16th of Summer, 514 AV
Isana bounced uncomfortably in the saddle, tugged at the reins as she settled atop Greymane's back and wondered, not for the first time that morning, just how long she was expected to play scout for Saiwin. The merchant was still a good distance behind her, along with the rest of her caravan, trundling steadily north along the Kabrin at her back. Certainly far away enough that they had abandoned any attempt to make conversation, which suited Isana just fine. Scouting was dull enough without putting up with some grain-seller's blather as well. She jerked to one side as Greymane drifted to the roadside, one hoof slipping on the undulating earth just off the road. Her free hand closed around the saddle, ready to resort to the age-old technique of clinging on for dear life, but the horse quickly righted himself and continued his plodding advance down the road as though nothing had happened.
"Damn horse." She muttered, patted the paintedmount's dusty flank. Greymane snorted and continued his steady walk forward, and Isana let her ill-mood slip behind them along with the roar of the city. Remarkable, how much easier it was to handle a horse without her ribs trying to punch their way into her guts with each stride. Out here amid the relative silence of the woods, with the shield games and the city drifting further behind her with each pace, it was difficult to cling to a grudge. She allowed herself a smile – she was, after all, far enough ahead for that - and raked her eyes across the empty expanse of road stretching before her.
It was mid-morning, and the northern road shuddered beneath the wheels of departing merchant caravans, keen to take advantage of the clear skies and dry streets while they lasted – the closest of them still a pleasant hundred feet behind her, the horses of the outriders throwing up little puffs of dirt, hoof-beats and distant voices mingling in a familiar, flowing rhythm. Isana wasn't really listening. Their conversation was their business, and she had no interest in merchant's chatter of prices and bartering and weather. She'd had her fill of that in childhood, listening to her mother's projections and panics. She had never seen the point of it herself. What good was there in panicking over gold, given there was enough to eat?
Too beautiful a day to waste with self-pity. Isana stretched an arm out ahead of her, watched the sun glinting off her mail, revelled in the warmth that drifted through her tabard and onto her shoulders. Perhaps a more empathetic woman would have felt a stab of pity for the knights she passed at the gates, sentries quietly baking in their plate, watching the lightly clothed merchants depart, clustered in the meagre shade the city walls provided. Isana was only glad that it was not her. Playing mother to a merchant caravan may not have been anyone's idea of glamorous work, but at least she was out in the open, and only escorting the caravan as far as the sight of Eventide – the wrecked tower stalwartly refusing to poke over the horizon. Isana hoped not to see it for some time yet. Another moment in the sun was no burden to her. A bit of sweat was just a reminder that you were alive, a dozen times better than trying to wring sensation into numb fingers. No, it was a good day to be out.
Hoofbeats drummed behind her, and Isana twisted in the saddle, Greymane drifting across the road with her. One of the riders from the caravan, closing in at a trot, clothes that would have no doubt been fine on their departure – blues and greens, and Isana thought she could make out a glimmer of beading – already sporting a patina of dirt that rendered everything the same dull, travel-stained brown. The rider looked little more than a colourful dot against the chestnut mass of his horse, a young boy of perhaps ten or twelve, he may as well have been a flea clinging to an elephant.
What message does Saiwin send, I wonder. Another hollow congratulations on my ability to watch nothing for long periods? My heart melts. Isana tugged at her own reins, nudging Greymane back onto something resembling the right course with a pair of corrective jabs from her heels, keeping one eye on the closing rider. Young he was – at this distance Isana could make out the spots on his face - but he knew how to handle a horse, the mixed breed dancing under his hands with a dexterity that would have left her lying beneath a sprawled heap of horseflesh had she tried the same. Show-off.
"I was not aware that Saiwin's riders communicated by showmanship. Your customers must be difficult indeed." If the boy heard her he gave no sign, transitioning to a walk alongside her with all the fluidity of water crossing a stone. Isana cocked an eyebrow. "What news from the queen of the merchants?"
"Hayton found tracks." The boy's eyes were wide, flickering from the sword at her hip to the spear in her hand.
