherra did not bother to tell Vesily that what they had just seen wouldn’t come into shallow water. It was basically a pair of jaws with a very weak body and stubby, almost useless legs. It relied entirely on stealth, and would never even consider going after something
her
size, much less Vesily’s. If this persuaded the Companion that caution was in order, it was all to the good.

She left Vesily nosing about in the vegetation and looked for a good place to set up a secure “camp.” Not a human sort of camp—humans always wanted a fire, and a fire was not a good idea for them except for making tea on the little campstove. Sherra had excellent night-sight, and a fire would leave her half blind, plus a fire in the middle of all this swampland would be an especially obvious beacon for anything looking for prey. Besides, most fuel she
could
gather here would be too wet to burn. On top of that, clouds had gathered, and while they weren’t obviously stormy, the overcast didn’t look as if it would clear out anytime soon. Good thing she didn’t need to navigate by sun or stars.

The island proved to be even bigger than she had thought, and right in the center was exactly what she wanted: a stand of bushy weeds that were nearly as tall as young trees. She cut a careful path into the middle, cleared just enough room for both of them, then went out and brought back armfuls of dead grass and bracken to cushion the ground. When she had it padded to her satisfaction, she dug another seep just outside the “grove,” and went to get Vesily.

The Companion seemed to have found enough vegetation to satisfy her, and looked up at Sherra with obvious weariness.
:I want to go on, but . . . I can’t.:

“No, you can’t, and neither can I. Come, I have made a fairly secure place for us to spend the night.” She beckoned, and Vesily followed.

She looked dubiously at the weeds.
: Those won’t keep out anything,:
she pointed out.

“They don’t have to. They only have to keep things from seeing and smelling us,” Sherra replied. She walked to the seep, which was already full of water, added her purifying drops, and stirred. “Drink, then go on in. You’ll see what I mean.”

It was a measure of just how tired Vesily was that she just stuck her nose in the seep, sucked up the water, and plodded into the stand of weeds. Sherra took all of the weeds she had so carefully cut down, dragged them into the path, and methodically dug little holes to stick them in again. They’d be wilted by dawn, but in the dark it was unlikely anything would notice. And the sharp smell of the cut stems would help mask their own scent.

And Sherra had another trick up her sleeve as well.

When she made her way to the center of their cover, she found Vesily already curled up on the bed of bracken. Once again, the green slime of the marsh had dried and was flaking off, leaving her white coat looking just as immaculate. The Companion looked up in the dim light. Sherra took off her rucksack and rummaged through it, bringing out a little leather bottle. “If you had hands, I would tell you to put this on yourself, but since you don’t, I’ll take care of it.” She poured a little of the pungent oil inside onto her hands, and briskly rubbed every hair of the Companion’s hide with it, and then did the same for herself. It wasn’t an unpleasant scent, rather like pine sap, in fact; Vesily sneezed once, but didn’t object.

:That’s to mask our scent?:
she asked.

“And to keep away the big insects. There are mosquitoes in here that can carry off small human babies,” she replied, only half joking, “But there are hunting bugs in the marsh that will take anyone apart if there’s meat on them. Yellowbacks and bore-cutters, and sleep-spiders. They can’t stand to be within yards of this, though.” Sherra had rescued a tradesman on the Vale side of the mire whose legs were ultimately unsavable, despite Tayledras Healing, because of yellowbacks that had taken out coin-sized divots through his clothing.

:You . . . are full of surprises. And wisdom,:
came the astonishing reply.

Sherra made a pillow of her rucksack, slowly chewed a piece of her journeybread as the dim light faded. “No one gets to an old age in the Pelagirs without surviving some hard lessons. So if wisdom means learning from your mistakes, then thank you. We
hertasi
are good at observing things from a careful distance, so we get wisdom from watching
others’
mistakes too.”

Vesily made a sort of mind-laugh and said,
:One of my instructors in Haven warned me, “Experience is what you get immediately after you really needed it.”:
And then Vesily’s head sank down, and she was asleep, and as the stars came out overhead, Sherra closed her eyes and joined her in slumber.

 

They both woke at the sound of a roar.

If they hadn’t been so paralyzed by sleep, they probably both would have leaped out of their own skins. As it was, Sherra could hear both their hearts racing, and she threw her arm involuntarily around Vesily’s neck.

:What was
that?: You couldn’t stammer in Mindspeech, but Vesily certainly gave the impression of a stammer.

The roar came again, deep and primal, and extremely loud.

Not as loud as it could have been if the maker of the noise had been nearby. Sherra was very good at judging distances. It was somewhere out in the swamp, not on the island.

I have no idea,
she thought very hard.
I’ve heard that thing three times as a guide, and I never wanted to get close enough to find out.

Vesily was shaking so hard now that she was making both her own and Sherra’s teeth chatter.
:Probably—a good idea—:

The roar came a third time, and this time it was answered by one farther away. Sherra thanked all the gods she could think of that the answer was not on the island, nor was the island
between
the two creatures making that noise.

Sherra wondered if this was a challenge or a mating call. It could be either. It could be both. There were creatures that began with a fight and ended in mating . . .

Or perhaps these two beasts were simply defining their territories. Or even . . . talking. They exchanged bellows for a good long time without drawing any nearer to each other or to the island. Finally the nearest one ended with a series of heavy grunts, and both fell silent.

:Do we dare fall asleep?:
Vesily wondered, as the quiet that had descended on this part of the swamp at the beginning of the exchange now began to fill with frog chorus and insect noise.

Sherra thought about that for a moment, and wondered if she ought to tell Vesily the cold truth—that if something that was as large and dangerous as
that
thing sounded decided to come after them, there wouldn’t be anything they could do about it.

