Under The Vale And Other Tales Of Valdemar

Windwhisperer released his Far Sight, and Silverheart broke her link with him, the two of them staring at each other in disbelief.

“Should we question her when she is restored? Will she be more open to talking? Does she even realize how very important it is, what she has done with no instruction, nothing beyond that of the other trainees?”

Windwhisperer shook his head. “I think she is still too fragile, too hurt for questions. She has lost much, this one, and the Storms especially have taken much from her. It would be good for her if something could be gained from them, as well. If she is not a danger, if she is not creating anything that she cannot handle, can she be left to make that discovery on her own?”

Silverheart frowned, thought a moment, then determination set in her eyes. “K’Veyas needs her to be trained in her new-found Gift before it becomes too strong. To do something once is accident, twice is coincidence, but a third time . . . if she goes out tomorrow, I want to follow her. If she attempts this again, I will have to interrupt, to confront her in some way. It may not be dangerous now, but if left too long, it could become so.”

The last traces of exhaustion-headache were stronger this time, more difficult to shake free. Stardance frowned. She had no memory of coming back to her ekele, although she vaguely recalled being on her bedroll already when one of the hertasi had brought her the cool, refreshing drink commonly used by those who overextended their Gifts. Other than that brief exchange, her last clear recollection was of creating the second little ley-line. The thought of it made her smile—they were things of beauty in their own way, the tiny runnels of power that she had spun together. Hadn’t there been another node, too, in the area she had been in, near the stand of pines? Maybe she could go back out to that one today. If she could not weave works of beauty with Triska, perhaps—she paused, then probed the thought of Triska. For the first time, the ache didn’t threaten to swallow her, and she didn’t feel cut open on the sharp and jagged edges of grief.

Before she could ponder further, Kir chirped from her perch, Sending a feeling of combined hunger and eagerness to stretch her wings. Stardance rose and freed her bondbird from her hood, a faint thread of anticipation to match the falcon’s dawning within her.

Chapter 7 - Discordance - Jennifer Brozek

Rax wept in what was left of his ale as the Bard finished the ballad of love lost and betrayal. It wasn’t like him to lose his composure outside the house, but things had been so difficult this season, and he didn’t see it getting any easier with the baby on the way. As the Bard struck up the next tune, a war chant with a heavy drumbeat, Rax called out to the bar wench.

“Sarry, get me another and another after that.” He felt the chant beat in time with his heart and felt his blood rise to combat the sorrow.

Come, come, come to the beat of the drum, drum, drum.

And kill, kill, kill with your sharpened sword!

To take, take, take every last crumb, crumb, crumb.

And do as you will!

Sarry, distracted by a handsome man with coin, ignored him, fussing over her target for a tip and possibly a tumble later if the stars aligned.

“Sarry!”

She glanced over her shoulder at him and smiled a tight-lipped smirk that told him all he needed to know before turning back to the man before her. “Is there anything else I can get you, Seder?”

Before Seder could answer, a clay mug sailed past Sarry’s ear and crashed against the wall in a shower of shards and dregs of ale. Sarry turned to see Rax standing tall and shaking with rage. The mood of the tavern turned ugly with the beat of the drum and song of violence. Rax took a step toward the bar wench, only to be stopped by another growling man—already angry at the sound of Rax’s voice.

She didn’t see the first punch or who threw it. Years of experience in rough places told her this was going to be trouble and wouldn’t stop until blood was shed. As she fled to the back of the tavern, the room erupted in chaos—men yelling and swearing, the pummeling of fists on flesh, the crash of furniture thrown, and the sharp sound of metal weapons being unsheathed.

Mathias grabbed her and pulled her behind the bar. She let him do it, thinking that he was trying to protect her. Instead, she found herself flattened face down on the dirt floor with him behind her—one hand holding her down, the other fumbling with her skirts. She had a brief moment of confusion. She trusted Mathias. He’d always protected her. Now, this? Sarry let the rage of being attacked flow over her, and the pounding of her furious heart beat in her head like the sound of the Bard’s drum.

Sarry screamed her rage, bucking her body up as she reached for a weapon. Her hand found one: a large serving fork. As Mathias wrestled with her, trying to hold her down, she twisted her body around and stabbed the man who had been her friend, protector, and boss in the throat. Blood spurted from the wound as he reared up in pain and she yanked the fork back. They both screamed now, two more voices in the din of the total tavern melee. She plunged the fork deep into his stomach.

On the other side of the bar, Rax already lay dead with his head caved in by a chair. Seder was dying; a sword pierced his chest, and his enemy was being beaten to death by two other men using clubs and their feet. Those who were not fighting were dead.

Except for one.

No one noticed when the music stopped. Nor did they notice when the Bard picked up his pack and drum and walked with careful steps through the violence and out the door.

The only survivor of the night, Sarry, would not remember what the Bard’s name was or what he looked like.

Terek frowned at the letter in his hand. Usually, letters from home were a thing of joy. Not today. There had been a brawl at a tavern, and people had died. People he knew. Mathias had been a brother to him. His death was a shock. He closed his eyes and rubbed his brow. There is more to this, he thought. People don’t murder each other over ale. Maybe in the slums of Haven, but not in Woodberry. Not in a tiny settlement like that. Something within his Gift told him he was right.

“Terek?”

He opened his eyes and smiled at the always fashionable Mari. She was a Bard who knew those worth knowing in the court, and she looked the part. “Yes?” He frowned at the worry lines around her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m not sure, but I was listening to a couple of Heralds talking and I think something’s happening.”

He gestured for her to come in and sit down. “Tell me.”

“I’m not sure what’s happening,” she repeated. “I got a letter from home. A friend of mine died while carousing with his friends.” She bit her lip, marshaling her thoughts. “Then I heard the Heralds talking. They’d just come off Circuit, and there was a bit of bad business in the North. They had to judge a murderer. The thing is, at first, I thought they were talking about the death of my friend because everything was the same—the victim had been killed in a huge tavern brawl. But they weren’t. They were talking about someone else. So, I asked them more about it. Two different villages, next to each other, had the same thing happen about a sennight apart. Bar fight, unusual amount of death.”

Terek nodded, his heart thumping hard in his chest. It sounded far too much like his letter from home to be coincidence. “It’s been a hard season in northern Valdemar,” he allowed.

She shook her head, hair flying in its vehemence. “Not that hard. Look.” She pulled a rolled up piece of paper from her bag. When she spread it out on his desk, he saw that it was a map with small marks over four villages in the north.

As soon as Terek saw the map with the marks, his stomach dropped in horrified recognition and his mouth dried. He sucked air in through clenched teeth.

“These villages,” Mari said, pointing to the places they both knew well, “have all had horrible events with people dying in taverns or . . .” She stopped and took a breath before continuing. “Or have had a bunch of people kill themselves. Valdemar has had hard seasons before, but this is different. I looked into it. This is one village after another in a line.”

“In a circuit,” Terek corrected and tapped Woodberry. “Make that five villages. Maybe more.” He drew his finger over the map from village to village in an oval circle. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Mari paused to brush invisible lint from her ruffled crimson sleeve, reluctant to speak. “There’s a Bard involved. Only, no one can remember him after the carnage. They just know he was there the night of the deaths, but no one can find his body, and he isn’t in town the next day.”

“One of ours is doing this on my old circuit.” He looked up at his former protégé, his eyes bleak. “One of ours. And it has something to do with me.”

He listened to his lord’s voice as it instructed him where to bury the shard. Eyes closed, he stepped forward or to the side as it commanded. He could feel the power flowing through him as he dropped to his knees and dug a small hole. As he placed the shard, chanting the words that had become his mantra, his prayer, his obsession, he knew his revenge was nigh. Either the object of his hate would come to him, or everyone who used to laud the old Bard would suffer for ages to come.

Poisoned stone planted on the edge of the village, he stood and brushed the dirt from his hands. He hefted his pack with its evil secret, put on a real smile in anticipation of the carnage that would happen that night, and sauntered down the road into the village where kindly folk smiled at him, pointing him toward the nearest tavern.

It was a modest thing with only one story and small windows, but it was one of the nicer buildings in the square, with uncracked walls and a freshly painted sign of a mug frothing over with ale. He nodded to himself and entered. Empty at this time of day, the proprietor sat at one of the tables, eating from a bowl of steaming porridge. He didn’t get up, only nodded and gestured the stranger forward with his wooden spoon.

“Good day, I’m Sorrel. I’m looking for a room and a place to show my skill.” Sorrel tapped his drum for emphasis.

“Daven, here.” The proprietor gave Sorrel a critical once-over. “Bard, eh?”

“No, good sir. Merely a wandering minstrel. I wear not the red of an esteemed Bard.” He watched Daven calculate in his head for a moment.

“Then I can’t pay you Bard wages, but I can make sure you have a warm bed and a full belly and maybe a coin or two to rub together as you leave.”

Sorrel smiled, “Excellent. For that, I will give you an evening of entertainment you won’t forget for a long time to come.”

“May I sit with you?”

The old man looked up at Sorrel’s smiling face, glanced at the mostly full tables around him and nodded with a grunt.

“I’m Sorrel,” he said as he sat, arranging his pack and drum next to him on the floor.

“Aaron.” He gave Sorrel another look and then returned his gaze to his ale.

“You local?”

“Nah. Traveling through.”

“Where to?”

Aaron looked up again, “Why?”

Sorrel pulled back and raised a hand, “Just curious. I’m a traveler, too. Thought I’d make conversation. Sorry.”

The old man gave a long, gusty sigh. “Nah, I’m sorry. Heading to Woodberry. Got grandkids to look in on. Their Da died.”

“Woodberry. Bad bit of business there.”

“You know?” Aaron paused in his mug in midair.

Sorrel nodded.

“What’ve you heard?”

“Big brawl. Lots of people died. It was a mess.”

“You were there?”

“Nah. Just picked up the word on the road. Avoided it.”

Aaron drank deep from the mug and clonked it on the table. “Yeah. That’s what I’ve heard, too.”

“It’s why I travel.” Sorrel saw Aaron’s questioning look. “To spread joy and leave a place a bit lighter than when I arrived. He tapped the drum on the ground.

“A Bard?”

“Just a minstrel.”

Aaron nodded. “Playing tonight?”

“Aye.”

“Good. I could use some music. It lightens the soul.”

Sorrel gave him a smile with too many teeth. “This will be a night to remember. Speaking of which, it’s time for me to earn my supper.”

Word of the minstrel had spread throughout the small village. Music was always welcome, and the tavern was almost full. The sounds of wooden mugs clopping to the table mixed with the smacking of satisfied lips and the laughter of good conversation. However, when Sorrel took his place in the corner where the singers and dancers performed, the place quieted with an anticipatory buzz of people whispering to each other what they knew of the stranger. Two beats of a drum later and the tavern was almost silent.

“Tonight, a dream of mine is about to come true and all of you here will witness it unfolding.” Sorrel reached down into his pack and pulled out something small and black. “Terek, this is for you.” With that, he tossed the black thing toward Aaron.

It is the most natural thing in the world to catch something tossed to you in a casual manner. Terek’s hands were already wrapping themselves around the cursed item as Sorrel’s drum sounded out a slow beat and Terek realized that his real name had been used. By then it was much too late.

He rocked back as the power of the thing, a statue with large blank eyes and a larger mouth filled with sharp teeth, caught him in a spell. Staring into the statue’s eyes, Terek knew that Sorrel had captured the rest of the audience in a spell, and they would be no help. He felt his own power draining from him as he fell into the statue’s trance.

“Before me stand three promising youngsters, but not every dream can come true.” Terek recognized himself from years before while riding his last circuit. He had been asked to judge the children in the village for potential. And judge he did. “You, young Sorrel, you have some skill but lack both the creativity and the Gift of a true Bard. You will be welcome at campfires, but not in the halls of the Collegium.” With a shake of his head and a turn of his shoulder, he dismissed the boy. Terek saw the boy’s anguish as he fled the square, but that was no longer his concern. These other two children were.

“Aric, you have proven yourself to be both skilled and creative. I have spoken to your parents, and they have agreed to send you to the Collegium. You won’t go alone. You will take with you my personal recommendation. You will be welcomed in courts and merchant houses around Valdemar after your skills have been honed.” Terek gave Aric a scroll tied with a crimson ribbon while the villagers applauded. He patted the boy’s shoulder and gave him a gentle push toward his beaming parents.

Terek smiled and allowed the power of his trained voice to carry his pleasure as he made his final announcement. “Mari, my dear child, you have proven that you have the skill, the creativity, and the Gift to become a Master Bard. I have spoken to your parents, and you will travel with me, finish out my circuit, and then enter the Collegium as the most esteemed of students. You are what every Bard strives to become and the kind of apprentice every Master Bard seeks. You end my quest.”

Locked in a vision of the past, Terek could feel his power, his Gift, being torn from him bit by bit. He struggled to bring his considerable will to bear, but this trap was too well laid and too long in coming. He had fallen for it, and this knowledge settled heavy on his heart. All around him, he was vaguely aware that even his hidden companions, Kolan and Pala, Gifted bards both, were locked in Sorrel’s spell. He wondered how the unGifted peasant boy could have become so powerful. As if in answer to his query, a new vision clouded his mind.

Fleeing through the trees, Sorrel sobbed as his heart broke. His one dream in life, to become a Bard, to show the village he was good enough, was gone. There was nothing left for him now. It was the end. He tripped over a tree root and fell headlong into the dirt. He stayed there, trying to choke off the sobs that threatened to overwhelm him again. He wished he would die.

No, little master, no. Don’t die. I can help you.

Sorrel lifted his head, looking through wet lashes into the forest around him, tears smudging his dirty face but the sobs had halted in surprise at the voice in his head. He shuddered as he took in a breath and wondered if he had gone mad.

Not mad, little master. Far from it. You have found me and I can make all of your dreams come true. Would you like that?

As he looked around, he felt something smooth and cold under his hand. Sticking up from under a tree root was a glossy black stone. He dug until he could pull it out of dirt. It was a statue, a squat thing just longer than his hand and as thick as his fist. Carved on the front of it was a frowning creature with large eyes and a large mouth with thick lips. On the back, the same hideous creature was smiling, open-mouthed, showing off rows of sharp teeth.

“Make my dreams come true?” Sorrel marveled at the thing in his hand as it spoke in his head.

All I need is a sacrifice of blood. Feed me and I will be your slave.

“Sorrel?”

It was Aric. Most likely come to tell him of his failure, too. “Here,” he called as he stood up, statue in hand. He waited for Aric to appear. He’d show him the statue, and the two of them would figure out what to do—just as they always did.

Aric burst into view. He was smiling. Before Sorrel could say anything, Aric grabbed him by the hand, “I did it! I’m going to the Collegium with Master Terek’s recommendation! I did it.”

Sorrel stared as his friend broke his heart all over again.

“I’m sorry you didn’t make it, but I was thinking after my training, you could travel with me, anyway. You’re really good on the drum. You could be part of my entourage. I’m going to have one of those I’m sure after I’m done. We’ll still be together and making music!”

Hot roses bloomed on Sorrel’s cheeks as Aric added insult to injury. Come be part of Aric’s entourage? Become one of Aric’s lackeys? An unfamiliar emotion rose out of the shards of Sorrel’s dream. Hate. Hate for his friend and his good fortune.

Heedless of Sorrel’s clenching fists and flushed face, Aric had continued on, dancing around his friend, “Maybe they’ll let you come to the Collegium with me anyway. Maybe I can say I won’t do it without you. Or maybe I should just take you with me, and we’ll just see what happens. We’re going to get out of here! Isn’t that great?”

I need just one blood sacrifice and all your dreams come true. Will you sacrifice him to me?

“Yes,” Sorrel said and stepped close to the boy lost in his own dreams.

Aric grinned at Sorrel, not realizing that his friend had not answered him until the first blow came. By then, it was much too late.

Terek groaned aloud as he watched Sorrel beat Aric to death with the statue. As each blow landed, he felt as if he were being beaten himself. His vision clearing, he saw blood on his hands. Where it was from, he did not know. All around him, he saw people fighting with each other. The heavy drumbeat dominated the sounds of chaos. Sorrel’s voice was strong and overwhelming. Terek could feel the power of it. It was as if Sorrel had a corrupted Gift.

As if sensing his thoughts, Sorrel looked through the melee of bodies when Terek raised his head, and their eyes met. That one look told Terek everything. This was his fault. He was the reason so many people had died. He had been callous, careless, and mean to a boy who had not deserved it. As the thoughts slammed into his head, Terek realized that they weren’t true thoughts, but the thoughts forced into him by foul magic. Be that as it may, he also knew he was going to die. Still, Terek fought will against will, praying that Kolan or Pala would be able to break the spell.

Then the tinkling of finger chimes cut through the drowning drumbeat, and a high soprano voice powered by the Gift brought forth a light. The sounds of love and laughter on the music gave Terek the strength he needed to push back against the draining force of the cursed thing in his hands. Sorrel’s beat faltered and Terek, saw why. Mari stood in the doorway of the tavern, and Sorrel stared at her as she sang familiar words of their past.

You and I together,

Far from all that ails.

Young and loved forever,

And forever we will sail.

She strengthened her song, singing of childhood days and the innocent love the two of them had once had long ago. Terek could breathe again, and now he brought forth his own voice in harmony with Mari’s. Sorrel’s face hardened once more, and he turned his focus back on Terek, willing the statue to finish its task, but Terek met him, voice to voice, will to will, while Mari sang her own attack.

The village folk, who had stilled at the first sounds of Mari’s song, now stirred as if waking from a bad dream. Those who could, fled the tavern, limping, bruised, beaten, and bleeding. Mari stepped into the tavern and went over to Kolan and Pala, who had regained their senses. Mari’s finger chimes urged the village folk on as the other two Gifted bards raised their voices to Mari’s, allowing her to lead them in the fight against Sorrel and the evil artifact.

Terek stood, statue clenched in one fist. He stepped toward Sorrel, whose wide, hate-filled eyes refused to give in. The Bard raised his shaking fist and forced it open to reveal the small statue, a twin to the original one that Sorrel had found in his grief. He showed it to Mari and the others, who turned their voices on it, and all at once the statue vibrated and then shattered.

As black stone shards flew in all directions, cutting unprotected flesh, Sorrel’s head snapped back, and all the music stopped. His, Mari’s, Terek’s. Sorrel staggered backward, hit the wall behind him, and slumped to the ground. It was only then that the Bards could see that the largest of the black stone shards had taken one last bloody sacrifice by embedding itself in one of Sorrel’s eyes.

Terek rushed forward and went to his knees, but it was too late. Sorrel was dead, leaving the old Bard with questions and an apology unspoken on his lips.

Terek sat in his office, staring at the one shard of black stone he had kept.

“We found the rest of the shards and buried statues at the affected villages. They’ve all been taken care of—except that one,” Mari said from the doorway to his office as she gestured to the one in his hand.

“I feel I should keep it to remind myself of what my hubris had wrought.”

“You can’t blame yourself. Not all dreams come true. Sorrel chose his path.”

“But . . .”

“But nothing.” Mari stepped forward and held out her hand.

Terek hesitated before handing it over. “Why did you follow us?”

She shrugged. “I always wondered why Aric didn’t make it to the Collegium, and I always wondered what had happened to Sorrel. Once you decided this was happening because of you and your past, I realized that I was part of that past and that, perhaps, I could help.”

“You were right.”

She smiled. “Sometimes.” She turned, paused, and turned back. “The Herald-Mages are about to do a seeking to find the statue you described from your vision. We know it’s still out there. Want to help?”

Terek did not say anything for a long moment before he nodded and stood. “Yes. I started this, I should help end it. One last circuit to complete.”

