Changing the World

by Mercedes Lackey

  Silence sat heavy on the group for half a mark. Dionne was about to give up and pick a place herself when Lioran pointed to a rather nice spot on a hill above the trail, in a copse of trees sturdy enough to shelter people and animals from most of the wind. Dionne rubbed her cold hands together as she waited for her sister’s nod.

  It was almost full dark by the time they fed and brushed and watered the animals, and gathered enough fuel to start a small fire. Lioran did his share, silent and sullen, but without actual complaint. After they finished, the twins settled near the fire, stretching their fingers wide and close to the warm yellow-orange flames. Lioran didn’t sit beside them. He climbed up on Mila’s bare back, and looking out into the woods, he said, “Me and Mila are heading off. We’ll be back in an hour or two.” He didn’t wait for acknowledgement but simply faded into the trees and the darkness, his dirty Whites and Mila’s clean white outline the last thing they saw disappearing into darkness. If tonight was like every other night, when he came back, he’d look soft and sad.

  Rhiannon sighed. “It’s too bad he’s not a kid. Then I could just tell him to snap out of it. I know he’s hurt, but all this pouting and whining is unbecoming in a Herald.”

  “In anybody.”

  “I sure hate him going off like that.”

  “He’s a full Herald; he’s supposed to be watching over old women.”

  Rhiannon arched an eyebrow.

  “Well, that’s what most would think.” Dionne flexed her fingers and added another handful of small sticks to the fire. “Hard not to see him as a kid, even if we were younger when we got our uniforms. This is our last chance to get him out of his depression—we’re due back in Haven in two weeks.”

  “So how do you think Shelter’s End is going to help?”

  Dionne shook her head. “It’s not Shelter’s End itself. I mean, it’s a good town, and they always need help from a strong back. I hope that will get past his head and engage his heart.” She sighed heavily, shifting her weight to ease her aching back. “I haven’t been able to do it.”

  “So what makes you think anybody else can? He’s skittish and hard.”

  Dionne added a log to the fire and watched the sparks do a sky- dance in the wind. “Well, one of my old teachers is there. Melony. She helped us all out of funks, and that’s what he seems to need. I mean, it seems like he stopped being an adult in full Whites the minute he learned his parents died, and became a spoiled kid. I haven’t been able to reach him; whatever’s broken in him isn’t physical, or even really in his emotions. It’s like his very self is cracked. I bet Melony has some ideas. I’m going to ask her for advice. Don’t you remember how she helped Jon after he broke his hand and Yvette after that merc in town roughed her up?”

  “Maybe. I was pretty dazzled by the Collegium.”

  “Melony taught me salves and teas in my first two years there. Everybody loved her so much she got awarded Teacher of the Year three times in a row.”

  “She’s still alive?”

  “She was last time we came through.”

  “Five years ago? I think I remember her. Gray hair?”

  Dionne play-slapped at Rhiannon. “That describes the whole town.”

  “Sorry. I don’t remember everything.”

  “Yeah, well maybe age is getting in the way of your memory.”

  “Already?” Rhiannon laughed. “We’re not gray yet.”

  “I pulled out two gray hairs yesterday.” She looked toward the trees Lioran had disappeared through. “We should think about what we’re doing next.”

  Rhiannon sighed. “I’m not ready to stop performing yet. But I hope your friend’s alive to help. Old age and experience beats smarts.”

  Dionne let out a short, bitter laugh. “Then we should have succeeded by now.”

  “We’re not old.”

  “Tell that to my fingers.” Truth tell, it was Rhiannon she worried about, even though she showed no interest in even slowing down. As a Healer, Dionne would be fine even with the beginnings of arthritis, which was, truthfully, a bit noticeable on a cold morning of late. But old hands did real damage to a Bard. A Healer could speed the body’s natural response to damage, but there wasn’t much Dionne, or anybody else, could do about old age. And Rhiannon was stubborn as an old mule. She liked to take charge of everything. Queen of the Road. It made Dionne smile.

  Sure enough, Rhiannon had a pronouncement about the topic. “We’re not ready for Shelter’s End yet.” And that would be the end of that. Rhiannon reached into her pocket and pulled out a hand-carved wooden flute. She started playing, and Dionne settled in to listen, content for the moment to just be with her sister and pleased that the unhappy Herald had taken himself off somewhere else. They’d both be older tomorrow, and they could worry about being older then.

  Lioran, true to form, returned after about an hour. He looked as bad as Dionne expected him to, his face thin and drawn, his skin so pale he might be the child of a ghost. It was all she could do not to wince as Mila picked her way carefully through camp and stopped at a good place to drop her tack. Lioran took good, if quick, care of his Companion. Then he lay down on his rumpled bedroll, plumped his coat up to be a pillow, pulled his thick woolen blanket close up around his ears, and turned away from them all.

  Mila took the first watch. Rhiannon gave Dionne a resigned look, with a small smile attached. When Dionne nodded, Rhiannon picked up her flute and blew the first soft notes of a lullaby. Dionne followed, and so the two women sang together, Rhiannon’s trained voice, the stronger, washing over Dionne until she, too, felt sleepy and content. They sang five songs and then the same five songs again, looking over at the back of the shivering, silent Herald from time to time. His breathing finally regulated into sleep. Rhiannon carefully packed her flute, and the women began to get ready to sleep themselves.

  Dionne nestled closest to the fire, listening to the faint sounds of the warm coals and the stomp of the horse’s feet. Wind brushed branches together above her head. She imagined finding Melony the next day, making little lists in her head of all the things she had to tell her old mentor.

