Fulk drew the Circle at his breast. “May God have pity on us. I’ll be glad to see spring, my lord prince.”
“It is spring in Wendar,” said Breschius, “but when the winter cold blows off and warmer weather comes, then the travel will get worse since it rains all day.”
“And in summer you boil,” said Hathui.
Sanglant laughed. “A fine place to make your home. Come,” he said to the slave, “grab the rope.”
Each afternoon when they stopped to set up camp, a Quman boy strung up a rope between the two camps in case of blizzard. Because the ground was frozen, they could not drive in a post on which to fasten their end of the rope, so Gyasi and his nephews had volunteered to act as post wardens and gatekeepers. They strung the rope from the small felt tent in which they sheltered each night. Sanglant ducked under the awning that protected the entrance of their tent, slung at an angle to cut off the prevailing wind. The old shaman crouched at the threshold, eyes closed. Behind him, glimpsed through a slitlike opening, Sanglant saw the twisting flame of a lamp and dark shapes clustered around it. An owl hooted nearby, calling out of the night, and Gyasi raised hands to his mouth and answered it.
“Great lord,” he said without opening his eyes. “Be warned. Storm comes.”
“Worse than this? Is there any threat to my people?”
“I am still listening.”
Captain Fulk followed him under the awning.
“Captain, send word along the line for the men to make sure everything is secure.”
“Yes, my lord prince. Do you desire an escort?”
Sanglant glanced back toward the slave, who was, he gauged, out of earshot. He spoke quietly. “We still have Bulkezu. If I show weakness or anything they interpret as fear, the Pechanek may feel free to attack.”
“They might take you prisoner, my lord prince, and then we would have to bargain for your release.”
“We have sworn oaths, an agreement.”
“People are tricky,” Gyasi said, still without opening his eyes. “One man may promise life to his brother and after this stab him in the back.”
“What protection should I take?”
One of the nephews eased out from between the slitlike entrance. He dropped to one knee before Sanglant in the gesture of obedience common to the Quman, then slipped out into the night with his bow case bobbing on his back.
Because of the way the light cast shadows, Sanglant could not see Gyasi’s face distinctly, but he knew when the shaman opened his eyes. That stare could be sensed even when it could not be seen, as a man can feel the glare of the sun on his back or the appraisal of an interested woman.
“We protect you, great lord. Bulkezu had one time a brother who is like me a shaman. Now he is dead.”
“He is the one whose magic killed Prince Bayan.”
Gyasi shrugged. Bayan’s fate held little interest for him. “Many seasons ago I am driven out of the tribe like a sick woman with no sons to protect her. My cousins know I hold no love for them in my heart after they have beaten me with sticks and burned my tent. No shaman walks with the Pechanek tribe who is so powerful that he can walk the shaman’s path beside me. Do not fear them. They fear me. If they kill you, I will eat their flesh and grind up their bones to feed the dogs.”
Sanglant laughed. “Then I shall walk into their camp without fear. I’ll go alone, Fulk, with Breschius and Hathui. They can’t kill me in any case, even if they try, and it’s better if they continue to fear me because I do not fear them.”
“I do not like this, my lord prince.”
“I have made up my mind.”
Fulk nodded unhappily. He was the most valuable of captains: a good man in all ways, including knowing when his protests might receive a hearing and when it was better to shut up.
Gyasi shut his eyes, humming in a singsong voice as though he had forgotten them.
Sanglant stepped out into the full blast of the wind and took hold of the rope. As they trudged across the open ground, the lamp sputtered and went out despite its glass casing, but with a hand on the rope it was possible to move with reasonable certainty across the uneven ground. A dark figure ghosted past—one of Gyasi’s nephews, scouting the perimeter. They and their uncle guarded the camp at night and slept by day on horseback. The cold never seemed to bother them.
Was it wise to leave his life in their hands? Or was he becoming more reckless? This long journey chafed him, thrown on the mercy of others without being able to choose direction or speed. Once upon a time he had ridden at his father’s behest and never questioned, but he had lost the habit of obedience; he could no longer bear to be ruled by another, and he knew that he put himself at risk every time he pushed at the boundaries of what seemed possible.
He had forged out into a wilderness of his own making. He did not know what he would find at the end of his journey.
Before the winter, he could have smelled the stink of the Quman camp long before he reached it, but ice and snow had their mercies. Sooner than he expected, he came to the end of the rope, which was tethered to a slender line hung with tiny bells that encircled the entire Quman camp. The bells chimed in counterpoint to the whine and thrum of the wind among the tents. Only as the sentry stepped back to let him pass, ducking under the line, did he catch a hint of the familiar rank stench of rancid grease compounded with offal, sweat, and farting horses.