I have a source for dried leaves and flowers, and I plan to use enfluerage to create oils next year. I hope to have a fairly ample supply this fall, and wondered if you had an interest? If so, please let me know, for it would delight me greatly to trade to the benefit of both your House and my Land.
With all respect and great affection,
Lady Cera of Sandbriar,
In the Kingdom of Valdemar
A Herald’s Duty
Phaedra Weldon
I’m sorry, Herald Emil, the Queen had written in her missive to him, a rather impersonal response, given his standing as Herald Bard. Though we are gravely worried about the position and fate of your son, Ferris, all of those capable of riding out in search are busy with their own Circuit or on errands for the throne.
Emil stared at the messenger, the Healer Phallon and a friend of Ferris. “That’s all she had to say?”
Phallon’s expression showed the grief he felt. It was one of his failings as a physician and his greatest asset, which lent itself to trust. His patients could always rely on him not to lie or mask the truth. “Emil . . . many Heralds on Circuit are sometimes . . . out of touch. Other Companions can’t find them, but usually there is little cause for alarm. If something happened to Ferris, Syr would let the other Companions know.”
“Something can happen to anyone, and the Companions wouldn’t know,” Emil protested as he carefully set his lute on his bed. He’d just finished restringing it but hadn’t tuned it yet. He was too angry, too . . . disappointed. “That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t worry. I didn’t want him going to begin with.”
“The Queen commanded it.”
“I didn’t agree with her decision to send a single Herald.” He stared at Phallon with pleading eyes, trying to make sense of it. “The conflict with Karse may be ended, but the war still rages for those who do not know. He went into an area to look into reports of rogue Sunpriests. And though Solaris might have granted them sanctuary, they are corrupt . . . they . . . might remain ill-informed.”
Phallon stepped forward and hesitantly put his hand on Emil’s shoulder. “Ever the optimist, even when speaking of a former enemy, eh? The Queen knows all of these things, Emil. But she can’t spare anyone at this moment. Word will come soon, and Ferris will be fine.”
Emil didn’t answer and instead put his hand on Phallon’s and squeezed it. “I hope you’re right.”
Phallon returned the squeeze and then removed his hand, turning to leave Emil’s rooms. “Oh, and one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“She also commands you don’t go off on a fool’s errand to look for him yourself. You are scheduled to perform during her dinner in a fortnight. She requires your soothing Bardic Gift.”
Emil lowered his shoulders. “I understand.”
“I hope you do. I will see you at dinner, Emil.” With that, Phallon left.
And within an hour, so did the Herald Emil Ainsworth.
• • •
The people of Chapel Hill were kind and helpful once they were filled with drink and sweet music. It didn’t take much for Emil to set them at ease with his Bardic Gift. A few choice songs, just a slight push in the emotion of the music so they would understand his plight. Some remembered a Herald with good looks and a sweet disposition. He’d healed a few cuts and scrapes during his stay with them and had asked the same questions about Sunpriests.
Many agreed there had been stories of Sunpriest raids in the area and told him as much. But those had stopped in the past month, before the conflicts with Karse were ended. The town itself had only recently received word of this, and all were surprised.
The barkeep, a rough-looking man who boasted to be of Karse blood, as were many of the people in south Valdemar, instructed Emil to travel to Lisle and seek out The Wayward Son inn. Ask for Innkeeper Shea Merridens. This was the same instruction he’d given Ferris before he departed.
:Your mood seems much improved,: came the lilting voice of Emil’s Companion, Nythil, as they headed down the road to Lisle the next day. The day was cool and pleasant, with birds chirping under the bright sun overhead.
“Aye. But don’t let that fool you. I am still worried.”
:Ferris and Syr yet live. I can just . . . sense Syr.:
“You can?” he nearly pulled her reins to stop. “In Lisle?”
:No. I sense she isn’t speaking for a reason.: Nythil sighed. :Perhaps we should learn more first?:
“You sound like Phallon.”
:He is a wise man. You should listen to him more often.:
When the village’s tallest spire appeared over the trees, Emil released the reins and the direction to Nythil, knowing she would take him where he wanted to go. He pulled his lute from its secure place and made himself comfortable as he began tuning it. He sang now and then, listening to the notes, cringing when they clashed, and adjusting his voice and pitch to accompany the instrument and not drown it out. A Bard’s voice and his instrument should work as a team, or the enjoyment is lost for all.
This wasn’t something he’d learned during his years at Collegium but something he believed in his heart. He’d been able to pluck a tune from the moment he touched his father’s lute. Jasson Ainsworth had been a master at crafting instruments and loved listening to them, but he never had the talent or skill to play them. Even so, he’d been the first to instruct Emil not to shout out lyrics, but to move with them, listen to them, and, most important of all, feel them.
Music and song worked as one. Always.
So did he wind this magic as he strolled into Lisle, singing a small dancing song he’d learned on his last Circuit, which had been . . . ten years ago? When he retired from traveling to help raise his son after his wife passed away. The lyrics were light and made of nonsense, which brought the curious to him as chores were paused and work was put aside.
