Under The Vale And Other Tales Of Valdemar

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 - The Simple Gifts - Mercedes Lackey

Chapter 2 - Catch Fire, Draw Flame - Rosemary Edghill and Denise McCune

Chapter 3 - In an Instant - Elizabeth A. Vaughan

Chapter 4 - A Healer’s Work - Daniel Shull

Chapter 5 - A Leash of Greyhounds - Elisabeth Waters

Chapter 6 - Warp and Weft - Kristin Schwengel

Chapter 7 - Discordance - Jennifer Brozek

Chapter 8 - Slow and Steady - Brenda Cooper

Chapter 9 - Sight and Sound - Stephanie D. Shaver

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

Chapter 11 - Fog of War - Ben Ohlander

Chapter 12 - Heart’s Peril - Kate Paulk

Chapter 13 - Heart’s Place - Sarah A. Hoyt

Chapter 14 - Family Matters - Tanya Huff

Chapter 15 - The Watchman’s Ball - Fiona Patton

Chapter 16 - Judgment Day - Nancy Asire

Chapter 17 - Under the Vale - Larry Dixon

Under the Vale & Other Tales of Valdemar

Mercedes Lackey

Chapter 1 - The Simple Gifts - Mercedes Lackey

The last thing I expected when I woke up that morning was to find myself running for my life with my clothing in one hand and the other hand holding a sheet rather insecurely about my impressive torso.

Wait, let me back that up a bit.

First, please understand that I have no illusions about myself. I know what my talents are: charm, rugged good looks, wit, a great voice, and an instinct for how to make a lady very happy. I know what my flaws are: the desire to do as little actual work as possible, coupled with a taste for all the finer things in life, and a tendency to stretch the truth paper-thin. These two things make me the ideal candidate for no actual job, but they make me very good at being company for females (face it ladies, you really do not want to know that your butt looks like the rear end of a brood mare in “this dress”).

Yes. Alas, I am a man-whore.

Now that we have the technicalities out of the way, let me add that I specialize in ladies of a certain . . . age. Those who (so they tell me, and so I will fervently believe as long as I am with them) are underappreciated by the husbands. Because, oh yes, I only specialize in married ladies. That way if anything happens, they have a husband to deal with the consequences. And most of them actually are underappreciated. In the class I deal with exclusively, those husbands will have gone out and gotten themselves one or more pretty, young mistresses, so why, I ask you, is the sauce for the gander not just as appropriate for the goose?

I had somewhat worn out my welcome in the western part of Hardorn, so I had crossed into the eastern part of Valdemar, a country with which I was just marginally familiar. Hardorn was rather more to my liking: lots of rich merchant wives, lots of rich minor nobility, lots of husbands who were always somewhere else. However, I’d temporarily run out of the former, and since I was ill-equipped to fend for myself for very long, I took the very nice farewell present from my last “friend” and got a ride with her cousin’s trade caravan west. Her cousin was a widow, and I made an exception to my rule of wives only, and we passed the time pleasantly enough in her plush little wagon.

They left me in a little town called Winefold, which produced, strangely enough, not wine but a pungent little berry that they liked to use in Hardorn to flavor alcohol. Geniver, it was called, and collecting the harvested and dried berries there was the end of the road for the caravan. So I bid the immensely grateful (have I mentioned that ladies of a certain age are always enthusiastically grateful?) widow a fond and somewhat teary farewell, got the best room in the inn (for now, I didn’t intend to be paying for it long) and set about looking over my prospects.

They seemed rosy. A lady of the correct age and more than correct income, spouse away and (supposedly) unappreciative, and charms that, while a bit on the weathered side, were still, well, charming. And besides, candlelight is always flattering. Like me. The campaign was easy enough, pity on the poor stranger with only a few halting phrases of Valdemaran in the marketplace, a meal or two together at the inn, a meal or two together at her manse, a brief overnight trial of my paces, certain key phrases exchanged and understood, and there you go. I was quite satisfied with the results of the evening and was looking forward to leaving my room at the inn and setting up in a guest room as a “cousin”—in fact, I was mulling over just those arrangements while idly tracing circles on the bare shoulder next to mine, when my musings were rudely interrupted by five men bursting into the bedroom with drawn swords and daggers. One of them was richly attired, also of a certain age (but of a dismayingly athletic build) with the outraged expression on his face that told me he was either a husband or a brother.

Now, this sort of thing happens in bardic songs all the time; the sort with seven hundred verses to them. There’re about two hundred to get to the bedroom, and then comes the part where the outraged husband says, “Get up, it will never be said I slew a sleeping man,” allows the subject of the song to get up (and presumably get dressed, though that never seems to be mentioned no matter how many verses there are), arm himself, and even strike the first blow—presumably so the spouse can claim self-defense. This usually takes about another hundred verses. The rest of the song describes how the subject is cut down, mangled, dismembered, eviscerated, hung up for all to see, has various bits pecked out by crows while women lament, and finally is buried beneath a willow, which weeps for him eternally.

I was not going to be around for those several hundred verses, thank you. Especially not the killing and dismembering part.

Out of careful habit and no few close calls, I keep all my clothing right at hand in an easy-to carry bundle when I go to bed with a lady. So as the outraged gentleman opened his mouth, I was already halfway out the window, clothing in one hand, sheet held around me as best I could.

The advantage of going out a window is that your pursuers, if there are more than one, always manage to get themselves jammed up trying to follow you. By the time they sort themselves out, you’ve got a lead on them.

Small problem being in a little town, however: They were going to know where to find me, or rather, my belongings. Which meant I had to get there before they did. Fortunately it was early enough (good lord, not even dawn, what kind of uncivilized barbarians were these?) that I didn’t attract too much attention sprinting through the streets in nothing but a sheet. Bad idea going in through the door, but the inn building was a single, sprawling story, all at ground level. I had left my shutters unlatched but closed—I had all my money with me, and in a town this small, stealing my clothing and other gear would be pretty foolhardy, since it would be immediately recognizable. I’d nipped in, grabbed my gear, pulled on my pants and boots, and nipped out again by the time they came roaring up to the door, which the innkeeper’s servant was only just opening for the day.

I saw all this from my vantage point hiding in the thatch of a roof across the street.

And that was where I stayed, figuring I would wait until the fuss died down, then get a ride out with a farmer or something.

But the fuss didn’t die down. This fellow was persistent! First he made the innkeeper turn out my room to prove I wasn’t in it. Then he made the innkeeper turn out all the vacant rooms to prove I wasn’t hiding in them. Then he made the innkeeper turn out all the other guests to prove I wasn’t with one of them! Then he ransacked the stable. Then he and his four bully boys began searching the rest of the town.

Fortunately none of them thought to look up in the thatch of roofs. I suppose they figured that someone of my sort wouldn’t know how to climb. Silly fellows. Windows aren’t always on the ground floor.

However, this left me with a real problem. By the time they were done, the entire town would know about me, and I hadn’t been here long enough to round up any allies. Which meant not only could I not find a real place to hide out, but it was going to be hard to find a way out of town.

Which was when I saw it: the army-supply wagon train.

We’d passed this thing on our way in, and my hostess had told me what it was, because I honestly had never seen anything like it in my life. The main roads here in Valdemar all had this groove running down the middle, which I had assumed (wrongly) was some sort of gutter. In fact, it was a slot for a guiding wheel for a peculiar sort of thing that she called a “wagon train”—as in, “trailing along behind.” These people didn’t have a lot of bandits (if any!) on their main roads, so they didn’t need a lot of guards on the wagons that carried common supplies. Which meant they really only needed people to drive and care for the dray animals. And if they could hitch a lot of wagons together, they didn’t need as many of them. The problem with that was that pulling a lot of wagons was difficult; they tended to stray off the road. But not if you had a guide-wheel in the center of each that dropped down into that groove down the middle . . .

Ingenious, really.

So there it was, pulling through town. Twenty mules at the front, a couple of drivers, fifteen wagons, each carrying two tons. The last wagon in the string carried the supplies for the men and the mules and had two spare mules tied to the back. They wouldn’t stop in town; they’d stop once at midday to water the animals and again at night. Because they wouldn’t stop in town, and because they belonged to the army (called the “Guard” here), no one would bother searching these wagons. Ideal!

I watched for my opportunity, and as soon as the street was clear, I was down off that roof and in under the canvas flap at the rear of one of the middle wagons. A quick survey of the tightly packed interior showed me the only way to get to the front of the wagon was over the top of the crates. I was hoping that since all the wagons looked alike (that’s an army for you), there would be a space at the front with a driver’s area that you couldn’t actually pack goods into.

I was right—though let me tell you, it was a tight squeeze to get in there under the canvas roof, and I had to be careful and inch my way along so no one would notice a moving bulge. There was a driver’s bench all right, with the canvas stretched down tight across the front of the wagon, giving me just enough room to settle. No one would look up here; if anyone did inspect this thing, they’d look at the back at most. I made myself comfortable with my pack and my stolen sheet, waited until we were well clear of town, just in case, and then resumed my interrupted sleep.

I woke again when they stopped the mules at noon for watering. When the voices were distant, I took a quick look at the crates that surrounded me and could hardly believe my luck when I saw they were all labeled “field rations.” At least I wasn’t going to starve! I spent the rest of the afternoon slowly and carefully prying the side off one of the crates. Sure enough, it was packed full of bars of something covered in what felt like wax. When I got a bar out, I saw that it actually was wax, the sort some cheeses are coated in. It peeled right off with the help of my knife, and the bar proved to be dried fruit and meat pounded together, just about as hard as ironwood. I spent the rest of the afternoon whittling slivers off and eating them. I’d had worse. I got thirsty; I made up for it by sucking on a few peppermints that I keep to make sure I have pleasant breath. I was lucky that it didn’t get too hot, and I could manage to hold off thirst for a while, but I was looking forward to getting out and finally getting a drink, let me tell you. I’d have to find something to hold water, though, because the only time I’d be able to get any would be late at night when the drovers slept.

Maybe I could find something in the supply wagon.

It took a lot of patience to just sit there, getting thirstier and thirstier, and it was worse when we finally stopped for the night. But finally the voices at the fire whose glow I could see through the canvas side of the tent ebbed into silence. I got out, and to make a long story short, I did find a bucket I didn’t think anyone would miss, since it was buried in the back of the supply wagon. That was when I realized that all they did was unhitch the teams and picket them; they left the wagons in the road all night. I suppose it didn’t matter; it wasn’t as if anyone was going to run into them in the dark.

Days went by that way, which I whiled away by getting into the wagon one-off from the front and listening to the drovers talk. I was going to need a lot of practice in understanding Valdemaran, of which I had barely a grasp. I did get better over time, and I was anticipating getting out in a larger town—until I managed to puzzle out from something that they were saying that they were about to head deep into the wilderness.

Wilderness was not where I wanted to go. Oh, no. I don’t do well in wilderness. I’m not a wilderness sort of fellow. That was when I figured it was time for me to steal whatever I was going to need for (what I thought would be) a day or two until I found a farm and a way on to civilization. So once the drovers settled down for the night and snores told me that a tempest wouldn’t wake them, I did just that. I loaded my pack with those ration bars, grabbed a wineskin off the back of the supply wagon, plus a tinderbox, and followed the road until it was dawn. Then I got off the road and hid for a while, just in case they actually realized something was missing and backtracked. By midmorning, though, I figured I was safe and got back onto the road.

I didn’t want to stay on it for too long, though, because it would only take me farther into trouble. So the first time I saw another road—this one plain dirt, with some grass growing on it, and no groove—I took it. Roads always go somewhere, right? I figured this one would lead me to a farm or, better still, a village.

Only . . . it didn’t.

By midafternoon, I knew I was going to have to sleep outdoors, and I knew enough to know I needed to find some water too. So I did . . . and I did . . . I’ve mentioned I’m not a wilderness sort of fellow, right? It was the worst night of my life. I mean, the worst. I tried making a sort of bed out of leaves, only the leaves were home to some sort of ants, and they got into my clothing and bit the hell out of me. So I gave up and tried to sleep on bare dirt, but that sucked all the heat out of my body, and I spent most of the night shivering. The fire I made smoked, and I kept hearing things out in the woods that sounded big. Really big. Bears? Wolves? Whatever it was kept prowling around and around my campsite. And I did tell you I’m not a fighting sort of fellow, right?

I finally did get to sleep around about dawn. I’m not sure what exactly woke me up, but when I did wake up, all at once, I could hardly believe my luck. Because standing right in front of me, on the other side of my fire, was a fantastic-looking white horse.

Now there was my way out of here! Provided I could catch it. I knew how to ride bareback; it’s one of those things that’s useful to know in case your lady wants to get a romantic ride along a beach or a river and maybe swim with the horses. You don’t want a saddle on them if you do that--it gets wet, and you make the grooms angry at you when you bring the horses back because they are the ones that have to make sure everything dries out right.

I was still fully dressed, of course, so I got up slowly and carefully and felt in my pack for my silk rope. Yes, silk rope. It’s something I have with me in case the lady—never mind. Let’s just say it comes in useful when ladies want something to . . . ah . . . keep me from going anywhere. It fell right into my hand. I could hardly believe my luck.

The horse stared at me. I made soothing sounds at it and straightened up, rope held behind my back. It didn’t move. I walked toward it, slowly and casually. Behind my back, I got the rope into a loop to throw around its neck. The closer I could get to it, the better.

It let me just walk up to it and drop the loop around its neck.

And that was when it suddenly snaked out its neck, grabbed the back of my tunic in strong, white teeth, and shook me like a dog shakes a rag.

:What the hell do you think you’re doing?: said a voice in my head.

Something else came crunching through the underbrush, and as the horse dropped me at its feet and, with a contemptuous toss of its head, shook off the rope, another big white horse emerged from between two bushes.

I looked wildly around for the owner of the voice.

:He’s all we’ve got, Destin,: said another voice. :We missed the wagon train, we can’t get her to them, and they can’t backtrack. He’ll have to do. I just wanted to make sure he knew we were nothing to fool about with.:

The new horse snorted with contempt and stamped a foot. :He looks about as useful as teats on a boar.:

I suddenly realized that there was no one else around but the two horses, I knew I wasn’t asleep or hallucinating, so the voices had to be coming—from them—

:Of course the voices are coming from us, you moron,: said the second voice, as the second horse put his face down to mine and let those blue eyes burn contempt at me. :We’re Companions, and unfortunately we don’t have hands, but you do, so you’re going to help us.:

“I’m—wait, what now?” I was beginning to think I’d fallen and hit my head, that I’d been poisoned by something that had bitten me in the night or had come down with a fever, and I was hallucinating. I vaguely recalled something about white horses in Valdemar, but I hadn’t paid much attention at the time. I never expected to be here, after all. It didn’t make any sense to come here, where I didn’t know the language or the laws, or, well, anything else. What was it about white horses?

:You. Up. On your feet. You’re coming with us.: That was the second voice in my head, the one belonging to the horse whose face was right in mine. :What we’re doing is Mindspeaking. We’re Companions. We are the equivalent of Constables. Or City Guards, except we can enforce law in the entire country.:

All I could do was blink. “That’s ridiculous,” I said. “Who’d obey a horse?”

One huge silver hoof stamped the earth right between my knees. The threat was, well, obvious. : You will, if you know what’s good for you,: the horse said ominously . :Now get your pack and get on one of us. You’re coming with us.:

Several thoughts flitted through my mind, but—look, I was in the middle of nowhere, with limited food, limited water, and no idea what to do with myself out here. It just did not make sense to argue with the creature. Hopefully, wherever they were taking me was going to at least have shelter. With more luck it would have a nice lady I could wrap around my finger and convince her to get me away from these . . . things. Companions. Whatever those were.

So I did what I was told. At first I had a sort of death grip on the thing’s mane, but within a few paces I realized that not only was I in no danger of falling off, this was probably the best ride I’d ever had in my life. I’d have really enjoyed it, except, of course, that I was being carried off into the woods by a couple of possibly-demonic creatures disguised as horses that could talk in my head. Tends to make a man a little nervous.

I was hoping at least they’d take me toward something like civilization. But no. They left the road for a trail. They left the trail for a path. They left the path for something that might have been a thready little track. Wherever we were headed, it was obviously not civilization.

“Uh—” I said, finally, “I should point out that I’m a city sort of fellow.”

: You’ve got two working arms, two working legs, and something akin to a brain. Not much of one, but we don’t need much of one.: That was the second voice, which was coming from the thing that I wasn’t riding.

Great. Just great. By implication, that meant they were heading even deeper into the wilderness.

: Yes, we are heading even deeper into the wilderness,: the voice said, somehow conveying both sarcasm and a great deal of glee at my discomfort. : There are bears.:

I knew there would be bears! The thought flitted through my mind again that I could jump off . . . but I couldn’t outrun these beasts, and the thick . . . stuff . . . on either side of this pitiful excuse for a trail was going to trip me up as much as it would impede them. Assuming it did, they had tough horsehide, not tender human skin.

And that was when they shouldered through some branches that slapped me in the face (of course), and we came out into a clearing. A lovely little clearing, a meadow, really, with a pond, and a little cottage, and a well—

A cottage! I brightened immediately. At least I wouldn’t be sleeping with ants tonight.

Even as I thought that, the second beast grabbed me by the belt and unceremoniously pulled me off the first one. I yelled, and something white stirred in the long grass next to the cottage door.

The beast didn’t let me go; gods, it was strong. It carried me by the belt over to whatever was there and then dumped me, and I could see that the “something” was a rather pretty girl in white. She was younger than my usual sort, probably younger than me, red-haired and green-eyed, round-faced without looking dollish, and clearly in a lot of pain.

I’m no Healer, but her left leg and arm did not look at all right. She looked up at me and grimaced.

:He’s the best we could do, Millissa,: said the first horse, apologetically. :I know you need a Healer, but there isn’t one close, and if you don’t get things straightened up soon—:

“I know,” she said out loud. “Believe me, I know.” She looked as hard at me as she could, through the pain. “All right, fancy-man. I’m Herald Millissa.”

“The ladies all call me—” I stopped myself. “My name’s Donnat Stains. Call me Don.”

“All right, Don. What do you know about dislocations and bone setting?”

“Nothing,” I said, honestly. “How bad is this?”

“Things haven’t seized up yet, so—“ She bit her lip. “Just do what they show you. I think we can manage.”

What they—

A very clear image came into my mind. First, I needed to deal with her leg. The horses were pretty certain it was broken but that it was a clean break. Working very, very slowly, I straightened the leg under their direction, pulling on it to align the broken bone, feeling it to make sure it was aligned. That poor girl was as white as her clothing, and her hair was soaked with sweat before I was done, but she never once cried out.

The horses showed me how to bind up the leg to keep the bone in place. Then it was time to deal with her shoulder. They had me go inside the cottage and wrestle out a table. I put her on the table with her arm dangling over the edge, then held her wrist in one hand and slowly began pulling her arm downward, increasing the pull a little at a time. I gently rocked her arm at the wrist, while keeping her shoulder pushed against the table. And slowly, very slowly, I felt the shoulder slip back into the socket, until at last she gave a little cry, the first yet, that was full of pained relief, if there can be such a thing.

After that, following the horses’ directions on how to tie up her arm and shoulder was easy.

They didn’t have to tell me what to do next, it was pretty obvious. There were packs and a saddle lying on the ground, and I figured, smart as these things were, each of them had probably stripped the other before going for help. There was a bedroll right on top; I may be a city sort of fellow, but I know how to make up a bed, and before too long I had her in the cottage, in a bed made up on one of the bedboxes there. That was when she passed out. Not that I blamed her. The pain must have been incredible. Frankly, I’ve seen strong men who endured less pain with more complaining. I certainly had.

