last known positions of our opposition’s encampments. The quartermaster will have supplies, equipment, horses, and those robes ready for you in the morning. You’ll ride out at first light. And, Horatia?”
“Yes, Commander?”
“I’ll want the name of the armorer you got your new armor from. He does good work. Dismissed.”
The first wagers were won and lost when both women came out of the commander’s pavilion still alive.
To any spies or casual observers, the two figures on the road looked just like any other pair of Priestesses of Piltha. Certainly, the one riding in front was quite a bit larger and rounder than most they might have seen before, but beyond that there was nothing about them that warranted undue attention.
The women rode in silence. Horatia’s eyes moved constantly in a steady sweep of the surroundings, alert for any indication that they were not alone. Maran’s eyes were—much of the time—closed, boredom and the swaying of her horse having considerable soporific effects. Two days in a row, they halted mid-morning to rest and water the horses, then again at mid-day to eat a light meal of dried meat and travel bread, at mid-afternoon, and near dusk to make a sparse camp. Through it all, except for occasional instructions from Horatia, not a word passed between them. For Maran, it was an entirely new experience.
By mid-afternoon of the third day, she’d had enough. “Are we going to pass the entire journey without talking?”
Horatia sighed heavily and mumbled, “Apparently not.” A bit more loudly, she asked, “Is there something we need to discuss, spellslinger?”
“That word, for one thing,” Maran replied, pulling even with Horatio. “I have a name, and yet you insist on calling me by that pejorative term. Spellslinger.” She spat the word as if it were an unripe fig.
“Where I come from, you only call your kin, your friends, and your swordmates by their names. And you are none of those to me.”
“But that word demeans both me and my calling. It’s . . .” Maran groped for further condemnation to level against it. “It’s nothing but the basest slang.”
Horatia chuckled. “You’re likely too highborn to have heard the basest of slang for your kind. ‘Spellslinger’ is downright polite compared to it.”
“It’s uncivil and uncollegial,” Maran lectured. “And it’s an insult!”
Horatia shrugged. “It’s also an accurate description of what you lot do.”
A look of frustration crossed Maran’s features. Having someone fail to immediately apologize and modify their behavior or language when she labeled it as she had was another new experience. The thought crossed Maran’s mind that Horatia might be uneducated or feeble-witted. She decided to explain it in more colloquial, more personal terms. “Wouldn’t you be insulted if I continuously referred to you as an ugly cow?”
“Not particularly,” came the immediate reply. “I’ve been called all manner of female animal in my life. Doesn’t make me one of whatever they’re calling me.”
“Wouldn’t you feel demeaned?”
“No.”
“Damaged?
Horatia laughed. “By words? Swords do damage. Spearpoints getting past my shield do damage. Getting whacked by a mace could split my skull. Words are just sounds in the air. The only power they have over me is what I’m willing to give them.”
“Oh, for . . . ” Maran pulled her horse to a halt and waited for Horatia to rein in. When the warrior kept moving, the mage sighed and nudged her horse to follow.
Near mid-morning on the fourth day, Horatia heard Maran ask, “Why do you dislike me?”
Without looking back or altering her horse’s pace, Horatia replied, “Is there some reason I’m not aware of that would cause me to like you?”
“Why do you dislike mages, then?”
“Because I haven’t met one yet who could be trusted.”
“How dare you insult me again!” Maran shrieked as her horse came even with Horatia’s.
“Two things,” said Horatia, conversationally. “First, if you don’t want to hear an answer you will take as insulting, don’t ask me a question about what I think of mages. Second, stop screeching. I’m fairly sure the priestesses we’re supposed to be don’t scream like bann seighe, so anyone who might be watching us at the moment might start to wonder who we really are. Not something we want to have happening just now.”
The mage took several long, slow breaths. “Very well. Asaria is a friend, and she told me what happened during that battle. Terribly unfortunate, but surely you can’t believe she was deliberately attacking you, can you? Accidents do happen, even to the best of us.”
“And Asaria didn’t even remotely approach being the