If Kris had been deaf, he might have been able to sleep through the noise of the night guards coming in and the day guards getting up. Since he wasn’t, he made a virtue of the inevitable and got up with them. He found Talia, still sleepy-eyed, waiting for him in the mess hall; she’d had the foresight to claim two breakfasts from the cook. Their host put in an appearance just as they were finishing.
“Well, I’ve got your instructions. I’m to give you maps, and you’re not to wait for an escort but to go on to the capital. You’re to check in with relay stations at sunset before you stop for the night.”
“Sounds simple enough,” Kris replied. “I really wanted to get on—not that your hospitality isn’t appreciated, but I’d rather not strain your resources. Just as well we’re not going to have to wait for an escort.”
“I’ll admit I was glad to hear I didn’t need to supply you with one,” their host said frankly. “I’m shorthanded enough, and if half of what I’ve heard is true, none of our beasts could ever hope to keep pace with yours, anyway.”
“It’s true enough,” Kris replied with pardonable pride. “There isn’t a horse born that can match the speed and endurance of a Companion.”
“All right, what you’ll do is follow the main road to the capital—it’s easy enough—and stay overnight at Alenandar’s hostels. They’ll always be on the main square of town; there’ll be a Guardpost nearby, and they’ll look like inns. The only difference between a hostel and an inn is that the sign outside will have a wheat sheaf in a crown. Oh—you do speak our language, don’t you?”
“Perfectly,” Kris replied in Hardornen.
“Oh, good—I thought they wouldn’t have sent anybody that didn’t, but you never know—and once you get a few miles off the Border nobody speaks Valdemaren.”
“I can’t say that surprises me too much,” Talia put in, in slow, clear Hardornen. “Once you get a few miles off our Border no one except Heralds speaks yours!”
“Right then, you can be on your way as soon as you’re ready. Here’s your map,” he handed Kris a folded packet “and best of luck to you.”
“Thanks,” Kris said, both of them rising and heading for the door.
“And don’t forget,” he called after them as they headed for the stables, “Check in with the relay towers every night. The capital wants to be able to keep track of you.”
The first day passed without incident. Alessandar’s people seemed as content as Seienay’s; they were friendly, and looked quite prosperous, at least from a distance.
“Isn’t there supposed to be a village along here soon?” Talia asked around noon.
Kris pulled the map they’d been given out of his beltpouch and consulted it. “Assuming I haven’t been misreading this—let’s see if we can find a native.”
One more turning of the road brought them to a grove of trees in the road-side corner of a fenced field. Beneath those trees was a group that could have been exchanged for farmers of Vaidemar without anyone noticing the difference. They were stolidly munching their way through a dinner of thick, coarse bread and cheese, but when one of them noticed that the two Heralds were approaching them with purpose, he stood, brushed crumbs off his linen smock, and met them halfway.
“Eh, sir, and can I be of any help to ye?” he asked, as friendly as the Captain had been.
“I’m not quite used to this map,” Kris replied, “And I wonder if you could tell me how far it is to Southford?”
“That be just a league or so a-down the road; there’s that hill yonder in the way, or ye could see it from here.” man grinned. “A’course, if the hill bain’t there, ye wouldn’t have to ask, eh?”
Kris laughed along with him. “That’s only true,” he said, “And thank you.”
“Nice man,” Talia commented when Kris returned to her side. “He could have been one of ours.” She squinted across the fields of swiftly-growing green grain, and Kris followed her gaze. “They seem to be thriving, too. So far Alessandar gets high marks from me.”
“Ah,” Kris replied, “But it isn’t Alessandar that’s the prospective bridegroom.”
‘“That’s true.” The face she turned toward him was a sober one. “And I wish I didn’t know so many tales of black-sheep sons. . . .”
They were to stay only at the hostels, or so their orders went, so as sunset neared they checked the map for the first town ahead of them likely to have one.
The hostels were an innovation of Alessandar’s, and were meant to serve as a courtesy to those moving about his Kingdom on official business. They were rather like well-run inns, save that there was no fee. Court officials, envoys of other Kingdoms, and clergy were permitted unlimited use of these facilities.
They first reported their progress to one of the relay stations in a village along the way, as had been requested. The station was easy enough to find, as it towered over every other structure in the village.
“Will ye be stayin’ here, or movin’ on past dark?” asked the grizzled veteran who greeted them.
“Moving on,” Talia replied, “We plan on making-Keeper’s Crossing, was it?” She looked to Kris for confirmation.
He checked the map and nodded.
“That’s a ways—but you know best. Guess the tales *bout them horses o’ yours must be true.” He looked over Rolan and Tantris with an appraising and approving eye. “Useta be cavalry, meself. Can’t say I’ve ever seen neater beasts. Ye came all the way from the Border since this mornin’?”
Rolan and Tantris preened under his admiring gaze and curvetted a little, showing off. “That we did, sir,” Kris answered with a smile.
“Don’t look winded—don’t even look tired—just exercised a mite. Lord Sun, I’d not have believed it if I hadn’t a’ seen it. Well if ye can make that kinda time, ye’ll be at the Crossings ‘bout a candlemark after sunset. Hostel’s in the town square, right-hand side as you come in.”
“Many thanks,” Talia called as they turned the Companions’ heads back to the road.
“Fair wind at yer back!” he called after them, his admiring gaze following them until they were out of sight.
The hostel was indeed like an inn, complete with innkeeper. They had been told that the accommodations were as plain as the food, but adequate.
They showed their credentials to the businesslike Hostelmaster when they dismounted at the door. He examined them quite carefully, paying close attention to the seals of Valdemar and Hardorn. When he was satisfied that they were genuine, he summoned a stabieboy with a single word. The lad came at a run to take the Companions, and the Hostelmaster waved them inside.
The common room was hot, smoky, and crowded, and it took them a little tune to find themselves places at smooth, worn wooden trestle-tables. Finally Talia squeezed in beside a pair of travelers in priestly garb—apparently from the rival sects of Kindas Sun-Kindler and Tembor Earth-Shaker. They were having a spirited discussion of the deficiencies of their various congregations and simply nodded to her as she took her place on the very end of the bench. Kris sat opposite her, with his neighbor a thin, clerkly-looking sort with ink-stained fingers, whose sole interest was the contents of the stoneware platter in front of him.
A harried serving girl placed similar platters before the two Heralds; meat, bread, and stewed vegetables. A boy followed her with a tray of wooden mugs of thin ale, and the keys to their rooms.
They ate quickly; the food wasn’t anything to linger over, and Talia’s bench, at least, was so crowded she had barely enough room to perch. And there were more people coming in, waiting with expressions of impatience for seats. With their hunger appeased, they took their keys and their mugs to the other side of the lantern-lit room, where there was a fire and a number of benches and settles scattered about.
Talia felt curious eyes on them—not hostile, just curious. She decided that they were the only foreigners among the guests, for she couldn’t detect any accents among those speaking. She picked a seat, and took it quickly, feeling very conspicous in her white uniform that stood out so sharply in the otherwise dark room.
“Heralds out of Valdemar, be you?” asked a portly fellow in brown velvet as Kris took a comer of a bench.
“You have us rightly, good sir,” Talia answered him.
“Don’t see Heralds often,” His inquisitive glance left no doubt but that he was curious about what brought them.
“You should be seeing more before summer’s over,” Talia replied with what she hoped was just enough friendliness. “Queen Selenay will be making a visit to your King. We’re here to help get things ready for her.”
“Ah?” he replied, his interest piqued. “That so? Well-maybe things be taking a turn for the better, after all.”
“Have things been bad lately?” she asked as casually as possible. “Valdemar’s had its share of troubles, what with floods and all.”
“Oh, aye—floods and all,” he replied, a bit too hastily, and turned to the men on the other side of him, joining the conversation in progress.
“‘Scuse me, milady, but could you tell me what the grain prices look to be on your side of the Border?” A tall, thin merchant interposed himself between Talia and the man she had first spoken to, and it would have been plain rudeness to ignore him. He kept her engaged with so many questions that she had no chance to ask any of her own. Finally she’d had enough of being monopolized, and signaled Kris that she was ready to leave.
When Kris yawned, pled fatigue, and rose to head for his room and bed, Talia followed. The guest rooms were monklike cells arranged along the walls; they had no fireplaces or windows, but slits in the walls near the ceiling gave adequate ventilation. Kris raised one eyebrow interrogatively at her as he unlocked his door; she gave him the little nod that meant she’d learned something interesting, and the hand motion that meant they’d talk about it later.
Even without a window, Talia knew when it was sunrise. She wasn’t much surprised to discover that Kris had beaten her to breakfast by a few minutes. No one else was even stirring. She didn’t pay much attention to what she was eating; some kind of grain porridge with nuts and mushrooms, she thought. It was as bland as the dinner had been.
“The boy is harnessing for us,” Kris said around a mouthful. “We can be on the road as soon as you’re ready.”
She washed down the last bite of the gluey stuff with a quick gulp of unsweetened tea. “I’m ready.”
“Then let’s get going.”
They cantered out the village until they reached the outskirts before settling back to a slower pace.
“Well?” Kris asked, when they were well out earshot of the village.
“There’s something not quite right around here,” Talia replied, “but I can’t put my finger on anything. All I’ve got is a feeling—and that no one wants to talk about ‘bad times’ around here. It may just be an isolated case of discontent--”
She shook her head, suddenly feeling dizzy.
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t—know. I feel a little funny all of a sudden.”
“You want to stop a minute?” Kris asked, sounding concerned.
She was about to say “no” when another wave of disorientation hit. “I think I’d better—”
Their Companions moved over to the grassy verge of the road on their own. Rolan braced all four legs and stood rock-still, while waves of dizziness washed over her. She didn’t dismount—she didn’t dare; she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to get back up again. She just clung lo the saddle, and hoped she wouldn’t fall off. “Want to go back?” Kris asked anxiously. “Think you need a Healer?”
“N-no. I don’t think so. I don’t know—” The disorientation didn’t seem quite so bad, after a bit. “I think it’s going away by itself.”
Then, as the dizziness faded, so did the empathic awareness of those around her; an awareness she always had, no matter how tightly shielded.
“Goddess!” Her eyes snapped open and she looked frantically around her, as Kris grabbed her elbow, anxiously. “It’s—” She unshielded. It was the same. She could sense nothing, not even Kris, beside her. “It’s gone! My Gift—”
Then it was back—redoubled. And she, unshielded and wide open, bent over in physical pain at the mental clamor of what seemed to be thousands of people. Hastily she shielded back down— Only to have the clamor vanish again, She remained bent over, head in hands. “Kris—Kris, what’s happening to me? What’s wrong?”
He was steadying her as best he could from his saddle. “I don’t know,” he said tightly, “I—wait—wasn’t there some kind of mushroom in that glop they fed us?”
She tried to think. “Yes. Maybe.”
“Goatsfoot,” he said grimly. “It has to be. That’s why you’re getting hit and I’m not.”
“Goatsfoot? That—” She sat up slowly, blinking tears away. “That’s the stuff that scrambles Gifts, isn’t it? I thought it was rare—”
“Only Thoughtsensing and Empathy and yes, it is rare in most places. It’s not common around here, but it’s not rare either, and it’s been a wet spring, just what goatsfoot likes. The damned fools must have gotten hold of a lot and just chucked it in the food without checking beyond seeing that it was edible.”
She was able to think a little clearer now. “This is going to make anything I read pretty well worthless for the next couple of days, isn’t it?”
He grimaced. “Don’t even try; it’ll make you sick. Those damned fools were just lucky they didn’t have a Healer overnighting there! If you can ride, I think we’d better go back—”
“I can ride, if we take it easy. Why?”
He had already turned Tantris’ head back the way they had come. “What if they have more of that stuff—and a Healer as a guest tonight?”
“Great good gods!” She let Rolan follow in Kris’ wake.
It wasn’t more than a league back; they hadn’t traveled far before the effect of the fungus hit her. She fought off successive waves of dizziness and disorientation, and was vaguely aware that they’d stopped and Kris was giving someone a sharp-tongued dressing-down. She caught frantic apology; it seemed genuine enough—what her Gift was feeding at her was anything but a reliable gauge. Waves of paralyzing fear, apprehension, guilt—followed immediately by waves of delirious joy, intense sexual arousal, and overwhelming hunger.
Finally, another “blank” moment, and she drew a shuddering breath of relief.
“Little bird?”
She opened her eyes to look down on Kris standing at her right stirrup.
“Do you want to stay here? I can go back to the signal tower and get them to send a message that you’ve been taken ill—and whose fault it is.”
“No—no, I’ll be better—better away from people. You can shield; they can’t. I won’t fall off; Rolan won’t let me.”
“If that’s the way you want it...”
“Please—” She closed her eyes. “Let’s get out of here—”
She heard him mount; felt Rolan start off after him. She didn’t open her eyes; the disorientation didn’t seem so bad when she could keep them closed. And she was right; as distance increased between herself and the village, the worst of the effects decreased. She felt a second shield snap up around her—Kris’—then a third—Rolan’s—
She opened her eyes cautiously. It was like looking op through water, but bearable. She felt Kris touch her arm, and saw that he was riding beside her.
“This couldn’t have been on purpose,” she asked, slowly, “Could it?”
He gave the idea serious thought; she could tell by the blank expression on his face. “I don’t think so,” he said at last. “They couldn’t have known what hostel we’d overnight in, and they couldn’t have counted on goatsfoot being available. They swore they only had that one batch, that it was in a lot of edible fungus some boy sold them tins morning. I made them dump the rest of the porridge in the pig trough. No, I think it’s just a damned bad accident. Can you go on?”
She dosed her eyes, and took a kind of internal tally. “Yes.”
“All right, then let’s get on with it. I’d tike to get you to bed as early as we can.”
But Talia wondered—because with the relay towers, someone could have known what hostel they intended to stay in—and as a former farmchild, she knew that some mushrooms could be preserved indefinitely when dried.. . .
Kris pushed both of them to the limit, hoping to get Tana into the haven of a bed long before sundown. He managed; better still, that night they were the only travelers making use of the hostel. The quiet did her some good; so did the rest. Unfortunately, he knew from old lessons that there was no remedy for goatsfoot poisoning except time.
The accident was more than annoying; he really needed her abilities on this trip. Without them, they’d have to go on wit alone.
With a good night’s sleep she was back to normal— except that her Gift was completely unreliable. She was either completely blocked, or so wide open she couldn’t sort out what emotion was coming from whom.
Neither one of them wanted her to try projecting under these conditions. They couldn’t predict what would happen and didn’t really want to find out.
So he pushed to make the best time they could to the next hostel—and hoped they could make training, wit, and skills serve.
When Kris stopped to try to inquire about hostels at noon, people seemed overly quiet, and not inclined to talk much beyond the simple courtesy of answering their questions. And the townspeople in the hamlet they finally reached were the same; hurrying to be about their business and showing only furtive curiosity about the strangers who had ridden in.
That night the Guard at the relay station they reported to was cold and somewhat brusque, and advised them against changing their plans for stopping at Ilderhaven.
“Them at the capital need to know where ye be; they’ll be takin’ it amiss if they can’t find ye should they need ye,” he said, making it sound as if “they” would be taking it more than “amiss” if the Heralds changed their stated plans.
Kris exchanged a flickering, sober glance with his partner, but made no retort.
At the hostel, which held a scant handful of travelers, they split up, each taking a likely prospect, and began trying to eke a little more information out of them.
Talia had chosen a shy priestess of one of the Moon-oriented orders, and hoped she could get something useful out of her without her Gift. She began her conversation with ordinary enough exchanges; the difficulties women faced when making long journeys, commiseration over the fact that men in authority seemed to take them lightly—Hostelmasters serving the men in the room first, no matter what the order of their arrival was, and much more in the same vein. Carefully, over the entire evening, she began steering the talk to the topics that seemed to be the most sensitive.
“Your King—I must say, he certainly seems to be a good ruler,” Talia said casually, when the topic of Alessandar came up. “From what I can see, everyone seems to be prospering. That ought to be making for good days with your temple.”
“Oh, yes ... Alessandar is a fine ruler to us; things have never been better . . .” The priestess trailed off into hesitant uncertainty.
“And he has a fine, strong son to follow him? Or so I’m told.”
“Yes, yes, Ancar is strong enough ... has there been much flooding in Valdemar? We’ve never seen the like of it this spring.”
Had there been uneasiness when the woman spoke Ancar’s name?
“Flooding, for fair. Crops and herds wiped out, rivers’changing course even. Young Elspeth has been at the Queen to let her be about the countryside doing what she can—but of course that’s out of the question while she’s still in schooling. Once she’s older though, I’ve no doubt she’ll be the Queen’s own right hand. Surely Ancar has been seeing to things for his father?”
“No ... no, not really. The ... the factors take care of all that, you know. And ... we really don’t want to be seeing Ancar ... it isn’t fitting for someone in his station to be going among the common folk. He has his own Court-—has since he came of age, you know. He has—other interests.”
“Ah,” Talia replied, and allowed the conversation to turn to another topic.
