Another charge of electric blue-black light snapped and crackled over Zendrak's cloak then shot down his arms. His fingers discharged the current into Yafatah, who yelped as much from fear as from the intensity of the electrical shock. Just when she had given up hope that she would ever escape this terror, the horseman dropped her to the ground. He sped away. As Yafatah fell sideways, she heard the growling lunge of one of the wild dogs. She also heard the sound of a deft intervention. The dog howled in agony, its throat cut. As the cur rapidly drowned in its own blood, the rest of the pack broke cover, baying and snuffling. Yafatah heard the muffled plunge of Crazy Kel's knife once more. Another dog screamed as Crazy Kel continued to notch the night with her terrible skill. Yafatah scrambled to her feet, her akatikki in hand. There were too many dogs—even for the black-robed giant standing beside her. Yafatah squared her shoulders, and entered the snarling fray. Waiting until one of the dogs attacked her singly again, Yafatah fit her blow-tube with two sleep darts—wishing anew that they had been marked with poison. True, the Asilliwir herbal sleep potion was potent, its effect long lasting. It was not, however, immediate. So two darts were better than one. Yafatah smiled grimly. She would use the same dose on the madwoman beside her, she decided. When this was over. And without warning. Yafatah had seen Crazy Kel's level of expertise with the knife now. She must not permit the woman to take her by surprise. If she did, Yafatah knew she would never survive the night. Hearing a growl to her left, the young girl whirled, sending her darts airborne as she did so. There was a surprised whimper and the satisfying crash of a large dog seconds later. Feeling pleased with the trueness of her aim, Yafatah reloaded her akatikki. The woman in black swore unexpectedly. Breaking free from the queer, monotone rhyming she had used before, Kelandris said clearly, «I've been stung in the face by something.» Then, feeling the unseasonable heat of a certain desert wind, Kelandris added in a more horrified voice, «Greatkin-have- mercy—don't do this to me again! Don't bring me your thaw. Don't bring me your thaw in autumn.» Yafatah stared at the woman in black. Kelandris had her hands stretched out in front of her—as if she were reaching for something she could not see. «He's gone,» said the fifteen-year-old girl, taking aim against another attacking dog. «Who's gone?» asked Kelandris, her voice puzzled. Yafatah stiffened as the truth dawned on her; Kelandris of Suxonli had not seen the man on the blue-black mare. The wind changed. Yafatah wrinkled her nose. What was that peculiar smell? she wondered. Horse sweat and something else. Then her eyes widened. Sniffing the sleeve of her red tunic, she realized she had the smell all over her. Chapter Four Yafatah was never certain what happened next. Everything at once, it seemed. The wild dogs of the Feyborne continued their attack, snarling and snapping at the young girl's legs. She fought them off valiantly with well aimed kicks and the sleepy sting of her darts. Crazy Kel did likewise, her knife slick with the blood of the ravenous curs. At odd moments, however, Crazy Kel also complained viciously of a growing numbness in her body—so much so that young Yafatah finally had to wonder if maybe she'd inadvertently hit the madwoman with one of her akatikki darts. Yafatah shrugged. Kelandris had mentioned being stung by something very shortly after she'd let the first darts fly. And there had been two in the blow-tube. Yafatah pressed her lips together. Somehow, that man on the big horse was involved in this. Somehow, she thought, sniffing the fingers of her left hand and wrinkling her nose once more. The scent wasn't bad, she decided. Just strong. However, before she could consider the' matter further, chaos erupted around her. It seemed the calvary had arrived—in the form of ten members of her Asilliwir clan, all of them on foot, all of them carrying torches and darts. Dogs fell right and left. Sometime during the melee, Crazy Kel fled to the woods, her black clothing rendering her all but invisible in the forest shadows. Yafatah watched her leave but was distracted by her mother's glad hug. She crushed the girl to her bosom, her voice choked with the happiness at finding her only child still alive. Her mother's name was Fasilla. She was an herbalist-healer. Unlike her daughter, Fasilla was Asilliwir born; it was from Fasilla that Yafatah had received her southern brogue. «Child, child—doon't ever frighten me like that again!» «Well, I didna' mean to,» replied Yafatah indignantly. She scowled. Her mother made it sound like she'd gone looking for the wild dogs. «They came all of a sudden, Ma—from noowhere.» Fasilla grunted with agreement. «Blast these Feyborne. It be just like them to let something fierce bad happen. They be a tricksterish range; they doon't be called Rimble's for nothing!» Fasilla spat on the ground at the thought of Greatkin Rimble and all his mischief. «But the Springs do be good, Ma—» «For the Piedmerri born, perhaps. But clearly not for the Asilliwir.» «But I can feel their good, Ma,» protested Yafatah, all of her native Tammirring-born psychic senses on the defensive. «I can almost hear them talking to me, Ma. If we could stay a little while longer—» Fasilla regarded her daughter wildly, her irritation with Yafatah's thinking evident on her tanned face. «Ya,» she said fondling her