more confidence.
She headed for a tangle of vines -- none of which moved, or had bones beneath them -- and high, rank bushes, all of which showed the familiar summery verdancy. As the pair forced their way in past the tangle, breaking twigs and bruising leaves, Tarma found herself breathing in an astringent, mossy scent with a great deal of pleasure. The mare seemed to enjoy the odor too, though she made no move to nibble the leaves.
There was a tiny spring at the heart of the tangle, and Tarma doubted she'd have been able to locate it without the mare's help. It was hardly more than a trickle, welling up from a cup of mosscovered stone, and running a few feet, only to vanish again into the thirsty soil. The mare slurped up the entire contents of the cup in a few swallows, and had to wait for it to fill again several times before she'd satisfied her thirst.
It was while she was awaiting Hellsbane's satiation that Tarma noticed the decided scarcity of insects within this patch of growth. Flies and the like had plagued them since they entered the Pelagirs; as a horsewoman, Tarma generally took them for granted.
There were no flies in here. Nor any other insects. Curious...
When the mare was finished, Tarma guided her out backward, there being no room to turn her around; it seemed almost as if the bushes and vines were willing to let them inflict a limited amount of damage in order to reach the water, but resisted any more than that. And as soon as they were clear of the scent of the crushed vegetation, the flies descended on Hellsbane again.
An idea occurred to her; she backtracked to the bushes, and got a handful of the trampled leaves and rubbed them on the back of her hand. She waited for some sort of reaction; rash, burning, itching -- nothing happened. Satisfied that the vegetation at least wasn't harmful, she rubbed it into the mare's shaggy hide. It turned her a rather odd shade of gray-green, but the flies wouldn't even land on her.
Very pleased with herself, Tarma watered Ironheart and repeated the process on her. By the time she'd finished, the sun was well up, and she was having a hard time keeping her eyes open. She was going to have to get some rest, at least.
But that was another advantage of having battlesteeds.
She loosed Hellsbane and took her to the entrance of the circle. 'Guard,' she said, shortly. The mare immediately went into sentry-mode -- and it would take a determined attacker indeed to get past those iron-shod hooves and wicked teeth. Now all she needed to keep alert for was attack from above.
She propped herself up with their packs and saddles, and allowed herself to fall into a half-doze. It wasn't as restful as real sleep, but it would do.
When hunger finally made further rest impossible, it was getting on to sunset -- and Kethry was showing signs of breaking out of trance.
She'd carefully briefed Tarma on what she'd need to do; Tarma shook herself into full alertness, and rummaged in Kethry's pack for high-energy rations. Taking those and her waterskin, she sat on her heels just outside of the inscribed circle, and waited.
She didn't have to wait long; Kethry's eyes opened almost immediately, and she sagged forward with exhaustion, scarcely able to make the little dismissing motion that broke the magic shield about her. Tarma was across the circle the instant she'd done so, and supported her with one arm while she drank. Kethry looked totally exhausted; mentally as well as physically. She was pale as new milk, and scarcely had the energy to drink, much less speak. Tarma helped her to her feet, then half-carried her to the tiny campsite and her bedroll.
Kethry had no more than touched her head to her blankets than she was asleep. She slept for several hours, well past moonrise, then awoke again with the first appearance of the lights and noises that had so disturbed Tarma the night before.
'They seem to be harmless,' Tarma began.
'They are. That's not what woke me,' Kethry croaked from a raw throat. 'It's coming -- what I called -- '
'What did you call, anyway?'
After a swallow or two of water, Kethry was better able to speak. 'A kyree -- they're a little like wolves, only bigger; they also have some of the physical characteristics of the big grass-cats, retractile claws, that sort of thing. They're also like Gervase's folk; they're human-smart and have some gift for magic. They'd probably do quite well for themselves if they had hands instead of paws -- well, that's one reason why some of them are willing to become mage-familiars. Another is gender. Or lack of.'
'Get'ke?'
'Kyree throw three kinds of cubs -- male, female, and neuter. The neuters really don't have much to do in pack-life, so they're more inclined to wander off and see the world.'
Kethry broke off, staring over Tarma's shoulder. Tarma turned.
