Free Shaman's Crossing by Hobb Robin Page B

scarcely two miles away from her tender daughters. He was a Plains savage and my father’s ancient enemy.
    On the day I was to meet Dewara, I rode out innocently with my father and Sergeant Duril. Not often, but sometimes my father invited us on his morning rounds of his holdings. I thought my ride that morning was such an outing. Usually it was a pleasant ride. We would move leisurely, lunch with one of his overseers, and halt at various cottages and tents to consult with the shepherds and the orchard workers. I took no more than I would usually carry on a pleasure ride. As the spring day was mild, I did not even take a heavy coat, but only my light jacket and my brimmed hat against the bright sunlight. The sort of country we lived in meant that only a fool set out on any ride unarmed. I carried no gun with me that day, but I did have a cavalry sword, worn yet serviceable, at my hip.
    My father rode on one side of me, with Sergeant Duril on the other. It felt odd, as if they were escorting me somewhere. The sergeant looked sullen. He was often taciturn, but his silence that day was weighted with suppressed disapproval. It was not often that he disagreed with my father about anything, and it filled me with both dread and intense curiosity.
    Once we were well away from the house, my father told me that I would meet a Kidona Plainsman today. As he often did when we spoke of specific clans, my father discussed Kidona courtesy, and cautioned me that my meeting with Dewara was a matter for men, not to be discussed later with my mother or sisters, nor even mentioned in their hearing. On the rise above the Plainsman’s camp, we halted and looked down. Dewara had a domed shelter made from humpdeer skins pegged to a wicker frame. The hides had been cured with the hair on to help them shed water. His three riding beasts were picketed nearby. They were the famous black-muzzled round-bellied striped-legged mounts that only the Kidona bred. Their manes stood up stiff and black as hearth brushes and their tails reminded me of a cow’s more than a horse’s. A short distance away, two Kidona women stood patiently next to a two-wheeled cart. A fourth animal shifted disconsolately between the shafts of the high-wheeled vehicle. The cart was empty.
    A small smokeless fire burned in front of his tent. Dewara himself, arms folded on his chest, stood looking up at us. He did not notice us as we arrived; he was already standing, looking toward us, as we came into view. The man’s prescience caused the hair on my arms to stand up and I shivered.
    “Sergeant, you may wait here,” my father said quietly.
    Duril chewed at his upper lip, then spoke. “Sir, I’d rather be closer. In case I’m needed.”
    My father looked at him directly. “Some things he cannot learn from me or from you. Some things can’t be taught to you by a friend; they can only be learned from an enemy.”
    “But, sir—”
    “Wait here, Sergeant,” my father repeated, and that closed the subject. “Nevare, you will come with me.” He lifted a hand, palm up, in greeting, and the Plainsman below returned the sign. Father stirred his horse to a leisurely walk and started down the rise to the Kidona’s camp. I glanced at Sergeant Duril but he was staring past me, mouth set in a flat line. I gave him a nod anyway and then followed my father. At the bottom of the rise, we dismounted and dropped our horses’ reins, trusting our well-trained mounts to stand. “Come when I motion to you,” my father said softly. “Until then, stand still by the horses. Keep your eyes on me.”
    My father approached the Plainsman solemnly, and the old enemies greeted one another with great respect. Privately, my father had cautioned me to treat the Kidona with as solemn deference as I extended to any of my tutors. As a youth, I should bow my head to my left shoulder when I first greeted him, and never spit in his presence or show my back to him, for such were the courtesies of his