The Horse headman shrugged her shoulders. “The usual for this horto.”
Kitai drew in a quick breath.
Doroga grimaced. “You know what I’m trying to do.”
“The Wolf is right about one thing. You challenge tradition with this, if not the law. If you stretch things too much, you will lose the support of your own Clan, and mine. Best, I think, if you stay close to tradition wherever you can now.”
Doroga looked at Tavi, then at Kitai. “Are they old enough?”
Tavi stepped forward. “Wait just one second, here. I did what you said you wanted me to do, Doroga. What have I gotten myself into?”
Hashat turned to Tavi. “Aleran. You are alive, and not a meal. For that, you should give your thanks to Doroga, and be silent.”
Tavi snapped, “I don’t think so. This place almost exploded today. I’m being used. I think it’s polite to at least tell me how. And why.”
Hashat narrowed her eyes and laid a hand on the hilt of her saber, but Doroga shook his head. “No. He is correct.” Doroga moved back to his stone and sat down, heavily. “Valleyboy, you have agreed to a Trial of Wits with Kitai. The victor in the trial will be considered to hold the favor of The One in the question you raised.”
Tavi frowned. “You mean, if I win, then I’m right, and my people are not the enemy of the Marat.”
Doroga grunted assent. “And my Clan, and Hashat’s, will refuse the leadership of Atsurak, who moves against your people.”
Tavi’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding me. Half the Marat horde just vanishes? Just like that?” He turned to look at Fade, his heart beginning to pound. “Fade, did you hear?”
“You haven’t won the trial,” Kitai said, spitting the words. “Nor will you.”
Doroga frowned at his whelp and then said to Tavi, “It is my wish that you should win. I can take my people from this conflict. But it may not be the desire of The One.”
“I know it isn’t mine,” Kitai said. The young Marat nodded to his father and then said to Hashat, “Is your offer still open?”
The Horse headman glanced at Doroga. Then nodded to Kitai. “Of course.”
Kitai nodded at that and then stepped close to Tavi, multicolored eyes narrowed. “Wits or strength, it doesn’t matter to me, Aleran. I will beat you.” Then he shot Doroga an angry glance and stalked off down the hill.
Tavi blinked. “But . . . I would have thought he’d want to help you.” He glanced at Doroga.
The Marat shrugged. “My whelp will try to defeat you. As it should be. It is a good trial before The One.”
“But . . .” Tavi swallowed. “Trial of Wits? What is it?”
Doroga said to Hashat, “See to it that they are prepared.” Then he turned and walked down the hill after his whelp.
Hashat folded her arms over her chest and eyed Tavi.
“Well?” Tavi asked. “What am I supposed to do?”
“You will leave this night, to return with the Blessing of Night from the Valley of Trees,” Hashat said, simply. “Who returns with it first is the victor of the trial. Follow me.” The Marat started off down the hill, lean legs taking long steps.
“Blessing of Night, Valley of Trees. Right, fine.” Tavi turned to follow her, but stopped as Fade caught at his shirt. Tavi turned to the man, frowning. “What is it?”
“Tavi,” Fade said. “You must not do this. Let me face the trial.”
Tavi blinked. “Uh. Fade. It’s a Trial of Wits, remember?”
Fade shook his head. “Valley of Trees. Remember that.”
The boy frowned, turning to Fade. “What do you remember?”
“It is what the Marat call the Wax Forest.” Fade looked past Tavi to the retreating Hashat, his scarred face haunted. “One of you will surely die.”
CHAPTER 27
Fidelias stopped, panting, as he and Aldrick emerged from the heavily forested regions northeast of Bernardholt and reached the causeway that led down the Valley and ultimately to Garrison. His feet, though he had wrapped them in strips of his cloak and urged his furies to ease his way, had worsened. The pain alone was nearly enough to stop him, even without the fatigue from too long spent walking, castingback and forth in a fruitless effort to catch the wily Steadholder.
Fidelias sank onto a flat stone beside the causeway, while the swordsman paced restlessly out onto the road. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Why don’t you just zoom us along like before?”
“Because we haven’t been on a road,” Fidelias said from between clenched teeth. “Riding an earthwave along a road is simple. Using one in the open countryside, without intimate knowledge of the local furies is suicide.”
“So he can do it, but you can’t.”
Fidelias suppressed a sharp comment. “Yes, Aldrick.”
“We’re crowbait.”
Fidelias shook his head. “We’re not going to catch him at this rate. He left a half dozen false trails behind him and waited until we bought one of them before he raised his wave and went.”
“If we had the horses—”
“We don’t,” Fidelias said bluntly. He lifted his foot and unwrapped some of the cloth.
Aldrick paced over to him. He stared down at his feet and swore. “Crows, old man. Can you feel them?”
“Yes.”
Aldrick knelt and unwrapped a bit more of the cloth, assessing the injuries. “Getting worse. There’s more swelling. If you let this go, you’re going to lose them.”
Fidelias grunted. “There’s still time. We need to—” Fidelias looked up to see Etan dancing frantically in the nearest tree. He cast his eyes down the road west of them. “Aldrick,” Fidelias said, keeping his voice low. “Two men on the road coming toward us. Legion haircuts, both armed.”
Aldrick drew in a breath, closing his eyes for a moment, “All right. Legionares?”
“No uniforms.”
“Age?”
“Young.” Fidelias touched the stones of the road with one foot, reaching out for Vamma. “Using the road to help them run. Moving fast. They’ve got some training in war-crafting.”
“How do we do it?”
“Wait for me to say,” Fidelias said. “Let’s find out whatever we can first.” He watched the pair of young men come running toward them along the road and managed a pained smile as they approached and slowed their pace. “Morning, boys,” he called. “Have you got a minute to help a couple of travelers?”
The young men slowed, and Fidelias took in the details as they came closer. Young, both of them—less than a score of years of age. Both were slender, though one was tall and already seemed to be losing his hair to a receding hairline. They shared similar long, lean features — brothers, perhaps. Both were panting, though not heavily, from their run along the road. Fidelias tried to smile again and offered them his water flask.
“Sir,” panted the taller of the young men, accepting the flask. “Much obliged.”
“You hurt?” asked the shorter. He leaned a bit closer, peering at Fidelias’s feet. “Crows. You’ve really gotten them torn up.”