Skeen's Leap by Jo Clayton

smaller ones, with a dark and rather smelly hollow between them; smells wouldn’t hurt anything, and she hoped to be back before the damp was too damaging. She eased the bundle into the hollow, moved back out along the broad limb. Even before she reached the path, she could no longer see the things. She swung down and went on to the fountain glade.
    Timka was sitting on the basin lip, the darter in her lap. Telka was curled up on the grass in a slightly different position. “She started waking,” Timka said. “I put half a dozen darts in her.”
    Skeen took the darter, slipped it into the holster, snapped the flap down. “That won’t kill her. Won’t do her much good. She’ll wake with a sore head, that’s all.”
    â€œWell I know,” Timka said, rubbed at her temple. “How long will she be out?”
    â€œFive, six hours.”
    â€œIt’s something, I suppose. Too bad it’s not five, six years.”
    Skeen swung into the saddle. “Offer’s still open,” she said. She leaned forward, then back, settling herself as comfortably as she could. “Or you can take off, go where you want, hope she chases me not you.”
    Timka got to her feet, stretched, patted a yawn. “Lifefire, I’m tired.” She bent to the falling water, splashed a handful on her face, drank. She straightened, wiped her mouth. “Do you want to get rid of me that much?”
    Damn right, I do, Skeen thought. Aloud, she said. “All I’m saying is it’s up to you.”
    Timka swung into the saddle. “I stick with you.”
    â€œHm. You know the land. What direction’s the Lakes?”
    Timka glanced at the sky, pointed. “That way.”
    â€œDjabo’s weepy eyes, so’s Mintown, unless I’m turned around. You sure?”
    â€œYes. Oruda’s ten days’ ride from Dum Besar, three days by riverboat, given a good wind.”
    Skeen clicked her tongue at the horse, nudged him into an easy walk, heading south. When Timka came up beside her, she said, “And from here to Oruda. How long?”
    â€œOn a straight line, a guess, maybe twelve, thirteen, fourteen days, depending on the going.”
    They moved under the trees, into the growing shadow of the late afternoon, riding side by side, unhurried, Skeen thinking, Timka content to leave the planning to her.
    â€œDirect line is out,” Skeen said.
    Timka looked drowsily at her, nodded.
    â€œSoon as she wakes, your sister will have scouts searching for us.”
    Timka yawned, nodded. “Fliers,” she said.
    â€œThat complicates things. We’d have a good start on any other low tech world, but we can’t outrun wings. Your sister could trace us and set up ambushes just about anywhere she wanted.”
    â€œTold you. Should have let me use the knife.”
    â€œCall me squeamish. How can we break out of this trap?”
    Timka raised her brows. “Me?” She shook her head. “You’re the Pass-Through, the fighter. I float. What happens, happens; the less fuss I make, the less pain there is.”
    Skeen grimaced. “Better change your mind about coming with me. You must have kin in these mountains who’d take you in and keep you safe.”
    â€œNo.”
    Silence for a long while. The sound of hooves on forest mold, of leaves rustling, a web of insect, animal and bird noises—a kind of white noise, soothing and restful. Skeen forced herself to go on worrying at the problem, her thoughts had leaden feet, didn’t want to move at all. More than anything else she needed to sleep. She was in that state when mistakes were fatally easy and unusually fatal.
    â€œThe Ever-Hunger,” she said.
    Timka glanced at her, startled, straightened her back. “What?”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œHungry.”
    Skeen frowned, made a brushing motion as if to wipe away feeble attempts at humor. “I mean, what does it