“Not very conclusive,” Kris mused. “But it’s looking odd.”
Talia nodded; they’d waited again until they were on the road before talking.
“I’ve gotten a similar sort of impression,” he began.
“As if things were reasonably well now, but that folk are not entirely sure of what the morrow might bring.”
“Damn that goatsfoot! If we could just have some idea bow deeply this goes—if it’s more than just the usual worries about ‘better the straw king than the lion king’ —gods, we need your Gift!”
“Ifs still not reliable,” she told him regretfully.
“Well, we just have to muddle along on our own.” He sighed, “This is exactly the kind of reason we’ve been Sent on ahead, and we have to have clearer information than we’ve got. Selenay can’t act on anything this vague.”
“I know,” she said, biting her lip. “I know.”
That night Talia tackled an elderly clerk. When she brought up the topic of the King, he was voluble in his praise of Alessandar.
“Look at these hostels—wonderful idea, wonderful! I remember when I was just a lad, my first post as tax-collector—Lord Sun, the inns I had to stay in, verminous, filthy, and costing so high you wondered why they didn’t just put a knife to your throat and have done with it! And he’s cleaned out most of the brigands and robbers, him and his Army; Karse daren’t even think about invading anymore. Oh, aye, he’s a great King—but he’s old . . .”
“Surely Ancar—”
“Well, that’s as may be. The Prince is a one for protocol and position; he doesn’t seem to be as open-handed as his sire. And there’s the rumors. . . .”
“Oh?”
“Oh, you know, young m’lady—there’s always rumors.”
Indeed there were rumors; and now Kris actually suspected listeners, so he signaled Talia to wait to talk until they were on an open stretch of road the next day, with no one else near.
She told him what she’d gotten, and what she’d guessed.
“So Ancar has his own little Court, hm?” Kris mused. “And his own circle of followers and hangers-on. I can’t say as I like the sound of that. Even if the Prince is innocent and fair-minded, there’s likely to be those that would use him in a situation like that.”
“He doesn’t sound innocent or fair-minded from the little I’ve pried out of anyone,” Talia replied. “Granted in fairness—he may just be a naturally cold and hard man. Goddess knows he’s seen enough warfare at his age to have turned him hard.”
“Oh? This is news to me—say on.”
“At fourteen he participated in a series of campaigns that wiped out every trace of the Northern barbarians along therr North Border. That set of campaigns lasted almost two years. At seventeen he led the Army against the last raid Karse ever dared make on them—and again, the raiders were utterly wiped out. At twenty he personally mounted a campaign against highwaymen, with the result that nearly every tree from here to the capital was bearing gallows’ fruit that summer.”
“Sounds like he should be regarded as a hero.”
“Instead of with fear? It was apparently the way he conducted himself that has people afraid. He makes no effort to hide the fact that he enjoys killing—and he’s utterly, utterly ruthless. He hanged more than a few of those ‘highwaymen’ on merest suspicion of wrongdoing, and lingered with a winecup in his hand to watch while they died.”
“Lovely lad. Sounds like just the mate for our Elspeth.”
“Don’t even say that as a joke!” Talia all but hissed. “Or haven’t you been granted any of the tales of his conduct with women? I was told it isn’t a good idea to attract his attention, and to stay out of his sight as much as possible.”
“Probably more than you; if you believe what you hear, young Ancar’s taste runs to rape, and the younger, the better, so long as they’re nubile and attractive. But that’s the tale only if you read between the lines. Nobody’s told me anything about that straight out.”
:They haven’t said anything straight out about the wizards he keeps either,: Tantris put in unexpectedly.
“What?” Kris replied in surprise.
:I’ve been keeping my ears open in the stable. The hostelkeepers have been frightening the stablehands into line with threats about turning them over to Ancar’s wizards if they don’t move briskly and keep to their work.:
“So? That’s an old wives’ trick.”
:Not when it’s being used on “stableboys” old enough to have families of their own. And not when the threat genuinely terrified them.:
“Lord of Light, this is beginning to look grim—” Kris relayed Tantris’ words to Talia.
“We’ve got to find someone willing to speak out,” she replied. “We daren’t turn back with nothing in our hands but rumors. Selenay needs facts—and if we turned back now, we might well precipitate a diplomatic incident.”
“I agree,” Kris replied, even more firmly. “And if we’re being watched, well—-we just might not reach the Border again.”
“You think it’s possible? You think he’d dare?”
“I think he would, if what the rumors hint at is true, and enough was at stake. And the only way we’re going to get any idea of what Ancar is like and what his plans are, is to get in close to him. And I’m afraid we need that information; I’m afraid more than Elspeth’s betrothal hinges on us now.”
“That,” she replied, “is what I feared you’d say.”
A day from the capital they finally found someone who would discuss the “rumors.” It was pure luck, plainly and simply.
As they rode into town, Talia spotted a trader’s caravan that she thought she recognized. Traders’ wagons were all built to the same pattern, but their gaudy painting was highly individual. The designs rarely included lettering, since most of a trader’s customers were far from literate, but they were meant to be memorable for the selfsame reason. And Talia thought she remembered the design of cheerful blue cats chasing each other around the lower border.
A few moments later, she saw the shaggy black head of the bearded owner, and couldn’t believe her good fortune. This trader, one Evan by name, was a man who owed Talia his life. He had been accused of murder; she had defended him from an angry mob and found out the real culprit. Having cast Truth Spell on him and touched his mind, she knew she could trust not only his words, but that he would not betray them to anyone.
His wagon was parked in a row of others, in the stable-yard of the “Crown and Candle”, an inn that catered to trade.
When they reached the hostel, and settled down to dinner, Talia tapped Kris’ toe with her own. They didn’t like to use this method of communicating; it was awkward and very easy to detect unless their feet were hidden. But the hostel was nearly empty, and they’d been given a table to themselves in the back; she reckoned it was safe enough this tune.
Follow my lead, she signaled.
He nodded, eyes half closed, as if in response to a thought of his own.
“I saw an old friend today,” she said—and tapped Trader—Truth Spell—knowing that he would readily remember the only circumstance that combined those two subjects.
“Really? Wonder if we could get him to stand us a drink?”
And—Information source?—he tapped back.
“Oh, I think so,” she replied cheerfully. Yes.
“Good! I could stand a drop of good wine. This stuff is not my idea of a drink.” Reliable?
“Then I’ll see if we can’t talk him into a round or two.” Yes—Debt of honor.
“Hm.” He pushed his stew around with a bit of bread. Gods—your Gift?
Back.
Do it.
She summoned one of the little boys that hung around the hostel hoping for just such an opportunity to earn a coin, and sent a carefully worded message to Evan. He replied by the same messenger, asking her to meet him, not at his inn, but at his wagon.
He did not seem surprised to see Kris with her. He opened the back of the wagon and invited both of them inside the tiny living area. The three of them squeezed into seats around a tiny scrap of a table, and Evan poured three cups of wine, then waited expectantly.
Talia let down her shields with caution, and searched about the wagon for any human presence near enough to hear anything. There was nothing, and no one.
“Evan—” she said quietly, then, “traders hear a lot. To come straight to the point, I need to know what you’ve heard about Prince Ancar. You know you can trust me—and I promise we aren’t being spied on. I’d know if we were.”
Evan hesitated, but only a moment. “I ... expected something of this sort. If I did not owe you so very much, Lady Herald—but there it is. And you have the right of it, a trader hears much. Aye, there’s rumors, black rumors, about young Ancar. Five, six years agone, when he first came of age and warranted his own court, he began collecting some unchancy sorts about him. Scholars, he calls ‘em. And, aye, some good has come of it—like the signal towers, some aqueducts and the like. But in the last year his scholars have gotten more of a reputation for wizardry and witchcraft than they have for knowledge.”
“Well, now, isn’t that what they say of Heralds here, too?” Kris smiled uneasily.
“But I never heard anyone say your witchcraft was anything but of the Light, young man,” Evan replied, “And I’ve never heard anything but darksome tales of late where Ancar’s friends are concerned. I’ve heard tales that they raise power with the spilling of blood—”
“How likely?” Kris asked.
Evan shrugged. “Can’t say. To be fair, I’ve been places where the same is said of the followers of the One, and you of Valdemar know how wrong that is. This I can tell for true—he has in the past year turned to wenching. Wenching of the nastier sort. He has his way with any poor young maid that catches his eye, highborn or low, and none dare gainsay him—and his tastes run to leaving them with scars. Well, and that isn’t all. He has men of his own about the countryside these days—’intelligencers’ they call themselves. They claim to be like you twain, being the King’s eyes and ears, to see that all’s well—but I misdoubt that they’re speaking their information in any ears but Ancar’s, and I doubt the King knows they exist.”
“I don’t like that,” Talia whispered.
“I don’t either. I’ve been questioned by ‘em fair often since I crossed the Border, and I mislike some of the questions they’re asking. Who bought like they’d gotten prosperous, who’d told me aught, who bends knee to what god—aye, you can believe old Evan the Shrewd became Evan the Stupid ‘round ‘em.”
His expression changed to one of thick-headed opacity. “Aye, milord, no, milord, talk t’ me milord?” He wiped the look from his face. “Even let ‘em cheat me right royally t’ convince ‘em. That’s not the end of it. I’ve heard from those I trust that Ancar has raised his own private Army; at least three thousand men, and all of when Ancar takes the throne. Oh, yes,” he shook his head, “I pity them.”
They rode away from their hostel the next morning with grim faces, and paused in a little copse of trees just outside of town, where they could see anyone approaching, but no one could see them.
“I don’t like it,” Talia said flatly. “My vote is to turn around and head back for the Border—but there’s the fact that a move like that could be construed as an insult.”
She wanted badly to run; she was more afraid now than she’d ever been except when she’d lost control over her Gift. She was feeling very like she was walking into something she couldn’t handle now, too—but this was exactly why Selenay had sent them in the first place—to uncover anything that might threaten Valdemar. And there was just the faintest of premonitions that some of this might lead back to Orthallen.
“All the more reason to stick it out,” Kris replied soberly. “We’ve heard the rumors; we need to learn exactly how much danger there is, or we can’t properly advise the Queen of the situation. We don’t learn the depth of the problem by turning tail and running. And like I said before—if we turn now, they might decide we’ve learned something, and stop us before we made it back across the Border. If we stick, we should be able to bluff our way out.”
“Kris, it’s dangerous; we’re playing with fire, here.”
“I know it’s dangerous, but no more dangerous than any number of other missions Dirk and I pulled off. And we have to find what his long-term plans are, if there’s any chance at all to do so.”
“I know, I know,” Talia shivered. “But Kris, I don’t like it. I feel like I’m walking into a darkened room, knowing that as soon as I tight a candle I’ll discover I’ve walked into a den of serpents and the door’s been locked behind me.”
“You’re the ranking Herald, little bird. Do we go on and find out exactly what the situation is and whether or not there’s immediate threat to the Kingdom, or do we head back to Selenay with what we know now—running like our tails are on fire and hope they can’t stop us?”
“How could we get back if they come after us?”
Kris sighed. “I wouldn’t give very good odds. What we’d have to do is cut across country, avoiding roads— unfamiliar country, I might add, and we’d have to go night and day. Or we send Rolan and Tantris back alone, with messages, get rid of our rather conspicuous uniforms, steal disguises, try to get back afoot. With accents that damn us and every ‘intelligencer’ in the country knowing our exact descriptions. Frankly, the odds are with playing stupid and bluffing our way out.”
“Could I pretend to be sick again?”
“Then they’d expect us to go straight to the capital and the King’s Healers, not head back to our Border.”
Talia shut her eyes and weighed all the possible consequences; then bit her lip, and steeled herself for the decision she knew she had to make.
“We go on,” she said, unhappily. “We haven’t got a choice.”
But when they met their escort just outside the capital at the end of a six-day journey from the Valdemar Border, Talia almost heard the click of the lock behind her.
They announced their arrival at the gates of the city, and were asked, courteously enough, to wait. After about an hour, spent watching the usual sort of foot-and-beast traffic pass in and out of the city, there was a blast of trumpets and the common folk vanished from the vicinity as if whisked away by a speil.
Talia had expected an official escort; she had not expected that they would be met by what amounted to a royal procession. For that was exactly what emerged from the city gates.
Prancing out of the gateway came a procession of dozens of brightly-bedecked nobles and their liveried attendants, all mounted on high-bred palfries.
Prince Ancar and his entourage rode at the head of it.
Talia had definitely not expected him—and from the very brief flash of surprise on his face, neither had Kris.
Ancar rode toward them through a double row formed by his mounted courtiers and his guards; it was all very staged, and meant to impress. It impressed Talia, but hardly in the way she assumed he intended. On seeing him for the first time, Talia felt like a cat that has suddenly been confronted by a viper. She wanted to arch her back, hiss, and strike out at him.
“Greetings, from myself, and my honored Father,” he said coolly, bowing slightly but not dismounting. “We nave come to escort the envoys of Queen Selenay to the palace.”
Talia was mortally certain that the “we” he used was the royal plurality, and noted that his horse was at least two hands higher than either Companion, allowing his head to be that much higher than theirs.
Gods—I don’t think he’s left anything to chance—
There was no superficial reason for the violent feeling of animosity that struck her; as they exchanged courtesies the Prince seemed perfectly amiable. He was darkly handsome with smooth, even features and a neat black beard and mustache. He spoke to them fairly enough and accorded them every honor. As he rode beside them, back into the city and toward the palace, he discoursed on neutral topics—the harvest to come, the recent spring floods that had occurred in both countries, his wish for continuing good relations between the two Kingdoms. All perfectly natural topics, and all spoken in tones of good-will.
None of this made the slightest bit of difference to Talia. There was something indefinably evil about the man, something cold and calculating, like a snake judging when it would be best to strike.
He was paying very little attention to Talia, who was riding with Kris between them; as if, because of her sex, she was not quite of an exalted enough station for him to bother with. That was all to the good; since he was busy directing his attention to Kris, she decided that this was no time for ethical quibbling; she would try to probe him. This was neither diplomatic nor particularly moral, but she didn’t much care. There was something lurking beneath the smooth, careful surface of this cultivated Prince, and she was determined to discover what it was.
She was stopped by a powerful shield—one unlike anything she had ever touched before. There were no cracks in it that she could discover, not by the most careful probing. Startled, she cast a surreptitious glance at Ancar; he continued his conversation without seeming the least disturbed. So he was not the one doing the shielding. Who was?
Then her sharp glance was intercepted by a nondescript man in gray riding to the left of the Prince. He looked at her with eyes like dead brown pebbles, then permitted himself a faint smile and a nod. She shivered, and looked hastily away.
They couldn’t reach the Palace grounds any too soon for Talia, who only wanted out of the Prince’s presence. When they reached the courtyard of the Palace the entire entourage dismounted and dozens of liveried grooms appeared to lead the horses away—and with them, their Companions. Shaken by the encounter with the Prince’s mage, Talia scanned the grooms quickly for any evidence of harmful intent.
Thank the gods—
To her relief there was nothing there but admiration for the beautiful creatures and the honest wish to make them comfortable. She tried to link with Rolan, and caught an impression of concern, but in the confusion it was hard to make out what the concern was for.
Kris began to say something—the Prince interrupted him before he’d even gotten a single syllable out.
“The Palace is quite remarkable,” said Ancar, a kind of glint in his eye that Talia didn’t understand and didn’t at all like. “You really must see it all.”
What could they do but consent?
And the Prince seemed determined that they see every inch of his father’s Palace, conducting them all over it himself. He kept himself at Kris’ side, and one of his ubiquitous toadies at Talia’s, effectively separating them. They couldn’t even signal to one another—and Talia was nearly stiff with apprehension before the enforced tour was over. Her anxiety, carefully concealed, redoubled every moment they spent in his presence, and she longed for one single moment alone with Kris. It almost seemed as if the Prince were deliberately attempting to prevent any contact between the two Heralds that did not take place under his gaze, for he kept them at his side until it was nearly time for the state banquet that was to welcome them.
At last they were left alone in their sumptuous suite.
Talia scanned about her for listeners, but could detect none. But then—could she if they were shielded?
Make discretion the better part, then.
“Lord of Light,” she sighed, “I didn’t think I could ever be so tired ...”
Hand-sign; Trap—listeners? She sat down on a couch, and patted the fabric next to her in invitation.
He took a seat next to her, and her hand. Squeezed. Gift?
She squeezed back. Shields?
His eyebrows arched in surprise. How?
“Did you see that odd little man on the Prince’s right?” she asked. Him. “I wonder what on earth he could be.” Shielded Ancar. Maybe more.
“Who knows? Some sort of tutor, maybe.” Trouble.
“Hm. I could use a little air.” For true.
They moved to the open window, arms around one another, loverlike.
“Little bird,” Kris whispered in her ear, “There’s another problem—there aren’t enough guards visible here.”
Talia giggled and nuzzled his neck. “I’m not sure I understand you,” she murmured back.
