In mere moments Aine was mounted and riding next to Iseabal behind Iobert Claeg. They'd just cleared the gates and begun the short descent into Airdnasheen when she remembered that there were words she must have with the Claeg Chieftain. She gave her horse the heel and came level with him.

"Pardon, sir, but may I speak to you for a moment?"

The cloud-belly eyes moved to a.s.sess her. She seemed to please them, for the great man smiled at her and nodded for her to continue.

"As we prepared to leave, one of your men offered me the direst insult."

The Claeg's glower was like the sudden a.s.sault of a gale force wind. "What insult?"

"Well sir, he-" Now that she'd gotten this far, she was suddenly at a loss. What exactly had he said? "First, he ridiculed the color of my hair which, as you can see, is a rather . . . forceful shade of red."

The glower lightened and he eyed that feature respectfully; long streamers of it had escaped Aine's cowl and jigged about her head.

"Oh, aye," he agreed. "That it is."

"Then, he accused me of cowardice-implying that I was going to Creiddylad to hide. Sir, I am no coward."

The Claeg nodded, his face smoothing further. "No. Apparently not."

"And finally, he . . . I hardly know how to put it into words, sir. He impugned my-my maidenhood and made ribald comments about-about experience and . . . and sport."

The storm was back. "Sport? Who spoke to you like this? Point him out to me! By the Meri's Kiss, if we have to go through every man in this column-"

Aine turned in her saddle, peering over her left shoulder at the double rows of hors.e.m.e.n. It hadn't occurred to her that she'd have to sort through every man here. She met Iseabal's startled eyes for a moment.

What are you doing? The thought was as clear as if the other girl had spoken it.

Aine turned back round and swung her gaze over to the right. Seated on the horse flanking hers was the man with the colorless eyes. The wry grin that pa.s.sed for a smile was still smugly in place.

"Why it's him!" said Aine and pointed as dramatically as she could.

When she looked back at Iobert Claeg, his face was a-flicker with warring emotions: Fury, exasperation, resignation.

"Cailin, what you say about this fellow doesn't surprise me. He is rude, unpleasant, stubborn, impudent, vulgar and mouthy. But since he is also my nephew, I suppose I must forgive him those things. I only hope you can find it in your heart to do the same."

Aine whirled on the elder Claeg. "Your nephew?"

"Aye. That's Saefren Claeg, my field Marschal."

"But he-he called me a firepot!"

Saefren Claeg's grin dug further in to Aine's ego. "Well, Uncle did say I was mouthy. When you know me better, you'll appreciate that that's one of my better qualities."

Aine's anger turned cold in her breast. "I've no doubt I would, if I was to get to know you better-which I won't." She turned her horse back and made her way several mounted pairs deep in the column, her face burning so hot even the icy wind couldn't cool it.

Iseabal joined her a moment later, eyes enormous. "What was that all about? Did Saefren Claeg really say those terrible things to you?"

"Of course he did, Isha." She raised her hand, baring the gytha on the palm. "Do you imagine I'd lie? Only I can't believe The Claeg, defending him like that!"

"Now, Aine, he didn't actually defend him. He merely asked you to forgive him. Besides, look-" She nodded toward the head of the column where Iobert and Saefren Claeg rode side by side.

The Chieftain's face looked like the dark side of h.e.l.l and he was apparently giving his kinsman a severe tongue lashing.

Although the younger man's mouth popped open once or twice, it formed no words and finally he spurred his horse and trotted ahead.

Aine smiled.

Well, Saefren Claeg. Now you do know what it feels like to be basted.

The tiny, lightless world reeled and jigged and creaked like a boat with a drunken helmsman. Within, in a coc.o.o.n of wool and fur, Airleas rattled back and forth, up and down; rolled this way and that. Fleece tickled his nose; the tiny burrs in it itched.

A late clipping, indeed. The entire fabric of early autumn was imbedded in it. At least he was warm-too warm. The only part of him that was not over-heated by now was his sense of adventure. That had been replaced by fatigue from the constant swaying and bouncing and trying to lie still in a world that refused to be still.

How long, he wondered, must he lie here in beneath this freight of pathetic Hillwild produce before it would be safe to emerge? How far must they go before turning back became impossible? He had no way of knowing how long he'd already been here; he'd certainly have to count in something other than conventional time: five thousand b.u.mps, four hundred jostles and fifty-seven full-on bounces.

Oh, at least that long.

Of course it would be best to wait until nightfall before he took a chance on showing himself. He imagined slipping from the narrow covered wagon into scattered firelight, his soft-shod feet silent as a catamount's on the chill rock of Baenn-an-ratha, his eyes scanning the huddled groups of men hard at their eating and drinking and storytelling. He'd smell the food cooking, and hungry, would sneak along the line of horses-closer, closer to one of the firelit groups.

The group that would contain Aine and Iseabal would be the smallest, the easiest to draw close to. Few of Iobert Claeg's men would want to be near them. Those who were believers in the Osmaer would be too respectful of them to intrude, unbelievers would want to avoid close contact. Either way, who'd want to have his brains picked over by those two? They would be practically alone with Saefren and The Claeg, himself.

