• Peigra's Blog:

Calton's Shadow, Pt 11

By: Peigra

“You might as well go,” Rira had told her. “What is here for you to do now? They will be in one spot until your ankle heals.”

“You’re sending me away?”

“You will be taking the young ones with you, who are going there at the same time.” Rira had kissed Peigra’s braids and ignored a deep, frustrated sigh from her companion.

Two weeks from when she had taken the fall, Peigra had been informed by Rira that Gar wanted her with his clan, immediately, as soon as Baltik could safely carry her there. Why he was changing the time when he wanted Peigra with him, and why Rira was so accomodating, was never established, but Peigra had little choice. Bedridden, and bored completely, there was little choice but to agree to it.

She had read every scroll, book and message that she had been able to get her hands on, and had taken some of the duties of teaching the children to read, and that had been the first three days. It had not taken long for total boredom to seize her and she tried, tried hard not to be a burden, but it was personally disgraceful for her to have to ask to be carried to the elderlies, out to the rock, to see Baltik, and Rira had threatened to keep her asleep for moons when she had found Peigra crawling out of the tent one afternoon during the nap.

Gar had requested her, and so to Gar she was going, and Peigra looked at it as something to do, though she was not pleased at the journey now. Riding on Baltik was one matter, riding on Baltik with a leg that she would not easily be able to dismount and mount him with was another. She knew he would keep her as safe as he could, but if something happened and she had to get off him quickly, there was no alternative but down, and onto her feet, both of them.

Rira helped Peigra pack what little she had, as she had not acquired much but the two sets of clothing for when she was teaching the children to swim, and her own two that she had come with. Rira had not mentioned the condition of Peigra’s clothing, knowing her young companion would not ask for handouts of clothing, and could have woven her own if necessary, given the time and the materials. Rira also knew that to get to Gar, Peigra and the children would have to cross through Fortune’s Shore, where they were meeting Gar’s representatives, and there were extensive traders there with goods from many realms. If Peigra could not find something there, it was likely that it had been sold that morning to someone else passing through, or the trader had not arrived as yet.

Being closer to Fortune’s Shore, with a coinpurse that needed emptying, might be beneficial, and Rira had spoken that Peigra could use some parchment for her lessons with Gar, if he would permit her to write anything that is. If it was a warning, Peigra was not certain what to make of it, but she would at least get some to send scrolls to Purda, who was still her grandmother, and as with grandmothers everywhere, who had once been mothers and nothing more, Purda would worry about Peigra if she did not hear from her.

Baltik seemed to know that they were going, and was especially kind to the children who began clamoring all over him to make him shine. What winter coat he had had, they had peeled off of him quickly upon his arrival to the sands, what tufts they could find that Peigra had missed that is. A horse with a winter coat in the desert was a dead horse if it was not clipped or combed quickly. Whether by silent decree or some agreement, the children and Baltik were enjoying the pampering and the brushing. If there was a grain of sand on him somewhere, lodged in his hide, it had yet to be discovered and removed.

It was good to be a pampered horse.

The clan was not pleased with Peigra’s leaving, and Misadal’s genuine concern for Peigra’s wrapped ankle was mumbled back and forth out of earshot of Rira. She was theirs, and did need more training, yes, and was an apprentice, yes, and Gar was the wisest of the shamans to learn from, yes, but Peigra was theirs, and they were reluctant to give her up, even for the first of what might have been many journeys to learn from others. It was not merely her ankle that the clan was mumbling about, but that Peigra was so new to them, and they had finally adjusted to her, and now she was being stripped from them when she needed them, or so they felt she needed them.

Each young head got kissed, and promises gotten that they would behave and continue their lessons, and their swimming. Deril, one of the hunters who had taken an affinity to swimming, had promised to continue, and Peigra had no worries as he had shown that he was not only good in the water, but that the children knew they could not get away with any mischief with him. With two or three exceptions, all the children were enjoying the water, and Misadal promised to bring tea to the elderlies in Peigra’s absence.