Now . . . at this point I figured that I was done. This was a stout little cottage, stone walls and floor, a real fireplace, strong shutters on the windows, which I suspected the evil beasts could close, a strong wooden roof with slate tiles, a door as thick as my thumb. She was fine for now, one of these things could go off for some help while the other stood guard. In fact, I was going to volunteer to ride off on the not-quite-as-mean one to do just that, provided that they left me there (which I presumed would be civilization), when the mean one planted himself across the doorway.

: You are not going anywhere. Neither are we.:

Now, I am considered an easy sort of fellow. But I was just about ready to take an ax to this thing’s he—

:Do it, and you’re paste, fancy-man.: The beast reared slightly, and I backed away from the door so fast I tripped over my own feet. :We were on our way to meet something, which is still coming this way. We have to be here for it, and someone human has to be here with two good legs and two good arms. Besides that, it’s a good seven days—even as fast as we can go—between us and help. And we don’t have hands. You tell me how we’re to feed her, get her drink, and all the rest of it.:

All right, put that way, I could see his point. The girl might or might not get fevered. She certainly wouldn’t be able to take care of herself . . .

“So is one of you going to go?” I asked. “Seriously here, I’m . . .” I gulped. “My skills are not exactly that of even a Healer apprentice.”

The thing shook its head. :I wasn’t joking about the bears. Or other things. Heralds like Millissa have enemies, and we’re not entirely certain that the fall we took was an accident. With three of us, you can take the day watch, and Ardred and I can take the night with one of us at the door and one out patrolling the perimeter. With only two, it’s more difficult, since you aren’t the fighting type.:

Well, there was that; the best I could do would be to yell a warning.

:Once what we are waiting for is here, Millissa will be healed enough to ride, and we can all get out of here. Or else the help we’ve already asked for will be here.:

Wait—what?

“How did—”

:Same way we talk in your head. Only at a distance. It takes another of us, or some human who is very strong in this power.:

Oh. Well, if we were seven days from the first vestiges of civilization, then we were probably farther than that from whatever this help was. I didn’t imagine that these white monsters were all that thick on the ground, even here.

:Exactly.:

I gritted my teeth for a moment. I was beginning to resent their ability to read my thoughts.

“What’s a Herald?” I asked, finally.

The beast snorted, tossed his head, and walked off. Great.

The first voice sort of—murmured at me. :Ah, I’m Ardred. Sorry about Destin. He’s touchy, and right now, he’s feeling very angry at himself for what happened to Millissa. I’ll be happy to answer your questions.:

The horse wasn’t in sight. I sighed. This was going to take a lot of getting used to. And meanwhile, well . . . the girl was going to need food and drink eventually, and I needed a bed, and although there is a style I am accustomed to, I’m not altogether incapable of some basic tasks, provided that I’ve not been dropped nearly naked into the middle of a howling wilderness. “Fine,” I said aloud, going out to fetch the packs, mine included. “Let’s start with, ‘What’s a Herald?’ ”

The first thing that Millissa did when she woke up was try to knock out my brains with a dish. I could see why she and Destin were paired.

By this time there was a small fire in the cottage—excuse me, “Waystation”—fireplace, and there was food of a sort cooking over it. That was thanks to Ardred, who talked me through how to make it. My knowledge does not include cooking. There was tea brewing—that, I knew how to make myself. I had a bed in another of the boxes—Ardred had been kind enough to show me where there was some bracken that wasn’t home to insects, and I did have a cloak to lay over it. All the gear was in the Waystation. I knew, more or less, what a Herald was and what a Companion was. It didn’t entirely make sense, as in, I wasn’t at all sure why anyone would trust the dealing out of laws to creatures as ill-tempered as Destin was, much less something that looked like a horse for the gods’ sake, but, well, not my kingdom.

So I had put down a dish on the side of the girl’s bed as I leaned over to check on her, and the next thing I knew, she’d grabbed it with her good hand and broken it over my head. Fortunately it was a very cheap dish, so it broke easily and without braining me, but I ended up on my behind on the floor, staring at her.

“Ow,” I said, very much aggrieved. “What did you do that for?” I completely forgot where I was and spoke Hardornen.

She stared back at me, wild-eyed, as if she were going to find something else to hit me with. Then, as if someone had inserted a different person into her body, her expression changed, and she flushed and winced a little. “Ah . . . oh. Sorry,” she said in passable Hardornen. “I forgot where I was and I thought you were attacking me.”

“I was going to feed you,” I pointed out, crossly, rubbing my head. “We’re now short a dish, thank you.”

“There’re metal ones in my pack,” she retorted.

“As if I were going to go rummaging through your pack,” I scoffed. “I have standards, you know.”

“Which you refuse to rise above,” she murmured, then said, louder, “Well, go ahead, you have my permission. It’s the one with the frying pan handle sticking out of it.”

Lovely. She had a frying pan. Which she would doubtless use to brain me if she got the chance. I made a note to keep it well out of her reach. But I did go rummage and got out the dishes she mentioned. I didn’t give her the . . . well whatever the mess it was I had cooked . . . in them though. I’d use the metal ones, she could use the pottery. One less thing for me to worry about.

I wondered if she would ask me what was happening, but the changing expressions on her face led me to believe that the damn horses were just talking to her directly, and I wouldn’t need to say anything. I’m sure the mean one was giving her an earful. Mindful. Whatever.

Bastard.

I thought hard about glue, dog-food, and fiddle bows.

I could have sworn I heard a snicker.

She was a little apologetic later. But when I tried my signature smoldering look on her, she threatened me with another dish, so I gave up that as a bad idea. Obviously she was going to be immune to my considerable charms.

Perhaps she favored other women . . . ?

:Or maybe you aren’t as charming as you think.:

I grimaced sourly, and the gall was even more bitter when she giggled. Obviously that miserable bone-rack Destin hadn’t bothered to keep his thoughts “private.”

Was there no way to keep my thoughts private?

A very faint “whisper,” almost so unobtrusive that I didn’t even “hear” it, drifted into the back of my head.

:Order him to stay out of your mind.:

I didn’t wait; I just looked out the night-darkened doorway and barked, “Stay out of my head, dammit! A man is entitled to some privacy! Talk to me if you want, but keep your snooping out of my thoughts!”

There was a sense of shocked silence. I looked over at the other bunk, where the girl was nursing a cup of some sort of noxious medicinal tea that she’d told me how to brew. She was looking back at me. With a certain amount of approval.

“He’s right, you know,” she said aloud. “Just because you’re Companions, that doesn’t give you the right to breach Mindspeaking ethics.”

Well, that was a bit of a surprise.

“Do they often do that sort of thing?” I asked tentatively. “Rummage around at will in a stranger’s head, that is.”

She took another difficult gulp of tea before answering. “Not usually. In fact, Companions generally don’t Mindspeak to anyone but their Chosen Herald. Destin’s something of a law unto himself, though, and I can’t always predict what he’s going to decide to do.”

I rolled my eyes. “Fabulous. And this is what you have laying down the law of the land?”

“Not . . . exactly,” she said, finishing the tea. “Let me see if I can explain. Or at least, better than they did.”

Her explanation did make better sense, and I could see now why the gods of this kingdom would have figured out a way to properly answer the particular prayer they’d been petitioned with. And it did prevent some pretty awful abuses of power. I mean, I did know history, and for every good monarch, you generally get a nasty one and an entire herd of mediocre ones. This at least made for a stable form of government.

What? You don’t think I should have an interest in politics? I promise you, you would be amazed what constitutes pillow talk for some women.

Still, I don’t think I would be even remotely comfortable with something rummaging around in my head on a regular basis. A man likes to keep some secrets.

After that, Millissa and I started to get along a bit better. I was feeling positively brotherly toward her as we both drifted off to sleep. Or at least, I was able to feel a lot more sympathy for her. She was putting up with injuries that would have had most people incoherent with pain and was not really complaining about it. Some of that was the tea, but most was that she was either really quite brave or really quite well controlled. In either case, I admired her.

Now, I am not the sort that tends early to bed and early to rise, so the cold, wet nose shoving insistently at me at the crack of dawn came as a literal rude awakening. The kind that makes you start up out of sleep with an incoherent noise.

: Up,: said the cross voice in my head. :We need sleep.:

He needed sleep? I needed sleep! Evidently that didn’t matter, and I knew better than to try to just turn over and attempt to ignore him. He was quite capable of hauling me out of the bed just as he had hauled me over to the cabin.

Now . . . I’ve been a little less than honest. Just because I haven’t done the usually lowly chores you’d need to do in and around a little cottage—well, other than the farming ones—it doesn’t mean that I can’t or that I didn’t know how. It was because as soon as I was able, I ran away to avoid those very chores, heading straight for the city, which I saw as my natural home. So my skills might have been a little rusty, but other than the cooking part, I pretty much knew what to do.

By the time that Millissa woke up, and, poor thing, needed help getting to the privy, I’d gotten things in rough order for the morning. And when I carried her back and installed her in bed again, she looked around with a raised eyebrow.

“That’s—not bad,” she said. “I—”

“Didn’t think I knew one end of a broom from the other?” I finished for her. “Oh, I know. I just don’t like it. I’d much rather be waited on.”

“Wouldn’t we all,” she murmured, but this time with a little, pained smile that let me know she intended for me to hear her.

“I perform a very valuable service for ladies who for one reason or another need a companion,” I told her pointedly. Her eyebrows arched, but I was not backing down. “Their husbands generally have at least one, and often several, attractive women that they go to. Why shouldn’t they have the same? I’m entertaining, I can tell a good story, I listen, and I mean really listen, rather than pretend to listen and make appropriate noises. I am absolutely faithful for as long as the lady cares to have me about. Sometimes I can even offer advice, although mostly they don’t want that, they just want sympathy. When we part ways, she’s the better for it, and so am I. She knows that she is still worthy of appreciation, which raises her spirits and gives her confidence, and I am heavier in the pockets.” I folded my arms over my chest and looked down at her. “And it doesn’t hurt that I’m a handsome devil, which makes her the envy of her friends.”

Millissa sniffed a little. “But you don’t love these women!”

“On the contrary, I do,” I said proudly. “I love women in general, and I make a point of appreciating all there is to admire in my clients.” Believe me, sometimes that was a lot of work, but it was always worth it in the end.

Millissa’s look of skepticism turned to astonishment. “You sound like you’re proud of what you do!”

I shrugged. “I am. Why shouldn’t I be? My father taught us to take pride in our work.” Though he would have seven different kinds of a fit if he knew what I was doing now.

Well, that was his fault, not mine. Maybe if he hadn’t gotten taken in by that priest and his stupid “quiverfull” notion of having your wife squeeze out baby after baby like a prize pig until you had so many children you couldn’t remember their names, and what would have been plenty for a reasonably size family got stretched so thin that no one ever had enough, and everyone was starved a little—

—especially for attention—

—then maybe I’d still be there. Or maybe not. Who’s to say? Maybe I would have run away sooner.

“But that has very little to do with the here and now,” I told her. “I’m not a Healer, but I do have some skills that will probably help you.”

Now both eyebrows shot up. “I don’t—”

“Like massage.”

She blinked. “Oh.”

“If you’ve no objection, I’ll take you out on the grass, give you a massage, and then set you so your head is hanging just over the edge of the pond and I can wash your hair.” I knew that would get her. She’d been sweating all during the ordeal of setting her leg, and by now her scalp must be a torment.

“Really?” Ha. Had her.

“It’s one of the things I know how to do,” I pointed out. Then ,without giving her any time to think about it, I picked her up and carried her out into the meadow. Then I very carefully massaged all the nonerotic muscles, concentrating on making it soothing rather than actively trying to get the kinks and knots out. It takes longer that way, but the last thing she needed was more pain. When she was a nice girl-puddle, I moved her to a rock ledge on the side of the pond, stripped off, and used some of the soap I’d found on her hair. Then I moved her again, combed it all out and spread it on the grass, and left her soaking up sun while her hair dried. I vaguely recalled a Healer telling me once the people got better faster when they had sun. I don’t know about that, but when I moved her back to her bed, a lot of the tension and pain was gone from her face.

The next few days were pretty much the same, except for the hair washing. We talked a lot; she did most of it while I did the listening, though I did tell a few stories out of my own past. The funny thing was that all those chores that I had loathed as a child seemed far less onerous now. Well, it was probably just because there wasn’t anyone around telling me how I could have done it better and pointing out all the ways I’d fallen short of perfection. Fine, if someone else wants perfection, they can have it, but there’s nothing wrong with just getting the job done competently and correctly and leaving it at that. Destin might have been a sarcastic bastard, but at least he didn’t nitpick me to death.

The first three days were fine; the fourth, the Companions started getting restless. Destin even forgot to insult me. I remembered that they had said that “something was coming,” and I wondered if that “something” was almost here.

The fourth day they kept going off for runs, always into the north.

The fifth day brought it all to a head.

When I woke up, I could practically cut the tension. Millissa didn’t say much to me over breakfast; instead she had that “listening” look she got when both Companions were talking to her.

Finally, as I brought her lunch, she broke the silence. “I know you’re not a fighter—”

“Not even close,” I interrupted.

“Right, well . . .” she bit her lip. “There’s someone we’ve been waiting for. She’s close, close enough to go get. But there are likely to be complications. It might get physical . . . and we’d planned for me to be the one to deal with that except—”

“So I take it you want me to go with Ardred and the walking gluepot since you can’t. Right?” I’d already figured something like this was coming. “I have an easy solution for things getting physical. We run.”

“It might not be that easy,” she said dubiously.

It was my turn to snort. “Trust me. Take it from someone who’s done a lot of running. You can always run.”

:He has a point.: That, shock of shocks, was Destin.

She sighed. “All right, then. Destin, you and Ardred take care of him and the Chosen.”

Ardred raised his head suddenly. :She’s thinking ahout running.:

“All right then. Get those saddles on and get out of here. I’ll be fine, you need to get!” To underscore her words, Millissa had me bring her everything in the Waystation that could be thrown. I admired her resourcefulness. And I shuddered a little when she hefted the frying pan.

I got the saddles on both Companions and started to mount Ardred, but Destin shoved his way in between us. : He needs to be free for his Chosen. Mount up.:

Once I was in the saddle, we were off, and I realized at once that we were heading for the road. They were pushing it, too. Even through the thick underbrush, they were almost galloping, and when we broke out into the clear, they did. And they were faster than any horse I’ve ever been on.

: She’s running!: Ardred cried, his mental voice sharp with fear. :He’s coming after her!:

We hit the real road, the one I’d left several days ago, and in the middle distance I could see what looked like a shabby wagon loaded down with household goods. Between us and the wagon was a girl, a child, really. She had nothing on but a shift, and as we pounded toward her, I could see there was a man chasing her, cursing. We got nearer and nearer. I could see her terrified eyes. Her thin little limbs.

The bruises.

Bruises, everywhere.

Something snapped inside me, and I’ll tell you right now, I have no idea how I did this. I leaned down over Destin’s neck, held out one arm, and . . . I just begged that child to run for me, to jump for me. “Here!” I screamed, “Here! Jump!”

She should have been terrified. She should have turned right around and run the other way. But something came into her face, a glimmer of hope, then determination, and as we rushed down on her, she did just that. She jumped into my arms. We thundered past the man. Thundered past the wagon loaded with stuff. Which . . . looked all wrong to me in a way I couldn’t put together at the time. We turned, and without a word or thought actually exchanged, I tossed her into Ardred’s saddle, where she stuck like a burr. “Run!” I urged him. “Don’t wait for us. Run!”

He did. The man was on his way back toward us; he was a huge bull of a man, in a towering rage, and . . .

I’m no fighter, but I knew it would be a mistake to leave him.

There was a shovel lying under the wagon seat. I leaned down and grabbed it.

:Are you thinking—: began Destin.

“Go!” I shouted, because the man was closing on us.

Destin launched straight into a gallop and was up to speed in a few paces more. I took a firm grip on the handle of the shovel, and as we charged down on the bastard that would beat a little girl black and blue, I summoned all my rage, stood up in the stirrups, and swung straight for his face.

I hit him so hard the shock nearly knocked me out of the saddle, and it broke the handle of the shovel. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him go down.

We kept going.

I didn’t look back.

Adred did wait for us, and the little girl clinging to his back looked at me with both hope and fear. “He’s never going to follow us,” I told her. “He’s never going to hurt you again.”

I certainly hoped he wasn’t, because my arms were still tingling from the shock of that hit. The little thing burst into tears,and jumped out of Ardred’s saddle for me. I realized it at the last minute, fortunately, and caught her, and she clung to me and cried. Ardred’s eyes rolled with alarm, but I just smiled at him. “It’s all right. She just needs someone to hold her.”

The gods know I’d held plenty of women in my time who’d just needed someone to hold them.

I held her safe all the way back to the Waystation. It took some coaxing to get her to let go of me, but between us, Millissa and I managed, and we—well, I—got her filthy rags stripped off her, gave her a wash, put her into one of my shirts (which was certainly big enough on her to be a dress) fed her, and put her to bed.

Over the next day, Millissa got her story out of her. The man had been some distant relative. When her parents died, he’d come and taken everything portable, and her. He’d beaten her and starved her, made her do work that was far past her strength and then beat her when she couldn’t manage it. She had whatever it was that made a Herald, and Ardred had heard her crying for him, but he had known he was never going to be able to get her away on his own, so he’d recruited Millissa to help.

Her name was Rose, and she stayed glued to me like a day-old chick to its mother. I did what I always do for a female who is hurt and frightened and mourning. I soothed her, I listened to her, I held her and let her cry, I promised her that Ardred would always take care of her, and I let her cry some more.

The next day, that help finally came. Another Herald and a Healer, who would stay with Millissa until she was fit to travel while the new Herald escorted Rose and Ardred to wherever these Heralds lived.

Then came the hitch. Rose refused to leave me. She clung to me and wailed, and I couldn’t persuade her to stop. Finally Ardred solved it. :I can carry two,: he said firmly.

So that was how I arrived in Haven, about a candlemark after sunset, with a weary little girl in my arms who, after a good two weeks of solid work from me, had finally decided that she didn’t have to be afraid any more and could start to leave the terror and learn to live.

I handed her over to the Collegium people, Ardred was led away, and—

And I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I turned around, saw one of those blasted white busybodies, looked into her eyes and—

Nope. Didn’t happen. No interfering know-it-all with hooves. Just a tired but cheerful fellow in green robes who had come to see to Rose and now was standing next to me.

“Well,” he said. “I suppose you’ve figured it out?” My bewildered expression told him otherwise. He laughed. “Ah, right. You aren’t used to the Mind-Gifts where you come from, are you? All right. I’ll just tell you straight out. The reason the Companions could talk to you is that you’re Gifted. Like a Herald, but different.”

You could have knocked me over with a feather. “I am?” I said, feeling stupid.

He nodded. “I felt you at work from half a day away, and let me tell you, my lad, we are going to be right glad to have you if you care to stay and learn to use what you’ve got properly. You’re a Mindhealer, son. That’s what you’ve been doing all your life—using your Gift.”

“I thought—” Things I’d never put together began tumbling into place. Things Millissa had told me. The things I’d been doing. How I’d worked with little Rose . . . “Huh.”

Well, it wasn’t as if I had anything better to do. And there was nothing saying I couldn’t keep, well . . .

The Healer raised an eyebrow at me. “Oh, yes. You’re still going to be very popular with the women.”