He laughed, and kissed her with expertly feigned passion, “Look, Selenay is well-loved, so she keeps a minimum of guards about her for safety—but they’re still there, still visible. Alessandar is just as highly regarded, and I would expect to see about the same number of guards. I didn’t see them. If they’re not in sight, they must be out of sight. Why should he hide his guards? Unless he doesn’t know that they’re hidden—and if you can hide one, you can hide a dozen just as easily. I don’t like it.”
“Kris, please—” Talia whispered urgently. “I’ve changed my mind about staying. I think we should get out of here. Now. Tonight.”
“I agree; I think we’ve walked into a bit more than we can handle by ourselves.” He led her back to the couch, where they continued the mock-loveplay. “I’ve got no doubt now after seeing that magician and watching the way people react to Ancar that every one of the rumors is true. So we’d better leave tonight-—but not quite yet. I want to find out what’s going on with Alessandar first.” He stayed quiet for a moment, deep in thought, hands resting in the small of her back, and face buried in her hair. “I think we should send substitutes into the banquet and do some spying before we leave.”
“All right, but I’ll do the spying. If I unshield I’ll be able to detect people coming long before you would.”
“Could you tell if there’s a shielded spy watching us by the shield on him?”
“Alone—no.”
“I see what you’re getting at. Link—”
By linking their two Gifts, her Empathy and his Farsight, they were able to scan their entire vicinity for “null” areas. And discovered, to their mutual chagrin, that there were no spies, shielded or otherwise.
“Well—” he pulled away from her, embarrassed. “I certainly feel like a fool.”
“Don’t.” She ran her hands nervously through her hair, and smiled wanly at him. “Better we take the precaution needlessly. If we send in substitutes, won’t they be recognized?”
“No one from the Prince’s party will be at the banquet, remember? There won’t be anyone there who’s ever seen us. And if we use a couple of the servants there should be no problems. After all, no one ever looks at servants. The two they assigned to us should do. They’re enough like us in size and appearance that our uniforms will fit reasonably well. I’ll get their attention, and you deep-trance, and take them over.”
Talia shivered. She didn’t like doing this, but Kris couldn’t. His Gift of Farsight would do him no good in implanting a false personality. It was only by virtue of the fact that her Gift of Empathy was a particularly strong one that Talia could do it at all—this was normally a trick only Mindspeakers could manage.
Kris rang for the two who had been assigned to them. As he had pointed out, they were similar enough in height and build to the two of them that the uniforms should fit well enough to cause no comment.
The servants arrived, and with them, their baggage; Kris instructed them in the unpacking of the formal uniforms. While he engaged their attention, Talia put herself into deep-trance.
Forgive me—she thought, then reached out and touched their minds—lightly—there—first the man, then the woman—
Kris caught them as they fell, easing them down onto the bed.
Talia insinuated herself carefully into their minds, sending their real selves into a kind of waking sleep.
Now—for the next part she would need help—
:Rolan?:
In a moment he was with her, still anxious, but in agreement with the plan, or at least as much of it as she was able to show him without being able to Mindspeak him in words instead of images.
Together they emplanted false personalities and memories in their two substitutes; he could do some things she couldn’t, she could make them believe that they were the foreigners. For the next several hours the servants would be a sketchy sort of Kris and Talia, and remain that way until they returned to these rooms after the banquet. Their behavior would be rather stilted and wooden, but the formal etiquette such occasions demanded would cover most of that.
Talia let Rolan go, and eased herself up out of trance, feeling very stiff, quite exhausted, and just a bit guilty.
“Is it—”
‘They’re ready,” she replied, moving her head around to ease the stiffness in her neck, and getting slowly to her feet. “Let’s get some clothes on them.”
They clothed the pair in the waiting forma! Whites as if they were dealing with two dolls, it being easier to handle them in the entranced state. Talia cut their hair in imitation of Kris’ and her own, and applied her skill with makeup to both of them. When she’d done, they bore at least enough of a superficial resemblance to the two of them to get them safely through the doors.
“All right.” Kris looked at her as they got the two substitutes on their feet. ‘Tm for the stables. It’s going to take a little time to find the Companions and their tack without being detected, if I can, I’ll get everything and get them ail saddled up. If you have the chance, you meet me at the stable doors.”
“Fine,” Talia replied nervously. “I’m going to sneak up to the second floor and the minstrel’s gallery. I ought to learn something there; with luck I may be able to pick up something from one of Ancar’s toadies, and I’ll definitely be able to probe Alessandar and find out if he knows what his son is up to. I won’t take long, if I can help it.”
“If the worst happens, and you have to run for it, tell Rolan, and I’ll pick you up on the run in the courtyard.” Kris gave her a tight grin, and she returned it.
Talia took her substitute by the elbow; Kris did the same with his. Together they led them as far as the doors to the suite; then Talia released their minds and gave hers a little push. The young woman blinked once, then her implanted personality took over. She took the young man’s arm; he opened the door, and led her toward the banquet hall. Kris and Talia followed behind them long enough to be certain that the ruse would work, then separated.
Thanks to the Prince’s enforced tour they were both familiar with the layout of the entire Palace. Kris made for one of the servants’ stairs that led to the stables; once she saw him safely on his way, Talia headed for the gallery that overlooked the banquet hall.
She dropped all her shielding and slipped from shadow to shadow along the corridor, taking another of the servants’ stairs to the second floor. The activity in the banquet hall aided her; the servants hadn’t yet had time to light more than a few of the candles meant to illuminate the maze of corridors. She detected no one as she moved to the wall that backed the gallery.
She sensed the presence of many men as she paused there, hiding herself in the folds of drapery along the wall. This was very wrong. There were to be no minstrels playing in the gallery until much later this evening; at the moment they were playing from behind a screen on the floor of the hall. There should be no one at all in the gallery at this time.
She closed her eyes and carefully extended her other sense past the wall, hoping that one of them might be nervous enough to let her read what he was seeing, carried on the wind of his emotions.
It was easy—too easy. The images came charging into her mind—she knew who and what they were, and what their intent was, and her heart leapt into her throat with terror.
Ranged at about three-foot intervals around the gallery, which ran the entire circumference of the hall, were crossbowmen. Their weapons were loaded and ready, and each had a full quiver of bolts beside him. These were not members of Alessandar’s guard, nor soldiers from his army; these were ruthless killers recruited personally by Ancar.
The Prince was impatient, and no longer prepared to wait for his father’s natural death to bring him to the seat of power. He was also ambitious, and not content with the prospect of ruling only one kingdom. Here in one room sat his lather and everyone who might be opposed to Ancar’s rule, as well as the two Heralds who might have warned their Queen of his intent. The opportunity was far too tempting for him to pass by. Once the banquet was well underway, the doors would be locked—and all who might oppose Ancar’s desires would die.
With the exception of the Heralds; Ancar’s orders concerning them were to disable, not kill. And if anything, that frightened Talia even more.
Ancar must have had this whole scheme planned for months, and had only waited for the perfect moment to pot it in motion. The six days’ warning he’d had when they crossed the Border was sufficient for him to mobilize what was already prepared.
When the slaughter was over he would ride with his own army to the Border, overwhelm the Queen and her escort as soon as they’d crossed it, kill her, seize Elspeth, and present himself as Vaidemar’s ruler by fait accompli.
Talia longed for Kyril’s ability to Farspeak; even at this distance she would have been able to get some kind of warning back to the Heralds near the Border. And she would have been able to Mindcall Kris, and warn him as well. All she could do was to Mindcall to Rolan, carrying her message on a burst of purest fear, and hope he could convey the whole to Kris through Tantris.
She slipped back to the staircase as silently and carefully as she had come, and made her way down to the lower floor.
The hall here was lighted well, and Talia feared to set foot in it; feared it doubly when she sensed the presence of more of Ancar’s men standing at intervals along it, presumably to take care of any stragglers. She clung, half paralyzed with terror, to the inside of the door, and tried to think. Was there any other way out?
Then she recalled the smaller rooms of state, meant for receptions and the like, that faced the forecourt on the second floor. Many of them had balconies, and windows or doors that opened out onto the balconies. For the second time she climbed the staircase, heart pounding, her Empathic-sense extended to the utmost.
She moved along the wall, between it and the musty draperies lining it, until she came to the door of one of those rooms. Mercifully it was unoccupied and unlocked; not even a single candle was lit within. She crept out from behind the drape, ignoring the itch of dust in her eyes and nose, and slipped inside.
There was only the gleam of torchlight and moonlight through the windows, but that was enough to show her a room with a polished-wood floor empty of all furniture. She edged around the walls, grudging the time, but not wanting to silhouette herself against those windows for anyone passing by the hall door.
The door to the balcony was locked, but from the inside. Talia realized this after an instant of panic-stricken struggle with it. The catch was stiff, but finally gave. She eased the door open and stepped out onto the balcony, crouched low so as to be below the balustrade. A moment’s surveillance of the courtyard showed no eyes to be watching it; she slipped over the balustrade and was about to drop to the court, when the killing began.
With her Empathic senses extended as they were, that nearly killed her along with the rest. She felt the deaths of dozens of people in her own flesh; she lost her grip on the railing and dropped to the cobblestones below. Shock, pain, and fear drove any other thoughts out of her, she could not even move to save herself. She was falling— and couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but react—react to the agony, the terror—and the anguished guilt of Alessandar’s guards seeing him pinned to his throne by dozens of crossbow bolts before they themselves were cut down—
But Alberich had foreseen the day when something like this might happen; he had drilled her until some reactions had become instinctive. Though her mind might be helpless beneath that onslaught, her body wasn’t—
She twisted in midair, rolled into a limp ball—hit the pavement feet-first, and turned the impact into a tumble that left her sprawled and bruised, but otherwise unharmed.
Her face twisted with agony as she struggled to her feet and staggered toward the entrance to the stable area, trying to shut her shields down and the pain out. It seemed like an eternity between each stumbling step, yet she had hardly taken half a dozen when she heard the pounding of hooves on stone and saw a white form surging toward her.
It was Rolan—unsaddled. He did not pause as he passed her, knowing that she would not be able to mount unless he came to a dead stop. Hard on his heels came Tantris carrying Kris—who was leaning over as far as he dared, one hand wrapped in Tantris’ mane, the other extended toward her, his legs clenched so tightly she could almost feel the muscles ache. As Companion and rider passed her, Talia caught him, hands catching forearms, as she leaped and krish pulled her up in front of him. Tantris had had to slow a trifle, and Rolan was ahead of him, but they’d not had to stop.
But there was one last obstacle to pass—the narrow passage between the inner and outer walls that led to the portcullis and the outer gate. And Talia had succeeded in shielding herself once again—so the had no warning that the walls were manned.
They galloped straight inot a hail of arrows.
It was over in seconds. Fire lanced through Talia’s shoulder—just as Tantris screamed in agony, shuddered, and crashed to the ground. She was thrown forward and hit the ground stunned, with the impact breaking off the shaft of the arrow and driving the head deeper. But more agonizing than her own pain was what Krish was enduring.
Rolan paused in his headlong flight—the markmen had let the unburdened beast go by. There was one thought only in Talia’s mind besides the agony of pain—that one of them must escape.
“Rolan—run!” she screamed with voice, heart, and mind.
He hesitated no longer, but shot throught the gate just as the porcullis came crashing down, so close that she felt the sharp pain and his surge of fear as it actually carried away a few hairs from his tail.
Krish lay crumpled beside th emotionless body of Tantris, so racked with agony that he could not even cry out. She tried to rise, and half-stumbled, half-dragged herself to his side. She took his pain-tortured body into her arms, desperately trying to think of anything that would help him. He was transfixed by arrows so that he looked like a straw target—but a target that bled; it had been his body and Tantris’ that had shielded her. Even in the flickering torchlight she could see that his Whites were dyed in creeping scarlet blotches that spread while she held him. She groped mindlessly for the Healing energy Kerithwyn had used; not sure what she could do with it, but driven beyond sanity with the overwhelming need to take the burder of his torment from him. She felt a kind of pressure building within her, as it had in those past times when desperation had driven her to pass the bounds of what she knew. It built past the point where she was conscious of anything outside of herself, conscious even of the agony lancing her own shoulder—
Then it found sudden release.
She opened her eyes to find Kris’ own eyes holding hers; free from pain and feverishly clear. Although she could feel his pain still, he could not. She had somehow come to stand between it and him.
But he was dying, and they both knew it.
She looked around, expecting to see soldiers surrounding them.
“No.”
Kris’ hoarse whisper brought her attention back to him. “Hey—it is a maze. While I live, they will not come.”
She understood. His Gift had shown him that there was a maze of stairs and corridors to traverse before the soldiers reached an entrance to this area. But it had also shown him how little time he had left.
“Kris—” She couldn’t get anything more past the tears that rose and choked off her words.
“No, little love, little bird. Weep for yourself, not for me.”
She nearly fell to pieces with grief at his words.
“I don’t fear Death; gladly, willingly would I seek the Havens, if I but knew my Companion waits for me there— but to leave you—how can I leave you with all my burden and yours as well?” He coughed, and blood showed at the comer of his mouth. Somehow he managed to raise one hand to touch her cheek; she seized it with her own and wept into it.
“It isn’t fair—to leave you alone—but warn them, heartsister. Somehow warn them. I cannot carry the task to the end, so it ends with you.”
She nodded, so choked with tears she could not speak.
“Oh, little bird, I love you—” He seemed to be trying to say more when another spate of coughing shook him. He looked up again, but plainly did not see her; his eyes brightened and gladdened as if he were seeing something wonderful and unexpected. “So bright! T—”
For one fleeting moment Talia sensed—joy; joy and the touch of awe and a strange glory that was like nothing she’d ever sensed before. Then his body shuddered once in her arms, and the light and life left his eyes. He went limp within her embrace—and then there was nothing but the empty husk she held.
The soldiers came then, tore them apart, and took her away; she was too numb with shock and grief to resist.
Her guards were anything but gentle.
They bound her hands behind her and kicked and shoved her down countless rock-faced corridors and a flight of rough stone stairs; when she stumbled they kicked her until she rose, when she faltered they sent her onward with blows. They gave her a final push that sent her sprawling into the center of a bare room. There they put her in the custody of three hulking brutes, creatures who looked more beast than man.
These three stripped her to the skin, indifferent to the agony of her shoulder, and brutally searched her. Then one by one, they raped her with the same brutality and indifference. By that time, she was nearly senseless with shock and pain, and it hardly seemed to matter. It was just one more torture. She couldn’t even concentrate enough to use her Gift to defend herself, and when she’d tried feebly to fight back, the one using her had knocked her head against the stone floor so hard she was barely conscious.
When they had finished with her they hauled her to her feet by one arm, and threw her into a dirt-floored, stone-walled cell, then tossed what was left of her bloodstained clothing in behind her. It was the cold that finally roused her, cold that chilled her and made her shake uncontrollably, and awoke her lacerated shoulder to new pain. She roused enough then to crawl to where they’d tossed her things and pull them on over her abused flesh.
Not surprisingly, nothing had been done about the wound in her shoulder, which continued to bleed sluggishly.
I’ve—got to do something—she thought, through the pain and cold clouding her mind, —got to—get it out.
She got a firmer grip on reality; thought she remembered that the arrows she’d seen the guards carrying had had leafpoints. Right— She steeled herself against the inevitable, got a good grip on what was left of the slippery, blood-soaked shaft, and pulled.
It came free—she passed out briefly as it did. When her vision cleared, she bound the wound with one hand using a scrap from her shredded shirt as a bandage, and hoped that this would at least stem the blood loss.
Selenay. Elspeth. She had to warn the Queen—
That goad was driving her past the point where she should have collapsed, and continued to drive her. She had to warn the others. For that she must stay aware— and alive, much as she longed to die. She curled in on herself, forcing herself into trance, driving herself regardless of the pain of her brutalized body. With this much pain behind it, even she should be able to reach the Border.
But she met with the same wall that had protected the Prince from her probe. She battered herself against it like a wild bird against the bars of a cage, and with as much effect. There were no cracks, no weak points in it. Try as she might, she could not reach her Mindcall past it. Weeping with bitter pain and tortured frustration, she gave up, and lay in a hopeless huddle on the floor in the darkness.
There was no way of telling how long she lay there before an anomalous sound roused her from a nightmare of shock, pain, and confused grief. She listened again. It was the sound of someone whispering.
“Herald! Lady Herald!” The voice sounded vaguely familiar.
“Herald!” It was coming from a small opening in the ceiling.
She crawled on hands and knees across the dirt floor to lie beneath it, for her legs trembled so much she doubted hold her, and coughed several times before she speak.
“I’m—here.”
“Lady Herald, it’s me, Evan—Evan, the trader from Westmark in Valdemar. The one you talked to a day ago.”
As she reached out tentatively with her Gift she wondered briefly if this, too, was a trap.
Gods—if it is—but what do I have to lose? Please, Lady—
She nearly fainted with relief when her Gift confirmed that it was the same man.
“Oh, gods—Evan, Evan, Lady bless you—” she gulped and got control over her babbling. “Where are you?”