The fourteen children, nine hunters, and mounts that would be accompanying Peigra reminded her of the Before, when it could be days gathering up the supplies, horses, men and women for a decent attack force, and another handful of days perhaps before the end of that train was finally moving away from their rallying point. The youngest of the children, if they could be called that anymore, was twelve, nearly thirteen years, and they were all excited to be going to learn from someone else. Peigra never did get a good answer if those children would have gone, had she not been summoned by Gar and her ankle wrapped. Certainly she could have gone alone with Baltik, if her ankle had not snapped, and not risked their lives as she felt she was doing.

Xanik also appeared at the clan the day they were leaving, after the nap and with his men and mounts and supplies, and offered to accompany them, and Peigra smelled the makings of a gigantic farce and only rolled her eyes. Rira was smiling, and said nothing, and even as an adult, Peigra was being ordered around by a ‘mother’ of hers. Baltik only gave another of his great snorting shakes of his head and endured Xanik’s comments of how he gleamed brighter than he had when he had arrived months earlier.

Xanik had also brought his own supply of horse treats, pressed herbs blended with bits of fruit that Baltik was sniffing Xanik’s pockets for. No matter where he went, the wretch always got treats, and Peigra could only sigh as she was carried from Rira’s tent and, carefully, set on Baltik’s back as he sat on the sands and slowly, cautiously, got to his feet with Peigra on his back.

Peigra gave a great sigh, looking down at everyone, and felt the twinge of pain in her ankle. It was no longer supported, and hanging as it was, she knew it would swell immensely, and there was no telling how she would keep it safe if they had to run fast. Misadal and Rira had wrapped it in enough linen that it was a turban in its own right, but even the linen could not bubble away all the motions of being on a horse and keeping one’s balance when stirrups were not an option.

Xanik, who knew the easiest routes, took them after the sun had moved over the spires, but there was still light to be had further ahead of them, where the land rose up and did not quite meet the spires, but the spires themselves dipped down in a saddle shape and lit the lands for a longer period of time. They would be traveling towards this patch of sunlight that could not be seen, and Xanik did not give a time when they would reach it either, as despite their trying to move in an orderly means, they crossed the springs to Nal’s clan about the time of the evening meal, and obligations kept them there for some time, though Peigra did not get down from Baltik and chattered down at people from there.

Baltik also got stuffed with more treats and dried fruits, the wretch.

Darkness was all around them when Xanik finally was able to get them moving again, and Nal had given Peigra a gift of his own, a finely-worked leather saddlebag that he had put some soothing herbs in, for both she and Baltik, while they crossed to Gar’s clan. She was truly grateful for that, not just for herself, but that Nal was one of the few concerned for Baltik and had taken time to see he would be tended. The small bits were rolled inside bits of dried fruits, and Baltik had already enjoyed several, and they would help him with keeping his temperature moderated as well as his stamina, and Peigra knew that it would help the horse as they traveled.

There was also a small pouch in the saddlebag for Peigra, a pouch she was not aware of as yet.

Ready with their saddle lights and Xanik’s sense of direction from the stars and the winds, they set off into the night from Nal’s clan, fed, watered and many complaining they had eaten too much. Peigra had been paraded on Baltik’s back to all the vaiyuu mounts, and Xanik’s mounts gave unpleasant snorts as they sniffed the horse again, as if remembering their companions who had fallen on the sands. Their noses were more interested in Peigra’s wrapped ankle and sniffing every last finger’s length of the weave.

As before, Xanik set a steady pace, and Peigra tried with some difficulty to keep herself in a comfortable position on Baltik, which proved to be impossible, and she simply bit down on her teeth every now and then to fight the growing discomfort, and then the pain. They had to move, and moving meant the jarring motions against her ankle and Baltik’s side as they rode, and he was being as gentle as he could.

It was during the ride that she noted the faint, odd glow against his shoulder, and noted that it moved with him, and was the white scar-pattern against his hide, the one that she had worn on her own shoulder until her death in the Before. It seemed to pulse as they made their way across the sands, and Peigra touched it with the flat of her hand, feeling its energy, and wondered what to make of it. Certainly animals had some form of a spark within them that was the same as humans, a life that could be taken, extinguished, but did they have magick as humans did? It was a deep matter to contemplate, and Peigra wondered if she would be right in asking Gar when she arrived.

