What was she doing? The wind was strong now, blowing the smell away. What was she doing? Lying there? Flat? Only her eyes had dimension. Only her eyes.
They hurt. She blinked, noticing that they were dry, aching. She hadn’t blinked. Not for a long, long time. The skin on the back of her neck itched, as though something were watching her. She turned, trying to see through the curtaining grasses. Something was out there. She couldn’t see it or hear it, but she knew it was there. She wriggled back down the slope, stumbled through the grasses to find Quixote where he lay as she had left him but with his head up, ears erect and swiveling, nostrils twitching. The sun was falling toward the horizon. Tall grasses feathered the hollows with long, ominous shadows. She urged him up and mounted, letting him have his head, trusting in his ability to bring them both home if they were ever to come there again.
The stallion moved by a route more direct than the one they had taken in the morning, though still moving as though someone called his name. He was as aware as she that darkness was not far off, more aware than she of the threat abroad in the grasses. Quixote could smell what she could not, Hippae, many of them, not far away but upwind from them. They had been coming closer for the past hour, moving this way and that, as though searching. Quixote leaned into his stride, eating the prairie with his feet, returning to Opal Hill in a long curve which took him as far from the approaching Hippae as he could get, gradually lengthening the distance between them. Out there, somewhere, something approved of him. Something told him he was a good horse.
They arrived at the stables just at dusk. The stableman she had entrusted with her message was waiting for her, his eyes on the horizon as though to judge whether she had returned by sundown or not. “Message, Lady,” he told her eagerly. “Your son’s been looking for you. A message came for you, private. From bon Damfels’ place, he thinks.”
She stood beside the horse, trembling, unable to speak.
“Lady? Are you all right?”
“Just … just tired,” she mumbled. She felt dizzy, unfocused, unsure what had happened to her. It was like a dream. Had she really gone out alone? Into the grasses alone? She looked into the horse’s eyes, finding there an unhorselike awareness which for some unaccountable reason did not surprise her. “Good Quixote,” she said, running her hands down his neck. “Good horse.”
She left him with a final pat and went up the path as quickly as she could, still stumbling. Tony was watching for her from the terrace. “Where’ve you been? You tell me not to go out there alone and then you go off for a whole day. Honestly, mother! You look awful!”
Carefully, she decided not to respond to this. No matter how she looked, she felt … better. More purposeful. For the first time since her arrival in this place, purposeful. “The stableman said something about a message?”
“From Sylvan, I think. He’s the only one who calls you ‘The honorable lady, Marjorie Westiriding.’ It’s keyed for you. I couldn’t read the thing.”
“What on earth?”
“What on Grass, more likely. Come on.”
“Where’s your father?”
“Still on that damned machine.” There was a catch in his voice, as though either grief or anger lurked just below the surface.
“Tony. There’s nothing you can do about it.”
“I keep feeling I ought to—”
“Nonsense. He ought to stop this nonsense. If you took part in it, too, everything would be worse than it already is.”
“Well, there’s no way to interrupt him, and he’s got another hour or two.”
She sat down at the tell-me, letting the identity beam flick across her eyes. The message began on the screen: PRIVATE, FOR THE INTENDED RECIPIENT ONLY.
“Tony, turn your back.”
“Mother!”
“Turn. If he’s said something embarrassingly personal, I don’t want you seeing it,” she said, wondering as she said it why she should think Sylvan would be that personal.
She pressed the release and saw the message in its entirety. PLEASE HELP. NEED TRANSPORT FOR SELF, MOTHER, TWO OTHER WOMEN TO COMMONER TOWN. CAN YOU BRING AIRCAR QUIETLY TO BON DAMFELS VILLAGE? SIGNAL PRIVATE.
“Turn around, Tony. It’s all right.”
The boy read, stared, read once more. “What’s going on?”
Evidently Sylvan needs to get Rowena away from Klive but can’t do it on his own. He has to do it secretly. The implication of that is that he has to keep it from someone, probably Stavenger.
“Do you think Stavenger bon Damfels found out that Rowena came here to ask about Janetta?”
“Possibly. Or maybe she’s had a fight with Stavenger and is afraid. Or you make up some other story. Your plot is as likely to be true as mine is.”
“I’m pretty good with the aircar by now.”
“So’s Persun Pollut. I need you to stay here and explain to your father if he asks where I am, which he probably won’t.” The bitterness in her voice was clear to the boy.
He flushed, wanting to help her but not knowing how. “Why don’t you let me take them. Or send Persun alone.”
“I’ve got to talk to Sylvan. I saw something today….” She described the cavern and its occupants in a rapid, excited whisper while he stared, asking no questions. “Metamorphosis, Tony! Like butterfly from caterpillar. The eggs must be Hippae eggs. They hatch into peepers. I didn’t see that, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. The peepers metamorphose into hounds, and the hounds into Hippae. A three-stage metamorphosis. I don’t think the Grassians even know,” she concluded. “No one’s said a word
