Description: Roads Less Traveled Charlotte E. English :I can see you, you know.: Uselessly, Rosia tucked herself deeper into the thicket in which she had taken refuge, as though doing so might turn her invisible if she only wished hard enough. The dulcet voice went on, inexorable. :You look nice!: A choked sound emerged from the girl, comprising disgust and-in spite of herself-laughter, albeit without much mirth. Nice? She looked nice? After weeks on the road, wending ever deeper into the wilds of the Pelagir Hills; without money even to eat half the time, let alone bathe; dressed in ragged garments that were now hopelessly soiled and torn and had never been nice even when new. :Perhaps it isn''t the way you look so much as the way you smell,: conceded her pursuer, the words coming somehow from inside her own head. She might conclude she had gone mad and was talking to herself, save that the bright white horse, with its silvery bridle and its bells and its wide, friendly eyes, had been following her for hours; and every observation made, in those mellow tones, was accompanied by some hopeful movement. This time, it was a nuzzling at the branches of Rosia''s friendly thicket. One clear blue eye peeped in. "That''s even worse," Rosia said. "If I could only get away from my own smell, I would." A pause followed. Rosia received the impression that the horse was thinking. :No, you''re right,: came the reply. :It isn''t a vision or a scent but a . . . feeling. You feel nice.: Rosia, exhausted and hungry and despairing, swallowed a sob. "Why won''t you go away?" :Because I''m lonely.: "So? Find another friend." :But I like you.: "Who wouldn''t," Rosia muttered, clenching her fists. "When I''ve been so friendly." :I am your Companion,: said the horse. :That is the best friend anybody could have.: "I don''t need a companion." And I don''t deserve one, Rosia thought. The horse lay down on the other side of the thicket, clearly prepared to wait all day if necessary. :I am here anyway, my Chosen.: Rosia briefly thought of running away, but the horse would only follow. "Why are you so stubborn?" she said instead, hating the whining quality of the question. She was an adult-or nearly, anyway. Adults didn''t whine. The horse lipped at a scrubby thread of grass. :I am your Companion.: "You said that already." Rosia received a sense of warm amusement, like . . . a giggle. Her Companion, if she was such, was too young for sober dignity. :For some reason, I got the idea you weren''t listening,: she said. :My name is Lilan.: Rosia sat up as far as she was able, ignoring the tangle of thorns in her hair, and folded her arms. :And you are . . . ?: prompted Lilan. "Rosia," the name ungraciously muttered under her breath. "Peddler." Thief. "And a girl who talks to horses, looks like." :I am not a horse,: said Lilan patiently. :A Companion is something else altogether.: "I know what you are. You think I haven''t seen Heralds?" Rosia had no intention of telling this peculiar creature what kinds of feelings she''d witnessed at the passage of Valdemar''s Chosen. In their immaculate Whites, with their Companions at their sides, they''d blown through Rosia''s life like a fresh, bright wind, untouchably distant. Unfathomably magnificent. Not that any of them had ever stopped to talk to the likes of her, not even when her parents were alive. Peddlers were beneath such folk. She and Ma and Pa had passed Heralds on the road sometimes, that was all. :Well, then, you know why I am here.: Lilan settled herself more comfortably, as placid as a summer lake, and if a horse-Companion-was capable of smiling, she was smiling now. "You must be confused," said Rosia. :Not in the least. You are my Chosen, and when you''re feeling better, we shall be off on our way to Haven.: "You picked wrong. Go find someone else." :Why do you say that?: Lilan asked the question in a spirit of gentle enquiry, as though mildly curious. Rosia bit her lip. "Heralds are s''posed to be good people." :And you are not?: "I''m not." She heaved the boundless sigh of a wearied spirit and added, in a smaller voice, "I wasn''t so bad, before . . ." :Before?: prompted Lilan. Rosia tightly closed her lips. Lilan, unconcerned, fell silent. Rosia peeped through the thorns and saw the Companion, eyes closed, lightly dozing. Or so it seemed. "Before Ma died," Rosia said. "And then Pa, and . . ." It was her turn to fall into a silence, though hers was of a brooding quality. :Why don''t you tell me what happened?: Lilan said. :Once I know how awful you are, I''m sure I''ll be off like a shot.: Rosia shrank into herself, appalled at the thought of confessing aloud to-anybody, least of all a stranger. Least of all a . . . horse. Companion. "I can''t. It''s too hard." :Don''t start with the hard part,: Lilan suggested. :The trick is to start at the beginning.: The Pelagir Hills loomed ahead, dark and uninviting. Heavy old boughs hung over the road, casting long shadows, despite the day being rather young yet. Fall had that way about it sometimes; winter lurked just behind, and sometimes you could really feel it. Rosia felt it keenly today. She''d meant to plunge straight into the forest without stopping. That was how you did things that were scary: quickly, without pausing to think. But her feet had betrayed her, or perhaps it was her heart that had failed. The darkness under those trees daunted her. Even the road this far northwest did not much deserve the name, being a crumbling dirt track that hosted few travelers. And then there were the stories . . . Fever had taken her ma, not long since and her pa soon after. There hadn''t been much left in their packs by then, and there hadn''t been money enough for a donkey or a pony in years. Still, Rosia had never known what it was to go truly hungry-until Pa had gone. Then she''d learned. She was hungry now. Not the light, ordinary hunger of the well-fed, but an urgent need for sustenance that tore at her insides and weakened her knees. She had sold most of Ma''s ribbons and Pa''s trinkets for medicine; and when that failed to save either of them, she had been forced to sell everything else for food. Now there was nothing left, not for food, not for new supplies to sell in some fresh town farther up the road. If she didn''t do something, she would starve. Something had presented itself. Her last coin had gone to purchase a loaf-stale but edible-from a baker a village or two back. In passing, she''d heard talk. "Them Pelagirs, you wanta watch yersel'' up there," the baker said in his gruff, deep voice to the customer after her-a man with the look (and smell) of a trapper about him. "Dangerous parts." But the trapper had laughed. "S''alright for them as knows ''em. I''m off to get me a Firebird. Heard tell there''s a few of ''em not too deep in." "Can''t say as I know anything ''bout that," answered the baker, cautious-like. "Wouldn''t think it worth the danger, meself." "Ain''t much that could kill me," said the trapper cheerfully, and tipped what there was of his hat. "And for that kind o'' money, I''m game to try. Good day to ye." That kind of money? Firebirds. Not for nothing was Rosia a peddler''s daughter. She knew well what a Firebird would fetch. A single feather would be enough . . . " ''Scuse me," she said, turning back to the baker. "Are we near the Pelagirs here?" "Aye, but you don''t wanta go up that way," the baker replied. "Nasty place. Be lucky to come out alive." Clutching the last piece of food she was likely to see in a while, with her pockets empty of coin and her packs empty of goods, Rosia knew she would be lucky to come out of the week alive. Her fingers tightened on the loaf. "Please, could you tell me the way?" The baker had done so, if reluctantly, and now here she stood on the very edge. Hesitating. It was the pain in her stomach that decided her. She took a step, and another-and then with a great rush of desperate energy, she plunged deep into the forest and didn''t look back. She did not, of course, stumble over a Firebird feather just lying there under the trees. Nothing so easy could come of so risky a venture. But nor was she disappointed of her aim. Mouthfuls of her precious bread sustained her for a day or two''s wandering under the thick boughs, bolstered here and there with handfuls of berries, or an occasional mushroom. Ma and Pa had known a bit about foraging, learned during the leaner times. Rosia kept her wits about her, listened and watched for the dangers the villagers had been eager to warn each other about. Wild beasts of all kinds, they said. Some

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