Casting around the woods with his Sight fully extended was a strange experience in its own right. He could have used it when hunting as a youth, except… it was so overwhelming. It wasn’t like ghosting along with his bow trying to pick out one tasty target, disregarding all the rest; rather the reverse. The whole tapestry of the forest’s life folded in upon him, its intricacy interlocking in finer and finer stitching, so that the mere perception, after a time, grew exhausting. His range was short, half-a-hundred paces, or this god-sight would be entirely too god-like. What kind of Mind was it that could hold the whole world like this, all at once, all the time? Could the gods ever close their Eyes and rest from it, even for a short while? And what would happen if They did?
Also, if he were ever the-gods-forbid by some accident blinded, could this substitute for his lost eyesight? He was in no hurry to find out.
Aside from that, Des grew replete ingesting the life from more biting insects than Pen thought possible, and bored enough to attempt exploding a scampering shrew, a pastime he caught up with just too late. He stared down with some disgust at the splatter across his boot. “Really, Des. Are you a two-hundred-year-old woman—”
“Women,” she corrected, blandly.
“—or an idle village lad? Even I never pulled the wings off flies.”
“Somehow, I am not surprised, dear Pen.”
And he was reminded, again, that beneath the two centuries’ accumulation of human experience and knowledge that she shared so generously with him, she was a chaos demon. Which made him wonder, again, what must be going on right now with the other chaos demon, thrown so violently backward into worse disorder.
Hot, sweaty, and hungry, he turned his steps back toward the kin Pikepool manor. His pace quickened as he found yesterday’s path. Perhaps one of the others had come upon something. Perhaps they were impatiently waiting for him.
He found Oswyl and Thala sitting on the bench by the back door, though with no sign of impatience. Inglis and Kreil lounged cross-legged at their feet, sharing around a pitcher of well water and some of the food they’d brought along. Inglis looked glum and Oswyl grim, but since both were their natural expressions, it didn’t tell Pen much.
They all looked up as he trod near. “Ah,” said Oswyl. “Find anything interesting, Learned?”
Pen sighed and joined the pair on the ground, grateful to be handed down a cup. “Not so far. How about yourselves?”
Inglis and Kreil both shook their heads, but Oswyl confided, “Treuch’s hut shows signs of hosting a visitor. There was a bedroll, and maybe a few too many cups and plates scattered about.”
Thala put in, “The housekeeper notes he’s had a hearty appetite of late. Since he brings in game for the table to keep the other servants in meat, she can’t exactly complain, she said. While complaining.” Her lips twitched back in a brief rare smile—she seemed to be sopping up the sober demeanor, as well as the tips on their trade, from her mentor. “Since he keeps to himself by habit, and is not of a cheerful disposition to start with, no changes there.”
“Huh,” said Pen. “He’s not come in yet?”
“Not so far,” echoed Kreil.
One could not accuse Treuch of lying about seeing strangers lately, since he hadn’t yet been asked. It wasn’t odd for a man to have a visitor. It was odd to keep his visitor a secret, however. “It couldn’t have been a woman, in the hut?”
“No signs of such in the clothing or clutter, no,” said Oswyl.
“That’s very interesting.”
“I’d be willing to call it so,” Oswyl conceded. Which, from Oswyl, was something like a large signal flag. Not that he’d admit to such a thing. But Pen bet he’d be keeping an eye on Treuch’s hut.
“Where’s Wegae gone off to?”
“Looking over household accounts, and inspecting the place,” said Thala. “He seemed to think it was expected of him. I’m not sure his servants appreciate his conscientiousness.” Inglis snickered, and tore into his bread and cheese. Penric put down his emptied cup and waved a hand, and Thala portioned him out a share.
Oswyl came alert first, Pen following his gaze to find Lunet jogging back to them. Her eyes were merry, her cheeks flushed beneath their smattering of freckles. Pen’s breath caught in anticipation.
She fetched up before them and bounced on her toes, all smugness. “Found your fox,” she announced. Even Oswyl was surprised into a smile.
“Ah!” Pen nearly sprang to his aching feet; his spine straightened. “Then it was a fox, we were right! Where?”
