Bai watched Lute approach, then rode forward to greet him.

‘Did you find somewhere for us to stay?’

‘I did.’ Lute reined in, drooping. His coat, rendered so dull with the removal of its bright bells, was spattered with mud. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and slid shakily out of his saddle. ‘The house up yonder is the only safe place we’ll reach tonight. I’ve asked the man there if we can stay. He agreed, for five Moons, and for one night. After that, we’re on our own.’

‘He’s the last house?’

‘Yes, for another three or four days, or so he says.’ He looked like he’d ridden himself half-ragged. Clusters of burrs and wild grass clung to his coat hem. ‘I told them we have two women with us, and they’ve offered a space by their hearth fire for them. We will sleep in the barn.’

‘Good enough,’ said Bai, trying not to feel annoyance that he, a Tethiri war-rider, should be expected to bed down among the goats with his shield-bearer.

But Lute would not have stated their own status to the farmer. He chided himself for his arrogance, and smiled. ‘Who did you say we are?’

‘I did not,’ said Lute. ‘They did not ask. They told me the best way to travel on to Oldhaven. They think that’s where we’re going.’

‘Then they can continue to think that.’ Bai stood up and wrapped his reins around his hands. ‘And the women? Did you say anything about who they are?’

‘If they ask, we can tell them I am your slave,’ offered Sanna. ‘I’ve heard there are plenty of slavers going through the hills to Vertland and Marisken.’ She’d packed up the tea things and now stood ready to travel.

‘No!’ Bai’s voice whiplashed the gentle hush. ‘I take no slaves! No Tethiri would ever be a slave owner!’

‘If you knew anything about us at all, you’d know that,’ added Lute. His black crescent eyes narrowed. He mounted once more and gathered his reins in hand, the other on his svárath hilt. He unsheathed it a little, and let Sanna see it. ‘And besides, any slaver going to Marisken goes from Oldhaven, by ship. Just who are you, if you don’t know that?’

Bai put his shoulder against Hálana's withers and nudged her away from Sanna. ‘She’s a woman who asked for protection. It’s our duty to give it, so we find a way. But,’ he added, to Sanna, ‘you don’t mention slaves in our hearing again. No-one would believe it anyway.’

‘They know us better than you do,’ snapped Lute.

‘Then what do you suggest, Bai?’ Sanna threw her hands up in frustration. She glowered at Lute.

‘Take her over the hills and let her loose, if that’s her manners,’ said Lute, aghast that Sanna hadn’t even offered Bai an honorary, but used his first name as though they were familiar. ‘We will have fulfilled our obligation then.’

‘You can’t mean…’

‘Go East, to the Shield,’ snapped Lute. ‘Or Iskalla, or Vallesia. Anywhere you like! Disappear!’ He flicked his fingers out. ‘Puf!’

‘Silence!’ Bai drew both knives and held them up, blade forward. ‘How can you say those things to a woman, you insolent cub? Have you forgotten that I am your war-rider and your lord?’

‘I have not! Did you say Ellazhán is to be married, and he has called for you?’

Bai mounted, and heeled Lezhnaiáth forward, down the hill and toward the town. If he lost his temper he'd lose Lute's respect, for what strong war-rider needed to argue with his shield-bearer?

‘Bai penvarzhavoy! What about your cousin?’

Bai didn’t bother to turn to look at Lute. He put his arms out and turned the knives to the setting sun, letting its fire glint on the blades. ‘I have spoken.’

Lute came trotting up abreast of him, ignoring that. ‘Do you want to tell me why you abandon a cousin who needs your help for a stray girl you never saw before six days ago?’

‘Did you hear me? I said: I have spoken!’

'I heard you! And I have asked you for your reasons for leading us all into danger for one who is not even Tethiri!'

Bai crossed his blades in front of his face.

Lute stared at Bai for a moment, then dipped his head, subordinate once more. He put his palms over his eyes in brief submission, then over his heart. 'Vol’ch zhabis Ni. I heard you.'

