“Hideous,” I said, but I was smiling.
The landscape around us was farmland, dotted with solitary farmhouses. We rode in silence for the most part. Baldbeak sometimes got bored with riding on Fane’s haunches or ourshoulders, and would fly away on his own mysterious bird business from time to time.
When he returned, Patrick would click his tongue and call in an almost perfect imitation of the raven’s sounds, and Baldbeak would respond, very much as if they were having a conversation. He could not speak to Baldbeak in the same way I could, however—nor could I communicate with other ravens in the way Patrick did. Whatever was between Baldbeak and me was something very particular. I did not understand our bond, but even after finding out that Baldbeak had been ferrying messages to Patrick while I was in the Tower, I remained grateful for it.
“How exactly do you communicate with the ravens?” I asked Patrick. “Baldbeak told me that it is different—that you do not hear their words, as I hear his.”
“No, it’s more like … pictures,” he said thoughtfully. “And I can give them pictures of my own, and they are able to pass those images on to whomever I choose. You can convey a surprising amount of detailed information using only images, particularly if you have agreed upon a code beforehand. But even if we haven’t, I can usually make myself understood.”
“So the ravens can communicate with anyone then, if they choose?”
“They are … a conduit for the pictures I give them, I suppose. They can convey my messages to any human mind, but cannot pass on messages of their own. As far as I know, until Baldbeak, none have been able to speak with humans independently. Certainly not as fluently … and in actual words! No, Baldbeak is something special.”
I am, Baldbeak agreed.
I learned immediately that Fane refused to be hurried. She had the air of being out for a nice stroll, stopping to crop at every patch of dandelions we came across and rub her flank on every fence. And Patrick hadn’t been exaggerating when he said he wasn’t much of a horseman, seeming content to let hermeander at her own pace rather than to master her. I held my tongue, although impatience rose in me like a tide, and concentrated on just staying in the saddle. Its hollow forced my pelvis against Patrick’s tailbone, which was merely uncomfortable at first, but after the first few hours became excruciating.
“Are you all right?” he said at last.
“Yes,” I said through gritted teeth.
“You’re fidgeting.”
“Well, your back is remarkably bony.”
“I do apologize for, let’s see, having a spine.”
“When the hero and heroine share a steed in the stories, it always sounds so romantic,” I said. I realized what I had said, flushed, and hurried on, “Although strictly speaking, I should probably be across your pommel.”
Thankfully, he laughed. “I think that’s for shorter journeys. Fleeing a dragon, for example. I can’t imagine that a pommel would be any more comfortable over long distances.”
“We need to rest soon.” I shifted my weight. “Either that, or I’m going to need to tie one of the blankets around your waist before I lose the ability to walk for good.”
“Perhaps if you relaxed a little, rather than sitting like a maiden aunt on a Temple pew.”
“How can you tell how I’m sitting? You can’t see me.”
He looked over his shoulder. “I can feel you. You’re completely rigid. You’ll never make the journey like that. Just … try to soften. Just a little. And hold on more closely.”
I grimaced, but tried to relax, letting myself move more naturally with Fane’s movements and allowing myself to lean more of my weight against Patrick’s back. He was right, but I wouldn’t admit it out loud. Although relaxing brought me in closer contact with him, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, it did mean that my muscles shaped themselves around his better and eased some of the discomfort.
It also meant, however, that I could no longer hold himgingerly by the hips, but had to clasp my hands fully around his waist. This made my cheeks flame, but had the pleasant side effect of allowing me to lean my head against his shoulder blade. I could almost fall asleep that way, I thought. I rested my cheek against the motley coat and breathed in his scent of soap. At least he smelled inoffensive, I told myself. Imagine if he was some enormous, sweaty man who stank of onions.
“What are you thinking?” he asked me. “You’ve been quiet now for a mile.”
“I was thinking how thankful I am that you are not an enormous, sweaty man stinking of onions.”
This startled a laugh from him. “I do my best,” he said.
Clouds gathered over the course of the day, and, by evening, it was well and truly raining. Fane, as it turned out, among her other inconvenient qualities, was not an admirer of rain.
When a horse doesn’t want to walk, absolutely refuses to walk, no amount of pulling has the slightest effect. Patrick yanked on Fane’s bridle, whispered both sweet nothings and epithets into her flattened ears, slapped her flank, and even in desperation got behind her and pushed her by the rump. None of it worked. At last, he sank down to his haunches and put his head in his hands, letting out a low growl of frustration.
“I suppose we’re camping here for the night,” I said, rather enjoying the sight of him sweating, disheveled, and, for once, not the picture of composure.
“Apparently,” he barked. Scowling and muttering under his breath, he started to remove the saddlebags, tugging at the straps as if they had personally offended him. “Plague take it!”
“Need some help?”