Chapter 8 - Slow and Steady - Brenda Cooper

Shay leaned down and filled her fist with fresh earth. It felt cold, and damp, and absolutely awful. She almost opened her fist, almost let the earth drop again. It wasn’t real that she needed it, wasn’t real that she stood in front of her whole village by her mother’s grave with a fistful of dirt. She was going to wake up any minute and hear her mom searching through the shelves in her apothecary for moonflower or homemade tinctures or bandages.

“No, now. Go on.” The voice belonged to the innkeeper, who had gotten her in trouble for climbing in his barn rafters to watch the horses from Haven just yesterday. Only now his voice was soft and sweet, almost wheedling. “You can do it.”

She shook her head. She needed to think. It was so hard to think.

“Shay. Throw the dirt.” the innkeeper repeated, a little more firmly this time.

She took a close look at her surroundings, the cold hole in the ground just big enough for the slender wooden coffin, the winter-bare trees, and the shivering townspeople.

She raised her fist above her head, gripping so hard the dirt became a wet, hard ball, bits of it falling through her fingers like everything she knew about life. She threw the mud onto the coffin, watching it smear across the top and stain the clean white pine of the lid.

She backed up, slowly, one foot at a time, trying not to be noticed, letting others come in and throw their own dirt on her mother. A few adults hugged her as she went. She stiffened, their touches feeling more like fire than help. The children and teenagers ignored her, which was better than usual.

As she finally got behind everybody and could turn and walk away, the first strains of a funeral song began to fill the air. The song seemed to be for her as well as for her mom. After all, she had to leave. No one would want her here.

At their house, Shay stopped outside and gazed at the dark windows. Shay wasn’t smart enough to manage all the things her mom did. She could have been her mom’s helper until her mom died, years from now. But there was nobody else in town who would be patient with her.

She didn’t go in.

She pulled the kitchen knife she’d hidden from the woodpile and tucked it in her belt, the blade long enough she felt it with the top of her thigh. The water jugs swung easily over her head, but when she shouldered her pack, she had to work to get the whole assemblage adjusted. The water pouches hung on a leather strap sized for her mom, and Shay had to tie a knot in them.

At fourteen, Shay was nearly her mom’s height, but she was all bones while her mom was soft. Had been soft. She couldn’t remember what she’d thrown into the old pack, but surely it had been the right things. She’d been filling packs for her mom since she was seven, and for the last two years she’d even been allowed to go along when the farm or homestead a call for healing came from was close enough for the trip to be safe. Surely even this new empty person she had become knew what to do.

Shay turned away from Little’s Town. She didn’t look back, couldn’t bear to look back. No one would notice her missing until after the funeral or even, with luck, after the funeral feast. By then it would be dark.

Little’s Town sprawled across a meadow, surrounded by more meadow and low hills in three directions. Cold, harvested hayfields alternated with sheep pens, full now since the sheep wintered near town. They were quiet today, huddled together for warmth, heads down as they tried to find fodder in between feedings. Shay went in the fourth direction. Up. The same way her mom had gone, toward a homestead on the top of the cliff that looked down on the town from the north. She wound up a forested path that wasn’t straight up but rather a series of nasty switchbacks with a few good breaks of flat trail. They’d found her mom on one of those trails.

Cold wind drove at her back, helping her up.

The sounds of the town faded, replaced by birdsong and the rill of water running thinly down cold stream-beds, just fast enough that only the very edges froze. Her thighs started to hurt, but she drove them up and up anyway. If she could do this climb in summer, she could do it now.

Her mom would have liked to meet the women from Haven, especially the one in green. The Healer. Healers came through about once a year, sometimes more often, sometimes less. Her mom and the Healers would usually take tea together and talk, maybe sit by the fire if it was winter. Too bad there was no fire here. Shay was getting cold.

Shay never talked to the Healers, or anyone from Haven. By definition they were the best Valdemar had to offer, and Shay had nothing to offer them. She was always scared she would say the wrong thing. But there had been no tea this time. Her mom had been off getting killed by bandits, and the women had been gone before anyone knew that. No reason to call a Healer for the dead.

She stopped at the first flat place, looking for signs of struggle. She spotted a few broken twigs by the side of the path and the footprints of the townsmen who had gone looking for her mother, both going up and coming back. Here and there, the mark of a horse’s hoof going toward town.

The fresh human tracks kept going, so Shay took a long drink of water and followed them. She should eat, she knew she should eat, but she couldn’t remember if she’d brought food. She didn’t want to stop long enough to dip into her pack.

Night had started lying cold along the trail when she stopped at the next flat place. The signs she’d been looking for were here, even bigger than she’d expected. Bushes lay flat. Footprints went every which way. It seemed tainted by people and hurt. She found a few spots of what looked like black liquid on sticks and rocks. Her mother’s blood. Cold now, gone back to the forest already.

She’d overheard one of the men say her mom hadn’t been given a chance to fight, but had been killed from behind, and quick. There was nothing for bandits except a pack full of herbs and bandages. They should have left her alive and asked her to help them heal their hurts. It would have been better for them, and her mother would be alive.

Shay’s pack did yield food: Bread that had been fresh the day before lay squished in the bottom on the pack beside five apples. Shay ate the bread and one of the apples. She should have taken more. Her mom would have patiently helped her lay out what she needed, but no one would talk her through plans any more, help her survive in a world that demanded more ideas than it had given to Shay.

She felt sure it wasn’t smart to stay here, where she could see her mother’s blood and the tracks and everything, but it couldn’t be smart to keep walking either. Shay looked around for a place to build a bed, careful not to step on any healing plants and careful not to step into anything with thorns, settling for a flat place made soft with old pine needles. She pulled down blue-pine branches thick with cold needles until she had enough to make an even softer spot to lie on, and then twice as many more branches to put over her and hold in some of her body heat.

She did all of this slowly and steadily, careful to focus on her task.

She climbed carefully in as the dark took the last of the light away, and she lay still under the boughs, her knife right in front of her in case any night animals came sniffing around. She tucked her pack under her head so nothing could steal it. Tomorrow she’d have to keep going as fast as she could manage and still be steady. More snow could come before winter was over.

She was going to need something to do. She had tried to help the innkeeper clear dishes, but he had yelled at when she was too slow for him. He’d told her no when she asked to work in the stable, mumbling something about not wanting the horses let out. Her mom had refused to let her try to herd sheep with the other children after they threw rocks at her one day. She knew all of her mom’s herbs, and how to count them, and how to hold a crying child while a bandage went on a knee or a splint on an ankle. Maybe she could pick plants for people and trade them for food. She wondered how far the next town was down the track. Too far for common visiting in winter. She wasn’t too dumb to know that much.

It took a long time to fall asleep, and then she didn’t stay that way very well. Branches poked her, and the cold found its way through her blanket of needles and poked her in the ankle, and her fingers grew so cold she finally fell asleep with them tucked up between thighs.

She woke up in time to see the last stars fade. After an apple and some water, she stood and looked at the place her mom had died. For just a moment, the idea of going back down to town seemed better than going up, but there was nothing left in town that loved her except a few of the animals.

After two candlemarks spent trekking uphill, Shay came to the top of the ridge. If she went right, she’d end up at the homestead, but she didn’t know very much about it. Just that Mr. Crestwell, who owned it, didn’t pay enough for the long trek up. At least that was what her mom had said. So she didn’t turn that way. The path kept going straight along a ridge for a long while, thinner now since it wasn’t used as much as the one between Mr. Chrestwell’s homestead and Little’s Town. She surprised a few deer and a wild pig, but they were all afraid of her, and she was afraid of the pig. She dug roots for lunch, using a hard stick and a rock just as her mom had taught her. She ate an apple, but she was still hungry. Well, there were two more apples, and she could make it the rest of the day on those.

The trail wound back down the far side of the ridge for a while, almost as steep as the path up had been. Shay was careful where she put her feet, so it took a long time to get down. Slow and steady, her mom always told her. Take care of yourself, and don’t worry about what other people think. Besides, there was no one but the birds to care if she was slow and a little clumsy out here.

Clouds bunched above her, but they didn’t rain or snow. She stopped a few times to look at animal tracks. The horses of course. Deer and something bigger with cloven hooves. Not many, though, and mostly not completely fresh. But animals had passed over this path many times since the last time humans had walked it; the only boot tracks she saw were old ones with hard edges that had been frozen by earlier snowfalls and not yet crumbled by other steps on the path.

She refilled her water jugs from a tiny waterfall at the bottom of the hill. The water was colder than the water in the insulated jugs, and when she took a few sips, it made her cold inside.

The cold jolted her. Her right foot slipped on a wet rock as she stood up, and she fell down hard, knees and feet in the cold water. She pushed herself too quickly out of the water and fell in again, this time twisting her ankle.

Now she stopped, even though one foot was still in the water and the other hurt. Slow and steady. She needed to be slow and steady. She couldn’t put weight on the foot, and her shoes were wet, and her teeth clattered against each other. So she crawled on her sore knees and her cold hands, the pack making it harder, the water jugs trailing behind her.

Shay sat on the path gasping and shivering and cold for so long that the sun fell behind the tall trees that lined both river and path. She knew better than to stay on the path. That’s where the animals were, and her mom had told her they came to blood. This was also the path the bandits who killed her mother had come down on. She hadn’t really thought about that. She’d only thought about not being in the town by herself, without her mother to stop the other children from taunting her. If bandits came, she didn’t have anything worth stealing except for the kitchen knife, but she was a girl, and her mom had warned her about strange men.

When she stopped thinking so hard and decided to move, her body felt stiff. She crawled to the side of the trail until she found a grouping of young pines that would shelter her from the sky. After she stopped, Shay reached her fingers down to feel her ankle. It had grown bigger. While it didn’t hurt much to touch it, if she touched it hard enough to move her foot, pain shot up her calf.

She was a village healer’s daughter, and she knew to stay still.

It would be light enough to see for a few candlemarks. Everything was winter-cold and winter-bare except for the evergreen trees. Maybe it was better to live on the apples. She pulled down the few branches she could reach, apologizing to the small trees that would probably need them. She got enough to cover her legs and feet, and then she couldn’t reach any more. Shay dug her knife out of her backpack, being as careful as she could. She felt a little better with the shaft in her fist. She watched the water, letting it mesmerize her into a cold, shivery nap where she dreamed of horses and dogs and of her mother tucking her in at night.

Something in her dreaming must have caused her to move her foot. Pain woke her up to cold. Snow had started to fall, the flakes a bit golden in the late afternoon air. She felt stuck in place, cold and hurt and alone and empty.

She was hungry, but she didn’t want to move enough to dig out an apple.

A horse whinnied.

Shay stiffened and stilled.

Voices. Women’s voices. One of them saying, “The snow will hide tracks.”

The other responding. “We need to stop for the night soon.”

The first woman said, “I’d rather keep going.” Then silence fell except for the soft sounds of the horses hooves in the slight blanket of snow that had fallen while Shay dozed.

Shay shivered. Were they looking for her? On horseback? Most bandits were men. She held her breath and waited to see who rode up on her.

The figures of horses emerged from the snow on the path between her and the stream. Snow spangled their saddles and stuck to their manes and tails. Their riders were the two women who had gone through town, the Healer and the Bard. She recognized them even though they were closely bundled against the cold, bits of red hair escaping from woven hats.

Maybe she was still asleep and dreaming. She clutched the knife hilt tighter, or at least she tried. Her hand was stuck curled tightly around the wood. “Hello?” she rasped, her voice slight.

The first horse was past her, the second right across. They hadn’t heard her! She wasn’t directly on the path, and they’d have to look her way. She took a deep breath and tried to let go of the knife, croaking a disappointed sound when her bare, cold fingers still refused to move.

The woman turned and the horse stopped, and the next thing Shay knew, a cloak was thrown across her shoulders, and a face was close to her, saying her name, “Shay? Shay, is that you? Are you Shay?”

Then she was lying on a blanket by a fire, the warmth and light both slowly seeping into her. Night had finished falling, so all that seemed to exist was the fire and the women and blanket around her. The Healer held a cup and poured a bit of something warm between Shay’s cracked lips. The Bard sang to the fire, something soft and meant to help babies sleep. It was a song Shay had known once, because her mother used to sing it to her. She fell back asleep.

When Shay opened her eyes again, the fire was just as high, but the quality of darkness had turned toward the gray of dawn, although it was still dark enough that the fire lit the falling snowflakes so they looked briefly like sparks. She was lying on her back with her foot on a log, a saddle blanket under her head that smelled like clean horse sweat and snow, and a heavy cloak over her. The Healer was sitting and staring at the fire, and no one was singing except the storm itself, soft and thick and windless, the snow falling in a whisper and sometimes sizzling a tiny bit when it hit a coal just right.

Shay tried to say something, but what came out was more like a squeak.

The Healer turned toward her. “I’m Dionne. I’m glad we found you.”

Shay managed a “M-me t-too.”

“Are you still cold?”

“Only a little”

Dionne reached for a cup that sat on a little bank of coals away from the hottest part of the fire and held it up. “Will you drink some more tea?”

Shay tried to sit up, and then Dionne was beside her lifting her up and whispering. “Rhi?”

“Mmhhmmmm . . . .not morning yet.” The protest emerged muffled from a pile of blankets.

“She’s awake,” Dionne said as she lifted the cup so Shay could drink.

“Mmmmmhhhhh. It’s snowing. Leave me alone.” But the blankets moved, and the woman sat up and smiled at Shay. “Hello. I think we just found you in time.”

“Tha . . . thank you.” Shay said, and took another sip of the bitter tea ,which seemed to warm her blood so her whole body got a little warmer. She took two more sips before she asked, “Why did you come?”

The Bard answered. “You needed to be found.” She pulled on boots that had been left close enough to the fire to be warm. “Master Johaness sent us after you.”

The innkeeper? “He doesn’t like me.”

Dionne took the cup for her and set it back on the coals, letting Shay lie back down all the way. “He sure seemed worried when he caught up to us on that great big beast of his.”

The idea of the innkeeper riding after her refused to sit in her head. “Why didn’t he come himself?” At least her words were coming out better.

“Maybe he thought you needed Healing.” Dionne said.

“Or a song,” the other woman answered.

She hadn’t been close enough to see how much the women looked alike. “Are you twins?”

“The twin with no manners is my sister, Rhiannon.” Dionne said it gently, almost teasing. “And now that you can talk, your ankle is swollen. Is there anything else wrong?”

Shay shook her head.

Dionne bent down over Shay’s foot and took the swollen ankle in both of her hands. At first nothing happened, then it felt a little warmer, and then it felt a lot warmer. When Dionne took her hands away she cocked her head and asked, “Is that better?”

Shay could move her ankle. “Much better. Thank you.”

“Can you sit up?” Dionne asked.

For answer, Shay sat up and held her hands out to the fire. “Are you going to take me home?”

The two women exchanged glances full of meaning Shay couldn’t read. “Do you want to go there?”

“No.”

They answered with silence for a bit. Then the Bard, Rhiannon, said, “I heard your mom died. I’m sorry.”

Shay swallowed. “Me, too.”

“What did you plan to do?” Dionne asked, her voice gentle.

So they must have talked to people in town, knew she didn’t have any family. It sounded as though no one had been willing to take care of her. That stung.

She threw a stick into the fire, marveling again that her ankle didn’t hurt when she shifted her weight. She watched the stick burn, thinking. Slow and steady. “Do you need someone to help you?” she asked. “I don’t have a horse.”

“Where were you going?” Dionne asked.

Shay kept her head down. “I don’t know.”

“Do you have family anywhere?”

Shay felt like Dionne’s questions punched her. Adults did this a lot. Avoided answering her questions by asking questions of their own. The small hope that they had really been looking for her felt even smaller now. They’d been doing their jobs. Saving people stupid enough to get into trouble. The thought made Shay laugh, the unfamiliar taste of bitterness burning the back of her throat. She was used to avoiding people, used to being laughed at and yelled at, but since so much of what people teased her about was true, she deserved those things. They seemed fair. But she had wanted these smart women on the beautiful horses to want her.

At least they didn’t ask her again when she didn’t answer, but just let her sit and watch the flames.

After a while she noticed that Rhiannon had started singing again. Both women were moving around camp. Shay should help. She stood up, but Dionne said, “Sit down a bit longer. I’ve got something for you to do there.” Sure enough, she showed up with two metal sticks, each with a sausage on the end. “Hold these over the fire. They’re cooked, so they just need to be warmed.”

Shay kept one stick in each hand, turning them slowly, her belly waking up at the rich fat dripping onto the coals.

They stopped feeding the fire while they ate, and then the women were careful that it was all the way out. Shay approved. They might not be slow and careful, but it was the careful part that mattered. She liked these women a lot even if they didn’t need her to help them.

Snow fell off and on all the next day, although thankfully no winter wind came with it. Shay couldn’t sleep in the saddle behind Rhiannon--the horse was too tall and swayed too much. But she had wanted to ride for all her life, and she might not ever ride again. So by the time they made camp, she fell exhausted and cold and pleased onto the ground. Dionne took one look at her and covered her up with the damp cloak. It was still dry inside even if was heavy and smelled of wet horse.

Shay drifted, listening to the murmur of the women’s voices and the sounds of wood being gathered, thwacked together to knock off snow, and piled. She should be up helping them since gathering wood was something she did well, but her body didn’t want to move. So she lay still, warm enough under the blanket to think, and thought about how to be helpful. If only she could prove that she could be a good helper, maybe Dionne and Rhiannon would want her.

A candlemark later there was more warm tea to drink and some dried meat and slightly stale bread to share out. Dionne mentioned that they’d be out of the snow the next day and would be close to a town, High Meadow. Shay had never been so far from home, but she said, “Sometimes people come from there to buy our sheep.”

“Do you know how to herd sheep?” Rhiannon asked.

“No.” She didn’t want to tell them about the kids throwing rocks at her.

Dionne frowned. “What did you do?”

“I helped my mom pick the plants she used and helped her dry them.”

Dionne stood up and rummaged in her packs, which had been hung on a nearby tree. She drew out three bags of dried plants and handed one to Shay. “Do you know what this is?”

She opened the bag and smelled it. Then she touched the dried plants. “Sweet rose.”

“What did your mom use sweet rose for?”

“She made tea when people had headaches and used it in one of the salves that makes cuts stop hurting.”

Dionne nodded and handed her the second bag. “Don’t touch this one with your bare hands.”

“Nettle. She made soup with it, but she never let me touch it until it cooked. She also mixed it with other plants to make things for swelling.”

After Shay identified the third bag as fleawort, Dionne sat back on her haunches and looked at Rhiannon instead of at Shay. “It might work.”

Rhiannon was still for a moment, and then she looked at Shay and smiled. “Let’s try it.”

Shay was so busy thinking about her mom and plants, she didn’t think about what they meant for a long time. Besides, they hadn’t been talking to her. She would be patient.

They stopped in High Meadow and stayed at an inn, all three of them sharing one room. Rhiannon sang for the people in the inn while Shay and Dionne sat on a nearby bench and ate a thin stew that tasted like heaven even if it was only root vegetables and spices and water.

When she fell asleep that night, Shay told herself not to want anything, that what Dionne and Rhiannon had done so far was enough. Surely they would leave her here, and she could find something to do or someone to take her in. She should find a way to thank them in the morning.

After breakfast and some bargaining with the innkeeper (a woman here, fat and round and a little grumpy) Shay helped them gather up the tack and their bags from the room and stood out of the way while they got the horses ready.

The stable boy brought around a sturdy little red pony with a saddle and bridle already on it, and Dionne and Rhiannon grinned widely when he helped Shay up onto it. She had never been so surprised by anything good in her life. “His name is Apple,” the boy said.

“Is that because he’s red?” Shay asked.