I found myself grinning. He grinned back and clapped me on the back.

“Come along then, Healer Trainee Don. We’re just in time for supper.”

Chapter 2 - Catch Fire, Draw Flame - Rosemary Edghill and Denise McCune

South of the Yvedan Hills, in the places where constant border clashes between Karse’s army and Valdemar’s defenders were merely worrisome news and not terrifying reality, the land softened, spreading itself into rolling hills and lush fields. North of the Jaysong Hills, the farmsteads were built more of wood than stone; the farmstead walls were built to stop wandering chickens and not armed raiders, and shutters were not barred with iron. Here no man or woman slept with a sword beneath the pillow to arm against danger that comes in the night.

North and east of the Jaysong Hills, near—but not too near—the Hardorn border, where the East Trade Road ran straight and smooth toward Haven, the tents of Summerfair sprouted each Midsummer. From full moon to full moon a city of tents and pavilions appeared in the cup of the Goldendale, a city to which all the north came to sell and to buy.

“Why are we here?” Elade grumbled.

Despite the fact that the Summerfair Peace hadn’t been broken within living memory—and despite the fact that her sword had been peacebound, as had every other weapon at the fair—her gaze roved over the fairgoers as though any might rise to menace them.

“Why is anyone anywhere?” Meran answered. His teeth flashed white as he smiled at her, and he hitched his bag higher on his shoulder. Seeing the fair in Elade’s company was a bit like taking a leopard for a walk. The other fairgoers gave them a wide berth, despite the knot of yellow ribbons that bound her sword to its sheath.

“You look like a—a—a—”

“Bard?” Meran asked, his eyes round with feigned innocence. “But I am a Bard, sweet Elade.”

Elade slanted a sideways look at Meran’s crimson tunic. “You don’t have to look like one,” she huffed.

It was true that no one would take Elade for anything but what she was. Short cloak, high boots, studded leather bracers, and chain mail tunic all proclaimed her identity as a mercenary soldier. Elade had no reason ever to conceal herself . . . unlike the rest of them. In the places they travelled—and with the work they did—it was far better he and the others not travel garbed in Bard’s scarlet or Healer’s green or . . . Not that we could ever get Gaurane into Whites without knocking him unconscious first, Meran thought.

“Why not?” he asked (it was fun to tease Elade). “It would be very wrong of me to do otherwise. Only think—I might enter all the competitions and carry off every prize.”

Elade snorted. “You’d have to be better than everyone else to do that, Meran,” she pointed out.

“Hey, Bard here,” he protested.

“Journeyman Bard,” Elade corrected, just as if she could tell the difference between the playing of a Journeyman and a Master. Elade insisted all music was nothing more than cat-squalling.

“Elade, it’s Summerfair.” Meran dropped the teasing and set out to convince her in earnest. “We have a whole fortnight where nobody’s trying to kill us. You should enjoy yourself. We’ll be back on the Border soon enough.”

“I like the Border,” Elade said. “You know who your friends are there. And your enemies.”

Only Elade, Meran thought, could say something like that and mean it, when our work is finding those whose minds had been warped by Karsite demons and working to save them, minds and lives alike. The Touched hid their damage from themselves, and the demons that overshadowed them were clever at concealing themselves. Often, the only clue was in the way people or animals nearby had died. It was a pattern they’d all become adept at following in the moonturns since Gaurane had gathered them together.

“We need supplies,” Meran said, changing the subject to one less likely to produce an unwinnable argument. “Bowstrings—harpstrings—medicines.” The soldiers who held the Border and the holders who farmed it were seldom willing to part with what stocks they had, not even for gold and silver. It would be different if Gaurane were willing to ask—all doors opened to a Herald—but Meran knew better than to raise the topic with him.

“Gaurane’s out of brandy, you mean,” Elade said, but the gibe was without real malice behind it.

“Do you really want to listen to him complain about his hangover?”

The question startled a laugh from Elade. “No. But it doesn’t take two full sennights to pick up a few supplies.”

“It does not,” Meran agreed. “But if you can think of a better way to get Hedion to rest, I’m sure we’d all like to hear it.”

“Ah, I see,” Elade said. “It’s a trick.”

“All the best things in life are,” Meran said. “But not on us, this time. So we might as well enjoy ourselves while we’re here.” He took Elade’s arm and tugged her gently toward the merchants’ street. “And that means you should come and look at the pretty things, instead of trying to terrify some poor horse trader into giving you an honest price on a new pack mule.”

“We wouldn’t need a new pack mule if the last one hadn’t been eviscerated,” Elade grumbled, but she came.

When Meran had been a child singing for coppers on the streets of Haven, he’d dreamed of being able to walk into the shops and purchase anything he chose. His Gift had gained him entrance to the Collegium, and there he’d dreamed of a rich patron,whose fortune he might share. Most Bards entered a noble household upon achieving Journeyman status, for it could be the work of years to produce the song or poem that elevated a Bard from Journeyman to Master. Meran had been as surprised as anyone when he found himself choosing—upon taking the Scarlet—to travel. True, a Bard could hope for a meal and a bed at any inn he stopped at, but it was hardly as certain as it would be for a Herald. Traveling Bards slept rough and cold in a hayrick or outbuilding more often than not, and they paid for their bread and beer like everyone else. Even as he chose that path, Meran castigated himself for a fool. And yet year followed year, and the store of songs he’d made grew, and still he did not turn his steps back toward Haven.

He’d never realized what he was looking for until the shaggy man in the tattered, threadbare clothes came to the inn where he was singing and told him there was a patient who needed his attention.

“Beg pardon, my good fellow,” Meran said. “But as you see, I am not the one you seek. I wear the Scarlet, not the Green.”

The shaggy man gave a sharp bark of laughter. “We already have a Healer,” he answered. “That’s why we need you.”

He’d been curious, so he followed. He played the Healer to sleep that night and the next, and he played to soothe the Healer’s patient on the third. And as the days passed, Meran had come to realize this was what he’d been seeking, all unknowing, all along. It was unheard of, of course. Bards sang of great deeds; they didn’t do them. And the street urchin he’d been would have mocked the idea that his heart’s desire was to serve anything but himself—or even his Gift, once it woke.

Were he making a song of this, it would be Healer Hedion who held them all together and gave them their purpose. But in fact it was Gaurane who was their leader—Gaurane who would not be called “Herald Gaurane,” whom Meran had never seen entirely sober, who refused to acknowledge the Companion who followed him everywhere like an exceptionally large and very white dog. Gaurane’s story would make such a song as would be any Bard’s Master work.

Except Meran didn’t know the tale and had never asked. Elade, who had joined them a moonturn later, had asked (Elade had a knack for asking inconvenient questions, which had gotten her turned out of her Free Company), but if she’d received an answer, Meran didn’t know it. How Gaurane and Hedion had met, why Gaurane could not Hear his own Companion, why Rhoses was content to follow his Chosen along the Border rather than seeking help for him, why, if there was Healing to be done, Hedion didn’t do it—all were mysteries Meran was content to leave unplumbed.

It was only at times like this, when the Summerfair merchants’ bright and glittering wares lay spread for display like the fabled treasure-cave of the legendary Queen Lilyant of Bai, that Meran spared a thought for the life he’d once thought to live. Even Elade was drawn to the splendor along the street of merchants, though her eye was caught by the table of blades, while Meran lingered before the scentseller’s booth. He wondered if he could persuade Elade that oil of violets was a necessity vital enough to expend some of their scant resources upon.

A woman stepped up to the table, and Meran drew back courteously. He did not truly intend to buy, after all, and it was only polite to leave room for those who did.

As the two women, buyer and seller, dickered over the price and kind and quality of the wares, Meran let his gaze and his attention wander. The street of merchants was only a very small part of Summerfair. For the truly exotic and the truly costly, one must seek out Haven’s Harvestfair or the shops of her High Street. Summerfair was for the farmers and holders of the south. It sold horses and mules, pigs and chickens, cows and goats, and it was also a hiring fair, for harvest was coming, when every hand would be needed. Meran had known nothing about the farmer’s year when he’d left Haven; since then he’d come to know it ran opposite to the year the townfolk kept. Spring was for planting and autumn was for harvesting. Winter was for doing all the tasks of making and mending there was no other time for. But summer was a time of near leisure.

With a practiced ear, he followed the sound of the bargaining, paying no real attention. Its cadence told him the transaction was drawing to a close when a new note was added to the song.

“Here, mistress, let me hold that for you.”

Meran turned toward the speaker. Young, dressed in clothing that was plain but of good quality, with something of the look of Iftel to him--no odd thing, when Valdemar lay open to any who wished to live in peace. He smiled as he held out his hand, and the farmwife placed a plump sack of coins into it.

Meran was about to turn away again—so the woman had a manservant; there was nothing odd in that—when he saw the young man step smoothly away from the table, tucking the money pouch into his tunic as he did. Meran would have raised the hue and cry, or even moved to stop him, were it not that the woman gave no indication anything was amiss. In a moment, the young man had disappeared into the crowd.

“My purse! Where is it?”

The indignant cry behind him summoned Meran’s attention again.

“Help! Thief! I’ve been robbed!”

“It didn’t make any sense,” Meran said, a candlemark later. “I watched her hand him her purse. And a moment later, it was as though she’d forgotten she had.”

They’d found Gaurane and Hedion at the aleseller’s nearest their lodging. There was always someone willing to rent space to travelers who had not provided their own accommodation. On the Border, they could always find an inn or a village to lodge them in exchange for a song or two if it was not giving them lodging for Hedion’s sake. Here, entertainment could be had for the asking, but beds required coin.

“Maybe they were working together,” Elade said, sounding puzzled.

“Fairs are made for thieving,” Gaurane said. He took a long pull from his tankard of ale and sighed appreciatively. “Thieves everywhere.” He tipped it up again, draining it, and reached for Meran’s cup.

“There’s a whole pitcher of ale in front of you,” Meran said indignantly, whisking his cup out of reach.

“Yes,” Gaurane said. “And if I drink it, it will be gone.”

“I’ll buy you another one,” Meran said. Then kicked himself when Gaurane smiled beatifically.

“Good lad. I knew I could depend on you.”

“She handed him her purse. And then she said she’d been robbed?” Hedion frowned, clearly still trying to make sense of the puzzle.

Of the three at the table entitled to wear the colors of one of the schools of the Collegium, only Meran was dressed in accordance with his rank. Everyone—even Elade—had been firmly against Hedion wearing his Healer’s tunic here. Summerfair was supposed to be a holiday for all of them, Hedion most of all. Even now—a full sennight after the last Mindhealing he’d performed—Hedion’s face was pinched and drawn, and he clenched his hands to stop their constant trembling when he thought no one saw. Meran knew, without having to be told, that left to himself, Hedion would pit his strength against the impossible task he’d set himself until he dropped from exhaustion. No one man could stem the tide of damage the Karsite demon-callers caused. But Hedion Mindhealer would try. If not for Gaurane, Meran knew, Hedion would have broken beneath his burden already.

“She swore someone must have taken it,” Meran said. “The scentseller told her she’d handed it to her servant—”

“But she swore she had no servant,” Gaurane finished, in the tones of one who knows how the tale ends.

Meran nodded in agreement. “She was quite indignant about it, too,” he said dryly.

“So he could hardly have been her partner,” Hedion said. “She loses her coin, she doesn’t buy the scentseller’s wares, and the man escapes. A mystery.”

“The only mystery I’m interested in solving is how long I am to stare at the bottom of my tankard before it is full again,” Gaurane said.

It was certainly a mystery, but hardly one they were likely to solve. The Heralds of Valdemar were charged with keeping the peace and meting out justice, but Gaurane insisted he was no Herald, Rhoses’ presence notwithstanding. Meran doubted the man still owned a traveling uniform, much less a set of formal Whites. As for Rhoses’ saddle and silver-belled bridle . . .

. . . there were some things it was better not to wonder about.

No, they could hardly look to Gaurane to hunt their quarry. But Meran disliked thieves. It was one thing to steal when you had to steal or starve—he’d done that often enough, before Bard Meloree found him. It was another thing to steal for sport or out of greed. The man he’d seen with Mistress Theret’s purse looked well fed (and clean, which was more to the point), and his clothes had been of good quality and in good condition.

“If you want to be a Guardsman, I’m sure they’d take you on,” Elade said in a low voice.

“You didn’t have to come with me,” Meran answered.

“Easier than buying you out of the stocks. Gaurane would complain about the waste of coin, and Hedion would worry.”

“If you can get Hedion to worry, you’re doing better than Gaurane is,” he said absently, his gaze never leaving the crowds around them.

“Hedion worries,” Elade said. “As long as it’s about somebody else. I’m sure even you notice that.”

“Point,” Meran said.

He didn’t know what he was looking for—or rather, he did know, but he wasn’t sure he’d see it. Anywhere there was money, there was thievery, but the style of thievery varied from city to countryside. There might be a few cutpurses working a crowd like this, but it was unlikely the experts at that craft would travel all the way to Goldendale to ply their trade. Here you were more likely to find snatch-and-grab artists, horse traders selling spavined nags as sound, or even an old-fashioned mugging or two. What he’d seen the day before didn’t fit any of those categories. It was trickery, but what kind?

“There. See him? That’s the man.”

Meran kept his voice low—though there was no possibility of being overheard in the crowd’s noise—and nodded toward a pieseller’s stall. As he watched, the same man he’d seen yesterday walked up to the table and pointed toward the shelves. The pieman reached back and took down a pie. He handed it over, smiling. Though Meran watched closely, he did not see any money exchanged.

“Wait here. I’ll get him.” Elade took off like a hound that’s suddenly seen a rabbit break cover.

The man dropped the pie and bolted. He and Elade vanished into the crowd.

Meran sighed. Not the way he would have done it, but he had no doubt Elade would catch their culprit. Then they could ask him what he’d done with Mistress Theret’s purse. Since there was no chance of catching up to Elade, he settled himself to wait.

It was half a candlemark before Elade returned. She was alone.

“I can’t believe he outran you,” Meran said.

“What?” Elade asked blankly. “Oh, no. I caught up to him quickly enough. But he said he wasn’t the man I was after, so I let him go.”

For a long moment, Meran stared at her. “He said he was innocent, and you believed him?”

Elade simply stared back at him, looking cross. Then her eyes widened, and she looked utterly horrified.

“Come on,” Meran said, sighing. “It’s time to consult an expert.”

There was no place in all of Valdemar where a Herald and a Companion would not be made welcome. In fact, there were several Heralds at Summerfair, for one of a Herald’s duties was to hear disputes and give judgment, and another was to keep the peace, and those whose circuits brought them near the great fairs made sure to attend them.

The only time things became awkward was when one traveled with a Companion whose Herald flatly refused to acknowledge himself as a Herald.

They found Rhoses with three other Companions in an open space behind one of the larger pavilions. One of them was probably with a Herald Trainee on Progress, while the other two would be the Companions of the Heralds working the fair. In his time at the Collegium, Meran had become used to the sight of the dazzling white creatures who held the peace and safety of Valdemar in their charge, but no matter how much the Herald Candidates insisted they were easily distinguishable, he’d never been able to tell one Companion from another.

But it was certainly Rhoses who came walking over to them, ears pricked forward in curiosity. When he reached them, he nudged Hedion hard in the chest.

Hedion staggered backward. “Oh, not you too?” he said.

They’d had to find Hedion before coming for Rhoses. While Rhoses could hear them perfectly well, it would be a rather one-sided conversation, since no one but Hedion could hear him.

Not even Gaurane.

A pause. “I am!” Hedion protested. “Here I am, doing nothing at all!”

Meran had gotten used to listening to only half a conversation in the past several moonturns. It had never stopped him from being curious about the half he couldn’t hear.

“You know him better than I do,” Hedion said darkly. “Come on, then.”

Rhoses tossed his head, and once again Meran had the sense of a conversation taking place just beyond the range of hearing. Rhoses walked forward, and Hedion fell into step beside him. Few of those the little party passed gave them a second glance. Before he’d left Haven, Meran would have thought it impossible for anyone to mistake a Companion for a horse. But many of Valdemar’s citizens never saw a Companion at all—and many of those who did were woefully unobservant, at least in Meran’s opinion. A Bard was trained to observe, so that the things they saw could be used to add life and heart to the songs they crafted.

“You see,” Meran said—he’d quickly learned to speak to Rhoses in the same way he’d speak to Hedion, “we’ve run into something a bit odd. There’s a man here at the fair with the power to make Elade change her mind.”

Elade thumped him—hard—in the shoulder with her fist.

“Ow,” Meran said ruefully, rubbing the bruise. “And that part isn’t the problem. But he’s a thief. And I’m not sure how he’s doing it.”

“ ‘A Bard should know all the Mind Gifts.’ ” Hedion translated Rhoses’ reply. “ ‘Even if he is a mere Journeyman.’ ” A lifted eyebrow conveyed the irony Meran couldn’t hear.

Meran bowed mockingly without breaking step. “I did pay attention to my teachers, you know. All I can tell you is what it isn’t. Not Mindspeech, not Farspeaking, not even Overshadowing. People just . . . believe him.”

“‘Not Compulsion?’ ” Hedion (Rhoses) asked.

“You think I wouldn’t recognize the kissing cousin of the Bardic Gift?” Meran demanded indignantly. He sighed. “I only saw him up close once,” he admitted. “If he was using Influence, he did it faster and stronger than I’ve ever thought was possible.”

“Apparently he used it on Elade directly,” Hedion said, answering the silent question.

Elade scowled ferociously. “If that’s what it was, I’ll make sure he never does it again once I catch him. I chased him through the crowd. I caught him. He . . .” She hesitated, and her next words were spoken with obvious reluctance. “He told me I’d made a mistake—that he wasn’t the man I was after.”

“And?” Hedion prompted.

“And I let him go. I realized I’d grabbed the wrong man, and I let him go. I would have gone on thinking that, too, if Meran hadn’t opened his big mouth.”

“Would you rather not know you’d been an idiot?” Meran demanded.

“Children,” Hedion said (or it might have been Rhoses; who knew?)

“So,” Meran said. “If it’s a Gift, I wondered if you knew what it was. And if it’s that strong, why hasn’t someone come for him? A Companion, I mean?”

Rhoses seemed to be thinking the matter over before answering. “ ‘Companions only come for future Heralds,’ ” Hedion finally relayed.

“But . . .” Elade said, puzzled.

“I think he means our nameless friend doesn’t have the morals to be a Herald,” Hedion said.

No one knew what qualities Companions looked for in their Chosen. The people they brought to the Collegium were as diverse as the people of Valdemar. But all of them had that something that meant they would someday don Herald’s Whites and dedicate their lives to service. I suppose that includes Gaurane, Meran added, with the usual puzzlement the thought brought. If there was an ideal Herald, then Gaurane was sort of . . .the anti-Herald.

They’d reached their lodging.

“I suppose I’d better—” Hedion began.

Gaurane staggered through the doorway, squinting painfully at the daylight. “Oh, it’s you,” he said, regarding Rhoses without any sign of welcome. “I suppose it was inevitable. Come along then, if you’re coming.” He turned and strode away.

You had to walk quite a way before you left the outskirts of Summerfair behind, but at least Meran was used to walking. Beside him, Elade kept up an endless, nearly inaudible grumbling. But at last they’d put a good mile between themselves and the nearest fair straggler. Gaurane located a convenient rock, sat down with a grunt, and reached into his tunic for the ever-present flask.

