:Assuming she wasn’t already here.:
:There is that.:
He drew out the quarrel and curled his fingers around it. Such a small, lightly regarded item would be hard to read, and every day that passed, it got a little harder.
Wish I had access to the palace workroom, he thought wistfully.
:Oh. Hm.:
:Hm?:
:Well. I mean. It’s a long shot, but . . . something similar might be back at Lineas Castle.:
Wil pushed away from the table. :Let’s go.:
:Chosen, maybe you should rest up a little more?:
:We are failing Valdemar.: Wil’s lips flattened. :I don’t intend to let Madra get away.:
Vehs sighed. :I’ll meet you at the door.:
• • •
Centuries ago, something had happened at Lineas Castle to nearly destroy it. A quake, a Mage battle, a bit of both. And for reasons likely tied to local pride and nostalgia, and despite Herald Tashir annexing the country to Randal, someone had decided to partially restore the palace. Parts remained crumbled—it added to the romanticism—but enough had been restored that ghost walks were a regular occurrence, taking curious visitors to see where Herald-Mage Vanyel had fought and won one of his greatest battles. Look closely, the guides might say, you can still see the bloodstains and the ghosts of his enemies.
Wil didn’t need a guide’s embellishments to feel the palace’s history closing around him as he wandered the creaky hallways. Dust covered everything. Light came in through the windows, but he’d brought a lantern in case he wound up down below in the cellars.
He trekked through the remains of the Great Hall for the third time and stopped to take a drink of water.
:I have no idea what I’m looking for.:
:Just stay on the ground floor. You’ll find it.:
:No, I won’t. This is futile.:
:Focus, Chosen.:
:On what?: Impatience aggravated his irritation as he walked down a corridor off the Great Hall. :There’s nothing—:
A closet door caught his eye, an innocuous entry into what should have been an old linen or storage closet. A thicker-than-normal layer of dust covered the handle.
Why bother to restore that? he thought, turning the handle, perhaps the first person to do so in centuries.
His lantern light revealed a tiny round room inside, pale floors, ceilings, and walls, all of a completely different construction from the rest of the castle. The moment he stepped inside, he felt the same peculiar muffling as in the mysterious “workroom” in the Palace. He actually gasped a little.
:You were saying?:
:I owe you so many apples.:
:Get me the extra-mushy ones.:
A basalt column rose up in the center of the room. Wil eased himself onto a seat, and touched it lightly. Warm. Just like the one in the Palace.
He kept one hand on the column and wrapped his other around the quarrel, and reached—
—Past a vision of himself, twirling the quarrel in the sunlight—
Past Madra, loading the quarrel into what looked like a thin metal tube, the device clicking as the bolt settled in—
To a room. A tent, actually. Huge. An iron stove crouched in the center, glowing with heat. A large pipe connected to it, exhausting out through a hole in the canvas. A tall man with black braids and a leather apron used tongs to pull a steaming bit of metal out of water and toss it onto a pile of its siblings. He barked something at a scrawny girl, who began to work a bellows, melting metal for slag.
And in one corner stood Madra, her hood down for once, the glowing forge-light revealing her proud face and the smiling curve of her lips.
Time lurched forward again, to an in-between moment. To a cave, and Ferrin and Madra, and another unloading crates from a wagon.
Madra, speaking, “Lord Dark will be pleased.”
And—
And then all of that dissolved, and for a moment he saw something—like the heart of a small sun, pulsing beneath his feet. The floor and walls had vanished, and he didn’t understand what this had to do with the quarrel, but it called to him, invited him to reach down into it—
:NO!:
Vehs yanked him back from whatever he’d been about to do, grounded him flat-footed back in the room. Waves of dizziness washed over him.
:I—: he thought, and blacked out.
• • •
He woke to someone gently pushing him, and Ivy’s voice. “Dada, wake up.”
He sat up, blinking against a massive reaction headache thundering through his brain and narrowing his vision down to a small tunnel. The lantern provided thin illumination. Ivy looked on worriedly.
And then: Ivy?