Thala handed over a cup of water, which Lunet drained, smacking her lips. “Thanks, needed that. The den’s nearly in the center of this tract, about as deep into the woods as you can go without starting out again. On a steep slope, really tangled. But there’s a hitch. It looks like your demon has gone into a vixen with cubs.”
Pen was taken aback. Somehow, in all his imaginings, he’d pictured a dog-fox, a bachelor ready to travel, although upon reflection that had only ever been half the chance.
“She seemed very distressed,” said Lunet. “It was hard to tell if that was the demon part, the vixen part, or both. I haven’t tried to get too close to her yet. I thought maybe I’d better come get you, first.”
“Did she see you? Or sense you?”
Lunet nodded. “She gave me rather a frantic look, before she shook the cubs off her teats and sped away to hunt. Not the usual time of day for a fox to hunt, but I can see why she had to. Six babies. Oh, Mother and Brother, they were so darling. All fluff and flurry, tumbling over each other and chewing on their siblings’ ears and tails. She barked at them, such a strange sound foxes make, you know, and they retreated inside. I left a brace of rabbits just in front of the den as a peace offering, then I hurried to get you.”
Pen wondered what shortcuts a shaman might undertake to hunt—barehanded!—and if they were anything like the easy devastation he could now wreak, if he chose.
“We should get back soon,” Lunet went on. “She might become afraid and move them.”
Pen pondered this unexpected development. If he’d had trouble imagining the damaged demon’s state of mind before, the puzzle was redoubled. The vixen certainly had her own present obsession, and the demon had been imprinted by at least one sorceress who’d been a mother herself. How were the two fighting it out in the animal’s brain? Or had they achieved some bizarre sort of cooperation? Women did that…
Sometimes, agreed Des, seeming as fascinated as he was. And he was reminded that of her twelve previous riders, six had once borne children themselves, if all before they’d joined with the demon. Of Des’s two centuries of memories, experiences, and disturbing dream-fragments that Pen did not talk about to anyone, those intimacies led the list.
Eight, murmured Des, counting the lioness and the mare.
Ah. Yes. Quite. So, maybe one of them had been through something like this before. Des, help me out, here.
A rather long pause. Then, slowly, as if feeling her way forward herself, Des offered, Perhaps we’d better ask the vixen.
“Huh,” said Pen aloud, and then as much to his human companions as to Des, “We can’t leave her unguarded, out there. Not with all this unexplained fox-slaughter going on.”
There was a general murmur of agreement, and a speeding of the consumption of lunch.
As Pen was chewing down his bread and cheese, Nath lumbered across the yard, the last of their hunting party to report in. He looked his companions over. “Treuch not back yet?” he inquired.
“Did you find him?” asked Oswyl, sitting up.
“I met him in the woods, setting snares. He asked who I was. I said I was a visitor come with his lord, who wanted him to come back to the house. He said he would, as soon as he was done with his task. I drew off and waited till he’d gone, then tripped the snare and followed.”
“Then he should have come in ahead of you,” said Oswyl.
“Did he seem suspicious of you?” asked Inglis. “Accuse y
ou of poaching or anything?”
“No, our exchange was brief. Civil enough, I suppose. Then he limped off.”
“…Limped?” said Penric. “He didn’t have a limp yesterday. Was it a new injury, could you tell?”
Nath waved a thick hand. “Old, I’d say. He walked with a staff. Big fellow, grizzled beard. Well-spoken, though, for the little he said.”
Inglis and Penric looked at each other and blinked. “How old was the man?” asked Penric.
“Maybe the near side of fifty?”
“Not… around forty, dark-haired, lean, about Inglis’s height?” asked Pen.
“No, closer to my size. And shape.” Nath shrugged bearish shoulders.
“That wasn’t Treuch,” said Inglis. “Or… it wasn’t the man who said he was Treuch yesterday.”
“He answered to Treuch, when I called out to him,” said Nath.
“What exactly did you say to him?” asked Oswyl.
“I said, Hello there, are you Baron kin Pikepool’s forester, Treuch? and he said… well, he actually said, What’s it to you?”
