Changespell Legacy (17 page)

For she had no doubt he could escape, and
would
—if they drove him to it.

"Easy," Carey said, his arms spread wide to make himself imposing without actually grabbing for the man, but Suliya latched on to Ramble's arm and suddenly found herself facing his teeth, spared a serious bite only because Ramble's neck didn't reach nearly as long as he thought it should. Far outmatched, Dayna ended up on the ground practically under his feet, and her attempts to disentangle herself only made it worse; Jess groaned in dismay as the scene turned to chaos, and then whirled at the barely audible scuff of a hard-soled boot against rock.

They couldn't be caught here—and here they were, making noise, being visible, being as obvious as any small group of people could get. Off trail, breaking rules, with none of the identification of which this world was so fond, and a whirlwind melee centered around a man who until just a short while ago knew only of being a horse. A stallion.

Jess hesitated, frozen with indecision—but just for an instant. Then she sprinted for the nature trail from which Dayna had come, wobbly but intent, ignoring Carey's surprised, "Jess!" and his curse as, with another spurt of noisy struggle, Ramble reclaimed everyone's attention.

She veered as she ran, dodging trees and avoiding roots and sending the birds in all directions—something else that ought to grab the park naturalist's attention—aiming to hit the trail behind the naturalist, to draw attention back down the trail and away from her friends. She, like Dayna, knew this park; she knew the spot where they'd arrived, and in what direction the nature center and parking lots lay. But still uncertain on her feet, she tripped—a vine, a root, a rock, she couldn't tell—and went sprawling, smearing herself with wet leaves and dirt.

A woman's alto voice, full of authority, rang through the air. "Hello, in the woods! Come back out to the trail!"

Jess rubbed her dirt-covered cheek on the inside of her wrist and climbed to her feet. The fall, at least, had gotten the naturalist's attention. No running, not anymore—and just as well, for her brief spurt of activity had cost her. Stumbling more than before, she did as directed—she headed for the trail, still aiming to hit it closer to the nature center than if she'd followed the woman's voice.

Within a few moments, she saw the movement of the tan-and-brown-clad naturalist through the trees; the woman had accurately pinpointed Jess's location and she was waiting on the trail when Jess arrived, hopping one-footed onto the packed dirt trail as she disentangled her bare ankle from one last encounter with a thorn-studded green vine.

They regarded one another for a moment, but a moment was all the naturalist took. "These woods are protected," the woman said. "What were you doing out there?"

Jess needed another moment yet, taking in the woman's unyieldingly stern face, her short dark hair slicked back under a Metroparks cap, her water-beaded raincoat crinkling audibly with the movement of her hands going to her hips. She looked Jaime's age, with more sun lines and smile lines that weren't the least bit in use at the moment.

She looked like someone who expected answers.

Jess had thought only of drawing attention, and not what she'd do when she
had
it . . . and lying had never been something at which she was convincing. Before she could come up with one, the woman's eyes narrowed, flicking from Jess's odd dun hair with its black center stripe to her larger than normal irises, and then to her damp, dirt-smeared clothing.

And her bare feet, one ankle dripping blood from the vine.

"Looking for my friend's brother!" Jess blurted, only the truth after all and a desperate attempt to draw attention from her tough-soled feet. Her phantom ears flicked back and forth, attending the woman, listening for the sounds of the struggle she'd left behind her. Nothing so far . . . either she'd given them enough distance, or they'd gotten the palomino under control.

"He's off the trail, too?" the woman said sharply.

"I got lost." That one was a lie, but her awkwardness in telling it looked as much like embarrassment at being lost as anything.

"In more ways than one, I think," the woman muttered. "Do you live here? In the Columbus area?"

Jess cocked her head, trying to understand the relevance of the question . . . trying to decide how to answer it.

"You sound like you might be from . . . out of town," the woman said, not unkindly despite her obvious remaining disapproval at Jess's presence in the woods.

"Yes," Jess said, deciding then and there to let her remaining stray awkwardness with words speak for her. "Out of town."
Definitely
out of town.

"Sometimes visitors aren't familiar with our rules. We try to be understanding, but the rules are there to protect the woods, and I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave the park."