:Aubryn sent her,: Vehs said, in the gentlest mind-voice possible. Even so, it lanced through his mind like a stiletto. :Come, Chosen. We’re waiting.:
Ivy handed him a flask. A sniff identified the contents as a weak willowbark tea mixed with plenty of honey. He’d ask where she got it later. He drank it all quickly, then gathered the lantern and took his daughter’s hand. She half-led him out, back through the main entrance. The fresh air helped, but the stabbing light of the sun stirred up nausea and more pain. Vehs already knelt to help him on, much as Aubryn did for Ivy.
The moment they arrived at the Crown’s stables, Wil slid off Vehs and stumbled over to an empty bucket to throw up tea and undigested bread and cheese. His head thundered louder, but he gripped on to the sides of the bucket and lurched to his feet, determined to stay in the here and now.
:Go rest.:
:No,: Wil said, thinking back to the visions in the castle. To the moment in the cave with Madra, Ferrin, and . . . one other.
He could feel Vehs’s alarm. Wil turned to meet his Companion’s eyes.
“Help me,” he said.
The Companion didn’t hesitate. He knelt, and Wil took a few unsteady steps toward him, then paused and addressed Aubryn.
“Don’t let any of the Guards near her,” he said. “Understand?”
His daughter watched all this with puzzlement on her face, then ran over to him and handed him a jar.
“My snails will protect you,” she said, perfectly serious.
How did she get these down? he thought, confused.
:Children,: said Aubryn, :find a way.:
He took them and kissed Ivy’s cheek.
“I’m sure they will,” he said.
• • •
Sergeant Bergen walked into the jailer’s office and took a seat at her desk. Whistling to herself, she opened a ledger containing the schedule for the watch and began planning the next week.
“Have to admire your commitment to the role,” a voice said.
She looked up, startled. She hadn’t noticed the Herald leaning against one wall in a shadowy corner of the office. She couldn’t see his face, but she could sense his mood. Not good.
“Excuse me?” she said. “What do you mean, Wil?”
“I don’t know, Carris. What do I mean?”
She feigned confusion, casually moving one hand under the desk. “Who’s Carris?”
“Oh, just a Bard removed by her Circle for abuse of her Gift. Not to mention a knack for false-face and impersonation. She won a disproportionate number of very large bets while impersonating a Guard.”
Only from people who otherwise wouldn’t miss the money, she thought, heart hammering in her chest. Outwardly, she maintained her perplexed aura, cocking her head. “And . . . you think I’m this person?”
As she said it, she reached into the leather holster strapped under the desk, and closed her hand around—
Not what she expected. Something slimy that crunched as she closed her fist on it. She pulled out a hand dripping with goo and snail shells.
“I have good reason to believe so, yes,
” the Herald said, holding up one of Madra’s small, silver crossbows. “I removed this before you came in. Replaced it with a present from my daughter.”
“That’s . . . disgusting.”
“So’s impersonating a Guard. What happened to the original Bergen?”
She shook the handful of dead snails off onto the floor and wiped the rest on the table, sighing. “Ask Madra. She does the dirty deeds. I just forged the transfer paperwork.” She spread her hands. “Now what?”
“Now?” He folded his arms. “I think it’s fair to say if you had wanted to kill me, you would have done it last night. Or any of a number of times I was vulnerable in front of you.”
She shrugged. “Wasn’t keen on making Ivy an orphan.”
“You also had every opportunity to kill Ferrin.”
“I didn’t hate him enough to want his blood on my hands.”
“Fair enough. So how long have you ‘been’ Bergen?”
“As long as Ferrin needed watching.”
“That long, eh?”
She laughed a little. “Ferrin did his job. If you hadn’t come along, I daresay he would have succeeded. He had a talent for inspiration that made up for the recklessness.”
“As you have a talent for infiltration.”
“And caution. I know when I’m on the losing side.” Carris put her chin in her hand. “She’s just going to kill me, too.”
“You mean Androa Baireschild, right?”
Carris’s brows lifted. “Havens, Herald, you’ve figured out quite a bit, haven’t you?”
“It’s funny. People think that murdering a problem makes it go away. But all it does in Valdemar is get a Herald involved. And they always underestimate us.”