“Could be Treuch’s mystery visitor,” said Oswyl.
“Or just some random poacher,” said Kreil, though his ears had pricked with interest.
Really, murmured Des, young Kreil makes me want to throw a stick, just to see what would happen. Pen ignored that one. Nath’s description made him deeply uneasy, but there were, inevitably, any number of benign explanations for the man, as Pen was sure someone senior to himself would point out.
“What was he using to bait his snare?” asked Inglis.
“A very dead fish.”
“Not after rabbits, then,” said Pen. “Or anything else you’d want to eat.”
“I wouldn’t say so, no,” agreed Nath.
Oswyl drummed his fingers on the bench, but, being Oswyl, added no more.
It was decided Kreil would stay at the manor with the Grayjays, in case Treuch or the mystery man returned, to help or run messages as needed. Once they’d secured the demon-fox, Pen wanted to secure the bearded stranger as well, if only to settle his doubts, assuming he could persuade the tired, hot shamans to search the woods a second time. That odd exchange with Nath could have just been a poacher being cleverly evasive. Or, if he’d been an honest man, he might turn up on his own, in which case Oswyl could evaluate him. Oswyl, Pen was sure, would jump to no conclusions.
Pen, Inglis, and Nath followed Thala into the forest once more.
* * *
They’d tramped a good three miles off the path, including laboring in and out of one wrong ravine, before Thala put a finger to her lips and slowed, her steps becoming stealthy. Pen tracked her pointing hand to a pile of deadfall and wild grapevines on the gully’s opposite slope, and unfolded his Sight. The fox family was at home, judging by the warm pile of squirming life he could sense below the thin green screen.
And so was their mother, by the unmistakable density and roil of a chaos demon therein. The roil instantly grew tense and dismayed; for once, Sight ran two ways, instead of Pen’s more usual secret spying.
Just as humans were natural enemies of foxes, there was every reason for the demon to presume a Temple sorcerer was an arresting officer come to carry it off to some execution-by-saint, and no savior. That was certainly a grim task both he and Des had carried out before. Des’s density tended to daunt lesser demons, and the fact that she was not ascended was apparently no reassurance. Pen did not see how he was to make up for that by any slathering-on of innocent charm to the demon’s host this time.
Was this demon ascended? It was the obvious assumption, and yet… Des, what do you make of her? …Them.
Yes, she said slowly, as if herself unsure. And yet… the burden of care seems reversed. Magal’s doing, maybe?
It took Pen a moment to figure out what Des meant by that. The demon is trying to look out for the vixen? Like… like a pet?
Or a child. Which is what people make of their pets, I suppose. She seemed to consider the cubs, and added, Children.
“Lunet,” Pen whispered. “Let’s you and I try to get closer, without alarming the vixen. Don’t want her to bolt. You other two stay here, for now.”
“She’s already alarmed,” Lunet whispered back, swiping a strand of rusty hair off her sticky forehead. “She won’t bolt till the very last gasp, though. Because of the cubs.”
“Right.”
Trying to move quietly, Pen and Lunet made their way to the bottom of the ravine and angled up again until they were just a few paces from the den. Lunet wriggled her finger at the ground, and Pen nodded; they both sank down to sit in the leaf litter, he cross-legged, she on her knees. The silence from under the screen of grape leaves matched their own. The gleam of wary eyes, the faint outline of the furry mask, might almost have seemed a trick of the light and shadows in Pen’s sight. But not his Sight.
Can the demon-fox still understand human speech? Pen thought to Des. You were once a mare. And a lioness. Could you then?
That was two centuries ago, Pen! In any case, no. Neither one had ever been in a human yet to acquire such skills. Going the other way… is not something I’ve ever done. Thankfully.
Could the fox’s brain even process the complexities of human tongues, to pass along to its demon? Pen, who possessed six languages so far, did not underestimate the task. The sounds, presumably, must pass through unimpaired—foxes had keen hearing—but could a demoted demon retain such comprehension? No spirit can long exist in the world of matter without a being of matter to support it, the basic Temple dictum ran. Could the skills of a spirit exist piecemeal? Linger for a time, at least?