"So?" Tracks were hardly uncommon on the Kabrin. Animals crossed it frequently, and it was the only road leading out of the city. Of course there would be tracks.
"Not animals...er... Sera. It's er..." He paused, eased his dancing horse with a flick of his wrist. "It's hard to explain. Saiwin says you had best have a look."
"If Saiwin says." The boy turned his mount, and Isana wheeled Graymane to follow him. "I would so hate to disappoint her."
"Damn horse." She muttered, patted the paintedmount's dusty flank. Greymane snorted and continued his steady walk forward, and Isana let her ill-mood slip behind them along with the roar of the city. Remarkable, how much easier it was to handle a horse without her ribs trying to punch their way into her guts with each stride. Out here amid the relative silence of the woods, with the shield games and the city drifting further behind her with each pace, it was difficult to cling to a grudge. She allowed herself a smile – she was, after all, far enough ahead for that - and raked her eyes across the empty expanse of road stretching before her.
It was mid-morning, and the northern road shuddered beneath the wheels of departing merchant caravans, keen to take advantage of the clear skies and dry streets while they lasted – the closest of them still a pleasant hundred feet behind her, the horses of the outriders throwing up little puffs of dirt, hoof-beats and distant voices mingling in a familiar, flowing rhythm. Isana wasn't really listening. Their conversation was their business, and she had no interest in merchant's chatter of prices and bartering and weather. She'd had her fill of that in childhood, listening to her mother's projections and panics. She had never seen the point of it herself. What good was there in panicking over gold, given there was enough to eat?
Too beautiful a day to waste with self-pity. Isana stretched an arm out ahead of her, watched the sun glinting off her mail, revelled in the warmth that drifted through her tabard and onto her shoulders. Perhaps a more empathetic woman would have felt a stab of pity for the knights she passed at the gates, sentries quietly baking in their plate, watching the lightly clothed merchants depart, clustered in the meagre shade the city walls provided. Isana was only glad that it was not her. Playing mother to a merchant caravan may not have been anyone's idea of glamorous work, but at least she was out in the open, and only escorting the caravan as far as the sight of Eventide – the wrecked tower stalwartly refusing to poke over the horizon. Isana hoped not to see it for some time yet. Another moment in the sun was no burden to her. A bit of sweat was just a reminder that you were alive, a dozen times better than trying to wring sensation into numb fingers. No, it was a good day to be out.
Hoofbeats drummed behind her, and Isana twisted in the saddle, Greymane drifting across the road with her. One of the riders from the caravan, closing in at a trot, clothes that would have no doubt been fine on their departure – blues and greens, and Isana thought she could make out a glimmer of beading – already sporting a patina of dirt that rendered everything the same dull, travel-stained brown. The rider looked little more than a colourful dot against the chestnut mass of his horse, a young boy of perhaps ten or twelve, he may as well have been a flea clinging to an elephant.
What message does Saiwin send, I wonder. Another hollow congratulations on my ability to watch nothing for long periods? My heart melts. Isana tugged at her own reins, nudging Greymane back onto something resembling the right course with a pair of corrective jabs from her heels, keeping one eye on the closing rider. Young he was – at this distance Isana could make out the spots on his face - but he knew how to handle a horse, the mixed breed dancing under his hands with a dexterity that would have left her lying beneath a sprawled heap of horseflesh had she tried the same. Show-off.
"I was not aware that Saiwin's riders communicated by showmanship. Your customers must be difficult indeed." If the boy heard her he gave no sign, transitioning to a walk alongside her with all the fluidity of water crossing a stone. Isana cocked an eyebrow. "What news from the queen of the merchants?"
"Hayton found tracks." The boy's eyes were wide, flickering from the sword at her hip to the spear in her hand.
"So?" Tracks were hardly uncommon on the Kabrin. Animals crossed it frequently, and it was the only road leading out of the city. Of course there would be tracks.
"Not animals...er... Sera. It's er..." He paused, eased his dancing horse with a flick of his wrist. "It's hard to explain. Saiwin says you had best have a look."
"If Saiwin says." The boy turned his mount, and Isana wheeled Graymane to follow him. "I would so hate to disappoint her."
