“Any meat? Why not blood of your own?” Roges asked.
“Because that would feed the wraith and lead it directly to the source,” said Queynt. “No, any nonhuman meat would do. It is a clever Witch indeed who can tell the difference between man blood and zeller blood by smell. Of course, Huldra may be that clever. We know almost nothing about her, including the source of her animosity.”
“Let us take her animosity as proven, Queynt, without worrying about its source.”
“Not only hers,” he said. “The Dream Merchant spoke to the Duke concerning Storm Grower. They travel to meet with Storm Grower and the Dream Miner, who also have animosity toward you. I wonder why.”
“Before traveling to the north with you, Queynt, I had heard the name twice. Once in Chimmerdong Forest, when Porvius Bloster said the order to kill me had come from ‘them, the Dream Miner and Storm Grower’. Then again on the Wastes of Bleer, Sorah the Seer said something to Peter about a Storm Grower. It made little enough sense, then or now.
“Shadowmaster. Holder of the key. Storm Grower. The Wizard holds the book, the light, the bell.” Make what you will of that, Queynt. It meant nothing to me.”
“I make nothing of it yet. Nonetheless, there is a Storm Grower, and a Dream Miner, both somewhere together. And tomorrow the Duke goes there with his ghastly maidens.”
I tried to make sense of this. “Oh, Queynt, I am too tired to think! I wish Peter and the other krylobos would come tell us pursuit has been sent aside.” Privately I was thinking it was not a long leap of suspicion from Jambal to Jinian, if the Witch knew Jinian existed. If the Witch cared. If the Witch were a creature of the Dream Miner. If. If. If. Perhaps another sending would come before long.
As though summoned by my thoughts, a cry from the forest brought an answer from Yattleby. “Pursuit ended. Peter comes.”
“We can stop,” I said thankfully, reaching for the reins. “We can stop,” I krerked to the birds.
We did stop, gratefully, waking Sylbie and the baby in the process but otherwise much gratified to be able to stretch, walk about, go into the woods to relieve ourselves.
“Doe see birs!” demanded the baby.
“What’s his name?” I asked, in a fatalistic mood.
“Bryan,” said his mother, surprisingly. “It was my older brother’s name. He had hair just this color. My mother always said I should name my first child after my brother, if it was a boy. This is Jinian, Bryan. Can you say Jinian?”
So much for Peter’s inherited red pate! I stood by as the baby did go see the birds, seeming totally unafraid of the great creatures. “This one is Yittleby,” I instructed. “That one is Yattleby.”
“Yilby,” crowed the baby. “Yalby.” He had a fine grasp of infinitesimal distinctions, this one. “Jinny,” he went on, giving me an effulgent smile.
“He’s very friendly,” murmured Sylbie apologetically. “My mother always said I was, too, as a baby.”
“A charming child.” I was cool, not very amused at myself for being so.
A disruption in the underbrush announced Peter. He came out dressed in his own Shifter fur and carrying the Zinterite garments. “Damn,” he said when told of the wraiths. “I liked those clothes. Besides”—hopefully—”I didn’t tell my name to anyone.”
“I did,” I apologized. “Unfortunately. Sorry, Peter, but it’ll be safest if you hang them.”
“What was the name we used for me?” he wondered aloud. “I’ve forgotten.”
“Chorm,” howled a hungry wraith voice, far back up the trail. “Choooorm ...”
“Oh, yes,” he said, scrambling for the straw sack and the upward trail all at once, while I mumbled the likeness spell for the fifth time. When he returned he was paler. “Nasty thing, that was. All greenish and flapping. Gamelords, but I’m glad I hadn’t met a Witch before.”
“You did,” corrected Chance. “We met one together on the road to Xammer. Before we met this Wizard,” indicating me, Jinian, with his elbow.
“Well, that one was nothing much. All Beguilement, as I recall. Nothing compared to this Huldra!”
“Huldra may have a Witch’s Talent,” said Queynt, “but mere Talent would not enable her to send these wraiths. No, she’s studied the arts. Not wisely, but deeply in a narrow way. Found some corruptible Wizard, most likely, and bought the secrets from him.”
“Did I hear Chance say you’re a Wizard?” asked Beedie curiously, eyes turned weighingly on me.
“Yes. Of a sort. A very young one,” I admitted.
“Can you do ... things like that? Like those blue things?”
“I could, yes. Likely I wouldn’t. There’s a blood price for doing things like that. One I wouldn’t want to pay, but that someone like Huldra wouldn’t mind paying. For each wraith she sends, someone dies. It is lifeblood which empowers the creatures. To Huldra, the life of a pawn or follower would be nothing. Her whole family was like that, starting with Blourbast, so I understand.”
“Bloody intentioned,” agreed Peter. “Though sometimes they hid it for a time, to further their own aims.” He was remembering the time at Bannerwell when he had been almost convinced—for a very short time—of Huld’s honor.
Sylbie and Bryan returned .from their bird watching. Bryan staggered to Peter and climbed onto his knees. Peter patted the child awkwardly as he blushed deeply. “Tows!” the baby demanded vehemently. “Tows!”
“Baby wants his trousers,” said Sylbie. “I had to take them off him. They were wet and he was getting peevish. We were so long in the wagon, and I had no others to bring.”
“Well, now,” said Roges heartily, “that’s easy to remedy. Let’s see if the wagon master keeps needle and thread and whether there is such a thing as a raggedy shirt no one needs any longer ...” He picked Bryan up, jogging him expertly, and went to query Queynt where he lay beneath a tree.
“Roges misses ours,” said Beedie. “Though none of them are babies anymore. The youngest is eight by now, five when we left.”
“Where is he? she?” I wanted to know.
“She.
