Pathways

by Mercedes Lackey

  “You say the woman is a traitor and a Bard, but I see you have two Demon-horses.” Langfirch lifted his brows. “Is your daughter to be a Demon-Rider?”

  Wil grimaced. The Karsite words that revolved around Heralds weren’t particularly kind—there wasn’t even a word for Herald—and hearing them come out of his father’s mouth after the conversation with Carris about foreigners. . . .

  But then Langfirch grinned, lips splitting to show hard, white teeth. “I jest, liebshahn.” The Karsite word for “beloved son” didn’t slip out of his father’s mouth often. That jarred Wil almost as much as the Demon-Rider epithet.

  “Aubryn is . . . she’s kind of a nanny,” Wil said and braced himself for—

  :I am not a nanny,: Aubryn interjected with sour-apple annoyance.

  :Yeah, Chosen. She’s really more of an eavesdropper,: Vehs said.

  :All Companions are busybodies,: Wil replied. :And do you both mind? I’m trying to have a conversation here.:

  “That’s how I managed to convince everyone that I wasn’t completely insane for wanting to take a child on Circuit with me,” Wil continued, focusing back on his father. “Aubryn watches Ivy when I can’t.”

  “She could . . . stay with family.”

  A small blurt of strained laughter escaped Wil’s lips before he could strangle it into submission. “Papa, you hate kids.”

  The old man shrugged. “Other people’s kids, yes. This one is. . . .”

  “Safest with me. Companions are good at keeping people alive.”

  His shoulders tightened as the words dropped out of his mouth. The wrong words, and if this were twenty years ago, with his sister Daryann’s death still fresh in their hearts—or even ten years ago—he had no doubt Langfirch would have torn into him.

  Wil struggled to overcome the misstep. “We—you and I—we haven’t always—”

  “Gaaah.” Langfirch waved his hand. “Stop with the touchy-feely sentimental crap.” He got up. “So. What next?”

  “I want to do some exploration. The Companions did some scouting to make sure no one followed us, but I’ll feel better if I take a check, too.” That was mostly true, but it sidestepped his real reason for wanting to go off alone into the woods. “Can you watch Ivy?”

  “Watch my only grandchild decimate the entire snail population of Cortsberth? Hm.” He grinned. “Such a burden.”

  :Is it me, or has the old man softened?: Vehs asked.

  :Downright cordial,: Wil replied as he quit the house and crossed the broad swath of green toward the forest ringing his father’s home. :For him.:

  • • •

  Wil had grown up hunting these woods, following game trails that led seemingly nowhere and everywhere, or exploring the caves that pocked the hillside.

  I think I liked walking in the woods better when I didn’t have a Gift constantly reminding me that I’m being stalked, he thought. And, yes, there it was, twisting in his gut, that little alarm of unseen surveillance.

  He saw a flash of white, and a Companion—not Vehs or Aubryn—trotted into view. The stallion dipped his head and danced playfully in place before gliding deeper into the green gloaming.

  Follow me, he seemed to say, and Wil did.

  They came to a clearing, where a figure shrouded in a patchwork of earth-toned cloth sat on a fallen log. The Companion ambled up to the log, and the stranger patted his neck before looking at Wil and saying, “Have you ever heard of the blue-heart butterfly?”

  “Hello to you, too,” Wil replied.

  The Herald wore a mantle with a deep hood and a scarf wound around the lower half of his (her?) face. The muffled voice didn’t convey gender definitively. “It’s very beautiful,” the voice went on, as if Wil hadn’t spoken. “And rare. Doesn’t show up around here. The Herald I trained with told me the story of it once. Last we spoke, he had hoped to capture one. Not sure if he ever did, though.”

  Wil knew from experience that this Herald indulged in rambling non sequiturs. This one seemed to be over.

  “So . . . here we are,” Wil said. “We were followed, right? The farmer on the road?” He saw the person in question again in his memory—a squat man in homespun, with a flat nose and a wagon full of clay jars.

  “Good eye. You sure you’re not the Herald-Spy?”

