Prince Daren sat down and took his wife’s hand; Selenay looked very pale.
“I must admit,” she said, “that I doubted when Kerowyn and my daughter swore that Ancar would find a way to penetrate our Border with magic. I was wrong.”
Selenay looked over at Elspeth, and bit her lip. “My daughter also proposed a solution that I rejected out of hand; she suggested that Valdemar seek out magical allies as well, and find some mage who was strong enough to pass our borders to help us from within, and perhaps even teach new mages. She suggested that, since the Chronicles all speak of a ‘Mage-Gift,’ that there may still be Heralds carrying that Gift. She thinks that Gift has simply gone unrecognized and untaught because there was no one to teach it. She also suggested that she be the one to leave Valdemar, find such a mage, and bring him—or her—back to us.”
Silence met her words as the Councilors turned looks of doubt toward Elspeth’s end of the table. She did her best to look as mature and competent—and confident—as any of them could have wished. She was very glad now that Kero had insisted she wash and change before the meeting. She doubted she would have been able to convince any of them looking like a disheveled hoyden.
“May I speak?” she asked. At Selenay’s nod, she stood up.
“Always speak to the Council from a standing position, kitten. ” Kero had tutored her a few weeks ago, after watching one of the sessions from the visitor’s seat. The Council had wanted a report on what the Skybolts had been assigned to—and now Elspeth knew why Kero had been fairly reticent.
But what the Council didn’t realize was that Kero had learned more about them than they had from her. The Captain had made careful assessments of the Council and their reactions to Elspeth, and had some fairly shrewd observations to make afterward.
“Always speak to them from a standing position. That will put your head higher than theirs, and give you an emotional advantage. Put your hands on the table, and lean forward a little. Showing your hands tells their guts that you have nothing to hide, leaning says that you are comfortable with your power, and leaning forward tells them that you are earnest. Never raise your voice; in fact, if you can, speak a little lower than usual. That tells their guts that you’re not just an emotional female. But if you feel passionately about something, choose your words carefully, and put some punch behind them.”
Talia and Selenay did all these things, but they did them without thinking, without knowing the reasons why they worked. Talia analyzed the audience through her Gift of Empathy, and adjusted herself accordingly, all without ever thinking about it. Selenay had been trained by her father—who may have known why his advice worked, but didn’t bother to explain it to his daughter. Kerowyn, on the other hand, had to fight her way up to the top in a predominantly male profession—and she was a superb tactician in any arena. She knew how to deal with authority figures, and why the tactics she used worked.
Elspeth tried to keep all her advice in mind as she began.
“Herald-Captain Kerowyn and I have had several conversations about this eventuality,” she said, quietly. “That in itself is unusual, because until now, it seems as if it has been very difficult even to speak about magic within the bounds of our realm, especially for Heralds. Please think back, think about what has happened every time in the past that you’ve spoken about magic in this Council Room—you’ve gone outside these walls, and gradually forgotten all about it, haven’t you?”
She looked around, and got slow nods from most of the Councilors. “Somehow, as urgent as the threat seemed to be, it became less urgent once the immediate danger was over, didn’t it? It did for me, too, until I met Kerowyn. I suspect that ‘forgetting’ may be a symptom of whatever it is that has protected us until now. But now—if you’ll notice, we’re speaking about magic, all of us, and I don’t think we’re going to forget about it outside the room. And I am terribly afraid that this is a symptom of something else—a symptom of the fact that this protection is weakening.”
A swift intake of breath was the only sound that broke the silence following her words, but she couldn’t tell who it was that had gasped. She glanced around the horseshoeshaped table. Several of the Councilors were nodding, though not happily. She continued.