The boy laughed. “He’s not that red, but he loves apples, and he’ll come all the way across the pasture for a little bit of one. Sometimes it’s the only way to catch him.”

Shay was afraid to ask if the pony was hers, but they rode away from town with Shay on its back and a long lead line between her and Rhiannon to keep them together. Maybe the women were going to let her stay with them after all.

The roads were clear now, and the going was still cold but dry. Apple’s hooves made a pleasant sound on the frozen trail, and Shay focused on that and talked to him, trying to ignore the way her legs and butt hurt from riding.

By the time they had been riding three more days, her legs didn’t hurt anymore, and she’d fallen in love with the pony and wanted her life to stay like this forever. She couldn’t bring herself to ask, so she did everything she could to help and was very careful not to do anything wrong.

They started going through bigger towns with places that made metal and fields of horses instead of sheep and guildhalls for people who built houses.

The roads became busier. And then they came up to the biggest place Shay had ever seen, one with wide cobbled streets and walls.

Haven.

It felt like seeing a story come alive. She gaped when she saw two Heralds ride out on Companions, and she understood for the first time what her mother had meant when she said Companions were nothing like horses. They were not; they were so beautiful she thought she might die of happiness for just seeing them.

As they wound farther into the city, Shay felt the good feelings shrinking inside her. A sadness filled her, completely against her will. She had nothing to offer here. If she couldn’t wash dishes in Little’s Town, what could she possibly do in Haven?

She patted Apple on the side of his neck, focusing on the mixed brown and white and red of his coat that looked simply reddish-brown from a distance. Focusing didn’t help, because she couldn’t possibly keep Apple. No one had ever said he was hers, and it made sense that they procured the pony so she didn’t tire out the other horses.

They pulled up outside a great big building that looked like the school from Little’s Town only bigger and grander and grown up. Students in gray and pale green streamed in and out of the building, everyone moving fast and looking smart and neat. Rhiannon still used a long lead attached to Apple’s bridle, and she came up and held Apple by the head, whispering sweet nothings to him. Dionne came around to help Shay dismount. She managed to get off without any more than the steady form of Dionne nearby, staying slow and careful in her movements so she wouldn’t embarrass the women by falling here, or herself by needing help with simple things.

Shay noticed that she was wearing the same clothes she’d started out in, and while they’d been washed once, that had been two days ago. Her pants had tears in the knees where she’d fallen. Her shirt had been mended in three places and smelled like horse and cold and the road, not right for Haven at all.

“This is the Healer’s Collegium.” Dionne took Shay’s chin in one hand and guided Shay’s face so that she looked Dionne in the eyes. “Are you all right?” she asked. “You look scared. There’s nothing to be afraid of here.”

Shay nodded, not willing to try to talk in case it made her lose control and loosed the tears she felt in the corners of her eye.

“We want you to come with us to meet someone.”

“Okay.” Her own voice sounded small, so she straightened her back and said it again. “I will.”

Dionne took Shay’s hand, and they followed Rhiannon down a twisty cobbled path worn smooth by many feet. They turned onto a thinner path and went through a wooden gate into a garden. Stone benches sat in each corner of a lovely little garden full of raised beds. Only a few were full now, since it was winter even in Haven. The bare beds lay fallow and ready for the spring, neatly raked and cleaned out. Shay’s mom had kept a few pots to grow herbs she couldn’t gather, but this was richness beyond imagining. Shay let go of Dionne’s hand and started walking through the beds that still had plants, smelling each one. Half were familiar.

When she turned around, Dionne had gone. Rhiannon stood by one the benches, looking like she was waiting for something or someone. Shay went and sat by her, and Rhiannon put a hand on her shoulder. Then she started singing one of the tunes she’d sung for Shay almost every night, the lullaby her mother had known. It calmed Shay and reminded her to stop her racing thoughts and fears and take things slowly. They waited a long time, but the longer they waited, the more Rhiannon’s song calmed her and chased away her worries about what people here would think of her. So she felt easy when Dionne brought out an older woman with a thin, sharp face and bright eyes. “This is the herb mistress for Healers. She likes to be called Janelle.”

Shay held her hand out. “I’m Shay.”

The woman’s handshake was warm, and neither soft nor too hard. “Dionne told me quite a lot about you. I’m sorry about your mother.”

“Me too.” The easiest shortest response she could make.

“Can you tell me what the plants out here are?”

Shay licked her lips, suddenly afraid she’d forget all the names. But she took is slow and easy, and managed to remember the names and how her mother used and cared for all of the plants she had seen before.

Janelle nodded at Dionne, then looked at Shay. “Would you like to stay and help me the rest of the winter?” She paused. “I could use a hand soon, getting the spring plants started.”

Shay didn’t react. Slow and steady.

Janelle gestured toward Dionne and Rhiannon. “They need to go on.”

Dionne spoke up. “But we’ll check on you next time we’re in Haven. Then if you want to go back home, I’ll take you.”

Shay shook her head. “I don’t have a home.”

The herb woman whispered, “Maybe you do now.”

Shay looked at Janelle and thought, and then she said, “Thank you.”

They went to get her pack, which had been tied behind Apple’s saddle. Shay hugged the pony tight. When she let go, she was crying. They were going to go without her. She had a place, but she didn’t want to leave the twins. “Can I ride somewhere else with you sometime?”

Rhiannon smiled. “Maybe. If Janelle gives us good reports. And you can ride yourself if you have someone to go with you.”

Shay blinked, confused.

“We’re going to put Apple in the common herd and give you rights to draw him out if you want and to visit him and bring him apples.”

She couldn’t believe that her mom dying was luck, but coming here was good. She was in Haven, and someone wanted her help. She’d have Janelle and Apple, and her new friends would visit. “The only thing better would be if I could go with you all the time,” she said, leaning over and giving Rhiannon a hug.

“I’m sorry,” Rhiannon said.

“Don’t be sorry. Mom always told me to take things slow and steady.”

Dionne had come up behind them. “Maybe Rhiannon could learn that from you.”

Rhiannon swatted at her, but it was playful, and the mingled laughter of the women made Haven look beautiful again.

Chapter 9 - Sight and Sound - Stephanie D. Shaver

“Wil?”

:Chosen?:

The Herald snapped out of his reverie, sitting up with a snort on the hard wooden chair. “Sorry,” he said to Kyril. “Must’ve been woolgathering. You were saying?”

“I was asking,” Kyril said, “about the circumstances that led to Herald Elene’s death.” His pen tip gleamed with ink, poised over the parchment.

“Right.” Wil rubbed his eyes. The burden of being awake put a strain on his ability to be tactful and thorough. She died, he wanted to say. I’m sorry. She went into a river and drowned and died.

But Kyril would pick every bone of the story until he got his damn details. No easy way out of this one.

“She went into the river at Callcreek to save a boy who’d been caught in a flash flood,” Wil said. “Bad situation, all around.”

“The boy—did she . . . ?”

“Yes,” Wil said softly. “She Fetched him to shore.”

Kyril nodded. “She is . . .was . . .terribly Gifted. Continue.”

“They started to pull her back in, and apparently a log—”

Blue flash of Foresight—

—in the water out of nowhere so dark and cold and ah gods mother so sorry Elene so sorry Alrek no Alrek—

It wasn’t a Foresight Vision—just the memory of one. It hit like an aftershock: not as bad as the original, but with enough intensity to stall his narrative.

Wil envied Heralds who only knew who had died when the Death Bell rang. He always knew who and where. Sometimes, for people like Elene, his Foresight showed him firsthand details leading up to the death. People he’d been close to—internees, instructors, year-mates . . .

Not that there are many of those left . . .dammit, focus! He grabbed hold of the disparate threads of his thoughts and forced himself to rattle off details, devoid of the panicked terror that his Foresight made him privy to.

According to the shore crew that had been on the other end of Herald Elene’s lead rope, a log had tangled in her lifeline and dragged her under. Some of the men swore the rope snapped, others suspected someone panicked and cut it. Elene’s Companion, Alrek, had ber-serked, run in mad circles, and then galloped off, the frayed bit of filthy rope trailing behind him.

“Did you question the locals about who might have cut the rope?” Kyril asked.

“I did, sir. Under Truth Spell,” Wil said. “No guilty parties. It sounds like the whole situation was a big, confused mess.”

“And Alrek?”

Wil shook his head. “Hasn’t been seen since the incident.”

Kyril nodded and picked up a clean page. “We’ll find his body. Sometimes they just show up in Companion’s Field. Was Elene recovered?”

“Yes, but . . . she’d been in the water awhile.” The villagers had done their best, given what time and the muddy waters had done to Elene. She’d been carefully wrapped in sackcloth and transported on a bed of sweet grasses and flowers.

“Her grave is by the Temple of Astera near Callcreek,” Wil finished.

Kyril made a note. “Anything else?”

Wil mulled the question. The Vision had been useful in caulking the gaps, giving him questions to ask the denizens of Callcreek. Wil felt that he’d gleaned all he could from it for Kyril’s report.

And yet . . .

“Sir, something is nagging at me,” he said at last.

“Oh?”

“But I can’t tell you.”

Kyril raised a brow.

“I mean I can’t tell you,” Wil clarified. “It’s my Gift, sir. My gut says there’s something, but not what.”

“Ah. The famously unreliable Foresight.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Quite all right. I know better than to try to pry it from you. Just be sure to tell me when it surfaces.”

Wil nodded.

“Excellent. One last thing, then.” For the first time since they’d begun their dialogue, Kyril set his pen down, then sat straight up and folded his hands onto the desk.

“Elene had a family,” he said.

Wil felt his stomach twist.

“We have an obligation to them,” Kyril continued. “When possible we prefer to deliver the news in person. I understand you knew her personally.”

Wil nodded.

“What I’m about to ask of you isn’t for everyone,” Kyril said. “Honestly, it’s not for anyone. It’s a hard task, telling a mother her daughter is never coming home. Can you do this, Herald?”

:Wil, you’re exhausted,: Vehs said.:If you don’t want—:

“Yes,” Wil said. “I can.”

:Or you could ignore me completely.:

Kyril gave a small sigh. “The Queen and the Circle thank you. Come back tomorrow—we’ll talk about protocol for notifying the family.” He cocked his head. “Meanwhile, you look like you need sleep.”

“In buckets,” Wil admitted, laughing a little. “Thank you, sir.”

“Thank you, Herald,” Kyril replied.

Wil departed the Records Room to the rhythmic scratching of Kyril’s pen.

: . . . nightmares are getting worse. You need a Healer. Are you even listening?:

:No,: Wil replied honestly.

As usual, unseen someones had prepared his apartment for his return to Haven. There was fresh water in the ewers and seasoned firewood by the hearth.

He’d been focused on building the fire, not Vehs. Wil’s hands were callused and leathery from years on Circuit. He didn’t bother with gloves or pokers anymore, just shoved the lit wood around until the configuration pleased him, ignoring the sparks and splinters.

:Healers—: Vehs started.

:The Healers want me to drink sleep tinctures,: Wil shot back. :And not the cute stuff made with hops and shamile. The mean stuff you give to a bull when you need to geld him.:

:No one is gelding you, Chosen.:

Wil snorted.

But Vehs wouldn’t let it die. :If it’s what you need to sleep . . .:

What Vehs was nattering on about was that the Vision didn’t just intrude on his waking thoughts. It had become a recurring nightmare, one he couldn’t seem to shake. Wil hadn’t slept—really slept—in a week.

His sleep-debt had been growing even before Elene’s death, thanks to nights on the Karse Border. Now that debt was coming due, with interest. Hallucinations, jittery nerves, the acute, fleeting sense that he was being watched (when he wasn’t).

It was nothing he hadn’t dealt with before. The Vision would fade eventually. He’d endure until then.

:I’d rather deal with the nightmare.: Wil rolled his right shoulder, wincing. Spring had been damp and chilly, and his joints protested the chill. He shucked off his Whites, the cold air making his skin and scars prickle. Under the bedcovers it felt even colder.

Not for long, he thought, his eyes drifting shut. Warm . . . no time.

He slept. And in his dreams, Elene died again.

—in the water—

Freezing, all the way up to her neck. A hard shock of cold as she allowed the current and rope tied to Alrek carry her to the child clinging to an outcropping of rock. She practically blanketed him with her body, getting a good hold.

She turned to look back at the shore, Alrek’s white form blazing like a guiding star.

Then she reached, her Gift struggling with the child’s weight and mass, struggling with the distance, struggling as she struggled against the current.

The boy vanished beneath her. She saw a dark figure appear near Alrek, heard the shore crew cheer. For a moment, her heart soared—

The log came—

—out of nowhere—

—and dragged her down, her body pinned beneath the wooden anchor and the tangled lead rope. Everything became a confusion of sound and sensation, so dark and cold, and all she could think was, Ah, gods—mother, I’m so sorry.

:Elene!: Her Companion’s voice, pleading in her mind.

:So sorry, Alrek.:

She felt him and the villagers straining to drag her in. The rope jerked, and her chest blazed with pain as ribs cracked. Her Companion’s mindless panic threatened to overwhelm her.

:No! Alrek—:

She fumbled with something at her belt—

Wil shot up out of bed, fighting his own blankets, spilling out onto the floor with a scream in his throat. He sat, panting, until his heartbeat settled.

Am I missing something? he thought. When will I stop dreaming about you, Elene? She had been a yearmate, an infrequent lover, a fellow Circuit rider. She could be in his head another day, week, month . . .

:Year,: Vehs said adamantly. :And in the meantime, you aren’t sleeping. Go do something about it already!:

Wil pushed a hand through his close-cropped hair, smearing sweat across his scalp. :I’d rather you sang me a lullaby.:

:Chosen—:

:No tinctures, Vehs.:

:Stubborn—bull-headed—:

But Wil’s annoyance at his Companion’s meddling had reached its breaking point—he snapped down his shields, cutting off Vehs’s rant. Not that he could block him completely. Just enough to muffle the chatter.

He curled up on his side in his bed, and sometime around midnight he finally eased into a half-waking doze that lasted until dawn.

Food and a bath briefly revitalized him, but by the time he took the stairs back to his quarters, he found his steps dragging. He flopped onto his bed and settled his eyes shut.

In the water—

Knock! Knock! Knock!

Wil jolted up and for a moment sensed something nearby, watching—

The feeling vanished. Someone was knocking on his door, but he was alone in his bedroom.

Wil lurched over to the door, yanking it open. A red-haired girl in the orange-red of a Bard Trainee waited in the hall.

“Hi!” she said brightly. “I’m Amelie!”

“Hello,” he replied, fighting the instinct to close the door again. Bard Trainees were, in his experience, never a good omen.

“Milady Lelia would like to see you.” Amelie smiled brightly. “Is now a good time?”

Wil raised a brow. “ ‘Milady’ Lelia?”

Amelie maintained her blazing smile and nodded.

Wil glanced back at the bed, then back to her. He forced himself to smile. “Now’s a fine time,” he said.

They didn’t have far to go. Wil hadn’t seen Lelia in years, so he didn’t know how the Bard had managed to win a Palace wing apartment from one of Selenay’s distant relatives, but she’d done it.

What surprised Wil was not that she had finagled it but that she had chosen to settle down. Lelia seemed the type of Bard who would wander Valdemar until her shoes wore away and her toes fell off.

Amelie led him in, and if the woman waiting for him was barefoot, he couldn’t tell because she was bundled up in a red velvet blanket.

“Wil,” Lelia said, with enough warmth to make his heart swell. She remained unvarnished loveliness, albeit with an air of fragility he did not remember seeing before.

Aging, just like me, he thought. Only with a little more grace and flair.

“Milady.” He bowed.

She rolled her eyes at his airs, pushing out of the chair to hug him. The sudden, friendly movement pushed away the melancholy he’d felt a moment before. He returned the gesture, smiling.

“I’d have given you a full day to rest and recuperate, but the last two times I did that you were gone before I could gain an audience.” She sat back down. “You just love to go, don’t you?”

I could say the same about you, he thought. He took a seat on a couch as Amelie plied him with tea, cream cakes, and other snacks. He waved them off politely.

“My protégé,” Lelia said, nodding toward Amelie as she swept out of the room. “She’s all sorts of mischief.”

“You seem to be doing well.”

She stretched her smile so wide he thought her face would crack. “You’ve no idea. How’ve you been? Stopped any assassination plots lately?”

He shrugged. “It’s been a slow year or two. Mostly citizens irate over taxation, property lines, and who owes whom for what.”

“Assassination plots sound more fun.”

“Same amount of paperwork, too.” His lips twisted in a grim smile.

She sipped tea as they talked. He gradually grew at ease with the sumptuous setting. No one disturbed them, though judging by the number of chairs, settles, and low tables, Lelia was accustomed to entertaining groups.

“When do you head out next?” she asked, topping off her cup from a nearby pot.

“Tomorrow,” Wil said. “Probably. Maybe the day after.”

“Another Circuit? So soon?”

“No,” Wil replied. “I have to go deliver bad news to Herald Elene’s family.”

Lelia tilted her head to one side. “She died a fortnight ago, near Callcreek, yes?”

“Yes.” He gave her a curious look. “You knew her?”

“No, but I make a practice of knowing for whom the Death Bell tolls.”

“Ah.” He lifted his brows sympathetically. “Right. Lyle.”

Lelia smiled. Her twin brother was a Herald; he had, in fact, been Wil’s internee.

Every time it rings, she has to wonder, he thought. Even if sometimes it’s a little more than I want, at least I know.

“I was near Callcreek when she died,” he said. “On my way back from the Border, actually. I did the footwork of finding out where, when, why, and how.”

“No ‘who’?”

“She drowned on a rescue mission. No one’s fault.” His chest twinged as he said it though, and he remembered the crushing pain from his Vision. “Her family needs to know. So I’ll be heading to Boarsden shortly.”

Her eyes lit up. “Boarsden, eh? That’s near Winefold.”

Wil knew the map of Valdemar the way parents knew the faces of their children. “Correct.”

“Would you like me to go with you?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Me. Go with you. I admit in advance I have ulterior motives.”

He swallowed around a suddenly dry throat. “Such as?”

“My family travels to Winefold around this time of year. There’s a festival to bless the fields—it’s at least a week long. Good work for traveling entertainers. I’d love to see them, and once you’re done at Elene’s you could view it as—” She cocked head again. “Brace yourself, Wil. I’m going to use a strange word on you.” She shaped it slowly. “Hol-i-day.”

:The Bard is wise.:

Vehs’s interjection startled Wil. It was the first thing the Companion had said since Wil had awakened and eased his shields.

Lelia took his silence for disapproval. “No?”

“Let me think about it.”

“Oh. Well. Do.” She drained her cup and set it next to the pot. “You’d be doing me a favor. I’m a frail little Bard, getting on in her years.” She draped her arm across her forehead and slumped. “And I surely would love the company.” She straightened and winked. “My destrier and I can be ready to go either day.”

After leaving her, he headed to the Collegium common room for supper. Trainees chattered earnestly around him as he ate and contemplated the bitter work ahead.

:You know,: Vehs said, somewhat unexpectedly, :she’s unattached. Unbridled. Available.:

Wil furrowed his brow, wiping up the last of his stew with a crust of bread. :Who?:

:Lelia.:

:What does that have to do with anything? And how do you know that?:

Vehs ignored the second question. :You liked her once.:

Wil wiped his mouth and collected his empty plates. :It’s been a while, Vehs.:

:Oh, yes, it’s been a while, Wil.:

:Ha ha.:

:She wouldn’t have invited you to her quarters, or herself along on your journey, if she didn’t still like you on some level.: Vehs hesitated. :I think there’s a very real chance she’d like to play Stefen to your Vanyel.:

If Wil had been drinking, he’d have choked. :Thanks for waiting until I was done with dinner before planting that on me,: he thought.

