The Dreamtrails by Isobelle Carmody

the truth about himself, and Noviny had invited him to remain in his household. Khuria had been glad to stay, for he found Obernewtyn’s bitter winters harder and harder to endure. Judging from Khuria’s letters to Zarak after the end of the rebellion, a genuine friendship had grown between the two men. The letters had made it clear that Noviny was almost certain to be reelected chieftain of the region as soon as the people of Saithwold were allowed to make their own choice. Vos, the rebel who currently served as chieftain, knew this and resented it bitterly, but attempts to force local farmers to agree to vote for him had only increased his unpopularity.
    Once the pass had been closed with snow, there had been no more letters until thaw. But as soon as the pass had openedand messages arrived, Zarak had shown me the pile of letters from his father, asking grimly if I would read them and tell him what I thought.
    They had been arranged from oldest to most recent. The first, sent at the start of wintertime, had reported Vos’s growing anger at the Beast Charter and Noviny’s willingness to embrace it. There had been several confrontations between Noviny and the new chieftain in which Vos had ranted and Noviny had remained calm and dignified, saying that he was a private farmer and was concerned only with his own affairs. The letter was written with Khuria’s characteristic bluntness, but there was a marked change in the tone of the letters that followed. The scribing became strangely formal, and instead of offering incisive evaluations of Saithwold’s situation, Khuria offered all manner of irrelevant and even trivial details of daily life. There was no more mention of Vos, nor of beastspeaking and agreements with beasts. The last letter, sent only a sevenday or so before the thaw, seemed maudlin and spoke of infirmity and the wings of time. This missive was so altogether unlike Khuria that either he had not written it, or he was striving to make it seem false.
    “He wishes to communicate but he cannot write freely,” I had suggested to Zarak.
    “That is just what I thought,” he had responded worriedly. “On his deathbed, my father would nivver whine like this.”
    The serving woman set down a platter of fresh-baked bread, interrupting my reverie. As she arranged crocks of honey, jam, and butter, she said softly, “If there is trouble in Saithwold, ye can be sure Chieftain Vos is behind it.” She spoke his title with a sneer. “He is determined the people of Saithwold will elect him chieftain again whether they like it or no.”
    “He can’t make anyone vote for him,” I told her. “Each person’s name will be marked off as they make their choice for chieftain. That choice will be scribed in secret, then folded, and put into a box that will remain locked until it reaches Sutrium.”
    “I ken that as well as the next person who can read a notice, but who do ye think will guard the box of votes and bear them to Sutrium?” the woman snapped. “The armsmen of each chieftain, that’s who.”
    Zarak entered, hailing me jovially and commanding the woman behind the counter to bring him a brace of eggs, a mountain of fried bread, and a slab of sharp yellow cheese. The same again was to be wrapped up for our companion who lay ill in the wagon.
    A faint unease passed over the woman’s face at the mention of illness, but I knew this was only an unconscious remembering of the plague that had swept the Land some years previous, killing many and scarring more. The woman offered Zarak a cider, which he accepted, and as she set about preparing the rest of his order, I told him aloud that there might be strife in Saithwold over the coming elections and suggested we reconsider going there. At the same time, I farsent a command to Zarak to disagree in an arrogant brotherly way.
    “It is naught to do with us,” Zarak said airily, carefully emulating lowland speech to match our accents. “We are not to vote for the