“I don’t think we have a choice; I believe we must find a mage or mages to help us. I have several reasons why I think that the person who goes to look for one should be me.” She paused again, waiting for opposition, but she didn’t see anyone leaping to his—or her—feet to object. “A Herald must be the person we send to find us a mage—or mages. That is because only a Herald is likely to be able to weigh the motives of those we consider, and find a person of sufficient ethics to do us any good. As to my qualifications, first of all, my rank is such that I’m not likely to encounter anyone who doubts my ability to negotiate. Now, Talia is the Queen’s Own, but she also has a small child. I think it would be unreasonable to ask her to leave him for an indefinite length of time. And there is a very sinister reason for her to avoid taking him with her; if someone captured her child, Jemmie could be held to be used against her.”
Emphatic nods around the table gave her confidence to continue. “As you know, Ancar has made an assassination attempt on me. I think he will find it harder—as Kero would say—to hit a moving target. There may be other Heralds who have sufficient rank to be able to negotiate, but of all of them, only Kero and I seem to be able to even speak of magic clearly, much less assess the capabilities of a mage. And Kero was a mercenary—frankly, the kind of mage we are looking for may hold that against her.” She spread her hands and shrugged. “The answer seems obvious to me. And if I may be so blunt as to say so, I am expendable. Mother has the twins, either of whom can easily succeed me as Heir.”
She sat down carefully, and then the uproar began.
Elspeth had a pounding headache before it was over, and the arguments went on long past dinnertime and well into the night. Servants were sent out for cold meat, cheese, and other provisions, then called in again to light the lamps. Because of the nature of the arguments, young Heraldic trainees in their final year were brought in to serve at the table, and keep a steady supply of tea and other nonintoxicating drinks on hand. This was not the longest Council session on record, but it was certainly right up with the record holders.
And Elspeth was right in the middle of it all. Half the time, the Councilors went at her like a horde of interrogators, shouting questions, each one trying to make himself heard over the rest. The rest of the time, they acted as if she weren’t even there, arguing about her and her competence at the tops of their lungs. Talia spared her a sympathetic glance or two, but she had her own hands full.
And besides, this was Elspeth’s fight. It was up to her to win it; no one else was as convinced of her mission as she was. And her mother was still dead set against it.
So she fought by herself, grimly determined that she would win, no matter how long it took.
She did notice something odd, however. Every time it looked as though one of the Heralds would say something against her decision—he or she would freeze for a moment, sometimes in mid-sentence, and then fall silent.
Heralds often did that when their Companions were speaking to them, but Elspeth had never seen it happen so many times—or so abruptly. It was almost as if the Companions were arguing on her behalf, against their Chosens’ better judgment. Elspeth even caught her mother in that momentary “listening” pose.
Shortly before midnight, the Council was finally in reluctant agreement. Elspeth could go; in fact, must go. She had succeeded, she and Selwin, in persuading everyone of the urgency of the situation. She had persuaded even her mother that she was the only person with the right combination of talents and credentials to successfully carry it off.
However, her route and ultimate destination would be watched over, at least inside Valdemar, and she would not go alone.
“You can’t possibly go without an escort,” the Lord Marshal said firmly. “I would
say—twenty armed at the least.”
“Thirty,” said the Seneschal, over her squawk of outrage. “No less than that.”
“Absolutely,” Lady Cathan of the Guilds seconded. “Anything less would be inappropriate.”
I’m trying to track down mages, she thought in exasperation. I’m trying to find people who are notoriously shy, and they want me to bring an entire army with me?
But she didn’t say that; instead, she waited while the Councilors argued about the size of her escort, building it up until it did resemble a small army, then entered into the affray again when she thought she had a chance of being heard over the din.
“Impossible,” she said, clearly. All heads turned in her direction. “Absolutely impossible,” she repeated, just as firmly. “You’re asking me to haul an entire armed force along with me. I’m trying to make speed—and I doubt if you could find fifty fighters with beasts able to keep up with a Companion even among the Skybolts. I may have to leave Rethwellan, and the presence of a troop like that could greatly offend the rulers of other countries that I might find myself in. But most importantly of all, insofar as my movements remaining a secret from Ancar, you might just as well post him a message every day telling him where I’m going, because that’s how visible I’d be with that many armed fighters around me.”
