Tempest

by Mercedes Lackey

  “There!” she said in satisfaction. “It took me a while to make this, and then I had to wait for the burns to heal enough. But this will help until your tail grows back.”

  He swished his tail experimentally, trying to look behind himself and see. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of the ends of the bundle of rag strips softly thumping against his flank.

  She’d turned him into a mop.

  He couldn’t even manage to summon up the appropriate level of indignation.

  But after the morning routine was complete, there was another surprise in store for Kenisant—this time a welcome one.

  She loosened the rope until Kenisant was supporting his entire weight on his three good legs, then reached around to unhook the sling and pulled it free. “There you go, horsey!” Indibar said. “Just stay off the left fore. In a day or so I’ll take a look at it to see how it’s healing.” She took a handful of his mane and stared into one eye. “Do not go running off,” she said firmly. “If you break it again before it heals . . . well, that would be bad.”

  :Is that what happened to the wolf?: he asked before he could stop himself.

  Indibar cocked her head, obviously listening to Prysane relay his words. She frowned.

  “No,” she said quietly, in a different tone than any he’d heard her use before. “His leg was caught in a trap. He chewed it off to free himself. All I could do for him after that was keep infection from setting in.” She took a deep breath, and resumed her expression of determined cheerfulness. “Now go and have fun, nice white horsey—it’s a nice sunny day!”

  Kenisant limped cautiously out of the stall and toward the open doorway. It was indeed (just as Indibar had said) a nice sunny day. But even the ignominy of his false tail couldn’t keep him from brooding over what she’d said.

  • • •

  With his new freedom, he cautiously explored his surroundings. Indibar’s house was set at the edge of a pocket meadow surrounded by tall pines. Beyond the trees, the horizon was edged by imposing mountains, their upper terraces still white with snow. A stream ran behind the house, its water icy and pure. Clearly its source was somewhere in the mountains. He felt very proud of himself for deducing that, but the feeling of accomplishment quickly faded. It was something anyone would know. It wasn’t special.

  He’d always prided himself on knowing things no one else did, on having a superior intellect and limitless powers of deduction. But if that were true, he would be able to understand what was happening now. He’d know who and what Indibar and Prysane were. He’d know how to get home.

  He didn’t know any of those things.

  He didn’t even have the faintest inkling of where he was. This place didn’t look like anywhere he’d ever heard of, and he thought he knew at least something about all the lands that surrounded Valdemar.

  He couldn’t even ask Indibar to take him back to the place she’d found him—or rather, he could, but he suspected it wouldn’t do him any good. The Mage Storm he’d failed to outrun had clearly flung him a great distance from where he’d been, which was already outside Valdemar’s borders. Was anyone looking for him? Did his mother miss him? Or were they all just glad he was gone?

  (He thought he might know the answer and tried to pretend he didn’t.)

  But at least he could look around and see what was here. He turned away from the stream and began exploring again. He discovered there was a simple mews holding hawks and owls, a kennel-like shelter for wolves and dogs and even foxes, and hutches for rabbits and squirrels. All showed signs of carefully tended injuries, and for the first time, he wondered just what Indibar did out here all by herself. Cared for injured animals, yes—but surely she did more than that? Where did the hay and grain he’d devoured so thoughtlessly come from? The meat for the others? The bandages and medicine?

  He’d never wondered about things like that before.

  There were even some horses here (those lowly creatures he and the other Companions only distantly resembled). A blind gelding, his muzzle going gray with age, whose constant companion was a small brindled goat. An ancient swaybacked gray mare, who stepped cautiously, as if her feet hurt her. A skittish bay stallion whose neck was covered with rope scars and whose loins and haunches were criss-crossed with layer after layer of barely healed scars. That made Kenisant shudder a little. Lowly though horses might be, no creature deserved to be treated the way the stallion clearly had been. There was a hay-filled manger beneath a simple shelter, and they (as every other bird and beast he’d seen here) were clearly free to leave at any time.

  But there was no one here he could talk to.

  • • •

  By now, familiar lands had long since given way to country Father Ponious didn’t recognize even from stories. The countryside he walked through was heavily forested, and every breath he took was sharp with the scent of pines. The air was full of unfamiliar birdsong. Imposing mountains, their snowy tops lost in the clouds, dominated the horizon. He thought they might be the Icewall Mountains, but he hadn’t exactly packed a map when he fled from Typuris’ Fury. Ponious wished he could pause long enough to appreciate the landscape, but he knew he didn’t dare stop moving. The Fury was gaining on him. He could feel it.

  The only mercy was that this place—wherever it was—seemed to be as sparsely populated as the rocky highlands of Karse. He’d seen a handful of tiny farmsteads, with houses and outbuildings that looked as if they’d been woven of grass and wood like enormous baskets, but that was all. For that, he breathed a quiet prayer of thanksgiving to Vkandis.

  • • •

  Three days later, Indibar removed the splint and bandages from Kenisant’s leg. When he cautiously set his hoof to the ground, cramped and long-disused muscles protested, and he shook his head in dismay.

  Indibar patted him on the neck. “You need to exercise it gently to get its strength back. And nothing faster than a walk. Not for a while. But soon enough you’ll be sound enough to run.”

