unseeing for half a dozen breaths. “Oh,” he said again. “Yes. It is . . . is that what . . .”
“What?” Dy Cabon tried to make his voice gentle, but it came out edged with anxiety.
“There is something . . . in my head. Frightened. All in a knot. As though trying to hide in a cave.”
“Hm.”
It was becoming apparent that Foix was not about to turn into a bear, demon, or anything else much but a bewildered young man just yet. The seniors of the party, supporting Foix, all went a short distance away and sat on the ground to consult the maps. A couple of the guardsmen discussed the carcass in low voices and decided its diseased skin was not worth the peeling, though they collected the teeth and claws for souvenirs, then hauled it away off the road.
Ferda sorted out his map of the region and smoothed it over a wide, flat stone. His finger traced a line. “I believe our most efficient route to Maradi is to stay on this very track for another thirty miles or so, to this village. Then turn and descend almost due east.”
Dy Cabon glanced up toward the sun, already fallen behind the wall of mountains to their west, though the sky still glowed deep blue. “We’ll not make it there before this night falls.”
Ista dared to touch the map with one white finger. “If we continue only a little, we’ll come to that crossroad up to the old saint’s village that we intended to visit. We’ve already bespoken food and fodder and beds there. And we could start again early.” And there would be strong walls between them and any more bears. Although not between them and the demon—a reflection she resolved to keep to herself.
Ferda frowned. “Six extra miles each way. More, if we mistake the track again.” Just such a deceptive fork in the road had cost them an hour, earlier in the day. “Half a day’s travel lost. We carry enough food and fodder for one night—we can restock where we turn east.” He hesitated, and said more cautiously, “That is, if you are willing to endure the discomforts of a night in camp, Royina. The weather looks to continue fair, at least.”
Ista fell silent. She misliked the scheme, but misliked still more the hint that she would put her comfort above her loyal officer’s clear need. Split the party, send the speediest riders on ahead with Foix? She misliked that idea as well. “I . . . have no preference.”
“How do you feel about riding?” Ferda asked his brother.
Foix was sitting with his brow furrowed and an inward look, like a man with a stomachache. “Huh? Oh. No worse than usual. My rump hurts, but that has nothing to do with . . . with the other thing.” He was quiet a moment longer, then added, “Except indirectly.”
Ferda said in a voice of military decision, “Let us push on as far and fast as we can tonight, then.”
A murmur of agreement ran around the little council squatting by the stone. Ista pressed her lips closed.
They put Foix back up on his nervous horse—it took two men to hold the beast, and it sidled and snorted at first, but then settled as they set out again. Dy Cabon and Ferda rode close to Foix on either side. Protectively. Too late.
Ista stared at their backs as they continued down the road, such as it was. Her sense of the demon’s presence, briefly so searing, was muted again. Was it occluded by matter, or perhaps deliberately hiding itself within its new fleshly lair? Or was it her deficiency? She had suppressed her sensitivity for so long, extending it again was like stretching a withered muscle. It hurt.
Lord dy Cazaril claimed that the world of the spirit and the world of matter existed side by side, like two sides of a coin, or a wall; the gods were not far away in some other space, but in this very one, continuously, just around some strange corner of perception. A presence as pervasive and invisible as sunlight on skin, as though one stood naked and blindfolded in an unimaginable noon.
Demons as well, though they were more like thieves putting a hand through a window. What occupied Foix’s space, now? If both brothers came up behind her, would she know which was which without looking?
She closed her eyes, to test her perceptions. The creak of her saddle, the plodding of