  “All the spying I ever wanted in my life fell to Lelia,” Wil said. “It doesn’t suit me.”

  The Companion issued a wistful sigh, and the Herald-Spy patted his neck affectionately. “My Companion says Lelia always brought the best apples to the Field.”

  Wil swallowed around a sudden knot in his throat. “For a Bard, she did all right.”

  “The Companions adored her.” The Herald-Spy’s Companion nodded, agreeing. “On to more cheery subjects—yes, the so-called ‘farmer’ turned about the moment you were around the bend.”

  “Really hoped we’d lost them.”

  “Irrational. You’re a Herald traveling on the main roads with a child and a prisoner.”

  And you cannot hope to travel off the main roads when transporting a prisoner and a child. Not at enough speed to escape pursuers. Wil had thought their options through before deciding to stay on the road: Outpacing their pursuers was more important than obfuscating their journey. Not to mention the risks of moving through unknown territory—flash floods, drop offs, beasts of the Pelagiris. . . .

  “I’ve traced them to a large cave outside town,” the Herald continued. “Six so far. They keep sending people to buy handpies at the village inn.”

  “Be careful watching them. I don’t want my bootknife getting caught.”

  A chuckle. “Bootknife? I like that. And while we’re handing out monikers—don’t worry about me, Herald-Dad. I’m nowhere near them when watching. I’m probably safer than you for now. They don’t know about me. Yet.”

  No one knows about you, friend, Wil thought. Though I just figured out you must have Farsight.

  “What’s next?” asked Bootknife—it was as good a label for his anonymous assistant as any.

  “Preferably Haven.” Wil rubbed his forehead, trying in vain to massage away a blooming headache.

  “We can’t go back to Haven yet.”

  “We could try cutting through the forest. I know this region. If Ivy stays tucked up against me, and with you keeping an eye out. . . .”

  “Or we hole up here, call for help, and hope they don’t find you in the meantime. There’s a garrison a day from here as the Companion rides.”

  Wil shook his head. “Trusting a garrison is why Carris is my prisoner and not Ferrin,” he said. “Give me tonight.”

  “Risky.”

  “I don’t want to rush a decision.”

  Bootknife sighed. “Fine. I’ll be back in the morning.”

  “We’ll be here,” Wil said, turning back to the house.

  • • •

  Langfirch squinted at Ivy, then at Wil. “Does she chew?”

  Chew? I’m not sure she breathes, Wil thought as he watched her turn on the sourstalk pie, mouth and hands covered in buttery crumbs and alternating smears of brown gravy and golden custard. Not that he blamed her. Addy made amazing pies.

  “I can see you’ve invested many candlemarks in teaching her manners,” his father added, lapsing back into Karsite. Ivy didn’t seem to care.

  “You know, I didn’t have to pay you for these,” Wil reminded him.

  “But you did. Because I raised you right.” Langfirch took a big bite of his own custard handpie, looking pleased.

  Wil picked up a spare chicken pie, leaving the last two apple ones on the table. He’d give Carris dinner but no dessert. Traitors didn’t get dessert.

  He found her stretched out on the bed, hands bound in front of her, eyes closed. He’d cleared the room of anything useful before putting her in here—that meant no pottery
she could break into sharp pieces, no mirrors, nothing metal.

  “A cup of wine or beer would be nice,” she said as he set dinner down on a dresser.

  “My father doesn’t drink, sorry.”

  “Of course he doesn’t.” Her eyes opened. “Karsites outlawed happiness centuries ago.”

  Not for the first time he found himself reminded of Ivy’s mother, the Bard Lelia. Carris had some of the qualities he’d loved in Lelia—offbeat humor, direct wit—but held up to a mirror, in shadow. Lelia had held on to her youthful hope and optimism even when her own body turned against her; Carris had abandoned it without a fight. He wondered sometimes what the gods were thinking, whisking someone like Lelia to the Bright Havens and letting Carris live.

  “He’s the ferryman,” Wil said. “People come through at all times, and being drunk on the job isn’t good for business.”

