was, the more restless he became.
That, Bronwen declared early and often, was ridiculous. This was perfectly ordinary, early summer weather, a bit ill-timed but in no way unusual.
Egil could hardly disagree. Every Herald knew by now what hostile Magecraft looked like, and this had none of the signs. And yet there was that itch in the region of his tailbone, which nothing but riding onward could scratch.
Cynara had no objections to offer. She said nothing at all of praise or complaint. When the rain soaked her white coat until the black skin showed through, or the little stream she had begun to cross swelled suddenly into a chest-deep torrent, or the smooth road ahead turned out to be a sucking quagmire, she lowered her head and set her ears and slogged silently on.
So did Rohanan. Bronwen was by no means silent, but she did not turn back, either. She had the stubbornness that a Herald needed, the devotion to duty that could take her to the borders of death if need be.
Egil had not thought he was that devoted. For years it had been his secret shame. But in the wind and the rain and the occasional and increasingly rare moments of sun, he found he had no desire to turn back. The Queen needed him. Therefore, he would do as he was ordered.
By the sixth day, Egil had begun to wonder how many weeks it would take them to reach Shepherd’s Ford. The town must be flooded, if the weather there was anything like what it was here. Every stream they met was brimming over the banks, and while no bridges were out as yet, water was lapping over the highest of them.
They had had to camp in the rain the night before, and it seemed they would have to do it again tonight. The only inn along this stretch of road stood on the banks of a river, and its lower floors were flooded out. The best the innkeeper could do was direct them toward the nearest high ground and wish them luck.
The days were long at this time of year, and Egil could see clear sky ahead. Cynara was not averse to going on, though he was less sure of Bronwen. When they sloshed past the hill, on which a fair-sized village of tents had sprung up, she seemed hardly to notice.
He frowned. Was the girl ill?
Egil trusted Cynara implicitly. Even so, he had the same strange feeling just then as he had about the weather. Something was odd and growing odder the farther he rode.
The promise of brightness floated ahead, always at the same distance. The rain slackened, but the clouds above the Heralds were as thick as ever. Thunder grumbled inside them.
Egil’s thought brought Cynara to a halt. Rohanan went on a few strides but then stopped as well, turning his weary head and drooping, dripping ears to stare at them.
“We’re riding in circles,” Egil said.
“We’re not.” Bronwen’s retort was pure reflex. But then she twisted in the saddle, staring as her Companion did, in a kind of baffled anger. “What do you mean? The road is as straight as it’s supposed to be. We haven’t repeated any turns.”
“We haven’t,” he agreed, which only baffled her the more. “Oddities, the Queen said. Strange things surrounding a certain valley to the south. We push on through storms that refuse to stop, moving slower and slower, and now we’re at a standstill. We seem to be moving, the land seems to be changing, but the horizon never shifts.”
“That’s what it does,” she said. “It’s the horizon. It’s always in front of us. We can’t ever reach it.”
“We can’t,” he said, “but what’s under the horizon ought to change. And it’s not.”
Comprehension dawned in her face. “It’s like one of your classes. Question after question, and the answer’s never any nearer.”
“It’s never any farther, either. The answer is always right in front of you. You just have to understand how to see it.”
“Well, how do we see this?” she demanded.
“We stop asking the same question over and over,” he said.
She did not understand, but her Companion did. His head came up; he snorted. His tail lashed like an angry cat’s. Even Bronwen’s unshakable seat rocked visibly as he launched himself upward toward the line of light that had tantalized them for so long.
Cynara gave her Herald more warning. It was the highest jump she had ever tried. The mud sucked at her; the rain and wind tried to beat her back. She shook them off with as much impatience as he had ever seen in her.
The storm rose like a wall, crested, and sank away. Egil braced for the landing—even a Companion might come down hard after such a leap.
She landed like a feather in a wash of clear golden light. Egil stared at the green field around them, the clear sky overhead, and the sun riding low over a line of deep blue hills. There was no sign of the storm.
None at all. Heralds and Companions were dry, warm, and unvexed by muddy feet.
“Now that was odd,” Bronwen said. “It must have been magic.”
“Or something like it,” he half-agreed. “This must be the Osgard Valley, which means that Shepherd’s Ford must be—”
The river was running high and quick, as it should in the spring, but it was well shy of flood stage. Wherever the rains had been, they had not caused trouble here.
The town was a clean and pleasant place. It was full of gardens, all in bloom, and there were two inns, both of which looked well and tidily run. Egil might yet find himself lodging at one or the other, but the tickle in the tailbone that had brought him here was urging him to look at the riding school before he went anywhere else.
It had been market day in the town, and a few booths were still up, selling spring lettuces and bright ribbons and an array of saddles so fine that even in his current state Egil would have stopped to admire them, if Bronwen had not pushed on past.
The last thing he needed was to lose his intern just before they reached their destination. She was drawing all the attention, as usual; people saluted or called greetings, and a few edged a little too close, trying to touch her Companion.
Cynara could have tolerated that, but Rohanan was young and a stallion and it was spring, and within a furlong he was ready to jump out of his skin. Bronwen did not look too comfortable, either.
Cynara established herself beside and a little behind the younger Companion, presenting her broad and well-muscled hindquarters to the next hand that tried to take liberties. Egil smiled down at the white-faced man who had felt a hoof pass within a hand’s breadth of his skull, nodded amiably, and rode on.
The word spread as quickly as he had hoped.
In some towns, that would not have been enough. This was a town of horsemen. People got the message. They even seemed not to resent it.
The riding school stood on the western edge of the town, surrounded by a patchwork of fields. Egil glimpsed horses grazing on the new spring grass as he rode past neatly kept fences toward the tall wooden gate. It was handsomely carved with scenes of horses at work and play, and riders winding in skeins through a chain of oval arenas.
He had little time to study the carvings. The gate swung open before he had a chance to pound or shout, showing a sandy yard within and a short and wiry man in well-worn riding leathers, whose face broke out in a broad and astonished grin. “Egil! Cousin! What in the world are you doing here?”
“I might ask the same of you,” Egil said.
His cousin Godric’s grin grew even wider. “I just came here a month ago. I’m in charge of training the young horses—they have so many, and such quality, you can hardly imagine.”
“I’ll be eager to see,” Egil said.
“Oh, you’ve heard of us?” Godric seemed delighted. He extended his welcome to the younger Herald and both Companions, calling stablehands out to look after the latter and herding the Heralds into what must, in its time, have been a baronial manor.