“Outside the walls in the dry moat. Some of my acquaintances have worked in the Palace and Guard and told me of these ventilation holes. I arrived after you, late this evening—I was drinking with some of the Guard when—there were screams. They told me some of what was happening, and warned me to hold my tongue if I wanted to live. They aren’t bad men, but they are afraid, Herald, very much afraid. The Prince is making no secret now that he has evil magicians, and an entire army that answers only to him.”
—if only I’d overruled Kris—he’d be alive now—
“Later they told me they’d captured you—I—couldn’t leave you without trying to help. I bribed a guard to learn which cell they had taken for you. Lady—” he seemed to be groping for words. “Lady, your friend is dead.”
“Yes—I—I know.” She bowed her head as the tears fell anew and she did not try to hold them back.
He was silent for a long moment. “Lady, you saved my life; I am still in your life-debt. Is there some way I can help you? The Prince means to keep you living; I am told he has plans for you.”
Hope rose to faltering life. “Can you help me escape this place?”
And died. “No, Lady,” he said sadly. “That would require an army. I would gladly try alone—but it would not serve you. You would still be here, and I would be quite dead.”
Half a dozen ideas flitted through her mind; one stayed.
“Are these holes straight? Could you lower something to me, or bring something up?”
“If it were something small, yes, Lady; easily done. My guide told me that they were quite straight, and unobstructed.”
“Can you find me two arrows—if you can, see that the barbs of the fletching are heavy—and—” She faltered, and forced herself to continue. “—and at least ten drams of argonel.”
“Have they hurt you, Lady? There are safer ways to ease pain than argonel. And Lady, that much—”
“Trader, do not argue. I have my reasons, and argonel it must be. Can you do it?”
“Within the hour, Lady.”
There was a thin whisper of sound as he left. She propped herself against the wall and tried to use the pain-deadening tricks she’d been taught to ease her shoulder and her throbbing loins. She would not let herself hope that the trader would keep his promise, but strove to remain passive, unfeeling, in a kind of numbness. It was still dark when she heard a scratch and the trader’s voice.
“Lady, I have all you asked for. It’s coming now.”
She pulled herself up the wall and reached for the bundle that dangled from the ceiling with her good hand, feeling more of the injured shoulder muscles tear as she reached up.
“The bottle holds fourteen drams, and it is full.”
“May the Lord of Lights and the Fair Lady shine on you, friend, and all your kin and trade—” she replied fervently, loosening the stopper enough to catch the distinctive sweet-sour odor of argonel. The bottle was completely full. “Leave the string. You will be taking something up in a moment and doing me another service— one last office that will free you of life-debt entirely.”
“I am yours to command,” he replied with simple sincerity.
She snapped the head from the first arrow by holding it under one foot. She let the tears flow freely as she patterned it with Kris’ fletching pattern, grateful that she’d been made to learn to do the task in the dark, and finding it hard to continue with the memory fresh of him teaching her his own pattern. The headless arrow—code for a Herald dead. Now for the most important half of the message—code for herself; and code for the mission in such ruins that no attempt at rescue should be made. She broke the second arrow in half and patterned the fletching as her own. She tore the remains of one sleeve from her shirt, secured the arrows into a compact bundle with it, and fastened the whole to the string dangling down from the hole in the ceiling.
‘Trader, pull it up.”
It gleamed for a moment against the stone, then was gone.
“Now listen carefully. I want you to leave now, before dawn, before the Prince tries to seal the city. You must get outside the city gates.”
“There is a guard at the night-gate I know I can bribe.”
“Good. Just out of sight of the guardpost on the main highway that runs from the Triumph Gate there is a shrine to the god of wayfarers.”
“I know the place.”
“My horse will find you there.” The one thing that damned magician couldn’t block was her bond with Rolan! “Tie the bundle around his neck, just as it is, then take whatever plan seems good to you. If I were you, I would make a run for the Border; you’ll be safe enough on the Valdemar side. Know that you have all my thanks and all my blessings.”
“Lady—a horse?”
She remembered then that he was Hardornen, and couldn’t know how unlike horses the Companions were.
“He is more than horse; think of him as a familiar spirit. He will return to my people with my message. Will you do this for me?”
He was close to weeping himself. “Is there nothing more I can do?”
“If you do that, you will have done more than I dared hope. You take with you all my gratitude, and my blessings. Now go, please, and quickly.”
He did not speak again, and she heard the scrape that signaled his departure.
She felt for her contact with Rolan. Her bond with him was at too deep a level for the magician even to sense, let alone block. Although alternating waves of pain and faintness threatened to overwhelm her, she managed to remain aware until she knew with total certainty that Rolan had gotten her message-bundle from the trader.
Rolan did not need any instructions to know what to do. Her contact with him weakened and faded as she weakened with effort and blood loss and he headed for the Border at his fastest pace, until it vanished altogether as he reached the edge of her fast-shrinking range. By then it was almost dawn.
Now, there were just two more tasks, and she would be able to give way to her anguish, her hurts, her grief.
First, the bottle. The trader had been right to be nervous about argonel. It was chancy stuff. Sometimes even the normal dose of four drams killed—but the Healers used it now and again to end the suffering of one they could not save. It had the advantage that no matter how great the overdose, there were no painful side effects such as there were with other such drugs—nothing but a peaceful drifting into sleep. If four drams could kill, fourteen should make death very sure.
Using the broken-off arrowhead, she scraped a hole in the floor beneath the pile of molding straw that was supposed to be her bed, a hole just deep enough to bury the bottle. Alessandar had not been the kind of monarch that often used his dungeons; by the grace of the gods the floors were packed earth rather than stone, with a pit dug in one corner for a privy.
She would not use the drug yet—not until she was certain that the Queen had received the warning. Soon, Bright Lady—make it soon—
Then she scraped a second hole, and a third, and hid the arrowhead from the broken arrow and the one she’d pulled from her own shoulder. If by some mischance they should find the bottle, she could still cut her wrists with one of them.
Her shoulder was aflame with pain and bleeding again, and a little gray tight was creeping down the ventilation hole when she’d finished.
She lay on the straw and let herself mourn at last.
Tears of sorrow and of pain were still pouring from her eyes when blood loss and exhaustion finally drove her into unconsciousness.
When she came to herself again, there was a single spot of sunlight on the floor, making the rest of the .room seem black by comparison. She blinked in hurt and confusion, as the door clanked once and opened.
She saw one of her jailors strolling toward her, wearing a sadistic grin and unfastening his breeches as he walked. For the space of a second she was ready to cry out and shrink away from him—but then a cold and deadly anger came over her, and abruptly she could bear no more. She took all her agony and Kris’ (still rawly part of her), all her loss, all her hatred, and hurled them into his unprotected mind in a blinding instant of forced rapport.
Hatred couldn’t sustain her long—she couldn’t maintain it for more than a single moment—but that moment was enough.
He screamed soundlessly, and flung himself wildly at the door, nearly knocking himself senseless when he readied it. He slammed it after himself, and threw the bolt home. She could hear him babbling in panic to his comrades on the other side. As she slumped back, she knew that they would not dare to molest her again, not unless the magician was with them. That was very unlikely. That one was too busy protecting his Prince and keeping her from Mindspeaking to have time to spare to protect menials so that they might amuse themselves.
They shoved in a pail of water and a plate of some sort of slop later in the day. She ignored the food, but drank the stale, fusty-tasting water avidly. Her terrible thirst woke her to the fact that she was beginning to feel both overheated and chilled.
Gingerly she touched the skin next to the arrow-wound. It was hot and dry to the touch, and badly swollen.
She was taking wound-fever.
While she was still able, she relieved herself down the privy hole in the corner, telling herself that she should be grateful that there was nothing in her stomach and bowels to make a flux of. It was cold comfort, that. She pulled the bucket within reach of the straw and propped herself against the wall in case someone should try to take her unaware. When the hallucinations and fever-dreams began, she was more or less ready for them.
There was no pattern to the fever. When she was able to think, she would tend to herself as best she could. When the fever took her, she endured.
There were horrible visions of the slaughter in the banquet hall, and the victims paraded their death-wounds before her and mutely asked why she hadn’t warned them. In vain she told them that she hadn’t known—they pressed in on her, shoving mutilated limbs and dripping wounds in her face, smothering her—
Her bestial guards multiplied into a horde, and used her, and used her, and used her—
Then Kris came.
At first she thought it was going to be another dream like the first, but it wasn’t. Instead, he was whole, well; even happy—until he saw her. Then, to her distress, he began weeping—and blamed himself for what had happened to her.
She tried to put on a brave face for him, but when she moved, she hurt so much that her fragile pretense shattered. He shook off his own distress at that, and hurried to kneel at her side.
He somehow drove away some of the pain, spoke words of comfort, bathed her feverish brow with cool water. When she whimpered involuntarily as movement sent lances of hurt through her shoulder, he wept again with vexation at his own impotence, and berated himself for leaving her alone. When the other, horrible dreams came, he stood them off.
The next time she came to herself, she found that there was a scrap torn from her sleeve near the bucket, still damp. After trying to puzzle it out, she decided that ite’d done it herself, and the dream had been a rationalization of it.
As delirium began to take her again, she tried to tell heerself that it was unlikely that her hallucinations would include Kris a second time.
But they did, and Kris continued to guard her from the hideous visions, all the while trying to give her courage.
Finally she gave up even trying to pretend to hope, and told Kris about the argonel.
“No, little bird,” he said, shaking his head at her. “It isn’t your time yet.”
“But—”
“Trust me. Trust me, dearheart. Everything is going to come out fine. Just try to hold on—” He faded into the stone, then, as she woke once more.
That puzzled her. Why should a fever-dream of her own making be trying to urge her to live, when she only wanted release?
But tor the most part, she simply suffered, and endured the waiting, watching for some sign that her message had safely reached Selenay. The Queen and her entourage should have reached the Border about two days after she and Kris had ridden through the palace gates. They would have been expecting Kris about three or four days after they arrived—a week after she’d been thrown in here. With luck and the Lady with him, Rolan should reach them about that time. She added the days in her head—that meant he would reach the Queen in six to ten days at his hardest gallop—six if he could take the Open roads, ten if he had to backtrack and hide.
When Hulda first appeared, at the end of the third day, Talia thought initially that she was another hallucination,if it hadn’t been that Hulda’s sharp features and strange (ray-violet eyes were unmistakable, Talia wouldn’t have recognized her. She was swathed in a voluptuous gown of burgundy-wine velvet, cut low and daringly across the bosom, and there were jewels on her neck and hands and the net that bound her hair. But most amazing of all, she appeared to be hardly older than Talia herself.
She stood peering into the darkness, eyes darting this way and that; a cruel smile touched her lips when she finally spotted Talia huddled against the wall. She moved from the center of the room with an odd, gliding step to stand above Talia, eyes narrowed in pleasure, and nudged her sharply with one dainty shoe.
The pain she caused made Talia gasp and pull in on herself—and her heart leapt into her throat when she realized that the woman was still standing there—real, and no hallucination.
When Talia’s eyes widened with shock and recognition, Hulda smiled. “You remember me? How very touching! I had no hope you’d have any recollection of little Elspeth’s adored nurse.”
She moved a few steps farther away and stood artfully posing in the light that came through the ventilation bole. “And how low the mighty Herald has fallen! You’d have been pleased to see me brought so low, wouldn’t you? But I am not caught so easily, little Herald. Not half so easily.”
“What—what are you?” The words were forced out almost against Talia’s will.
“I? Besides a nurse, you mean?” She laughed. “Well, a magician, I suppose you’d call me. Did you think the Heralds held all the magic there was in the world? Oh, no, little Herald, that is for, for from being the case.”
She laughed again, and swept out of the cell, the door clanging shut behind her.
Talia struggled to think; but—Lord and Lady, this meant there was more, much more at stake here than she’d dreamed.
Hulda—so young-looking, and claiming to be a magician. And she hadn’t any trace of a Gift, Talia knew that for certain. Put that together with the mage who guarded Ancar and kept her from Mindspeaking to other Heralds— gods protect Valdemar! That meant that old magic, real magic, and not just Heraldic Mind-magic, was loose in the world again. And in the hands of Valdemar’s enemies—
And Hulda had been—must have been—playing a deeper game than anyone ever guessed, and for for longer. But to what purpose?
Hulda came again, this time after dark, bringing some kind of witchlight with her. It was an odd, misty ball that gave off a red glare that flickered and pulsated; it floated behind her and hovered just above her shoulder, bathing the entire cell in an eerie, reddish glow.
This time Talia was more or less ready for her. She was free from delirium for the moment, and feeling light - yet clear-headed. She had managed to put her own emotions and the helplessness of her position in the back of her mind, hoping for some stroke of luck that might bring her a chance to strike back at her tormentors.
She had figured that Hulda was warded, even as the Prince was; she probed anyway, and discovered her guess was correct. So rather than making any other moves, she simply shifted her weight where she sat so that she might be able to get to her feet at a moment’s notice.
Hulda smiled mockingly; Talia glared right back.
“You might rise to greet me,” she mocked. “No? Well, I shan’t ask it of you. You’ll be dancing to my little Prince’s tunes soon enough. Or should I say, ‘King’? I suppose I should. Aren’t you at all curious as to why and how I came here?”
“I have the feeling you’d tell me whether I cared or notI* Talia said bitterly.
“Spirited! You’re right, I would. Oh, I spent years looking for a child like Ancar—one of high estate, yet one who could readily incline himself to what I would teach him. Then once I found him, I knew within a year that one land would never be enough for him. So once I taught him enough that he could do without me for a time, I turned my attention toward finding him a suitable mate. Dear Elspeth seemed so perfect—” she sighed theatrically.
“Oh?”
“You are so talented, little Herald! What volumes of meaning you convey with a single syllable! Yes, dear Efapeth seemed perfect—coming from a long line of those Gifted magically, and with such a father! Plotting against his own wife! Delicious!”
“If you’re trying to convince me that treachery is inherited, you’re wasting your breath.”
She laughed. “Very well then, I’ll be brief. I intended Elspeih to be properly trained and eventually consolidate an alliance with Ancar. As you probably guessed, I substituted myself for the original Hulda. Things were progressing quite well—until you intervened.”
This time the glance she shot at Talia was venomous. “Fortunately I was forewarned. I returned to my dear Prince, and when he was of an age to begin taking part in the making of plans, we put together a quite tidy plot.”
She began pacing the room, restlessly, the folds of her vermilion gown collecting loose dirt from the floor, dirt which she ignored.
“What is it,” Talia asked the ceiling above her head, “what is it about would-be tyrants that makes them speak and posture like third-rate gleemen in a badly-written play?”
Hulda pivoted sharply about and glared, her hands twitching a little as if she’d like to settle them about Talia’s neck. Talia braced herself, hoping she’d try. Granted, she was as weak as water, but there were some tricks Alberich had taught her. . . .
“Haven’t you got anything better to do than boast about your petty triumphs to a captive audience?” she taunted.
Hulda’s face darkened with anger; then to Talia’s disappointment she regained control of herself, and slowly straightened and smoothed the folds of her gown while she calmed her temper.
“You’re to be a part of this, you know,” she said abruptly. “Ancar wanted both of you alive, but you alone will do. We’ll all ride together to the Border and wait for your Queen there. She’ll see you with us, and be reassured. Then—”
“You don’t seriously think you’ll get me to cooperate, do you?”
“You won’t have a choice. Just as my Prince’s servant can keep you from sending your little messages, so I can control of your own body from you—particularly you’re in rather poor condition at the moment.”
“You can try.”
“Oh, no, little Herald. I can bring in more help than you could ever hope to hold against. I will succeed.”
She laughed, and swept out the door, then, the witchlight following.
As Talia had hoped, on the tenth day of her captivity, the door to her cell opened, and Prince Ancar and his magician stood before her. And with him was Hulda.
She was in another of the periods of clear-headedness between bouts of delirium. She debated facing them standing, but decided that she didn’t have the strength. She simply stared at them with undisguised contempt.
“My messengers have sent signals telling me that the Queen of Valdemar has turned back at the Border,” Ancar said, gazing at her with basilisk-eyes. “And now they say she gathers an army to her side. Somehow you warned her, Herald. How?”
She returned him stare for stare. “If you two are so all-powerfulI’ she asked contemptuously, “why don’t you read my thoughts?”
His race reddened with anger. “Damn you Heralds and your barriers—” he spat, before Hulda managed to hush
Talia stared at him in astonishment. Brightest Lady—he can’t read me—they can’t read me, can’t read Heralds—no wonder we almost caught Hulda before— For one moment, she felt a stirring of excitement, but it faded. The information was priceless—and useless. It only meant they would not be able to pluck truth from her thoughts, and so would never know when and if she lied.
So start now. Tell them a truth they would never believe. According to Elspeth, Hulda had never believed that the Companions were more than very well trained beasts. She had been convinced it was the Heralds who picked the Chosen, not the Companions.
So. “My horse,” she said after a long pause, “My horse escaped to warn them.”
Ancar smiled, and ice rimed her blood. “An imagination, I know. You should have been a Bard. This will only delay things, you must realize. I have been working toward my goals for years, and I can easily compass a little more delay.” He turned toward Hulda, and brushed his lips along her hair. “Can’t I, my dear nurse?”