The journey from the clan to Fortune’s Shore was a complicated one, and there were three distinct routes, all with their own separate hazards and benefits. The easiest was the middle route, which took the fastest means through the dunes, up through many of the camps that were often inhabited by sand walkers, humanoid and otherwise, and though its benefit was speed, the lack of water had left its reminders many times. It was a route for those with news that needed hasty delivery and spread, and ended up at Wyrmbane, one of the larger outposts in the desert, where many of the clans gathered for not only news of those abroad but other happenings. Neutral though they wanted to remain, even the shaman of a clan realized that war had come, and there was nothing to do to stop its creep but prepare.

The second route was along the spire itself, with several springs, but these were sometimes buried by the shifting dunes, and stretching one’s water in the hopes of finding a spring could sometimes be disastrous. There was also the threat of quicksand from buried springs, and more than one caravan driver or runner who had gone missing, buried by the very sands perhaps as they slept or could not outrun them. The route was popular also, but it added several days to a journey, and the crossover from the spires towards Wyrmbane had to be done when there was some light, dawn or dusk, and quickly to avoid being seen by the sand walkers.

The third route was along the water itself, with its hazards of sand walkers and the crocodiles that inhabited the waters, looking for meals as everything else was. Keeping the water close meant there was always a source of it for the horses, sometimes needing boiling for human consumption after a sandstorm, and that it could be cooler, but due to the terrain and the wet silk, the mounts could tire easily, stepping constantly with their feet laden with mud. It was the easiest route for teaching the children the hazards of journeys and the world around them, and keeping them in a relatively safe state of being, though even children were taught that there was always danger.

This third way was the route most hunters taught the children, to find the water, put it on your left, or right, and you would find a clan eventually, or signs of one to follow. The spires on top of the great stone ridge were landmarks, easy ones, that did not change also, and all a child had to do was place themselves following one and they would find a clan. The water also provided a place to soak during the heat of the day, and protect a child against the sand walkers, who came in both humanoid and other forms, and were lumped into one great phrase when there were so many different ways to be frightened and fearful of them.

Xanik was tracking them along the water, perhaps for Peigra’s benefit, or perhaps that the delay at Nal’s clan had made it easier, but along the water they were going, the occasional plash of a hoof in the water. Peigra would be unable to check Baltik carefully as she would have, and Xanik was in no lack of volunteers to check, if they had stopped, which they had not, and he was pushing the mounts as he could to cross as much of the land as they could under the shelter of the cool night. Having rested for several days, Baltik was up to the task, but as they crossed the sands, Peigra wrapped against the chill and her ankle bumping against the horse’s side, she was becoming exhausted, and nauseous from the movement and pain on her ankle.

Their first stop brought out Peigra’s herbs, and she fumbled around for the soothing herbs, and soaked them in her drinking flask, and filled a second in preparation for the next leg of their journey. She did not take any of the food, though it was tempting, and she needed the digestion heat in her, but it was easier to pass than letting it come up while riding and delay them further. Xanik checked Baltik’s girth and saddle, and saw that Peigra was warm enough and Baltik resting as she walked him slowly to keep him limber in the cold air, for it was still cold, despite being near summer’s crest.

With the pouch of dried fruits and meats that Xanik left her, Peigra sipped quietly at her flask and took the draught as she could, taking quiet moments when she stopped Baltik to calm her queasy stomach and move her toes, or try to, so she could get feeling and warmth into them again. Baltik was patient with her, and while they were together, Peigra flipped his mane and looked to the odd scar-pattern on his shoulder, that was not glowing, but she knew it was there, and where it was.

The pain of its infliction was a memory as deep as the scarlines themselves, and Peigra could trace it, as she had on her own shoulder, for many moons. The axe had gone wide, thankfully, though it had not stopped the crush of bone and muscle and connective tissues, and Peigra’s nightmares that it was happening again, even though the cultist who had caused it was probably long dead and dust by now...or she hoped, anyway. So far, the Now was not behaving as the Before had, which suited her greatly, as she had no wish to live all of that twice.

