Chapter 10
Saying goodbye to her good-father, Dondorian, was one of the hardest things Moira had ever done. Her large amber eyes glistened with the strain of the moment, for it had the feel of forever about it. He was a savior, a father, a friend. It was he that set her free from the slavers. And he who invited her into his wagon as a child of his own.
It was he that wrapped her in a hug that said more than the clan leader would ever voice. “We adapt, survive, maintain, circle through, but we come home. Remember that my little dream-dancer and come home.”
“Thank you, dah… for everything.” Her voice broke, and she stopped, burying her face in his shoulder.
She felt her tears soak into his rough-spun jerkin and wiped at the damp place with her hand. Her head bowed and voice a gravelly whisper, she said. “Speak a blessing into the wind for me and Kestrel each sunrise and a prayer for us, each eve.”
Her chin came up, and she pulled out of his embrace. Caussara, her good-mother, stood beside the wagon. Tears flowed unchecked down her cheeks. They had their hugs earlier when Kestrel said her goodbyes. No words were left to speak between the two. With a nod, Moira turned and climbed up onto the wagon seat.
“Northpoint Station hosts the Gathering of the Ten Clans at Mid-tinandra. The grass is tender and sweet there, that time of year. Try to make your way back north by then. Neither Academy men nor the soldiers of Sedd will find a welcome there. Until then, let the air be sweet. The earth giving. The fire, warm and welcoming. And the water never too deep or shallow. Be safe, daughter.”
With a hopeful gleam in her eyes, Moira smiled. “Tinandra seems so far away, right now. Let us hope the Fates are kind.” She twitched the reins just enough to stir the two horses from their peaceful doze.
It was a bump and jiggle ride along the dark cart track and not long before Kestrel poked her head out of the curtained back-end. Her forest green eyes were still blurry with sleep as she pulled herself up on the buckboard next to her mah.
“Why did you let me fall back asleep? I wanted to say one last goodbye to my great-father and mother?”
“A second goodbye was unnecessary, you did the first justice.”
Kestrel nodded with a yawn, dragging her fingers through her long cinnamon and honey-colored hair and quickly wove it into a loose braid, tying it off with a bit of ribbon from her cloak pocket.
“Where are Jayf and Marley?”
“They left after talking to the clan leaders.”
She sighed, her shoulders slumping with the news. “I thought we were leaving together.”
Moira shrugged and glanced at her daughter. “They go to lay a false trail but will meet with us before evening on the merchants’ road south.”
“Are there any oatcakes?”
She handed Kestrel the little packet she stowed in her cloak pocket earlier, and they rode along in companionable silence. The rattle of the wagon just another background rhythm as dawn silvered the horizon to their left. But with the light came the merchants, farmers, and festival-goers.
First just a trickle, mostly heading to Four-Corners rather than away as they were. But as the traffic increased through the morning, Moira sent Kestrel to the back of the wagon to watch for signs of pursuit. The itch between her shoulder blades said she needed to ensure the weavers didn’t find them.
The clanswoman held the reins with one hand and groped in her cloak pocket with her other. Moira fingered the clay circle Marley gave her before he left. He had told her, for it to work, she would need to keep the image she wanted firmly in mind.
But with enough focus, he said not even a Master essence-weaver could see through it. Rubbing it between her thumb and index finger, she pondered her ability to pull it off. The image of the old farmer and his grandson, whom they bought winter ripened sepota nuts from, hung in her mind.
“Kestrel, come up front and steer the horses.”
“But I thought you wanted me to watch for soldiers.”
“Their pursuit is like the thrum of horse hooves just beyond my hearing. They come, but until we see the horses, there is still a chance. Now, come up here, girl.”
Moira gave the reins over to her daughter and closed her eyes for a moment. She stroked the runic symbol engraved upon the clay and whispered, “Alarccal-tai.”
There was a slight shift in her perception and she held in her mind’s eye the picture of an old farmer and his great-son heading home from the festival with an empty farm wagon. When certain of her focus and control, she spoke softly to Kestrel.
“From now until I say differently, you are a farm boy named Varn traveling back home after unloading their wares at the festival. You are traveling with your great-father Harn Hearman.”
Kestrel frowned, her mouth shaping the word how as if afraid to vocalize the question lest she disturbed the illusion. But before Moira answered, the sound of horse hooves beating in her mind pounded into her reality behind them.
Four horses and riders pulled alongside the buckboard and she noticed Kestrel tense. She gave her a quick side glance and a slight shake of the head as the lead rider called out.
“Ho there, old man.”
Moira touched Kestrel’s hand, signaling for her to halt the horses. As the horses slowed, she turned toward the riders and nodded.
“Ho, you there. Have you seen any of the clan’s people heading south this morning? They could be in a wagon or on horseback. A girl and what would look to be a boy with long dark hair.”
Moira grunted and shook her head, slow and long. “No, no clan’s people. Most we’ve seen are headin to the Faire. Those headed south, I figure, be like us. Plum out of wares and in a hurry to return home for spring plant…”
The man cut her answer off, “What about you there boy, your eyes any better than the ol’ dotard?”