That brought all the arguments to a dead silence. The Lord Marshal actually looked sheepish.
“Now,” she continued reasonably, “if you really want to make a big, fat target out of me, I wish you’d tell me. There are easier ways to get rid of me.”
“Oh, come now,” replied Lord Palinor, the Seneschal, wearing a superior expression that made her want to bite something. “Surely that’s an exaggeration.”
“Is it?” she asked raising one eyebrow, but otherwise keeping her expression sweetly innocent. “You just heard a description of something that could have destroyed an entire garrison—a weapon Ancar deployed inside our borders, and without having to come within sight of Valdemar. Protected Valdemar. What’s likely to happen if he knows my every movement outside our borders?” She chuckled dryly. “Kind of negates the benefit of being a moving target, I’d say.”
Silence for a moment, while they thought that one over. “Well,” said Prince Daren. “What do you want to do?”
“My preference is to go alone,” she admitted. “Basically, I’m safest if no one else knows where I am.”
But the Prince shook his handsome head. “No,” he said, with a touch of regret. “If it were anyone else, that wouldn’t be a problem—but not you. You may think you’re expendable, but you’re still the Heir right now. You can’t go running off the face of the earth all alone. And there is one argument that applies to Talia that also applies to you. If you were taken, you could be used as a hostage as well.”
Elspeth sighed, but nodded in agreement. “That’s true, Stepfather. I admit that I hadn’t thought too much of that—but frankly, between Gwena and myself, I don’t think we could be taken by anything but a small army.”
“There’s always treachery,” Daren said firmly. “You’ll have to take at least one other person with you. And personally, I would suggest a Herald.”
“Someone responsible, capable—” said Father Ricard.
“Crafty and clever,” said Talia.
“Fine,” she agreed—and then, before they could engage in a till-dawn debate on exactly who she could take with her, said, “But it’s going to be Skif, or no one. There is no one in the entire Heraldic Circle who is better suited to watching my back.”
She expected an explosion of argument; after all, given the fuss there had been over the rumors started simply by being in Skif’s company, the Councilors should, one and all, roundly denounce such a notion.
And after they argued themselves into exhaustion, she just might be able to talk the Council into letting her have her own way and going out alone.
“Fine,” Selenay said, instantly. “Skif is perfect. He’s everything we could ask; responsible, capable, clever, crafty—”
Lord Palinor laughed. “Aye, and tricky, the young devil. Ancar wouldn’t catch him napping, I’d wager.”
And while Elspeth gawked, caught entirely flat-footed with surprise, every single one of the Councilors agreed to the choice she would have bet money they thought unsuitable. Before she quite realized what was happening, they approved her authority as negotiator for the Crown, approved her escort, and closed the session.
And began filing out, heading straight for their beds, while she stared at them, dumbfounded. Talia even patted her on the shoulder as she left, whispering, “Good choice, kitten. I think it was the only thing that could have convinced them.”
Finally she was alone in the Council Chamber, sitting back in her seat, staring at the guttering candles, still wondering what on earth had happened.
And wondering just who, exactly, had been outmaneu vered.
Chapter Six
DARKWIND
Council meetings. Endless dithering about nothing, while we guardians dance with death out there on the border. And no help for us, either. If I could get anyone else to do this, I’d give up the Council seat in a heartbeat.
Darkwind pushed aside a tangle of vines covered with blue, trumpet-shaped flowers and restrained himself from pulling the whole curtain of vegetation down in a fit of anger. It had been days—weeks—since his confrontations with his father and the Council, demanding that they do something about the situation of the Clan, of the scouts, and what had they done?