Baltik shifted beneath her as she ran her hand over the scar, and she rubbed his hide gently, giving him some of her magick to keep him rested and his legs and hooves well for the journey. It was critical that he not falter, not this run, for the gait of the vaiyuu was worse than Baltik’s, and Peigra would never survive the journey on one for long. Carts and wagons were something only the traders utilized, for the plain fact that vaiyuu were not well suited for such duties, and the horses that were kept in the south pastures were mostly broodmares and their progeny sold off to replace their kin who were stolen, killed or merely died in harness, which were many, and often young. Very few horses in the desert were used for anything else, despite they were larger boned and better suited for the tall, stocky Bahmi. It seemed an affront to them to consider anything as a rideable mount but a vaiyuu.

Hooves checked by Xanik, and a quiet pat against her good leg, and Peigra and Baltik were off again, slowly, and in the distance, there was nothing but blackness, and the bobbling lights of the saddle lanterns. She tried to think of the causes of the shoulder injury that had laid her on her back for nearly three months, and she had not been moved out of necessity, that being the battlefield.

In the Before, in the early months of the war, the foundations and thick stones of civility dictated that all healers, on both sides, wear gray, and they were respected and were unharmed as they moved through the battlefields, tending to the wounded, giving succor and release to the dying. There had been no issues, not at first, until some commander decided to disguise his snipers in the gray robes, and set them loose in the fields. The atrocities had begun to build after that, and Peigra had the shameful memory of knowing exactly who that commander had been, if not by name, but by visual recognition, and in fairness, the Endless Court had responded without any boundaries after that. Anyone in gray was sought out quickly, as without healers, the other side’s wounded had to make due further back, as opposed to the battlefield, or without healers if there were many of them killed.

Peigra chose luck as her guidance during those times, that she had not been wounded, though even she had not been blind to the fact that it had only been a matter of time before she was. There were always troops coming, fresh from training or merely gathered as they were, brought up and refitted into armor from the fallen, and the healers did what they could, but they were as human as those on the other side had once been. Stillmoor’s hillsides and valleys, enticing and filled with humanity before, were now pockmarked with cannon gouges, mines, wagon ruts and, everywhere, the remains of humanity as it had been, living and otherwise.

Fear, ever a mover of nightmares and populace, had been something else of a word entirely in the Before.

Wounded healers were always given preferential treatment, and Peigra’s wound had been hideous, and she had not been expected to survive. For three months she had been treated, back near the tents of the commanding forces, and watched the cannonfire, the ground-wrenching quakes brought about by a misuse of magick, and the cries, always the cries, of the wounded around her. Even here, with those whose past victories were on their sleeves, and they knew they were sending their men and women to death, there was always the mourning moans and the shrieks of those who were no longer whole in many ways.

The camp’s being overrun had been Peigra’s end, the sudden, planned surge from behind that must have taken almost a month to plan, as it had been done with such stealth that not even incoming troops and supply caravans had noted them. Overrun, slaughtered methodically, plans for future skirmishes, trade routes, names of the chains of command and their locations, it had all been taken, and Peigra had welcomed the darkness as it had settled on her, at last...or should have, that is. It had been an end, finally an end to the cries and the war and the useless troops that were slaughtered over and over and the healers had to drain themselves each night to keep them going on and on.

She felt an urge to return to Meridian and give the machine a kick, somewhere critical, as a reminder of what it had done to her.

Peigra of the Now looked around, the darkness engulfing and disorienting, and had to smile. Perhaps the great machine had not been all wrong, as it had given her Purda back, and it had given her Rira to learn from, once again, so despite her anger at being brought back in someone’s place, or Meridian’s anger at her taking their place supposedly, she did have some reasons to be thankful.

Beneath her, Baltik gave a reminding snort and she gave the scar on his shoulder a pat as she held down her bile. How could she have ever forgotten him?

Daylight was not soon enough in coming, and Peigra gave a grateful sigh when Xanik paused them, just as the sun was cresting the water to their left, and gone, hidden behind the great hills and spires of the rocks that were remnants of greater mountains that the sands and the winds had worn down, bit by bit, to litter the valleys and cover the empires that had come before.