Kestrel glanced over as Moira nudged her with her knee. She kept her head down and forward and said, “I got sleep eye, sir. Yer the first I’ve seen since I woke.”
With a sneer, the rider spat and, shaking his head, he motioned for his friends to move ahead. The four galloped south on the road without a glance back. After the horses disappeared around a bend, Kestrel asked.
“How long will the illusion hold?”
“As long as I have the will and the focus.”
“The one next to the leader was the one that grabbed Jayf. His name is Mason. Next to him rode the one called Chet. I don’t know the leader’s or the other one’s name.”
“The illusion still holds and will for as long as we need. Those men will be back. It won’t take them long to recognize a dead trail.” Moira took the reins and, with a flick of her wrists, encouraged the team to greater speed.
Traffic decreased with the day’s progress, but mid-morning brought the return of the four riders. As they bore down on them, she steered the horses onto the grassy side of the track. The men passed without slowing, and Moira sent Kestrel to watch out the back. But her daughter didn’t stay in back for long. And when she once more sat on the buckboard, Kestrel looked shaken.
“They are gone now, but just as I peeked out the back of the wagon, the one called Mason turned his horse. He stood in the stirrups, his nose pointed up like he was a dog sniffin-a-scent.” Kestrel shook her head and rubbed her hands over her arms like she was chilled. “That man makes my skin crawl.”
“I believe, as Marley feared, the weavers have brought a hound. If the Fates be kind, our efforts will be enough to disguise our trail and we will not see that bunch again.”
As midday approached, Moira’s concentration flagged and she let the illusion dissipate. She knew she could summon it now with ease and that they looked for a girl and a dragonkin, not two women, she reasoned, even if they search this far south.
Marley staggered a bit as he and Jayf stepped between the Dragon Paths and the approaching dusk.
“See, it is not as bad as it used to be. Perhaps, you are getting used to the Paths,” Jayf said, his eyes swirling with amusement at Marley’s obvious discomfort.
“I may use the Paths when the circumstance demands, but I will never get… use… to... it,” the runesmith said, rubbing his hands together, his irritation forgotten in the expediency of their mission. He scanned their surroundings, trying to get his bearings. “Can you locate the weavers?”
Jayf grimaced, shaking his head. “Their essence trail is widely diffused, but it would seem Norfall had more than that handful of lackeys with him.”
The dragonkin stood silent, staring off toward the northern horizon. He chuckled suddenly and said, “You tell him, yourself. He is quite nice once you get to know him.” then nodded toward Marley as if he talked to someone that the runesmith couldn’t see.
Someone that didn’t seem to think too highly of him… Marley cleared his throat. “Ya know, I sure wish Zeph was here to tell us how things are with Moira and Kestrel. Her help is a valuable asset I oh, so-o-o erroneously brushed off,” he said with an over-dramatic sigh.
A breeze ruffled Marley’s hair, and he turned his head to find Zeph perched on his shoulder. The concern he read upon her delicate face convinced him, without a doubt, she was more than an errant breeze sent to pester him until he reached Ymarii’s lair. And reminded him of how powerful the creative flows of Tavir were, especially when spun by one in their own element.
Marley felt rather than heard Zeph’s sigh, but when she spoke, it was clear. “The Academy men had twice passed your friends before the morning disappeared. They questioned them and the runic guise you gave her held. But when the weavers passed that last time, one of them turned back to gaze long and hard at the wagon. I think he sensed something.”
“Pfft.” Marley exhaled with a sharp shake of his head and Zeph somersaulted off his shoulder, flitting over to land on Jayf. “Let us hope if he is a hound, he is sensing my runic illusion and not Kestrel. Mine will dissipate quickly, Kestrel’s, I think, will only grow.”
Marley pulled out a flask as he spoke and, after taking a long swallow, handed it to Jayf. The dragonkin sniffed at the uncorked flask before drinking. The runesmith grinned, thinking of the time Jayf took a gulp from his offered flagon, only to choke on a mouthful of Muldarian Brandy. Never again has he drank from a flask, without the ritual sniff.
“I think we need to split up,” Marley said, putting away the flask. “If you would use the Paths to join Moira and Kestrel,” he paused, considering his own next moves. “I believe I will ask Zeph to accompany me as I try to draw those that hunt Kestrel away. The farther from Sedd they get, the harder it will be for them to continue the pursuit and they won’t find a welcome to the east or the south.”
Jayf nodded, a quizzical look on his angular face as Marley once again patted his belt pouches, checking his rune assortment. “You expect trouble,” the dragonkin stated.
Marley shrugged and cursed himself for taking in so much work from the townsfolk of Northpoint Station. He had woefully neglected his own stores, but said with a resolute grin.
“Trouble will find us no matter where we set our cappy, so let’s be about it. We’ve dragons to meet and a couple of fair ladies to save.