Reason asserted itself. No, she couldn’t do that, not yet. There had been a babe born; she’d seen the evidence of that herself in the Airion command tent. The Bonded had commanded and she would obey.
A wisp of words reached her ears.
“I welcome my return to the Wastes tomorrow.”
Iris allowed herself a moment of triumph. That mountain path. The smug fool would sleep warm this night and head out in the morning. But she’d start now, this moment, circle back to her cache, skirt the manor house and its fields, steal a bit of food, maybe more blankets.
Iris eased away from the wall and crawled to where the shadows were deepest. Suddenly the cold, the wind, and the dung mattered not a wit.
The Bonded needed to know where that babe was. It had to be somewhere back in Edenrich. The marcus would tell her as she carved him into pieces.
He might have the vore with him, and that made her think. She’d have to find a place to attack well before the trail headed down to the Wastes. A good ambush site, then a crossbow bolt for the vore and her knives for the man.
She wouldn’t bathe. The stink would last.
She grinned mirthlessly. For all their reputed abilities, marcusi were still human. They suffered pain, as any did.
Iris was good at pain. He would tell her what she needed to know. And after, well, she might get a bit of revenge for all the trouble he’d put her through.
Then she could bathe and sleep and take the vore’s fur back to the Bonded.
It was as good a plan as any.
Vren lay inhis bed of straw and blankets, eyes wide open. The barn was quiet and dark, with nothing stirring but a few mice, being hunted by barn cats. Moonlight filtered through the old boards, giving everything an odd glow.
Vren was free to wrestle with his conflicts.
He should not do this, he had no right and no desire to offend, but when would he have such a chance again? He was leaving at dawn, and who knew if he would survive the journey. And if he did, when would he leave the Wastes again?
Before he could talk himself out of it, he flung back the blanket, rose to his feet, and donned his patched boots. He straightened his clothes as best he could, brushed himself off, and ran his fingers through his hair. His care might not make a difference, but then again, it might.
Vren took a deep breath, stepped into the main corridor, walked a few steps it took, and faced the open stall.
The old plow horse stood there, her shaggy winter coat more grey than brown. The moonlight seemed to make it glow.
Her large head turned, eyes dark. It stamped one forehoof, hard. “No farther,” it seemed to say. Old it might be, but a horse that size could do harm.
Vren swallowed hard, moved one step closer, then sank to his knees. He bowed his head. Carefully, slowly, he raised his hands, palms open. “Spirt of the Horse, hear my plea, and in my voice, hear the plea of all those of the Wastes.”
The only sound was the rasp of his breath and the beating of his heart in his ears. “Forgive us,” he whispered. “Forgive us for what was done by our ancestors.” Vren crossed his hands over his chest, resting his fingers on his shoulders. He expected nothing, for the prayers and petitions of his ancestors had always gone unheard. Guilt and shame flooded through him, at the past, at daring to plead. He’d rise to his feet, back away, and return to bed.
He lifted his head and lost all ability to breathe.
The mare was now a gleaming warhorse, eyes bright, tail swishing in anger, saddled and bridled, armored in gleaming metal that reflected the moonlight. Its gaze was not friendly.
The woman standing beside it was also clad in armor, top to toe, her eyes bright under her helm, a huge, two-handed sword on her back. In the shadows behind her, Vren caught a glimpse of a man in leathers, little more than an impression of bright hair and kinder eyes.
Vren went still, for there was power here, and fear that that power might strike him for his nerve. He sank lower, bowed his head almost to the floor.
“Far from home, wanderer,” came a voice that climbed up the hairs on the back of his neck. It was a woman’s voice, yet not, echoing yet clear. “Long time since we have heard this plea.”
Vren swallowed hard. He didn’t dare speak.
“You are of the Tribe of the Horse. Faint, but traces remain of the old blood within you.”
Vren licked his lips. “Yes,” he breathed a whisper.
“Change will come. You will not see it, Vren of the Horse.” her voice held a hollowness of truth and dread.