:Just pointing out the blindingly obvious to the obviously blind.

Wil looked around. “Where’s your destrier?”

Lelia patted the neck of the slender-legged chestnut palfrey waiting beside her. “Right here. Wil and Vehs, meet my horse. Destrier.”

Wil and Vehs exchanged a look.

:Forget what I said,: Vehs said. :This one’s crazy.:

“You named a palfrey ‘Destrier’?”

Lelia grinned. “I always said I wanted one.” She cocked her head. “Exit through the Haymarket Gate?”

“Haymarket Gate,” he agreed, and helped her mount her . . .Destrier.

He’d left the question of bringing her along to Kyril. The Seneschal’s Herald had spent the better part of the evening explaining the art of breaking bad news to good people, and he had provided a small box of Elene’s personal items. According to Kyril, Elene had no living family except for her mother, Kaylene.

When Wil had asked about letting Lelia accompany him, Kyril gave him a thoughtful look and then said, “Having a Master Bard along might not be a bad idea.”

“Assuming she’s discreet,” Wil had said.

“Oh, she is,” Kyril said knowingly. “But I’ll want a full report on how it works out when you get back. Perhaps it’ll be an improvement on the process.”

Perhaps, Wil thought, taking a sidelong glance at Lelia as they rode. She sat straight in the saddle, eyes ahead, reins loose in her hands.

Finally, he cleared his throat and said, “You pack light.”

“I used to do this on foot,” she replied, smiling. “I learned to get by with very little.”

“No gittern?” he asked.

She shrugged from within her voluminous scarlet cloak. “Takes up space.”

Wil frowned. “Won’t your family want to hear your music?”

“I don’t need a gittern to sing, Herald.”

You’ve plenty of room, he thought, but he let it slide. Lelia seemed focused elsewhere, as if listening to something Wil could not hear. Even when they finally got free of Haven’s crowds and the open road spread before them, she remained silent, her gaze soft.

The silence gave Wil time to mull over what he was going to say to Kaylene. Kyril had given suggestions, but they all sounded so . . . formal. But then, what could one say that was “right” in this situation?

Nothing. But “nothing” wasn’t an option, either. He would have to say something.

They stopped for the night at an inn where the owner greeted Lelia personally. People, Wil reflected, remembered a good Bard. After making sure his things (and Elene’s) were secure in his room, he joined Lelia in the common area for a simple but tasty meal. They capped the evening with hot drinks—he with wine, she with her personal tea blend, which she had packed much of for the journey. They nursed their drinks in companionable silence, stretched out on comfortable chairs and settles near a hearth. Despite the heat, Lelia remained wrapped in her cloak, nothing emerging from it but her head and hands.

“You must be sweltering,” Wil said.

She smiled drowsily at him. “I’m quite comfortable, thank you.”

The wood in the hearth popped loudly, showering sparks. A moment later, it resumed its gentle murmur of crackles and pops.

“Such a lovely ditty,” Lelia murmured. “Practically singing me to sleep.”

Wil started to nod, but the phrasing caught his fancy. “Can you do that?”

Alertness crept into her gaze. “Do what?”

“Sing someone to sleep. With your Gift.”

“I have, on occasion. Why?”

Because I haven’t slept in over a week, and I’m going mad drowning in a cold river every night, he thought, but as usual, the actual words became stuck in his throat. “Just curious,” he said.

She studied him, then drained her mug and set it aside. “Goodnight, Herald.” She patted him on the shoulder before disappearing up the stairs.

Wil could feel Vehs in his head. His Companion wanted to say something . . . but, ultimately, did not.

In that, they were similar.

He drank two more cups of wine before he finally went to his room.

Wil clawed his way back to waking.

And again that sense of being watched—

He blinked. It vanished.

It wasn’t far past midnight, and the thing that had woken him had not been the Vision—though he’d been up to his neck in cold water—but his bladder. He threw on clothes and trundled out into the night, toward the outhouse.

He turned the stable’s corner—

Something was out there.

Wil had never feared the dark. But the yawning space between the stable and the outhouse filled him with sudden, unspeakable dread.

Something was there.

His eyes scanned the uneven shadows of the forest hemming the inn. Did he see a shape there? A blot of movement in the darkness?

Cold dread filled him. The presence felt true—not just a hallucination. His mind flitted back to his time on the Karse Border . . . was it possible he’d raised a Sunpriest’s ire? Was something following him, waiting for a chance to strike?

The presence evaporated. The darkness became just that, the movement in the trees nothing more than wind and woodland beasts about on mundane business.

Wil crept back to his room, hunkered down in his bed, and waited out the night.

When he emerged from the inn the next morning, Lelia stood next to Vehs, one hand on his withers.

“Good morning,” Wil said, faintly suspicious about them together. Something in their posture suggested . . . conspiracy.

“You look like hell,” Lelia replied cheerfully as a groom emerged with Destrier and helped her up into her saddle.

:She’s worried about you,: Vehs murmured.

:I’m worried about me.:

:Well, finally.:

Wil swung into the saddle, ignoring the jab. :Last night—something was out there.:

:Something?:

Wil toyed with the reins. :Alberich . . . he mentioned night-demons once—:

Vehs snorted. :This far into Valdemar? Not possible.: More gently, he added, :Chosen, you’re exhausted. Your mind is playing tricks on you.:

:I felt something, Vehs.:

Vehs said nothing.

:You don’t believe me—:

:No!: Vehs said sharply. :I believe that you think you saw something.:

Wil took a deep breath. :Fine. But let’s stay in a Waystation tonight. Just in case.:

:This close to Traderest?:

:Yes.:

:With the Bard?:

Wil frowned. Now he wished he hadn’t brought her along. They were potentially in danger, but he was sure if he told her to turn back, she’d only want to know why, and no matter what he told her, she’d still want to come along.

But better one overcurious Bard than a village full of innocents . . .

“Lelia,” he said, “we’re going to stay at a waystation tonight.”

He braced for the inevitable questions.

“All right,” she replied.

He gave her an odd look. She smiled back congenially.

“Whatever you say, Herald,” she said.

The Waystation outside Traderest was typical of its kind—small, with a water pump and trough, and secluded among the trees. Wil slid out of the saddle, and Lelia tethered Destrier as he hauled their packs into the Waystation. They had a fire and a pot of porridge going within a candlemark.

She still hadn’t asked why they were here. He watched as she finished smoothing one of her cloaks over her boxbed—they hadn’t brought bedrolls—and then left again to tend to her horse.

He sat on the edge of his own boxbed. All he wanted was sleep without dreams. He wanted . . .

One minute he was alone, the next Lelia was leaning over him. When he’d fallen back on the bed, he wasn’t sure. Just that his eyelids felt so, so heavy. He could barely meet her gaze.

“You know,” she said, “Heralds don’t just die in fights, fires, and floods. Keighvin, the Queen’s Own before Talamir, worked himself into a brainstorm and an early grave.”

“Knew that,” Wil mumbled.

“They throw themselves into their work,” she continued, “until they’re so exhausted they wind up doing something foolish.” She smiled a little. “Lyle once told me . . . I was his balance. I keep him from flogging himself to death.” The smile softened with sadness. “I don’t know how good a job I’ve done with that, honestly.”

Even talking, her voice had a melodic quality. His eyes slid shut, his thoughts growing muzzy. He could feel the Vision unfurling, tugging at him like the waters of the river that had killed Elene, and then—

Something stepped between him and it. A soft susurration, like the drowsy chirr of insects at twilight.

And instead of plunging into deadly waters, he found himself at the edge of a clearing, though not one he knew. It could have been the heart of Companion’s Grove. It could have been any number of places in Valdemar. A faintly blue light, soft as moonlight, lit the world, but it was not of the world he knew.

Some distance from him was a woman in luminous Whites. She stood at the center of the clearing, and despite the unearthly light, her face remained obscured. Even so, he got the sense she was . . . watching him.

“Tell him I’m waiting,” she said.

Wil sat up in near darkness. Coals gleamed in the hearth, and someone was breathing lightly in the boxbed to his right. He crawled awkwardly out of bed and emerged into the chilly night air.

Vehs walked over and nuzzled his hair.

:Sleep well?: he asked. :We had hoped it would last through the night.:

Wil frowned. “It? We?” he asked, and remembered the day before. “Have you two been conspiring behind my back?”

Vehs lowered his lashes and gave him a coy look.

Wil started to speak—

Something moved in the dark.

Wil snapped his head around, scanning the forest. He felt Vehs stiffen.

:That,: Vehs said, :is not your imagination.:

The Waystation door creaked, and the presence vanished. From behind him, Lelia said, “Something’s out there.”

Both he and Vehs turned to look at her. “You feel it, too?” Wil asked.

She nodded. “Something . . . big. Familiar, but not.” She shook her head. “Whatever it was, it’s gone, now.” She hugged herself tightly. “It’s freezing. I’ll be inside.”

Wil and Vehs stared into the darkness together.

:Any idea what it is?: Wil ventured.

:Something . . . but not night-demons.: Vehs shook his mane. :Chosen, go back inside. Rest. I’ll stand watch.:

Wil could tell Vehs was being evasive . . . but he knew better than to try and press a Companion when he or she didn’t want to give details.

Lelia had added wood to the fire. She waited by his bedside, wrapped in her spare cloak.

“You sang me to sleep,” Wil said.

She nodded. “Did it work?”

Wil stretched out in the bedbox. “I think so.” The fire popped and crackled. “Can you do it again?”

“Of course.”

He closed his eyes. “Will you tuck me in, too?”

She laughed. “And ruin our professional relationship?”

Then she started singing, and the music stepped between him and the Vision, granting him peace.

Several nights of solid sleep did much to restore Wil’s spirits. A fog had lifted from his thoughts. He found himself picking out details in the Vision that he hadn’t noticed before.

Things Kyril would want to know.

So long as Lelia sang him to rest, Wil no longer dreamed of Elene’s death. The only dream he had—that he remembered having—was of the shadow-Herald and the clearing.

Tell him I’m waiting.

Tell who?

Vehs reported no disturbances from the invisible “it.” But that didn’t mean it was gone, and as soon as Lelia was delivered safely in Winefold, Wil would have to figure out what “it” was.

They reached the inn at Boarsden before dusk and enjoyed a leisurely dinner. Lelia, as usual, found the biggest chair in the house, curled up on it with her special blend of tea, and regaled him with tales of the Court.

“The clothing is the best,” she said. “Some of those women layer so much junk over the bodies the gods gave ’em, they can hardly walk a straight line!” Her eyes gleamed mischievously. “Sometimes I want to go cow-tipping . . . if you know what I mean.”

As Wil wiped tears of laughter from his eyes, she signaled a server to bring more hot water for steeping tea.

He took the opportunity to change subjects. There was something he’d been cogitating.

“Lelia, tell me—have you ever heard of anyone having a Gift like Foresight but . . .” He grasped for words. “More like Hindsight?”

She frowned. “Not sure what you mean?”

“Visions of the past instead of the future.”

“Uh. Hm.” She pondered. “Well, as you know, I am the realm’s preeminent Vanyel expert.”

Vehs snorted mentally.

“I recall stories where he did that. But it wasn’t a Gift. It was just something a Herald-Mage of his caliber could do.” She cocked her head. “Why?”

Wil shook his head. “Just—”

“Curious?” She raised a brow. “I’ve heard that before.”

He smiled despite himself. “Maybe later.”

She grunted. “Better.”

They talked until well into the night. When it came time to sing to him, she looked so sweet at his bedside that he felt a momentary wild urge to sit up and drag her into his arms.

Sleep always came before he could act on that urge.

The squat house was built into the hillside, a bit apart from the grain fields. Flowers and aromatics flourished in boxes and neat plots around the tidy stone structure. Laundry hung from a line, faded blue and green garments fluttering in the breeze.

Wil stood on the rutted path leading up to the front door, Elene’s carved box clenched in his hands.

Such a miserable recompense for a daughter.

“She’s alone in there,” Lelia said.

Wil glanced at her. She had a distant look on her face, a slight crease to her brow.

“How are you doing that?” he asked.

Lelia smiled. “It’s a Bard thing.”

“Oh?”

Lelia hugged her cloak around her. “You should go, Herald, before she notices us.”

Wil couldn’t argue with that logic. He started up the path, Vehs following.

Too soon the door was before him, and he knocked.

“One moment!” a cheerful voice called. He heard glass clink and then the thump of footfalls. The door swung open, and a rosy-cheeked dark-haired woman looked up at him.

“Yes?” she asked.

Wil cleared his throat. “Kaylene Baernfield?”

“Yes?” Her expression turned to perplexity.

“Elene’s mother?”

Her face froze, and suddenly Wil didn’t know how, or even what to say. Everything Kyril had told him, all the things he’d thought up along the way—they all scattered. With the cessation of the Vision, with all the rest, he’d thought he was prepared.

He knew now that he never would be.

“Elene?” her mother whispered.

“She died.” He swallowed, extending the box to her and thinking again: So small. So paltry. “I’m sorry.”

Kaylene took the box. She looked up at him, tears growing in her eyes. He reached out and touched her shoulder.

And then she was not looking at him at all but at something past him.

A good day to be alive.

Lelia sat at the base of the hill, leaning against a spreading oak. The ride had been long and draining, and the nightly lullabies weren’t as easy on her as she let on. It felt good to sit, and rest, and breathe.

The sorrow unfolded in miniature on the hill. Kaylene clutched the box. Wil touched her shoulder, and Vehs bent his head. Lelia dashed tears from her own eyes.

Something stirred in the brush to her right. Something big.

Her heart skipped a beat.

She extended her Gift, as she’d done that first night she’d sung Wil to sleep, and she felt it—that oddly familiar presence—

Familiar, because it was a Companion that stepped silently from the trees. Odd, because this Companion should not be. His tack was heavily worn and stained with mud. A bit of frayed rope trailed behind him, one end still secured to his saddle.

The saddle . . .

Lelia’s eyes traced the name worked into the leather, and her mouth formed a silent “oh.” She used the tree to clamber to her feet and put a hand out to the Companion.

Up on the hill, a voice called, “Alrek?”

Kaylene pushed past Wil, shoving Elene’s box back into his hands. Wil turned to see the Bard slowly making her way up the hill, a Companion beside her.

:Vehs?:

:It’s him.:

“Alrek,” Kaylene said again, hoarsely. She stumbled forward and wrapped her arms around the Companion’s neck, weeping.

:I am sorry,: an unfamiliar mind-voice said, and by the startled look on Lelia’s face, Wil guessed that they all heard it. :I did not protect her. I did not bring her home.: Lelia looked down and away, tears on her cheeks. :I am so sorry.:

“You brought her home plenty of times.” Kaylene stepped back. “And you brought yourself home.” She stroked his cheek. “That’s more’n I had before.”

The Companion sank to his knees, Kaylene kneeling beside him. “It’s all right,” she whispered, over and over. “Oh, dearie, I know you did your best.”

:I did not protect her.:

:Alrek,: Wil Mindspoke to him.

The Companion looked up, agony in his eyes.

:Why have you been following me?: Wil asked.

:She—: Alrek bent his head. :I don’t know why, but she . . . is near you, somehow. I feel my Chosen watching over you! She—: The Companion keened, a low, soft sound that broke Wil’s heart. :I killed her!:

Wil glanced at Kaylene. Alrek had not projected their conversation to her, for which Wil was grateful. As much as anyone could, he understood the why of it all now. But Kaylene did not need that burden.

Reaching out with his mind, Wil showed the grief-crazed Companion what he himself had Seen, night after night—what only a strange twist of Foresight could know. Threads of time not as they would be woven, but as they had been.

Elene in the water—fumbling for her belt knife—the weight of the log—sawing at the lead line until it broke—

The water carrying her away . . .

The Companion shuddered, then sighed. His head came to rest on the grass, his eyes closing.

“Go on,” Wil said, softly. “She’s waiting.”

With Vehs and Wil’s permission, Kaylene took a lock of Alrek’s white hair. She tucked it into the carved box, alongside Elene’s things.

All of Boarsden came to bury the Companion. The sun was heading for the west by the time Wil and Lelia left, the Bard riding behind him, thin arms circling his waist.

:Chosen,: Vehs said.

:Hm?:

:You should really visit your father sometime.:

Wil stiffened. :Maybe someday.:

“What’s wrong?” Lelia asked.

“Nothing,” Wil replied, making a conscious effort to relax his shoulders. “What are they feeding you in the Palace? Water and moonbeams? You’re practically all bones.”

“Moonbeams? Bright Lady, no. Too fattening.” But the jest sounded faltering at best, and he wondered.

They spent the night at the inn. Lelia was departing early. There was no talk of singing tonight; Wil had a feeling he wouldn’t need it anymore.

:How often does this sort of thing happen, Vehs?: Wil asked.

:A Companion surviving his Herald? Not often. The shock alone . . . I don’t know how Alrek endured it.:

:Promise me you wouldn’t do something like this. Please.:

Vehs went quiet. Then, :Do you jest? After putting up with a Chosen like you, I’ll be galloping for the Bright Havens when my time comes!:

Wil snorted, set his empty cup aside and headed for the stairs.

:That’s truly morbid.:

:Be glad I don’t take a head start!:

:Yes, yes,: Wil thought, smirking as he opened the door to his room. :I’m such a burden on—:

Lelia was curled up on his bed. She opened an eye as he entered and smiled.

Wil stood very still, finding it suddenly hard to breathe.

:Good night, “Vanyel,”: Vehs murmured.

“So. I was thinking,” Lelia said.

“Yes?” Wil managed.

Lelia pushed back the covers. “To the hells with our professional relationship.”

He groped for words and finally said, “This wasn’t what I meant by tucking me in.”

She laughed, and she was still laughing as he kicked the door shut behind him and went to her.

Chapter 10 - The Bride’s Task - Michael Z. Williamson and Gail L. Sanders

Keth’re’son shena Tale’sedrin was learning weapons work: the sword. This would have been useful to know for his journey to Valdemar, but his people were warriors from horseback and with the bow–not with the sword and dagger and on foot. He stepped aside from a sweep, blocked and countered, but his teacher parried that and beat back at him.

:But no knowledge is ever wasted, Chosen. You won’t always have a horse to hand. What if I were injured? Just because your people haven’t done something before, it doesn’t mean that it’s not a valid way to do things.:

Keth’ replied, :I know, “There is no one true way.” But it’s taking some getting used to. Traditions have always played a strong role in the life of a Shin’a’in; they had to.:

:Right now, you need to pay attention to your role here, or the weaponsmaster is going to give you the “traditional” bruises.:

:You know, I would probably be doing something like this at home as well. I wonder how Nerea is doing with her lessons; she was always better with the bow than me.:

:You miss her.:

:Did you really expect that to change? We are pledged. She’s why I work so hard at these lessons. I only hope that she’ll wait until I can return. I’m not sure she understood why I had to come up here when I wasn’t sure myself.:

Yssanda was silent.

“There’s a herd of horses in the Palace courtyard,” one guard said.

“Why is there a herd of horses in the courtyard?” asked the other.

“I don’t know, but isn’t that a Shin’a’in on the back of one of them?”

“Sure looks like it. Heya, it’s a girl! And look, she’s getting down.”

“Do you think we should tell somebody?”

Sergeant of the Guard Selwin spoke loudly behind them, “Yes, you halfwits, I think you should tell somebody! You, Rolin, go get Herald Captain Kerowyn. At a run! You, Vark, suggest to the young lady that she should stay outside the Palace door.”

“Yes, sir!” the two guards saluted in unison and moved with a sense of purpose.

Shaking his head, the young guard sergeant moved toward what seemed to be an escalating argument. The burly guard was having an increasingly difficult time with the slim Shin’a’in, who seemed determined to simply get through that door. He’d managed so far without actually laying a hand on her, but it didn’t appear that was going to last very much longer. She wasn’t so much aggressive as persistent.

