ZIHAEN, The Shadow of the Revenaunt, Book 2

CHAPTER 7 - DERIVALL (Part 1)

The morning was still a promise when Zethir and Damion rode out of the gate, and a ghost-white fog lay over the dark heath.

Damion shivered. 'It's chilly.'

Zethir wasn't in the mood for conversation. This was his first serious job since he joined the King's Heralds and he was determined to make a success of it. Besides, his companion was an unknown factor. A friend of Halwyrd, but was he to be trusted in time of need? Who was Halwyrd anyway? Someone of that age, barely older than Zethir himself, who had become so influential in such a short time, was a mystery in himself. They had not spoken about it, but Zethir knew his father hoped to learn more from him about the mysterious King's Lieutenant. He shivered when a cold trickle of water from his wet hair reached his back. The beastmaster had it right; it really was chilly.

Faster than they expected, they found the first signs of human activity: a skinny shepherd with a flock of longhaired sheep, their fleeces dripping fog.

Zethir looked around. Then he nodded toward a nearby group of trees clinging to the rocky soil. There they tied their horses. Still without a word, the spy closed his eyes. Slowly his face changed into that of a tired old man. His hair turned white and thinner than it actually was. A badly healed scar appeared and disfigured the left side of his face. He wore old clothes he had scraped together in Rabogst and carried a large wicker basket on his back. He didn't really need Damion's admiring confirmation to know that the transformation was perfect. His disguises always were.

'Very good,' Damion said, and his tone was respectful. 'Where'd you get that face from?'

'Inventory,' the young spy said. 'At the Illusionarium we had to memorize a number of appearances for little jobs like this. For the bigger ones I can become almost anyone I've seen in person or in a painting. They call it mimikria, imitation. I could look like you, so that even your parents wouldn't recognize the difference.'

'A dangerous skill,' Damion said.

Zethir shrugged. 'So is your beastmastery.' He turned and stared across the heath to the vague contours of Derivall in the distance.

Damion followed his gaze and felt some of his strain. 'My skill is dangerous,' he said calmly. 'But I can do only animals, not impersonate a king. That makes a difference. And for now I choose something simple.'

He had been practicing, and turned effortlessly into a decrepit Rocathese sheepdog. Only the scratch on his nose wasn't his idea. Uwella had been in her cougar form and angry that she couldn't come with him. Of course, she immediately regretted clawing at him, but it itched terribly. Damion sighed. He found their relationship confusing. Sometimes she was very sweet and concerned, bordering on possessive, and the next time he couldn't do anything right in her eyes.

A bird squawked and he jumped. Concentrate! Resolutely he put all thoughts of Uwella away and followed Zethir with a stiff gait. Canine impressions forced themselves on him. Just as in his tiger form, the world was all shades of blue and green, filled with the most fascinating scents. In front of him, Zethir mumbled something. Immediately Damion realized that as a dog, he could not understand human speech. A dog used the language of body and odor. As he looked at his companion's back, it told him all of the other's uncertainty. Had he been in his own form, it would've been embarrassing. Zethir would die of shame if he knew how much of his fears a dog could perceive.

Suddenly his sensitive nose caught the wet-socks smell of sheep and a moment later, the bleating animals were all around him. Curse it, how big were those stupid beasts? A pungent smell of sweat wafted through the stink of the herd. The shepherd? Of what was he so afraid? Wait, Zethir spoke! The words were no more than sounds, only the tone he recognized. Quiet, question. Zethir's tone didn't match his posture, would the shepherd notice?