“Easily, my Prince. You have been a most apt pupil.”
“And the pupil has exceeded the teacher, no?”
“In some things, my love. Not in all.”
“Perhaps you will be interested to hear that I know of your quarrel with the young Heir, little Herald. It would seem that she is quite crestfallen, and determined to make it up with you, since my informant tells me she is most eager to be meeting with you again. A pity that won’t happen. It would have been amusing to watch the meeting—and you under my dear nurse’s control.”
Talia tried not to show any reaction, but her concentration slipped enough that she bit her lip.
“Do tell her who our informant is, my love,” Hulda murmured in Ancar’s ear.
“None other than the trusted Lord Orthallen. What, you are not surprised? How vexing. Hulda discovered him, you know—found that he had been working at undermining the Heralds and the Monarchs so long and so cleverly that no one even guessed how often he’d played his cards.”
“Some of us guessed.”
“Really?” Hulda pouted. “I am disappointed. But have you guessed why? Ancar has promised him the throne. Orthallen has wanted that for so very long, you see. He thought he had it when he arranged for an assassin to take Selenay’s father in battle. But then there was Selenay—and all those Heralds who persisted in protecting her. He decided to do away with them first—it’s a pity how little luck he’s had. He has been so surprised at the way you keep eluding his traps. He’ll be even more amazed when Ancar gives him the dagger instead of the crown. But I am disappointed that you had guessed at his perfidy already.”
“My poor dear—two disappointments in one day.” Ancar turned his cold gaze back on Talia. “Well, since you have denied me one pleasure, you can hardly blame anyone but yourself when I use you for another, can you? Perhaps it will make up for the entertainments your actions denied my dear nurse.”
“Ah, but be wary of this wench, my lord King,” Hulda cautioned. “She is not without weapons, even now. Your servant must not let the barrier break for even a moment.”
He smiled again. “Small chance of that, my love. He knows the penalty should he fail to keep her trapped within her own mind. Should he weaken, my heart—he becomes yours.”
She trilled with delight as he signaled to the hulking guards that stood behind him.
They seized Talia and dragged her to her feet, pinioning her arms behind her back. Anguish threaded her body as the wound broke open anew, but she bit her lip and suffered silently.
“Stubborn as well! How entertaining you will be, Herald. How very entertaining.”
He turned and led the way from the cell with the magician and Hulda in close attendance and the guards following with Talia. There was a long corridor that smelled of mold and damp, and an iron door at the end of it. Beyond it was the smell of fear, and blood.
They shackled her arms to the cold stone above her head, putting an almost intolerable strain on her wounded shoulder.
“I consider myself an artist,” Ancar told her, “There is a certain artistry in producing the most pain without inflicting permanent damage, or causing death.” He removed a long, slender iron rod from the fire and regarded the white-hot tip thoughtfully. “There are such fascinating things to be done with this, for instance.”
As from a century distant she recalled Alberich discussing some of the more unpleasant realities of becoming a Herald with a small knot of final-year students in which she was included.
“The possibility of torture,” Alberich had said on that long ago afternoon, “is something we cannot afford to ignore. No matter what it is that the stories say, anyone can be broken by pain. There are mental exercises that will enable one to escape, but they are not proof against the worst that man can devise. All I can advise you if you find yourself in the hopeless situation is that you must lie; lie so often and with such creativity that your captors will not know the truth when they hear it. For the time will come when you will tell them the truth—you will be unable to help yourself. But by then, I hope, you will have muddied the waters past any hope of clarity. . . .”
But Ancar did not want information; he was getting that in plenty from Orthallen. All he wanted was to make her hurt. She was damned if she’d give him satisfaction before she had to.
So the “fascinating things” failed to drive a sound from her, and the Prince was displeased.
He proceeded to more sophisticated tortures, involving complicated apparatus. He handled all of this himself, his long hands caressing the bloodstained straps and cruel metal as he described in loving detail what each was to do to her helpless body.
Talia did her best to keep herself shielded, and to retreat behind those mental barriers to pain and the outside world she had long ago learned to erect, but as he continued his entertainment, her barriers and shielding gradually eroded. She became nauseatingly aware of every emotion he, Hulda, and the nameless magician were experiencing. The intensely sexual pleasure he derived from her pain was worse than rape; and she was in too much agony to block it out. Hulda’s pleasure was as perverted, and as hard to bear. In fact, both of them were erotically aroused to a fever-pitch by what they were doing to her, and were a scant step from tearing the clothing from each other’s backs and consummating their passion there and then.
Twice she tried to turn her agony back on him, but the magician always shielded him. The magician was deriving nearly as much enjoyment from this as Ancar and his “dear nurse” were, and Talia wished passionately (while she was still thinking coherently enough to wish) to be able to strike out at all of them.
After a time, she was no longer capable of anything but screaming.
When they crushed her feet, she was not even capable of that.
They dragged her back to her cell when her voice was gone, for the Prince did not derive half the pleasure from her torture when she could not respond to his experiments. He stood over her, gloating, as she lay unable to move on the straw where they’d left her.
“So, child, you must rest, and recover, so that we can play my games again,” he crooned. “Perhaps I will tire of the game soon; perhaps not. No matter. Think on tomorrow—and think on this. When I tire of you, I shall still find a use for you. First my men will again take their pleasure of you, for they shall not mind that you are no longer as attractive as you once were; some of them would find your appearance as stimulating as I do, my dear. Then you shall be my messenger. How will your beloved Queen react to receiving her favorite Herald, but a small piece at a time?”
He laughed, and swept out with Hulda at his side, already fondling one of her breasts as the door thudded shut behind him.
It took every last bit of her will, but she remained where she was until it was dark, dark enough that she knew that no one would be able to see what she was doing. She rolled to one side then, pushed aside the straw, and uncovered the place where she’d buried her precious bottle of argonel. It had been the knowledge that she had it that was all that had sustained her this day, and she prayed that they had not searched the cell and found it. .They hadn’t.
She kept her mind fastened on each tiny movement, knowing that otherwise she would never be able to continue.
Her fingers were so swollen as to be all but useless, but she had anticipated that. She managed to scrape back the loosely-packed dirt with the sides of her hands, clearing away enough so that she could get her teeth around the neck and pull the bottle out of the hole that way.
The effort nearly caused her to black out and left her gasping and weeping with pain, unable to stir for long moments. When she could move again, she braced the bottle between wrists rubbed raw and pulled the stopper out with her teeth.
She lay for a long, long moment again, while her mind threatened to retreat into blackness. That would only be a temporary escape, and she needed a permanent one.
She spat the stopper out and rolled onto her side while her body howled in anguish, and poured the entire bottle into her mouth. It burned all the way down her raw throat, and burned in her stomach where it lay like molten lead. It felt as if it were eating a hole through to the outside.
She wept with pain, conscious of nothing but pain, for what seemed to be an eternity. But then numbness began to spread from the fire, pushing the pain before it. It spread faster as it moved outward, and soon she could no longer feel anything, anything at all. Her mind seemed to be floating in warm, dark water.
A few thoughts remained with her for a while. Elspeth; she hoped the child really had forgiven her—she hoped the next Queen’s Own would love her as much as Talia did. And Dirk. Perhaps it was the best thing that he should not know how much she loved him; he would be spared much anguish that way. Wouldn’t he? She was glad of one thing; that he and Kris had made up before they’d left. It was going to hurt him badly enough when he learned of Kris’ death as it was.
If only she’d been able to tell them—if only she’d known for certain about Orthallen. He still was there, the unsuspected enemy, waiting to try yet again. And Ancar— master of magicians and possessed of an army of killers. If only she could tell them somehow. . . .
While she still had the strength and the will, she tried again to Mindcall, but was foiled by the mage-barrier.
Then her will went numb, and all she could do was drift,
It was odd . . . Bards always claimed that alt the answers came when one died, but there were no answers for her. Only questions, unanswered questions, and unfinished business. Why were there no answers? One would think that at least one would know why one had to die.
Maybe it didn’t matter.
Kris had said it was bright. The tales all said the Havens were bright. But it wasn’t bright. It was dark— darkness all around, and never a hint of brightness.
And so lonely! She would have welcomed anything, even a fever-dream.
But perhaps that was just as well, too. In the darkness that damned magician couldn’t find her to bring her back. If she fled away far enough, he might get tost in trying to find her. It was worth the effort—and the warm, numbing darkness was very soothing, if the loneliness could be ignored.
Perhaps elsewhere, where the mage couldn’t follow, she would find the Havens . . . and there would be light.
She let the darkness pull her farther along, closing behind her, and thoughts began to numb and fall away as well.
As she retreated away down into the darkness, her very last thought was to wonder why there still was no hght at all, even at the end of it.
When the Queen and her entourage set out at last, Dirk was part of her honorguard despite the vehement protests of Healers and fellow Heralds that he was not well enough for such an expedition.
He had responded that he was needed. This was true; the Collegium had suspended classes and all Heralds normally teaching were serving as bodyguards, with the sole exceptions being those too sick or old to travel. He also argued that he was far healthier than he looked (which was not true), and that he would rest just as well at the easy pace of the baggage train as he would fretting in the infirmary (which was marginally true). The Healers threw up their hands in disgust when Selenay agreed to his presence, and pronounced her to be insane and him to be the worst patient they had ever had since Keren.
He knew very well that Teren and Skif had quietly debated themselves to keep an eye on him, not trusting te protestations of health in the slightest. He didn’t care, anything was worth not being left behind—even being over.
He was right about the leisurely quality of the journey—this was to be an easy trip; the most exciting likely to occur would be when they met Talia or at the Border. The bodyguard of Heralds was more of tradition than suspected danger. After all, Alessandar was a trusted ally and a firm friend of Valdemar, and it was as likely for harm to come to her and Elspeth in her own capital as it was for them to come to harm in Hardorn. Dirk figured he should be as safe with them as in his own bed.
There were other reasons why Dirk wanted to accompany the others, although none that he was willing to disclose to anyone else. His enforced idleness had given him ample time for thought, and he was beginning to wonder if he hadn’t made a bad mistake in his assumptions about the relationship between Talia and Kris. While he hadn’t precisely left the field clear, Kris hadn’t spent much (if any!) time alone with her since they’d returned. Instead, he’d had a brief fling with Nessa, then returned to his old semi-monastic habits. Nor had Talia sought him out. He knew these things to be facts, since he’d been keeping track of their whereabouts rather obsessively. Now that he thought back on it, Kris’ frequent paeans of praise for the Queen’s Own seemed less like those of a lover lauding his beloved, and more like a horsetrader trying to convince a reluctant buyer! And the one whose company Talia had been seeking was the one person who had been trying to avoid her—himself.
Then there was that odd incident with Keren, right after he’d damn near collapsed. She’d bullied her way past the Healers the morning Kris and Talia had left, while he was still fairly light-headed with fever, and had delivered a vehement lecture to him that he couldn’t quite remember. It was maddening, because he had the shrewd notion that it was important, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to confront Keren again and ask her what her diatribe had been all about. But if what vague memories he did have were not totally misleading—and they very well could be—she’d spoken of lifebonds, and more than once. And she’d gone on at some length about what an idiot he was being, and how miserable he was making Talia feel.
Besides all that, he had had some very frightening dreams that he didn’t think could all be laid to the fever, and had been entertaining very uneasy feelings about the whole expedition from the moment he had learned that Talia and Kris were gone. If something were to go wrong, he wanted to know about it firsthand. And he wanted to be in a position where he could do something, not just wonder what was happening; although in the kind of shape he was in, he was not too sanguine that he’d be able to do much.
Technically, he was still an invalid, so he was sent to the rear of the company before the baggage animals, to share Skifs bodyguard duty on Elspeth. Skifs Cymry had foaled in early spring, and the youngster was just barely old enough to make this kind of easy trip.
Elspeth was anxious, and Dirk had a notion that he and Skif were the best possible company for the young Heir; the antics of Cymry’s offspring and Skifs easy patter kept her spirits up, and Dirk was more than willing to talk about the one subject that overwhelmed her with guilt and dominated her thoughts—Talia.
Selenay had given Talia’s note to Elspeth when the Heir had searched for the Queen’s Own without success and had finally demanded to know what her mother had done with her. She had recalled her promise of many years’ standing with heartfelt remorse almost as soon as Talia had turned her back on her and ridden away. “I’ll never get mad at you,” she had pledged. “No matter what you say, unless I go away and think about it, and decide what you told me just wasn’t true.”
And a great deal of what Talia had said that night, though harsh, was true. She hadn’t thought past her own pleasure and her own wishes. She hadn’t once considered her “affair” in the light of the larger view.
Her would-be lover’s betrayal had hurt—but not nearly so much as the thought that she’d driven away a friend who truly loved her with that broken promise. Talia’s words had been ugly, but not unearned—and Elspeth had returned her own share of harsh and ugly words. If truth were to be told, though Elspeth was even more ashamed when she thought about it, the name-calling bad begun with her. She wanted desperately, now that she’d read the note, to make her own apologies and explanations, and to regain the closeness they’d had had before Talia’s stint in the field. Her remorse was very real, and she had the urge to talk about it incessantly. She found a sympathetic ear in Dirk, who never seemed to find her own repetitive litany boring.
She gradually managed to purge some of her guilt just by pouring her unhappiness into his ears, and slowly it became less obsessive.
But it was still very much with her.
“Daydreaming, young milady?”
The smooth, cultivated voice startled Elspeth out of deep thought.
“Not daydreaming,” she corrected Lord Orthallen, just a shade stiffly. “Thinking.”
He raised an inquisitive eyebrow, but she wasn’t about to enlighten him.
He nudged his chestnut palfrey a little closer; Gwena responded to her unspoken twinge of revulsion and moved away.
“I must admit to being caught up in a great deaf of thought, myself,” he said, as if unwilling to let her escape from him. “Thought—and worry—”
Damn him! she thought. He is so smooth—he makes me want to trust him so much! If Alberich hadn’t said what he did to me—
:I’d trust Alberich with my life,: Gwena said unexpectedly in her mind. :I wouldn’t trust that snake with my hoof-parings!:
:Hush, loveling,: she replied the same way, amusement at her Companion’s vehemence restoring her good humor. :He won’t catch me again.:
“Worry about what, my Lord?” she asked ingenuously.
“My nephew,” he replied surprising the boots off her with his expression and the tinge of real concern in his voice. “I wish that Seienay had consulted me before sending him on this mission. He’s so young.”
“He’s quite experienced.”
“But not in diplomacy. And not alone.”
:Bright Havens, loveling, I could almost believe he really is anxious!:
:He is.: Gwena sounded just as surprised. :And somehow—somehow that frightens me. What does he know that we don’t?:
“It’s a simple mission to an ally,” she said aloud. “What could possibly go wrong?”
“Nothing, of course. It’s just an old man’s foolish fancies.” He laughed, but it sounded forced. “No, never mind. I actually came back here to see if you were pining over one of those young men you’ve left back at Court.”
“Them?” She produced a trill of very artificial gaiety. “Lady bless, my lord, I can’t for the life of me wonder what I ever saw in them. I never met a pack of puppies with emptier heads in my life! I’m afraid they bored me so I was only too pleased to escape them—and I think I’d better head to the rear and take my turn making sure poor Dirk doesn’t fall out of his saddle. Farewell, my lord!”
:-Oh, that’s putting a kink in his tail, little sister!: Gwena applauded as she spun and cantered to the rear. :Well done indeed.:
“Dirk?” Elspeth cantered up next to him.
“What imp?” He’d been almost half-asleep; the sun was gentle and warm, Ahrodie’s pace was smooth, and the gentle chime of bridle bells and the ringing of hooves on the road had been very soporific.
“Do you think it’ll be Talia that meets us on the Border?” Elspeth’s tone was wistful, her face full of undisguised hope. Dirk hated to disappoint her, but he didn’t have much choice.
He sighed. “Not likely, I’m afraid. Fact is, as Queen’s Own she’s really your mother’s first representative, so chances are shell still be with Alessandar.”
“Oh.” She looked rather crestfallen, but apparently stilll feeling like continuing the conversation. “Are you feeling all right? You’ve been coughing a lot.”
She looked sideways at him with a certain amount of concern in her glance.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to nursemaid me,” Dirkreplied with some exasperation. “It’s bad enough with these two playing mother-hen.” He nodded back in the section where Skif and Teren were riding, just out of earshot.
The bright noontide sun, so welcome after all those weeks of cold rain, made their white uniforms difficult to took at without squinting, Teren positively glistened.
And how in blazes, Dirk found himself wondering, does he manage to took so immaculate with all the dust we’re kicking up?
Elspeth giggled. “Sorry. It does get to be a bit muchish, doesn’t it? Now you know how I feel! It was all right back at the Collegium, but I can’t even slip off into the woods to—you know—without two Heralds pounding up to bodyguard me!”
“Don’t blame anybody but your mother, imp. You’re the only offspring. She should have whelped a litter, then you wouldn’t have these problems.”
