another sight of them. One, in particular….
A circular section of the mist between her and Tre'valen brightened - and then suddenly it was as if he were staring out a round window onto a road.
There were three riders framed in that 'window,' riding side-by-side. First was that incredibly handsome young man, this time with his long hair bound in a single braid down the back of his neck, and dressed in a motley of robes that would have been, separately, breathtaking and striking, but worn together presented a vision of the most appalling bad taste that An'desha had ever seen in his life. Around his neck, the young man bore a jangling tangle of cheap and tawdry jewelry, and surmounting his head was a -
Well, An'desha could not call this 'creation' a 'hat.' It was turbanlike, but so huge that it made his head look as if he were the stem of a mushroom, with a huge, scarlet cap. It, too, was covered with tinsel and jewelry, and rising in moth-eaten splendor in the front was a cluster of the saddest plumes ever to have sprung from some unfortunate bird.
His mount was a dyheli, but one with gilded horns, ribbons woven in his tail, and mismatched bells jangling all over some kind of harness as bright and tasteless as the rider's robes. The dyheli seemed to find this as amusing as the rider did.
And perched on his shoulder, in a state of resigned disgust, was a white firebird, wing-primaries and tail- feathers dyed in rainbow colors, with a huge ribbon-cluster tied onto its head, and ribbon-jesses trailing from bracelets on its legs. It was most definitely not amused.
An'desha smothered a giggle.
'Makes quite a sight, doesn't he, our young Firesong,' the old woman said, grinning. 'Now, looking at that, would you ever guess him to be a Tayledras Healing Adept?'
'Never,' An'desha said firmly. 'Nor would I take him to be other than a charlatan.'
'Most wouldn't take him at all,' she said dryly, 'for fear his clothes might stick to them.'
It was hard to turn his attention away from Firesong - for even done up in all that laughable 'finery' he made An'desha ache with odd longings. He did look away, though, for the other two riders would be just as important to him as the handsome young Hawkbrother.
They rode a pair of glossy, matched bays, but were otherwise completely unremarkable. They were just another pair of shifty-eyed toughs. Under the slouches and the skin-dye, the oily hair, the sneers and the scuffed leather armor, he could see that the two were that Elspeth and Skif he had also seen before, in Tre'valen's vision. But it would have taken the eye of someone who knew them to see a pair of fine young Heralds in these two ne'er- do-wells. He guessed, from their postures, that when they walked, Skif would swagger, and Elspeth would slink. He would not have trusted either of them with a clipped coin, and he rather fancied that when they entered a place, women rushed to hide their children.
The vision shifted, and it was clear that the three were riding in front of a wagon, drawn by mules. And there was Nyara, beside the driver, wearing practically nothing at all, with a collar and chain holding her to a huge iron ring beside the wagon seat. She did not seem in any distress, however; in fact, she had draped herself across the seat in a languorous and seductive - and very animalistic - pose. Beside her, wearing a less flamboyant version of Firesong's motley, was Darkwind. He slouched over the reins, his posture suggesting that he was both submissive and bored. His hawk sat on his shoulder, looking around alertly, with ribbon-jesses like the firebird's, but without the ribbon-hat.
But the collar and leash on Nyara bothered him, and made him worried for her. What would she do if some toady of Ancar's attempted some kind of attack? 'The collar snaps right off,' the old woman assured him, evidently reading his mind as easily as the Avatars did. 'She can be rid of it any time she likes. They're playing at being entertainers, with a traveling Faire. Firesong's a magician with a trick-bird act, Darkwind is his assistant, Nyara is his 'captive cat-woman.' She does a dance where she takes off most of her clothes, too; I tell you that makes the hair on these villagers curl. The other two are selling a bogus cure-all that Firesong supposedly makes. It's spiced brandy with some good herbs in it, which is more than I can say for most quack cure-alls, and they price it about the same as a bottle of brandy, so people are willing to buy.'
An'desha stared at Nyara, not because he found her seductive, but because an idea was slowly beginning to form in his mind. 'Wise One,' he offered, hesitantly, 'You do know that if Falconsbane should hear rumors of a cat- woman, he would be eager to know more. He might even try to see her for himself. He does not know it was Nyara who smashed his crystal and flung him into the Void.'
'He doesn't?' the old woman replied, her eyes brightening with interest.
'No,' An'desha said firmly. 'I know his mind, and I know that he never knew that. At the moment, he believes that she fled into the East. He could readily believe she came far enough to be caught by these folk. And he does not know how far to the East he truly is from his home.'
'Really?' The old woman's eyes narrowed in sudden concentration. 'Now isn't that a bit of interesting thought! I'll pass that on, and we'll see if we can't build on it, eh?'
He smiled shyly back at her, and was about to ask her where she was in this caravan - and then felt the laggings that meant Falconsbane was about to awaken.
'I must go!' he said - and plunged away.
