and Creslin load a second pack mule while Derrild mumbles and stacks bags and boxes in the cart. “Frigging cold. Hell of a time to trade… got to be crazy to be a trader.”
Creslin looks toward the hulking and bearded man, then toward Hylin.
“Don’t mind him.” Hylin checks the harness. “He talks to himself a lot, but he’s careful. He doesn’t get drunk, and he pays. Can’t say that about too many traders. It’s a hard life, being a trader.”
“Must be harder being a guard.”
“Some ways, but we get paid whether he makes money or not.” Creslin frowns, not having considered that a trader might well lose money. “Does he do… well?”
“Can’t say as I know. But he’s still in business, and has been for a long time, and he has a solid house in Jellico, with a stable. His son takes the shorter runs, north to Sligo, or south to Hydlen.”
Creslin nods as he hands the last bag to Hylin. “What about the east?”
“Ha…no money trading there. Not much risk. Not even someone like Frosee messes with the wizards’ road guards.” The thin man tightens the last of the straps and begins to lead the pair of mules out of the stable. “Same thing’s true out west. Between those devils of the mountains and the Tyrant, not much thieving goes on. So anyone can be a trader.”
“They just think they’re traders,” rumbles Derrild as he finishes loading the cart. “They carry a wagon load of cabbage twenty kays and they’re a trader. Bah!”
Creslin holds the reins of both the gray and the chestnut; his breath steams in the chill air. He has strapped his pack behind his saddle, between the near-empty saddle bags that contain grain cakes, presumably for the horse.
“Let’s go. The sooner we get moving, the sooner I can warm myself before the fire at home.” Derrild levers himself onto the cart seat, his right hand touching the leather-wrapped handle of some sort of weapon.
After readjusting the stirrups, Creslin swings into the saddle.
Hylin merely grunts. “Where to?” the younger man asks. “You haven’t been this way?”
“This is as far east as I’ve ever been.” The mercenary raises his eyebrows under the hood of his stained leather cloak but says nothing as he nudges the gray forward.
Creslin rides half a length back, his eyes already on the narrow deft at the edge of the snow-covered meadow-a cleft that points eastward. The weight of the blade on the shoulder straps reminds him that he is, for now, a guard of sorts, with a horse that will carry him eastward faster than his legs will. He eases up closer to the mercenary. “Tell me about Gallos… whatever you can.”
Hylin snorts, then half-smiles. “We’re headed for Fenard, named after, I’m told, the great King Fenardre. The storytellers claim he was the one who beat back the Legions of the West. And his was the first kingdom that didn’t swallow the tyranny of the Legend. Fenard sits on a high plain and has two walls. The lower wall is more than ten times the height of a man…”
XXII
THE COACH RUMBLES northward along the main post road from Bleyans, through Suthya, northward to the port of Rulyarth .
Megaera looks down at the white leather case that contains the mirror, then shakes her head. Why is it that using the mirror now leaves her stomach twisting? Can it have something to do with the lifelink? She tries to call up the familiar sense of the whiteness. Her wrists tingle, even though the iron bracelets are gone.
So far, she has managed to send her soul out after the silver-haired target three times-once to even touch his mind, the evening before, from her inn to his inn. Her lips tighten. “Men-even the most innocent-are violent beasts, even in their thoughts.”
Her eyes fix on her sleeves, long enough to cover the scarred wrists, but her eyes fail to focus, and she feels lightheaded. Is it her imagination? Is there a reason why, at times, her head spins like the winds she can sense but cannot
Creslin looks toward the hulking and bearded man, then toward Hylin.
“Don’t mind him.” Hylin checks the harness. “He talks to himself a lot, but he’s careful. He doesn’t get drunk, and he pays. Can’t say that about too many traders. It’s a hard life, being a trader.”
“Must be harder being a guard.”
“Some ways, but we get paid whether he makes money or not.” Creslin frowns, not having considered that a trader might well lose money. “Does he do… well?”
“Can’t say as I know. But he’s still in business, and has been for a long time, and he has a solid house in Jellico, with a stable. His son takes the shorter runs, north to Sligo, or south to Hydlen.”
Creslin nods as he hands the last bag to Hylin. “What about the east?”
“Ha…no money trading there. Not much risk. Not even someone like Frosee messes with the wizards’ road guards.” The thin man tightens the last of the straps and begins to lead the pair of mules out of the stable. “Same thing’s true out west. Between those devils of the mountains and the Tyrant, not much thieving goes on. So anyone can be a trader.”
“They just think they’re traders,” rumbles Derrild as he finishes loading the cart. “They carry a wagon load of cabbage twenty kays and they’re a trader. Bah!”
Creslin holds the reins of both the gray and the chestnut; his breath steams in the chill air. He has strapped his pack behind his saddle, between the near-empty saddle bags that contain grain cakes, presumably for the horse.
“Let’s go. The sooner we get moving, the sooner I can warm myself before the fire at home.” Derrild levers himself onto the cart seat, his right hand touching the leather-wrapped handle of some sort of weapon.
After readjusting the stirrups, Creslin swings into the saddle.
Hylin merely grunts. “Where to?” the younger man asks. “You haven’t been this way?”
“This is as far east as I’ve ever been.” The mercenary raises his eyebrows under the hood of his stained leather cloak but says nothing as he nudges the gray forward.
Creslin rides half a length back, his eyes already on the narrow deft at the edge of the snow-covered meadow-a cleft that points eastward. The weight of the blade on the shoulder straps reminds him that he is, for now, a guard of sorts, with a horse that will carry him eastward faster than his legs will. He eases up closer to the mercenary. “Tell me about Gallos… whatever you can.”
Hylin snorts, then half-smiles. “We’re headed for Fenard, named after, I’m told, the great King Fenardre. The storytellers claim he was the one who beat back the Legions of the West. And his was the first kingdom that didn’t swallow the tyranny of the Legend. Fenard sits on a high plain and has two walls. The lower wall is more than ten times the height of a man…”
XXII
THE COACH RUMBLES northward along the main post road from Bleyans, through Suthya, northward to the port of Rulyarth .
Megaera looks down at the white leather case that contains the mirror, then shakes her head. Why is it that using the mirror now leaves her stomach twisting? Can it have something to do with the lifelink? She tries to call up the familiar sense of the whiteness. Her wrists tingle, even though the iron bracelets are gone.
So far, she has managed to send her soul out after the silver-haired target three times-once to even touch his mind, the evening before, from her inn to his inn. Her lips tighten. “Men-even the most innocent-are violent beasts, even in their thoughts.”
Her eyes fix on her sleeves, long enough to cover the scarred wrists, but her eyes fail to focus, and she feels lightheaded. Is it her imagination? Is there a reason why, at times, her head spins like the winds she can sense but cannot
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