Sylvanus tightened the saddlebags that clanked against the mule’s rough and dusty sides. “Shall we depart?”
Grayling, Auld Nancy, Desdemona Cork, and Pansy looked at each other, at Sylvanus, and then back at each other. Finally Auld Nancy shrugged and nodded.
As Sylvanus started to climb onto the mule, Grayling pulled on his tunic. “Do you not think,” she asked in a soft voice, “Auld Nancy might ride? Her bones pain her something fierce.”
“Nay,” said Auld Nancy, with a shake of her head. “Better for the beast to carry Pansy. She is most pale and frail-looking of a sudden, though I cannot think why.”
Pansy was to ride? Grayling thought that would be excellent, if only Pansy would ride elsewhere. Away. Anywhere but there.
“Foolish coddling,” said Sylvanus, grabbing the mule’s lead. “The girl is young enough to be strong and hardy. As they say, ‘a new shoe lasts longer than an old.’ Why, in my day, we not only did not ride mules, we sometimes carried them on our shoulders, for animals were precious and to be cared for, whereas we teemed with young people.” He combed his beard thoughtfully with his fingers. “I remember once when I had two beasts to pack over the Hermantine Pass in winter—”
“Enough,” Auld Nancy said, and she shook her broom at him. “Enough talk from you. Hailstones and thunder clouds! I don’t know if you have more words or more tears, but they both try my patience.”
Sylvanus scowled while Pansy climbed onto the mule. “What be in here?” Pansy asked, poking the saddlebags. “They do be lumpy and uncomfortable under a rider.”
“Leave off my belongings, wretched girl,” said Sylvanus, and he swatted her hands away. Pansy snorted and settled onto the mule’s back.
Auld Nancy was right, Grayling thought. Pansy definitely ailed. She’d lost her rosy plumpness. Her eyes were ringed with shadows, and she hadn’t whined or mentioned food in minutes.
As they left, Grayling turned to take a last look at the flowers Sylvanus had conjured. The bush was black and blighted, the lovely blooms shriveled. “Magic always has a price,” said Auld Nancy.
Grayling turned away, took a deep breath, and once more sang to her grimoire. The grimoire sang back. “Hurry. This way,” she said to her companions, and they followed her, heading away from the sunrise—west, the grimoire sang them ever west.
Their steps grew slower as the morning wore on, and now and then one of them stopped to rub one sore body part or another. Every sound made Grayling startle and look around, but other travelers were few and none seemed apt to threaten them.
By late morning, the sun had dried her cloak a bit, but the sun beat fiercely on the back of her neck. She envied Auld Nancy the protection of her wimple. Finally she unloosed her braid and let her hair hang down her back to cover and cool her.
On and on they walked, on and on. The morning turned to bright afternoon, and the sun shone in Grayling’s face. She had no hair there to let down. Maybe she could grow her eyebrows long enough to cover her. She snorted at the image and slowed down to walk next to Auld Nancy. “You can command the rain,” she said to the old woman. “Can you then make clouds to cover the sun? My face is sizzling like a sausage in a fry pan.”
Auld Nancy shook her head. “Belike any magic will call attention to us.”
Grayling thought of the warlord. She nodded. But without using her magic, Auld Nancy had no more power than Grayling.
After a time, Auld Nancy and Sylvanus lagged behind, each with a hand on the mule for support, and Grayling found herself walking beside Desdemona Cork. She sniffed deeply of the scent of roses. “I have been wondering,” she said to the lovely woman. “How is it to have people admire you and obey you and seek to satisfy your every wish?”
Desdemona Cork pushed her cloud of hair back from her face. “’Tis useful at times, and often amusing, but very wearying. And when the enchantment wears off, folks are confused, and I am abandoned.” She sighed a sigh that sounded like a spring breeze ruffling the meadow grass. “If I could choose, I would live in a cottage by the sea, make fresh bread, spin in the sunshine, and live on goat cheese and apples.” She sighed again. “Alone. Blessedly alone and untroubled by the wishes of others.”
“Could you not choose to live so now?” asked Grayling.
Desdemona Cork smiled, and a faint rose color tinged her cheeks. “I suppose I could. A cottage by the sea . . .” She fell into a thoughtful silence.