Moving past the string of exceptionally quiet and serene horses, Selwin came within range of a contrastingly loud and agitated Shin’a’in girl.

“She doesn’t speak Valdemaran, sir!”

“I’m gathering that impression. Let’s see what I can do.” He strained to remember a bit of the language.

In very slow and careful Shin’a’in he said, “Please hold, coming someone who speaks language.”

The young girl nodded briskly and moved back to reassure her riding horse. Selwin wasn’t sure who needed the reassurance more, the horse or her.

Herald Captain Kerowyn didn’t take long to arrive, which was all to the better as far as Sergeant Selwin was concerned. He wasn’t a diplomat and very much preferred going back to his post near the main gates. He simply briefed Kerowyn on what had happened so far, saluted, and then gestured the guards to head back to the gate.

Striding forward, Herald Captain Kerowyn gave the impression of impatience. She didn’t hide it. It might help speed this encounter.

:What happened to Shin’a’in staying on the Plains, where they belonged?:

:What happened? The Mage Storms happened and erased the tasks the Shin’a’in had been given by their Star-eyed.:

Kerowyn really hadn’t needed the rejoinder to what had been a rhetorical question, but trust Sayvil to make sure her opinion was heard–needed or not.

“Welcome to Haven. I’m Herald Captain Kerowyn. What brings you here so far from the Plains?”

“My name is Nerea shena Tale’sedrin. I’m here looking for my pledged, Keth’re’son shena Tale’sedrin. The Clan Elders said that he had come up here for training in his ‘Gifts.’ ” Her skepticism in the need for such training was obvious. “They gave me permission to bring his Clan share up here to him when the Tale’sedrin came up for the Bolton Fair. Where is he?”

“Ah.” Suddenly Kerowyn understood both her animosity and her vulnerability. By giving her permission to bring Keth’s Clan share up here to him, the Clan Elders were both telling him that they weren’t expecting him to come back to the Plains and giving him permission to stay where he was. They were also putting the responsibility of telling his pledged this, off their shoulders and onto his.

:Practical but not very kind of them. This Nerea must have been quite a nuisance.:

:Yes,: Kerowyn sighed to herself, :And now she’s our nuisance. Sayvil, please tell Dean Teren about the situation out here and ask him to bring the Shin’a’in envoy with him if possible. Have them meet us at the stables.:

To the girl, she replied, “He is here at the Collegium. But first, we need to get these horses settled and out of the way. If you’ll follow me, I’ll lead you around to the stables. There should be room for them there.” Kerowyn knew better than to offer her any help with this. After all she’d gotten them here from Bolton. It would also keep the girl busy while Kerowyn figured out what to do. The girl followed agreeably enough, since the horses were something she cared for. She did not seem to care for local rules.

The Companion-relayed message brought Dean Teren down from his office in a rush. From another direction, the Shin’a’in Envoy, Shaman Lo’isha shena Pretara’sedrin, was only a minute behind. The Dean arrived at the stable entrance panting. The Shaman heaved one sigh and had his breath back under control.

The Dean said, “A Shin’a’in invasion? That wasn’t quite the message, but I gather this matter is important?”

“Not quite,” Kerowyn said, hiding a smile. “However, we do have a Shin’a’in girl, far out of her area, seeking her pledged, who is one of your students.” She indicated the stables.

“I see,” the Dean said, and he seemed to grasp the import. He followed her gesture, to where the girl was taking proper care of the horses, including a quick brushing, with an economy born of lifelong experience.

When Nerea finished watering them at the trough and ensured they had a panful of oats and plenty of hay each, she turned and walked back. She seemed fully aware of the Dean and Shaman, but she waited for Kerowyn to make the introductions. She greeted the Dean with a bow, and spoke formally to the Shaman.

“Nerea, there are things I must attend to, but the Dean and Shaman will aid you.”

“Thank you for the introduction, Cousin.”

“You are welcome.”

With that, Kerowyn turned and left, intending to find out just who in Bolton let Nerea off her leash with fifteen horses and who there might be missing her.

Lo’isha shena Pretara’sedrin, Shaman and Shin’a’in Envoy, found himself left with the problem. With Kerowyn gone, he was both translator for the Dean, speaker for his own, and the only possible authority figure the girl might acknowledge.

Neutrally, he said, “Nerea, you are far from our lands.”

“As are you, Elder. We both have our reasons,” she replied, with not quite a smile.

“Yes. You are here for your pledged, I’m told.”

“I am. If he is to be here, I am to be with him.”

He recognized her expression now—determination, with a slight challenge.

Lo’isha translated for Teren. Teren raised his eyebrows.

“Well, first I suppose I need you to help explain about the training.”

Lo’isha nodded and translated for Teren.

Dean Teren twisted his mouth for a moment, apparently in thought, then spoke. “Nerea,” he said, “Mind-magic is much more than empathy for animals. I know you can work with these creatures—” he gestured toward the stables “—better than most people, and it’s a natural talent for you. However, Keth’ is able to do the same to people and objects, whether they want it or not, whether he wants it or not. He and his traveling companions were attacked not far from the city on their way here. His reaction caused unconsciousness for the brigands, and two never recovered properly, being mind-lame since then.” He waited while Lo’isha caught up.

“Well, good,” she said. “I approve of retribution to such grek’ka’shen.”

Teren winced slightly at that.

“Perhaps, but it wasn’t an intentional response. He panicked, they collapsed. This could happen to innocent people, too. Nerea, I understand pledging is something that has been planned for some time. You must understand that his Mind-magic changes things. He needs to learn to control it, for his own safety, and yours, and that of others.” Lo’isha translated.

She stared right back at Teren, then spoke to Lo’isha. “I understand that. You must understand that our pledge doesn’t change due to side matters. He is alive, he is very much himself, and he is very much mine. I remain with him and he with me. Explain that to him, please.” She gave a single, firm nod. With a raised eyebrow at her firmness, Lo’isha turned and translated for Teren.

Teren said, “That is not possible.” The flat tone in his voice almost did not need translation.

“For you, perhaps not. I assure you it is quite possible for me.” She sounded almost haughty, certainly confident and stubborn, and yet calm. She was like a mountain in storm, while the trees swayed in distress.

The Dean looked at Lo’isha in controlled exasperation. It wasn’t that she didn’t understand. She understood fully and was unswayed.

The Shaman placed a calming hand on Teren’s wrist and tried a different tack.

“It is obvious this is true. Things have not changed for you, and you are on your course. However, have they remained the same for him?” Lo’isha spoke with the authority of a Shaman and brought up exactly what Nerea did not want to hear.

She flushed slightly.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I haven’t seen him since he left our lands. That is why I am here now. This must be resolved between us.” She almost stamped her foot in emphasis.

“I don’t disagree. This training, though, is for safety. Consider a fire on the Plains. There’s a reason children are taught to tend a fire carefully. They must know how to judge fuel, to avoid a flare of flames and disaster.”

Her expression was most put upon.

“I don’t seek to hinder that. Only to be near him.”

Inwardly Lo’isha sighed; the girl wasn’t being unreasonable, just stubborn, and adamant, and unswerving in her intent. The Shaman said, “Well, then please let me start by offering a place to stay and clean up from the journey, in the embassy in the Hawkbrother ekele.”

She widened her eyes slightly.

“Thank you,” she said. “I will be comfortable with our cousins.”

“If you wait, I will show you the way. I and the Dean need to discuss how we can arrange this meeting for you.”

With a frown and flick of her eyes, she said, “You have only to tell me where he is, but clearly that is too simple for this city, with its costumes and rules and gates and castes.” She paused briefly, as if only then aware of her bad manners. “Forgive me. Thank you for your hospitality. I will leave you to your discussion, and I will await your direction, for now.”

For now, Lo’isha thought. This wasn’t over by far.

He watched her move a discreet distance away, enough to be in another tent, were there any tents here. She paid attention to some detail of the bricks and moss, and, while not relaxed, she was not intruding.

He turned to the Dean.

Teren asked, “How do we get her out of here?” in a whisper. He glanced over suspiciously at her.

“I don’t know that we can. It would be up to her and her pledged.”

“The distance should have made this impossible, especially for one so young.”

“For our people, they are man and woman grown. You mustn’t mistake her for a child.”

“I’m not mistaking her for a problem.” The Dean clutched his hands together.

“No, but you are mistaking her for your problem. I will show her to the ekele. Then we can talk.”

“Very well, and thank you. Then we can have Keth’ deal with the issue.”

Teren seemed quite exasperated, and Lo’isha surmised that by “issue” he meant “sending her home.”

He didn’t think it would be that easy.

“I will meet with you shortly,” he said. Then he turned, and to Nerea said, “Come then, and I will show you to the ekele.”

Teren was in his office when Lo’isha returned. He gratefully put aside his writing and said, “Please, have a seat.” Lo’isha sat in the one available chair in the cluttered and paper–filled office.

“Always one chair not used for storage, I see,” the Shaman offered with a chuckle.

Teren shrugged and nodded and chuckled back. “It’s my way. If anyone were to straighten my clutter, I’d never find anything again. But as to the other . . . Thank you for your aid in this matter. This is most awkward. Students are unaccompanied, and if they are not single when they commence training, they are by the time they graduate. This is how it is done, and most arrive knowing it. If he’s to be a Herald . . .”

“You are assuming he will complete the training and follow your chosen path. There are at least two people assuming his fate for him. It seems to me that is a question for him to answer.”

Teren looked startled at that. “How could he refuse to be a Herald?”

“Quite easily. Are you asking, ‘Will he be the first to refuse?’ ”

Teren had no response. He never considered that possibility. There were traditions and cultural assumptions at the Collegium. Those weren’t necessarily the traditions and assumptions of the boy, and they most definitely weren’t those of the girl.

By choosing him, Yssanda had thrown things into a fine tempest. Perhaps it was an amusement for her. Or, it might be a necessity. What would have possessed a Companion to go all the way to the Dhorisha Plains to choose a Shin’a’in child? What would Valdemar need him for, or was it that the Shin’a’in would need him more?

Regardless of the cause, this situation needed resolution.

“I suppose we should arrange for them to meet,” he said, leaning back and stroking his chin. “After that, we’ll see.”

“Are you going to warn the young man?”

“I’m not sure we should. He’ll want to meet at once, and it will distract him. I’ll arrange some time, and we’ll let them meet. He can explain to her better than we.”

“I’m not sure it will be that simple.”

“Oh, of course he’ll have second thoughts and some homesickness. However, he’s a fine pupil. He’s learned a lot of fundamentals quickly, and he’s even accepted the separation. It was long in his mind. They’ve both grown and changed, and this will make it clear.”

The next morning, Lo’isha met Nerea at the ekele entrance. She was staring wide-eyed at the lush and fragrant growth. It was very different from the Plains. and being surrounded by the local terrain only emphasized the differences. Hearing his footfalls on the graveled path, Nerea turned and greeted the Shaman.

“Bright the day, Elder,” she said cheerfully.

“Did you sleep well?”

“I did, thank you.”

“How are the younger-sibs?”

“They are comfortable and getting refreshed. How much is stabling? I have little money, but I can offer work.”

“Nothing is required for now. You are a guest at our invitation.”

“That’s gracious of you.”

Quite a few youths would have assumed hospitality without even thinking. They expected adults to manage things for them. The locals had trouble grasping that, by Shin’a’in tradition, she was a woman grown. Of course she asked about debts.

“Actually, it’s gracious of the Dean and of the Queen,” he smiled. “But it’s something they plan for, so you need not mention it.”

“I will do so, at least once, but I understand,” she said.

He sighed, slightly. Yes, the ways here were strange, but as a guest, one should learn and abide by the local rules. She was a headstrong and inexperienced youth, well-intentioned but fiery.

“If you are ready, then please come with me.”

They walked out into a damp spring morning. It had rained during the night. It might be warm and muggy later, but was clear and fresh now.

He led her through Companion’s Field, along Palace garden paths, and to the Collegium main hall. At a side entrance, Teren awaited, and with him Keth’re’son shena Tale’sedrin.

Nerea was not so formal with Keth’. She charged forward and threw her arms around him in a tackling hug, feet off the ground and looking melted in place. Lo’isha stood back and let them resolve that. Their embrace was one of innocent companionship, not of long-parted lovers, but it still held that same intensity.

Keth’s mind whirled. How did Nerea get here? But she was so warm, and her grip so tight. He could smell her hair and the scent of her leathers. He closed his eyes and hugged her closely.

When he finally bent to put her down and her feet touched the ground, she stepped back and grinned hugely at him, her dark eyes glowing.

She said, “It is so good to see you, my pledged. I have traveled far to keep our bond.” Her voice, that language, was music to him, after months of the strange tongue and stiffer rules it used. Shin’a’in flowed from the lips as was proper, Valdemaran seemed to march backward instead.

He remembered there were others here, and they were being watched. He kept hold of one of her hands and said, “I am so thrilled to have you here. But I must introduce you to someone.”

He tugged and she followed him, smiling, into Companion’s Field and away from prying eyes.

“Who did you need me to meet?” Nerea asked.

They had been walking away from the Palace and the Collegium for some minutes now, while he enjoyed her company. She’d come so far. He had so many questions and so much to say, but first he had to introduce her to his Companion.

There she came, from a shady copse of trees, toward them. He pointed as she came close, then laid a hand on her shoulder.

He said, “This is Yssanda. She is, in part, the reason why I came here.”

“She’s beautiful. Good lines, broader head. How did they get the silver hooves, and does she suffer any eyesight problems with those blue eyes? Do the hooves breed true?”

:I can see as well as you do, dear, and sometimes clearer. And don’t you even think about breeding me—I can pick my own mates, thank you very much!: Yssandra let him hear her comment, even though she spoke to Nerea.

Well, that certainly moved things along.

Nerea stood very still. The sensation of having someone speaking inside one’s mind was disconcerting to say the least, he recalled. Having that sensation come from a horse made it even more so. While the Shin’a’in consider horses to be their younger-sibs, they didn’t expect them to talk back.

“Nerea, she’s not a horse,” Keth’ said gently. “She’s a Companion, a person in her own right. She’s been my friend, teacher, and ally while I’ve been in this foreign place. Even after I’m done here, she’s going to have to be a part of any of our plans.”

“What are those plans going to be? You’ve already been gone so long, am I still a part of any plan?”

Keth’s heart went out to her. She seemed to shrink inside herself a little, both wanting to hear the answer and not wanting to hear. Nerea deserved his honesty, but he wasn’t sure himself.

“We need to talk about that. I think that’s why you’re here.”

Dean Teren sat in his office, yet again considering the problem that Nerea and Keth’ presented him. Neither one of the youngsters was taking into account what the Collegium might have to say in the matter—they just assumed that they could order the world according to what they wanted. After all, they were young and together—who could stand against them . . .

That was exactly the reason Herald Trainees were expected to be unaccompanied.

It occurred to the Dean that while it was certainly possible to stand against them, it might be very problematic to do so—sufficiently so to give the Bards song fodder for a long time.

Keth’ wasn’t precisely a disappointment. He learned very well. However, he hadn’t internalized the right attitude and didn’t see a problem with Nerea remaining here. She stayed at the ekele and had worked out a labor exchange for lodging. She was quite competent.

Teren realized he’d underestimated them. A Valdemaran youth of that age could be swayed through reason, emotion, or social suggestion. Not only were these two from another culture, they’d grown up much faster. They were a strange mix of adult minds in juvenile spirits and bodies. He needed to talk to the envoy again.

Keth’ walked with Lo’isha, near Companion’s Field, with his own concerns. There were few people he could even begin to discuss this with.

“It’s aggravating,” Keth’ said. “All this past year, I’ve been told I must continue alone. I had accepted that—well, somewhat—but now she shows up here. Here. Halfway across the continent.”

The Shaman paused to study a flower. Keth’ was not interested in flowers.

“It should be flattering,” the Elder said.

“It is,” Keth’ agreed, quickly. “It’s also very inconvenient.”

“Not just for you.”

“I understand. But I want her to stay. I want to go home with her. So does she. I also do want to continue my studies. There’s so much to learn, and I’m improving.” He paused, unsure what to add.

“You are improving,” the Shaman assured him. “You also can’t control this situation. Unlike Mind-magic, this involves people’s intent. Even if you had that power, it would be unwise and unfair to use it.”

He nodded. That such might be possible was disturbing.

As to the matter at hand, he asked, “So who does control it? And what should I do?”

“We each control our own part, or we think we do. Eventually, each of us will find a path that fits the events.”

“That makes sense,” he agreed, and he did feel better. “I just wish it would hurry up.” He realized he was pacing back and forth as the Shaman strolled.

The Shaman said, “It is better that it take time. As to other things, I understand Nerea is taking language lessons?” He smiled with a twinkle.

“Yes, Clan k’Leshya also have given her lodging and some small allowance in exchange for stable work. I let her have a little of my own funds,” he admitted, blushing. “I do care for her.” She was so stubborn. Or not stubborn, but simply unswayable.

“There is no reason you shouldn’t,” the Shaman said.

“But they want me to become a Herald, and Heralds—”

“You are not yet a Herald, and you remain Keth’-re’son shena Tale’sedrin. Those are two more things that must be reconciled.”

“This doesn’t sound possible,” he said. He’d wanted reassurance. This was making him feel more depressed. He didn’t feel Shin’a’in, nor Valdemaran, nor even himself now.

“It is all possible, and we need not know how at this point. It will all resolve in time.”

“Thank you, Elder, I suppose.” He tried to smile. “Can you give me something more immediate and practical?”

“You are free for the day. Why not take your pledged into Haven? I’m sure she’d like to see more than stables.”

Lo’isha found himself quite busy. While he couldn’t fault Kerowyn for handing the problem off, and it did involve his people, it was quite an interesting one, with all that entailed.

“So, Teren, what are we to discuss today?” He took the empty chair and noticed it was a different one. The piles of parchment had moved.

“The same as we’ve discussed every day for the last two weeks. Nerea.”

“Yes, she’s quite the item.”

“A pest. Sweet, pretty, too clever for her own good, and a pest.” Teren twiddled a quill in his fingers.

“The language lessons?” he guessed.

“That, and still being here, and loitering around. I suggested she stay in Bolton. I offered to pay for quarters across town, to make some distance.”

“She would refuse, of course.”

“She did.” Yes, Teren was most agitated, and on such a fine day.

“Is she affecting his studies?”

“Not that I’ve noticed, and I’ve been watching. It is disruptive to others, though, on top of his existing differences as a foreigner.”

Lo’isha kept calm and reassuring. “Well, I should think that would be good for the other trainees. They’ll have to deal with such matters in the field, after all.”

“Indeed. I would just prefer their practice problems be more organized.”

“You can’t send her away,” he pointed out.

“I know.” Teren stood and looked out the window. “I’d hoped she’d get bored and leave, or he’d realize he’d grown apart from her. Something. If anything, they are reconnecting and throwing sand in everyone’s shoes.”

“Then perhaps now is a time to walk barefoot and enjoy the sensation.”

Teren said, “Walking barefoot also involves thorns.”

“Then walk carefully,” Lo’isha offered his friend with a smile. “I have a feeling these thorns will be trodden down by many feet.”

“Let me show you the city,” Keth’ said. While it wasn’t home, it was a fascinating place, and he was eager to introduce her to some of the more interesting foods.

“Whatever you like,” she said with a smile. It caught him off guard.

He offered an arm and led the way toward the horse and animal market, figuring to stop at the Compass Rose just beyond it. It wasn’t the cheapest, but it didn’t attract lowlifes, and the usual clientele wouldn’t be surprised to see a pair of Shin’a’in.