Not a consequence that had occurred to her. To be separated from the others? And with no car, not even a horse to ride. The world shifted around her, and Jess wasn't sure if the effect was left over from the change or simply a matter of things happening too fast for her to keep up with. "But Mark—"

The naturalist eyed her again, head to toe. "I'll escort you to the nature center. It's the first place people come when they've gotten separated; you can wait for him there. It's out of the rain." She shook her head as her gaze landed on Jess's feet. "You sure you're all right? There's not anything you're not telling me, is there?"

Only everything.
Jess felt it safer not to answer that one at all. She hugged her damp sweatshirt against herself and struck out for the nature center, determined not to wobble anymore until they reached it and she could sit. If she faltered, if she fell, then she'd only bring more park people here to help her . . . and she needed to clear this trail for Carey. Carey and Dayna and Suliya, and a resentful flaxen-haired man named Ramble.

Things could be worse, Suliya thought. Jess had drawn the park naturalist—a peacekeeper of some sort, to judge by Dayna's reaction—away, and the palomino was under control.

For now, at least. His expression wasn't that of a man she'd trust to do anything but cause trouble at the first opportunity. She'd already caught him staring at her, his jaw dropped slightly with the same expression his horse-self wore when contemplating a bite—except he distracted himself, frowning, working his jaw, tilting his head . . . trying to sort out this new body.

"Burning hells," Carey said, contemplating the man. "That could have gone better in so many ways I've lost track."

"At least it's raining," Dayna said, but her voice held weary agreement, not argument. "Not hard enough to soak us, but it's enough to keep the casual visitors away. With any luck, we'll have this trail to ourselves until we reach the parking lot. And with
real
luck, Mark will be waiting for us."

Carey still eyed the palomino, his mouth twisted in disapproval. "He's never going to trust us now. Jess is our only chance."

Ramble gave an angry snort, as if he could have possibly understood. Suliya knew better . . . he was just expressing frustration over the way his jaw functioned. But she didn't disagree with Carey, either. The palomino—finally brought under control when Carey twisted his ear, a common enough tactic with a rank and dangerous horse—sat awkwardly on the ground, constantly shifting as though he might find a way to arrange his legs that felt natural. Carey'd slipped a rope around his neck, knotted so it wouldn't tighten, and hobbled his arms.

"Wouldn't using those on his
legs
do more good?" Suliya had asked at the time.

"He's used to wearing them on his front legs; he's not as smart a horse as Lady and I think he'll consider himself hobbled." And then he'd thrown her a wry look, rubbing a reddened spot on his cheek. "Besides, he can't hit us this way."

True enough. Though Suliya herself intended to remember that ear twist once they got under way and the man had the chance to figure out hobbled front legs in this form didn't mean he couldn't run as fast as ever.

Carey picked up Jess's harness and saddlebags, slipping them over his shoulder. His own bag was a travel-sling, as was Suliya's remaining bag. Dayna stuffed her own small shoulder-carry into Ramble's now empty bag and straightened her tunic; the rain beaded on it. Wizard's clothing, spelled against such inconveniences as rain. Suliya, too, had once taken such things for granted. "That's that, I suppose,"

Dayna said. "We need to get out of here before something else comes up."

"I doubt we've got much of a break where he's concerned—he'll try us out again soon," Carey said, coiling the end of the palomino's neck rope and closing his fingers around it. Where Suliya would have tugged, he just made a clucking noise. "Hup, Ramble. Let's go."

Ramble's evident doubt had more to do with his legs and their use; he was aware of the hobbles, aware of his earlier failure. He made a few hesitant attempts to rise, and then eyed Carey with what he thought was a sly look, waiting to see if Carey believed his inability to walk.

"Suliya," Carey said, most casually. "Find me a good switch, will you?"

"You're not really—" Dayna started, but stopped, uncertain; she was already edging toward the trail, obviously eager to get moving, but—"He's human now . . ."

"A man who still thinks like a horse. Thinks he
is
a horse." Carey nodded at Suliya, who scanned the trees around them for a long and whippy limb . . . most of the brush bore short crooked branches, and the tree branches started way over her head. She finally found a sapling and tore off one of its lean branches; as she made her way back to the others, Carey again urged the palomino to his feet.