Carris laughed, a little bitterly. “Really? Because you did so well with Ferrin.”
“Yes, but this is different.” He pointed to her. “I’m not giving her an opportunity this time. We’re leaving. Now.”
• • •
Carris sat on the bed box in the Waystation and held up her chained hands. “Is this really necessary?”
“Yes.” Wil moved aside as Aubryn stepped into the Waystation to stand beside Carris.
“Lady Bright,” the Bard said with a moan. “I’m not going to sleep tonight.”
“I pity you.” He patted Aubryn’s withers. “Thank you.”
She snorted.
The ground outside the Waystation felt springy under his feet, a gift of the recent rainfall. The sunlight glowed rich amber, the color that came just before dusk, when things felt a bit magical. His Companion stood in the shade of a tall oak, nibbling at a pile of mushy apples. Ivy waited for her father with a staff—newly liberated from the stockade—that reached the height of her shoulder.
Wil had somehow found his second—or possibly third—wind. Catching Carris had helped. Buckling himself into his saddle and nodding off as they rode away from Highjorune had also helped.
He studied Ivy, retrieving his own staff from where it leaned against the wooden siding of the Waystation.
:Vehs, is this right?: he thought. :Teaching her this?:
:To quote Aubryn: Children want to do things,: Vehs said. :Teach her to protect herself, you’ll have less to worry about.:
“All right,” Wil said. “First lesson. Hold it like this.”
He held the staff horizontal and straight out, hands evenly placed.
She mimicked it perfectly, watching with focused intent.
They kept going until the light faded, and they collected snails after dinner. They slept on bedrolls spread out on the floor.
He dreamed Lelia watched over them from the Waystation hearth, singing of flowers and goats as they slept.
Girl Without The Gifts
Janny Wurts
Folk in the forest village of Ropewynd claim that nothing beyond the spun yarn and stout rope sold to traders and fishermen ever mattered to the outside world, far less involved the greater affairs of the Queen’s Heralds in Valdemar. Yet their eldest granddams say different. Perhaps their tale holds the truth.
On the morn they recall, the quiet seemed ordinary. Kaysa sat in the flood of spring sunlight, her sightless gaze flickered in shadow by the whirring spokes of a spinning wheel. Her foot pumped the treadle, while newly made three-ply yarn hissed through her fingers. The rattle from the lazy kate by her ankle told her the bobbins were almost empty. Fourteen years of age and pleased with herself, she expected to finish before the weaver’s loft became stifling. Spinning made cozy work in the cold. But the limestone cavern, where her father and brothers wound rope, was her favorite place in the summer.
Better, her mother’s scuffed tread climbed the stairs. Help would speed the task of tidying up.
“Kaysa!” Mam’s cry of dismay shattered her contentment. “By the Lady Trine, girl! That’s not the cream thread! Why didn’t you wait? Sella or I should have lent oversight before you got started!”
Kaysa bit her lip, shamed. She had not managed alone but had collared her younger brother in the predawn gloom. Sorting in haste by her candle, he must have mistaken the color. Mam would be worse than annoyed if she knew. Open flame was a risk in the weaving loft. Kaysa braked the wheel, resigned. Her desire for an early start was to blame.
“Oh, my dear!” Mam’s patience, as ever, forgave her mistakes. “Things will come right, child. I’ll dye a new lot of plum thread for tomorrow, and we’ll thread the loom for Mistress Sarine’s cloth later. The Katashin’a’in surely will fancy that shade of bright yellow with burgundy. Your skein can be sold to the traveling traders without waste.”
But the comforting words scarcely masked the frustration. Kaysa’s acute hearing caught her mam’s quiet sigh. A daughter born blind, no matter how determined or resourceful, would always burden the family. The loft’s stores were low. Drought had dried the retting ponds early, before what might become a poor harvest. Flax fiber was scarce, so mistakes were all the worse, possibly leading to a shortfall.
Kaysa did her best to make amends, rethreading the loom for the change. But morning was spent by the time she had swept the cut threads from the floor. “Is there anything else?”