Elspeth giggled even harder. “I wish some of the courtiers could near you, talking about her like she was a prize bitch!”
“They’d probably call me out for insulting her. She, on the other hand, might very well agree with me. What are you doing for classes since you’re not warming a desk?”
Much to his own surprise, Dirk realized he was interested in hearing Elspetn’s answer. Some of the lethargy of his illness was ebbing, replaced by a little of his old energy, and he was beginning to realize that a good deal of his mental distress had vanished as well. Whether this was as a result of mending his quarrel with Kris or something else he had no idea, but it was a welcome change.
“Alberich told Skif to teach me knife-throwing. I’m getting pretty good at it, if I can be forgiven a boast. Watch—”
Her hand flicked out sideways and forward, and a small knife appeared almost magically, quivering in the bole of a tree ahead of them. Dirk hadn’t even seen it leave her hand.
“Not bad—not bad at all.”
Elspeth cantered up to retrieve it, cleaning the blade of sap on her sleeve, then rejoined Dirk. “He gave me a wrist sheath with a trick release—see?” She pushed up her sleeve to display it proudly. “Just like Talia’s.”
“So that’s where she got them! Figures it’d be him. If there’s a way to hide anything, that boy knows it.” Dirk grinned, and realized with surprise that it had been a long while since he’d smiled. “Not that I’ve got any objections, mind you. I’m just as glad you’ve got a hidden sting, imp.”
“Whyfor? Mother wasn’t all that happy about my learning ‘assassin’s tricks,’ as she so tactfully put it. It was only toy saying that Alberich ordered it that made it right with her.”
“Call me a little more pragmatic, but if you know the assassin’s tricks, you’re one up on the assassin—and there’s only one of you, imp. We can’t afford to lose you.”
“Funny, that’s just what Skif said. I guess I’m out of the habit of thinking of myself as important.” She grinned, and Dirk thought fleetingly that a charming young woman had been born out of the naughty Brat Talia had taken in charge. No small miracle had been wrought there.
“I hope you’re also learning that in a dangerous situation you react with reflexes, not with your head.”
She made a face. “Am I not! It hasn’t been so long ago that Alberich, Skif and Jeri were ambushing me every time I wasn’t looking, solo or in groups! Anyway, other than that, I’m just supposed to be talking with Heralds. I guess they figure I’ll pick things up by contamination, or something.”
‘‘That’s a fine way to talk about your elders! Although I hate to admit it—but with Skif, ‘contamination’ is pretty accurate.”
“Do I hear my name being taken in vain?”
Skif nudged Cymry up to ride beside them.
“Most assuredly, my fine, feathered felon. I was just warning our innocent young Heir about associating with you.”
“Me?” Skif went round-eyed with innocence. “I am as pure—”
“As what they shovel out of the stables.”
“Hey, I don’t have to sit here and be insulted!”
“That’s right,” Elspeth giggled. “You could ride off and let us insult you behind your back like we were doing.”
As if to echo her, a bold scarlet jay called down filthy on him just as he rode beneath it. It hopped along the branch that overhung the road and continued catcalling after he’d passed.
“I do believe I am outnumbered—you’re even getting the wildlife on your side! It’s time, as Master Alberich would say, for a strategic retreat.”
He reined Cymry in and dropped back to resume his place beside Teren, making a face at Elspeth when he saw she was sticking her tongue out at him. Dirk was hard put to keep a straight face.
But a moment later Elspeth’s mood abruptly shifted. “Dirk? Can I ask you something?”
“That’s what I’m here for, imp. Part of it, anyway.”
“What’s evil?”
Dirk nearly lost his teeth. Philosophy was not what he was expecting out of Elspeth. “Ouch! Don’t believe in asking the easy ones, do you?”
He sat silent for a long moment, aware after a sidelong glance at her that he had won Elspeth’s heart forever by taking her question seriously. “Have you ever asked Gwena that one?” he said at last. “She’s probably a better authority than I am.”
“I did—and all she did was look at me like I’d grown horns and say, ‘It just is!’ “
He laughed, for the answer sounded very like the kind of response Ahrodie used to give him. “They do seem to have some peculiar blind spots, don’t they? All right, I’ll give it a try. This isn’t the best answer by a long road, but I think it might be somewhere in the right direction. It seems to me that evil is a kind of ultimate greed, a greed that is so all-encompassing that it can’t ever see anything lovely, rare, or precious without wanting to possess it. A greed so total that if it can’t possess these things, it will destroy them rather than chance that someone else might have them. And a greed so intense that even having these things never causes it to lessen one iota—the lovely, the rare and the precious never affect it except to make it want them.”
“So—’good’ would be a kind of opposite? Unselfishness?”
He frowned a little, groping for the proper words. “Oh, partially. Evil can’t create, it can only copy, and destroy, because it’s so taken up with itself. So ‘good’ would also be a kind of selflessness. And you know what a lot of sects preach—that ultimate good—Godhead—can only be reached by totally forgetting the self. What brought this on?”
“When Skif mentioned Master Alberich—he—I—” she hesitated, looking shamefaced, but Dirk did his best to took kind and understanding, and his expression evidently encouraged her to continue. “You know about what happened—with Talia and me. I was still angry with her the next day, even though I was almost as angry with myself; well, that showed up in practice. Master Alberich made me stop, and took me out to the Field for a walk to cool off. You know, I never thought he was—I don’t know, understanding, I guess. Nice. He seems so hard, most of the time.”
“Perhaps that’s to mask the softness underneath,” Dirk replied quietly. He knew Alberich better than almost any other Herald, except for Elcarth and Jeri; and despite all the time he spent in the field, he had come as close as anyone was ever likely to get to the Armsmaster. “Being easy with any of us might be a quick way to get us killed in the field. So he’s hard, hopefully harder than anything we will have to face. That doesn’t make him less a human, or less a Herald. Think about it a minute. He’s the one teacher in the Collegium whose lessoning will make a difference whether we live or die. If he eliminates one little thing—no matter for what reason—it might be the cause of one of his pupils finding an early grave. You can’t say that about any other instructor in the Collegium. You might notice the next time the Death Bell that you won’t see him anywhere around. I don’t know where he goes, but I saw him leaving, once. He looked like he was in mortal agony. I think he feels more than most of us would credit him with.”
“I guess I know that now. Anyway, he started talking, and you know how it is with him, when he talks, you automatically listen. Somehow I ended up telling him about everything—about how, since Talia seemed so busy, I started talking to Lord-Un—I mean, Lord Orthallen. And how that was why I—started being with—some people. The wild crowd, I guess. That boy. Lord Orthallen introduced us; he told me he thought I ought to be spending more time with the other people of the Court. It all made sense when he was saying it, and the boys he introduced me to seemed so ... attentive. Flattering. I . . . like the attention; I told Alberich that. That’s when he said something really odd, Alberich, I mean. He said, “I tell you this in strictest confidence, Herald to Herald, for I think I would have to guard my back at all times should he come to learn of it. Lord Orthallen is one of the only three truly evil persons I have ever encountered. He does nothing without a purpose, my lady, and you would be wise never to forget this.’“
She glanced at Dirk; he had the feeling she wanted to see the effect of her words.
He made no effort to hide that he was quite sobered by them. The first time she had spoken Lord Orthallen’s name, it had felt as if a cloud had passed between himself and the gentle warmth of the sun. And her account of Alberich’s words had come as something of a revelation.
“I’m not sure what to say,” he replied finally. “Alberich is hardly inclined to make hasty judgments though; I’m sure you realize that. But at the same time, I am hardly one of Orthallen’s supporters. I’ll just say this; Kris and I quarreled largely because Orthallen insisted he be there when I was accused, and because Orthallen did his best to force him to make a choice between himself and me. I can’t think why he would want to do that—except for what I already have said about evil; that it can’t see a precious thing without wanting to own or destroy it. And our friendship, Kris’ and mine, is one of the most precious things in my life.”
Elspeth rode silently by his side for a good many miles after that, her face very quiet and thoughtful
This was only the first of many such conversations they were to have. They discovered that they were very much alike, sharing a bent toward the mystical that might have surprised those who didn’t know them well.
“Well?” Elspeth asked aggressively, “Why don’t they interfere? If I’m making an ass of myself, why won’t Gwena say anything?”
Dirk sighed. “Imp, I don’t know. Have you ever asked her?”
Elspeth snorted, sounding rather like her own Companion when impatient. “Of course—after I’d made a total fool of myself I asked her right off why she didn’t just forbid me to have anything to do with that puppy.”
“And what did she tell you?”
“That I knew very well Companions didn’t do things that way.”
“And they don’t . . . until we, their Chosen, come to thaem.” Dirk harbored no small amount of chagrin for not having asked Ahrodie’s advice when he’d quarreled with Kris.
“But why? It isn’t fair!”
At Elspeth’s age, Dirk knew from his own experience, “fair” achieved monumental importance.
“Isn’t it? Would it be fair to us, in the long run, if they stepped in like nursemaids and prevented us from falling on our noses every time we tried to learn to walk?”
:Good answer, Chosen,: Ahrodie told him, :Even if a bit simplistic.:
:Unless you’ve got a better one—:
:Mh, no!: she said hastily. :You go right on as you were!:
“You mean, we have to learn from experience by ourselves?” Elspeth asked, as Dirk fought down a grin at Ahrodie’s hurried reply.
Elspeth brooded over that while Gwena and Ahrodie themselves by matching paces with such absolute precision that they sounded like one Companion rather two.
“Don’t they ever interfere?” she asked, finally.
“Not in living memory. In some of the old chronicles, though...”
“Well?” she prompted, when his silence had gone on too long.
“Some Companions, very rarely, have intervened. But only when the situation was hopeless, and only when there was no other way out of it except by their aid. They were always Grove-born, though, and the only one of those we have now is Rolan. And they have never done so except by freely volunteering, which is why Heralds never ask them to.”
“Why only then? Why shouldn’t we ask?”
“Imp—” He was doing his best to try and express what until now he had only sensed. “What’s the one governing taw of this Kingdom?”
She looked at him askance. “Are you changing the subject?”
“No. No, I’m not, trust me.”
“There is no ‘one true way.’ “
“Take it a step further. Why are the clergy forbidden by law to pray for Valdemar’s victory in war?”
“I ... don’t know.”
“Think about it. Go away, if you like, and come back when you’re ready.”
She chose not to leave his side, and simply rode next to him with her expression blank and her attention turned so inward that she never noticed Skif coming up from behind them.
Skif pulled up on Dirk’s other side, and gave the young Heir a long and curious look.
“Isn’t this a bit deep for her?” he asked, finally. “I mean, I’ve been trying to follow this, and I’m lost.”
“I don’t think so,” Dirk replied slowly. “I really don’t. If she weren’t ready, she wouldn’t be asking.”
“Lord and Lady,” Skif exclaimed, shaking his head in honest bewilderment, “I give up. You are two of a kind.”
At length the party reached the Border; Selenay ordered that they make camp there on the Valdemar side since the outpost was far too small to accommodate all of them. The last of the baggage train actually reached it very near dark, and so the Queen was hardly surprised that neither of the two envoys was waiting for them when they arrived. But when the next day passed, she felt a building uneasiness. When two more went by without any sign whatsoever, the uneasiness became alarm.
“Kyril—” Selenay did not remove her gaze from the road as she spoke to the Seneschal’s Herald. “—I have the feeling something has gone terribly, terribly wrong. Am I being alarmist?”
“No, Majesty.” Kyril’s usually controlled voice held an unmistakable tenor of strain.
Selenay looked at him sharply. Kyril’s brow was lined with worry. “I’ve tried Farspeech; I can’t reach them— and Kris, at least, has enough of that Gift to be able to receive what I send. He’s done so in the past. I don’t know what’s gone awry, but Majesty, I—I am afraid for them.”
She did not hesitate. “Order the camp moved back from the Border, and now. There’s a good place about half a mile back down the road; it’s a flatfish hill, barren except for grass. Should there be need, it won’t be hard to defend.”
Kyril nodded. He did not seem surprised by her paranoia.
“When you’ve gotten the rest on the move,” she continued, “order the local reserves of the Guard to meet us there. I’m going to have the Border Guards stand alert and keep a watch down the Hardorn side of the trade road.”
Her Companion, Caryo, came trotting up at her mental summons, and she pulled herself up on the Companion’s bare back, without bothering to call for saddle or bridle. As she rode away, Kyril was going in search of the Herald in charge of the camp to begin seeing to the first of her orders.
The new camp was uncomfortable, but as Selenay had planned, was far more easily defensible than the old. When the Guardsmen arrived, Selenay ordered them to bivouac between their camp and the Border. She had sentries posted as well—and ominously, she noticed that the Companions began taking up stations about the perimeter, providing their own kind of sentry-duty.
Elspeth attached herself to Dirk and seldom left his side. Neither of them voiced their fears until late in the fifth day, a day spent in an atmosphere of tension and anxiety.
“Dirk,” Elspeth finally said, after Dirk watched her try to read the same page in her book ten times, and apparently never once see a word of it, “do you suppose something’s happened to them?”
Dirk hadn’t even been making a pretense of doing anything but watching the road. “Something must have,” he answered flatly, “If it had been simple delay, they would have gotten word to us. It’s not like Kris—”
He broke off at the sight of her frightened eyes.
“Look imp, I’m sure they’ll be all right. Kris and I have gotten out of a lot of tight situations before this, and Talia’s no faint-hearted Court flower. I’m sure they’re making their way back to us right now.”
“I hope you’re right . . .” Elspeth said faintly, but she didn’t sound to Dirk as if she really believed his words.
For that matter, he wasn’t sure he believed them either.
The sixth day dawned, with Selenay—in fact, all of them—waiting for the axe to fall.
Late in the afternoon, when one of the lookouts—a Herald with Farsight as well as Mindspeech—reported that a Companion was approaching at speed, the entire encampment was roused within moments, and lined the roadside. Selenay was one of the first; eyes straining to catch the first glimpse.
She, Kyril, and several others of her immediate entourage stood in a tense knot at the edge of the encampment. She noticed vaguely that Dirk, Teren, Skif, Elspeth, and Jeri had formed their own little huddle just within earshot. None of them moved or spoke. The sun beat down on them all without pity, but no one made a move to look for shade.
As Dirk waited with mouth going dry with unspoken fear, a second lookout sprinted up and whispered in the Queen’s ear. Selenay grew pale as ice; Elspeth clutched Dirk’s arm and the rest stirred uneasily.
Then a dust-cloud and hoofbeats signaled the arrival of the Companion, and hard on the sound itself Rolan pounded into their midst.
Rolan—alone. Without saddle or bridle; gaunt, covered with dust and sweat, and completely exhausted, a state few had ever seen a Companion in before.
He staggered the last few feet up the hill to the Queen, paring a bundle from his neck with his teeth and dropping it at her feet. Then he sagged with exhaustion, standing motionless except for his heaving flanks and his quivering muscles, head nearly touching the ground, eyes dosed, suffering written in every line of him.
Keren was the first to break from her shock. She ran to him, throwing her cloak over him for lack of any other blanket and began to lead him to a place where he could be tended properly, step by trembling step.
Selenay picked up the filthy, stained package with hands that shook so hard she nearly dropped it, and undid the knots holding it together.
Into the grass at her feet fell two arrows; one headless, one broken.
A ripple of shocked dismay passed over the crowd. The Queen felt as frozen as a snow-statue.
As Kyril bent to pick them up, Elspeth whimpered once beside her, and swayed with shock. Jeri caught and supported her just as Dirk’s agonized cry of negation broke the silence.
Selenay started, and turned to see Dirk struggling to break away from Skif and Teren.
“Damn you, let me go” he cried in agony, as Skif held him away from Ahrodie. “I’ve got to go to her—I’ve got to help her!”
“Dirk, man, you don’t even know if—” Teren choked out the words “—if she’s still alive.”
“She’s got to be. I’d know if she weren’t. She’s got to be!” He fought them still, as Cyril’s low tones carried to where they stood.
“The headless arrow is Herald Kris,” he said, his expressionless face belying the anguish in his voice. “The broken is Herald Talia.”
“You see? I was right! Let me go!”
Skif caught his chin in one hand and forced his head around so that Dirk was forced to look him in the eyes, with a strength that matched Dirk’s own, even augmented by the letter’s frenzy. There were tears flowing freely down his cheeks as he half sobbed his words. “Think, man! That’s the broken arrow she sent. She was as good as dead when she sent it, and dammit, she knew it. There’s no hope of saving her, but she gave us the warning to save ourselves. Do you want to kill yourself, too, and make us mourn three of you?”
His words penetrated Dirk’s madness, and the wild look left his eyes, replaced by anguish and torture.
“Oh, gods!” The fight left him, and he sagged to his knees, buried his face in his hands, and began weeping hoarsely.
At this moment Selenay wished with all her aching heart that she could do the same. But this message could have only one meaning; a friend to her and her people had suddenly turned his coat, and her land was in danger. Her Kingdom and the lives of her folk were at stake and she had her duty just as surely as any other Herald. There was no leisure time to spend on personal feelings. Later, when all was safe, she would mourn. Now she must act.