Their pace slowed as they wove their way away from the water, upon along the flats where the crocodiles sunned themselves, and it was too early for them to be up on the banks, and Xanik pushed them quickly for several minutes past each area. There were rumors of a large one who had not, as yet, been killed, and had taken several mounts on previous runs, and Xanik was not eager to lose any more mounts, or his companions for that matter. The children, as always, were eager to stop and hunt it down, and it took some sharp words from the hunters who were with them to get the children, and their frightened mounts, away from the water and on their way again.

The sun was climbing above the shorter spires, and beginning to creep into their travel plans, but Xanik kept them moving, and Peigra was grateful for her teeth, as grinding them gave her something to concentrate on to avoid her stomach, which she had emptied twice, carefully, on their journey. It was a trick she had learned from others, in the Before, and her ankle was no doubt swollen larger than her head due to the maneuvering it had taken, but she had not disgraced herself, nor Baltik. She hoped they would stop soon, as her bladder was also in need of relief, not just her stomach.

They stopped at a small waystation, set far back from the marshy water’s edge, and the tents welcome for both the travelers and their mounts. Baltik waited patiently as Peigra walked him after their run, and only after everyone’s saddlebags were down, mounts under the shelter of shade, limbs shaken out and food started over the fire that Baltik went down on the packed, sandy-silt and let them pull Peigra off of his back. Carried into one of the tents, Peigra ignored the food, the water, and promptly fell asleep, which was convenient, as Xanik and two at the waystation inspected her swollen ankle and were not pleased with it, but the sleep would do her well.

As she slept, Baltik was brushed, watered, and several honey balls from Peigra’s packs passed to him, that he accepted with great dignity. Some matters were constant, Before or Now.

She slept most of the day away, as did the others, having little else to do but rest while those who tended to the waystation watched over their visitors and replenished water flasks, saw the mounts were fed and groomed, and repacked loose gear. Peigra, in the Before, had been affronted that anyone had gone through her packs during her sleep, and it had taken some time before she had gotten used to the idea that others ruffled through her packs while she slept. It was not that they were looking for something, more that they were masters of equalizing loads on mounts for long journeys, and if someone was lacking something, it was put into their pack for future use, or traded to another waystation for someone else’s use. Nothing was wasted at any of the waystations, and many things left and taken as people needed them. Caravans often brought new supplies to the various waystations, and Xanik had been laden down with supplies for them, which had taken them the route along the water.

Herbs, dried meats, blankets, small flasks of tonics, these were the things that the waystations had in supply for those traveling the deserts and freely gave. Extra supplies were always left at waystations, and Peigra had gotten into the habit, in the Before, of always buying extra herbs in the cities, to leave in little, linen bags at the waystations when she knew she would be stopping at them.

This would be the first time, other than her first journey into the sands in the Before, that Peigra had nothing to give to the waystation, and she felt guilt when she woke, sometime near the evening meal, to the smell of frying meat on one of the flat griddles. Often she had extra herbs, parchment, spare boots, cloaks, but with her ankle as it was, and as Rira’s apprentice, she had had no time to purchase extra items to leave. She was now the recipient of the generosity of others. As with any farmer, one did not want to be dependant on the generosity of others for long, and Peigra went through her packs carefully to see if there was anything she could spare to leave, and disgusted that what little she had truly was the barest of necessities. She did take out several of the flasks that they had put in, knowing someone else could use them, and the spare blanket someone had put in. She had the linen wraps to keep her warm, and her thick cloak as well for the ride to keep her insulated, with the arm holes that had been cut into it for convenience. It was a hazard if she went down off Baltik, as she had become tangled in the ‘wings’ in another lifetime, but no one who had encountered it had thought it an inconvenience worth tossing the cloak away for.

The meal was roasted roots and fresh meats, wrapped in leaves and baked by the sun’s heat until near the evening meal, then dropped, one bundle at a time, into hot, herb-infused oil to be cooked a second time. The toughness of the meat was the reason for the second cooking, Peigra had been told in the Before, and had been given many tasty, and not so tasty, examples of before and after of all the cooking phases. The meat, croc meat, needed to be cooked twice to soften it, and the combination of the roots and the leaves helped to break down the meat’s stringiness and made it softer, and flaky. Someone probably had a reason why, but the waystation keepers knew, and simply followed what had been taught to them, and it made a meal that was filling and soothing. Peigra risked her stomach on the hot meal, and ate very slowly, hoping it would stay down.

