Full Circle (19 page)

When there was no sound of pursuit, they relaxed a little, but Flax was still searching for any sign of cover — even a copse
would do.

They left the plain behind as the road began to wind between small hills. Flax felt more comforted as the slopes rose up around
them; they couldn’t see ahead very far, but at least no one would be able to spot them a long way off.

The sun was winning over the clouds. It was a late dawn, but it was coming, slowly. The horses were tired, and Flax kept them
to a walk, despite the urgency he felt.

Cam’s ears pricked forward and she raised her head. He was too slow; he wasn’t expecting it. She whinnied loudly and was answered
from around the bend just ahead of them. Flax looked around wildly. Nowhere to hide. They would have to brazen it out, no
matter who was around the bend.

He straightened in his saddle, reminding himself that he was a young merchant, travelling with his servants to — to where?
Sendat? Carlion? Yes, going to Carlion to find out about their family’s steward there, to get solid information about what
had happened, rather than rumours and scare stories.

He took a breath and got ready to smile as they came around the turn.

Warlord’s men. Thegan’s men. Camped, but packing up in the early light, getting ready to move on. Flax’s face froze, but he
kept Cam moving, raising a hand to the soldiers as if in casual greeting. But one of them, a solid good-looking man in his
thirties, moved across their path and raised a hand to stop them. He had the arm ring that identified him as a sergeant.

Flax reined in amiably, and nodded. “Morning.”

“You’re out early,” the man said.

“Heading for Carlion. Long way, so we got off early.”

“Where are you from?”

“Baluchston,” Flax said, hoping it was the right choice. But it was the only free town on this road, and they needed to be
from a free town if they were going to get away with this.

“Really?” the sergeant said, and he looked back at Swallow and Rowan. That was bad. Flax forced himself to not look. “Just
stay here a moment, lad.”

The sergeant walked back to speak to another man, a tall pale-haired officer wearing the signature ponytail, who was about
to mount a big bay gelding.

He looked just like a warrior out of the old stories, the kind of man that Flax had secretly wanted to be as a very young
boy, before he’d found his voice. He’d been ashamed of it, but all the same he’d dreamt about riding tall and fair on a chaser
stallion — though he knew, as a horse trainer’s child, that few stallions made really good chasers. For the first time, he
thought that maybe he could go back, someday, when he tired of the Road, and help his father…

If he didn’t deal with this, there’d be no future, and no chance of ever seeing his father again. He swallowed down his fear,
and prepared to lie until his face turned inside out, the way the old mothers said it would if you fibbed.

But he didn’t have the chance.

The officer took one look at Rowan and Swallow, and a closer look at him, and simply said, “I’m sorry, but all Travellers
from Baluchston must go to the fort at Sendat.”

“I’m not a Traveller!” Flax tried to put as much indignation into his voice as he could.

“No?” The man seemed prepared to grant him exemption, but then one of the soldiers came and whispered to him. The officer
firmed his mouth — gods, a gorgeous mouth! — as though he were disappointed, and turned to Flax. “Dern says he’s seen you
singing. A voice like a lark, he says. A Traveller.”

That was bittersweet, to be skewered by his own talent. Flax shrugged and smiled as charmingly as he could. He didn’t think
it would make any difference with this one, but flirting worked with astonishing people sometimes.

“It was worth a try,” he said.

The officer smiled, genuinely amused, but unfortunately not attracted at all. “You misunderstand. My lord Thegan is offering
sanctuary to all Travellers — there have been killings right across the Domain and my lord is gathering Travellers for their
own protection.”

“So we’ve been told,” Swallow said. “But we were in no danger in Baluchston.”

“You were in great danger, whether you knew it or not,” the officer said firmly. He turned to an archer. “Horst, take them
to the fort.” With a shock, Flax recognised the man who had pursued him and Ash in Golden Valley — the man Ash had saved from
the wind wraiths.