She emptied herself of emotion, knowing she’d pay for this self-denial later. There was the Guard to be alerted, the Lord Marshal to be brought; her mind filled with plans, making it easier to ignore (for the moment) the sorrow she longed to give vent to.
She gave orders crisply, sending one Herald after another flying for his Companion, carrying messages to warn, to summon, to prepare. She turned on her heel with Kyril at her side and strode hastily to her tent. Those with experience in armed conflict followed; as did those who might still be needed to bear messages. Those who were not of either group headed for the baggage train to break out the weaponry, or down the hill to organize the tiny force of the Guard to protect the Queen.
Left in their wake were Skif, Teren, and Dirk.
Skif reached out his hand to his friend, then pulled it bade. Dirk was curled in on himself, still kneeling in the dust of the road. Only the shaking of his shoulders showed that he still wept.
Skif and Teren stood awkwardly at his side for long moments, both unsure of what, if anything, they could do for him. Finally Teren said in an undertone, “He won’t try anything stupid now. Why don’t we give him a little privacy? Ahrodie’s the only one likely to be able to comfort him at all.”
Skif nodded, biting his lip to keep from sobbing himself; and they withdrew after the others, as Ahrodie moved up beside Dirk and stood with her head bowed next to his, almost, but not quite, touching his shoulder.
Lost in his own travail, Dirk heard nothing of another approaching, until a hand lightly touched his shoulder.
He raised his head slowly, peering through blurred, burning eyes, to see that the one touching him was Elspeth. Grief matching his stared out of her eyes, and her features were as tear-streaked as his own. It was growing dark; the last rays of sunset streaked the sky like bloodstains and stars were showing overhead. He realized dimly that he must have been crouching there for hours. And as he stared at her, he began to have the beginnings of an idea.
“Elspeth,” he croaked. “Do you know some place no one is likely to be right now? Some place quiet?”
“My tent, and the area around it,” she said. He thought he had surprised her out of her own tears by the question. “I’m at the back of the camp, not close to mother’s tent. Everybody is with her right now.”
“Can I use it?”
“Of course—why? Have you—can you—oh, Dirk, have you thought of something? You have—you have!”
“I think . . . maybe ... I might be able to ‘Fetch’ her. But I need a place where my concentration won’t be broken.”
Elspeth looked hopeful—and dubious. “It’s an awfully long way.”
“I know. That doesn’t matter. It isn’t the distance that worries me, it’s the weight. I’ve never Fetched anything that big before; gods, nothing alive even close to that size.” His face and heart twisted with pain. “But I’ve got to try—something, anything!”
“But Kris—” her voice broke. “Kris isn’t here to See for you—no, wait—” she said, kneeling next to him as his hope crumpled. “I can See. I’m not trained, but I’ve got the Gift. It came on me early—it’s been getting a lot stronger since I was Chosen and I know I’ve got more range than anybody else I’ve talked to. Will I do?”
“Yes! Oh, gods, yes!” He hugged her shoulders and they rose together and stumbled through the dusk to her tent.
Elspeth slipped inside the tent and tossed two cushions out for them to sit on. Dirk set his hands lightly on her wrists and calmed his own thoughts as best he could. He tried to pretend to himself that this was just another student he was training in her Gift, and began coaxing her into a light trance. The last of the light faded, and the stars grew brighter overhead, while they sat oblivious to their surroundings. She was silent for a very long time, and Dirk began to fear that her untrained Gift would be useless against all that distance, despite the power of the emotions fueling it.
Then, abruptly, Elspeth whimpered in fear and pain and her own hands closed convulsively on his wrists. “I’ve found her—oh, gods! Dirk, they’ve done such horrible things to her! I—think I’m going to be sick—”
“Hold on, imp. Don’t break on me yet! I need you— she needs you!”
Elspeth gulped audibly, and held. He followed her mind to where it had reached, found his target, took hold, and pulled with all his strength.
He could not tell how long he strove against the weight of it—but suddenly pain rose in a wave to engulf him, and he blacked out.
He found himself slumped over, with Elspeth shaking him as hard as she could.
“All of a sudden—you stopped breathing,” she said fearfully. “I thought you were dead! Oh, gods, Dirk—it— it’s no good, is it?”
He shook his head numbly. “I tried, Goddess save me, I tried. I found her all right, but I can’t pull her here. I just don’t have the strength.”
He felt hot tears splash on his hand from Elspeth’s eyes, and decided they would make a second attempt. He knew with conviction that he’d rather die in trying to bring Talia back than live with the knowledge that he wasn’t brave enough to make the second trial.
But before he could say anything, the matter was taken out of his hands.
:Man,: said a voice in his mind. :Dirk—Herald.:
The voice was not Ahrodie’s; it was masculine. He looked up to find three Companions standing beside them; Ahrodie, Elspeth’s Gwena, and leading them, Rolan. They had moved up on them without so much as a twig stirring. Behind them, at the edge of the enclosure that held Elspeth’s tent, were gathered more Companions— every Companion in the encampment, down to Cymry’s foal.
Rolan looked ghostlike, gaunt, and seemed to glow, and the back of Dirk’s neck prickled at the sight of him. He looked like something out of legend, not a creature of the solid, everyday world.
:You have the Gift and the will to use it. She has the Sight. We have the strength you need. :
“I—but—are you saying—”
:That we may yet save her, if our love and courage are enough. But—be prepared—if we succeed, it will not be without high cost to you. There will be great pain. You may die of it.:
Wordlessly, Dirk looked at Elspeth, and knew by her nod that Rolan had spoken to her as well.
Dirk looked into Rolan’s glowing eyes—and they were glowing, a sapphirine light brighter than the starshine. “Whatever the cost is, we’ll pay it,” he said, knowing he spoke for both of them.
They stood up and made room for the three Companions between them. They stood in a circle; Rolan, Elspeth, Gwena, Ahrodie, and Dirk. Elspeth and Dirk clasped hands and rested their arms over the backs of the Companions, obtaining the needed physical contact among the five of them in that way.
It was much easier for Elspeth to find her target the second time.
“I have her,” she said softly when she’d touched Talia again, then sobbed, “Dirk—I think she’s dying!”
Once more Dirk sent his own mind along the path Elspeth had laid for him, took hold, and pulled.
Then a second strength was added to his, and it built, and grew. Then another joined the second, and another. For one awful, pain-wracked moment—or was it an eternity?—Dirk felt like the object of a tug-of-war game, being pulled apart between two forces far greater than his own. Only his own stubbornness kept him to the task, as he felt his mind being torn in two. He held; then felt himself being stretched thinner and thinner, tighter, and tighter, quivering like a harpstring about to snap. All his strength seemed to flow out of him; he felt consciousness fading again, fought back, and held on with nothing left to him but his own stubborn will. Then, one of the two forces broke—and not theirs. And together they pulled their target toward them, cushioning and protecting it against further damage.
Their combined strength was enough. Barely, but enough.
The conference of war was proceeding in Selenay’s tent, with Council members, Officers of the Army and Guard, and Heralds perched wherever there was room. Kyril was pointing out weak spots in their own defenses— places that appeared to be candidates to be attacked—on the map laid over her table. Then a cry of horror from someone standing just outside the tent flap made everyone look up with startlement.
Someone shoved tent flap and those standing inside it abruptly out of the way, and Elspeth stumbled inside, face paper-white and drained, pushing others from her path. Following her was Dirk, who looked even worse. When those inside saw what he bore in his arms, the cry of horror was echoed inside the tent as well—for it was a mangled, bloody wreck of a human body and it had Talia’s face.
No one moved—no one but Dirk and the Heir. Elspeth emptied Selenay’s bed of the five Heralds perched on the edge of tt, pushing them out of the way without a word. Dirk went straight to the bed and set Talia down gently on ft. Without even looking around he reached out a blood-smeared hand and seized the most senior Healer present by the arm, pulling her to Talia’s side. Then he straightened up with exaggerated care, moved two or three steps out of the way, and passed out, dropping to the ground like a felled tree.
When the furor was over and Selenay had a chance to look around, she discovered that Elspeth had done the same—but less dramatically and more quietly, in the corner.
Elspeth’s recovery was rapid—which, as she remarked somewhat astringently, was fortunate for the sanity of those who could not imagine how the impossible rescue had been accomplished.
She was the center of attention for all those who were not involved with the attempt to save Talia. Kyril was her particular demon, insisting on being told every detail so many times she thought she could recite the tale in her steep, and coming up with countless questions. Eventually Elspeth’s patience reached a breaking point, and she told him, in a quiet, but deadly voice, that if he wanted to know any more he should ask his own Companion about it—she was going to see what she could do about helping the Healers with Talia and Dirk.
Healer Thesa was worried; Dirk’s recovery was not as rapid. He was still unconscious the next day, and it was some time before she and the other Healers diagnosed the problem as a relapse of his pneumonia coupled with incredible psychic strain. She had charge of his case; her old friend Devan had charge of Talia’s, though they shared every germ of expertise they had on both cases. Dirk had inadvertently brought the bottle Talia had drunk the argonel out of with her; and the traces of it within the bottle told Devan what it was they had to fight besides her terrible injuries. Within a day or two he and Thesa decided between them that they had done all they possibly could for both of the patients under the primitive conditions of the encampment. They decided that while it was dangerous to move them, it was far more dangerous to leave them there. There might be warfare waged there at any moment, and they both badly needed the expert touch of the teachers at the Healer’s Collegium.
Yet there was no time to spare—and assuredly no Heralds to spare—to move them back to the capital. Instead, after a hasty conference, Thesa and her colleague decided to take the patients a few miles up the road, and install them in the stone-walled home of the Lord Holder, who gladly gave up his dwelling to the Queen—and was equally glad to move himself and his family well out of the way of possible combat.
The Queen had called for all the Healers of the Collegium that could be spared. The Lord Holder’s residence was more than half fortress; it was readily defensible at need. The Healers were installed there as soon as they arrived with Thesa organizing them as soon as Dirk began showing signs of improvement. Thesa knew with grim certainty that although they had only Talia and Dirk to treat now, if there should be war, they would have other patients, and soon.
Elspeth spent most of her time there; her mother had asked her—asked her, and not ordered her, a sign that Selenay trusted her good sense and was tacitly acknowledging that she was becoming adult—to stay with the Healers and some other of the officials of the Court who began arriving as she called them.
“But—” Elspeth began to protest, until the haunted expression in her mother’s eyes stopped her. “Never mind. What do you want me to do?”
“I’m giving you powers of regency,” Selenay replied. “The rest of the Kingdom isn’t going to cease to exist while we wait here. You’ve sat through enough Council meetings, catling; you have a good idea what to do. You handle the day-to-day needs of the Kingdom unless you have to have a decision from me. And one other thing—if the worst happens, you and the Council and whatever Heralds are left escape together into the west and north; Sorrows should hold you safe.”
“But what about you?” she asked, around a lump in her throat.
“Elspeth—if it goes that badly—you’ll be their new Queen.”
That was an eventuality Elspeth preferred not to contemplate. She had enough worries as it was. Talia looked far more dead than alive, and the Healers were obviously baffled and frightened by something about her condition, though they would not reveal to Elspeth what it was.
It was stalemate at the Border, and stalemate in the sickroom, and in neither case could Elspeth do anything about the matter. It was not a position she enjoyed—and she began to realize just how often it was a position the Queen was in. All she could do was pray.
So she did, with a fervor that matched that of her ancestor, King Valdemar—and she hoped that fervor would make her prayers heard.
Dirk came to himself shortly after being put in the Healers’ hands, but he was confused and disoriented, as well as fevered. And the reaction-backlash he was suffering had him near-blind with a headache no amount of herb tea could remedy. They had to darken his room almost completely until the pain ebbed. In living memory—or so Healer Thesa told him multitudinous times—no Healer had ever seen anyone suffering from a case of backlash as profound as his—not and still be alive to tell about it.
Once again he found himself alone in a small room— but this time it was not in the House of Healing. For several days it was all he could do to feed himself and respond to the orders the Healers gave him. This time he was far too weak to even protest at the regime the Healers directed for him—unlike his previous encounter with them. For a while he remained pliant and well-behaved—but as he recovered, he began to grow suspicious and worried when his questions about Talia remained unanswered or were evaded.
The more they evaded the subject, the more frustrated and angry he became. He even queried Gwena, as soon as his reaction-headache wore off. Gwena couldn’t help; she tried to tell him what was wrong with Talia, but her answers were frightening and confusing. She couldn’t seem to convey more than that there was something seriously ailing the Queen’s Own. Finally he decided to take matters into his own hands.
* * * *
Little Robin had been brought by Lord Orthallen— although he had the feeling that his lord did not realize it. The boy was a part of his household, though Orthallen seemed to have long since forgotten the fact; and when the order came to pack up the household and move to the Border, Robin found himself in the tail of the baggage train, with no small bewilderment. He’d been at a loss in the encampment, wandering about until someone had seen him and realized that a small child had no place in a camp preparing for warfare. So he was sent packing; first off with Elspeth, then pressed into service by the Healers. They’d set him to fetching and carrying for Dirk, thinking that the child was far too young to be able to pick anything up from the casual talk around him, and that Dirk wouldn’t think to interrogate a child as young as he.
They were wrong on both counts.
Robin was very much aware of what was going on— not surprising, since it concerned his adored Talia. He was worried sick, and longing for an adult to talk to. And Dirk was kind and gentle with him—and had he but known it, desperate enough for news to have questioned the rats in the walls if he thought it would get him anywhere.
Dirk knew all about Robin and his adoration of Talia. If anyone knew where she was being kept and what her condition was, that boy would.
Dirk bided his time. Eventually the Healers stopped overseeing his every waking moment. Finally there came a point when they began leaving him alone for hours at a time. He waited then, until Robin was sent in alone with his lunch—alone, unsupervised, and more than willing to talk—and put the question to him.
Dirk had no intention of frightening the boy, and his tone was gentle, “I need your help. The Healers won’t answer my questions, and I need to know about Talia.”
Robin had turned back with his hand still on the doorknob; at the mention of Talia’s name, his expression was one of distress.
“I’ll tell you what I know, sir,” he replied, his voice quavering a little. “But she’s hurt real bad and they won’t let anybody but Healers see her.”
“Where is she? Do you have any idea who’s taking care of her?”
The boy not only knew where she was, but the names and seniority of every Healer caring for her—and the list nearly froze Dirk’s heart. They’d even pulled old Farnherdt out of retirement—and he’d sworn that no case would ever be desperate enough for them to call on him.
“Robin, I’ve got to get out of here—and I need you to help me, all right?” he said urgently.
Robin nodded, his eyes widening.
“Check the hall for me—see if there’s anybody out there.”
Robin opened the door and stuck his head out. “Nobody,” he reported.
“Good. I’m going to get dressed and sneak out. You stood just outside, and if anybody comes this way, knock on the door.”
Robin slipped out to play guard, while Dirk pulled on his dothing. He waited just a few moments more, then left his room, giving Robin a conspiratorial wink on the way out, determined to discover the truth.
The Healer in charge was Devan. Though not the most senior, he was the one with the most expertise and the strongest Gift for dealing with wounds and trauma. He was also one of Talia’s first and best friends among the Healers, and had worked with her on many other cases where Heralds were involved. There were times when loving care was more important than seniority—and Devan would have been one of Dirk’s first choices to care for her, had he been consulted.
Dirk had a fairly good idea of where to find him at this hour—and most castle-keeps were of the same design; Devan would be in the still-room, just off the herb garden neat the kitchen—snatching lunch with one hand while he worked with the other. Dirk used all his expertise at shadow-stalking to avoid being caught while making his way to the little first-floor workroom, redolent with the odors—pleasant, and not so pleasant—of countless medicines.
He heard someone moving about behind the closed door, and slipped inside quickly and quietly, shutting it behind him and putting his back up against it. Devan, his back to the door, didn’t seem to notice his presence.
“Devan, I want some answers.”
“I’ve been expecting you,” the Healer said calmly, without taking his attention from the task in front of him. “I thought you might not be satisfied with what you were being told about Talia. I said so, but I wasn’t in charge of your case, and Thesa felt you shouldn’t be worried.”
“Then—how is she?” Dirk demanded and at the sight of the Healer’s gloomy face, asked fearfully, “Is she—?”
“No, Herald,” Devan replied with a sigh, stoppering the bottle he’d been decanting liquid into and turning to face him. “She’s not dying; not yet, anyway. But she isn’t alive, either.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dirk asked, becoming angry. “What do you mean, ‘she’s not alive’?”
“Come with me, and you’ll see for yourself.”
The Healer led the way to a small room in the infirmary, one of several that were interconnected, such as were used for patients that needed to be isolated. There was little there besides a bedside table with a candle and the bed in which Talia lay without moving.
Dirk felt his throat constrict; she looked as if she’d been laid out for a funeral.
Her face was pale and waxen. By watching very closely, Dirk could see that she was breathing—but just barely.
“What’s wrong with her?” His voice cracked with strain.