  As Wil rejoined his family, he glanced up at the bell hanging from the house’s central rafter. Slightly larger than an adult’s head, it had been hanging there since the house had been built, and it rang without need of a rope. Not unlike the Death Bell, but for a decidedly less grim reason—it rang whenever anyone needed the Cortsberth ferryman to take them across the river.

  “And that’s one of the reasons the Ferryman’s House stays on the hill,” his father had told him once. “Because no one knows how the damned bell works, and we’re too afraid to move it.”

  “Has the bell rung today?” he asked.

  “This morning,” Langfirch said, wiping crumbs and custard off Ivy’s cheeks. “Lea and Xendar from Horn. And a stranger who I took to be a trapper. Smelled like one. Asked me if I’d seen a Herald with a child. Then he asked if I knew a Herald named Wil.”

  Wil’s breath hissed out through his teeth.

  “To be clear, I said no,” Langfirch added dryly.

  “Dear gods.”

  “That’s when I figured to expect you soon.” Langfirch spread his hands. “And here you are.”

  “You were awfully calm when we rode up,” Wil said. “I just assumed you had manifested Foresight in the last ten years.”

  “Not me. Just an old ferryman. I blame your mother for all that.” Langfirch grinned, then switched to Valdemaran and looked at Ivy, fussing over something in her lap by the hearth. “Ho, little. You two sleep tonight in big bed made by grandpapa, yes?”

  “Papa—” Wil said.

  Langfirch flailed his hands at him. “Shush, you. Don’t question gift.”

  Ivy lifted the toy in her lap, a yarn-haired cloth dolly wearing a yellow dress adorned with embroidered flowers and suns. “My poppet wants a pie.”

  “Did you give that to her?” Wil asked his father.

  Langfirch shrugged. “Eh.”

  “Did you make that?”

  “Ehhhh.” He turned to his granddaughter, avoiding Wil’s astonished look. “Pie your poppet wants, hmm?”

  Ivy nodded.

  “Is you who wants the pie, I think!”

  She grinned.

  “Get crumbs all over my big, beautiful bed!” Langfirch said, shaking his fist in mock rage, eliciting a full belly laugh from Ivy.

  “And then what would Vehs and Aubryn eat?” Wil asked, ruffling her hair. “I think they deserve a treat, don’t you?”

  “Ooh! Can I help?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  The Companions greedily gobbled their handpies, gave Ivy snuffling kisses, and then went back to their guard duty while Wil escorted her to her grandfather’s bedroom.

  The bed dominating the middle of the room was as tall and sturdy as he remembered. The old man had hand carved it decades ago as a wedding gift for his bride. Curling flowers and vines adorned the sheets and blankets, also his father’s handiwork. Wil couldn’t remember if his mother had had a knack for needlework; his memories of her all revolved around a woman who made berry jams and iced buns, a woman who had sung to him every night before bed. The first important person he’d lost.

  Stacks of Wil’s letters sat on the bedside table. Wil wondered if his father read them before sleep. He traced the bedframe’s swirling lines while thinking of his father bent over the wood, laboring to finish in time for the wedding. He knew now that Vkandis hid amidst the lines—as a child, he’d simply thought the faces fanciful.

  Langfirch and Elain had had eight years together. The bed’s size and intricacy suggested Langfirch had expected more time with her than that.

  Physical objects kept a memory that his Gift allowed him to witness. If he wanted, he could reach out and maybe see the moment his father had given the bed to his mother . . . but no. He felt the weariness of the journey in his bones; he didn’t need to compound that by extending his Gift.

  Ivy fell asleep with ease—full belly and lots of exertion equaled sleepy child. But he couldn’t sleep, not yet.

  He found Langfirch sitting by the fire, a bit of cloth and needle in his hands.

  “Need more blankets?” the old man asked, not looking up from his work.

  “We’re plenty cozy. Papa. . . .”

  His father looked up then. “Hm?”

  Wil stood silently, feeling awkward and oddly embarrassed. “It’s hard raising children alone.”

  Langfirch grunted. “Try doing it with two.”

  “Yeah.” He took the chair next to his father, watching as the needle slid silently in and out of the crisp cloth, a spray of white flowers growing with each stroke.