They were almost to the market when he realized why her smile had concerned him.

There was a glint.

They’d both grown in a year, and she felt like a part of him. Then he realized he felt the same way. Even if he did agree with the Collegium’s rules, and he’d only admitted to understanding them, this was something he wanted more.

“The Ashkevrons do have some fine horses,” Nerea said. “We have better, but not by much, and no others I’ve seen come close.”

“Well, they do buy ours and breed them.”

“Certainly, but it takes more than stock. It takes care and raising.” Her energy never faded. He’d always liked that.

There were a lot of horses here today. It must be some market day. There were wagons, carts, horses with pannier saddles, mounts for nobles and the wealthy, and draft horses for farmers. Some of the wagons contained oats, nuts, apples, and other fare meant for the animals, and several stores had displays of combs and brushes. There were also saddles, tack and clothes for riders, and even a carpenter’s display of stable making. The place smelled of fine horseflesh, and he enjoyed it.

“Some very fine creatures,” she said, smiling. She was relaxed, he realized, and comfortable for now. With food and fine weather, there was nowhere he’d rather be.

Which was odd; this place was not home. He could speak the language well enough to get by, but it still felt foreign.

Rather than ponder it, he decided to just enjoy the day. Her hand was warm as she clutched his. Her shoulder brushed him every couple of steps. He was comfortably fed and had no pressing worries for the day.

It was at that moment that the Star-eyed saw fit to give him pressing worries.

A cart-hitched horse suddenly stepped sideways, reared up, and came down in a limping gallop. His cart knocked a stall askew, spilled some contents—bags of feed—and rode over the collapsed legs of the vendor’s display.

The horse was clearly hurt, right rear leg tipping the ground as the rest clattered on the cobbles. People dove from its path, shouting and screaming. Other animals shied and whinnied, backed and sidled, until carts crashed and tangled in a huge mess. It would take hours to sort out. It had happened in moments.

The chaos spread as other horses and even smaller animals caught the whiff of panic. Their instincts fought their restraints, and the din of it all was astounding.

Then Nerea stepped into the street.

Keth’ knew what she intended and took a half step to grab her, then decided he would only make it worse. He had no doubt she knew what she was doing, but he wasn’t sure the horse did.

Three people buffeted him as they darted past, urgently clearing the street and seeking somewhere out of reach of rearing hooves and twisting wagons.

Then the horse, a very handsome dapple, reached Nerea at a near-gallop still dragging the remains of the cart. She stood calmly, stepped aside just enough to avoid it, and stroked his flank with her fingers.

He slowed haltingly and stumbled two steps forward as the tilting cart’s momentum shoved at him.

Nerea walked around him, fingers tracing his muscles. After the dapple was calmed, she stepped over to a dun mare. Nerea held a hand to her muzzle, and she quieted. Then a roan stallion dropped, relaxed and stepped out of the wreckage of a pushcart yoke. The waves of calm rippled out, where waves of panic had flowed only breaths before.

Nerea turned back to the dapple, walked around, and touched his injured leg. He raised it at once, and she studied his hoof. Taking out her belt knife, she pried something long and sharp out of the frog. Releasing the foot, she patted the dapple’s flank.

And Keth’ smiled, because he knew what could keep her here, near him and near the horses.

He would stay here and finish his studies, because Mind-magic, and Animal Speaking, ran through his people. It was inevitable others would show their talents, and possibly more of them. He’d be needed to teach those children of the Shin’a’in who had Mind-magic and who could not or would not leave the Plains. Nerea would stay here until then and teach the Valdemarans about horses, for wisdom ran both ways.

He also understood why the day had been so sweet, even though Valdemar wasn’t his home. Nor, anymore, were the Plains.

Home was where Nerea was.

“So, how are our lovebirds doing? More importantly, has Nerea started home yet?” Teren asked Lo’isha hopefully, after serving the Shaman some tea.

Lo’isha smiled at him.

“I think that is a vain hope, my friend. She does not look as if she is leaving anytime soon. If she were easy to dissuade, she would have never left the Plains in the first place.”

Teren sighed and leaned against his desk. “What am I going to do with them?”

“Why do anything? They will solve their own problems and have indeed begun to do so.” Lo’isha calmly sipped his tea.

“What do you mean?” asked Teren suspiciously. He had the feeling that he wasn’t going to like this.

“After that incident at the horse market, Nerea has received more offers for work and horse training than she knows what to do with. She isn’t going anywhere,” he repeated.

“What about Keth’? Has he spoken to you at all?”

Lo’isha sat back and steepled his fingers.

“Yes, he has asked me about becoming a teacher on the Plains. He believes his talents lie not with Valdemar but with his—our—people. He’s not entirely wrong. Her talent, of course, is a latent power manifesting itself. There will be others. He can hardly be the only one needing to be trained in Mind-magic. Since the Storms there is now no reason not to. My people would learn better from one who has the proper attitude; magic is not to be meddled with but controlled and tempered.”

“But he is supposed to be a Herald! Anyone a Companion chooses has to be a Herald!” Teren was agitated. He’d thought Lo’isha concurred with him.

“Why? ‘There is no one true way.’ It’s time to change. Not every Shin’a’in with power can trek to Valdemar, and certainly they can’t remain here. At some point, we must have our own schools. In the meantime, he will be an intermediary, learning here, then mentoring others. Perhaps one day he will return to the Plains.”

Teren said, “That’s not what he wants.”

Lo’isha replied, “Nor is it what you want. Nor even what I’d want, if I had a choice. None of us do, though. The Storms have blown the slate clean for us down on the Plains.”

He took a final sip of tea and placed the cup down on a clear spot amid the clutter.

“I believe they have for Valdemar as well.”

Chapter 11 - Fog of War - Ben Ohlander

Gonwyn pressed the bloody, filthy rag down onto where his teeth had been broken by the arrow hit. The helmet’s cheek-piece had saved his life, but pain from the splintered molars flared as he tried to stanch the bleeding. He spat more blood and fragments onto the leafy ground. Distant fighting flared up, the rattle of combat carried across the torn ground. His part of the field might have gone quiet, but fighting still raged in the center and on the left.

He nudged Rath with his heels, and they moved together up the draw,and through the trees. The Companion, fastidious about her hooves, stepped around the windrows of fallen bodies. Tedrel and Valdemaran lay commingled, embraced in death.

He crossed into the rally point, well behind the lines . . . at least until the lines had moved and brought heavy fighting. The low mounded hill and its sparse trees stank of blood and loosened bowels, thick with the stench of death. Nearby wounded had been gathered here, at least until the Tedrels had swept the Valdemaran forces back. Now, the injured felt no pain.

He thought Adreal lay dead, propped against a tree with a bloody blanket pressed to his middle. The Herald Master opened his eyes and reached for his notched sword, bringing it up in defense before he recognized Gonwyn.

Gonwyn slid out of the saddle and moved closer. Claris, Adreal’s Companion, came into sight, lamed by a gashing wound in her left rear leg. The skin lay open, exposing the muscle beneath. Blood slicked the Companion’s side, running from haunch to hock.

“Where the hell was our support?” Gonwyn asked. “It was raining anvils on us over there.”

Adreal half-smiled at him. “You sound like you have a mouth full of marbles.”

Gonwyn made an apologetic gesture toward his blood-crusted face. “Got hit by a spent arrow. Lost most of the afternoon asleep in a warm pile of dead other people. Was missed by the Tedrel looters.”

“There’s your answer.” Adreal shook his head. “Tedrel happened. Their cavalry never showed. The Lord Marshal took all the reserves and our horse to go deal with something clever the Tedrels thought up. They took all the Heralds who were controlling movement on this side. They went out of play just as they would have been useful.”

Adreal coughed as he shifted his weight against the tree. “You do know that King Sendar was killed?’

Gonwyn winced as he brushed his tongue over the damage. “Yes.” It came out as “yeth.” “I heard he was down but was back up. Rath told me he was killed when I came to. What happened?”

Adreal shrugged and coughed again. A thin spittle line of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. His tone remained dry and normal. “Don’t know the full of it. He took what body of troops was near and charged into the center. Cracked it. Most of the Tedrel forces fell on that wedge. Just about everyone in that charge was killed, but it took the pressure off the flanks.”

“What about the Heir?” Gonwyn asked.

“Alive.” Adreal wiped his hand across his face. Gonwyn could see the sweat even in the cool air. “Selenay is alive. I heard Alberich got her out before that part of the line got swamped. There was some kind of assault or raid. He got her out.”

Gonwyn spat again and reached into Rath’s saddlebags for sour field wine. He rinsed his mouth, winced at the astringent bite, then offered the bladder to Adreal. The Herald refused with a shake of his head.

“He didn’t turn on us?” Gonwyn asked. “I always thought he was too good to be true.”

“Nope. Mr. ‘Hide in Haven’ was all over the map today, bad cess to the Tedrels. He got Selenay out after Sendar died, kept the attack going in the face of the King’s fall, and led the regrouping in the absence of the Lord Marshal.”

“Where’s Talamir, then? Where’s the King’s Own?”

“He was near Sendar when he went down. They got Tavar.” Both men shared a glance, first at Adreal’s Claris, then at Gonwyn’s Rath. The ultimate horror for a Herald, the loss of bond and blood, of a Companion’s fall. Gonwyn knew both that he would take his own life if Rath fell, and that they talked about a dead man.

They both glanced as the fighting on the left side of the Valdemaran line grew more intense. Distant horns followed by a giant crash as two forces came together.

That took Gonwyn by surprise. “Lord Maybe got off his ass?”

Adreal laughed without mirth. “No. Once Sendar fell, the center went mad with fury, and most of the inner parts of the line bent inward. Commanders farther out on the flanks held back. Either they had farther to go, or there were local problems.” He didn’t say what Gonwyn had heard again and again through camp rumor . . . that the less reliable commanders were to be put the farthest on the flanks.

Adreal ignored his expression and continued. “Sorcha went to Lord Maybe to press home on that side and avenge the King. The rage was on them, too. Sorcha was arguing with him, and Maybe was saying “maybe,” when something the size of a crow came and took his head off.” He smiled grimly. “Sorcha’s Elissa was impressed, and Companions don’t impress easy.” Adreal coughed again. “That Eastholder Sergeant . . . Split-Face . . . took over, and two candlemarks later rolled up their right side like a carpet. This was midafternoon. You can still hear that part of the fight.”

Gonwyn was surprised. “Not one of Maybe’s officers? They brought enough.”

Adreal smiled. “Have you seen that bastard? Looks like he got his mug cut in half with an ax? Would you tell him no?”

Gonwyn shook his head. “I saw him once, when I was running messages for Colonel Perfect Boots. You’d need stones the size of catapult shot to go up against him. ”

Adreal shrugged then, though it cost him. “I think the Lord Marshal put him there deliberately. You should have heard Maybe squawking about command interference. Threatened to take the matter to the King.”

“Anyway . . .” Adreal picked up a broken arrow and drew in the dirt. “Split-Face broke through their right side and is driving into their center and rear. Their entire right side collapsed, with many routing into the center. Most of that was thrown over by Sendar’s charge. What’s left of the Tedrel right wing folded back like a gate, but Split-Face ripped right through that. He’s now somewhere back in there, cheerfully tearing their rear echelons to shreds.”

Gonwyn tried to whistle and settled for a wince. “He’s that good?”

Adreal shrugged. “Seems so. They’re outnumbered, but I’ve never met an Eastholder yet with enough brains to do basic math. It probably hasn’t occurred to him yet that they should be getting swamped. They’re all still in a blood fury, so that helps.”

He made more marks to show the original Valdemaran lines, then scratched them out. “If we could hold, then we might be the anvil to their hammer, but as it stands, he’s pushing them all into us.”

A wounded Guardsman approached with a water bottle and a loaf. Gonwyn took the bottle and gratefully swigged from it. He sluiced out a mouthful of pink-tinged water before he drank. He considered the bread, the state of his mouth, and passed on the loaf. It was not a hard choice.

“Can Sorcha hold him up, give us time to reknit?” he asked.

Adreal stabbed the arrow into the dirt map. “No. She went down a little after midafternoon. With Eiven dead, she was our last link to the far flank on that side of the line.”

Gonwyn winced. “Eiven and Selim. Sorcha and Elissa. That’s seven pairs today.”

“Eight” Adreal corrected. “Morevon got hit with one of those floating, flaming bastards. Pinned him and Elath to the ground.”

Gonwyn made no response for a long moment. “It’s been a rough day for the Companions Field.”

Adreal laughed again, a dry humorless laugh. “It’s been a rough day for us all.” He stabbed the arrow into the ground. “There, I’ve shown you mine, you show me yours.”

Gonwyn wiped Adreal’s marks with his boot. He absently noted that blood had already stained the leather. He flexed his stiffening hand.

“Not much to tell”, he said, “I was on the ass-end of the line supporting Captain Arland’s Guards Regiment,and a herd of Orthallen’s militia. This morning I was all the way past where the oak grove burned, watching for Tedrel cavalry trying to push our flanks. We were still holding in our original deployments. The militia gave a good account of themselves. They broke the shock troops well enough. There was no serious effort to turn our flank . . . they were just keeping us in play at first.”

Gonwyn made more marks to show the evolving fight. “We’d started to give ground after we got intelligence that the Tedrel cavalry was missing and to watch our flanks. Arland had just refused his line to double spears on the right, when every damned Tedrel ever born washed over us. I saw the Terilee in flood once, rising up a dike. That’s how it felt. Arland called me and his scouts in at that point.”

He laughed. “Ormona was Mindspeaking for Arland and called for reinforcements. She got, ‘Sorry, they’re busy. Good luck.’ ” He stabbed the dirt with the arrow.

“The line bent, but we were doing okay. Then we got word that Sendar was down, and Orthallen . . . he commanded the bulk of the militia . . . ordered everyone back to the second rally line. Disengaging in the middle of a fight is damned hard, and while the militia was doing well, they weren’t up to this. Arland’s regiment got sorted out, but the militia shattered like a dropped pot.”

He shrugged. “They would have had us, except that a whole horde of Tedrels took off and started running for the center. There were enough left to make us pay, but it thinned them enough to give us a chance.”

Gonwyn flexed his hand and stared at the trickle of blood that ran down between his middle and ring fingers. The wound in his shoulder had broken open again. “Most everyone got back into the trees,” he continued. “We were scattered from hell to breakfast in those woods. Once those black-hearted bastards sort out Split-Face and figure out we’re broken, they’ll turn the position. Then, we’re done.”

Adreal paused, assessing Gonwyn’s report. “It’s not that easy. Looks like most of the Tedrel leadership went down in Sendar’s charge. There are a whacking great lot of them still out there, but their army is breaking up. Nonetheless, I take your point. This fight may be won, but it isn’t over.”

Gonwyn nodded, feeling the need to explain his own presence away from the fighting. “We’d just gotten word that the King wasn’t down . . . the message got garbled somehow. Rath thinks we picked up a piece of the local chatter—that the King had gone down into the valley . . . but who knows?”

He continued to draw with the arrow. “We heard from Horvis, who was up closer to the center, that King Sendar had charged down into main body, and we were to press forward in support. Orthallen was nowhere to be found. Ormona was supposed to be Mindspeaking for Arland, but Orthallen took her with him, so we got word from a very confused Guardsman riding his captain’s horse. He was looking for a Captain Elesarn, who was supposed to have a cavalry troop, when he found us. He was about a quarter compass off the mark, looking for a horse unit that were gods’ only knew where at that point. We policed him up.”

“Arland ordered us forward, but it took a few minutes to Mindspeak with Horvis and Ormona and get everyone singing the same hymn. Orthallen was supposed to join back up, but Arland didn’t wait. He did a half-left with what he had and started sweeping in toward the center. I think our linear distance would have been about two miles at that point.”

“Most of the Tedrel shock troops scattered when we came back out of the tree line. I was with about a half-company . . . a mixed bag of Guardsmen and militia. We’d hit what was left of the Tedrel shield wall and were doing okay until I got hit with this . . .” he made a gesture at his marred face, . . . “and I went down. When I came to, anything that wasn’t dead was scattered. Arland and the regiment were long gone. I worked my way back to the rally point . . .” He dismissed an hour’s terror, sharp fighting, and the shoulder wound with a shrug.

He looked around at the piles of dead and dying,and the evidence of heavy battle. “. . . Such as it is.”

A shared glance with Adreal told him that the history lessons were over.

“I’m staying here to redirect whoever tries to make the rally point back to the assembly areas below the village. That’s where Her Majesty is trying to spin dung into diamonds.”

“You want me to go there?” Gonwyn asked.

“No,” Adreal replied, “What I want is for you to get to Split-Face and get him to back off . . . but you’d never make it.” He looked at the battered chainmail on the bloodstained Herald. “You were a Guards officer before you were Chosen. I need you to get into those woods and start rounding up the stragglers. There are parts of units all over these hills, and we have to get the strays moving back toward the village . . . that way Her Majesty can knit something together that buys us time. If I can break through the Companion babble, I’ll get word to someone on what you’re about.”

Gonwyn reached down and gripped his friend’s arm. “Be careful. I saw something in the woods that made a Karse demon look like a kitten.”

Adreal returned the grip. “Probably was Karse. The Tedrels raped and burned their way across the country, even if they were in the Sunlord’s pay. This battle is the best thing that ever happened to them. If Tedrel wins, they get a weakened and defeated Valdemar with a Tedrel client for a buffer. If they lose, then they get rid of an annoying and expensive problem. If it calls a draw, then they bleed us. Three throws, and they win each one. So Karse’ll be watching this all very closely.”

Gonwyn looked at the bloodstained blanket and knew the answer beforehand. “Can I help you?”

Adreal lifted the blanket. Gonwyn saw the poniard rammed to the hilt through the chainmail and between Adreal’s ribs. A bright bubble of blood leaked out as he exhaled. “Healer Janse took the pain when they first brought me here, so it doesn’t hurt. I passed out.” He pointed with his chin to where the wounded had been slain as they lay. “When I awoke, this was over.”

He shifted the blanket to cover himself. Gonwyn bent to offer his hand in farewell. Adreal grabbed it with a fierce strength, his expression direct and forceful. “Gonwyn, do you remember what the King said before he left Haven? You like handstrokes too much, and if we’re going get out of this we need brains. Leave the sword in the scabbard. Promise me you’ll steer clear of fights.”

Gonwyn dipped his head, acknowledging without promising. He raised his hand in salute. “See you on the other side.”

Adreal raised his hand in reply, then let it drop. He turned his attention to obliterating every vestige of their quick maps. That was Adreal, careful beyond careful. “Get something to eat and wash your face.” he said, as Gonwyn turned away. “You look like you’ve been wading in an abattoir.”

Gonwyn returned to where Rath stood. The Companion had all but demolished a pile of oats poured from a bag and onto the leafy ground. He could feel the hunger in the big mare, and the bone-deep fatigue.

:No rest for the wicked.: With Rath, there were never questions. Just statements. It used to annoy Gonwyn, but he’d had twenty-five years to get over it.

“Is there ever?” he replied.

The wounded Guardsman stood nearby. He held a soot-stained, steaming pail of water, the handle wrapped in rags. Blood seeped through the bandage on his head and ran down the side of his face. Gonwyn looked at him . . . one pupil the size of an olive, the other a pinpoint.

“Just put it down, son,” he said gently.

The Guardsman looked at him, confused and still.

Gonwyn took the bucket from him. He watched as the young soldier drifted back to where a larger pot of water boiled over a fire.