“Maybe someone can tell me why this is our problem,” he said, after he drank. “You—” he regarded Elade balefully “—hate being got round with Mind-magic, and you—” now Meran was his target “—never saw a wasp nest you didn’t want to poke. You have a death wish—” this was for Hedion “—and that is a compendium of all the virtues,” he finished, gesturing toward Rhoses. “And none of this has to do with Karse.”

“How resistant are Heralds to Mind-magic?” Meran asked. “I’m not asking you,” he added hurriedly. “I’m asking him.”

All of them looked at Rhoses.

“ ‘It . . .depends . . .’ ” Hedion finally quoted.

Gaurane snorted. “Can’t fool one of the circus ponies, you know that damned well,” he said harshly.

“But you can . . . fool . . . a Herald,” Hedion said, speaking for himself now. “If Healer’s Gift works on them, so do the others. Depending on the Herald. You don’t need a strong Gift to be Chosen. Or even one of the Mind Gifts at all.”

Rhoses tossed his head. Hedion paused, listening. “ ‘When we are not with our Chosen, we only know what they know. Yes. It is possible.’ ”

“What he means is, even if you dragged your man right up to one of those idiot meddlers in their pretty white suits, it’s even odds he’d convince them to let him go again sooner or later,” Gaurane said irritably. “And we still aren’t thief takers. So why is it our problem?”

“Thieves are cautious,” Meran said slowly. A thought had been taking shape in his mind from the first time he’d run into their Gifted thief; even now he wasn’t entirely sure of the shape of it. “You’d say it would be more cautious not to steal at all, I know, but imagine you have no choice. Or just think you can get away with it. Even so, nobody wants to be caught. So a thief—a career thief, a professional—doesn’t take risks. But imagine there are no risks. Imagine you’ll never be caught—or if you’re caught, you’ll never be punished. Once you were sure of that . . . what might you do?”

“You mean he’ll do worse,” Elade said flatly.

“Maybe,” Meran said.

“We can’t risk it,” Hedion said firmly. “But if you’ve guessed right, Meran, how do we catch him? Or keep our hands on him once we have?”

He looked toward Gaurane, and Meran knew Rhoses must be speaking. But whatever he said, Hedion didn’t repeat it.

Carjoris Lor was a happy man. Why shouldn’t he be, when the whole world was his treasure sack? From the moment he’d made up his mind to come west to find his fortune, Fortune had found him.

He’d always lived by his wits. He’d grown up traveling from farm to farm, following the work, and a quick tongue and a gift of invention had saved young Carjoris from countless beatings. In his itinerant world, theft had few consequences: it would be a year and more before a laborer’s caravan returned, and by then the theft would have been forgotten.

He was not clever enough to see—not then—that the things a child might steal were small and easily forgotten . . . but that the theft of clothes or boots or coin would be mourned and long remembered. He’d been shocked when, upon their return to a place he’d nearly forgotten, his family was accused of stealing—and outraged when they cast him out.

You never cared where things came from. In all the years I brought you things, you never asked. But in the end, you cared more about being welcome back in some mudhole than you did about me.

But it was an old injury now, half forgotten. He wasn’t sure when it was that the lies he told as he wandered from town to town began to be taken for truth. At first he thought it was his cleverness—or their stupidity.

But later he came to realize it was magic. Whatever he said—whatever he wanted—would be taken as truth.

It was a pity it never lasted long. Once he was out of sight, his victims remembered their own truths. No matter how hard he tried to settle down, he’d always had to keep moving.

Then one day he’d heard that in Valdemar no one believed in magic.

People who didn’t believe in magic would surely be ripe for the plucking.

When he reached Valdemar, he’d been careful and cautious at first, using his magic for small things, things no one could say did them any harm. But the fact it worked had made him bolder. A country fair was just the place to test his powers. And after that . . .

A fine horse and fine clothes and a pocket full of gold—and no one ever again telling me what to do.

Today Carjoris decided to visit the horse fair. He did not fear arrest—even the guardswoman who’d chased him yesterday hadn’t been immune to his magic. If anyone accused him, all he had to do was say he was innocent. They’d believe him. He moved quickly past the lines of mules, the broken-down hacks, the plow horses and cart horses. There, at the end of the street, were the creatures he sought. Their coats gleamed like satin and silk, and a man who rode one of those fine mares or geldings would be seen instantly for a man of wealth and stature.

And a man who looked to buy would be feted like a prince.

He passed a shaggy unkempt fellow loitering nearby—obviously some poor fool looking to exchange a day’s work for a meal and a bed. Perhaps I shall hire a servant, he thought as he walked toward the horse seller, his mind on a pleasant afternoon of wine and flattery.

Then something struck him, and Carjoris knew nothing more.

He did not know how long it had been when at last consciousness returned. He was lying on the ground with a sack on his head. He groaned and rolled over with a grunt. Someone had put a sack over his head. He pawed it away and sat up, wincing at the brightness of the sun.

“Hello,” a voice said pleasantly.

Carjoris blinked. The voice belonged to the ruffian he’d seen near the horse seller’s. The man was sitting on a rock holding a wineskin. A white horse—superior to any of the beasts Carjoris had been admiring—stood behind him, though since it had neither saddle nor bridle, it clearly didn’t belong to the stranger.

The rock was in the middle of a field, and the field was in the middle of nowhere.

“What happened to me?” Carjoris asked. His mouth was dust-dry; he spat to clear it.

“I hit you over the head with a club,” the stranger said. “I’m Gaurane. Who are you?”

Carjoris blinked, certain he could not have heard correctly. “I’m thirsty. Give me the wine.” He held out his hand.

But instead of handing over the wineskin, Gaurane laughed. “Sorry, Thirsty. I don’t share.”

“It’s mine,” Carjoris said. “Give it to me.”

Gaurane simply shook his head. “Save your breath, my son. Your tricks aren’t going to work on me.” He tapped the side of his head. “Deaf as a post.”

Carjoris got to his feet painfully and looked around. They weren’t alone here, as he’d first thought. In the distance he could see three people watching them.

“I’m leaving now,” he said.

“Did you know Elade’s from Sensolding?” Gaurane asked. Something in his voice made Carjoris hesitate. “Sensolding, that’s Holder lands. Harsh country. Hard people. I suspect none of that means much to you, but try this: She learned to use a great bow almost before she could walk. The range on it is . . . well, from where she’s standing to here. That’s her over there.” Gaurane waved, and one of the figures waved back. “Walk away from me, son, and she’ll put an arrow into you.”

“That’s murder,” Carjoris said.

“Only if she kills you,” Gaurane said. “Now sit down. I have a few things to say to you.”

Carjoris looked from the figures in the distance to Gaurane, and he sat.

“You aren’t from here, are you?” Gaurane asked.

There wasn’t anything to do but answer,and hope he could find a way out of this. “Iftel.”

“Ah. So, likely you think you have some kind of magic power. But you see, magic doesn’t work in Valdemar. We call what you can do a Gift.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Carjoris said.

“Oh, I don’t think so. Elade doesn’t think so—you used your power on her, you know. Meran doesn’t think so—he saw you take the purse at the scentseller’s stall. And me, I really don’t care. But my friends do, so we’re going to make sure you don’t do things like that any more. Stealing is wrong,” he added virtuously.

“I won’t ever do it again—I promise!” Carjoris said desperately. If he could convince the man that he repented and get the maniac to let him go—

“Well, here’s the thing,” Gaurane said. “I don’t believe you. And using a Gift to trick people, that’s even more wrong. But it’s tempting, isn’t it?”

“I never took anything anybody needed!” Carjoris said. “They were rich!”

“Ah, well, that’s a matter of perspective,” Gaurane said. “Now me, I think you’re a nasty little bully, and I wouldn’t lose a moment’s sleep over slitting your throat. Hedion’s got standards, though. So I suppose we could just dose you up with something that shuts down your Gift—oh, don’t look at me like that; this is Valdemar, they understand the mind-gifts here—and send you off to Haven. They’d put Truth Spell on you, you know. And when you’d told them what you’d been up to, why, they’d get someone to burn your Gift out of you before they sent you off to prison. Or we could just do what Elade suggested, and slit your tongue. Hard to talk people into things when you can’t talk.”

Carjoris looked at him for a long minute, trying to judge how serious he was. When Gaurane did not so much as blink, Carjoris knew there was no escaping this disaster. “Please,” he said, covering his face with his hands. “Please.”

“And then there’s Meran,” Gaurane said, as though Carjoris hadn’t spoken. “Did you know he grew up on the streets in Haven? A beggar and a thief. But one day a Bard found him and took him off to the Collegium, and he never stole again. He didn’t have to. The question is, would you steal if you didn’t have to?”

Carjoris lifted his head and stared at Gaurane at that ray of potential salvation. “I wouldn’t! I won’t!” he said desperately.

“Ah,” Gaurane said sighing. “Never lie to a drunk, boy. We’re good at seeing the truth. Of course, you have a third choice.” He reached down into the grass beside him and picked something up. Carjoris couldn’t see what it was before Gaurane tossed it at his feet.

He looked down at it, and could not believe his eyes. “You want me to wear—a collar?” The silver flashed in the sun.

“It’s even got a lock,” Gaurane said cheerfully, bouncing a small object in his hand. “And the thing about this collar is—oh, I don’t suppose you can read, so let me tell you about it—the engraving on it says you should be handed over to the next Herald who rides by. You’ll recognize them. They’ll be the ones riding something that looks like that.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the white horse standing patiently behind him. “And those things are smart, and you can’t trick them, and they aren’t horses, no matter what they look like. And you’ll find yourself in Valdemar before you can blink. They’ll probably hire you out as a laborer there so you can pay back what you stole. After they burn out your Gift, of course.”

“If—If I wear that, you’ll let me go?” Carjoris stammered. Once he was away from here, he could surely find a blacksmith to strike the collar off. Only what if they read it first? What if they chained him up and gagged him and delivered him to one of these Heralds?

The white horse snorted, and Gaurane gave a sharp bark of laughter.

“Or you wear that and come with us. Do what you’re told. We work hard, harder than you’ve ever worked a day in your life, but the reward is well worth the labor. We’ll put you to work, teach you what you need to know in order to be of use. If you’re a good boy, we might even get someone to teach you the right way to use that Gift of yours someday, once we’re convinced you’re done misusing it. Run, try to compel any of us, make any trouble—and you’ll wish I’d let Elade put an arrow into you now.”

Carjoris shook his head, trying to make some kind of sense out of all this. “Why—Why—Why—” he stuttered.

“Maybe you deserve a chance to be someone better. Maybe you were born with your Gift for a reason. Maybe all you need is somebody to show you how to be a hero. Maybe I’m tired of listening to Elade bitch about doing all the work around the camp. Or maybe I bet Hedion you’d rather take your chances in Haven than do an honest day’s work. But like I said, it’s your choice.”

“Who . . . Who do you think you are?” Anger got the better of caution, of the hard-learned lesson that the only way to survive was to smile and give soft words no matter what words were said to you.

“Me?” Gaurane said. “I’m nobody. But I was somebody—for a while. And it’s a funny thing, but if you give someone a thing worth doing, well, sometimes that’s worth quite a lot.” He got to his feet, grunting with the effort. “Time’s up, youngster. Choose.”

“I . . .” He looked down at the collar at his feet. Trapped, and trapped well, that much was certain. He could run and take his chances with the woman’s aim. He could put on the collar and take his chances with finding someone to strike it from around his neck. He could give himself up to one of their Heralds and take his chances that their punishment would be lenient and easily survived.

But Gaurane was watching him, a little smile lingering at the edges of his lips. He looked like a man who held a secret. And Carjoris suddenly, desperately, wanted to know what that secret was.

A hero. He liked the sound of that.

“My name is Carjoris,” he said. His hands shook as he reached for the collar. It was lined in leather, and the metal was warm from the sun. But it still felt cold and heavy as he closed it around his throat.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Gaurane said, without irony.

He tossed the lock into Carjoris’s lap. It clinked against the metal as Carjoris threaded it through the clasp and squeezed it shut.

“Come on.” Gaurane was holding a hand down to him. Carjoris took it, and Gaurane pulled him to his feet.

“What—What happens now?” Carjoris asked. He knew he ought to feel afraid, or even angry at having been trapped so neatly. But he didn’t.

He didn’t know what he felt.

“Now we go back to the fair—should be there by dark—and you hand over everything you’ve stolen, and Meran goes and finds a Herald to give it all back. And tomorrow we buy you a horse and whatever else you need. Did I mention we spend our time living rough up on the Border? You’ll get used to it.”

He turned and began to walk toward the others. The white horse followed. As it passed him, it turned its head and gave Carjoris a penetrating look.

“Come on if you’re coming!” Gaurane called, and Carjoris found himself running to catch up.

“You’ve lost me a five-mark piece, you know,” Gaurane said when he reached him. “Ah, well, maybe I can get Hedion to go double or nothing. Over a moonturn, you know. To give him a sporting chance.”

“You’ll lose,” Carjoris said with sudden confidence.

They walked on.

Chapter 3 - In an Instant - Elizabeth A. Vaughan

The thick yellow dust caught in her throat, right next to her heart.

The euphoria of their victory over Ancar of Hardorn was starting to pass, the ragged cheers starting to fade. Selenay remembered all too well what happened next. The cold harsh wind of dealing with the aftermath. She’d managed to keep herself together this long. Her officers could handle the next few minutes without her.

“I just need a moment,” Selenay whispered to her guards, seeking the privacy of her tent. They nodded, taking up their positions. They probably thought she wished to thank her gods or see to her own needs. But the truth was not so simple.

Once the flap was raised, once she’d retreated into the darkness of its shelter and its relative silence, her emotions overwhelmed her. She stumbled past the table of maps into her sleeping area and collapsed on her stool. She dropped her head to her hands,and fought to hold back tears. This could not be happening, not here, not now, not ever.

He is his brother.

She gasped then, pulling in stale air, and shivered.

She was a Queen, a mother, a Herald, for the love of all the gods. She was in the middle of a war, fresh from a battle she never thought they’d win. She should be rejoicing at their victory and dealing with the consequences thereof. The dead, the injured, the damages to the land. Her people, her land, her kingdom. Instead, here she was like some silly girl weeping over—Her heart skipped a beat.

He is his brother.

The sounds outside the flimsy canvas of her tent were muted and distant. All she could hear was her heart in her ears, her ragged breath in her throat, and her thrice-damned memories.

“In that case, gracious lady, let the Prince prevail upon your noble nature and present himself!” the young man said, flinging himself at her feet in the most romantic posture possible.

She’d been so young and so stupid, dreaming of romance. So gullible. Karathanelan, Prince of Rethwellan had appeared as if in answer to her dreams and swept her off her feet. She’d fallen for him so fast, so foolishly. So blindly in love that she’d swept all opposition aside, ignoring the concerns of friends, advisers, even her own Companion, like a child with a new toy. She’d been stupid, arrogant, naive, and . .

Dearest Gods, was it happening again?

It couldn’t, it just couldn’t . . . no . . . this couldn’t be happening. She’d slammed the doors and windows on that stupid dream the day her loving husband had smiled at her over the glint of his sword. She could still feel that lance of fear as his friends had surrounded her, and she’d faced them for long moments alone—

Never alone.:

Selenay lifted her tearful face to a beloved white head pushing its way into the tent.

“Oh, Caryo,” she whispered.

Caryo stepped closer. Selenay stood and pressed her face into that warm neck, feeling the soft silky mane of white absorb her tears.

:Whatever this is, whatever happens, we face this together.: Caryo’s Mindspeech carried all of the warmth of her love with it. :I am here for you, Chosen.:

:I . . . I think it’s a Lifebond.: Selenay held on for dear life, and let her tears flow. :He is his brother,: she wailed in despair, sharing her fear. :Caryo, I can’t—:

:He is his brother.: Caryo confirmed. :But he is also Chosen.:

Selenay lifted her tear-streaked face and drew a sharp breath. :He is? I didn’t notice. He was in front of me, and I was so stunned, I didn’t see—:

:See again,: Caryo commanded and Selenay saw again in her mind’s-eye Lord Darenthallis of Rethwellan, his helmet in one hand, stretching out his hand to kiss hers. Saw him lift his head, saw his brownish-blond hair, and gazed into those hazel eyes . . . and saw him seated on a Companion.

Her knees buckled, and she went down onto the stool. Caryo followed, lowering her head to nuzzle Selenay’s face.

:Chosen,: Selenay wiped at her eyes.:By?:

:Jasan.: Caryo said. :On the battlefield. As is Kerowyn. By Sayvel.:

Selenay blinked, as a slow smile crept over her face. “Oh, Kero’s going to hate whites.” she hiccupped a weak chuckle.

A snort of agreement from Caryo.

“Chosen?” Selenay frowned, pushing her hair back from her face. “How will we deal with a mercenary company? For that matter, how do I explain this to King Faramentha? What will he say, to lose his Lord Marshal?”

:You are thinking like a Queen,: Caryo noted, shaking her mane in approval. :That is well.:

:Why do you say that?:

:Because he’s standing outside your tent, hesitating, not sure what to say, or how to say it, but knowing . . .:

:The bond.: Selenay felt it too, vibrating between them.

:Rolan says that Talia says to breathe. That a lifebond is overwhelming and confusing. Go slow, and remember that you are not the girl you were.:

:He is his brother.: Selenay nodded slowly, still nervous and unsure. But the terror was ebbing away. :But I am Queen, and Herald, and mother of a half-grown daughter. I can handle this.: She put her hand on Caryo’s neck. :We can handle this.:

Daren took a deep breath of heat and dust and let it out slowly. He adjusted his cape,and tried to brush dust from his uniform.

:One would think you were facing your final battle,: the voice in his head said.

“I am.” Daren looked over his shoulder at the white stallion behind him.

:Companion,: Jasan reminded him. The big horse shook his white head and somehow managed to look amused.

Daren concentrated. :This is going to take some getting used to,: he thought. His head was still whirling from the last few days, the confusion of the battle, the victory, being Chosen. And now the Queen of Valdemar was—

The bond between them vibrated with her nervousness, echoing his.

:It will take time,: Jasan agreed. :But you should not keep her waiting.:

Daren looked back at the tent before him. The Queen’s guards were looking at him with odd expressions. He wasn’t sure why he was hesitating so much. He’d known many women, been in and out of relationships like he changed garments, but this. . . .

His heart clenched in his chest. This mattered.

Daren pushed through the tent flap; he stood in the darkness and let his eyes adjust.

She stood opposite him, her Companion’s head over her shoulder, the table of maps between them.

Dearest gods, she was lovely.

Golden hair, blue eyes that were strong and yet like a startled doe’s. Her armor was a mixture of plate and white leather, and it didn’t show much dust. But there were smudges on her face and the trace of tears. It hurt him to see her pain.

“Your Majesty,” Daren placed his hand over his heart and bowed his head.

“Lord Darenthallis,” Selenay’s voice trembled.

“Daren,” he blurted out. “I go by Daren.”

“Daren,” she repeated. Her voice trailed off and they both stood there, staring at one another.

“I didn’t intend this,” Daren said. “I never thought that something like this could happen. I. . . .”

:Your brother’s greeting,: Jasan prompted.

Daren pulled himself up. “Your Majesty, I bring greetings from King Faramentha of Rethwellan. He bade me say that our presence here today honors the pledge that King Stefansen made to Herald-Prince Roald, preserving the honor of Rethwellan and the friendship between our lands.”

“You look nothing like him,” Selenay whispered, wonder and relief in her voice.

Daren stared back at her helplessly. “Faram and I favor my father,” he replied. “Thanel favored our mother.”

“Thanel? He went by Karath when he was here.”