Devan shrugged helplessly—feeling a lot less helpless than he looked, now that Dirk had finally approached him. “I wish we knew. We think we counteracted the argonel in time—well, the pain she was in neutralized a great deal of it, and if we hadn’t taken care of the rest she would be dead; argonel doesn’t allow for mistakes. We’ve restored some of the blood loss, we’re doing painblockages on most of the major injuries—we’ve done everything we can to restore her, but she simply doesn’t wake. No, it’s more than that — it’s as if ‘she’ wasn’t there anymore, as if we were dealing with an unensouled body. Her body works, the reflexes are all there, it breathes, the heart beats — but there’s no one ‘home.’ And we don’t have the slightest notion why. One of the older Healers speculates that her soul has ‘gone somewhere,’ perhaps trying to escape some kind of mental coercion. I suppose that’s possible; tradition claims many mages have had Gifts like ours, and used them for evil purposes. It may be she encountered one of them, along with her other trials. It’s possible that now she fears returning to herself, not knowing she is in the hands of friends again, We were willing to try almost anything—”
“So?”
“So we asked Herald Kyril to help. He was here for a solid day, holding her hand and Mindcalling her. He pushed himself to his limits, pushed himself until he had a reaction that sent him into a state of collapse. It did no good at all. Frankly, I don’t know what else we could try — “ he glanced sideways at Dirk. Devan had something in mind, but from what he understood about this young man, Dirk would have to be lured into it very carefully. “ — unless—”
“Unless what?” Dirk snatched at the offered scrap.
“As you know, her Gift was Empathic. She did not Mindhear or Mindcall very well. It may be that Kyril simply wasn’t able to reach her. I suppose if someone who had a strong emotional bond with her were to try calling her, using that bond, she might hear. We tried communicating with her Companion, but he apparently had no better luck than Kyril, and possibly for the same reasons. Herald Kris had a strong emotional tie with her, but ...”
“Yes.”
“And no one can think of anyone else.”
Dirk gulped and closed his eyes, then whispered, “Could ...I try?”
Devan almost smiled despite the grimness of the situation. Come on, little fishy, he thought, trying to imbue his will with all the coercive force of a Farspeaking Herald. Take the nice bait. I know all about your lifebond. Keren told me about the night you fell ill—and about your performance over the death arrows and how you rescued her. But if you don’t admit that lifebond exists you might as well be calling into the hurricane for all she’ll hear you.
He pretended to be dubious. “I just don’t know, Herald. It would have to be a very strong emotional bond.”
The answer he was praying for came as a nearly inaudible whisper. “I love her. Is that enough?”
Devan almost cheered. Now that Dirk had admitted the existence of the lifebond, the idea stood a chance of working. “Then by all means, do your best. I’ll be just outside if you need me.”
Dirk sat heavily in the chair next to the bed, and took one bandaged, unresisting, flaccid hand in his own. He felt so helpless, so alone . . . how in the names of all the gods could you call through emotions? And ... it would mean letting down barriers to his heart he’d erected years ago and meant to be permanent.
But they couldn’t have been permanent, not if she’d already made him admit that he loved her. It was too late now for anything but complete commitment—and besides, he’d been willing to die to save her, hadn’t he? Was the lowering of those barriers any greater a sacrifice? Was life really worth anything if she wasn’t sharing it?
But—where was he going to find her?
Suddenly he sat ramrod straight; he had no way of knowing how or where to call her from, but Rolan must!
He blanked his mind, and reached for Ahrodie.
She settled gently into his thoughts almost as soon as he called her. :Chosen?:
:I need your help—and Rolan’s,: he told her.
:Then you’ve seen—you know? You think we can help to call Her back? Rolan has been trying, but cannot reach Her, not alone. Chosen, my brother, I had been hoping you would understand and try!:
Then the other came into his mind. :Dirk-Herald—she has gone Elsewhere. Can you See?:
And amazingly, as Rolan projected strongly into his, he could See—a kind of darkness, with something that flickered feebly at the end of it.
:Do you call her. We shall give you strength and an anchoring. You can go where we cannot.:
He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and sent himself into the deepest trance he’d ever managed, trying to send out his love, calling with his heart, trying to use his need of her as a shining beacon to draw her back through the darkness. And somewhere “behind” him Rolan and Ahrodie remained, a double anchor to the real world.
How long he called, he had no way of knowing; there was no time in the currents through which he dove. Certainly the candle on the table had burned down considerably when the faint movement of the hand he held broke his trance and caused his eyes to fly open in startlement.
He could see color coming back into her face. She moved a little, winced, and moaned softly in protest. Her free hand reached for her temple; her eyes opened, focused, and saw him.
“You . . . called me.”
It was the faintest of whispers.
He nodded, unable to speak through a throat choked with conflicting joy and doubt.
“Where—I’m home? But how—” Then intelligence and urgency flooded into her eyes. And fear; terrible fear. “Orthallen—oh, my God—Orthallen!”
She began struggling to rise, whimpering involuntarily in pain, but driven beyond caring for herself by some knowledge only she possessed.
“Devan!” Dirk could see she had something obsessively important to impart. He knew better than to try and thwart her if the need was that urgent—and her evident fear coupled with that name could mean worse trouble than anyone but she knew. So instead of trying to prevent her, he gave her the support of his arms, and called for help. “Devan!”
Devan nearly broke in the door in his haste to respond to Dirk’s call. As he stared at Talia, dumbfounded, she demanded to know who was in authority. Devan saw she would heed nothing he told her until he gave her what she wanted, and recited the all-too-brief list.
“I want—Elspeth,” she said breathlessly, “And Kyril— the Seneschal—and Alberich. Now, Devan.” And would not be gainsaid.
When Devan sent messengers for the four she had demanded, she finally gave in to his insistent urgings to lie quietly.
Dirk remained in the room, wishing passionately that he could take some of the burden of pain from her, for her face was lined and white with it.
The four she had sent for arrived at a run, and within a few moments of one another. From the despair on their faces, it was evident they had expected to find Talia at least at Death’s door, if not already gone. But their joy at seeing her once again awake and aware was quickly turned to shock and dismay by what she had to tell them.
“So from the very beginning it has been Orthallen?” Alberich’s question appeared to be mostly rhetorical. He didn’t look terribly surprised. “I would give much to know how he has managed to mindblock himself for so long, but that can wait for a later day.”
Both Kyril and the Seneschal, however, were staggered by the revelation.
“Lord Orthallen?” the Seneschal kept muttering. “Anyone else, perhaps; treason is always a possibility with any highborn—but not Orthallen! Why, he predates me in the Council! Elspeth, can you believe this?”
“I ... I’m not sure,” Elspeth murmured, looking at Alberich, and then at Dirk.
“There ... is a very simple way ... to prove my words.” Talia was lying quite still to harbor her strength; her eyes were closed and her voice labored, but there was no doubt that she was very much alive to everything about her. “Orthallen . . . surely knows . . . where I was. Call him here ... but do not let him know . . . that I have . . . recovered enough to speak. Devan . . . you will painblock . . . everything. Then ... get me propped up ... somehow. I ... must seem to be ... completely well. His reaction . . . when he sees me with Elspeth . . . should tell us ... all we need to know.”
“There is no way I will countenance anything of the sort!” Devan said angrily. “You are in no shape to move a single inch, much less—”
“You will. You must,” Talia’s voice was flat, implacable, with no tinge of anger, only of command. But Devan folded before it, and the look in the eyes she opened to meet his.
“Old friend, it must be,” she added softly. “More than my well-being is at stake.”
“This could kill you, you know,” he said with obvious bitterness, beginning to touch her forehead so that he could establish the painblocks she demanded. “You’re forcing me to violate every Healing Oath I ever swore.”
“No—” Dirk couldn’t quite fathom the sad, tender little smile she wore. “I have it ... on excellent authority ... that it isn’t my time.”
She got other protests from the rest when she decreed that only she and Elspeth should receive Orthallen,
With total painblocks established she was able to speak normally, if weakly. “It has to be this way,” she insisted. “If he sees you, I think he might be able to mask his reaction. At the least he’ll be warned by your presence. With us alone, I think it will be genuine; I don’t think hell bother trying to hide it initially from two he doesn’t consider to be physically or mentally threatening.”
She relented enough to allow them to conceal themselves in the room next door, watching all that went on through the door that linked the two, provided they keep that door open only a bare crack. Once everyone was in place, they sent for Orthallen.
It seemed an age before they heard his slow, deliberate footsteps following the pattering ones of the page.
Hie door opened; Orthallen stepped inside, his head turned back over his shoulder, dismissing the page before be dosed the door behind himself. Only then did he turn to face the two that awaited him.
Talia had set her stage most carefully. She was propped up like an oversized doll, but to all appearances was sitting up in bed normally. She was a deathly white, but the relatively dim light of their single candle concealed that. Elspeth stood at her right hand. The room was entirely dark except for the candle that illuminated both their faces—concealing the fact that the door behind the two of them was propped open a tiny amount.
“Elspeth,” Orthallen began as he turned, “This is an odd place for a meet—”
Then he truly saw who was in the room besides the Heir.
The blood drained swiftly from his face, and the condescending smile he had worn faded.
As he noted their expressions, he grew even more agitated. His hands began trembling, and his complexion took on a grayish tinge. His eyes scanned the room, looking for anyone else who might be standing in the shadows behind them.
“I have met Ancar, my lord, and seen Hulda—” Talia began.
Then the staid, poised Lord Orthallen, who always preferred words over any other weapon, did the one thing none of them would ever have expected him to do.
He went berserk.
He snatched his ornamental dagger from its sheath at his side, and sprang for them, madness in his eyes, his mouth twisted into a wild rictus of fear.
For the men hidden behind the door, time suddenly slowed to an agonizing crawl. They burst through it, knowing as they did so that by the time they reached the two women, anything they did would be far too late to save them.
But before anyone else even had time to react, before Orthallen had even moved more than a single step, Elspeth’s right hand flickered out sideways, then snapped forward.
Halfway to them, Orthallen suddenly collapsed over Talia’s bed with an odd gurgle, then slid to the floor.
Time resumed its normal pace.
Elspeth, white-faced and shaking, reached out and rolled him over with her foot as the four men reached her side. There was a little throwing dagger winking in the candlelight that fell on Orthallen’s chest. Blood from the wound it had made stained his blue velvet robe black. It was, Dirk noted with an odd, detached corner of his mind, perfectly placed for a heart-shot.
“By my authority as Heir,” Elspeth said in a voice that quavered on the edge of hysterics, “I have judged this man guilty of high treason, and carried out his sentence with my own hand.”
She held to the edge of the bed to keep her shaking legs from collapsing under her, as Talia touched her arm with one bandaged hand—in an attempt, perhaps, to comfort and support her. Her eyes looked like they were going to pop out of her head, and dilated with shock. When Devan threw open the door to the hall, she looked at him pleadingly.
“And now,” she said in a strained voice, “I think I’d like to be sick. Please?”
Devan had the presence of mind to get her a basin before she lost the contents of her stomach; she retched until she was totally empty, then burst into hysterical tears. Devan took charge of her quickly, leading her off to clean herself up and find a quiet place where she could vent her feelings in peace.
Kyril and Alberich removed the body, quickly and efficiently. The Seneschal wandered after them, dazed and shaken. That left Dirk alone with Talia.
Devan reappeared for a moment before he could say or do anything. The Healer removed the cushions that had been propping her up, and got her lying down again to bis own satisfaction. He pressed his hand briefly to her forehead, then turned to Dirk.
“Stay with her, would you? I took some of the painblocks off before they do her an injury, but all this would have been a heavy strain if she had been healthy. In the shape she’s in—I can’t predict the effect. She may very well be perfectly all right; she seems in no worse state than she was before. If she starts to go into shock, or looks like she’s relapsing—or really, if you think anything is going wrong, call me. I’ll be within hearing distance, getting Elspeth calmed.”
What else could he do, except nod?
When Devan left, he turned hungry eyes back toward Talia. There was so much he wanted to say—and had no idea of how to say it.
Now that the impetus of the emergency was gone, she seemed confused, disoriented, dazed with pain. He could see her groping after coherent thought.
Finally she seemed to see him. “Oh, gods, Dirk—Kris is dead. They murdered him—he didn’t have a chance. I couldn’t help him, I couldn’t save him. And it’s all my fault that it happened—if I’d told him we had to turn back when we first knew something was wrong, he’d still be alive.”
She began to weep, soundlessly, tears trickling slowly down her cheeks; she was plainly too exhausted even to sob.
Then it hit him—
“Goddess—” he said. “Kris—oh, Kris—”
He knelt beside her, not touching her, while his shoulders shook with the sobs she was too weary to share— and they mourned together.
He had no idea how long they wept together; long enough for his eyes and throat to go raw. But flesh has its limits; finally he got himself back under control, carefully wiped her tears away for her, and took a seat beside her.
“I knew what happened to him,” he said at last. “Rolan made it through with your message.”
“How did—how did I get here?”
“I Fetched you—” he groped for the right words. “I mean, I had to, I couldn’t leave you there! I didn’t know if it would work but I had to try! Elspeth, the Companions, we all Fetched you together.”
“You did that? It—I’ve never heard of anything like that— It’s like—like some tale. But I was lost in the dark,” She seemed almost in a state of shock now, or a half-trance. “I could see the Havens, you know, I could see them. But they wouldn’t let me go to them—they held me back.”
“Who? Who held you back?”
“Love and duty—” she whispered as if to herself.
“What?” She wasn’t making any sense.
“But Kris said—” Her voice was almost inaudible.
He had feared before. Now he was certain. It had been Kris whom she loved—and he’d prevented her from reaching him. He hung his head, not wanting her to see the despair on his face.
“Dirk—” Her voice was stronger, not quite so contused. “It was you who called me. You saved me from Ancar, then brought me out of the dark. Why?”
She’d hate him for it, but she deserved the truth. Maybe one day she’d forgive him.
“I had to. I love you,” he said helplessly, hopelessly. He stood up to leave, his eyes burning with more tears— tears he dared not shed—and cast one longing glance back at her.
Talia heard the words she’d been past hoping for— then saw her hope getting ready to walk out the door. Suddenly everything fell into place. Dirk had thought that Kris was the one she’d been in love with!
That was why he’d been acting so crazy—wanting her himself, yet fearing to try to compete with Kris. Havens, half the time he must have loathed himself for a very natural anger at his best friend who had turned rival. No wonder he’d been in such a state!
And now Kris was gone, and he thought that she’d want no part of him, the constant reminder, the second-best.
Damn the man! Stubborn as he was, there would be no reasoning with him. He would never believe anything she told him; it could take months, years to straighten it all out.
Her mind felt preternaturalty clear, and she sought frantically for a way out of her predicament—and found one in memory.
“. . . just like with a Farspeaker.” Ylsa’s words were dear in her memory. “They almost always begin by hearing first, not speaking. You’re feeling right now—but I suspect that one day you’ll learn how to project your own feelings in such a way that others can read them, can share them. That could be a very useful trick—especially if you ever need to convince someone of your sincerity!”
Yes, she’d done that without really thinking about it already. There was the forced rapport, and the kind of rapport she’d shared with Kris and Rolan. And the simpler tasks of projecting confidence, reassurance—this was just one step farther along—
She reached for the strength and the will to show him, only to discover that she was too drained, too exhausted. There was nothing left.
She nearly sobbed with vexation. Then Rolan made his presence felt, filling her with his love—and more—
Rolan—his strength was there, as always, and offered to her with open-hearted generosity.
And she had the knowledge of what to do and how to doit.
“Wait!” she coughed, and as Dirk half-turned, she projected everything she felt into his open mind and heart. All her love, her need for him—forcing him to see the truth that words alone would never make him believe.
Devan heard a strange, strangled cry that sounded as if it were something torn from a masculine throat. He whirled and started for Talia’s room, fearing the worst.
He paused for a moment at the door, steeled himself against what he was likely to see, and opened it slowly, words of comfort on his tongue.
To his total amazement, not only was Talia still living— but she was actually clear-eyed and smiling, and trembling on the knife-edge between laughter and tears. And Dirk was sitting on the side of her bed, trying his best to find some way of holding her without hurting her, covering every uninjured inch of her that he could reach with kisses and tears.
Half stunned, Devan slipped out before either of them noticed him, and signaled a page passing in the hail. He absently noted that it was one whose face he had seen often in this corridor, though he couldn’t imagine why the child should have spent so much time here. When the boy saw who it was that had summoned him and what door he had come out of, he paled.
Incredible, Devan thought wryly. Is there anyone who isn’t worried to death about her?
“I need a messenger sent to the Queen, preferably a Herald-courier, since a Herald is the only one likely to be able to find her without looking for hours, and this is fairly urgent,” he said.
The page’s mouth trembled. “The Lady-Herald, sir,” he said in an unsteady treble. “Is she—dead?”
“Lord of Lights, no!” Devan suddenly realized that he felt like laughing for the first time in days, and shocked the child with an enormous grin. “In fact, while you’re getting me that messenger, spread the news! She’s very much with us—and she’s going to be very, very well indeed!”