“We have the right to visit any village we choose, whenever we choose, for whatever purpose we choose. We’ll just smile at the templars as we leave the city, and then just not come back.”
Ruari’s eyes widened. “That’s all? That’s all? Why does anybody going in either direction ever bother to register? Just say you’re a citizen and be done with id”
“Well, well have to bribe them, too,” Pavek admitted and fell back a pace to walk beside Yohan. “How much silver have you got left?”
“How much do we need?”
Pavek rubbed his chin. “One silver piece for each of us should be enough. One silver piece for each of them—” he indicated the knot of templars, “and an inspector’s likely to offer to pull the cart for us.”
Yohan grumbled but dug out seven silver pieces. “I can pull the cart”
* * *
The coin purse was nearly flat when four loaded kanks left the open pen of the borderland homestead. Zvain proudly, but somewhat anxiously, rode by himself with the provisions on the fourth kank. Akashia rode behind Ruari. She had not awakened at all during the long, hot walk from the city to the homestead, nor when they lifted her onto the kank’s back and contrived to tie her to the saddle like so much precious cargo. With her cloth-bound head resting against Ruari’s back and her hands resting limply against his thighs, she was no trouble at all.
And no help either.
“Which way?” Pavek asked.
The sun was sinking in front of them; Urik and the homestead were behind them. They’d gotten this far simply by retracing their steps along the Urik roads. Now Pavek looked out at the wilderness. Nothing looked wrong—how could it when everything looked the same? Nothing felt quite right either, and there was a dark hole in his memory where his home—Akashia’s home—should have been.
“You don’t know the way?” Zvain sputtered. “You’re taking me out into the middle of nowhere to die?”
Ruari answered first: “We know the way. We just can’t remember all of it. Grandmother hid the knowledge away when we left for Urik. When we get to the Sun’s Fist, then we’ll remember.”
Zvain seemed satisfied with that answer. Pavek wasn’t. He thought Telhami could have trusted him at least as much as she’d trusted a half-wit scum who’d tried to poison him and then destroyed the zarneeka stowaway.
They guided the kanks in a wide arc to the north and east. The sun set and they made camp. A crackling fire kept the night chill away and turned the food Zvain had provided into a simple feast. Yohan untied the cloth covering Akashia’s eyes—over Zvain’s objections that firelight would be enough to start the Laq burning behind her eyes again. But the savory aromas that set their mouths watering and made them impatient with each other and the cookpots had no effect on Akashia. Her eyes were open again, but she didn’t seem to see the fire or anything else.
“She ate bread last night when I gave it to her,” Ruari grumbled when another piece of journey-break slipped unnoticed to the ground between her feet. “She’s getting worse, not better.”
Zvain nodded. “Laq,” he said. “It doesn’t take much sometimes. How far do we have to go? How much longer until we get there?”
“A few days.” Yohan picked up the journey-break, then threw it in the fire. He put another piece in her hand and, holding her fingers together, maneuvered the food to her lips. Her eyelids fluttered, she took a small bite and, very slowly, began to chew. “We’ll make it, Kashi. Grandmother will be waiting for us. She’ll take care of you.”
Zvain nudged Pavek with his elbow. “Who’s this ‘Grandmother?’”
“The high druid.” He couldn’t think of a better description. “She’s the one who says when it’s time to take zarneeka seeds to Urik. She’s the one who can cut the poison off at its root.”
“She can heal Akashia?”
“In—” Once again he looked for the word and found darkness instead. “At home, Telhami can do just about anything she wants, Zvain.”
“I don’t think I want to meet her. I don’t think she’s going to like me.”
“She doesn’t like me very much either, but she’s teaching me druid magic.”
Zvain’s mouth dropped open—from awe, Pavek thought, or possibly envy. They’d never talked about such things in the Gold Street bolt-hole. He didn’t know if Zvain was one of those who dreamt of magic or one of those who feared it. When Zvain edged away from him and