Daren shook his head in disgust. “Thanel was what he was known by in Rethwellan,” Daren continued. “My old weaponsmistress called him a ‘grek’ka’shen.’ That’s an animal found on the Plains,” he explained. “Scavenges anything dead, soils its own nest, and eats its young.”

Selenay grimaced. “Appropriate,” she murmured, dropping her eyes. “I wish I’d known that before. . . .” her words trailed off.

Daren shook his head. “Would it have made a difference?”

“I—I don’t know,” Selenay answered, her honesty wrung out and raw.

“He could charm the sun out of the sky, the vicious little beast.” Daren took a step forward. “I am not him,” he said fiercely.

Selenay lifted her head and looked at him, a faint wondering in her eyes. She nodded slowly and then frowned slightly. “I seem to remember someone telling me . . . your weaponsmistress was Shin’a’in, wasn’t she?”

Daren nodded. “She wouldn’t train Thanel for any price. Trained me though, and Kero,” he laughed, shaking his head. “Taught us the trick we used today in fact. Worked out well.” He stared at Selenay, wanting her to know everything. “We were lovers when we were young,” he blurted out, then covered his face with his hand. “Oh, gods, why did I say that?”

Jasan whickered outside.

Selenay coughed, and Daren opened his fingers to see her choking back a laugh. “We are not at our best,” she offered. “You traveled far to save us. To save Valdemar.”

“I served my King, Your Majesty.” Daren took shelter in a return to formality. “But never so joyously.” He paled as he thought on his journey. “Hardorn’s Ancar is another grek’ka’shen. What he’s done to the land,” Daren drew a shuddering breath. “He’s not done with Valdemar yet, Lady.” He looked back into those lovely blue eyes. “With us.”

He lost himself in her face again, just staring at her. Thankfully, she seemed lost in his as well.

“You have a smudge on your nose,” he whispered.

Selenay blushed. His heart flipped as she lifted a hand and rubbed her nose. He took a step forward, wanting nothing more than to—but he stopped and took a conscious and deliberate step back.

Selenay’s eyes were wide, questioning him.

“Your Majesty,” Daren said carefully. “I need to see to my people, as do you. We both have duties here and now. But I would like to . . . explore this possibility. The possibility of us.”

Selenay nodded. “As would I.”

“But know this, Queen Selenay.” Daren set his shoulders, trying to find the right words. “Your Majesty, I’d . . . wherever this leads—if it leads to something growing between us—I’ll not be crowned.”

“What?” Selenay stared at him, and her Companion also seemed taken aback. He heard the rustle of canvas behind him, and Jasan pushed his head into the tent. Daren suppressed a surge of satisfaction. He’d surprised them all.

“But if this thing between us,” Selenay gestured toward Jasan. “Being Chosen, you would qualify as Co-Ruler in a way that Karath never–” she stopped herself.

Daren nodded. “Karath, Thanel, whatever you decide to call him, he left a taint, and I will not walk in his footsteps. But even more than that, I do not wish to wear a crown. Faram deals with so much as a result of that burden, and I know full well the price.”

Selenay nodded her understanding.

“But if you would allow,” Daren said softly., “I would stand with you. Support you in all ways, all things. Behind the throne,” he smiled at her. “Not on it.”

Selenay took a breath, her eyes tearing up. “Are you sure?”

“More than sure,” Daren said. “Now, with your leave, Your Majesty, I’ll–”

Jasan bumped him in the middle of his back. :Kiss her.:

Daren scowled and shook his head.

“What?” Selenay asked.

“He thinks I should kiss you,” Daren looked at her ruefully, then glanced back at his Companion. “Were you born in a barn?”

Selenay’s laughter burst out, like rain on his thirsty soul.

Selenay could not restrain her laughter, rising out of her relief.

Daren gave her a boyish grin. “Are they always that pushy?” he asked.

“Most times,” Selenay said teasingly, then laughed again as Cayro shook her head in denial. “Daren, this is my Companion, Cayro.”

“My lady,” Daren bowed. “I believe you already know my Companion, Jasan.”

Jasan snorted as he backed out of the tent.

“I really, really want to kiss you, Your Maj-”

“Selenay,” she interrupted.

“Selenay.” His smile lit his face. He drew a breath. “But there is time for that. We’ll talk first. Before we explore other . . . possibilities. I’d want to really know you before . . .” Daren paused. “Do you know what I am trying to say?”

Selenay nodded, her throat tight with emotion, unable to speak, feeling the truth of his words within the bond.

“But you’ll forgive me if I hope the wait is not long,” Daren said. “And I’d ask one favor,” he added, his eyes sparkling.

Selenay raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t believe anything Kero says. I don’t snore.”

Selenay laughed again, and the band of pressure around her chest eased. Daren gave her a boyish grin and lifted his eyebrows. Her heart turned over at the sight.

“I’m not sure how I am going to explain this to Faram. It’s going to take me a score of letters to convince him that I’ve been Chosen and explain what that means.” Daren’s eyebrows danced. “Maybe I’ll tell him that Jasan is a Shin’a’in battlesteed. That might do it.”

There was an offended snort from outside.

Selenay suppressed the giggle that rose in her chest.

“I’m in Valdemar to stay,” Daren said. “I am not going to give up Jasan or you, Selenay of Valdemar.”

“I’m glad,” Selenay replied, confidence flowing through her.

Daren put on his helmet, looking satisfied. “Your Majesty.” He swept a graceful courtly bow as he backed away.

Selenay stepped forward, suddenly reluctant to part. She extended her hand.

Daren took it gently in his and lightly touched his lips to it. Then he left, with a flourish of his cloak.

Selenay stood for a moment. :He is not his brother.:

:He is not.: Caryo agreed. :And I am here, always.:

:Always,: Selenay said, as the tightness in her shoulders eased even more.

Noises from without, and the flap was raised. “The Lord Marshal is here to confer with you.”

Selenay rubbed her face, hopefully erasing her tears. “Let him enter,” she commanded.

“A battle won, majesty.” The Lord Marshal strode in with his staff.

“But there are consequences yet to be dealt with,” Selenay stepped to the map table. “Let’s see to it, shall we?” She bent her head to the reports he laid out for her, with a new energy. No, she smiled to herself. More like a new anticipation.

And a new determination to protect Valdemar and those she . . . loved.

Chapter 4 - A Healer’s Work - Daniel Shull

The greenhouse was worse than he’d expected. The tools had gotten damp from the constant storms, and plants were either dying or running riot. Whoever had last been inside appeared to have trimmed just enough materials for their use and then run off. Several of the windows had been left open, and drains had not been cleared, resulting in a sludge that clung to everything. The mess wasn’t insurmountable, just extensive; only there shouldn’t have been a mess to begin with.

Healer Serril looked around the dilapidated greenhouse with more than a bit of irritation, tempered only by his fondness for the Trainee standing a few feet away from him. Jayin waved a slightly rusted trowel in the direction of the Healers’ Collegium, fury radiating from her normally placid brown eyes.

“Idiots! Ham-fisted children! Delinquents! Fumble-fingered—” Serril interrupted her before someone came to investigate the furious ranting.

“Jayin.” Her name, backed by all of his authority, was enough to stop the Trainee midrant. She grimaced but bowed in apology to her mentor, eyes to the ground in a show of contrition. The apology was certainly genuine; everything else was for show, Serril knew from long experience. He also knew that the Healers who’d require her contrition would be the ones most likely to accept a display and not probe deeper. Brone immediately came to mind.

She had good reason for her irritation, to be sure. Ever since Elspeth had returned, the Collegia and Court had been all atwitter for their suddenly strange Herald-Mage and her even stranger allies. The two Hawkbrothers alone would be enough to turn anyone’s head; add the creatures called gryphons and their younglings, and it was no wonder that most of Haven occupied themselves with little else. Gossip left the court, galloped around the city and returned with three heads, seven legs, and no sense whatsoever. The Hawkbrothers were descended from the gryphons, or vice versa. Elspeth was nothing more than a chew toy for the ravening monsters that were set to take over Valdemar. Vanyel himself had been resurrected and somehow brought to the Court. And those were the tamer stories. It was enough to make a cat sneeze.

And the normally sensible Healers had mostly fallen prey to this absurdity. Essential duties had been let slide. Reports from the countryside were stacking up because the secretary was too busy loitering in the diplomatic wing, hoping for a glimpse of their exotic guests. Despite his incessant lurking, nobody quite had the heart to shoo the man away when this was probably the most excitement he’d ever had. The library was in disarray because nobody was thinking about putting books away. The greenhouse had suffered because not one Healer–until now–had come in to maintain it for at least a week. The sensible ones had simply been overwhelmed with trying to deal with everything their counterparts should have been doing.

Serril and Jayin had valid excuses though. They’d been at Briarley Crossing, attending to the results of what was best called a string of strange luck: an outbreak of the flux, several broken bones, and no fewer than five births–all within two weeks time. The local Healer and the midwife had been swamped and grateful for their help. Then, the day they were due to leave for Haven, a particularly nasty storm had blown up and made travel impractical for another two weeks.

When they had finally ridden into Haven, Jayin had muttered something about hiding from the Dean of the Healers for a few days. Serril had nodded, knowing exactly how she felt. Sadly, he wouldn’t be able to dodge that worthy as easily as Jayin, even if he hadn’t planned to visit the Dean to recommend that she receive her full Greens for their work in Briarley Crossing. They’d been assisting at a Healing station in the North and were on their way back to Haven when they’d arrived in Briarley Crossing just as things took a turn for the busy. So of course he had to report to the Dean to explain the whys and wherefores behind their late arrival and then give his report on Jayin.

Dean Ostel had mostly paid attention to Serril’s report and his recommendation for Jayin, massaging his temples as if fighting off an oncoming headache. Serril didn’t think the stocky man had a problem with his report, but several months outside of Haven politics made him more than a bit wary. He did his best not to play the games, but he knew how to watch for them and avoid the most troublesome ones. The Dean’s next words took him by surprise.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you rest just yet, my friend. I need you and your Trainee to deal with the greenhouse.” Ostel grimaced, his blue eyes a touch dull underneath furrowed pale brows. “I’m not sure if you’ve heard the rumors, but the truth is a bit more strange. I’ve made notes for you both, but the upshot is that nobody has seen to the greenhouse in about a week, and I trust you not to get, well, distracted.”

Serril snapped back to the present and watched as Jayin caught herself before she ran muddy fingers through her straight brown hair. “This is absurd, Serril. I mean, I can understand getting distracted by the Hawkbrothers and those astounding creatures, but this!” She gestured again, the trowel gripped as delicately as a scalpel might have been, slender fingers maintaining control at all times. Somehow the gesture took in the Healers’ Collegium, Bardic, the Heralds, the Palace and the surrounding city–and made it clear that she found them all lacking. Jayin had grown up in a traveling performers’ caravan, and the drama learned in the tents and the wagons occasionally surfaced.

“Healers are only human. And with the Heir renouncing the Crown on top of everything else–”

“Smartest thing she could have done,” Jayin muttered.

“–it’s upset the apple cart, as it were. And yes, Herald-Mage Elspeth was politically smart to do what she did, but, my goodness, Jayin, I’d expect you to keep that opinion to yourself. There’s more than enough uproar throughout the capital without a soon-to-be Healer interjecting her opinions in so impolitic a manner.” He chuckled as he dug his fingers into the next pot, where a plant was barely surviving. He added quietly, “Not that the rest of them haven’t been, but at least we can attempt to present an air of neutrality.” He had the Healing Gift–like Jayin, which was why they’d been paired–but greenery responded to his particular Gift quite well. Serril gently pulled the plant out of the pot and transplanted it to another, cushioning it with his Gift against the shock of the move. The new soil was better suited for the plant anyway. A faint surge of energy, and he felt the roots “wake up” and settle into the new soil with what, in a human, he’d have called a contented sigh.

Jayin snorted. “Since you yourself taught me about maintaining that neutrality, I’ll presume you’re teasing me, especially since there’s not another Healer anywhere near here–” She stopped, about to gesture yet again with the trowel, when the hurried knock at the greenhouse door interrupted her. Serril kept himself from laughing, but only barely. Fatigue had lowered his guard too, it seemed.

“Come in!” he managed.

As the Healer walked in, Serril thought, Thank goodness it’s Tessa and not Brone. The Healer was obviously distracted, though. As she began speaking, Tessa didn’t even see the interior of the greenhouse or the two Healers painted with mud, fertilizer, and pieces of dead plants.

“I’ll need a few leaves of the woundwort, no more than three, and—” She stopped dead as she refocused on her surroundings. “Blessed Haven, this place is a disaster! And look at you two!”

At that, Serril lost control completely, sagging against the workbench and wheezing laughter to Tessa’s obvious surprise. Jayin very primly placed the rusted trowel next to her and then planted her hands on her hips. In the midst of his laughter, Serril managed to remember her pose for the next time he teased her about how you could take the girl from the theater, but you couldn’t take the theater out of the girl.

“If it weren’t you, Healer Tessa, I’d tell you there was none to be had. It’s in bad shape and might not survive another few days.” She steadfastly ignored her mentor’s further laughter, instead giving him a polite yet disapproving look. As Jayin’s left eyebrow went up, Serril turned away to keep himself from giggling further.

Tessa grinned at them both. “Back less than a day and Ostel’s already put you to work. My apologies, Trainee Jayin. I’m on an errand for the female gryphon–Hydona, her name is–and we’re comparing medicinal herbs and uses. She may well be a treasure trove for all that she can’t use a mortar and pestle.” She paused a moment, then continued, “Fair enough, the woundwort’s out of bounds. Why don’t we pick a few leaves from the plants that will survive it, then?”

Jayin’s eyes drooped, and Serril reflected that he probably didn’t look much better. The greenhouse had been set to rights as best as they were able: floors, tables, and tools cleaned, the plants likely to survive given as much care as possible, and requests sent off for replacements for the unrecoverable ones.

When they’d arrived, it had been midmorning; they hadn’t eaten all day, and they’d barely made it to dinner. The two of them had gotten what food was left, and they now slowly made their way from the refectory toward their rooms. The long day had definitely taken its toll on both of them; Jayin navigated the path more by memory than by actually looking at it.

“I don’t care if my bed hasn’t been aired out yet, I’m going to fall in and not get up for a week.”

Serril opened his mouth to suggest she might want to change out of her dirty clothes when a sound interrupted him. It took him a moment, but for anyone who’d spent time in Haven–and at the Palace–the sound of hooves chiming on the gravel path was unmistakable.

A Companion.

It walked right up to Serril, staring at him and Jayin with impossible blue eyes, as if evaluating the two. It nudged gently at Serril’s shoulder and then Jayin’s. The creature looked for all the world as if it–no, she–were on the verge of tears as she took a step back, shifting her head in an unmistakable “follow me” motion.

Jayin gaped and looked on the verge of tears. Serril swallowed and said, “Your pardon, but my Trainee and I haven’t had any rest for the past day–”

:I know, and if I had any other choice, I wouldn’t be asking this.: The voice–decidedly female, anxious and fearful–came from the Companion in front of them. There was really no other explanation. Jayin must have heard it as well from the strangled squeaking she made.

:I’m breaking a host of rules by doing this, of course, but it seems to me that the rules are going to get rewritten soon enough. My Herald has need of your particular talents, the both of you. And she doesn’t have much time.: The Companion blew air through her nose in not quite a snort. :I’m Layelle, and my Herald is Mellie. Please, please, please say you’ll come?: The worry came through even without the words being spoken out loud–in fact, it was even more apparent this way.

Jayin squeaked a bit more–she’d had dreams once of being a Herald–but Serril gave the Companion a slow nod. No, Layelle. “If you have need of us, Companion Layelle, then lead on. We’ll do what we can.”

They followed Layelle to the hospice meant for the most seriously wounded who could still be treated. Firm beds made it easier to move patients, detachable wooden railings prevented accidents such as rolling off the bed, and various pulleys allowed for broken limbs to be kept elevated. And a quarter of the beds were meant for Heralds as well, since they had wide near-doors by each bed that could allow a Companion to stick his or her head in during decent weather.

They reached Mellie’s bed about the same time as Layelle nudged open the wooden panel. The evening was temperate enough that Serril didn’t object–for the moment, it seemed to not be raining. As he looked down into the bed, he sucked in air through clenched teeth, shock jolting him awake. Mellie was tied to the bed frame as gently as possible but her wrists and ankles showed signs of resistance. Her sweat soaked hair flared around her head across both pillow and blankets. Already pale features looked ghastly against the sheets. The young woman, barely older than Jayin, muttered despite the depth of a slumber produced by the contents of the cup next to the bed.

Serril looked over the slate board at the foot of the bed. Convulsions and fever were the only obvious signs of illness. No bite marks from insects or snakes, no unaccounted bruising to either body or head, and no trouble breathing–in short, nothing the Healers could label and treat. Mellie was capable of taking in light broth and milk sweetened with honey, according to the notes, but alone those were not enough to sustain the Herald.

“Companion Layelle,” Serril began, “since this information isn’t helping me, what do you know?”

Blue eyes met his even as Jayin ran a standard round of tests. Absently Serril noted that his Trainee had woken up as well. :It began when all the Heralds in Haven were struck with that headache. Mellie and I weren’t too far from here, but her headache seemed particularly bad. She got over it, though, and I didn’t think about it until she started having trouble sleeping. We were headed out on Circuit but Mellie kept insisting that we had to go back. Her Mindspeech wasn’t good enough to reach the capital, and I didn’t feel the same pull she did.: The Companion paused, though Serril only noticed it because he was listening so hard. :A few nights ago, we slept at a Waystation. Mellie had been irritable all day, as if she had a mild headache, but it wasn’t anything I felt through her. The next morning, she barely woke up enough to get up on me, practically crying from the pain. I came back here as fast as I could, but nobody here seemed to know what to do.:

Jayin must have heard something in the Companion’s mind-voice, because she asked, “You have an idea of what’s going on, though, don’t you?”

The brilliant white head sagged, like a child caught with a hand in the candy jar. :The thing that caused the headache was a source of magic landing right in the middle of Haven. I think that woke something up in Mellie, maybe Mage Gift, but. . . : Here the Companion paused obviously. :I think the Mage channels were damaged in the process. And the two of you are my best hope of healing those channels, because each of you has worked directly on Healing channels before. Unlike the other Healers here in Haven.:

Serril blinked. “Are Healing channels that similar, then?”

:Close enough that with the three of us, Mellie has a chance. Otherwise . . .: The Companion trailed off, the fear once again rising in her voice.

Jayin put a hand on Serril’s arm. “We have to do this. With the war still going on, Valdemar’s going to need all the Herald-Mages she can field.”

Serril knew this. Just as well as he knew how risky it was to go mucking about with someone’s channels of energy. It wasn’t a matter of strength in the Gift, patience, or delicacy–most Gifted Healers had all three. It took a Master level of talent to even touch the Healing channels. Never mind that these were Mage channels, not Healing channels. But the situation needed them. Mellie and Layelle needed them. After a moment, he nodded.

“Jayin, get the blankets and some lanterns. We’ll need as much privacy as possible for this. Layelle, I don’t know how, but you seem to know what we need to do, so whatever help you can give us will be appreciated.”

In moments, the four of them were isolated from the rest of the room. Jayin had added a tiny bit of mint oil to the lamps’ reservoirs, something Serril wouldn’t have thought of, to keep the air smelling clean while they worked. Layelle leaned over to gently lip Mellie’s hair then looked at the two Healers.