She decided against it.

I am,
she said, and yawned hugely on purpose. She loosened her arms from around the Companion’s neck and yawned again. Vesily was warm and soft, and made a much better pillow than the rucksack. Sherra decided not to move. Vesily didn’t make any objections, nor did she try to shove Sherra away. With the conscious decision that if something was going to eat her, Sherra wanted to be asleep when it did, she managed to drop back into slumber.

Waking, as always, came swiftly, and just as the first light of pre-dawn made it possible to see. Or rather, would have, if the usual morning fog hadn’t accompanied the light. Sherra didn’t need to see, however; she crept away from Vesily without disturbing the Companion, and got her fishing line out of the holder in her rucksack. On hands and knees, she felt her way to the water’s edge, and cast the baited hook out as far as she could throw it. The fish were hungry; she was rewarded immediately with a bite. When she was sure the fish had taken the hook, rather than just the bait, she tugged sharply to set the hook, then slowly wound the line back in.

It didn’t fight much, which told her it was a sluggish bottom-feeder. Somewhat to be expected out here. When she finally landed her prize, it was a barbelface. Not so bad; at least there were no scales to contend with. With no rock to beat its head against, she killed it with a swift bite, having a care for the spines.

Then she used her short knife to remove its spines, and ate it. She preferred her fish cooked, especially barbel, but she could eat it raw. And raw, it was a safe source of moisture as well.

The light had strengthened, though the fog showed no signs of thinning, when she made her way back to Vesily. The Companion was still asleep. Sherra busied herself with deepening the seep and collecting the same sorts of plants she had seen Vesily eating yesterday. When the Companion finally woke with a start, Sherra was ready to leave as soon as the Companion had eaten and drunk.

:I shouldn’t have slept so long!:
Vesily exclaimed.

Sherra just shrugged. “You needed the rest, and the fog was too thick to travel in anyway. It is burning off now. By the time you are fed, we can go.”

It was quite clear that Vesily’s sense of urgency had not abated in the least. She practically bolted her food; prepared for that impatience now, Sherra had her rucksack on and belted to her waist and had her staff out and extended before the Companion was finished.

“Any change in direction, Lady?” Sherra asked.

The Companion gave her an odd look, then raised her head—and began to pivot. A moment later she stopped. Sherra nodded; it had occurred to her that since Vesily’s goal was a person and not a place, things might have changed during the night. It looked as if her hunch was right.

“Your quarry has moved, Lady,” she said, and took bearings of her own. “It is good that I asked. Let’s go.”

She had thought yesterday that Vesily was agitated, but the Companion’s urgency was even greater now. Whatever mysterious forces drove her, they were stronger, which did not bode well for the Companion taking due care.

Well, that just meant Sherra would have to be doubly vigilant.

Easier said than done, of course.

Especially since the new track was taking them in the direction of whatever had been bellowing last night.

That was the bad news. The good news was that there was no path, and they were forced to wallow through water that came almost up to Sherra’s chin. Now, normally
that
would have been the bad news, but anything that was going to slow Vesily down and keep her from dashing straight into trouble was a blessing. Sherra’s broad feet and clawed toes were made for these swamps; Vesily’s hooves sank into the mud and she had to pull them free to take a step.

But it was clear from the determination in every bit of her that she was not going to give up on this. So instead of recommending that they take a rest, Sherra just helped her to drink from Sherra’s own water bottle, and they pushed on.

Then suddenly, in the late afternoon when there had still been no sign of an island, a path, or even a break in the reeds, Vesily stopped—froze in place, really. Sherra stopped as well.

Sherra referenced her internal place-sense. They were relatively near the Vale-side border of the Mire here, but far from free of it. Hells, the Mire could kill someone who was only a step
into
it.

:Something is wrong,:
Vesily repeated.
:My Chosen—his thoughts are muddy, and—insane. I don’t understand. This is not right. I am not supposed to have thoughts from a Chosen that are clear enough to understand like speech, but I am getting impressions of need, and fear, and fleeing, and the thoughts—the thoughts echo. Somehow.:
The Companion’s tail flicked quickly and her muscles tensed and bunched as if she was ready to bolt.

“Don’t run.
Don’t.
You’ll kill yourself and never reach your Chosen,” Sherra said firmly. Vesily stood up on her hind legs for a few moments, towering up above the
hertasi,
and scanned the horizon with white-edged eyes, her forehooves dangling at a human’s eye-height or more. Clearly, reaching this Chosen compelled the Spirit Horses more than Sherra first thought. “I know you want to run, but the Mire has to be traversed slowly or not at all.”

:But she’s going the wrong way. He is,:
Vesily Mindspoke plaintively.
:She is. He is. I don’t understand this at all! I was supposed to go find my Chosen, it wasn’t supposed to be like this! Not all this swamp, this slowness. I left Haven at a hundred times this speed. And you can go faster! And you aren’t!:
The Spirit Horse’s Mind-voice seethed with accusation, anger, hate, fear, worry, and no small amount of guilt. Sherra came very close to swatting Vesily with her staff. Hard.

Instead, Sherra glared and then replied, “Fine. You want to go faster, try to keep up.” She concentrated anew on the Path, and found that it had changed. And that it had a conflict. It told her to continue on—and also, to go to their right, staying in the swamp. “This is . . . odd,” she told Vesily in a clipped tone, still a little angry.

Sherra growled, “No one with me is
ever
lost. Temporarily disoriented maybe, but never lost. Come. We are best off reaching the Vale, regardless, because they can send out searchers and relieve our fatigue. We go with the first Path I sensed.”
Better to have a direction, even if it is a poor one, than to stand uncertain in this place,
she thought.