Same result. Suliya could have told him that. This horse—as horse
or
man—had his own ideas about what he would and wouldn't do. She stripped the leaves off the switch and handed it to Carey.

"Perfect," Carey said, making a show of examining it, tapping it against his leg. Ramble's nostrils flared in utter annoyance, and the next time Carey asked him to move out, he heaved himself to his feet, ungainly and uncertain, but this time really trying. "Thatta boy," Carey told him. "We can make this work, Ramble."

"You knew," Dayna said, background noise as far as Suliya was concerned; she was busy taking her first good look at the man. He was taller than any of them, thicker across the shoulders than Carey despite his overall rangy look, and the strong bones of his face suddenly seemed to suit him much better.

Beside her, Dayna said, "You
knew
you wouldn't have to use it."

"I damn well hoped," Carey said. "I don't honestly know if I could have . . . And once he starts understanding things as a man, I doubt he would have forgiven it."

"And he won't give that rope around his neck a second thought, I suppose," Dayna said dryly.

Carey took a deep breath, one mixed with regret and frustration. "I don't think we can handle him without it. It's going to be a long walk out of here."

Dayna said, "It's
already
a long walk out of here. Let's just hope we find Mark at the end of it."

How casual they were. Roping this man, evading the peacekeepers of a foreign land, making plans to walk out to this
parking lot
thing Dayna kept mentioning . . .

Ramble followed Carey through the woods; Carey followed Dayna. And Suliya brought up the rear, hugging close the open-front sweater her younger sister had bought for her last year. At the time she'd agreed to come along, she'd thought it a certain way to gain Carey's attention, to earn his respect . . . and in turn, to regain her family's respect.

Now, watching Ramble, she felt the enormity of it nibbling away at the edges of her nonchalant self-confidence. The travel, her presence in this world that at once seemed familiar and alien . . . the irrevocable nature of this adventure she'd agreed to involve herself with . . . all represented in this horse so freshly turned to man that Carey led him away in hobbles, a neck rope, and a switch at the ready.

A
rlen eased off the livery horse with a groan, reminding himself—firmly—he'd been lucky to acquire the animal at all. Transportation of any kind was increasingly more difficult to arrange, and only the application of a wince-worthy amount of gold had allowed him to acquire this rough-gaited mount.
His
, now, though he had no illusions that the animal could carry him all the way to Anfeald.

Or that he'd survive the trip if it did.

A deeper part of him knew he'd do anything to get home. Anything.

It wasn't a part he could afford to show anyone else. So he eased off the horse and he groaned and he kept his inconvenienced businessman's face in place.

The gelding chomped placidly on its bit, preparing to spit it out entirely, perfectly reliant on his new owner—as Arlen was on him, as unexpected as it had been. He'd been surprised enough at the high price the livery owner named for the rental of this coarse, feather-legged creature.

"Not a rental," the man had said as they returned to the small boxy storefront that served as an office. It, too, smelled like a stall in need of cleaning. "Look around, why don't you. The only reason I've still got him is that the last couple of people through here got picky, and he's all that's left. The only reason you're
getting
him is that word spreads fast, and yon coacher"—he nodded in the direction of the road coach station—"is a friend of mine."

And Arlen, who'd trudged over to the livery ring from the overcrowded hotel with half a mind on the unprecedented devastation he'd seen the day before and the other half on picking the best path through the crusty, well-used snow that ought to have been cleared but wasn't, looked out the big front window of the livery ring office with several different kinds of surprise. He'd known people were getting restless with the service disruptions, but . . .

"Word?" he asked, looking at what he could see of the town—the main road, which in a small town like this should have been speckled with people going about their business with casual purpose. Instead they walked in clumps, their conversation full of emphatic gestures, their postures full of frustration. The road inns were full, with restaurants running out of shipped food items and their trapped occupants going from cranky to truly worried. Arlen, sitting at a breakfast table full of stranded travelers, had made do with monosyllabic responses and a good many shrugs at the speculation he heard.