:Here. I’ll link to you both so that I can “show” you where the channels are.: And as Serril “reached” for Jayin, to link their Healing together as they’d done so often recently, he felt a third presence join them: female, warm with hope, cool with worry, familiar in a way that told him that Layelle knew Healing in more than the abstract.

The three sank “into” Mellie, finding the obvious places they would ordinarily touch to bring Healing but knowing that those would need to wait. Layelle “pointed” in a direction that was new to the two Healers, guiding them toward a “place” that Serril immediately compared to a muscle-deep cut. It pulsed, raw and bleeding, even the faint trickle of power that he could now sense abrading the already sensitive “surfaces” of the channels. Where the channels began, the Healer could “see” that Mellie had unconsciously tried to block everything off; even that wasn’t enough, her “wall” only able to contain some of the energy that wanted to flow through those channels. Some deep part of himself hummed in both excitement and satisfaction. Together, he and Jayin would teach other Healers how to look for Mage channels, spread the knowledge so it wouldn’t be lost.

Now that Layelle had “shown” him–and Jayin–where the channels existed, the next step was to determine how best to Heal them. In Healer Trainees who had overextended themselves, the Healing energy itself would often help restore those channels, as long as the Trainees remembered not to use their Gifts. Here, though, the Mage energies were different enough that they couldn’t just sit back and let nature take its course. The channels were already so raw that Mellie might never be able to use them even when Healed.

:How can we do this?: It was very odd, hearing Jayin by way of Layelle. The Companion must be breaking even more rules to allow the three of them to communicate as if they were all Gifted with Mindspeech. A faint flare of guilt tempered with the feeling of necessity answered his question.

He thought for a moment. :We need to insulate the channels from the Mage energies. Layelle, is there anything you can do about that trickle of energy?: Serril felt more than heard the snort.

:It’s breaking even more rules, but yes. Odd, how easy it is to “see” everything now that both of you are working with me.:

Amazement filled him as he watched the trickle fade entirely. He couldn’t tell where it was going, but what mattered was that Mellie no longer had the flow of energy rubbing raw channels. Dimly, he knew that her body had finally relaxed. It was a good step, but only a first one.

:Now,: he drew Jayin’s attention to the channels themselves, :we need to Heal those without sealing them off or creating so much scar tissue that they’ll be unusable.:

The next words out of his Trainee surprised and pleased him.

:It’s like a burn, more than anything else. If we use our Healing to create a layer of “skin” over the raw places, that should allow the “walls” of the channels to recover without creating any scar tissue. It’ll take more energy, but she’ll recover more quickly, I think.:

Layelle’s surprise echoed around the three of them, but the Companion immediately supported Jayin’s idea.

:If one of you creates the “skin,” the other should be able to Heal the rawness of the channels at the same time. Healer Jayin, you’re brilliant! If I could, I’d stand in front of the Board and Dean to tell them so.:

:Jayin, then, if you would create the “skin,” I’ll start the Healing. Not only is it your idea, you’ve got a more delicate touch . You have more than twice over earned your Greens, young woman.: And the two set to work, with Jayin protecting the surface of the channels while Serril took on the simpler but more intense work of repairing the damage. The Healing went slowly as neither of them wanted to run the risk of accidentally damaging Mellie or her Mage channels. Serril couldn’t be certain, but he suspected that other Healers had come and gone while they worked. Anything else simply didn’t register in his awareness.

When they had finished their work with the channels, Serril was seriously drained, but they couldn’t stop. There were areas around the channels that needed attention that nonGifted healing wouldn’t touch. Jayin was drained nearly as much as he was, but he felt her determination through the link shared with Layelle.

:We’ll finish this the right way.: Serril felt the pride welling up in him. The good Healers–whether Gifted or gifted–had that drive. He’d seen it enough in others, and in that moment Jayin stopped being a Trainee, at least in his mind.

:That we will, Healer Jayin.: Her pleasure radiated through the link, and the two of them reached out with their Gifts to Heal the remaining damage. At the end of it, as he slowly withdrew from the Healing trance, Serril heard Layelle one last time in his mind.

:Thank you both so very much. Leave the rest to the other Healers, the Companions, and the Heralds.:

The lamps had burned out. A faint light streamed through the opening where Layelle had been. The Companion slowly trudged out of sight toward Companions’ Field, head held as high as it could be considering she’d been just as busy as the two Healers. Serril could barely keep his eyes open, but he knew that he needed to take Jayin immediately to the Dean and request–no, demand–that she be given her Greens immediately. Investiture and graduation were formalities at this point, in his opinion. He was about to say so when the woman on the bed opened her eyes and inhaled slowly.

“Pain’s goon.” The Herald’s voice was creaky, low, and the she swallowed carefully. “Yuz’r gud fer som-mat.” Before she could say any more, Jayin laid a careful hand on their patient’s forehead.

“Of course we are,” the soon-to-be-Healer said with a note of pride singing through her obvious fatigue. “We have to be. Our work doesn’t stop with just healing.” Ignoring the surprised snort, she stood and wavered a moment before catching her balance. “Let’s go tell the Dean, get my Greens, and then–then maybe I can sleep.”

They supported each other all the way to the Dean’s office.

Chapter 5 - A Leash of Greyhounds - Elisabeth Waters

The greyhounds were upset. There was blood, which wasn’t surprising because Shantell’s husband, Lord Kristion, and his friend Teren had taken the dogs with them when they went out hunting, but there was something wrong . . .

“Lena,” Lady Shantell said gently. “You’ll never finish your embroidery if you just sit there staring at nothing. Besides, it’s rude.”

It’s the wrong blood . . . Lena shivered. “I apologize,” she said aloud. “It’s very kind of you to teach me to embroider.”

“Your mother would have wanted me to,” Shantell said simply.

That’s probably true, although I don’t remember her all that well. It is kind of Lady Shantell to invite me to stay at her home and to try to teach me the things a young lady should know. Just because she was a friend of my mother’s doesn’t mean that she’s obliged to do anything for me. And it certainly isn’t her fault that I’d rather be back in Haven at the Temple. I’m glad that I’ll be going back next week; I miss the animals there—and the people. Lena bent her head and concentrated on the embroidery. Whatever was bothering the dogs, she’d find out soon enough.

The men had still not returned when the tea tray was brought in and Shantell’s son joined them. Jasper was ten, five years younger than Lena and about the age she had been when the last member of her family died. Lena was now a ward of the King, so she took classes at the Palace complex along with the Herald, Bardic, and Healer Trainees, but she lived at the Temple of Thenoth, Lord of the Beasts. She had been there for the past several years, ever since her gift—Animal Mindspeech—had started to develop.

Shantell was a devout follower of a god who had no name—or perhaps a name too holy to be spoken, Lena wasn’t sure which—and she used teatime to concentrate on her son’s religious education. They believed that their god was the only one that existed, another concept that Lena found strange. She had, however, quickly learned to keep quiet about her own beliefs. Lady Shantell didn’t approve of a god who cared about animals, and Lena’s explanation that there were plenty of other gods who cared about people had earned her a scolding for blasphemy. I don’t think my saying it is blasphemy if I don’t worship her god. And the King and all of my teachers say there is no one true way. That’s the law. Still, I’m not going to tell her that I have Animal Mindspeech; I don’t think she would appreciate that at all.

But at the moment being able to talk to the dogs wasn’t helping much. They weren’t making any sense. Lena knew that they were still in the woods, guarding the kill and waiting for somebody to carry it home, but why were they so sad?

When the butler appeared in the doorway as soon as Jasper had returned to the nursery, Lena hardly needed to look at his face to know that something horrible had happened.

“Lady Shantell,” he began gently, “there’s been an accident. Lord Kristion was shot—”

Shantelle jumped out of her chair and hurried across the room. “Where is he?” she demanded.

The butler actually turned pale. “They’re bringing his body home now, Lady.”

Shantell collapsed on the nearest chair and started screaming. The butler stood frozen in the doorway, gaping at his mistress, who had probably never been anything but gentle and soft-spoken in her life. Crossing the room past her so that she could talk to the butler without trying to scream over her, Lena suggested that he summon her maid and the priest. The butler bowed gratefully and left at a speed that was just a bit slower than flight. Shantell continued to scream, leaving Lena wishing that she could flee the room as well.

With the help of the housekeeper, Shantell’s maid got her to drink some sort of sedative and put her to bed. The body was brought home, washed, and laid out in the chapel, where the priest said prayers over it. Apparently he considered it proper for someone to be in the chapel with the body until it could be buried, and Lena, who was in the habit of rising before dawn at the Temple, volunteered to take the predawn watch.

She found herself wide awake over an hour before she was due in the chapel, and she could still hear the greyhounds in her head, so she dressed quickly and went out to the kennels. The Kennelmaster was asleep—I don’t blame him; he must have had a really horrible day yesterday— and the dogs whined quietly and crowded around her. Lena stroked heads as they were shoved into her lap and tried to calm them. But all too soon it was time for her watch in the chapel, and the dogs were unwilling to be parted from her. At least they’re quiet as long as they’re with me, so I guess it’s better if I just take them along.

Lena preceded the dogs into the chapel and told them to hang back, so that the housekeeper, who had the watch before hers, left without seeing them. Lena sat on a bench at the head of the bier, and the dogs formed a circle around the body.

The chapel was made of stone and was separate from the main house, so it was very cold inside. Lena wrapped her cloak more tightly around her, but it didn’t help her shivering much. She rose to her feet and paced around the bier, envying the dogs their fur. They lay quietly, but she could feel them, a low mumble in the back of her mind, mourning for their master.

She heard heavy footsteps approaching, and she hastily returned to the bench and bowed her head as if in prayer. She wasn’t sure how to pray in this situation; she didn’t know enough about Shantell’s god to feel comfortable addressing him, but she was pretty sure that Shantell would object to prayers addressed to any other god, especially in her god’s chapel. Possibly her god would too, and Lena had no desire to anger him. So she mostly thought about the life of Lord Kristion and how much everyone was going to miss him.

The footsteps had entered the chapel, and Lena had heard a thud as their owner collapsed onto a bench near the back of the chapel. Now she could hear weeping, the choked sobs of a grown man trying unsuccessfully not to cry. Without raising her bowed head, she cast her eyes sideways. It was Lord Teren, Kristion’s best friend—the man who had killed him.

Lena had heard enough of the talk when they brought the body home to know that the death had been a tragic accident. The men had become separated in the woods, and the arrow that Lord Teren loosed had not been intended to lodge in the heart of his best friend. She could understand his grief, and she sympathized slightly—though I still think it’s stupid and dangerous to loose an arrow when you are not absolutely certain of your target. And I don’t think there’s any god that will help you if Lady Shantell finds you here . . .

Naturally, that was exactly what happened. Shantell had awakened at dawn, as she usually did, and her first act was to come to the chapel to pray. She didn’t see Lord Teren at first, so she started by scolding Lena for bringing the dogs into the chapel. “I’m sorry,” Lena murmured and then stopped talking, knowing that no defense could possibly appease Shantell. :Go outside and hide where nobody will see you,: she directed, and the dogs slipped down the side aisle of the chapel and out though the door that Shantell had left ajar.

Shantell, turning her head as they moved, saw Lord Teren and started screaming again, but unlike yesterday her screaming had words. “You murderer! How dare you show your face here?

“Shantell,” he began, “I am so sorry—”

“You killed my husband!”

“It was an accident—”

“You enjoy killing, you and those damned dogs!”

“If having the dogs here is distressing to you, Shantell, I can remove them to my estate so you won’t have to see them again.”

Shantell’s voice dropped from a scream into something that Lena found much more frightening; it was cold, hard, and intense. Each syllable was precisely enunciated as she said, “I will have every single one of them killed before I allow you to profit by what you’ve done.” She turned on her heel and stalked out of the chapel.

Lena sank back onto the bench and shivered uncontrollably. She means it, she realized. She really will kill them. She thinks of them as dumb animals, and technically they’re property . . .

“Lord Teren?” she asked timidly.

He looked at her in surprise. “What is it, uh—”

“Lena,” she supplied, not surprised that he’d forgotten her name with all that was going on. “What did she mean by ‘profit’?”

“Greyhounds, especially trained hunting dogs, are valuable animals,” he said with a sigh. “But if she thinks I’d kill anyone, let alone my best friend, just to get his dogs, she’s . . .” he faltered, apparently unable to come up with any description he considered acceptable.

“—crazed with grief,” Lena finished for him. It was a condition she understood. She didn’t remember her mother much, but she had adored her father, and her initial reaction to his death had been very similar to Shantell’s. She had screamed wordlessly for at least half an hour. And if I’d known what life was going to be like with my brother as my guardian, I’d probably have screamed even longer. “Can she really have the dogs killed?” she asked anxiously. “Do they belong to her now?”

“I believe that Kristion’s will leaves them to Jasper.”

“But Jasper’s a child, so he doesn’t get to make decisions.” Another subject I know about. “Who is his guardian?”

Lord Teren looked sick. “God help us all; I am.” He buried his face in his hands. Lena wasn’t sure whether he was praying, crying, or both. She sat in uncomfortable silence until the steward arrived to take over the vigil and then quietly left the chapel.

She wasn’t hungry, so instead of going in search of breakfast she went to the kennels. The Kennelmaster was there, but the dogs who had been in the chapel with her were not. The only dogs in the building were Minda, a female who had just given birth, and her six puppies. To Lena’s surprise, Jasper knelt next to them, sobbing disconsolately.

“I’m sorry, Jasper,” she said, starting to express condolences on the death of his father, but he turned at the sound of her voice and flung both arms around her legs, almost knocking her to the floor.

“Make her stop!” he begged.

“Make who stop what?”

Over Jasper’s sobs, the Kennelmaster explained, looking both ill and ill-at-ease. “Lady Shantell stormed in here about half an hour ago and ordered me to kill all of Lord Kristion’s dogs. Jasper had come down to look at the puppies, so he heard her.”

“Oh, lord.” Lena detached Jasper’s arms, sat down on the floor, and put her arms around him as he crawled into her lap. She looked up at the Kennelmaster. “Are you planning to obey her right away?”

“I’m hoping she’ll calm down and rescind the order.”

“Even if she doesn’t,” Lena pointed out, “does she have the legal authority to give that order? The dogs may belong to Jasper; nobody knows until Lord Kristion’s will is read. If they are Jasper’s, it’s pretty clear that he doesn’t want them killed. Also, the dogs are valuable, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” the Kennelmaster said. “There are people willing to pay large sums for the puppies, and the trained dogs are worth even more.”

“So even if Lady Shantell is Jasper’s guardian, and we don’t know that she is, killing the dogs would not be in his best interests from a financial standpoint, let alone an emotional one.” I’m glad I was paying attention during those classes on Kingdom law. “So, if I were you, I’d keep stalling. Maybe we can get a ruling from the local Magistrate—who is that, anyway?”

“Lord Teren,” Jasper mumbled into her shoulder.

“I don’t think your mother is listening to him right now,” Lena said ruefully. She looked around innocently. “Where are the rest of the dogs?”

The Kennelmaster frowned. “I don’t know. Someone came in and let them out during the night.”

“I let them out,” Lena said. No point in lying about that, even if I wanted to—Shantell saw them with me. “They were restless, so I took them with me when I went to the chapel for my share of the vigil. Then Lady Shantell came in and yelled because they were there, so I sent them outside. But if you can’t find them, you can’t kill them.”

“Good,” the Kennelmaster said. “Just as long as they stay safe wherever they are.” He sighed. “Where’s a Herald when you need one?”

That’s a really good question. Lena looked down at the child in her lap. “Jasper, have you had breakfast?” He shook his head. “Let’s go to the kitchens and see if we can find something to eat. Things probably won’t seem quite so bad when we’re not facing them with an empty stomach.”

After making sure that Jasper ate and escorting him back to the nursery, Lena slipped out of the house, avoiding both Shantell and the servants, and made her way unseen into the forested portion of the estate. I should be safe enough; I’m pretty sure that nobody is going to be hunting here today. She sat down on what passed for a comfortable boulder and cautiously opened her mind to the animals in the vicinity.

The dogs were the first to respond. In moments she was surrounded by the entire pack.: Home?: they asked.

:Too dangerous.: She sent an image of Shantell’s raging and the Kennelmaster looking sick at the thought of killing them. :Can you find enough food here?:

:Lots of rabbits. And deer.: With the discipline she had learned at the Temple, Lena ignored the images that accompanied the replies. Fortunately she had never kept rabbits as pets, and Maia, a fellow Novice who also had Animal Mindspeech and had taught Lena much of what she knew, had grown up next to the Forest of Sorrows, so Lena had some experience with how animals who were not being fed by humans regarded meals. Thinking of Maia reminded her of the crows. Maia had brought a group of them (“a storytelling of crows,” she had called them) to the Temple with her—or, more accurately, they had chosen to accompany her. If they liked you, they would do you favors, like following someone and reporting back on what they did. Maia had taught Lena how to talk to them, and Lena was pretty sure that at least a few of them had followed her on her journey. She reached out with her mind . . .There!

The crows were not nearby, and she didn’t want to consider what they were eating, so she sent a mental picture of a Herald and Companion, along with :where?: and the emotion of needing help. Several crows lifted up above the treetops to scan the surrounding countryside, and Lena settled down to wait, petting the dogs as they leaned against her legs.

Between using her Gift and stroking canine fur, Lena was half in a trance, so she wasn’t surprised when, some unknown amount of time later, a Herald appeared in her vision. The Herald looked startled, as anyone would be when a crow flew directly toward her face, but even through the crow’s eyes Lena recognized her. Samira was one of the Heralds Lena knew well, and her Companion, Clyton, even deigned to speak to Maia on rare occasions, so it was possible that he might be able to hear her. Lena tried to reach his mind, but apparently they were too far away. Samira, however, was a friend of Maia’s, so it didn’t take her long to realize what a crow behaving unusually in this area must mean.

“Lena? If you can hear me, you’ll know that we’re on our way.” Then Clyton moved so fast that he was a white streak passing the crows who perched in the trees above him. Lena looked through their eyes as they rose to fly back long enough to figure out what route Samira and Clyton were taking. Then she pulled her concentration back into her body, rose to her feet, and headed through the forest toward the road so that she could intercept Samira before she rode into the chaos of the household unprepared.

Clyton almost charged right past her despite the fact that Lena was standing alone in the middle of the road. She had persuaded the dogs to stay out of sight in the woods.

“What’s going on, Lena?” Samira asked. “Are you all right?”

“Pretty much,” Lena replied, “but Lord Kristion is dead, and things are not going well.”

“What happened to him?” This was Samira’s current Circuit, so she knew that Lord Kristion had been young and healthy.

“He went out hunting with his best friend a couple of days ago . . .” Lena took a deep breath and blurted out the rest: “Lord Teren shot him by accident, and Lady Shantell called Lord Teren a murderer, and now she’s ordered the Kennelmaster to kill all of the dogs, and Jasper’s really upset about that.”

Samira pinched the spot where her nose met her forehead as if the muscle had gone into spasm and shook her head. “Are you sure it was an accident?”

“Lord Teren says it was, the servants who were with him say it was, and the dogs say it was. I believe them.”

“What does the Magistrate say?”

“Apparently Lord Teren is the Magistrate.”

“Yes, that’s right; he is.” Samira sighed. “Why does Lady Shantell want to kill the dogs?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because she can’t kill Lord Teren?” Lena shrugged. “It’s too bad her religion isn’t one of the ones that teaches forgiveness of one’s enemies.”

Samira looked at her oddly. “It does teach that.”

“Are you sure? She certainly isn’t acting like it, and she scolded me for worshiping Thenoth. And her own son seems to believe she’ll kill the dogs; he was out in the kennels crying over them this morning.”