  :Please thank the Lady Indibar for me,: Kenisant said to Prysane. It hardly mattered that he’d be able to run—he had no idea where to run to.

  Indibar patted his neck. “Cheer up, white horsey! We’ll figure out what to do when the time comes.”

  He had no answer for that, even if Prysane were willing to pass one on. What if he had to spend the rest of his life here? Once, he would have conjured up appealing daydreams of Kenisant the Beautiful imprisoned, enslaved, suffering all torments with a meekness of spirit and a shining nobility so great that all who looked upon him would realize what he truly was—a Companion of Valdemar!—and weep with shame over their part in his mistreatment.

  But at some point over the last few sennights, that fantasy had lost its power to soothe him.

  • • •

  Day followed day, and soon Kenisant had been with Indibar for nearly a full moonturn. As the moon had waxed toward the full, her human visitors had increased, coming by twos and threes to her rambling house. Some brought injured beasts, both wild and tame, for tending. Others brought gifts of food. No matter what they brought or why they came, each stayed for only a few candlemarks, then went on their way, with Kenisant none the wiser about what they were doing. Some of the injured animals stayed after they were healed. Some left, vanishing back into the forest. Some departed in company with one of the human visitors. And no matter what else Indibar babbled on about (the woman seemed to take silence as a personal affront), she did not tell him anything he wanted to know.

  He should go. His leg was sound now—he’d even done an experimental gallop or two. His tail was starting to grow back. In another few moonturns, there would be no sign remaining of his injuries. He knew that he should at least try to find his way home. At least in Valdemar, they’d know what he was. And perhaps—if he ran into a Herald and Companion riding Circuit—he could ask the way back to Haven.

  But he was
oddly reluctant to leave.

  • • •

  By now Kenisant knew the morning routine well. It rarely varied. Indibar made her rounds, tending injuries and feeding her guests. After that would come her own household chores, and once they were done, she would come back to spend time with those who were under her care.

  But today, she’d barely gone back inside her house before emerging again, wearing a long, gray hooded cloak and carrying a walking staff. She’d cinched a wide belt over her tunic, and it was heavy with filled pouches. Prysane was (as always) coiled around her neck, but this time the snake looked far less sanguine and relaxed than usual.

  :Where is she going?: Kenisant demanded. It almost seemed that Indibar didn’t know that herself: she stood in the center of the clearing for a long moment, turning slowly in place as if she were listening for something. :What’s going on?:

  Prysane didn’t answer, and a moment later, Indibar strode swiftly away.

  Kenisant followed.

  “Go back,” Indibar said, stopping to face him. Her expression was grave, and her voice held an edge of something that could almost be fear. “Go back and wait for me.”

  Kenisant shook his head in frustration. She couldn’t Hear him, and Prysane (obviously) wasn’t talking. His only argument was physical: he stepped past her and stopped, looking back.

  “There’s nothing you can do!” Indibar said sharply. “This isn’t Valdemar, and I’m no Herald. Go home!”

  He stared at her in astonishment. She knew who he was. She knew what he was. Had she known all along? It made no sense. And if she did, then why . . . ?

  She strode past him, ignoring his stunned expression.

  He wasn’t going to learn anything standing here.

  He followed her.

  • • •

  His luck had finally run out.

  Father Ponious knew he wasn’t supposed to believe in luck, in chance, in fortune, in anything but Vkandis’ providence and loving and all-knowing guidance. And he did believe.

  Nevertheless, his luck had run out.

  Ever since the moon had begun to dwindle toward dark, each day had brought a new and growing sense of unease. He had hoped and prayed that Typuris, or the Fury, or both would lose interest in chasing one small and insignificant village priest.

  Apparently they hadn’t.

  He’d kept going, knowing it was hopeless, but hoping to reach some wholly uninhabited place. Somewhere with no tiny farmsteads with their basket-woven barns and houses. Somewhere with no roads or fields or orchards. Somewhere he would be the only victim of the Dark Servant. The thought that it might still exist after it had slain him was intolerable. With its task complete, it must vanish. Mustn’t it?

  At last, exhausted and as far as he could get from any road or trail before his strength gave out, Ponious dropped to his knees in the midst of the forest and bowed his head in prayer.

  There was nothing else he could do.

  • • •

  Indibar hurried, straight as an arrow, along a trail only she (so it seemed) could see. She’d given up trying to send Kenisant away, as if the need for haste trumped anything else. All Kenisant could think of was that there must be some forest creature who needed her, and if that was true, he could certainly help—by carrying it back to her home, if nothing else. Small enough repayment for all she had done for him.

  “Ah,” she said sadly, as they stopped.

  Over her shoulder, Kenisant could see the small clearing beneath the great trees where a man in tattered black robes knelt, hands clasped and head bowed. At the sound of her voice the man looked up, and then sprang to his feet. He stared at Indibar (at him?) in horror. (As much horror as Kenisant stared back with, but . . . no. This man was not his Chosen.)

  “Go away!” he shouted. “Flee, for the love of Vkandis! I am pursued by demons!”

