Seeing the pack was gone, Belegir whistled. A few minutes later Kurfan arrived, herding the horses before him. Just as well they hadn't been left to graze their fill in the orchard; they'd be colicky, or drunk, or both, and nursing a drunk horse was not Glory's idea of a good time. When they smelled the water, they hurried toward it, shouldering each other aside at the trough and blowing bubbles through the water.
Belegir looked almost guilty, as though he'd done something more than chase off a pack of dogs that were about to have her for lunch. Or maybe it was just her nerves being on edge. The sight of this place—thoroughly dead, thoroughly empty, half picked over by scavengers on two legs and four—was unsettling in the way that nothing before it had been. But it wasn't as if he'd sprung things on her. Belegir'd said they were coming here, and they'd come here. He'd already said the Allimir had been hunted from their homes. This was what it looked like. There was no point in asking by what, or who, or how. By now she'd had variations on that conversation with Belegir so many times that she could run it by herself at will.
—What happened here?
—She came, to wreak destruction on the Allimir.
—Why?
—Because She has been released.
—Who's she?
—She is the Warmother.
—Who's the Warmother?
—She is that whom Cinnas the Warkiller, greatest of the Allimir Mages, chained upon the peaks of Grey Arlinn a thousand years ago.
And round and round and round, and if she asked "how" rather than "who," she'd get to hear about how it was dark, and how She came in the night, and how the Allimir knew not the arts of war.
Glory sighed heavily. "So what's for pudding, then?"
She watched as Belegir lifted the pack from Marchiel and began to empty out supplies. She plucked Gordon and her tote-bag from the top of the pile and retreated, watching as Belegir removed the tarpaulin and stacked a series of bags and baskets on the ground beside the well, until he'd assembled a tidy little mound of picnic gear, then led the three horses around to the far side of the oak to graze. Kurfan paced around the edge of the green, sniffing and posturing, but Glory doubted the wild dogs would come back any time soon.
Glory leaned against the tree, feeling as if she ought to help, but with no idea of what to do. Belegir spread the tarp as a groundcover and opened a well-worn leather bag, from which he removed a small metal stand, a round pottery bottle with a protruding wick, and several metal hoops and stakes. Obviously the wick meant a lamp of some sort, but she couldn't see the point to the rest. It was broad day; they hardly needed light.
With the ease of long practice, Belegir assembled the object, producing a ring held by metal rods about six inches above the wick.
I've got it now.
When he turned back to the bundle of supplies, she'd anticipated him, plucking out an irregular tin jerrycan and dipping it full of water at the trough. She handed the container to him, and was absurdly pleased to see him smile and set it carefully above the lamp. She'd figured right, then.
Belegir leaned forward and snapped his fingers. The wick burst into sudden light, settling to burn with a strong yellow flame. Glory blinked, disconcerted. She managed to forget about the magic between the times it was shoved in her face. It just didn't seem likely that people could be so ordinary and still do things like light a fire with a snap of their fingers. Being able to do something like that ought to make you different, somehow. More different than a little old man whose strongest resemblance was to a pink-cheeked Kewpie doll, and not Gandalf the Grey.
She sighed and shook her head. Shouldn't magic solve your problems? And if it should, why wasn't it?
"There is ale if you wish it, Slayer," Belegir said, catching her look. "I know that a great hero—"
"Button it!" Glory snapped. She closed her eyes for a moment, fighting to hold on to her temper. "See here, Belegir. I reckon we'll both get on a deal better if you don't confuse me with her—" God's teeth, now he had her talking in italics! "With, um, the Slayer, I mean. Vixen. Her. I'll do what I can, but just . . ." her furious guilt evaporated, along with her point. "Don't call me a hero, hey?"
"As you wish," Belegir agreed, sounding baffled.
As the water heated he turned back to their supplies. Glory knelt on the sun-warmed tarp with the grace of many hours of practice at moving with five feet of live steel strapped to her back. Fortunately the costume's scabbard was hung to rock up and sideways, or wearing the sword would have been like being tied to a stake.
Lunch was cold meat pasties and apples gathered from the orchard. Having had not-much for breakfast, Glory tucked into her share with a good will. The meat was tough and stringy, as free-range protein tends to be, thickened with boiled grain instead of root vegetables, and unexpectedly filled with raisins—or something rather like raisins—as well, giving it a sweet-vinegar tang. Kurfan returned from his explorations and sat at the edge of the groundcloth, alert and watchful for scraps. Glory shied a few bits of crust his way. He snapped them gracefully out of the air and looked hopefully at her for more. Belegir tossed the dog a whole pasty, and Kurfan retreated behind the tree with his prize.