“The dogs are still in the kennels?” Samira raised her eyebrows. “Knowing you, I’m surprised there’s a dog on the estate she can still find.”

“Minda just had puppies; they can’t be moved. The rest aren’t there. The Kennelmaster doesn’t want to follow Shantell’s orders, and if he can’t find the dogs, he can’t kill them.”

“I’m sure he appreciates your help,” Samira said dryly.

“He seems to, actually. I also pointed out that there may be legal questions—the dogs may belong to Jasper instead of Shantell, and her husband may have named someone else as Jasper’s guardian.”

“That’s a good argument,” Samira admitted. “How likely is it?”

“Lord Teren said that Lord Kristion had named him.”

Samira groaned. “I can tell that this is going to be complicated.” She and Clyton started forward at a walk that Lena could easily keep pace with. “Let’s go face the noise.”

:Stay in the woods,: Lena told the dogs as she accompanied Samira and Clyton toward the main entrance to the estate.

“Have they set a time for the funeral yet?” Samira asked.

“This afternoon.”

“It is afternoon,” Samira pointed out. “When this afternoon?”

Lena cast an anxious look at the angle of the sun. “The ninth hour,” she said in a small voice.

“Less than an hour from now. I need to wash and change into a clean uniform, and you look as though you dressed in the dark and then spent the day in the kennels and the woods.”

“I did.”

Samira’s eyes closed briefly and then opened again. Apparently she had been Mindspeaking to Clyton, because he stopped long enough for Samira to reach down, grasp forearms with Lena, and swing her onto Clyton’s back. “What’s the fastest way to reach the stables without Lady Shantell seeing us?”

They left Clyton being rubbed down by the Stablemaster, and Lena turned Samira over to the housekeeper to be shown to a guest room. Then she ran for her room, washed in the now-cold water that someone had left out for her that morning, and pulled on a dress that was suitable for the funeral. She slipped quietly into the chapel, aided by the fact that most of the household was gathered there. Samira, resplendent in the dressy version of her Whites, was seated in the front next to Shantell and Jasper. Lord Teren was in the back of the chapel, trying to be invisible. Either he succeeded or Shantell didn’t deign to notice him, and the funeral service and the burial that followed it went as well as could be expected.

After the funeral, it was customary to read the will. They gathered in the library: the priest, who had charge of the document; Lady Shantell; Jasper, who despite his young age was now Lord Jasper; Samira; Lena, partly because Jasper wanted her there and partly because Samira had requested her as a neutral high-born witness; and Lord Teren. Shantell protested his inclusion, but the priest told her it was needful, and her piety—at least for the moment—overcame her wrath.

The moment ended abruptly when she discovered that her husband had named Lord Teren to be Jasper’s guardian. “Should my son be forced to face his father’s murderer?” she demanded indignantly.

The priest said something about forgiveness; Lena couldn’t make out the exact words, because Samira’s voice overrode his.

“Normally we could ask the local Magistrate to hear this case,” she started, but Shantell interrupted her.

“He’s the Magistrate!” she exclaimed passionately. “Do you think he’ll rule justly on his own actions?”

“That’s why Valdemar has Heralds,” Samira reminded everyone. “I ride this Circuit so that I can hear cases where normal practice cannot be used, and I believe that this one qualifies. Does anyone disagree?”

Shantell fell silent.

Lord Teren spoke sadly. “I yield this case to your judgment, Herald Samira. I agree that I am not the person to rule on it, being involved myself.”

“Please,” Jasper added. “Everyone’s so angry, and they keep yelling.”

The priest nodded agreement. “Obviously this was not the situation Lord Kristion envisioned when I drew up his will.”

“Very well,” Samira said. “Lord Teren, are you willing to answer the accusation of murder under Truth Spell?”

“Absolutely.” Lord Teren looked grim but not at all afraid.

Samira cast the Truth Spell, and Lena watched with fascination as a blue glow appeared over Lord Teren’s head.

“Who went hunting with you and Lord Kristion?”

“In addition to the two of us, there were three servants and seven hunting dogs.”

“Was it your arrow that shot him?”

“Yes.” His voice held anguish, but the blue glow remained steady.

“Did you intend to shoot him?”

“No. Never. We became separated in the woods, and I had no idea that he had circled around so that he was opposite me. The servants were with me, so they didn’t know either.”

“What was he wearing?”

Teren looked blank. “I don’t remember.”

Lena must have made some sound, for Samira looked at her. “Do you know what he was wearing, Lena?”

“Yes.” And it was one of the most stupid things anyone could wear to go hunting. “Brown boots, brown pants, and a deerskin jacket.”

Samira looked at her incredulously. “Deerskin? Are you positive of that?”

I certainly can’t blame her for not believing me.

“That’s correct,” the priest said. “I saw his body when it was brought home, and that’s what he was wearing.”

Samira managed to refrain from comment on Lord Kristion’s clothing choices. “Lord Teren, do you swear that your shooting of Lord Kristion was accidental and that you had no reason or desire to kill him?”

“I do so swear.”

Despite the steady glow of the Truth Spell, Shantell cried out “That’s not true! He wanted the dogs! He said so, this morning in the chapel!”

“That’s not what I said!” Lord Teren protested.

“Was anyone else in the chapel with you?” Samira asked.

Teren pointed at Lena. “She was.”

I think he forgot my name again.

“Lena?” Samira asked. “What did they say?”

As Lena opened her mouth to answer, Samira held up a hand. “Wait. I’m going to put a Truth Spell on you before you answer.”

Lena nodded her consent and sat quietly until Samira gestured her to continue. “Lady Shantell came in at dawn, near the end of my vigil. Lord Teren had come in earlier and was sitting near the back of the chapel. When she saw him, she called him a murderer. He said it was an accident, and she said that he enjoyed killing—he and the dogs. What he said then was that if having the dogs here was distressing to her, he could remove them to his estate so that she wouldn’t have to see them. Then she said that she’d have every single one of them killed before she’d let him profit—and then she went to the Kennelmaster and ordered the dogs killed.”

“Did you hear her give that order?”

“No, but when I went to the kennels as soon as I got out of the chapel, Jasper was there with the Kennelmaster, and they both said that she had ordered the dogs killed.”

“She did,” Jasper said positively. “I heard her. And I don’t want the dogs killed. And the priest said that the dogs are mine now.”

Samira held up a hand again. “We’ll get back to that in a minute, Lord Jasper. Lord Teren, did you or do you have any plans to profit from the dogs?”

Lord Teren shook his head wearily. “No. I will never hunt again. My only thought was to give the dogs a home where they would not trouble Lady Shantell.”

The blue glow of the Truth Spell remained steady. Samira took a deep breath and said, “On the charge of murder, I find Lord Teren innocent. Lord Kristion’s death was accidental.”

“He still killed my husband!”

“True, but he did not murder him. There is a difference.”

“My husband is dead, my son is an orphan, and the man who killed his father is to be his guardian?” Shantell protested.

“That issue is still to be resolved,” Samira said.

“I would be willing to cede the guardianship to Lady Shantell,” Lord Teren said.

“No!” Jasper protested. “She’ll kill the dogs!”

“Jasper!” Shantell’s voice was somewhere between hurt and fury. “Would you favor your father’s killer over your own mother?”

Lena, who was still holding the hand Jasper had slipped into hers when the reading of the will began, gave it a warning squeeze. She leaned over and murmured softly into his ear. “There’s no good reply to that question; don’t even try to answer it.”

“I see that we had best settle the question of the dogs before the guardianship,” Samira said, shuffling priorities. “What kind of dogs are we dealing with?”

“Greyhounds,” Lord Teren replied. “Trained hunting dogs. Not only does Jasper not want them killed, but they are also quite valuable. It would not be in his best interests to have them killed; indeed, it would be a breach of duty for a guardian to order such a thing.”

“Well, I won’t have them here, and I won’t let you take them!” Shantell said furiously. “And I don’t want them around my child—he doesn’t need anything to tempt him to take up hunting!”

“Lord Jasper,” Samira asked. “Would you be willing to have the dogs live someplace else, as long as they would be safe and well cared for?”

Jasper chewed on his lower lip for a moment, and then nodded reluctantly. “I’ll miss the puppies, but it’s more important that they be safe.”

“Is there anyone you would trust to care for them?”

“Yes. Lena.”

“But Lena lives in Haven,” Samira pointed out. “That’s rather far away.”

“She lives with . . . people . . . who like animals.”

Thank all the gods that he didn’t say “a god who likes animals.”

“Lena?” Samira asked.

Lena thought quickly. “Yes, I can take them.” The Temple of Thenoth will certainly grant sanctuary to animals under the threat of death. “The King is sending a carriage to take me home; it’s due in two days. We should be able to transport Minda and her puppies in it.”

“How many dogs are we talking about here?” Samira asked.

Lena ticked them off on her fingers. “Minda, six puppies, and the seven hunting dogs. Fourteen.”

“You’re willing to travel all the way to Haven in a carriage with fourteen dogs?”

Lena nodded. Samira shook her head. “Better you than me. Very well, if everyone agrees that this is what should be done with the dogs—” She looked around the room until she got agreement, however reluctant, from everyone involved.

“Now, with regard to the guardianship: Lord Kristion named Lord Teren. Does anyone know his thinking on this?”

The priest was the one to reply. “He felt that if he died while Lord Jasper was still a child, he would benefit by a man’s guidance.”

“So it was not that he considered Lady Shantell incapable of managing the estate?”

“Indeed not.” The priest was definite on that point at least. “She customarily ran the estate when he was absent at court or performing military service.”

“That’s true,” Lord Teren corroborated. “Lady Shantell is fully capable of running the estate and raising her son. That’s why I’m willing to resign as Jasper’s guardian in her favor.” The Truth Spell showed that he believed what he said.

Samira looked skeptically at him and even more skeptically at Lady Shantell. “At the moment, I’m not particularly impressed with the soundness of her judgment.” She looked from one to the other and then at the priest. “I therefore rule as follows: For the next half-year the two of you will be joint guardians, and any decisions that affect Jasper’s well being or the assets of the estate must be agreed upon by both of you.”

Shantell opened her mouth to protest, and Samira glared at her. “If you are unable to work together in person, your priest may serve as a mediator.” She looked at the priest and added, “If that is acceptable to him.”

“I will be happy to do anything in my power to help,” he replied.

“Very well.” Samira dismissed the Truth Spells. “Those are my decisions.”

Samira stayed at the estate for a pair of days, ostensibly using it as a base for her duties in the surrounding area. “Actually,” she told Lena, “it’s partly that I want to be sure that Lady Shantell is calming down enough to think rationally again and that Jasper is all right—but mostly I want to see you fit fourteen dogs into a coach with you and your luggage!”

“Luggage?” Lena grinned at her. “I’m donating some of my clothing to the housekeeper for cleaning rags—it’s amazing how much of it got torn up in the woods while I was here. So I won’t have much luggage, and it can go on the roof. And I like dogs.”

“Will you still like them when you get back to Haven?” Samira asked teasingly.

By the time she got back to Haven, Lena’s remaining dresses were covered with dog hair, and she had a close bond with all of the dogs. She had sent the crows to warn Maia of the new arrivals so that there would be a place prepared for them in the kennels, and Maia was in the temple courtyard when the carriage arrived.

“Is there one of your fancy names for the dogs?” Lena asked Maia as they carefully carried the puppies to the kennel, escorted by Minda and the rest of the pack.

“Yes,” Maia replied. “You’ve brought us a leash of greyhounds.”

Chapter 6 - Warp and Weft - Kristin Schwengel

No one could say for certain what had happened to Triska, but the disordered heap of robes and the unique necklace found inside the Change Circle—and the mangled remains of a rather average-sized lizard just outside that circle—spoke volumes.

The hertasi artisan had known, had heard the warnings of the Elders, and yet she had gone outside the protective shields of the Vale. The residents of k’Veyas, warned by the Alliance Mages, had known that it was coming, this final Mage Storm, had realized that it could destroy them all if the shielding failed. Triska, of course, had known. And she had still gone out.

“The silk waits for no one,” she had been fond of saying, usually just before leaving the Vale in foul weather to harvest cocoons. And the Change Circle where the remains had been found, the locus of mutation formed by the overlap of two rippling waves of magical energy, was not far from her favorite trees, the ones whose silkworms always produced the strongest, finest, smoothest fibers.

When the Elders showed Stardance the broken chain and cracked amber stone retrieved from the pile, the gift she had given to the cloth artisan, she buried her grief after the first stunned moment. Fury was simpler, covering the dark, hollow loneliness that threatened. The anger warmed her, kept her from drowning in that aching emptiness, and she fed it, raging in turn at the Elders, at Triska, and at the implacable Storms themselves, then fled to the most private corner of the Vale, the secret nook she had discovered as a child running from her mother’s death. This time, there would be no Triska to find her, to take her into her care and heal her hurting, bringing her back to the life of the Vale.

Back then, the Elders of k’Veyas had found it amusing, the human child following the hertasi, when usually the lizardfolk were the dutiful aides and helpers of the Tayledras. Since Triska did not seem bothered by Stardance’s presence, the girl had been allowed to spend most of her time in the company of the clothworker, sometimes seeming like a daughter, sometimes an apprentice. Her father lived in his home Vale of k’Lissa, and since at the time he was unable to care for a youngster, k’Veyas agreed to keep her in their Vale. She had always been a solitary child, and with the hertasi to help her she was allowed exceptional freedom.

Even after Stardance showed signs of her father’s Mage Gift, she still stayed with Triska. The Elders taught her, and she was an apt pupil, but she was more often to be found practicing her skills with the threads and fibers in Triska’s cliffside den than in the heavily warded practice rooms. None of the Tayledras were quite certain what a hertasi could or couldn’t do with magic, but since Triska seemed unconcerned about her adopted daughter’s magical “play” the Elders permitted Stardance to remain with her.

After several years of this odd training, Stardance was just old enough for her Mage Gift to truly begin to develop into its full power and potential. Now, though, the Storms had come and gone, and magic was no longer the same. The Heartstones were weakened or empty, their accumulated power drained to maintain the last desperate shields over the Vales, to save the people within them. Outside, caught in a Change Circle, Triska had not been so fortunate.

Winternight stood, and respectful silence fell. The Storms had aged him so that his usual pallor now seemed ghostlike, his energy spent and drained from him just as the once-vibrant Heartstone was now emptied of all but the faintest flickers of magic. His staff, once used to help him direct his considerable power, now served only to provide physical support, and he leaned heavily on it.

“We do not yet know the extent of damage in our own region of the Pelagiris, much less that of the other Vales,” he said, in response to several questioners. “Only the strongest Farspeakers have been able to communicate with them. Our scouts have been taking care of Change-Beasts as they have found them, but our perimeter of safety is much closer to the Vale than ever it was.” He paused to emphasize the reality of the damage done and the isolation of their Vale, off on a western edge of the Pelagiris.

“I propose that we send Mages out with our border patrols and scouts, one Mage with a group of two or three trained fighters. The Mages can begin to assess the extent of the damage to the magical energy around the Vale and help guide Silverheart’s efforts to Heal it. If they encounter Change-Creatures, the Mages will also recognize which might be more than physical threats.”

“What of the students?” someone asked. “Even if all the magic is gone, what should they be doing? We can’t send them out to the perimeters!” An immediate babble followed—some in favor of utilizing every resource the Vale had, others insisting that those who were not confirmed Mages should not even attempt to use magic until the lasting effects of the Storms were completely known.

Winternight raised his hand, and the din drifted back to quiet. “The students will not go to the outer perimeters, but every bit of help is needed.” He paused again. “They will work within the areas where the scouts have already passed at least once, where they are not likely to encounter Change-Beasts. They will be searching these areas for trace magics, studying any changes in patterns, looking for subtle echoes of power.” A few more questions, these from some of the instructors, and Winternight gathered those few around him for private conference.

Stardance shook her head and shifted backward, edging away from the group and drifting between the trees, headed for her too-empty ekele. She did not dare defy the direct command of the Elders that all the Mage-talented and trained of k’Veyas attend the meeting, but she had chosen to stand in a half-hidden spot on the outskirts of the assembly. It is all folly, anyway, she thought bitterly. Of what use were they, now that the magic had disappeared? What good was anything now that Triska was—she shut down the thought before she could complete it, returning to her anger to cover the aching void inside her. What good was magic, anyway? After all, it had been a centuries-gone excess of magic that had caused this nightmare. Maybe there was a lesson to be learned. Maybe their Shin’a’in cousins had the right of it—maybe it was time they did without magic entirely.

She was almost out of view, almost free, when a gentle but firm hand fell on her shoulder.

“You, too, will take part in the search tomorrow.” Windwhisperer’s voice, though quiet, was implacable.

“What would be the point? There’s nothing left!” Hostile resentment lashed through her words.

“We don’t know that for certain. But we need to find out.”

“I can’t be what you want,” she muttered to the ground, unsure what the words meant even as she said them.

“What would you be, then?” That quiet voice held no anger, no demand. She turned to look at him. The Elder’s face was as still as his words, giving her no impression of his thoughts.

She shifted away, her eyes dropping again. “Once, I might have known. Now, there’s no point. It doesn’t matter.” She thought briefly of Triska’s cave, of working with the richly colored fibers and fabrics, creating beauty with functionality, and sharp loneliness arced pain through her heart before she shuttered her face. “Why go out there when it won’t change anything?”

“Perhaps it won’t. Or perhaps it could.” The silence between them lengthened. “Out there, it may be that you could find an answer to my question.” She heard a faint shushing, like a breeze lifting the wide leaves outside her ekele, and she looked up once more, only to find herself alone on the sanded path.

When morning came, Stardance found herself walking beyond the borders of the Vale, one of the first group of students assigned to a small section of the “safer” areas. Just as the confirmed Mages were partnered with experienced scouts and patrols, the students, too, were accompanied by younger fighters. Stardance was the youngest student in the group traveling to the east of the Vale, and the simmering resentment in the oldest scout trainee was palpable as he paced near her. Clearly, he felt that he belonged in the unexplored places, not in the safe areas with the students.

“You don’t need to babysit me,” she finally snapped, knowing she sounded like a petulant child but not really caring. “If you want to go farther out, my Kir will let your bird know if I need assistance.”

The scout, barely five summers older than she, gave her an odd look, but he didn’t reply. Instead, he allowed a little more space to drift between them, no longer matching his steps to hers but lengthening his stride until he moved first beyond her view, then beyond her hearing. She shrugged. If he went too far and found something he couldn’t handle, he would deserve it. He was good enough, at least, that it had taken only moments for her to not be able to hear him. No longer distracted by his angry presence, she frowned and returned her attention to her own task.

The area she was to inspect was a rough wedge shape, curving outward from the Vale between a stand of large pines and a meadowed area and along the cliff edge that dropped down to the stream that would eventually join the Anduras. Pacing the approximate borders, using her Mage Sight to look for magical signatures or unusual tracks of anything the scouts might have missed, Stardance felt her frustration mount. It’s just useless makework , she thought angrily. There’s nothing out here--they just want to keep us busy until they can figure out what to do next. I don’t know why we’re even bothering. Even so, she continued with her task.

At first, Kir had flown overhead, helping her keep track of where her wedge overlapped with segments being examined by the other students; their bondbirds were in the air for the same purpose. After she had finished the first circuit of her area and started a closer inspection of the inside of the wedge, she gave Kir permission to land.