Nothing. Or rather, they had “taken it under advisement.” They would “weigh all the possible options.” They were “studying the problem. ”
They’re sitting on their backsides, afraid to do anything, that’s what’s really going on. Father won’t let them act because he’s afraid of what it will do to the Heartstone. And they still won’t go outside k‘Sheyna for help.
Not that he had really expected anything else after the way Starblade had treated him. Really, when it came to anything important, especially where magic was concerned, the entire Council spoke with Starblade’s words.
I’ll have to start considering those other plans of Dawnfire‘s, using the hertasi and some of the others. They’ve left us no choice; if we’re going to guard them effectively, we’ll have to use whatever allies we have.
And he didn’t particularly care if pulling the hertasi away from their other duties left some of those jobs undone. So what if the Vale got a little more overgrown? It didn’t look to him as if it would make much difference. And maybe if some of the Elders had to suffer a little, if their ekele went unrepaired and their gardens untended because the hertasi were out helping keep their Vale safer—well, maybe then they’d notice that there was something wrong with their little world. And maybe they’d decide that it might be a good idea to try and fix what was wrong.
I hope. But I’m not going to count on anything like sense out of them.
He took the shortest possible route to the pass out of the Vale, cutting down long-neglected paths until he reached the boundary and the shield-wall. As he burst through a stand of wildly overgrown, flowering bushes, he saw Vree waiting for him in a tree growing just outside the mage-barrier. The gyre preferred not to enter the Vale itself if he could help it; many of the other bondbirds demonstrated Vree’s distaste for the Vale proper, and tried to stay outside of the shield. Darkwind wasn’t sure if it was because they shared their bondmates’ dislike of magic, or sensed the problems with the Heartstone. One thing was certain, he knew that aversion dated back to the disaster, and not before.
He just wished he could avoid the Vale as well.
The place made him uneasy, for all its luxury. Here, near the edge, it wasn’t so bad. The flora were tropical and wildly luxuriant, but it was nothing that couldn’t be found in a glassed-over hothouse. But the closer he came to the damaged Heartstone, the stranger the plants became—and the odder he felt; slightly disoriented, off-balance, lethargic. As if som
ething was sapping his energy, clouding his thoughts.
And it’s not my imagination, either, he thought stubbornly. If Vree and the other birds don’t like the Vale, that should tell us all something. No matter what Father claims. What would he know, anyway? His bondbird is that damned crow—hardly bred out of the wild line, and it might as well be a metal simulacrum for all the intelligence it shows. It does what he tells it to, it doesn’t talk to the other birds at all, and most of the time it sits on its perch in the corner of the ekele, like some kind of art object.
He passed through the barrier—a brief tingling on the surface of his skin—and emerged into the real world again. Already he felt lighter, freer, and it seemed to him as he walked out on the path taking deep breaths of the pine-scented air, that even his footfalls were more confident. No cloying flower-scents, no heavy humidity-just an honest summer breeze. No one to answer to, out here. No one questioning his judgment unless it really needed to be called into question.
:Vree!: He Mindcalled the gyre, suddenly anxious to feel the bird’s familiar weight on his shoulder. Vree obliged him by sweeping down out of the top of the nearest pine, landing on his leather-covered wrist with a thunder of pinions, and stepping happily from there to his favorite perch, on the padded shoulder of Darkwind’s jacket.
:Don’t like Vale,: the falcon complained. :Too hot, too empty, feels bad. Don’t like crow, stupid crow. Don’t go back.:
He Sent agreement tinged with regret. :I have to, featherhead. But you don’t have to go in if you don’t want to. And I don’t have to go back for a while.:
The bird crooned a little, and preened a beakful of Darkwind’s hair, as the scout laughed softly. Feeling considerably more cheerful now that he was outside the Vale and wouldn’t have to face another Council meeting for days, Darkwind returned the bird’s affectionate caress, scratching the breast and working his fingers up to the headfeathers. Vree made a happy chuckling sound, and bent to have his head scratched a little more.
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