“The men’s lunch,” said her mother. “You’ll take the basket along to the cavern?”
“Of course.” Kaysa snatched up her stick. Three clicks through her teeth with no echo told her the slat door was propped open. She tapped her way through, rushed down the loft stairs, and turned for the pantry. Her mother’s silent disappointment followed her through the baked heat of the dirt street.
Her remote village within Pelagiris Forest was small. Kaysa knew every familiar smell and sound, likely all she might ever know in the proscribed course of her life. The path to the caverns marked the limit of her independence. She crossed two alleys, turned left past the chattering laundresses. Splashing through the puddled suds, she passed the cobbler’s, to the tap of Enid’s hammer studding a boot sole with tacks. The faint absence of echoes told her no wagons were parked in the lane. She crossed, chasing the smell of cooling bread from the bakery, aware of the cooler air where the packed earth became rutted grass, and the glassblower’s shop gave way to the cottager’s crofts, and the sty for Cobi Merrin’s pigs.
A path turned into the forest beyond, cool shade lively with birdsong. There, Kaysa’s oldest brother, Nayce, had staked out a string line to guide her. He had ever been the staunch advocate behind her yearning for freedom. The string calmed her parents’ concern, though she had known every step of the way since childhood. Kaysa passed the massive oak where the trail turned, ahead of the slope toward the creek. Upstream lay the entrance to the moist cave, where the ropewalk wound the twine and the rigging rope sold to the fishermen at Lake Evendim.
A cloud snuffed the sun’s warmth. A roaring gust rattled the boughs overhead and buffeted Kaysa sideways. Torn leaves and sticks pelted down. The wet sce
nt of storm charged the air, scant warning before the sky opened. Hard wind and sheeting rain battered Kaysa. She dropped to her knees in a vain effort to shelter the lunch basket from the ferocious onslaught.
Tree limbs cracked and fell. The whoosh as uprooted trunks toppled and slammed into the ground struck so near made Kaysa tremble in terror. Huddled, soaked to the skin, she clung to her stick. The sharp clicks she used to avoid objects were useless in the downpour. Helpless, she could do naught but wait while the deluge rampaged around her.
The squall whipped through and died with unnatural speed. Kaysa uncurled, shaken, and swiped sodden hair off her face. The lunch for the men was ruined.
“They’ll be hungry and plenty annoyed,” she grumbled, uneasy at the thin sound of her voice in the wake of the weather’s ferocity. Spoiled food was the least of her woes amid the slick footing of the puddled path. She turned in a circle, unable to locate the twine guide for security. Instead, her tracking stick swished through a wrack of drenched foliage. A downed tree branch crossed her way forward, the litter of splintered wood too dense to shove through.
“Blast!” she exclaimed, annoyed by the prospect of rescue.
After the disastrous mishap with the yarn, the loss of self-reliance made Kaysa grind her teeth in frustration. Sighted folk took for granted their ability to surmount their unforeseen predicaments.
Her granddam’s advice, given when three-year old Kaysa had hurt herself while playing, came back to her now: “If you don’t risk the knocks in life for yourself, the choices of others will limit your days. Safety will tame every dream that you have, until you destroy your free spirit.”
Either wait to be saved, or go ahead and handle the setback herself. The sun’s steamy warmth made waiting unbearable. Kaysa claimed independence, left the wet food, and struck out for the cavern. Lacking the guide string, she relied on her stick, flicking the greenery on either side and mapping her course across the pooled ruts carved across the trail.
Careful progress brought her to the slope toward the brook, where slicked moss and downed sticks challenged her footing. She inched forward, her balance betrayed when a loosened rock overturned. Kaysa skidded and fell. Her long, downhill slide crashed into a wrack of debris. More fallen trees, trunks twisted to splinters, blocked her straight course to the creek. Kaysa stood, banged up and shaken. Off the path, she was in trouble over her head. The slope oriented her sense of direction. She could hear the swollen roar of the creek. Descent should be possible, if she took care, with the way to the caverns directly upstream. The uphill course offered greater uncertainty, the washed out path too easy to miss.
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