For several candlemarks, Stardance combed the forest, starting at the outer border of her space and spiraling inward until she reached the landmarks of the clearing that was the last, central piece of the area she was assigned to. She heard only the natural sounds of the forest, although as she neared the edges of her wedge she sometimes heard mutterings from the other students or scouts. At one point, she looked up to see the scout’s goshawk bondbird lazily coasting overhead, but she neither saw nor heard any trace of the young man himself.

After another candlemark of pushing through brush and finding nothing of more concern than small rodents, Stardance stood in the small clearing that marked the “point” of her wedge. Releasing her Mage Sight with a sigh of relief, she loosened her water skin from her belt and took a drink.

:Thirsty.: Kir’s MindVoice was her most plaintive. The falcon had alternated between soaring on the thermals and perching in trees near Stardance to watch her, her head cocked to the side as though she were trying to make sense of her mistress’ actions.

:Come, then,: Stardance replied, lifting her hand for the falcon, who plummeted from the sky. Raising the bird from her arm brace to the leather pad on her shoulder, Stardance held up the water skin, tilting it so a careful stream poured into Kir’s beak. Kir shook her head, sending droplets spattering over Stardance’s face and hair. Stardance winced and pulled the water skin away, mock-glaring at her bondbird. The falcon was unchastened, her eyes glinting as she tilted her head, and Kir’s teasing amusement in the back of her mind drew out the first smile Stardance had felt since the last Storm. Since Triska . . . she stopped the thought abruptly.

:I, at least, still have work to do,: she scolded the bird, but her tone was affectionate. Rather than return to the skies, Kir folded her wings back and shifted her talons on the leather pad, stabilizing her grip and rebalancing her weight so Stardance could move without disturbing her.

Stardance turned in place, her irritation with the fruitless exercise of looking for magic now returning. She studied the clearing again, glancing to the sun for her bearings. As she recalled, this place had once had a strong ley-line, which had been tapped and drawn deeper toward the Vale to power the Heartstone. Most of the sections of forest the students were searching today contained at least one former line or node. Might traces of these have survived the Storms? Was that what the Elders had hoped they would find with their closer examination?

She closed her eyes, the better to feel for any echo of the crackling energy of the magic, once so familiar to her, and expanded her Mage Sight outward. She Saw nothing—no lines, no web of energy to draw from—but she had a vague feeling, a sense that the magic was still there, somehow. She frowned in frustration. Not even sure how to go about it, she tried to change the focus of her Mage Sight, broadening and refining it at the same time. Suddenly, her mind seemed to twist, and she could See a faint tracery, limning everything around her with a subtle silver, fainter than the tiniest of ley-lines. To this odd Mage Sight, her shielded self was now surrounded by a faint haze of what she was sure was power, but she couldn’t tap it or shape it. How could anyone make use of this?

“It looks like I seize the fibers, but is not so. Look deeper.” Triska’s voice rang in Stardance’s head so clearly that the girl opened her eyes and looked around the wild forest, expecting to see the beloved snout hovering just behind an exceptionally large leaf, laughing at Stardance for believing her to be gone.

But even Kir was silent, and though the falcon liked to pretend to be aloof and regal, she would have been twittering like a magpie if anyone familiar were near.

Stardance took a deep, unsteady breath, fighting back the crushing disappointment, the weight of loss heavy within her. Then she remembered when she had heard those words. It had been a spinning lesson, when she had been trying to use magic to help feed the fibers to the spindle faster—and had, of course, ended up with great clumps instead of smooth thread.

After those words, she had watched Triska spin, this time with her Mage Sight, sure that the hertasi was using some innate magic. How else to explain how far superior Triska’s threads and weaving were? But Mage Sight had shown her nothing, just the glow of Triska’s door wards, like and yet somehow unlike those used in the training rooms.

“Is in mind,” Triska had finally said. “Think to make self attractive to fibers, no more.” It hadn’t made sense to Stardance at the time, so she hadn’t given it further thought, but had continued to practice spinning without attempting to use magic.

Could this faint magic be spun like the loose fiber into stronger thread? Stardance looked around the clearing, trying to remember where the lines had lain before the Storms. Unable to recall, she shrugged.

“See if it works, first,” she muttered. “Time enough to reshape later.”

:?: sent Kir.

:Not you, silly thing. As if I’d reshape so much as a feather.:

Kir preened her plumage briefly, then resettled on Stardance’s shoulder, tucking her beak behind the girl’s ear in a gesture of reassurance.

Stardance closed her eyes, then opened her Mage Sight with that same twist of her mind until she could once again See the faint fog of diffuse energy around her.

Like attracts like, she thought, and fed a tiny bit of her personal power outside of her shields, letting it drift and ripple a fine radiance over her skin, inviting the nebulous energies around her to join it.

Long minutes passed, and she was about to throw up her hands and go back to the Vale in disgust, finished with this pointless task, when she again heard Triska’s voice in her head.

“The silk waits for no one, but it will not be rushed.”

Stardance fed a little more of her energy out to her surface, ignoring the first warnings of energy strain, imagining waggling fingers of magic waving “come, dance with us” into the energy-mist. So caught up was she by the image and the feeling she was creating that she almost missed the response of the magic-haze around her.

It was exhaustion that caught her attention—or, rather, that she no longer felt exhausted, despite using her personal energy. Slowly, she brought her Mage Sight back into sharper focus and was astonished to See faint tendrils coalescing out the mist, drawn into her shields, replenishing her.

Stunned, she thoughtlessly reached out, almost grabbed for those precious strands of power, until she practically felt Triska’s presence beside her and remembered what had happened when she had first spun thread, how everything had tangled together when she had stopped letting the fibers flow through her fingers and had started to reach urgently for them.

Slowly, she stretched out to those tendrils with her coruscating Mage-fingers—bringing the strands together, plying one to the next and to the next with utmost care, until she had a tiny line started.

It was a mere runnel, nothing like the ley-lines that had fed the Heartstone and powered the Vale, nothing even like the line that had once flowed through this very clearing, but it was still decidedly a line.

But what to do with it? She couldn’t stand here forever, a living lodestone in the magic-haze.

Now, she was unsurprised when Triska’s voice again echoed in her head. “Every weaving starts with the warp thread.”

With Mage Sight and normal vision layered one on the other, Stardance examined the clearing, which stood on a slight incline. Like water, magic tended to run downhill, so she shifted, trailing the tiny threads of magic down the slope, careful not to move so quickly as to break even one.

As she paced the lowest edge of the clearing, she found what she sought.

Though not of the quality of a Heartstone, the large rock at the edge of the tree line seemed to have enough quartz in it to hold the power from this tiny line she had created. It would serve well enough for her to tie off a warp thread here. Maybe, once the power had gathered and grown, weft threads could be brought in to shape it, reweaving the network of lines that had once tracked through the Pelagiris. Or it could be guided to run its path elsewhere, perhaps even back to the Vale.

With exquisite care, she reached out to the stone with her shimmering Mage-fingers, sending some of her own power to dance over the stone, to wave invitingly to the tendrils she had drawn with her. Ever so gently, she nudged the line she carried toward the stone. It wavered uncertainly, but she waited, dimming her own radiation bit by bit until the fine line quivered and with an almost audible snap fell into place, finding the stone and settling, sinking into the earth, drawing the energy-haze with it.

Now separated from the support of the tiny tendrils of power drawn from the fog, Stardance staggered as a drain-headache blossomed into full power, drumming the insides of her skull. Kir launched to a nearby tree, chittering her concern, but Stardance kept her from calling to any nearby bondbirds. Moving slowly, keeping to paths that were as out of the way as possible, she stumbled, she hoped unseen, back to the Vale, barely able to climb the stairs to collapse onto the bedroll in her ekele. “Are you sure?” Winternight leaned forward, one hand twisting over the head of his staff. “None of the students were Healing Mage-talented, so far as we knew.”

Dayspring nodded. “It was a ley-line and what resembled the beginnings of a node. I’m not sure why I scanned the safe areas we were crossing as we returned to the Vale, but I’m glad I did. It was tiny, but must have been formed by an external influence, not the natural gatherings of power in channels. There hasn’t been enough time for the magic to settle so cleanly. And this was the only place where I saw such a thing.”

“We need to know who was in that area. We need that student, that Gift. K’Veyas has never had many Healing Mages, and now that Silverheart is the only one left, well, she’s wearing herself out.”

“I never noticed signs of Mage Healing in any of the students I taught,” Silverheart added, her voice soft. She was too young for the lines that had creased her face in the last few days, strained not only by the Mage Storms themselves but by the demands of attempting to restore some balance to the power around the Vale. “But neither did I work with all of the trainees.”

“My apologies for my lateness,” Windwhisperer said, brushing aside the curtains at the entrance to Winternight’s ekele. “There was a Change-Creature in the area I was working in, which delayed our return until we had dealt with it.” He shrugged off the questions. “Not magical, so the scouts will be better equipped to relate the details. My younger son had an interesting tale, too, from his work in the safe area, but we can discuss that later. First, why the summons?”

Winternight gestured to Dayspring, and the younger Mage spoke.

“You assigned the students this morning, didn’t you?” Windwhisperer nodded. “We need to know who was in the area that went east toward the cliffs, between the stand of tallpines and the slope just before the meadow. There’s a ley-line and a node there, and they weren’t there when we went out this morning.”

Only a close observer would have noticed the flicker in Windwhisperer’s eyes before he leaned back, his face as calm and still as ever.

“There were three students in that approximate area, but as it happens I know who created it, for my son observed her. Stardance.”

The other three Mages inhaled sharply.

“I never taught her . . .” Silverheart murmured at last.

Winternight was silent for a moment, studying Windwhisperer’s face. “Is your son near?”

Windwhisperer nodded and bent his head toward his kestrel bondbird, who hopped off her perch and darted out the open window. “I thought you would want to speak with him, so I asked him to wait below and said I would send Tria when we wanted him to come up.”

A moment later, the young scout tapped at the entrance, then pushed aside the curtains and entered the room.

“Welcome, Nightblade,” Winternight nodded at a seat next to Windwhisperer, and the new arrival sat. “Your father tells us you were paired with Stardance in the searching of the safe areas today.”

Nightblade lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug. “Not so much paired,” he replied after a moment’s thought. “I thought it would be best for the oldest scout to stay nearest to the youngest Mage student.” His voice left a subtle shade of emphasis on the fact that he was the oldest of those assigned to work in the safe areas with the students, hinting that he felt he deserved to be out with the rest of the fully trained scouts.

Winternight chose to ignore the implication. “What did she do?”

“As we left the Vale, Stardance made it clear that she did not wish for me to be immediately near her, so I went farther into the forest and watched her from the trees, or through Miel’s eyes. She was diligent, tracking back and forth so that she covered every bit of her assigned area of the forest. She finished in a clearing, and it was there that she seemed to be working magic, although I don’t have enough Mage Sight to know for sure. At times she moved her fingers, very slowly, like she was working with something fragile that was held between them. A couple of times she tilted her head, as though she were listening to something or someone. Then she walked to the stone at the edge of the clearing and held her hands over it, not quite touching it, for a long time. After that, she nearly collapsed and barely managed to stagger back to her ekele. I made sure a hertasi would take care of her and found my father, to tell him.”

Windwhisperer nodded confirmation, while Silverheart leaned forward. “Did she say anything? Anything at all?”

“She talked aloud to her bondbird a couple of times, and I think she said something about ‘seeing if it works.’ Other than that, nothing that I heard.”

When there were no other questions, Windwhisperer nodded a dismissal, and his son slipped out. The Mages turned to Silverheart, waiting for her thoughts. The only Healing Mage in k’Veyas, this was her field, her expertise.

Silverheart leaned against the wall of the ekele, her eyes half-closed in thought. “Stardance. She was the one more or less adopted by the hertasi who was caught in the Change Circle, correct?”

“Yes.”

“So. Hurt, angry, lonely, and, from what Windwhisperer said of her last night, stubborn. Not the ideal time for any of us to ask her what she did, and why. And how.”

“She would not refuse the direct command of the Elders,” Windwhisperer said thoughtfully, “but I agree that she would not respond well.”

“I need to watch her do this, to see how she is working. But we can’t send anyone extra out with her, or she might not do anything. I wish I could use Mage Sight through Cede’s eyes!”

“But you can through mine,” Windwhisperer replied. “I realized today that I’m getting a little old and weary to keep up with the scouts,” he continued with a wry smile. “You can link to me, and I can watch her with Far Sight.” He paused, considering. “Is it likely that she could harm herself, or anyone else, if she experiments on her own?”

Silverheart thought for a moment. “It is possible that she could become too absorbed, too focused, and forget to come back to herself. But if we are watching her, even from a distance I should be able to recognize the signs, and we can use a bondbird to shock her out before she gets lost.” She shrugged. “The magic is so diffuse, so faint, that there is little risk for injury. There just isn’t enough power for her to do anything significant.”

The Mages all nodded in agreement. Even in these few days after the Storms, magical accidents had been fewer. And smaller.

Stardance woke, blinking and rubbing her eyes to shake the last traces of exhaustion-headache from her mind. It took a moment for her to remember how she had gotten so drained, and then the images flooded back over her. The magic-haze, the tendrils, memories of Triska . . . She almost murmured the hertasi’s name, waiting for the ache of loss to build, to overwhelm her with emptiness as it had every time she’d thought of Triska in the days since the last Mage Storm—and was stunned when it seemed a little muted, as though she was a tiny bit less raw inside. She would have considered it further, but a hungry Kir was already protesting how late she had slept.

As morning drew on, once again she gathered with the other Mage students for Windwhisperer’s instructions. Each day they were to expand their search farther away from the Vale, as the scouts and full Mages widened the range of the safe areas.

Stardance was surprised to be glad when Windwhisperer told them to take areas just beyond those where they had searched the day before. She would have the chance to see what had happened overnight to her little runnel. A tiny bubble of unexpected anticipation welled up within her, not dimmed even when the young scout (Darkmoon? Nightdark? No, Nightblade) again paced his steps to hers as they left the Vale. Today, he seemed less angry, less resentful of his assignment, but she was still relieved when he drifted away from her, farther into the forest.

When she was sure he was out of her hearing, she slipped between the trees into the clearing where she had threaded the little line together. It was easier today to make the shift in her mind to See the more diffuse energies around her.

Her little line still glowed to her Mage Sight, tracing down the slope to pool in the large rock. Was the line a little broader, a little stronger than she had left it? Stardance couldn’t be sure, but she thought that maybe it was. The stone itself had retained the magic that trickled through the runnel. She paused, considering. Would it accumulate enough power that it would need an outlet? Reaching out with a gentle touch beyond her shields, she tested the energy in the stone, then released it. Unless a great deal more magic suddenly flooded down the tiny line, the quartz in the stone could hold the gathering power for days, at least. She turned and moved deeper into the forest, heading for the outer limit of the new area she would be searching.

Silverheart unlinked herself from Windwhisperer’s mind, rubbing her eyes to clear the afterimages of Mage Sight layered on Far Sight.

“So, what do you think?” the Elder asked her, his eyes closed as he continued to “watch” Stardance move through the forest.

“She is very young,” the Healing Mage answered slowly, “but her instinct seems good.”

“Is she truly working with the earth magics on that level?”

“It seems so. As Dayspring suggested, that is a tiny runnel and rudimentary node—well, more of a locus than a node. Since she knew exactly where they were and only touched them to verify their presence, it appears that she did create them.” Silverheart paused for a moment, considering. “There had been a fairly strong ley-line and node in that clearing. If the girl remembered that, and tried her experiment there because of it, I don’t think we need to monitor her closely until she gets to where there used to be stronger nodes. From the old maps, I think there are two in her area today. One just beside the little waterfall and one closer in, near a stand of pines.”

There was a brief silence, and Windwhisperer stood, shaking his shoulders to loosen himself as he released his Far Sight half-trance. “I’ve set Tria to watch her and alert me when she nears either of those areas or if she does anything unusual. No sense in using Far Sight for that long if I don’t need to.”

Silverheart nodded. “It may not take much energy, but there is little from which to replenish yourself. Now, we wait.”

Stardance looked up, checking her position. Yes, she had completed the first arc of her wedge and was almost at the waterfall that dropped the stream down below the cliffs that had marked the edge of her area the previous day. Hadn’t there been a node, here, too? The ley-lines often followed the patterns of the streams, for there was so much life in the water to supply them.

This time, she sat comfortably beneath a tree before she twisted her Mage Sight to the broad and shallow focus that allowed her to See the nebulous fog of power. The haze seemed stronger here near the water than it had been in the other clearing. Would it be easier to work with? Opening her shields, she once again cascaded a subtle ripple of magic over her surface, imagining the enticing fragments drawing the diffuse energy toward her.

Back in his ekele, Windwhisperer sat up and hissed an alert to Silverheart. “Tria says she’s sitting down near the head of the waterfall.” He linked to the kestrel’s eyes, then shifted to his own Far Sight once he had Stardance’s position fixed in his mind. With a soft touch, he felt Silverheart connect to him, and suddenly her Healing Mage Sight layered over his, so that he saw the faint life force limning the area the girl sat in, the haze of fragmented power that was slowly floating toward her.

“That’s what you See and work with?” he murmured in amazement, and Silverheart chuckled.

“Very small, as you see. It takes patience. A lot of patience.”

“But how is she working with it?”

Silverheart didn’t answer for a long time as she studied the young girl, watching the fog gradually coalesce into tendrils that reached out toward the girl’s glowing form. “She’s making herself into something like a living lodestone, using some of her own energy to draw the bits of power to herself. Once it connects to her . . .” Her voice trailed off as Stardance raised her hands, her fingers gathering the first of those tentative strands and doing . . . something . . . to blend them.

Windwhisperer put voice to Silverheart’s question. “What in the Star-Eyed’s Name is she doing?”

Silverheart had no reply, for she had never seen anyone work with magic this way. Instead of guiding the tiny bits of power with her mind, nudging them together as Silverheart had been taught to do, Stardance used her hands, fingers twisting nimbly but carefully, to blend the fragments together, folding them over each other and weaving—Silverheart was so shocked when the word came to her that she broke her link with Windwhisperer.

“The hertasi,” she said at last, “Stardance’s caretaker. She worked with cloth?”

“Ye-es,” Windwhisperer replied, his brow furrowed with confusion.

Silverheart slowly connected back with him, this time not using her Mage Sight, looking only at the deft movements of the girl’s fingers.

“She’s spinning the power like thread, weaving it together,” she murmured at last, a hint of awe tinging her voice. “That’s how she could attempt it, without any training in guiding the subtle magics. She’s using her own power to connect with it and then treating the tiny bits of energy like the bits of fiber to be spun into thread.” With a twist of her mind, she shifted into her Healing Mage Sight, again sharing what she saw with Windwhisperer, and they watched as Stardance blended the last of the tendrils that she had drawn to her with the ones that already wound together around her coruscating fingertips. Then the girl slowly shifted, drawing her hands and the fragile strand of magic to the rock that had once anchored the waterfall’s node.

“How is she going to connect—oh, she’s using her own power again.” Silverheart answered her own question as Stardance held her hands over the stone, then rippled some of her personal energy down to it, to guide the tiny runnel down from her hands.

“This one is larger than the one she created yesterday,” Silverheart murmured. “I hope she doesn’t . . .” Even as the words left her, they both saw the little line “snap” into the earth, and the girl pitched forward, unconscious. Her bondbird was instantly beside her, her beak wide with distress cries, and Windwhisperer’s Tria soon joined the falcon, her presence calming the larger but younger bird. In another moment, they saw Nightblade drop from one of the nearby trees, carefully turning the girl over and checking for injuries before scooping her up and heading back toward the Vale.