daughter's dark hair roughly, «you do be almost killed out here. Have you noo thought for your own safety?» Yafatah stared at the ground. «I just wanted to listen to the Yellow Springs, Ma. I thought they might talk to me about me dreams. That be all.» Fasilla turned Yafatah toward the caravan park and smiled. «Never you mind. We'll see to what ails you come the morning.» «We will?» asked Yafatah, her expression dubious. Fasilla nodded. «We do be leaving at dawn for Jinnjirri country. For that dream doctor I do be telling you about.» Yafatah said nothing, her green eyes angry and trapped. Dinner with a southern Asilliwir clan was traditionally a rowdy affair, the meal ending with dancing and musical accompaniment. As Yafatah picked at the remains of sweet beans and jerky on her plate, a few of her adoptive landkin scrambled to their feet and beckoned to her to join them in a fast moving circle dance of all women. Yafatah declined their invitation with a shake of her head. Drums and flutes soon trilled the night with a lively melody. Feeling miserable, Yafatah put her plate aside. She was about to get up and head off to bed when one of the younger clan children grabbed her sleeve and offered the older girl a piece of fresh fruit for dessert. «Pommins?» asked Yafatah in wonder. «Where did we be getting these? I thought they be long out of season.» «While you were being dog meat,» replied the child, «we had visitors. One was a caravan out of Speakinghast. Seems you can get anything in a city as large as that,» added the twelve-year-old. «Here—take it.» She grinned, exposing a hole in her front teeth—one she'd recently acquired in a fist fight with an older Brother. «I've had three. One more pommin, and I'll puke.» Her name was Cass, and she was from northern Asilliwir, a region known for blunt speech. Yafatah accepted the proffered fruit greedily. Pommins were her favorite food. Colored like a peach but having the tough skin of an orange, the pommin was an eastern delicacy. Yafatah peeled the skin slowly, exposing the sweet, golden meat of the fruit. She bit into it, wincing in preparation for the tangy burst to come. Scarlet, jewel-like seeds exploded in her mouth, their juice slipping over her lips. Yafatah's eyes danced. «It do be ripe!» she cried with delight. Cass put her hands on her hips, her blue eyes annoyed. «What? Give you a green pommin? What kind of friend do you think I am?» «Mmmm,» said Yafatah, nodding her head and taking another large bite. At her passion (and the pommin) got smaller, it suddenly occurred to Yafatah that Cass had not told her who the other visitor to camp had been. She inquired between mouthfuls, wiping her lips with her tunic sleeve. Cass looked uneasy. «I won't tell.» Yafatah shrugged. «Why?» she asked, her expression puzzled. «It'll only make you pissy, Ya. And you've been pissy a lot lately.» Yafatah's cheeks flushed. «Thanks. That do be a fine thing to say.» Cass swore. «Your Ma said for me to keep my lip closed. I'm just doing what she asked me to do, so don't get sore with me, Ya. It's not my fault.» Yafatah nibbled at the empty peel of the pommin, her expression thoughtful. «It was old Jamilla, wasna' it?» Cass's jaw dropped. «How in Neath did you figure that out?» «Easy,» said Yafatah in disgust. «Ma forbade me to talk to the old woman this morning. She said she'd tell Jammy off, too, if she ever saw her again.» Yafatah sighed sadly. «That do be a terrible thing Ma did. Jammy was me friend.» My only real friend, thought Yafatah in silence. Cass rolled her eyes, her face contemptuous. The hardness of her mouth expressed all the prejudice her kin felt toward Jamilla's kind, the Mayanabi Nomads. «Why are you so loyal to that stupid, old bagwoman?» «Jammy doon't be a bagwoman!» «Well, she wears nothing but rags, Ya. And she smells—» Yafatah jumped to her feet unexpectedly, sending the pommin peel flying. Old Jamilla did smell, she thought in astonishment. And it was a smell a little like that of the dark horseman! Jammy. She had to find Jammy. She would understand what Yafatah had seen out in the woods. And she would believe her, too. Not like Ma before dinner, thought Yafatah angrily. An hour earlier, when Yafatah had tried to tell her mother about the woman in black and the electric-blue charge of the horseman, her mother's face had gotten her «worried look.» Then Fasilla had changed the subject, pulling Yafatah into a discussion about their dawn departure for the land of Jinnjirri. In no time Yafatah's waking nightmare had become lost in a mass of details: what provisions they would need, which harness they would use on the pair of gray geldings that drew their wagon, the condition of the horses' shoes versus the condition of the roads they'd be travelling. Yafatah had tried to bring the topic of conversation back to the woman with
the knife, but Fasilla prevented her. Yafatah fell into a sullen silence at this point and had refused to speak to her mother for the remainder of the evening. Fasilla, for her part, had put her daughter's ill humor down to sleeplessness and the trauma of having nearly been eaten by a pack of wild dogs. If Yafatah needed to make up stories in order to make herself feel better—make herself look braver—then Fasilla would permit it just this once. After the child saw the Jinnjirri healer, however, all this fanciful fibbing would have to stop. Fasilla, like her daughter, was a very honest person. She was also, like her daughter, very opinionated on certain subjects. Lying
