These Old Bones

23-1

23

Like a great lumbering beast, the camp awoke before dawn and began breaking down Urits, readying ponies and carts, people washing and dressing. Kulira had not only brought along his warriors, but his entire String. Women, men and children not part of the war party bustled and ran to prepare the army to march and ride to the next campsite a day's journey hence.

Viriili had slept little, decrying Kulira's soft bed to sit upon the floor, beside the fire grate, to continue practicing magic that would not surface. Tiera slept with unease, worrying for the girl and, when the camp followers and servants came to break down the Chaffti's Urit, found herself and Viriili stood in the cold, damp dawn light, surrounded by several Pony Rider and Gaeradine guards, awaiting orders to move out.

Kulira arrived, flanked by Daryya, pulling along Istiril for Tiera to ride. Daryya handed the reins of a smaller pony to Viriili and the girl clambered into the saddle with a tired dignity that impressed Tiera. The girl did not allow anything to break her shell of calm, or anyone to see how tired she had made herself.

By mid-morning, the chill had dissipated, replaced by a pitiful warmth emanating from a clouded sun. Kulira attempted conversation, which Tiera ignored knowing he would only turn it towards her challenging her brother for leadership of his String. Something she would never do, for any reason, despite any threats to her or Viriili. She would not.

"A fine animal." A man, somewhere in his mid-forties, his face painted to accentuate big, cruel brown eyes and a thin-lipped mouth, joined them as they rode. He seemed uncomfortable on the large brown pony beneath him. "A wedding gift, the Chaffti tells me. We do not give gifts to wed. We take who we want."

"Tiera, my love, this is Anganurg, leader of the fine Gaeradine warriors who aid us." Kulira dipped a swift bow from his saddle, which Anganurg did not return. "With his army and my String, we will take the Graatfeld. Of course, with the addition of your String, we could take Turszdava too."

"You have, what, four thousand people here? Less than three thousand of those warriors, the rest camp followers?" Tiera sat up in her saddle making a point of observing the long lines of people, ponies and carts. "You couldn't take my brother's String with that, let alone the Graatfeld."

"If you challenged your brother ..." Kulira sounded almost as if he begged. Anganurg grimaced and Tiera noticed the distaste the Islander had for Kulira.

"I will not challenge Taraka!" Tiera did not miss the chuckle of Anganurg as she pulled back on her reins, allowing Istiril to fall back, closer to Viriili, ending that conversation.

She had not noticed another of the Islanders, riding beside Viriili. A young boy, a Summer younger than Viriili, he road stiff-backed and awkward upon the pony. His face held less paint than Anganurg and the other Gaeradine Tiera had seen. He rode with his eyes in permanent surprise, holding the reins too high, his knees too tight. Viriili did not give him a bare look.

"You're a mage, aren't you?" The boy teetered to one side in the saddle. "I can tell. My uncle says most mages can't tell if someone else has magic, but I can."

"I'm not a mage. I'm a swordswoman." Viriili held her chin raised, as if born to nobility.

"You're not. You're not even a woman yet." The boy managed to right himself, bouncing in the saddle as the pony navigated a rut in the path. "But you are a mage, I can feel it. I'm a mage, too. I'm a Weather Mage. I wasn't very good until my uncle found the wand, then I became good."

"A Weather Mage? Then it was you firing the lightning?" Tiera couldn't help but join the one-sided conversation.

"Yes. It was exciting, wasn't it?" The boy grinned for a second before gripping the saddle with both hands. "I sent the lightning and it went 'crash' and 'boom'!"