Her ankle had also been checked, and replenished in a sense, while she had slept, the wrappings were sand-free and smelling of the herbs at every waystation, dried and stuffed into linens and other cloth to keep the moths away. As she ate slowly, she chattered with the pregnant wife of the waystation’s keeper, who was curious how Peigra had broken it, and they spoke of past injuries. One very curious, wide-eyed child was at the woman’s side as she sat across from Peigra, staring at Peigra, and she reached out to touch the child’s nose with her finger, which brought about the expected shriek, a smile, and the child ran behind his mother, but kept peeking at Peigra.

Xanik was concerned of the swelling in Peigra’s ankle, but there was little to be done about it, as she could not stay at the waystation until her ankle healed, though the matter was debated. Xanik had been given Peigra’s care, by Rira, and Xanik was going to see her to Gar’s clan, but the swelling of Peigra’s ankle was a great concern, and much debate given to it as the meal was consumed. Getting her to Gar’s clan would end the matter, and Peigra fought for that option, knowing it would swell her ankle more, and there would be more nausea, but it would be over with when she was with Gar.

As the sun hung overhead, but the waystation was shaded, as was much of the area to their east by the great pillars, Xanik got them loaded and Peigra swung back onto Baltik, and began moving them while they had light. Crocodiles were still the hazard, but by moving while they had light, it would enable that they could rest some of the night away also at the next waystation, and move between them as their mounts permitted. The greatest empty leg of the journey had been done already, and what remained now was hopping from waystation to waystation, which might take hours in one instance, but they were now within two hours distance either way between waystations.

Messenger birds were at each waystation, and went back and forth between them, announcing arrivals and departures, as well as last minute messages to those ahead or behind a caravan. Heavy rains washing out roads, large dunes that moved with the winds, large numbers of breeding crocodiles, bandit camps, any hazards were reported, and Xanik sent a bird ahead to the next waystation, announcing their impending arrival at some point, and that Peigra would need a cold bucket of water to soak her foot in, if one could be found.

With light, Peigra got a magnificent view of Lake Solace to the left, and the craggy spires all around them. She had journeyed several times with the caravans in the Before, but always at night, and waystations had views, but this was giving her something to do while on Baltik. Focusing on something also kept her stomach a bit more settled, as it was hard to study something on a sand dune, but looking at a shrub, a crocodile basking in the water, a rock against the water made it easier to keep the food down.

The water to their left was shallow, and probably warm and inviting, though filled with movement, as the crocs watched them pass by, too numerous and far from the water to make a target, and Xanik ensured that they did not pause by the low spots where a croc could have ambushed one of the mounts if it had been brave enough. Baltik shied from several areas, and Peigra did not hold him back when he wanted to bolt from one particularly low, marshy spot. He knew danger better than she, and she grated her teeth as her ankle bounced against his flank, but he was keeping both of them safe, and she knew he was, despite the pain.

The next waystation was more sprawling than the previous, and filled with travelers, mounts, the smells of food and deep discussions as the sun was nothing more than a fading light far to the west, obscured now by the great spires that were turning into mountains and blocking out the warmth. Peigra was chilled when they reached the second waystation, and the change of temperature from losing that bit of light was a surprise, as she had always been able to regulate her own body temperature, but her ankle’s wound was not helping. Baltik, as she felt his skin, was not overheating, enjoying the change of pace in the shade as they moved.

Peigra was eager to get off Baltik at the second waystation, and was helped to the privy again and brought into one of the side tents where there were other women preparing to depart with another of the caravans. Removing her turban was a cause for interest, and Peigra was used to it, the odd color something that any Bahmi remembered, and many others as well; it had been a target for the archers on the battlefields, she had been told, and had wrapped it early on with linens to hide its color.

It felt good to stretch out again, and Xanik said they would be resting briefly and then back on their way, enough time to switch out mounts for spares that were kept at the waystation. He had two mounts that appeared to be going lame, and he and his men were switching packs to the new beasts as two Bahmi were inspecting the mounts in question, lifting each foot and prodding, feeling legs, sinew, cautiously rubbing. Vaiyuu might have been odd creatures to anyone who had never seen one before, but to the Bahmi, they were as natural in their lives as their bows, and treated with the same fairness. A bow might feed the pot for a clan, but without the vaiyuu, getting that kill back to the clan might be impossible.

