The Bristling Wood - Katharine Kerr [120]
“Tomorrow, little brothers, tomorrow we track this bear to his den.”
In unease the Wildfolk rustled around him, shoving and pinching each other, opening their mouths in gaping expressions of despair and hatred. Salamander shuddered in honest fear. For all he knew, the man that had stolen Jill was a dweomermaster of great power, and he was riding to his doom.
“You know, I suppose I really should contact Nevyn and tell him about all this.”
The Wildfolk all nodded a vigorous yes.
“But on the other hand, suppose I do, and he tells me that I should leave this nasty mess strictly alone. How then could I redeem myself for my dilatory ways this summer? I think me I’d best just continue on.”
The Wildfolk threw their hands in the air, stuck out their tongues at him, and disappeared in a wave of pure disgust.
In the morning, the dark circles under Perryn’s eyes looked as purple as fresh bruises against his unnaturally pale skin. His red hair no longer flamed; rather it was as dull and matted as the fur of a sick cat. He worked slowly, taking things out of his saddlebags, staring at them for a moment, then putting them back while Jill sat nearby and watched him.
“You truly do look ill,” she said.
“Just tired.”
She wondered why she cared if he were ill or not, but in truth, she was coming to see him as much a victim of his strange powers as she was. The thought came to her only intermittently, however; thoughts of any sort were rare these days. The pieces of gear in Perryn’s hands seemed to be changing size constantly, sometimes swelling, sometimes shrinking, and they had no edges in any proper sense, just lines of shimmering force that marked where they met the air. Finally he pulled out a plain rod of iron, about a finger thick, set in a wooden handle.
“Thank every god,” he said. “Here I thought I’d lost it.”
“What is it?”
“A rambling scribe. Never tell anyone I’ve got one, will you? You can get hanged for carrying one in Cerrgonney.”
None of this made any sense at all. She forced herself to pick it apart, a little at a time.
“We’re still in Cerrgonney?” she asked at last.
“We are, but in the southern part. Nearly to Gwaentaer.”
“Oh. And what’s that thing for?”
“Changing a horse’s brand.”
“And why will they hang you for having one?”
“Because only a horse thief would carry one.”
“Then why are you carrying one?”
“Because I’m a horse thief.”
Jill stared openmouthed at him.
“Where do you think I get the coin we’ve been spending?” He was grinning in amusement. “I take a horse from some noble lord, sell it to one of the men I know, and well, there we are.”
Somewhere, deep in her mind, Jill remembered that thievery was a wrong thing. She thought about it while she watched him repack the saddlebags. Thieving was wrong, and being a horse thief was the worst of all. If you took a man’s horse, he could die out in the wilderness. Da always said so. Da was always right.
“You shouldn’t take horses,” she said.
“Oh, I only take them from men who can afford the loss.”
“It’s still wrong.”
“Why? I need them, and they don’t.”
Although she knew that there was a counter to this argument, she couldn’t remember it. She leaned back and watched the sylphs playing in the light breeze, winged forms of brilliant crystal, darting and dodging after each other in long swoops and glides.
“I’ll be leaving you here later,” Perryn said in a moment. “We’re low on coin, and I’ve got to take a horse.”
“You will come back, won’t you?” Suddenly she was terrified, sure