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Hidden Ways 2.htm him carrying Gungnir, the blister on his arm proved that it
was safe only as long as he was wearing Freya's gloves.
Ian Silverstein was no Promised Warrior. He wasn't the useless loser that his
father had always said he would be, but he wasn't a legendary hero, either.
But he was still a killer of a fire giant. And he still carried Gungnir, at
least for a while. That made a difference here.
And if he wasn't schooled in the sometimes Byzantine politics of the Table and
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the Seat, that wouldn't bother a margravine who had been raised to handle not
just money, the way she would have in the Middle Dominions, but politics as
well. Shit, for her, it might be better if he was the brave and stupid type.
All he would need to do would be to live long enough to impregnate her with a
girl for an heir, and if after that he managed to get himself killed in some
battle, well, Marta could rule the Hinterlands as margravess, so long as she
had an heir.
And even if he didn't marry her, a child by a hero would bring a certain
cachet to her house. The concept of bastardy didn't really apply in
Vandescard; while men exercised the power or, perhaps, thought they
did inheritance was through the women. The first daughter of the margravess
was the margravine, and it didn't matter who the father was.
And shit, men would quite literally fight for the chance to raise a child of
somebody who might have been the Promised Warrior, particularly since marrying
a margravine would make one a margrave.
Ian shook his head and sighed. It would be nice to be valued for something
real, instead of for having been at the wrong place at the wrong time, and
being lucky enough to survive it.
But... no. Let the day be over; he needed his sleep.
They'd leave for the Seat in the morning, and Ian had no doubt that Marta
would come with them.
His last thought, as sleep overtook him, was that it looked likely to be one
hell of a second date.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Harbard's Landing
There is always something sweet about the smell of country air after a storm,
Torrie thought. Maybe it was the ozone in the air, or maybe there was
something in the trees that needed moisture to release it, but that smell was
always unique, yet always the same.
Or maybe it was heading out into a sunny morning, having come through a storm
safe and dry. Hell, dry socks were as much a trophy as a deerskin could be
they announced, albeit modestly, that you knew how to take care of yourself
when the weather got wicked.
The stones that made up the trail had been washed clean by the rain; as long
as they could keep to the trail, they wouldn't have to worry about just how
much water the ground had soaked up.
And, once again, Torrie could make out the wood-chopper, ahead.
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Dad didn't look quite so old and tired this morning; a good night's sleep had
recharged him, and by the time Torrie had walked far enough to stretch himself
out and get into a decent hiking pace. Dad had done the same; there was a
positive spring in his step.
Maggie's hair was pulled back, tightly, the way she always wore it when she
hadn't had a chance to wash it the night before. She looked kind of overly
serious that way, and Torrie's fingers itched to loosen her ponytail.
But not in front of his father.
The chopping sound continued, as it had the day before. Harbard, apparently,
was laying in enough firewood for the next century or something.
Overhead, a black bird circled.
Maggie caught him looking at it.
"You think that's one of those ravens?" she asked. "Or maybe a crow?"
"Well, if it's a crow, you won't make any enemies by bringing it down." The
rule that Torrie had been taught was that you were allowed to shoot a crow
only when it was either damaging crops or about to damage crops. Honisted's
Rule was that a crow who wasn't damaging crops was always about to damage
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crops. Old John Honisted used to claim that it was a matter of law, and always
kept a .22 in a saddle-holster next to him on the front seat of his cop car,
but Torrie never quite bought that.
But still, no farmer anywhere would complain about a traveler shooting a crow,
a rat, a woodchuck, a deer, or any other crop-
destroying pest. And if it happened to be Hugin or Munin, Torrie very much
doubted that an ordinary arrow could bring it down, even if Maggie could reach
it, which he doubted almost as much.
On the other hand ...
Well, it really didn't matter if there was another hand, because Maggie had
quickly unstrung her bow, nocked a broadheaded arrow, drawn back the bowstring
until the arrowhead almost touched the bow's grip, and loosed the arrow
without even a hint of a plucking sound.
For a moment the arrow seemed to accelerate as it rose into the blue sky, but
the target bird spread its wings wide, putting itself into a steep bank that
became a tight circle, and as the arrow paused at the height of its climb, the
bird snatched it out of the sky, then folded its wings and dropped into a long
stoop that ended with a vigorous beating of wings as the bird landed on the
road a few yards in front of Maggie.
It was raven, not a crow. Crows don't grow to be the size of a German
Shepherd.
The raven dropped the arrow to the ground and stared up at them with beady,
unblinking eyes. It was a huge bird, its feathers an inky, glossy black. And
it was not at all pretty.
"This is yours, I believe," the bird said. "Although I hesitate to mention
that I'm not thrilled by being shot at, which was clearly your intention."
"I thought you were a crow," Maggie said.
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"I am Hugin, a raven, at your service." The bird ducked its head in what could
have been a nod of agreement with itself, or a bow.
"Although both Thought and Memory have been known to make mortals nervous." It
ruffled its feathers, and twisted its neck until it could reach a spot just
under the wing with its beak. "Thorian del Thorian," it said, turning to Dad,
and then to Torrie, "and
Thorian del Thorian, again, I greet you. I'd suggest we hurry, for I believe I
know someone who is eager to meet you."
Hugin leaped into the air, his broad wings flapping maniacally, and with a
harsh cry of "Follow me..." flapped off toward
Harbard's Landing.
The chopping sound stopped as they walked around the cottage.
For a moment, Torrie almost didn't recognize the man who stood there, wearing
only hiking boots and blousy drawstring pants, his dark torso slick with
sweat, glistening in the sun. He looked sort of like a pale, skinny John
Henry
It was! "Uncle Hosea!" Torrie said, rushing up and hugging him. "You're okay."
Uncle Hosea's hug was stronger, firmer than Torrie could remember it being. It
made him feel like he was six again. "Yes, Thorian, I'm quite well." He
stepped back and held Torrie at arm's length, looking him up and down. "And it
appears you're doing well, also. Am I wrong or have you actually gotten taller
over the past few months?"
"I doubt that," Torrie said with a smile. "Maybe you've shrunk a little."
"That would seem unlikely," Hosea said. "All things considered."
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