Dro reached the fire and began to put fresh wood on it. Myal went after him, uneasily skirting each dark thicket and shrub, looking often at the oak tree on the hill.
But in the firelight, Myal relaxed somewhat. Dro had taken up again his position as watchman, though seated, his shoulders resting on a trunk.
Myal sat on the grass, glad to be near the fire. Dro’s carven, seemingly immovable figure was a shield between Myal and the night.
“How long are you going to watch?”
“Don’t worry about that. Worry about remembering what you may have inadvertently picked up, whatever it is she’s using to come through. Rack your brains. It shouldn’t be hard with such a limited number.”
Myal did not react to that. He was disorientated, so relieved to be no longer alone, he was almost happy. Eventually he asked, in a contrite voice, very aware of its inappropriate request: “You don’t have anything to eat, do you?”
Myal emerged from a thicket, flicking burrs off his sleeves with pedantic elegance—the cover for embarrassment—lacing his shirt and hopping, half in his boots, half out.
“I stripped and turned my clothes over.”
Dro stood and looked at him.
“I didn’t find anything that could have come from her. Nothing. Not even a hair.”
“All right,” Dro turned away.
“Of course, you don’t believe me.”
“I believe you.”
Brashly, Myal said, “Maybe she gave you something.”
“All she gave me was a claw mark down the side of my face. Which has healed.”
“Yes. Heal quickly, don’t you? Anything you can’t do?”
They ate the portion of bread that was left and drank water from the spring. Myal felt a constant urge to apologise, and started to whistle to prevent himself. Then he became conscious he was whistling Ciddey’s song, and went cold to his groin.
Dro started off with no apparent preparation, just rising and walking away. Myal uneasily followed, keeping to the rear, subservient, dog-like and self-hating.
They moved along the side of the ravine, which narrowed and finally closed together. They picked a way down into a valley, and through the valley, and into another valley.
The land had all the same smooth blankness. No smoke rose, there was no stone that had not fallen naturally upon another. There was not even a field which had gone to seed. Not even a ruin. If anyone had ever passed that way he had not lingered, and all trace had been obliterated.
Myal grew jumpy with uneasiness. All his roaming had been at the periphery of towns, villages, courts. He was so ill-prepared for anything like this. He did not even have a bottle to collect drink from springs or streams, having lost the one he had had in an unsuccessful fight half a year before. That he had never thought to replace it was indicative of its unessential quality. Yet, he had gone searching for Ghyste Mortua. For Tulotef.
Where had he first heard of it? Where had the notion of a song of the undead first caught his fancy? He could not recall.
Now, in any case, he had no choice.
And having dogged Dro, begging to accompany him, once Dro was determined that he should, Myal longed to run away. Though run where, and with what ghastly ghostly thing in pursuit?
A wide escarpment floated up from the valley, long dusty concaves of parched and whitened grass, periodically steepled with dark green trees. Near the top, biscuit-coloured slashes and streaks of clay daunted Myal with their elevation. Yesterday’s ride had knotted the muscles of his legs. At first he had walked the stiffness out. Gradually, it was returning.
Some early currants were beaded along a wild fruiting hedge. Myal tore them off and ate them ravenously. Then he gathered others and advanced on Dro, catching him up for the first time, and offering the gift ingratiatingly.
Rather to Myal’s surprise, Dro accepted the currants and ate them, as if he had not noticed them himself.
“It’s past noon. When do we rest?” wondered Myal.