He pictured the place; how Aine would sit huddled and pouting and Iseabal would be gandering all about trying to see the mountains in the dark. Iobert and Saefren would be wrapped in warrior's conversation. And he'd sneak up to their fire and snag himself some supper.

His stomach uttered a pathetic whimper at that, then, when he mentally shushed it, gave forth with a solid growl of discontent.

He froze for a moment, wondering if the driver could hear it, then laughed at himself. Whatever else he was, he was also well-insulated . . . and hungry . . . and bored. Stiff. And sleepy. Very sleepy.

He tried to take a deep breath of the musky, stifling air, but found it a ch.o.r.e. His breathing would be shallower if he slept. Perhaps he should indulge his growing drowsiness. He'd all but given in to the idea when it occurred to him to wonder exactly how shallow his breathing would become in this increasingly rancid little tomb.

Tomb. Oh, he didn't like the sound of that at all.

Was it possible he was too well insulated? Was he in danger of running out of air? Suffocating?

Adrenaline careened through his veins making them icy as a sled run. He gasped, pushed against the weight of the hides and pelts and bundles of fleece that lay over and around him. Hands and feet, arms and legs, all thrashed in discordant harmony, achieving little but to wind him.

Stop it, Airleas, he told himself fiercely. You're only making things worse. Don't panic. Breathe calmly. Here, the Peaceful Duan. That's what's needed. Sing.

He called the duan to mind, letting the music float through his head-tranquil enough to soothe, spritely enough not to induce sleep. A walking rhythm, Taminy had said. A rhythm that would set pace for the blood and the spirit. His heart picked up the rhythm of the duan, his breath filed in and out in an orderly march.

Calmer now, he pushed upward against the hemming pelts with both hands. He was curled half on his side, making his efforts awkward, and something seemed to have fallen across the top of his sheltering crate. No matter how he tried, he could not lift the cargo from his body.

d.a.m.n and d.a.m.n.

He chided himself for being so stupid as to stow away in an enclosed s.p.a.ce. He hardly deserved to be Cyne of Caraid-land if he couldn't think more sharply than that. Now he was stuck and there would be no sneaking around campfires to cadge supper from the unawares. There would be no victorious moment of revelation when the caravan reached the point of no return.

Airleas tried to calculate how long it would take to reach Nairne, where they might be expected to unload the cargo. The journey up Baenn-an-ratha had taken the better part of a week; surely they'd move faster on the way down. But how fast? And once in the foothills, how long to reach Nairne? He'd starve to death or die of thirst before then.

It occurred to him, belatedly, that this entire adventure was lame-brained. He was still a boy-a child. He was only Airleas, not Bearach Spearman. Unlike his distant forebear, he'd been raised gently. His father's domain hadn't been torn by insurrection and unease. He hadn't been trained for battle or schooled in wiliness. He knew of those things only what he'd read in the histories. If he'd stayed put, he might've been taught how to fight, lead an army, regain his throne. Catahn could have taught him those things-turned him into a Cyne worthy of the t.i.tle.

Worst of all-worst-he'd disobeyed Taminy. Shrugged out from under her tutelage as if it were a burden he could do without. Well, he couldn't do without it. More than the use of a sword, he needed to learn the use of his mind, the use of his aidan.

All that would be academic if he couldn't get out of here.

He thought for a moment about his predicament. Perhaps there were ways other than the physical to lift the weight above him. He conjured to mind the image of a pair of fiery hands- No, not fiery! G.o.d's grace! He'd burn himself alive! Iron hands, strong, mighty. They took hold of the fleeces and furs and whatever lay above them and lifted . . . lifted . . . lifted.

The load lightened measurably. Airleas concentrated harder.

Lift and throw. Lift and throw.

Lighter, still, grew the suffocating heap and in a corner of Airleas's mind a small boy jumped up and down with glee. Wait till he told Taminy what he'd done-how he'd saved himself from- The pile collapsed, stunning the breath from his lungs. For a moment, he was poised to begin another physical struggle, but regained control of himself before he did something so stupid.

He silently hummed the Peace Duan again, slowing his rebellious heart and steadying his breathing. If only he could signal someone that he was here, make a noise, make . . . a Speakweave.

He chewed his lip, considering that. His imagination supplied him with the humiliation he would suffer to be found huddled-no, trapped-beneath this pile of burr-infested stuff, looking supremely un-Cyne-like.

Well, and who would he call? He was surrounded by giftless Claeg; his only chance was to reach Isha or Aine.

He sneezed just then, his nose tickled by a wad of fleece, and found the regaining of his breath difficult. Spurred by fear, he formed a cry of distress. Pride modified it. The finished Speakweave was much more dignified than his reflexive yelp for a.s.sistance, but urgent, nonetheless.

Inside his increasingly muzzy head, a time-piece marked the seconds-five b.u.mps, now seven, and uncounted jostles. Dear G.o.d, would no one sense him? Were Aine and Iseabal as dense as these ungifted ones?

