retain his innocence for a little while longer.
They left La Rivage by its northern gate and headed into the farm country surrounding it. Horace’s curiosity remained as strong as ever, and he peered from side to side as the road took them past fields and crops and farmhouses. The countryside was different from Araluen. There were more varieties of trees and, as a result, there were more shades of green. Some of the crops were unfamiliar too: large, broad leaves on stalks that stood as high as a man’s head were left to dry and seemingly to wither on the stalk before they were gathered. In several places, Horace saw those same leaves hanging in large, open-ended sheds, drying out even more. He wondered what sort of crop it might be. But, as before, he decided to ration his questions.
There was another difference, more subtle. For some time, Horace wasn’t even aware that it was there at all. Then he realized what it was. There was a general air of unkemptness about the fields and the crops. They were tended, obviously, and some of the fields were plowed. But they seemed to lack the loving, fastidious care that one saw in fields and crops at home. One could sense a lack of attention from the farmers, and in some crops weeds were clearly visible.
Halt sighed. “It’s the land that suffers when men fight,” he said softly. Horace glanced at him. It was unusual for the grizzled Ranger to break the silence himself.
“Who’s fighting?” he asked, his interest piqued.
Halt scratched at his beard. “The Gallicans. There’s no strong central law here. There are dozens of minor nobles and barons—warlords if you like. They’re constantly raiding each other and fighting among themselves. That’s why the fields are so sloppily tended. Half the farmers have been conscripted to one army or another.”
Horace looked around the fields that bounded the road on either side. There was no sign of battle here. Only neglect. A thought struck him.
“Is that why people seemed a little…nervous of us?” he asked, and Halt nodded approvingly at him.
“You picked up on that, did you? Good boy. There may be hope for you yet. Yes,” he continued, answering Horace’s question, “armed and mounted men in this country are seen as a potential threat—not as peacekeepers.”
In Araluen, the farmworkers looked to the soldiers to protect them and their fields from the threat of potential invaders. Here, Horace realized, the soldiers themselves were the threat.
“The country is in absolute turmoil,” Halt continued. “King Henri is weak and has no real power. So the barons fight and squabble and kill each other. Mind you, that’s no great loss. But it gets damned unfair when they kill the poor innocent farm folk as well—simply because they get in the way. It could be something of a problem for us, but we’ll just have to…oh, damn.”
The last two words were said quietly, but were no less heart-felt for that fact. Horace, following Halt’s gaze, looked ahead along the road.
They were coming down a small hill, with the road bounded on either side by close-growing trees. At the foot of the hill, a small stream ran through the fields and between the trees, crossed by a stone bridge. It was a peaceful scene, normal enough, and quite pretty in its own way.
But it wasn’t the trees, or the bridge, or the stream that had drawn the quiet expletive from Halt’s lips. It was the armored, mounted warrior who sat his horse in the middle of the road, barring their way.
13
E VANLYN FELT W ILL’S LIGHT TOUCH ON HER SHOULDER. S HE gave a small start of surprise. Even though she had been lying awake, she hadn’t heard him approaching.
“It’s all right,” she said quietly. “I’m awake.”
“The moon’s down,” Will replied, equally softly. “It’s time to go.”
She tossed back the blankets and sat up. She was fully dressed, apart from her boots. She reached for them and began to pull them on. Will handed her a
They left La Rivage by its northern gate and headed into the farm country surrounding it. Horace’s curiosity remained as strong as ever, and he peered from side to side as the road took them past fields and crops and farmhouses. The countryside was different from Araluen. There were more varieties of trees and, as a result, there were more shades of green. Some of the crops were unfamiliar too: large, broad leaves on stalks that stood as high as a man’s head were left to dry and seemingly to wither on the stalk before they were gathered. In several places, Horace saw those same leaves hanging in large, open-ended sheds, drying out even more. He wondered what sort of crop it might be. But, as before, he decided to ration his questions.
There was another difference, more subtle. For some time, Horace wasn’t even aware that it was there at all. Then he realized what it was. There was a general air of unkemptness about the fields and the crops. They were tended, obviously, and some of the fields were plowed. But they seemed to lack the loving, fastidious care that one saw in fields and crops at home. One could sense a lack of attention from the farmers, and in some crops weeds were clearly visible.
Halt sighed. “It’s the land that suffers when men fight,” he said softly. Horace glanced at him. It was unusual for the grizzled Ranger to break the silence himself.
“Who’s fighting?” he asked, his interest piqued.
Halt scratched at his beard. “The Gallicans. There’s no strong central law here. There are dozens of minor nobles and barons—warlords if you like. They’re constantly raiding each other and fighting among themselves. That’s why the fields are so sloppily tended. Half the farmers have been conscripted to one army or another.”
Horace looked around the fields that bounded the road on either side. There was no sign of battle here. Only neglect. A thought struck him.
“Is that why people seemed a little…nervous of us?” he asked, and Halt nodded approvingly at him.
“You picked up on that, did you? Good boy. There may be hope for you yet. Yes,” he continued, answering Horace’s question, “armed and mounted men in this country are seen as a potential threat—not as peacekeepers.”
In Araluen, the farmworkers looked to the soldiers to protect them and their fields from the threat of potential invaders. Here, Horace realized, the soldiers themselves were the threat.
“The country is in absolute turmoil,” Halt continued. “King Henri is weak and has no real power. So the barons fight and squabble and kill each other. Mind you, that’s no great loss. But it gets damned unfair when they kill the poor innocent farm folk as well—simply because they get in the way. It could be something of a problem for us, but we’ll just have to…oh, damn.”
The last two words were said quietly, but were no less heart-felt for that fact. Horace, following Halt’s gaze, looked ahead along the road.
They were coming down a small hill, with the road bounded on either side by close-growing trees. At the foot of the hill, a small stream ran through the fields and between the trees, crossed by a stone bridge. It was a peaceful scene, normal enough, and quite pretty in its own way.
But it wasn’t the trees, or the bridge, or the stream that had drawn the quiet expletive from Halt’s lips. It was the armored, mounted warrior who sat his horse in the middle of the road, barring their way.
13
E VANLYN FELT W ILL’S LIGHT TOUCH ON HER SHOULDER. S HE gave a small start of surprise. Even though she had been lying awake, she hadn’t heard him approaching.
“It’s all right,” she said quietly. “I’m awake.”
“The moon’s down,” Will replied, equally softly. “It’s time to go.”
She tossed back the blankets and sat up. She was fully dressed, apart from her boots. She reached for them and began to pull them on. Will handed her a
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