The archer stared at him, and flushed as if remembering his fear of the wraiths, then turned away, pretending he didn’t know
Flax. Good. Flax was happy to go along with that. The officer looked at the ground for a moment, as though trying to decide
what to say, then looked up and met their eyes, gazing at each of them separately, as though he wanted them to pay great attention.
“My lord is generous, but he requires his orders to be followed. I would advise you to go with Horst.”

It was clear he meant it. Just to add weight, Horst shifted his bow and fingered the arrows in his quiver. The officer hadn’t
ordered him to bring them down if they tried to escape, but it was clear that he would. They all knew it. Flax was suddenly,
sharply glad that Zel was safe with Safred. No one would attack the Well of Secrets party.

“Our horses need rest,” Flax said. “We’ve been riding all night.”

“Take a break here, then, Horst, and have them back to the fort by tomorrow evening.” Horst nodded. “Alston,” the officer
said to the sergeant, “let’s be off.”

The men mounted and rode on, the sergeant leading the squad.

The officer lingered a moment. “See my lady Sorn if you need anything,” he said, then shook his reins and his horse began
to trot after the others.

Flax looked warily at the archer.

“Down you come,” Horst said. “Don’t think I’m going to help you with your animals.”

Well, that was clear enough. They dismounted and led the horses to the stream, where Flax, with some clumsy help from Swallow
and Rowan, unsaddled, fed and watered the horses, then groomed them thoroughly before throwing himself on the grass and eating
the food Swallow had ready for him. Flax was tired of resisting things. He was much, much better at just going with the current,
like the little boats children made from leaves and twigs.

Of course, those boats always sank eventually, but once he’d made one that had floated right down a stream and launched itself
off the cliff into the sea. It had flown, buoyed up by the air, for quite a way before it sailed down to the waves and was
sucked from sight.

The archer kept them on the road all day and only found a camping place when the horses started to visibly labour. They were
still some hours out of Sendat, but in such a settled, busy part of the Domain that Flax knew they had no chance of escape.
As Horst had followed them along, they had been glared at, spat and shouted at, and threatened in every village, by every
farmer, by every child with a handful of dung to throw, and only the soldier’s presence had kept them from being dragged off
their horses and kicked to death.

There would be no refuge in this country.

After they’d set up camp in a field with a stream that Horst simply commandeered from the farmer — “Warlord’s business” —
they ate their cold food in silence.

“What about a song, then?” Horst said finally, wiping the crumbs from his jacket.

Flax was astounded. Did this man really think they would entertain their gaoler? Then he looked more closely at the man. There
was no scorn in his eyes, not even a demand. He’d asked as one person would ask another person for a favour, no more. Did
he really believe all that nonsense about the warlord offering refuge? Did he think he was the hero in this story, saving
Travellers from their deaths?

It worried Flax that the archer might be right. Maybe he was the hero.

Swallow cleared her throat, and looked meaningfully at him when he turned around. “Why not?” she said. “We have to practise
anyway.”

That was true, but it made Flax want to laugh. Practice, in the middle of all this!

Rowan found his flute in his pack and took out a small tambour as well. “Do you drum?” he asked Flax.

“Not as well as Ash,” he said. They looked startled, as though they’d forgotten he and Ash had Travelled together, or as though
they were surprised that Ash would drum for him.

“Try, anyway,” Swallow said. He took the drum and sounded it — light but true. Good enough for a field and a warlord’s man.

“Do you have a favourite song?” Rowan asked the archer.

The man seemed embarrassed. Probably liked some invasion song about killing Travellers, and wasn’t sure whether he should
ask for it.

“What about ‘Homecoming’?”

Flax blinked, but he had his performing face on now, so he didn’t show his surprise. “Homecoming” was a western mountains
song, a miners’ song, melancholic and somewhat sentimental. Not the sort of song a soldier often asked for.

Rowan set the beat by tapping on his thigh. Flax picked it up, holding a regular rhythm, then Rowan set the flute to his lips
and played the simple melodic introduction.

Then Swallow began singing, and Flax’s fingers faltered on the drum. He picked up the rhythm again, though, as she glared
sideways at him, and he kept it up. Her voice was as pure as snowmelt — perfect, even after this long, long day, even without
a chance to practise, to warm her throat and muscles.