He was at the point of giving up when the wagon stopped its mad jostling. He all but held his breath in antic.i.p.ation, celebrated wildly when he felt the thing rock gently, when he sensed the presence of another person. Only when the weight above him began to lift, did he school himself to calm. By the time the last layer of hides came off, he was, he thought, suitably unruffled-looking.

A stranger's face peered down into his. "G.o.d-the-Spirit! It's a boy!"

Hands reached in to pull him up into the cold air-air that smelled strongly of moist wood and dust and tanning herbs. Behind the Claeg kinsman's cowled head, a halo of gray light marked the entry of the small, hide-covered dray. In a moment he was being hauled toward that opening, stunned by the realization that this oaf didn't know who he was.

"Let go of me, you clod! Where're Aine and Iseabal? Where's The Claeg?"

"At the head of the column, if it's any business of yours, sc.r.a.p," the clod replied and lifted Airleas clear of the wagon to dump him unceremoniously overboard.

He landed on all fours on the damp earth, but was quick to regain his feet. A circle of Claeg faces peered at him from beneath cowls and caps, the wind sucked Airleas's breath away in misty streamers, nipping at any untucked edges of cloth.

The man who'd evicted him from his hiding place crunched to the ground behind him.

"By the Cleft Rock, Brunan," exclaimed one of the onlookers, "what've you got here? A stowaway?"

"What you've got," said Airleas, "is the Cyneric of Caraid-land."

"A stowaway, indeed," said Brunan. "Oddest thing, you know. I just got this sudden feeling that there was something amiss. It was like-like a voice whispered in my ear that if I looked, I'd find a stowaway in my wagon."

"I'm not a stowaway," Airleas insisted. "I'm Airleas Malcuim."

"Oh, aye," said his rescuer, "and I'm the Ren Catahn in disguise." He winked.

Furiously reining in his temper, Airleas pulled the glove from his left hand and raised his palm to them. Their reactions to the gytha were mixed, but gratifying; one man simply walked away, another retreated a step while his neighbor came forward, face screwed up in awe. There were gasps of amazement, finger signs made to ward off any possible evil.

Behind him Brunan leaned about to see what had his comrades so addled and swore under his breath.

Airleas glanced up at him. "Well, Ren Catahn," he said. "Do you believe me now?"

The man stammered. "I-I-"

"Happens you should believe him," said a voice from just beyond the circle of onlookers and Iobert Claeg strode through his men with Aine and Iseabal in his tracks.

"Airleas!" Iseabal reached him first, taking him in a fervent embrace, while Aine stood back, scowling her disapproval.

"Airleas, whatever are you doing here? You're supposed to be back in Hrofceaster with Taminy."

Airleas sighed. She would state the obvious. "I was trying to get to Creiddylad to-"

"To avenge your father."

The new voice, immediately recognizable to the young Malcuim, came from the back trail. Everyone turned. Astride a red roan horse, the slight figure swaddled in green seemed impervious to the wind. She rode forward, the folds of her cowled cape stirring only slightly.

"Osmaer!" Iobert Claeg dropped to one knee before her, while Aine and Iseabal sprouted smiles that cut the gray day like spears of light.

The Claeg men reacted as they had to the sight of Airleas's gytha; repulsed or drawn, awe-struck or fearful. One young warrior moved surrept.i.tiously to place a tentative hand on the roan's steaming flank as if by so doing he could receive a benediction from its rider. As if she sensed the gesture, Taminy looked down at him and smiled.

Airleas was sure the young man must've nearly swooned. He remembered what he'd felt the first time those green eyes had caught him unawares.

Foul luck. No, not luck, he realized as Taminy continued to regard him. He came forward to stand before her, head bent, hands busy with a loose close on his coat.

"You knew all along, didn't you? You knew I meant to leave Hrofceaster."

"Aye. So did Gwynet. You put her in a terrible dilemma, you know. She wasn't sure whether to tell Catahn on you or not. But then, of course she realized I must know too."

Airleas looked up at her, puzzled. "But you let me come. Why?"

Taminy tilted her head and the Kiss on her brow gleamed in the semi-dark beneath her cowl. "Tell me, Cyneric Airleas, what was your opinion of your adventure when you embarked on it?"

"I thought it was . . . necessary." He squared his shoulders and lifted his head. "I thought I must do it. That it was the brave thing to do. The-the thing any Malcuim would do. Should do."

Taminy nodded. "You thought to prove yourself. To be a true Malcuim, worthy of the throne of Caraid-land."

"Aye," Airleas mumbled, melting beneath her eyes. The murmurs of approval from the warriors around him meant nothing now. Only hours ago they would have been musical-magical.

"What do you think now?"

Airleas sighed deeply. Galling, this was, to admit this before men who, in his daydreams, marched behind him into battle. "I committed an error in judgment, Mistress. I proved nothing but my own lack of forethought and wisdom."

"And what do you think of your adventure?"

"It wasn't adventure; it was folly." He dared to raise his eyes again. "I have much to learn about being Cyneric."

"That is why I let you come."