Although he never would have dared to voice such a thought, Jahdo decided that he’d rather put his trust in a man who’d travelled there and back again. Yet, much to his surprise, not long after they did indeed receive a sign from the gods – or so Meer interpreted it.
For the next few days they travelled slowly, stopping often to let Jahdo rest his sore back. Although he soon realized that out of sheer luck he’d broken nothing, he hurt worse than he’d ever hurt in his young life. Sleeping on the ground did nothing to ease his bruises, either. At times, thinking of his warm mattress at home would make him weep. At others, he would simply wish that he had died, there in the fall, and put himself out of his misery. Yet, of course, he had no choice but to keep travelling. Going back would have hurt as much as going forward, after all, and he learned that, much to his surprise, he could endure a great deal and still cope with the work of tending animals and making camps, to say nothing of a hard walk through broken country.
On the fourth day it rained, a heavy summer storm that boiled up from the south. Although they were soaked within a few moments, they took shelter from the wind in one of the wooded valleys. Meer insisted that they unload the stock for a rest while they waited out the rain in this imperfect shelter.
‘They might as well be comfortable, anyway,’ Jahdo said. ‘Even if we can’t. I hate being wet. I do feel all cold and slimy, and my bruises from that fall, they do ache in this damp. My boots be wet inside, even. This be miserable, bain’t?’
‘I take it, lad, that you’ve not spent much time in wild country.’
‘Why would I?’
‘No reason, truly. You’re not Gel da’Thae. Our souls belong to the wild places of the world, you see, and deep in our souls, all of us yearn for the northern plains, the homeland, the heartland of our tribes.’
‘But I thought you did live in towns, like we do.’
‘Of course, so that we may better serve the gods here in the latter days of the world. But in our souls, ah, we yearn for the days when we rode free in the heartland. Our warriors make their kills to glorify its memory, and singers like me make our music in its honour.’
‘Well, if you do miss it so much, why don’t you go back?’
‘We can’t. Jahdo, listen. This is very important. When the Slavers attacked the homeland, we fled. We deserted our north country and fled south, stinking in our shame, cowards and slave-hearted, every one of us. For what is one of the thirteen worst things but to desert one’s homeland in its hour of need? And in our rage and shame we fought and burned and pillaged our way through the cities of the south. Oh, woe to the Gel da’Thae! That we should desert the homeland and then destroy the cities that the gods themselves had built for their children! Woe and twice woe, that we raised our hands against those children themselves and did slay and smite them! And for that shame and that sin, we can never return. The long meadows of the north, the fire mountains of the ancestors and the warm rivers that forbid winter their banks – all, all are lost forever. Do you understand?’
‘I don’t, truly. Meer, you must be awfully old, to remember all that.’
‘I don’t remember it, you irritating little cub. This is lore.’
‘Well, I do be sorry if I were rude again, but it does seem to mean so much to you. It’s like it just happened last winter.’
When Meer growled like an enormous dog, Jahdo decided to let the subject drop.
Once the horses were tended and tethered, Meer hunkered down beside the leather packs, which they’d piled up in the driest spot. Although Jahdo was expecting him to pass the time in prayer, instead he merely sat, as still and in the same way as one of the tree trunks around them, alive but utterly silent. At times he turned his head or cocked it, as if he were hearing important messages from every drop of rain, every scuttling squirrel. Even when the rain slacked and died, Meer sat unmoving, until Jahdo finally could stand it no longer.
‘Meer? I feel so awful.’
‘No doubt you do, lad. My apologies. Here, take off those wet boots. Wet boots rub wet feet raw. What does the sky look like?’
‘Clearing up pretty good. It must be twixt noon and sunset by now.’
‘Huh.’ Meer considered for a moment. ‘And what does the land ahead look like?’
‘More hills. Bigger ones, and all broken up, like.’
‘We’ll camp here, then. I hear a stream nearby.’
‘I can just see it, truly. I thought I’d take the waterskins down. Do you want a drink?’
‘I do, if you don’t mind fetching me one. The lore says that one of the fifty-two contrary things is this: sitting in the rain makes a man thirsty. And as usual, the lore is right.’
Jahdo slung the pair of waterskins, joined by a thong, across his shoulders and picked his way through the trees and tangled bracken. The little stream flowed between shallow banks, all slippery with mossy rocks and tiny ferns; predictably enough, he lost his footing and slid into the water. Stones stung his bare feet, and he yelped, righting himself.
‘Careful.’ The voice sounded directly behind him. ‘It’s not deep, but it’s treacherous.’
When Jahdo spun round he saw a strange man sitting on the bank and smiling at him. He was a tall fellow, slender, dressed in a long green tunic and buckskin trousers. His hair was the bright yellow of daffodils, his lips were the red of sour cherries, and his eyes were an unnatural turquoise blue, bright as gemstones. Yet the strangest thing of all were his ears, long and delicately pointed, furled tight like a fern in spring.
‘That Gel da’Thae has no eyes,’ he said.
‘He be a bard. They get them taken out.’
‘Disgusting custom, truly, but no affair of mine. You’re his slave?’
‘I am not!’
‘Then what are you?’
Jahdo considered.
‘Well, I didn’t even know him a fortnight ago, but he’s my friend now.’
‘Very well. Give him a message. What the legends say is right enough, and east lie the Slavers, sure enough, but south, south is the way to turn. Follow this stream, and it will swell to a river. Cross at the ford marked with the stone, and head into the rising sun. Beware, beware that you go too far, or you’ll reach the Slavers’ towered dun. Can you remember that rhyme?’
‘I can indeed, sir, but please, who are you?’
‘Tell the bard that my name’s Evandar.’
‘I will, then. But sir, will you come back if we get lost?’
‘Now that I can’t promise. I have other affairs on hand.’
With that he disappeared, so suddenly and completely gone that Jahdo was sure he’d dreamt the entire thing – until he realized that he could never fall asleep standing knee-deep in cold water. He filled the skins and rushed back to the bard, who was currying the white horse.
‘Meer,