There seemed no way to find out but to test it.
Oswyl, Pen had noticed, routinely used Thala to speak with any female interrogatees. Possibly another reason for the canny man to value his assistant, which he obviously did. Perhaps the fox shaman could be such an ambassadress?
“Inglis has this weirding voice,” he whispered to her. “I’ve seen him use it to command dogs. And men, though I should warn you it doesn’t work on demons. Can you use such to speak to the vixen? Draw her out?”
Lunet frowned, and whispered back, “The voice is more command than enticement. And dogs already have some grasp of speech. Although there are also songs.”
Pen didn’t think she meant mere Temple hymns; he needed to find out more about that. Later. “I’ve heard there are stronger spells, geases.”
She nodded. “Those only last as long as the shaman pours life into them. Or parasitizes some source of life, most handily the subject himself, but that’s a more complex and costly compulsion to set.”
“Mm.” Compulsion in general only lasted as long as it was enforced. Persuasion could linger more usefully. “Try speaking to her, first. Coaxing gently. Keep the message simple.”
“What message?”
Any threat to take the vixen to the Bastard’s Order, as Hamo had wished, would terrify the demon. With cause. “Offer to take her—and her cubs—to the Royal Fellowship. You have the wherewithal to keep foxes healthy at your menagerie, yes?”
“Of course.” Lunet smiled. “Good notion.” She walked forward on her knees closer to the shadowed mouth of the den, and crouched again. “Hey, lady. We mean you no harm. With all these men hunting, we want to take you to a safer den than these woods. My shamans’ den. And your children. Will you trust me?”
The resonance of the weirding voice, though familiar to Pen by now, still made the hairs stir on his arms. The vixen crept forward into the light, wriggling low to the ground, lips drawn back on her white teeth, ears cycling back and forward. Panting in anxiety. Lunet leaned forward to lay her hand up between the two black front paws, and hummed to no tune Pen recognized, faint and eerie.
Slowly, the vixen lowered her muzzle to touch her nose to Lunet’s palm.
Communication of some sort achieved, although with the fox, the demon, or both Pen was not sure. Pen thought back to his own immense confusion upon first
acquiring Des. He couldn’t very well hand the fox a slim volume on sorcery to read up on her new state, despite all the unnatural awareness that seemed to shine from those copper eyes.
“I suppose,” Pen murmured, “we must first get them all back to the manor. And then maybe have Wegae lend us a farm cart to take them to town.” Or pannier baskets, or something. If he’d been thinking, they might have brought some such transport aids into these woods. “Six cubs. Can they walk that far? Will they follow?”
Lunet seemed to be making inroads with the vixen, her humming becoming a wordless song, the animal relaxing into her moving hands. She stroked the vixen’s head, made play with her tufted ears, ran her slim fingers though the ruddy ruff. Half shamanic persuasion, Pen thought, and half simple, honest delight, persuasive in its own right.
Fascinated, Pen crept forward and extended his own hand, only to have the vixen tilt her head and curl her black-edged lip back on a toothy growl. Lunet shot him a look of annoyance, and Pen subsided, feeling weirdly disappointed at his exclusion from this love-fest. You just want to pet her, too, Des snickered. The strange communing continued for a few minutes, then Lunet crawled into the den, to return momentarily followed by the half-dozen sleepy and bewildered cubs, who were indeed, as touted, darling. They blinked shoe-button eyes and made a concerted run on their mother’s dugs, but the distracted vixen irritably shoved them away. Almost automatically, Pen took a moment to rid them via Des of their fleas and ticks, which drew a sharp look from the vixen—or her demon—but her sudden tension faded again as it was plain the cubs had taken no harm from him.
So, how much of Magal’s demon’s powers, or control of its powers, did the fox have? Insect eradication was one of the simplest of destructive magics, the first Des had ever shown him back when he’d so inadvertently acquired her. This did suggest the fox-demon might be less dangerous than he’d feared.
Simple, observed Des, but requiring fine control.
Magal should have been able to do it, though. And Svedra.
Oh, certainly. The point is, less-fine control is not necessarily less dangerous.