'Good.' It wasn't good enough. Not by a long shot, but Bai sensed his hold on Lute slipping. Too harsh, and he'd lose him. Too soft and he'd lose him. He swore inwardly, not knowing how to strike the balance that would manage Lute effectively. He couldn't afford to have any arguments or insubordination when they went through the hills.

Bai sheathed the knives and let his stallion have his head, his reins looped loosely over one wrist. He whispered a Rune as he rode, one for protection. He wished he had the way of the High Roads, but he’d never been able to completely master that method of travel. It was too painful, and he would need to be on his best form. And he doubted he could have taken another five riders with him, even if he had mastered it.

One, maybe. The Hanscánid said it could be done. He wished he had more time to learn.

He looked at Sanna as they rode. Her green eyes flashed at him as she glanced his way. She could ride well enough, though she didn’t sit in her saddle quite at ease as the Tethiri did. She was too stiff. She needed to relax, to loosen up, to ride as though she were only an extension of her horse. There was no Rune for that. He grinned as the thought came to him. Only his people had the magic for riding the way they did. Only his people could saddle the wind and ride the lightning.

Horses and wind are not all we’ve ever ridden. The legends say our hero rode Dárag Seren out from the Serenthyr and into the Eiddilthyr, and nearly brought the sorcerer Laiharth low!

He drew a hasty Rune over his heart. That had resulted in the Lyr Blaed being cursed forever, their dark magic turned against them, condemning them to a half-life enslaved to the witchbane. It was supposedly better than leaving them to the full, merciless horror of their curse.

But some had chosen that path. Tales came to the caravans now and then, of a deadly and ruthless folk called the Lyr Celain. Bai couldn’t help a shudder. Lyr Celain.

The name meant folk of the corpse. Undead.

Wild-eyed storytellers told the tales in hushed voices, hunched under their thick hoods, as if a mere piece of fabric could fend the Lyr Celain off. Peasants and nobles alike wore talismans of ground bones and Rune-carved amber, and necklaces of dried herbs, and tattooed their wards on their chests and foreheads, and sold more of the same to anyone gullible enough to believe anything like that could offer any protection against the Lyr Celain. 

‘You look as though a grey goose has flown over your grave,’ Lute said, nudging Bai with his fly-whip. ‘What is the matter?’

‘Nothing,’ Bai growled. ‘Only strange fancies. I feel like someone has an arrow aimed between my shoulder blades.’

‘You are teaching that dull-eyed shashurna the Runes – our Runes,’ Lute said, his black brows snapping together. ‘Teach me. I can learn faster than she can. And it will be me by your side when you most need someone, so it should be me who learns the best way to protect you. I am your shield and not only your shield-bearer.’

Bai didn’t hesitate. ‘No.’

‘Tell me why!’

‘Because it’s dangerous,’ said Bai. He didn’t tell Lute that he knew of the young man’s abilities as a mage. He didn’t say that as long as he had breath to speak with, he would prevent Lute from ever setting foot on the Roads. That way was too fraught with danger. Lute’s bones, so fine and strong, would break, and mend, and break again. Bai did not want to be the one to encourage him in that pain. If his magic were left uncultivated too long, it would weaken and die. Bai thought it best for Lute if it did. 

But he would not look at Lute, and see the hurt in his eyes.

‘Go and ride ahead and make sure they have water heated to wash with,’ he said. 'We'll catch up with you.'

'You will force me and Hálana into our graves this way, Bai penvarzhavoy,' grumbled Lute, but he kicked his heels in anyway, and thundered away over the grasses, his copper shield-boss glinting in the sunset. A snippet of song drifted back on the evening wind, Lute's voice like warm gold. 

'Graszele’tanshan nozh’t Na bodeiz; yi ná dáhn oud inaiá stri seren aen! Yaná stí yamar' ránzhi y megdá, má graszele tanshán!'

He shook his head, trying not to smile at Lute's audacity, and turned to the two women. 'Not far,' he said. 'There'll be hot water and hot food, and a safe bed for one more night, at least.'