“Go cautiously,” Navis said, “since the pursuit is now ahea—” He turned round in surprise as the cart came splashing through the river, too, with water whirling from its wheels. “I thought you were leaving us, Singer.”
“There are only two ways to go,” Hestefan pointed out. “I chose not to turn back.”
This seemed to be Hestefan’s way of saying he was not going to leave them after all. They went on together, the same party, apart from Wend striding alongside, and the river Dropwater went with them, too, sometimes winding in the distance, sometimes skirling along beside them, and growing steadily larger. A long way farther on, they came to the place where the band of hearthmen had camped for the night. There was not much to see, merely hoofprints and the cold ashes of their fire, but it sent Navis very cautious again. From then on he was either watching for prints in the green road or scanning the distance on either side.
It was empty distance, all green sheep runs and faraway dark peaks, but there were sheep and, once or twice, a shepherd a long way off. Maewen found herself staring every time they saw a shepherd, expecting him to come striding toward them and turn out to be Wend. But no shepherd did more than turn and look at them. She was quite surprised to be missing Wend so much.
When they camped that night by the river, Navis insisted that they find a place a long way back and hidden from the road. Hestefan drove the cart after him along the riverbank just as if he had never threatened to leave, remarking cheerfully, “We’ve made good time without a walker to slow us down. We’ll be at Dropwater tomorrow.”
As they dismounted, Moril hopped off the back of the cart and came over to Mitt. “That’s a relief,” he said. “I wouldn’t have known what to do if he’d decided to leave. I’m sure he’s not well.”
Maewen led her horse into the river, still thinking about Wend. She had been sure he would get over his anger and come back, but now she began to see that he was not going to. It was Noreth he followed, not her. So what was she going to do? She had, she saw, been relying on Wend to get her back to her own time. Perhaps she never would get back. She thought of Mum and Aunt Liss and Dad and felt a touch of fear—but only a touch. She was surprised not to be much more frightened.
“The Wanderer is no loss,” said the deep voice. “You never needed him.”
Maewen jumped and shuddered, wondering if it—he—could read her mind. “Didn’t I?” she said. “That’s a weight off my mind!”
Sarcasm always seemed to pass Kankredin by—if it was Kankredin. The voice went on imperturbably, “From now on, look for an opportunity to stab the Southerners. The danger from them is growing.”
“Anything you say!” Maewen told it bitterly.
It was a great relief to her over supper to hear Navis arranging with Mitt for the two of them to keep watch that night in turns. Those pursuing hearthmen had been a blessing in disguise. Kankredin could not expect her to try to kill them tonight. But she was terrified of what might happen when he found she had no intention of trying.
They went on again next day through the same rolling green country, with Mitt yawning and Navis red-eyed. Maewen was inclined to be sorry for them until Mitt said, “I’m used to it, and Navis is one of those who just get sharper for it. Mind you, I’ve only seen him lose four nights of sleep, but he never turned a hair then.”
She realized Mitt was right when Navis spotted the faint marks where the party of hearthmen had turned off the green road to the left, to follow a disused-looking path that led toward the mountains. Navis pounced on it like a cat. “Where does that lead?” he asked Hestefan and Moril.
“You can cut through to the North Dales that way,” Moril said.
Navis narrowed his eyes at the path and then raised them to the mountains. They were nearer here. Ahead they curved inward and seemed to stand right over the green road. “And can horses work their way round through the tops to come back to the road?” he asked.
“Possibly,” said Hestefan. “But the river goes down to Dropwater there.” He pointed to the craggy eminences ahead. “We only have to go down into the valley to be safe.”
“If they don’t reach us first,” Navis said.
From there on he rode with his pistol ready in his hand. When, around midday, they reached the crags, and the road wound in among them, Navis’s eyes were continually flicking to the skyline above, watching for an ambush. Mostly he watched to the left. But if there was a heathery dip in the crags above the Dropwater, which now roared beside the road as a wide wild torrent, Navis was sure to check that, too.
Half a mile farther on, the Dropwater suddenly spread wider still, into an immense flat sheet of racing water, and seemed to plunge off the edge of the world into vague blue distance. The road curved so that they could see where it fell and fell and fell, nearly a mile of falling white water, in smoky rainbows and wet thunder. The noise was enormous.
“Quite something, isn’t it?” Moril yelled.
Maewen turned to shout back and saw a squad of armed men running toward them from farther up the road. Her hands leaped to the Adon’s sword, lying crosswise in front of her saddle, and then fell away. Navis swung round with his pistol ready. She saw him lower it. There were so many armed men. They were all wearing dark red and blue livery, except for the man in front who seemed to be waving at them, and she was sure she had seen those colors before—Oh. Maewen looked down at herself. She had grown so used to her clothes that she had thought of them as just clothes. But she was wearing the same dark red and blue. The man in front was in expensive scarlet silk and red leather, and he was definitely waving to her.
Maewen slid down from her horse. This was like Kredindale, only possibly worse, she thought, as she went hesitatingly to meet him. To her gratitude, Moril realized she would need help and hopped off the cart to come with her.
“Who is he?” she half shouted, under the roar of the falls.
“Luthan!” Moril yelled in her ear. “Earl of Drop-water. Noreth’s cousin. He’s been her hearthlord these last two years. Don’t nod at me! Smile at him!”
Maewen stretched her mouth into a grin. At least, she thought, this saved them from any ambush.
The Earl of Dropwater pelted up and stood in front of her panting and smiling. “Cousin!” he b
awled.
“Hearthlord!” Maewen shrieked back. He was awfully young. She took him for her own age at first sight. But as he laughed and seized hold of both her hands, she saw he was older than that, maybe at least eighteen. He was one of those people who have pretty pink and white faces, all curves. As he laughed, he tossed back glossy black hair.
“At last!” he shouted, fluttering long dark eyelashes Maewen truly envied him for. “Where have you been? We expected you yesterday at the latest.”