He continued singing with a smile, spreading his mirth to those who followed his Companion and he to the center of town to a central well. Slipping off Nythil’s back as she bowed to the children who ooohed and awwwwed at her beauty, he stood on the highest of the flagstones surrounding the well and finished the tune with a flourish.
“Sing another one!” came a shout.
“Do you know the one about the Grandfather’s knees?”
“No no, sing that one that’s got the wailing ghost!”
:I think you have them.:
He did too, and he held up his hand so the crowd would quiet and listen. “Please, dear people of Lisle. I know all these songs and have performed them well. And though this has been a nice distraction from the day, chores must be done and work tended too. If there is a place I might set up to perform this evening, I would play them and many more.”
There was disappointment for a moment, until a woman’s voice rang over them all. “Aye, you have the ear of my establishment.”
He looked to the right as the crowd parted and a handsome woman, close to his own years, approached. She wore work leathers and breeches, and her graying hair was pulled back in a tight knot at her neck.
Emil bowed to her. “And who do I have the honor of speaking with?” Though he already suspected the name.
“Shea Merridens. And you might be?”
“Herald Emil Ainsworth.”
He noticed a few looking at each other. They had heard this name before.
A new voice spoke up, belonging to an elderly man, late in years. “There was another Ainsworth here, also a Herald. Can’t recall his name, though.”
“Ferris Ainsworth,” Emil said. “He is my son. I had hoped to catch up with him on the road, but alas, I’ve had no luck.” He sensed hesitation in the crowd, not so much as a feeling but by their body movements. The hesitation and nervousness alarmed him, and if he had not already used his Gift to win them over, he might have been instantly shut out.
The
elderly man held up his hand and snapped his fingers. “Nice fella. The girls really liked him, and he—”
“He’s not here,” Shea Merridens said in a calm voice. A smooth interruption.
Emil smiled at her. “Do you know which direction he went? He was on the Queen’s orders.”
All eyes were on her, and only her.
Interesting.
“I’m afraid I have bad news for you.” She put her hands on her hips. “But your son was taken by Sunpriests.”
:Hmmm.:
:Don’t ‘hmmm’ me when a stranger says something like that about Ferris. Is she lying?:
:There is a truth within a lie. Don’t trust her.:
Emil strummed a few melancholy chromatic notes to relay his sadness to his audience. Several of the men removed their hats in respect. He wasn’t sure whether that was good or bad. “But the conflict with Karse is over.”
The reaction wasn’t what he expected. There wasn’t a gasp or even a surprised cry. In fact, he was pretty sure everyone here knew this, even though the town farther north had just learned the news themselves. So Lisle knew before Chapel Hill?
“Aye, it is,” Shea said. “But those priests are corrupt devils. They consort with the wicked and steal our food and horses. They don’t care to know the truth, nor when they are told, believe it.” And as if to make a point, she spit to the side.
Several nods. Hats back on heads.
“So you have told them?”
“We’ve told the ones we’ve caught—” said the elderly man, the one who didn’t know Ferris’ first name.
“Drum.” Shea looked at him. “Don’t you have something to do?”
He backed down and then backed out of the crowd. Emil made a point of watching where he went as he spoke. “My dear Lady Merridens. I do hope I haven’t intruded on bad tidings. But I am very distressed to hear this about my son. May you and I speak in private?”
“Certainly. Please follow me. And about your horse—”
“My Companion.” Emil stepped down to find he and Shea stood eye to eye. “She’s not a horse.”
She looked back at Nythil, the Companion’s bright white flank shining like white marble. “If you say so.”
“Nythil can take care of herself.”
With that he removed his bag and started to remove the saddle.
:Leave that on. I’m going to have a look around the area. You might need it if we have to make a hasty retreat.:
:You think that’s warranted?:
:Let’s say I’m . . . wary.: And with that she trotted out of the crowed and back through the gate.
“Aren’t you worried she’ll run off?” asked a small child beside him who’d been staring at Nythil the whole time.
Emil smiled and knelt down beside her. “Companions are Companions for life, little one. She will always return to me, and I to her.”
“She’s pretty.”
:She has good taste.:
Emil made a face. “She is pretty, but she does lack humility.”
Nythil made a rude noise.
A young man took up the pack Emil removed, and they followed Shea to her inn, just behind the city’s main council hall. It was a tavern and an inn, and a few patrons lingered in the bar area as they entered. They raised their tankards to Shea and cheered as she waved at them to stop.
One of them spotted the lute in Emil’s hand and begged for a song. Shea told him to come back tonight and ask again. More cheers.
They stepped into a back room with a fireplace, a large table, a few chairs that had seen better days, and another door. Shea opened the room’s only window beside the door, and Emil assumed it led outside, perhaps to an alley. She gave the young man a key and a number and told him to put the Bard’s bag in the room.
While he was away, she grabbed a pitcher and two cups and set them on the table. “I’m sorry I had to be the one to tell you about your son.”
“You say this as if he were dead.”
She sat down, and he took a seat facing her, the table between them. “Once the priests take you, you don’t come back.”