  “At least you have the nanny Demon-horse,” Langfirch said.

  Wil burst out laughing, slapping his hand over his mouth to keep from waking up Ivy.

  “Only Demon-horses I got took them away completely,” Langfirch went on. “Raising children is hard, yes. Losing them?” He glanced up at Wil. “No parent should outlive their child.”

  Wil swallowed around a knot in his throat. “Papa—”

  Langfirch made a shooing motion. “Go to bed,” his father said. “Sleep. You need it more than me.”

  “Wish I could.” Wil went over and pulled the cellar hatch open. The firelight illuminated only the first two steps down, the rest lost to a yawning darkness. He retrieved a lantern from a hook by the fire and lit it with an ember.

  “Going for another stroll?” Langfirch asked.

  “Keep an eye on things,” Wil replied, descending into the cellar.

  • • •

  “Which first? Good news or bad news?” Bootknife asked as Wil approached, the nameless Companion once again acting as escort. Wil had decided to name him Sashay, to compliment the Companion’s light, dancing step.

  “There’s good news?” Wil asked.

  “They still don’t know where you are, and they’re getting frustrated that they haven’t figured it out yet.”

  Wil nodded. “That is good.”

  “More good news. Addy made wagonwheels with cinnamon today.”

  Wil sighed wistfully. He’d grown up on wagonwheels, delicate dough swirls basted in honey as they cooked. They emerged from the oven a burnished gold, sticky, chewy, and buttery all at once. “I always liked the anise ones.”

  “Blech.”

  “It’s an acquired taste.”

  “Cinnamon is superior.”

  “You must be from Haven.”

  “Oh, I might be. Never stop trying to figure out who I am, Herald-Dad. It amuses me.”

  Wil allowed himself to smile a little. “I’ve only been trying, what—three weeks, now?”

  Bootknife took a deep breath. “And now the bad news. They’re confident that you’re in the area and that they’re going to find you. They have watchers on the road. They’re well over six now.”

  “They also may be armed with those weapons of Madra’s.”

  “Uh-huh. Something funny about their leader, too. Lower your shields. Let me show you.”


  Wil eased them down and felt the brush of a mental hand. A picture unfolded in his mind: a group of men crowded around a fire by a cave, somewhere in the woods. The darkness made their bodies and faces a muddle of shadows, but none of them were Madra. He wondered which had crossed on the ferry. . . .

  The mental image had both motion and sound, playing out against his mind’s eye like a hyper-real lucid dream. Its focus turned on one figure, who looked up and said, “Lord Dark speaks.”

  The circle of people—already silent—seemed to somehow grow even more still.

  “Carris is near,” the figure said, his voice taking on an odd reverberation. “We will sever her from this world. But more importantly: the Herald. Turn his Whites red, shatter the heart that compels him. He cannot be allowed to live.”

  The others shrunk back as he spoke, nodding. The speaker blinked, shook himself a little, and then looked back down, one hand on his forehead.

  The vision melted away, leaving Wil wondering.

  Shatter the heart that compels him. In other circumstances, the odd turn of phrase might be considered weirdly laughable, but the implication made him sick. If he had to guess, it meant Ivy.

  “I think he allowed this ‘Lord Dark’ to speak through him,” Bootknife said.

  “Is that a thing?” Wil asked. :Vehs?:

  :How would I know?: his Companion said. :I’m not Myste. But whoever or whatever Lord Dark is, he has access to the Gifted, so—maybe?:

  “It’s time to muster the Guards,” Bootknife said.

  “Guards aren’t a guarantee of safety. We know there are Bards working for Lord Dark. Hellfires, Madra’s a former Healer. She can control people. Not easily, but—”

  “I know this is going to seem a touch ironic coming from me, Herald-Dad, but we can’t go down that rabbithole.”

  “I—what?” he asked.

  “If you start to see spies and assassins around every corner, you’re going to drive yourself crazy. The temptation is to only trust Heralds, but take it from someone whose job it is to question everything—not everyone is out to get you. In fact, most people just want to mind their own business and get on with their lives.”