The hour’s rest did the mounts good, watered and back into the saddle they all went, Peigra back up on Baltik and the pail of cold water never materializing as she had assumed it would. Not that there had been time to unwrap it and soak it, not with the shadows growing longer and deeper, and Xanik had them moving at a faster pace. Baltik tried not to shower those behind him with too much sand, and Peigra had to poke him in the shoulder more than once for showing off his paces, the wretch.

They bypassed one waystation completely, Xanik waving as they ran past, and Peigra chuckled as Baltik tossed his head as they passed. There had been talk at the first waystation about the ‘great black beast’ with Xanik’s train, and no doubt every face that could was staring at Baltik on parade. The next waystation was not much further than the last one, and Xanik rode past it as well, all the men coming out to stare at the black beast that rode by, head and tail high, and the oddly-turbaned woman sitting on his back.

The shadows were nearly consuming when they reached the next waypoint, crowded as the others had been, and Xanik called them to a halt and after one of the men from the waystation came out to converse, it was decided they would spend the night at the waystation. Peigra thought it odd that Xanik was not pushing through, but an entire night’s sleep, with her leg propped up and rested, would do her good. Baltik went down gently, much to the admiration of the Bahmi at the waystation, and Peigra was extracted and, after the privy, nested in the furthest tent from the main one, with Baltik brought inside to keep him safe, which Peigra thought odd as Xanik pulled the tent’s flaps closed. Who was she being hidden from?

Off Baltik, though unable to give him much for fodder and water, Peigra reached for his nose as he nibbled at her braids, until Xanik returned with two of the men from the waystation, who brought an odd bag that they strapped against Baltik’s chest and stretched back to his tail. As he lifted his tail, the bag would open, and the droppings would fall into there, to be removed later, enabling him to stay in the tent with Peigra, and she laughed at the invention, and approved, though Baltik was not quite certain about the strap around his tail, and twitched it back and forth with irritation.

The meal they brought to Peigra was not the fried meat but flaked, mixed with rice and dried apples that had absorbed the juices from the meats as they baked in the great pits all day long. There was fresh water as well, which she preferred over the ale, though it was tempting, and, settled on the plate, was a wonderful slice of honey-dosed seedcakes. Baltik was given a wide bucket to feed from, and someone had put some seedcakes, in pieces, here and there with the fodder and he had to dig for them.

Peigra stuffed herself slowly, and Xanik stayed with her, as did the waystation men. As a woman of rank now, despite not being Bahmi, Peigra had been accorded her own tent, which was not a whole lie, but she recognized some truth in the excuse. Shaman were often traveling as necessary, and at every waystation were tents reserved for folk who needed privacy, or such ranking folk who were given the solitude from others. Here, nested in a hollow of rocks, protected on three sides by stone and above as well, the tent had been constructed around the rocks, and Peigra was honored that it was hers alone. Well, hers and Baltik’s; one did not forget Baltik as he munched away at his feed, sniffing for more seedcake remnants at the bottom of the bucket.

There had been a freak rain ahead of them, two days earlier, and all the caravans had been backed up from the washouts in the road. Groups were repairing them, but until the word was passed, no one was heading to Fortune’s Shore, and everyone was merely waiting. Peigra finally understood why she had seen so many people and mounts, and Xanik stated they might be resting for two days, which Peigra tried not to be too disappointed in. Two days rest for her ankle was going to be delightful, and she did not resist the herbal tea that they passed her, to help her sleep the pain away. Baltik tried to sniff it and drink it from her, and she pushed his nose away, giving him a glare and stating that he had his own bucket to drink from.

Only in hindsight, as she felt the heaviness of her limbs, did she wonder why Baltik wanted her drink, as he had never wanted to drink from her cup before. Sleep took her, unable to resist, and soon Baltik succumbed also to the herbs put into the seedcakes, and the tent was left in silence, no one questioning why it was closed, nor the occupants, as the night progressed.