The Black Raven - Katharine Kerr [165]
“Ye gods!” Keeta snapped. “He’s wandering around stark naked.”
“It certainly looks that way.” Marka felt so suddenly, impossibly weary that sitting down in the middle of the road and weeping seemed like an excellent idea. Instead she took the bundle of clothes from Keeta. “Maybe if you stood on top of that wall there and looked around for him?”
“Good idea.”
Keeta scrambled up the nearest stretch of stone wall. She balanced precariously on the top and shaded her eyes with her hand while Marka watched, hoping against hope that Ebañy hadn’t got far. Keeta turned this way and that, peered into the distance on all sides, shook her head in bafflement, then suddenly smiled.
“Hah!” Keeta pointed off into the hayfield. “Something’s moving out there. Doesn’t look like a dog.”
When Keeta jumped down into the field on the far side, Marka trotted over and handed her the bundle of Ebañy’s clothing. Scrambling over the wall, even with Keeta’s help, took her a few moments, and she begrudged every one of them, fearing that Ebañy would run off again. The green hay, all sweet-scented and rustling, closed round her like water up to her shoulders and so effectively cut her off from the view that she felt like screaming in frustration. With her height, however, Keeta could easily see over it. She shaded her eyes with her hand and peered.
“Someone or some thing is rolling on the ground,” Keeta said. “I hope he’s not having a fit.”
“I hope this farmer doesn’t see us trampling his hay.”
“We’ll buy him off if he does. Don’t worry about that now.”
With the hay murmuring around them they strode across the field. Marka could hear someone singing under his breath, harmonizing with the wind, it seemed at first. The song grew louder, burst into full voice—Ebañy, singing in the language of his far-off homeland. Marka wept in a brief scatter of tears. Keeta turned to her in concern.
“It’s just relief,” Marka said, smiling. “I was so afraid that he’d wandered into Myleton like this.”
The song stopped. Ebañy suddenly appeared, rising some twenty paces away from them in the hay, which came halfway up his chest. When Keeta hailed him, he turned their way and waved.
“Well, there you are, my love,” he called out in Bardekian. “I was just searching for prophecies.”
Marka nearly wept again, but she managed to force out a smile. Keeta sighed and shook her head.
“I see you’ve found my clothes,” Ebañy went on. “I thought I’d become a wild man and go live in the forest. They live among the trees like beasts, you see, and the lesser gods come to them and give them prophecies.”
“There isn’t any forest near here.”
“I know.” Ebañy smiled brightly. “That’s what made me give up the idea.”
They got him dressed and led him back to the road, but getting him back to the camp took a long struggle. He would walk a few steps, then fancy himself a wild man again and try to disrobe. Each time Marka would have to talk him out of it while Keeta held him pinned in her strong grip. By the time they returned to the caravanserai, the sun was setting, gilding the tents. Cooking fires bloomed among them, and the rich smell of grilling meat and griddle breads baking beckoned them home.
“I’m hungry,” Ebañy said. “Do wild men eat roast meats?”
“Of course they do,” Keeta said firmly. “Look, there are your children.”
At the sight of them, running to meet him, Ebañy burst out sobbing.
“I’d forgotten,” he said between sobs. “I can’t leave for the forest.”
“No, you can’t,” Marka said, and she hoped she sounded cheerful and strong. “We love you, and we’d miss you.”
After he’d eaten, Ebañy seemed to return to himself. He discussed the coming