“Why would they take a Herald?”
“Magic,” she said as she filled each cup with drink. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he didn’t like the smell. “They hate all magic. Claim it’s devil’s work, and yet they summon devils themselves.” She looked at him but didn’t drink. “I’m sure they burned him.”
“And his Companion?”
“Companion—he had a horse like yours?”
:She sounds genuine. It is possible Ferris kept Syr away from the town.:
:Yes . . . but, why?:
“Yes, he did. My Companion would know if something happened to Ferris. I’m more than sure he’s alive.”
“Not for much longer.” Emil gave her a sharp look. “It’s been four days since he disappeared. I’m sure he’ll be dead soon.”
He licked his lips. He had his lute in his hand and sat back, strumming. “Tell me about these Sunpriests. You said they stole your food and your horses?”
The slight touch of his Gift was subtle enough that he saw her relax. A little. “They came up from Menmellith about two months ago. I heard talk of them hitting the outer settlements. They came to take us back to Karse.”
“Us . . . you are a Karsite?”
“Most of us are, or our parents are or were. Not all of us are magic; some just came with those who possessed it. I’m familiar with it. My mother had Foresight but was never properly trained.”
“She could have gone to Haven—”
“No. She did her duty and stayed here and protected our town.” She looked at the table. “I don’t have the Gift, so I can’t see when trouble is coming. But when I heard of the Sunpriests nearby, I did what I had to do.”
Emil stopped strumming. “And what was that?”
Shea didn’t answer. Instead she stood and nodded to the cups and pitcher. “Drink. Relax. Tonight, you will play. And maybe by tomorrow, you will know of your son’s fate.” With that parting shot, she left the room.
Emil sat forward, shaken, but determined more than ever now to find Ferris and solve what had become a dangerous mystery.
• • •
Nearly an hour passed before Emil found the elderly man Shea called Drum. He was inside the local Healing House, surrounded by books and thick reading glasses, along with all manner of drying herbs, glass bottles, and several sizes of mortar and pestles. He appeared to be looking for something on a shelf when Emil approached him and cleared his throat.
The man jumped with a short bark and turned to face him. He narrowed his eyes, and it was then that Emil saw the whiteness in one of them. The man was half-blind.
“I’m sorry . . . but I’m not seeing anyone today.”
“It’s me, good sir. Emil? We met in the square.”
The man looked confused, then his expression changed. “Oh, yes. You’ve spoken to Merridens. Please . . . be gone with you.” He turned away.
“Yes, I have spoken with her, and she gave me distressing news about my son, remember? The Sunpriests took him?” Emil walked around the room so he could see the man’s face. “You know Ferris.”
“Yes,” the elderly man answered. “I am called Drum. Your son . . . very Gifted. And his horse, quite the beauty.”
Emil gave up on correcting people about the horse misconception. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“As was said . . . he left five . . . maybe four days ago.”
“Left . . . but Shea said he was taken.”
“Shea has her own truth.” Drum looked around as if he’d said something bad and someone was listening. He gestured for Emil to come close. “You have to talk quietly here. We don’t want the Sunpriests to hear.” He put his hands on a loosely made line of vials and picked up each one in or
der, from left to right.
Emil had worked enough with Healers to identify certain medicines, herbs, and roots. He came closer and put his hand on Drum’s. “May I see those vials? Can you put them back the way you took them?”
He watched as Drum did so, and Emil recognized the markings on the bottles themselves. “These are some rather dangerous powders, Drum.”
“Yes, they are. Put together in the order I have them, from left to right, they make a very good common remedy for lots of things. I don’t see as well as I used to, so I put them here like this so I know how to put them together.”
Emil focused on one vial in particular and another vial just behind it. The one behind was an all-purpose crushed herb, but the one in front was a poison. If this ingredient were added, it would make a potion that would cause a slow death. “Drum—” he began.
But Drum was already talking. “ . . . Always like this, you know. Before the Sunpriests came, we lived in relative peace and quiet. But something happened, you see, and Shea’s never recovered. It hardened her . . . and I wish . . . I always wished I could have helped.”
Emil removed the vial of poison and pushed the healing vial forward. “What happened, Drum?”
“Shea’s daughter, she was a sweet and lovely child, she had a fever . . . it was just before your son came to us. I put together the medicine . . .” he looked at Emil with a stricken face. “And she died.”
Emil put his hand to his face. “Did . . . was her death slow?”
“It was terrible,” Drum said, and he wiped his eyes. “The Sunpriests had raided us a few days before. They were hitting us every week, it seemed. Stole fabric, clothing, came in here and stole medicine and books . . .” He sighed. “They took food from the inn and things from people’s rooms. Word was sent to the Queen—” he shook his head. “But then little Jenita died, and everyone was so sad.”
“Shea blamed the Sunpriests.”
“Yes.” Drum looked away. “It was after Ferris came and helped me straighten everything out that the raids stopped. A few of the Sunpriests came into town, but they died. They were struck down with the same malady that killed little Jenita. Shea called it justice. Their bodies were burned.”
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