The Companion answered his unasked question. :His brains were dashed about. Severe, but not fatal if he is well cared for. There will be damage.:

Gonwyn poured most of the warm water into a pail, mixed a double handful of oats into it, and squatted on his heels to use the rest of the hot water to wash off some of the blood and filth. He took a rag and gingerly swabbed the contusion on his temple from when he’d been knocked off Rath. The mare had nearly done a backflip to avoid stepping on him but had still clipped his head and put him out.

:You done making yourself pretty?: Rath was still nose down in the pail, lipping out the last of the steaming oats.

“Yeah,” Gonwyn replied. “You ready?”

:Yes. We should go. Too many oats will make me fat.:

Gonwyn looked at her. With Rath, you could never tell. She might even be serious.

He tightened the bellyband and mounted, settling in the worn saddle.

Herald and Companion moved back down the hill and across the narrow draw at a ground-eating canter. They avoided the lines of dead by unspoken agreement, angling away from the road and down through the leafy drifts to the stream that had been the control feature for the Valdemaran reserve line. They followed it some quarter of a mile, to where it bent sharply to the right. The stream went straight ahead on their crude map.

That had been the beginning of a very bad day. Turned out the map they’d copied was wrong. There were two streams, about a quarter of a mile apart, which meant some of the troops had withdrawn to the wrong stream when Orthallen called retreat. Then, when they’d tried to turn it around, the units were hopelessly scattered, and the reserves were gone. Everything else about this campaign had been a dog’s dinner, so why not the maps?

:Enough.: Rath’s mental voice cut through his internal monologue. The mare stopped suddenly and tensed.

“Adreal?” Gonwyn asked.

:He has passed. Claris has gone mad.: The very matter-of-factness of the mare’s tone told him how deeply she felt the loss. All Companions shared a bond deeper than mortals could understand, but Rath and Claris had been exceptionally close.

Gonwyn forced himself still, pushed down the grief at Adreal’s death and Claris’ loss. He buried it alongside the crushing fatigue, the pain from mouth and shoulder, and the belly-deep fear . . . all the things that were normal to feel,but which he just couldn’t afford.

Rath, sensing his resolve, pressed onward, picking up the pace to move through where the Tedrels had pressed forward, been stopped, and then driven back. The combat here had been brutal, with quarter neither asked nor given. The dead lay thickest where the lines had struggled longest. They rode around a few fragments of Tedrel units, none of which looked much like fighting. Gonwyn and Rath moved together with an abundance of caution, alert to Adreal’s order to avoid trouble. From such came the Karse stories of “ghost horses.”

They slowed after a mile or so, to pick their way carefully through a narrow draw where a small fight had taken place. A dozen dead Valdemarans and rather more Tedrels lay in little heaps and piles. He and Rath had passed this way less than two candlemarks earlier, so this fight had taken place recently. Tedrels were still bleeding through the original Valdemaran lines and into the border hills. This was bad news that needed reporting.

He slid out of the saddle to walk ahead of the mare, scuffing his feet in the leaves as they went. The Tedrels liked caltrops, and having Rath take one through the hoof would be a death-sentence.

He searched the dead Tedrels, rifling through equipment and pockets and looking at shoes. The journey bread was fresh-baked, so they had both ovens and wheat. The shoes were mostly old, but well tended and stuffed with fresh hay to pad the feet. The equipment tended to be simple and poor but well maintained . . . the standard tools of a sell-sword. There were a few small coins but no significant booty or loot. That suggested a couple of things, but none definitive. No writing material, orders, or maps. The mix told him that they were decently supplied and had resources close by. Bakers and cobblers did not strap their kit on a field pack. This was no Tedrel advance guard. This was the Tedrel nation.

In some ways the Tedrels were better supplied than the Valdemarans they faced. King Sendar had to cajole and command to force the Council to put aside its spats and march as one country. The delay gave the army a thrown-together feel, and it was larger than the commissary could support for any length of time. Sendar . . . no, Selenay now, would have little choice but to begin disbanding the army very soon, before it started eating itself to death. They had to do for Tedrel here and now.

He took some buttons, small coins, and other trinkets that might show where the Tedrels had been. He also gathered up a brace of fat rabbits they had snared along the way.

:What are you going to do with those?: Asked Rath. :It’s not like you can chew right now.:

“I’m not going to leave two patriotic Valdemaran rabbits in the clutches of the Tedrels. It’s only right I find a good Valdemaran stomach for them. Even if it’s not mine.”

:Whatever.:

He took the journey bread as well. He wasn’t sure when he would eat, and while food hadn’t been an issue, it was just a matter of time before it was.

He felt Rath touch his mind, sort his conclusions, and make his report.

:It’s still too hard to get through. I’ve passed word to Kantor directly, but he’s preoccupied with Alberich’s problems. I’m trying to get to Eigen, but he and Rimlee are almost out of range. They’re mopping up some Tedrel cavalry. Anlina is up in the center. She’s tied up with sorting out something about the King, and Adreal is dead. Otherwise, there’s still too much confusion.:

Gonwyn shook his head. “The Mindspeaking is an advantage, but we rely on it too much. Once the plan fell apart, so did the way we’d planned to Mindspeak. The Queen might be able to get orders down, my friend, but no way are we going to get word back up.”

:These militia did well. They held their own, then withdrew in good order in about company strength. Should we follow and make our report in person?:

Gonwyn considered it, and the attendant benefits of Healer, wench, bottle, and bed . . . in exactly that order. He judged the direction and likely time and frowned. The sun was well past afternoon and into evening. Adreal knew what he was about. Damned duty.

“No,” he said, reluctantly. “They’re headed toward the roadstead. They’ll be halfway to the village by now. Someone will police them up. We’ll press along the main line of resistance.”

:Thy will be done,: replied the mare.

He turned to mount and felt Rath stiffen.

:Be still, now. There’s a Herald nearby, back up that side wash. Up among the trees.:

Gonwyn turned to look. “There where the big oak is slanted and thicket is close in where the stream tumbles?”

:Yes. It is Herald Danilla. She panicked in the fight. Her Companion is very young and was . . . overcome.:

“What the hell does that mean? Overcome.”

:It means that we are not perfect, Chosen. The girl is frightened, and both are ashamed. Be gentle, Herald Gonwyn.:

“When am I not?” he replied.

Rath flickered about a hundred quick mental images between them.

“All right, but that last one wasn’t my fault. She said the pig was tame.”

He slid his sword out of its scabbard and laid it across the saddle-bow. “Better safe.”

Rath did not respond. The Companion started down the washed-out creek bank and splashed across. Her steps were dainty and careful, feeling for a caltrop even in the water before she put her hoof all the way down.

Gonwyn, in no mood for a fast arrow from a frightened girl, stopped just inside calling distance to the stand of oaks.

“Herald Danilla,” he called. “Come down. It is Herald Gonwyn.” He used a note of command, broadened with inflections of concern and wary friendship.

He could feel the edges of Rath’s Mindppeaking to Danilla’s Companion. Many Heralds could actually hear the great pool of minds that the Companions shared. The skill, not shared by Gonwyn, had been alternately described it as a great joy and great annoyance.

Some few moments passed before he saw movement, then a quick flash as a young Herald in new chainmail and White surcoat led her Companion down from the copse of trees. He waited, letting her come to him, while he scanned the surrounding trees. They had been in this draw too long and were too exposed.

He assessed her condition as she approached, her head down. Her surcoat was streaked with blood, and the left shoulder was spattered with gray lumps that his experienced eye told him were someone else’s brains. Her coat was still a damned sight cleaner than his, though. Her hauberk was tight-laced in the school style, rather than field-laced, telling him she was fresh from the Collegium. First mission, first fight, and it was this butchery?

The Companion was injured, favoring the rear left hoof. The girl looked up at him as she approached. There was a shallow wound high on the haunch, toward the back. It had been well-tended and dressed.

Tear marks traced clean streaks across the Herald’s filthy face. Her hair was matted with blood, probably a cut in her head. He didn’t see any fresh blood, and in any event, he’d lost his healing kit. It would have to keep.

“Equipment?” he asked.

“Sword. Bow,” she replied softly, her voice muffled as she studied her feet.

“Can you ride?”

A pause while she conferred with her Companion. “Yes. Can walk. Can’t run.” Almost a whisper this time.

:I don’t have time for this,: he thought to Rath.

:Make time,: the Companion replied. :They’re Herald and Companion. Leaving them is not an option.:

“Mount up. We need to move.”

She mounted lightly, moving with a grace that Gonwyn lacked, even when not wearing chainmail and two week’s worth of grime.

She settled in her saddle and looked at him, her eyes haunted. He knew what was coming and hated it, hated her for it. He didn’t like being involved, didn’t want to be involved, and she was going to involve him.

“I ran,” she confessed, bringing the monster in the room out in the open.

Now he had to deal with it.

“When they broke through, I helped in the fight . . . I did. I killed two with my sword. Then everything fell apart. There were so many. They killed Captain Elagen and Herald Valean and smashed Companion Saneel’s head wide open. The pikemen started to run. That’s when I panicked.” She began to weep, tracking more clean across a landscape of caked mud, dirt, and blood. “I’m so sorry.”

Gonwyn hated weeping. Anger he could deal with, drunken stupidity (his and others’) a specialty, and the myriad petty squabbles and cases of two decades of riding Circuit proved a cinch. Give him a few tears, and he was utterly at a loss.

:You and half the population ever born,: commented Rath drily. :Say something encouraging, and move out. We need to go.:

“You broke. It’s not part of the job description, but it happens. It also happens to be history. We need to round up whatever troops we can find and send them back to the village. And we have to do it sometime before I have a birthday.” He stopped, feeling himself starting to run on.

:Nice,: said Rath.:Why don’t you kick her puppy while you’re at it?:

He snarled a curse by way of reply. The Companion turned downstream. The map showed this draw feeding into the creek that marked the border, but that was wrong too.

:Don’t take it out on me.: Rath replied. :It’s not my fault you have the emotional range of a sling bullet.: The Companion’s mental voice carried a tired good humor, but there was an edge. The last time he’d heard that edge, she’d dumped him in a well.

:Of course, the caterwauling when you were drunk may have helped.:

“I was singing.”

:Oh, is that what that was? It sounded like a cat hung by its tail. The maid’s father wasn’t impressed either. He chased you for nearly a mile. And having him present the foundling’s bill to Haven for the babe was what got you busted back to Circuit. That was what . . . second promotion, second bust. You know what they say about you in Haven? That’s our Gonwyn . . . stand up guy in a fight or for a girl, stands up for every fight and every girl.:

Gonwyn felt stung. “Anything else?”

:You’ve got your own issues, Chosen. So lighten up on the kid.:

He looked back to where Danilla followed. She had mounted. Her Companion moved slowly on the injured leg. The young mare wasn’t likely to pull up lame, but she wasn’t going to run any races either. He furrowed his brow. Same leg, same injury as Adreal’s Claris. He lodged that one away.

“Look,” he tried again. “We’re in a fix, and I need you in the here and now.” He softened his voice, adding firm but fair compassion. Anything she interpreted as pity would only make the situation worse. “What is done is done. We can’t change what happened. But we can learn from it and move on, try to do better. We won today, but it may not be over. We’ve got units all over these hills . . . along with many Tedrels. Our job is to find as many of the good guys . . . and as few of the bad guys as possible . . . so that we can reknit the army in case we have to fight tomorrow. Understand?”

She nodded. “Yes.” A little firmer.

“Now, time to ride.”

They pressed farther into the hills, calling several Valdemaran units, a half-company here, a few scattered squads, a platoon of mismatched parts, and a string of individual men lost from their units. They skipped around Tedrels, some of whom remained bent on violence, but most were as lost and confused as the Valdemarans. Gonwyn got the further sense that while the great center of the battle may have retained some organization, out here in the boonie-flanks command had all but collapsed on both sides.

He noted as they rode that the girl had firmed up. She’d stopped looking at the dirt in front of her. Once it became plain that there were others there who’d broken in that first confusion, she felt less alone. They weren’t Heralds, of course, but they were all human. By the time they stopped for the evening, she was watching for traps and ambushes, and had some of her confidence back.

It wasn’t in him to go tale-telling, so the girl would not have to face the Heralds’ version of censure . . . where everyone understood, of course we understand. When what they meant was, we understand you failed, and then the duties got easier after that. You were still a Herald, but not quite in the same league as those hadn’t let down the side. He’d sipped from that bitter cup himself and saw no reason to pass it to another.

It was better in the Guards, where the senior Sergeant took you behind the woodshed and just beat the dung out of you when you screwed up. The thrashing fixed all and let you back in the platoon’s good graces.

He pulled up as the sun was eaten by the hills to the west. Full dark would be here soon, with some hours before moonrise. Rath found a good campsite, well back in a valley, with close overhead trees, a steep rill that would provide a way out in an emergency, and good water. Gonwyn’s camp-picking ability remained a running joke between them, at least since the flashflood and the beehive.

He turned in the saddle back to where she followed.

“It’s getting too dark to continue,” he said, “with all of these Tedrels in the hills. We’ll rest here until the moon comes up. Until then, it’ll be too dark to be blundering about. We should have a couple of candlemarks to eat and sleep, then we’ll press on.”

He dismounted with a grunt and loosened Rath’s bellyband.

He could see her in the failing sunlight, copying him, her brow puzzled.

“Why do you do that?” she asked.

“Do what? Ever tried to put a saddle on in the dark, when arrows are flying?”

“No. I got that. I don’t understand why you usually talk to your Companion, to your Rath. Why don’t you just Mindspeak, as I do with my Enara?”

He looked at her as he leaned into Rath, crossing his elbows on the saddle-bow. “I’m almost totally head-blind. I can hear Rath, and she can read me, but I can’t send worth a damn. If I buckle down and really focus, I can just about get a whisper out. It’s just easier to do it this way.”

Her expression appeared no more than half-believing. “What’s your Talent?”

:Drinking?: Interjected Rath.:Wenching?:

Gonwyn ignored the Companion. “I don’t really have one. I was already a Guards officer, nearly twenty-one when I was Chosen. The masters said I was too old to learn Mindspeech, which is why almost everyone who is Chosen is a child.” Alberich hadn’t been the first adult chosen, though clearly the oldest. He wasn’t comfortable with this topic or its memories and wanted to change the subject. “What’s your Talent, then?”

“Oh, me?” she replied. She looked around and found a stick as long as her forearm, and as thick as her finger. She snapped it, green wood splintering along the ends of the break. She held the stick between her hands and stared at it in intense concentration. Gonwyn was just convinced she was having him on when a thin wisp of smoke emerged, and the splintered ends burst into flame.

Gonwyn thought she looked a little relieved.

“You’re a Firestarter,” he said.

“I’m not very good. I can just about manage this stick, and it doesn’t always work.”

“Well, I’d bet it beats my flint, steel, and profanity when I can’t get my tinder to light.”

She smiled then, showing dimples.

:Uh oh.:

The girl had turned back to her saddlebags and had pulled out a bedroll when she abruptly laughed. She looked back over her shoulder at him. “Enara tells me I am in the presence of a notorious womanizer and flirt. She is worried you’re going to seduce me.”

Gonwyn turned his head and gave Rath a long stare. Rath contrived to look innocent, a dead giveaway.

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Seducing me.”

Gonwyn gave her a disgusted look.

“All right, all right” she said taking her bedroll, and heading toward their campsite. “How about now? Are you seducing me now?” She smiled again. “If you were, I wouldn’t want to miss it.”

Gonwyn managed to convey his response in a single snort that encompassed Rath, Enara, and Danilla.

“I mean, at your age, you probably would want to give it a good running start.”

Gonwyn took his blanket out of his rather thin field pack and followed. “Did you have to?” he asked Rath as he passed.

:You do have a certain reputation.:

He gathered such small wood as he could find as he crossed to where the stream burbled down underneath a widespread oak. She had already dug a narrow, deep hole in the dirt and had started the side vent to let in air. The fire would burn hot and small within its deep pit, cook well, and throw out little light. Her campcraft seemed good enough, even if it looked more like a final exam than a field rig.

She still smiled in good humor but kept her attention on her work. He moved to one side and gutted the rabbits, using the skins to lay the carcasses on while he jointed them. He dug a second pit for the offal and trash, deep enough for scavengers to be put off the scent, at least until what they left began to rot.

Their camp preparations went quickly, both moving with an efficiency driven by the quickly fading light. He took a small leather bucket from his bags and soaked it in the creek water to thoroughly wet it, then set it on a small tripod to boil. He began cutting small pieces of meat from the rabbit and dropping them in the water.

She made a face at his filthy hands, then frowned as a drop of blood fell from between his fingers and onto the rabbit pelt.

“Damn,” he said, seeing the blood. He reached up under his surcoat and adjusted the rag he had stuffed under the hauberk to try to contain the bleeding.

“You’re hurt,” she said. Not a question.

“Took an ax in the fight this morning. It split the mail.”

She crossed to where he knelt to work and knelt in front of him. She pulled back the surcoat and pulled the dirty rag out of the cut in the chain where Gonwyn had pressed it back in. Blood streaked the chainmail links and stained the linen undertunic.

Her expression told him what she thought of his efforts. “No, no no” she said. “This just won’t do. That wound may need to be stitched.”

Gonwyn felt his stomach drop. “Stitched? Don’t I need a Healer for that?”

She glanced around. “Do you see any Healers? My dad raised cattle, and I’ve stitched lots of bulls after they’d gored each other.”

Gonwyn did not find this reassuring. Nonetheless, he slid out of the dirty remains of his White surcoat, then winced as he moved his arm back to unlace the hauberk. She moved to help him.

“Oh, that’s interesting. The footloops here allow the laces to be drawn with one hand and tied off. One person can do it one handed, and while the metal doesn’t overlap, it does let you loosen it to let in some air if you have to.”

She took the weight of the hauberk as he slid out of it, then felt the heavy weight drop onto his blanket. The armor was already dirty and would need a good scouring in the sand barrel, but more grime wouldn’t do it any favors.

Gonwyn was surprised and more than a little concerned at the amount of blood that soaked his undertunic. The wound had not seemed that bad.

She looked at the blood on his side, then at his face, which he kept carefully expressionless.

“I need to see it.”

He started to unlace the tunic, then gave it up as his arm wouldn’t reach.

“I’ll need your help.”

She smiled at him. “Don’t get any ideas.”

They both laughed at the joke, however thin.

She helped him out the tunic when he couldn’t raise his arm above his shoulder. Now that they’d stopped moving, the shoulder was stiffening quickly, and the movements threatened to cause the pain he’d banked away to break through.

“Gods, Gonwyn,” she said, as the undertunic came away.

His entire right shoulder was a single massive black bruise, where the chain had taken the force and spread it across the links. Broken links had scored the skin when they had been driven through the undertunic. The ax wound itself was about two inches long and looked deep enough to have cut into muscle. A large, black, crusted scab covered the entire wound and oozed blood. He moved his left hand to press on the skin, and she smacked it away. He did not tell her that while he’d been hurt before, he’d badly underestimated this one.

“Bastard knew what he was about. Got me longwise instead of chopping down, just where the mail splices together. He cut right through.”

“Those hands are filthy. Keep them away from the wound.”

She moved to the stream and, with that innate facility that women have, produced a cake of soap. She washed her hands thoroughly and returned to him with her healing kit.

She carefully cleaned the wound, while Gonwyn pretended this was all routine. He did swear when she doused it with the astringent wine, but just the once. The sun was nearly down before she finished probing the wound, extracting a small sliver of metal that had entered, stitched it . . . bigger stitches than the Healers used, as cattle call for different threads . . . and dressed it in linen. She set his undertunic to soak in the stream for a time and hung it to dry, as he had no other. For his part, he tested the arm and made several practice swings with his sword. It hurt like blazes, but he thought he could still fight if it came to it.

“Don’t do that. You’ll pick them free.”

She came over to him as he moved the chainmail and settled the blanket around his shoulders.

