Owlsight

She blinked at him as if that hadn’t occurred to her. “Oh,” was all she said, but as the hostile eyes of their prisoner went from him to her and back again, she visibly relaxed.

:Well done,: Tyrsell said with approval, and then they were both lying flat on their backs, staring up at branches and leaves reflecting the mage-light, as Kel and Tyrsell watched them with interest. Darian didn’t have more than a touch of headache this time; he hoped Keisha had fared as well.

Her first words seemed to indicate that she had. “Forty-one words for snow?” Keisha exclaimed in disbelief. “Why would anyone need all those words for different kinds of snow? Snow is snow!”

“All I care about is the words for ‘what the hell do you people think you’re doing here?’ “ Darian replied as he sat up, pleased to discover that he still had no more than a vague ache behind his forehead to show for this latest language acquisition.

The young man had not fared so well; he was still out cold.

:I took the liberty of giving him Tayledras, but not Valdemaran,: Tyrsell informed them loftily. :That way he will understand some of the negotiators and can act as a translator, but you will still have a language he does not know so that you can speak freely before him. Besides, it was a useful way to keep him from getting into mischief until you awoke.: The king-stag wrinkled his nostrils with his head high, testing the air. :If you have no further need of me, I will be off.:

“No further need, but we couldn’t be doing this without you. Thank you, Tyrsell,” Darian replied with feeling. :You are most welcome. I hope that your plan succeeds.: Tyrsell slipped away into the darkness, leaving them alone with the young barbarian who was just waking.

“What did you do to me?” he demanded angrily, his face contorting with the pain of his headache. “Is this some demon-born torture you’ve worked on me?”

“No,” Keisha said, “it only feels like one.” As the young man’s eyes widened to hear her speak his own language, she continued. “Our magics enable us to take what we wish from your mind, and it seemed useful to have command of your tongue. So, as you can see, there is nothing that you can keep secret from us, but taking your knowledge exacts a toll in pain from you and we would spare you that; you can suffer more of this, or you can answer our questions. The choice is yours.”

“Personally, I’d answer her,” Darian added sternly. “Or you’re likely to wish someone would kill you to be rid of the pain in your head. The more we take, the worse it will get.”

His face paled, and he appeared to wilt - and without that sullen, defiant expression, he looked several years younger than Darian.

“What do you want to know?” he asked, defeat written large in his expression.

“Your name, first,” Keisha said. “Hywel, son of Pedren, son of Hothgar the Ugly, son of - ” he began, obviously quite prepared to recite a lineage back to the beginning of his tribe.

“That’s enough!” Keisha interrupted, stopping him. “Hywel will do.”

“So, Hywel, why have your people fortified their camp?” Darian asked, keeping his stern expression. “We offered to treat with your people, but they are rejecting our offers with apparent hostility.”

“Because we are not fools!” the youngster retorted. “You threaten us, you come upon us with magic and warriors. Are we to simply lie down and allow you to slaughter us? Why are you so hostile to us? We had heard that the peoples of the south were hospitable and welcomed strangers!”

“You mean ’soft,’ don’t you?” Darian asked cynically, and the young man flushed, then paled. “Well, you’ve found out differently. We’ve seen your kind; we know what to expect from you. Four years ago, one of your clan war parties came down here, looting and killing, making slaves and worse out of my folk, ruining what they didn’t steal! Why shouldn’t we meet you with fighters and magic? We should have met you with fire and the sword for what you did the last time!”

He started to warm to his subject, but the young man interrupted him, with a curious look on his face. “Why do you say it was my people who did this to yours?”

“You’re from the north,” Darian replied stubbornly, anger burning in the pit of his stomach. “You look the same, barring a few decorations.”

“There are many Clans and tribes in the north, and most of them look the same to an outsider,” Hywel retorted, eyes flashing. “Nevertheless, they are not all the same. My people have done nothing to yours. It was not my people who put yours to the sword. My people,” he added proudly, “do not trade in, keep, or make slaves. Our fighters do not make up war parties to loot the wealth of others. I do not know which of the marauding tribes brought harm to you, but we are not them.”

That simple statement brought Darian to a halt; it had never occurred to him that the tribes of the north could be as different as, say, Valdemar and Karse.

“My Clan is Ghost Cat,” Hywel continued, with such pride that Darian was surprised. “And we are very like