  “Vykaendys would not permit such,” Indibar said firmly. “Not here.” Though she gave the name an odd pronunciation, it was perfectly clear to Kenisant who she meant—and apparently also to the man who faced them.

  That, at least, would account for the horrified look the little man had given him.

  It didn’t seem to help. “Go!” the man pleaded. “You and the White Demon with you! Pray that the creature who follows me seeks only my life!”

  “I promise you—” Indibar began.

  It doesn’t matter.

  The realization was enough to rock Kenisant where he stood. It didn’t matter which of them was right, or even if both of them were. This was what he had been born for. Not for glory and fame. This. To serve, to protect, wherever he was called to do so. And at last he could admit the truth to himself: He hadn’t “gone on Search.” He’d run away, because nobody in Haven would play with him, and now he’d never have the chance to be fitted with a Companion’s harness and go to seek out the one who would help him serve Valdemar. It was his duty and his destiny, and he’d thrown both away out of vanity and pride.

  But right now that didn’t matter. He could still do his duty, even if no one ever knew what he had done.

  He stepped around Indibar, stepped past the black-robed man, and stood among the trees facing in the direction from which the man had come.

  :Go,: he said to Prysane. :Tell them to go. I’ve got this.:

  He stood, unmoving, not looking back, until he heard both of them leave. Then he hung his head, grateful there was no one here to see his fear. He could do nothing against the power of a demon save fight with hooves and teeth. And he would surely die.

  But at least he would buy the others time.

  • • •

  Junchan gave up and led his mare after the trail vanished into the trees; he couldn’t find the signs he needed to track from his saddle, and if he overshot them, he’d have to spend marks circling his own trail until he found them again—assuming his horse hadn’t simply trampled them until they were unrecognizable.

  He had only the vaguest notion of where he was—somewhere west of Hardorn, maybe. He didn’t recognize this forest, and while he assumed the towering mountains on the horizon were the Icewall Mountains, he’d only heard about them in stories. The sun-disk he wore was his only guide. For all he knew, Father Ponious’ destination was the Icewall Mountains themselves—or what lay beyond them, if anything did.

  He tried not to think about what else was following his wayward priest’s trail, or about the fact that the closer he got to Father Ponious, the closer he got to it.

  Junchan knew perfectly well that Solaris didn’t want blindly devoted followers who would set aside their own judgment and rush headlong into mortal danger just because she commanded it. He knew as well as any that she was mortal, and human. That she did not, and never would, speak in Vkandis’ name—Vkandis spoke through her when He chose. It was Vkandis who was omnipotent and infallible, not His mortal avatar. It was entirely possible that Solaris hadn’t known about the demon sent after Father Ponious—or if she had, thought it had ended along with the long reign of the black-robed Priest-Mages.

  And so, Junchan wasn’t galloping blindly into danger armored with the conviction that Her Radiance knew everything and would not let him come to harm. He was going to take a good solid look at the danger and use his best judgment. It would be a damned shame if he’d spent this much time chasing Father Ponious to the far ends of Velgarth only to see the man die at the hands—or claws—of a demon.

  But so far, all Junchan had seen was an oddly shaped scorch mark on the forest floor. It was straight as an arrow-shot and only a thumb-width wide. A faint hint of ozone hung in the air, and the forest-litter beneath it was charred, but there’d been no fire.

  He walked on, and soon he saw a swan-white glimmer through the trees. When he reached it, he realized it was neither swan nor horse. It was a White Demon of Valdemar—which, by one of Solaris’ first decrees, had become t
he slightly misguided but noble-minded allies of Karse.

  Junchan tried not to get too hung up on politics.

  “I don’t suppose you can talk?” he asked with resignation.

  The Companion fidgeted at him, shaking its head in a meaningful way. Not a grown stallion, Junchan realized. A yearling at best, too young to ride. (Not that he’d ever consider getting on the back of a White Demon anyway.)

  “Well, that’s a shame,” Junchan said. “My name is Junchan. I serve Her Radiance Solaris, Son of the Sun. I don’t suppose you’ve seen a priest around here anywhere? Little man, about so high, bald on top? Probably looks a little threadbare, by now. Being chased by a demon? Not you, of course,” Junchan added hastily. “An actual demon, something one of the Voices whistled up. No? Well, I’ll just have to keep looking, then. You’re welcome to come along, of course. But I’ve got to tell you, you’re a long way from home. Border’s over that way,” Junchan said, gesturing theatrically. “I think we might be in Iftel. But who knows?”

  • • •

  Kenisant followed the stranger—Junchan—and his horse, thinking that perhaps the wondertales and songs he loved might not be accurate after all. No Bard had ever declaimed a tale of unnecessary heroism or of a death-defying battle that . . . just didn’t happen. If they had, who would listen?

  All he’d seen while he stood waiting to meet the demon was a brief flash, like a flicker of lightning, and then, maybe half a candlemark later, this rough man came walking out of the trees, leading a concerned-looking bay mare.

  Life doesn’t care whether you pay attention or not, he thought, and felt very wise. Life just is.

  And so he followed Junchan back to Indibar’s home, and waited to see what would happen next.