“Let’s see that mouth.”

He leaned away and spat out a gob of bloody phlegm.

“Nice,” she said. “Now turn into the light so I can see.”

They were nearly of a height. He angled his head this way and that and opened his mouth.

“I can’t see much, but it looks like you you’re going to have to get those back two extracted before they get infected and abscess.”

Gonwyn nodded. That was about what he thought.

She looked at him, perplexed. “Why didn’t you go to the Healers?”

He shrugged, embarrassed. “My friend was dying from a stab wound and was still doing his duty, right up to the last seconds of his life. I couldn’t go the Healers for a toothache, not after that.” He did not admit that he’d thought about doing exactly that. “I didn’t know the shoulder was that bad.”

She gave him a very long look, then swallowed whatever she was about to say. “Well, I don’t want your dirty fingers in my dinner, so you sit over there.” She looked down at where he had been cutting the rabbit. “How were you figuring on eating?”

“Boiling the meat into a broth. See if I could boil the meat soft enough to chew, and sip down the broth.”

She nodded one time, an economical gesture. “We’ll do that.”

She set to finishing the task he had started, cutting the rabbit into bits to boil and then spitting hers to roast. The cook fire brought the heat directly under the pot and spit, so the food cooked quickly and evenly. There was little enough left for them, but this fire was about eating, not comfort.

The sun faded before the rabbits cooked, leaving them sitting ravenous underneath a purple-black darkness decorated with a skyful of bright-blazing stars. The evening brought a chill, enough that he sought his one not-as-dirty shirt from his field pack. He managed some cupfuls of soup, along with a few bits of rabbit. He shared the jouney bread he’d taken from the Tedrels, his well-soaked with broth to soften.

By unspoken agreement, the mission had ended.

Tomorrow they would abandon the search and return to the assembly area.

Gonwyn felt a voice in his head, from a Mindspeaker powerful enough to punch through his head-blindness. Danilla and Enara’s heads came up. :Any units still fighting are to cease operations and return to start lines. All regiments’ and militia are to do a muster count and report by the numbers. All Heralds not assigned to military Mindspeaking duties are to report to command tent in fighting kit for briefing.:

“Who the hell was that?” asked Gonwyn.

“I think that’s Myste,” Danilla replied.

“What’s a Myste?” asked Gonwyn, still impressed by the strength. His head-blindness had been described as a wall fifty feet high and a hundred wide.

“Herald Chronicler.” She replied.

“Herald Chronicler?” Gonwyn realized he was starting to sound rather dumb.

“Don’t you ever get to Haven?” she asked him in turn.

“No,” he replied, relieved to be on the granting end of the conversation, “it gives me hives. I try to avoid any kind of headquarters.”

“Myste was in my year at the Collegium and an utter despair. No real friends. No one would partner with her for Trials, and we dreaded having to train with her. Couldn’t see, needs um . . . spectacles. Can’t fight to save her life. Nearly cut off her Companion’s ear the first time she tried it mounted. Can’t run Circuit.”

“She can Mindspeak, though,” replied Gonwyn.

“So, it would seem,” answered Danilla, just a little primly. He was ready to ask her what that meant, when Myste’s voice broke through again. :Pending instruction from the Queen, all actions against the Tedrels, except in strictest self-defense, are to cease. By Order of the Lord Marshal.:

“What? Why?” asked Danilla.

Gonwyn turned toward her. “I’m guessing it’s because the commissary is running out. We don’t have the time or rations to scour these hills, and the Queen has to think about the harvest. We took a lot of farmers out of fields to fill out this army, and she needs them there, or we don’t eat next year. I’d wager she’ll leave just enough down here to keep the Tedrels in check, and only in numbers that she can easily feed.”

Rath broke in. :Something is up . . . I’m hearing that there’s going to be a raid into Karse to get some prisoners, so everyone is tied up with that.: She paused. :Daners made contact. Our report has been “noted.” We’re to pull back, and bring out Lady Danilla, and stop hunting Tedrels. I’ve explained what Adreal sent us on, but he died before his message could get passed through, so they’re going off of your reputation.:

“Lady Danilla?” he asked the Herald. “You said your father herded cattle.”

Even in the dark, he could feel her embarrassment.

“It was a lot of cattle,” she replied.

He exhaled loudly. “All right, we’ll stay on plan. Once the moon comes up and gives us some light, we’ll backtrack to where that big valley runs north and south. We should pick up the roadstead there and be back in the camp before moonset. The creeks are more direct, but they’ll all look the same at night, and the map is worthless.”

He slipped his damp hauberk back on, then the chainmail. The pain flared when it settled over the wound, as did the spots where the second-hand mail had galled his shoulders. He made no effort to put the surcoat back on. It was too torn and dirty for even his low standards. He and Danilla then packed the camp in the dark, loading the saddlebags and field packs. Both pits were carefully covered. They could not conceal that they had been there, but they didn’t have to make it easy.

Once they were done and ready to ride, there was nothing for it but to wait for moonrise. The Companions stood watch, trading guard while he and Danilla dozed. Sleeping in armor proved nearly impossible, as it just wasn’t possible to get comfortable. Gonwyn had done it enough to have a leg up, but his multiple hurts kept him from doing more than dozing fitfully. The time passed in short naps, measured by stiffness and metal digging into tender places.

The moon had just risen when Gonwyn snapped awake.

:How many, Rath?: He sent, struggling to make the sending.

:Some thirty, Chosen. They are close and coming this way.:

“Danilla?” he whispered.

“I’ve heard from Enara,” she replied. “Can we get out?”

:They’re astride our path out,: Rath answered to him. :There is another body moving east of us, where I think the draw comes up.:

“Damn,” said Gonwyn. “Good water, good campsite, escape route . . . we might be camping on one of their rally points.”

“What do we do?” Danilla asked.

He ran the options, all bad. “We hide. Wait them out. Rath, show us the draw.”

They quickly mounted and made for the narrow watercourse. It looked intermittent and fell in a sharp vee, barely wide enough for the two Companions. The vee fell out of the moonlight, and while there was no concealment, they might just be safe in the shadow. They had just settled in and froze as the first group of Tedrels poured in.

Gonwyn quickly assessed them. They looked whipped. Many bore light wounds, but they were still armed. In the moonlight he saw Tedrels with crossbows, spears, and some better equipped with swords, shields, and some armor. A second group followed in better order, their leader haranguing them in the pidgin tongue that passed for the Tedrel language.

Few carried more than their war gear. They took out what food they had, some better provisioned than others. The stronger took from the weaker where they could, and the main body split into fragments as they moved to camp in mutual distrust.

One largish group made directly for the draw where Gonwyn and the others hid. He heard the soft creak, as Danilla drew her light bow from its case and strung it. There was a soft tap as she nocked an arrow.

He drew his sword from its saddle scabbard. The weapon slid free in his hand, a shorter blade than most, thicker and double edged. The sword was an infantry weapon, honed for killing, with none of the daintiness of the cavalry saber. He held it back against his leg, where it was least likely to reflect some stray bit of moonlight.

“If it comes to it,” he whispered, “stay in the draw. I will draw them away, and we will link up later.”

“I will NOT,” she whispered back. “I am a Herald, and I will fight.”

There was no point to an argument, and the Tedrels were too close.

The group stopped to camp, barely thirty feet from the draw. There was some argument, then one began to desultorily make a pile for a fire. The others spread out to gnaw on what food they had. One made directly for the draw. Gonwyn heard the soft, collective inhalation from the group in the draw as the Tedrel came to the mouth of the vee, adjusted his crude cloth armor, and began to relieve himself.

Gonwyn held himself ready, a bare dozen feet from the Tedrel. He could visualize the Tedrel standing there, staring into the darkness, seeing white shapes begin to resolve against the deeper black until . . .

The man’s mouth opened in a soundless O.

:NOW!:

Rath launched herself, powerful withers throwing them a body’s length forward. Gonwyn whipped the sword across the man’s face, slashing brutally as he passed. The Tedrel screamed as Rath exploded into the moonlight.

Rath broke left, staying in the well-spread trees, in order to make a harder crossbow shot. The Companion took the distance to the sprawled Tedrels in a couple of strides, riding a second down and whirling between two thick oaks. Gonwyn pressed low against her flank, more for protection from low branches than from the Tedrel. He held the blade flat back against his boot, his left hand wrapped around the saddle-bow.

Rath whipped around the larger oak, changing direction to throw off the crossbowman who stumbled toward them. Gonwyn needed no force, only aim to slash the blade outward, taking the crossbowman in the throat. Rath took another, shattering his spine with a single kick as the man tried to flee back. Four dead in as many seconds. As Rath dodged back between the pair of trees, Gonwyn killed another with a stab backed by half a ton of charging equine. Five, quickly now.

Time slowed for Gonwyn. He felt the simple fierce joy, the power that coursed through him as his enemies seemed to slow and his senses sped. He felt the man to his right grasp the claw from his belt to load his crossbow. Gonwyn killed him with a leaning slash that took his throat. Another Tedrel bent to grab his spear, and Rath, in the same parlous state, smashed his chest with a kick that stove in his ribs. Other Tedrels, armed with spears and crossbows, emerged from behind trees as the Companion stormed among them. Gonwyn slipped from Rath’s back, and in perfect dance passed under her legs to stab a spearman as she lashed out with her rear hooves to dash out another’s brains.

He rushed two on foot. The rightmost raised a battered sword. Gonwyn lopped his sword hand at the wrist, whirled to stab the left-side Tedrel, who was still raising his short spear, and disabled the first with single backhanded slash to the face. He sprang back up and remounted, in perfect choreography as Rath turned again to strike out with forehooves.

A single odd image stood out afterward to Gonwyn . . . the dropped-pot sound as the Companion’s iron-hard hooves shattered a skull and destroyed a life.

The moment frozen flashed into action again. Another crossbowman emerged ahead, fumbling to bring the weapon to bear. Gonwyn hurled his sword. It struck hilt first, smashing the man’s nose and knocking him backward. Gonwyn drew his saddle-ax, a wicked single blade with a reverse spike.

He chopped down on another Tedrel, killing the last standing in this group with the spike, driven deep into his shoulder along the neck. Rath charged forward to where the man lay screaming as he clutched his face. Rath trampled him. Gonwyn leaned down, both palms brushing the dirt as he recovered his sword and rolled back into his saddle.

He turned the blowing mare toward the next group, dropping the bloody ax back into its sheath. A second quick grab, this time at a small shield leaning against a tree. He pulled it free and armed himself with it as Rath danced back, using the trees as cover against crossbows. Rath gathered herself to charge again as Gonwyn finished his arming.

He glanced quickly to the right and saw Danilla just emerging from the draw, with bow in hand. A string of dead or dying Tedrals lay behind him. One he had missed scrambled from between two trees and fled across the open area of the valley floor.

Danilla whipped her bow up, tracked him, and coolly released. The arrow glowed red and burst into flame as it crossed halfway to the Tedrel. It caught the man in the back as he fled. He fell to his knees, the fire spreading across him as he burned and screamed. Danilla’s second arrow took him as he writhed on the ground, ending his life.

There was a moment’s perfect silence, then Danilla’s shout of exultation.

And Rath charged. Together, they slew, as Danilla rode about the fringes burning down those who escaped iron hoof and wicked blade.

It was done when the last Tedrel lay dead. Gonwyn, spattered with blood and exhausted, slumped as he waited for Danilla to join him. Rath stood, her legs splayed out, blowing heavily. Somewhere in the fight the stitches had broken open, but that was of little concern.

Dannila and Enara rode slowly to them. She looked around the carnage. Over thirty Tedrals had entered the campsite. None survived.

“I think you do have a Talent, Gonwyn,” she said in voice that shook only a little, “and may the gods have mercy on you.”

Chapter 12 - Heart’s Peril - Kate Paulk

Ree stretched and sighed, feeling comfortable and lazy on the roof of the barn belonging to the farm where he’d lived for the last ten years. His family farm, in a way. Certainly the place where his family lived.

With the summer sun warm against his back, the warm roof shingles beneath him and the air full of the scent of growing things and farm animals, it was difficult to concentrate on something as painstaking as checking the barn roof for rotting shingles, much less the careful effort needed for replacing them.

His rattail twitched in his breeches, and his claws wanted to relax all the way out. But he must work. It had to be done before winter came, and Ree was the best person to do it—a hobgoblin who was part rat and part cat as well as part human, he had better balance than humans, and keener eyesight. That the wild part of him longed to take a nap right here or to head out, exploring the cool shade of the forest, was something he’d grown used to over the years.

The forest was dangerous, a place where the animal hobgoblins had taken over from more normal predators. It was also as familiar to Ree as the farm he called home. In the years since he’d come here, he’d watched the forest slowly return to a kind of balance after the hellish Change-winter and the magic circles: the same magic circles that had changed him from a human street rat to the hobgoblin he was.

His mind wandered into times long past, from the desperate days when he’d saved Jem’s life on the streets of Jacona and Jem, in turn, had saved Ree’s humanity and perhaps his life. If Ree had gone on the way he’d been, he’d soon have stopped knowing how to talk, and from there to forgetting he was human at all was but a step. When all you can do is run and hide, you start forgetting you’re not a small, hunted animal. And then . . .And then you start attacking humans, as animals do.

His meeting with Jem had led them to leave Jacona and head out to the countryside in which they imagined they’d be safer. Which just went to show how young they’d been.

As it turned out, it had been safer, but never in the way he expected. Jem had almost died of the coughing illness that winter, as they stayed out of towns where people would kill them. It was Jem’s illness that had forced Ree to come to the farm, to look for help. By blind luck, or perhaps blind destiny, they’d blundered into a farm that belonged to Jem’s grandfather. And here they’d been since. Ree and Jem and Jem’s grandfather, and later Amelie and Meren, Jem’s and Ree’s adopted children.

No one asked embarrassing questions about Jem’s and Ree’s relationship. Or rather, the only one who asked was Garrad, Jem’s grandfather, and only to tease them. And got a great deal of laughter out of their embarrassment. And if the children called Jem Da and Ree Papa, no one thought there was anything wrong with that either.

Anywhere else, their odd little family might be remarked, but the people of Three Rivers Valley had gotten to know the people at the farm for who they were–for their bravery and kindness and courage. Ree and Jem had helped the village too many times for anyone to remark two young men, much less a man and a hobgoblin, shouldn’t be raising children together, even if one of those children was also a hobgoblin. The village saw that they clearly could and were raising happy, sweet children out of waifs no one else wanted.

Ree sighed again. Sometimes he thought the only reason they’d taken the children on was that they had no idea how hard it could be. They were good children, and Ree would miss them when they left for houses of their own, but it was like living with your heart in someone else’s body. He worried every time Amelie went to the village and was late returning. And his heart about stopped when Meren took a fall from a tree.

With an effort, he focused on the work in front of him. That one looks like it’s starting to go. Ree bent closer to the shingle, close enough to sniff the wood. The scent of decay was faint, but there. It might not be obvious now, but in a month that shingle would be starting to crumble, and by the time winter set in, it would no longer be weatherproof.

He sat beside the shingle and started prying the nails loose, taking care not to bend them too much. Good nails were expensive; it was better to reuse them if you could. Getting them straightened by the smith down in Three Rivers village cost less than new nails, but it was still a cost Ree preferred not to pay.

He chuckled to himself. Like Jem, he’d learned farmer thrift from old Garrad, the owner of this farm and Jem’s grandfather. If he was going to be honest with himself, Ree had learned a lot more than thrift from the old man: Garrad had taught him the value of work, and to see himself as a man, not a street child and not a Change Circle freak.

Everywhere he looked, Ree could see the result of his work and Jem’s. The ever-growing herd of cattle, goats, and donkeys, the fields they hired men to plough and harvest, the walls of the home fields, and even the prolific damncats. Oh, they were ordinary cats, but somehow the name had stuck for cats raised on this farm.

Mostly, Ree suspected, because the Three Rivers folk were convinced he could talk to them and trained them. The things people would believe. Grown men and women, talking of training cats! It was the other way around: He observed them, recognized their calls and body language, and they knew he’d respond to something urgent.

Well, except for Damncat, the gray-and-white troublemaker with a fondness for Ree’s shoulder. That cat was smarter than most and knew it, too.

“Can I help, Papa?”

Ree about jumped out of his fur. Meren might be all of four years old and part cat, but he could creep up on a body like nothing else on earth. Not that he meant to, it was just . . . Meren walked softly, especially when he discarded his shoes—which was most of the time—and he seemed to instinctively know to stay downwind.

The boy giggled, his greeny-hazel eyes lit with mischief. He was an odd sight, with his white-blond curls and sparse tabby fur. Without the fur and the pointed ears, Meren could have been taken for human, but as it was he was as much a hobgoblin as Ree, although Meren had been born that way. The child of two hobgoblins who’d been killed by the villagers, he’d been taken in by Ree and Jem as a baby and raised to be more human than animal—unlike his parents, who’d gone to the animal.

“Bored, are you?” Ree asked. Like Ree, Meren didn’t like being confined to the house. At least since the dire wolf had got through the fences two years back, he’d stopped trying to explore the forest on his own. Or— and Ree wasn’t entirely sure this wasn’t the case—stopped getting caught at it.

Meren nodded. “Da and Melie are cooking, an’ Granddad said to get out from underfoot.” His thumb hovered near his mouth, ready to go in.

Ree eased a nail out and set it beside the others. If Meren was upset, he sucked his thumb. It happened less as the little boy got older, but if something really bothered him . . .

“Granddad got mad, didn’t he?” Ree collected the nails and handed them to his son—maybe not the son of his body, but Meren was his son, just as Amelie, an all-human orphan he and Jem had taken in, was his daughter. “Hold these for me, please? They’re valuable, and I don’t want to lose them.”

That diverted the threatened thumb and gave Meren something to feel important about while Ree eased the shingle free.

“Granddad gets mad lots.” Meren didn’t sound entirely sure of himself.

Ree nodded. With his claws digging into the shingle, it was a lot easier to pull it loose without disturbing any of the others.

“Can you keep a secret, a proper secret?”

He had his suspicions about what Garrad had said to upset the little boy, but more to the point, he knew why. This last winter had been hard on the old man; he didn’t walk much now, and when he did, he truly needed the walking stick Jem had made him years ago.

Meren sat straighter, trying to look taller and older than he was. “Yes, Papa.”

“It hurts Granddad to move,” Ree said quietly.

The shingle came free; he set it aside and reached into the pack on his back for a fresh one, started to ease it into place. “When Granddad is hurting, he gets grouchy.”

Meren tilted his head to one side, chewing his bottom lip. “Then he wasn’t really mad at me?”

“Nope. Granddad yells at everyone.” As Ree well knew, having been the recipient of Garrad’s temper more than a few times. “You know that.”

The thumb—complete with nails clutched in that hand—threatened to enter Meren’s mouth again. “But . . . Granddad said I was . . .”

Ree chuckled. “He told you to go play with the damncats because you’re just like them? He tells me that too, when he’s grouchy. He tells Jem just about the same, too.” It was an exaggeration, but not much of one.

“Not Melie, though.”

“No, but Melie is never wild, is she?”

“No,” Meren said, then paused and wrinkled his forehead. “On count of being a girl.”

“Probably,” Ree conceded amiably, though it was more likely on account of Amelie having seen her whole family massacred when she was very young. “Could you pass me a nail, please?”

Meren stared for a moment, then carefully took a nail and handed it to Ree. “Oh.”

Ree wasn’t sure when it had become a weekly event to have Lenar and his family to dinner at the farm, but sometime between the time they’d adopted Meren and the time he’d saved Amelie from a dire wolf, it had started. And then by the time Meren was on his feet again after the dire wolf attack, it was simply accepted as something that happened like clockwork.