The mountain is deep

And the mine is dark

And I have only one small light

Oh, pray keep me safe

In the pit-dark night

And bring me home

To the evening light

He came in on the chorus, softly, as he thought she would like, and saw her eyes flick sideways — in approval, this time.

Chains of gold, chains of gold

Bind me to you

Chains of gold, chains of gold

Bring me home

Afterwards, as the last notes of the flute died away, the warlord’s man cleared his throat and said, “My mam was western mountains
born.” That was all, but it was enough. And they slept just as they would have if the archer had been another Traveller.

Sendat was a big town. They reached the outskirts in mid-morning and here, unlike every other place they’d passed, no one
spat at them. The merchants in the market stared at them, and the townspeople too, but they nodded at Horst and a few shouted
remarks — like, “More for my lord, eh? Fort’s getting pretty full!”

Horst ignored their remarks with a shrug and an occasional glare, until one man yelled, “My lord must be crazy, feeding all
those dark-haired bastards!” and then he was off his horse, his hand around the man’s throat, his boot knife drawn and poised
at the man’s privates.

“Did you question my lord’s orders?” he hissed.

The man shook and denied it and babbled about what a great lord Thegan was, and Horst dropped him, resheathed the knife and
remounted without another word. The three travellers followed him up the hill to the fort, leaving complete silence behind
them. Once they were out of earshot of the market, Horst cleared his throat and said, “No one questions my lord when I’m around.”

“Loyalty is a valuable quality,” Rowan said quietly, and Flax could tell that he meant it. The archer realised that, too,
and his face cleared of its bad mood.

“Aye,” he said. “The most valuable thing a man like me has to offer.”

There were many people, men and women and even children, working on the fortifications around the top of the hill. Stakes,
palisades, ditches — a whole ring of defences — showed the sharp edges and colours of new work. Thegan was serious about defending
his fort from the ghosts. But would it be enough? For the first time, Flax wondered whether the Travellers were to be used
as some other form of defence. He shivered slightly and turned to Horst. “What about our horses?”

“My lord’s commandeered all horses. Travellers are sleeping in the barn, over there.” Horst pointed to a group of dark-haired
women and children cooking over fires. It smelt good. Rabbit stew, perhaps. Flax hoped there’d be dumplings.

But his appetite fell away as they walked through the heavily guarded gate and he noticed that half the warlord’s men on the
wall faced inwards, watching the Travellers.

L
EOF ORDERED
his men to set up camp outside Baluchston. Their twenty men seemed a very small party when he remembered the army Thegan
had assembled here only a few weeks ago. It was twilight by the time they had pitched tents, and he decided to give Vi and
her council the night to talk the problem over.

He took Alston with him, but no other guards. Alston didn’t comment. Thank the gods for a sergeant who didn’t chatter! Leof
could do things Thegan’s way, or he could do his best to avoid conflict. This time, he wouldn’t let his pride or his temper
get the better of him.

Outside Vi’s shop, they dismounted and found a youth to take the horses to a nearby inn. “Tell them my lord will want dinner,”
Alston said to the lad.

Leof usually ate with the men when he was on campaign, but Alston deserved a good meal, so he didn’t contradict the order.

He ducked his head as he went through the doorway to avoid a swathe of white cloth across the lintel. That was a sign of mourning
in these parts. He hoped that it wasn’t Vi who was dead.

But there she was, lumbering forward to greet him, her shrewd eyes bright in the light from several lamps. Her mouth opened
to greet him, then she noticed Alston following him, and changed what she had been about to say.

“Welcome back, Lord Leof,” she said.

“Mistress Vi,” he acknowledged. “This is my sergeant, Alston.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Vi said. “Come on through to the kitchen. The others are there.”

The kitchen was even brighter than the shop, with a big fire in the hearth and lamps set around. Four men and women looked
up from a table in the centre of the room as he came in, and his heart sank. Most of them had the closed-off look that meant
they’d already made up their minds to deny him whatever he asked. Only truth would serve here, and he hoped Alston understood
that.