them safely warm around the campfire of the Company.
She woke to a thin cold rain falling out of thick clouds. Canna looked gloomier than the weather. “We can’t find our way in this,” she said. “We need the sun for directions. Unless you have another trick, Paks—”
Paks shook her head. “No. All I know about this forest is that it’s big, and the farmers near Rotengre said it was full of brigands.”
“That’s all we need,” said Saben. “Brigands. Brrr, it’s cold. And wet. We can’t sit here and do nothing, Canna. We’ll have to find our directions somehow.”
Canna spread her hands. “And if we get lost? We could get farther from Rotengre than we are now, if we wander around.”
They ate an ample but damp breakfast, huddling under their cloaks. Paks looked back the way they’d come, seeing nothing but rain-wet trees. Any brigands, she thought, would be holed up in a dry cave or fort. She shifted restlessly and a trickle of icy water ran down her back. She looked at the others. Saben, for the first time, looked sulky. Canna was staring glumly at the ground.
“Could we—” she began slowly. Canna looked up. “Could we try to find the road again and follow that? We must be far ahead of the column, and the wagons will slow in this wet. Or if you think we can’t find the road by cutting through the forest, we could backtrack to the edge and go that way.”
Saben smiled at her. “Good idea. Canna, we can do that, can’t we?”
“I suppose. I still worry about getting lost, and if we backtrack, we’ll be closer to Siniava.”
“If we stay here, he’s coming closer to us. At least that gives us a chance—and they can’t see far in the rain.”
“True. I’d be glad to be moving, myself—the Duke needs to know.” Canna looked around. “Let me think. The road was off to our right, and we were headed that way—I remember that holly tree. I think we should go this way—” she pointed. “Do you agree, Paks?”
“Yes.” Paks rose, and the others followed her.
Sopping undergrowth slapped against their legs; they were soon much wetter, though warmer for the walking. Rain fell out of the sky with quiet intensity: never hard enough to force a halt, but never stopping. Paks thought of her first long march, the wet days on the road south of Verella. She glanced at Saben, wondering if he remembered; his face was thoughtful and remote.
After some time, they saw that the ground was rising in a rocky hummock. They paused to consider which way to take. Paks was not tempted to suggest a trip to the top of it.
“If we bear right,” said Canna, “we’ll come to the road sooner, but closer to the column. If we bear left, we could swing too far from the road.”
“Let’s toss,” said Saben. He pulled a copper from his pouch.
Canna took the coin and tossed it. “St. Gird, guide our way,” she said as it spun over and over. Paks caught it and slapped it on her arm.
“Shears, we go right,” said Saben. She uncovered it, and the shears of Sorellin were uppermost.
“Right it is,” she said.
Circling the hill led them back sharply right at first, but after awhile Paks felt they were back to their original heading. She wondered how close the road was; her stomach clenched in anticipation. What if the column was already there? She looked at Canna. Canna’s face was set and grim. At last they came to a gap in the trees. This time Canna moved forward while the others waited. When she came back, she was grinning.
“It’s the road. And it’s muddy, so they’ll be slowed down.”
“Are you sure it’s the right road?” asked Paks.
“Yes—that’s the best part. Remember that place where a pine on the bank had been struck by lightning, and a bush was growing out of the dead limb? There couldn’t be two such, just alike. This must be the right road. We’ve a long march in this weather, but at least we can’t get lost. I think—I really think we’re going to make it. By Holy Gird, I think we are. Let’s go.” It was now nearly noon; they ate as they marched, moving back from the road, but keeping it in sight. They stretched their legs, making the best time possible. Canna was smiling, and Saben hummed softly, his stolen blade bouncing slightly where he’d tied it atop the pack. With every stride Paks felt safer from the menace behind; she let herself think of hot food, a dry bed, clean clothes. The hill they had circled fell away behind them; other hummocks rose ahead. Still they kept the rhythm of their strides, not stumbling now or weary, with their goal so close.
Chapter Eighteen
They missed the armed band until they were face to face. Eight heavily armed brigands in scale and chain mail, with good swords at their sides, seemed to spring from the trees to surround them. Two had shields. Paks clawed for the blade slung over her shoulder. Canna had no time to string the bow; she was grabbed from behind and wrestled to the ground. Paks found herself facing three men, who circled to get behind her. Her longsword gave her a better chance than Saben’s curved one, but not much. She backed a step, glancing around. Canna was heaving and pitching under two of the men, and Saben fenced frantically with three opponents. She parried thrusts of two blades at once, and dodged the third. One man tried to get behind her again; she backed quickly, unable even to look behind.
Paks heard a hoarse cry from Saben, then Canna: “By St. Gird!” Again she retreated, and again. Canna yelled, “Paks! Run! Run for it!” just as Paks backed another step and the ground gave way beneath her. She tucked her head and tried to roll as she tumbled down a high bank of earth and leaves into a shallow stream. Above her was a roar of laughter, voices, and the squelch of wet leaves as someone started to follow her down. She forced herself up, stumbling on a loose stone, and fell again. But her vision had cleared, and she saw the single pursuer, picking his way carefully down the slope. He was only halfway, and testing his footholds.
Paks gathered her legs under her, then realized she had dropped the sword in her fall. No wonder he wasn’t in a hurry. Then she remembered Canna’s words. She looked around; above her, the ruffian chuckled at her evident fright. That way, she decided, upstream. Taking two quick breaths, she hurled herself into a run along the creek bed. The brigand shouted and threw his sword at her; it missed by a foot, but she did not stop to grab it. Behind her came other shouts. She ran as fast as she could, watching her footing. After fifty yards or so, the creek banks were not so steep, and she scrambled up the south bank and set off through the woods. She heard arrows thunking into the trees around her, but none touched her.
After the first frantic spurt, she settled into a steady run, wondering if the brigands had horses. She was not sure of her direction. Darkness closed in around her. She slowed to a jog after several falls, but kept going. She could not stop. She swung right, back toward the road. When she could not run any more, she slowed to a walk, gulping for air. Wet ferns whipped her legs; vines tripped her. Somewhere she lost her cloak, and she was wet through. Keep moving, she thought. Keep going.
When she came to the road at last, it surprised her. For a moment she could not think what it was, or why she had wanted to find it. The rain had stopped; the road was just visible against the solid dark of the trees. Paks turned and walked beside it, just out of the mud. She got her breath back, and began running again. Canna’s cry rang in her head. And Saben. What had happened to Saben? She found herself running faster, and sobbing as she ran.
After some time she realized she was no longer running beside trees: the forest was behind her. She stumbled into a brimming ditch beside the road, and scrambled out on the wrong side. It didn’t matter; she settled back to a jog and went on. The fields were soft with rain; she staggered when she hit the deeper mud of plowland. Her thighs ached. She slowed to a walk; the night grew lighter. She hoped for dawn, but looked up to see the clouds blowing away and stars shining between them.
At last she saw the twinkling watchfires ahead. She forced herself into a run again, terrified that something, even now, would come upon her before she reached the Duke. By the time she hit the outer guard perimeter, she was staggering with weariness.