  She must have eventually gone to sleep since Rhiannon’s soft hiss woke her.

  Dionne opened her eyes, careful not to make a sound or change her breathing until she knew more. If it was Rhiannon’s watch, it must be the middle of the night. A light fog threaded through the trees above her and dampened her cold cheeks and nose. The thud of at least five horses, maybe seven, went by on the road below. The flash of a torch blinded her to the details of the riders. Gruff voices called out, “Hurry,” and “Quiet, now,” although clearly no one in the party really believed they needed to be quiet. They had thick accents and gruff voices. Undoubtedly from somewhere else and, if allowed to pass, not likely to come back this way.

  There were too many to confront. Maybe fifteen years ago, but now? Dionne’s blood pounded through her as she held still, ready to leap up and grab her staff if the horses called attention to them. Or worse, if Lioran woke up and decided to play hero. The sounds faded slowly. Still, Dionne and Rhiannon held their tongues, listening until all they could hear was the night wind and an owl hooting mournfully in a tree above them. “Bandits,” Rhiannon whispered. “Not good. Riding away from where we’re going.”

  “And they sounded proud of themselves.”

  Mila must agree with them. She was already nosing Lioran up, her blue eyes wide with worry. Rhiannon covered the coals with dirt while Dionne and Lioran saddled up. They were on the road in short order. Mila’s tossing head made Dionne ask Lioran, “What does she know?”

  “Something bad’s happened.” His eyes looked big in his pale face, his expression hard to make out in the meager light thrown by the stars overhead. “There’s death, and fear. She can feel it, but she can’t tell what it is . . . what happened. In Shelter’s End.” His voice sounded high and a bit squeaky. “I’m the only Herald around.”

  In spite of their hurry, they started the horses at
a fast walk before moving into a slow canter. It was too dark to allow them a full run. Mila pranced, keeping a close eye on the road ahead and behind, herding them toward town. Dionne glanced over at Rhiannon to see her eyes narrowed with worry, a combination of fear and fierceness playing across her features.

  By the time they could see the town, dawn had started kissing the horizon. Gray light illuminated the two long streets full of small houses beside a placid, thin river. Nothing appeared to have been burned. No dead bodies littered the streets.

  Hooves clattered as they trotted from the dirt trail onto the stone road. When they stopped, they heard the horses ‘hard-blowing breath and above that the sound of voices and tears and a low mournful wailing from one of the close-in houses.

  Two men stepped out from behind a tree, both gray haired, one stooped and slow while the other still moved well. The slower one had on a torn red shirt. An old Bard, then. The stronger man wore no telltale colors, although that meant little. He smiled grimly as he neared them, looking to Lioren. “Glad to see you. I’m Jared.” He nodded toward the house they’d clearly been guarding. “In there. Ask them to send someone out to walk your horses cool.”

  And this was where Lioran should be taking control of the situation. Dionne swallowed and let a beat of time go by. Rhiannon ran out of patience first, dismounting and handing her reins to the man. “I’m Rhiannon, and this is my sister, Dionne. “ She glanced at the Herald, her look driving him from Mila’s back. “And this is Lioran.”

  The man gave the threesome a puzzled look but jerked his head toward the house. “They need you in there.” He nodded toward Dionne, who was untying her healing bag from the back of Ladystar’s saddle. “Especially you.”

  Dionne made it inside first. A great room full of seats, including extra ones pulled in as for an impromptu meeting. Most of the chairs were full. Shovels and staffs lined the near wall; makeshift and true weapons alike. The conversation stopped, although a woman sobbed softly in the back, where five people had been laid out, blood from wounds staining a thin green rug. At least fifteen other faces turned toward her, and then Rhiannon and Lioran came in behind her and the group’s attention fell on Lioran.

  Dionne headed straight for the back where two old Healers bent over the patients. She knelt beside them. “Can I help?”

  “Her.” One of the women pointed and went right back to work on a set of deep cuts she’d just finished stitching.

  Dionne bent over a shattered wrist, taking a deep breath to ground herself.

  Behind her, Rhiannon asked, “What happened?”

  Dionne focused on the splintered bone under her palms, whispering, “Hold still,” to the tearful woman she sat beside. “What’s your name?”

  “Leidra.”

  “Okay, Leidra, this shouldn’t hurt much.”

  “I know.” As Dionne drew the earth’s energy to help her work, snatches of the story drifted at her from the lips of old men and woman. “They were strangers. Not from near here.”

  “They burned Smiley’s farm before they came here, and who knows what else.”

  “They didn’t expect us to fight them.”

  “Well, we didn’t, not at first.”

  “They didn’t respect who we are!” Petulant, a woman, her voice shaky.

  “Were,” someone else snapped, then continued, “We stood our ground, quiet like, wanting our lives more than our stuff, but then they started in on us, saying they were looking for treasure.”

  The warmth Dionne had built up in her hands flowed into the woman in front of her. She focused so hard that for a minute she didn’t hear or feel anything but her patient’s need. Only when she’d done all that she could did she listen again to the conversation. “ . . . died, then we fought them. Old Ray . . . he’s the one outside . . . he stabbed one of their horses in the butt with a pitchfork.”

  Someone actually laughed. Good. Laughter almost always had healing properties, no matter how ironic or pained. Dionne looked for the next patient, and one of the other two Healers directed her to a man who couldn’t move his leg. She started feeling along it, starting at the foot and working up.

  “But then they knocked him down. That got Cherie all mad, and she started throwing stones.”

  And, of course, Dionne could fill in the rest. Even though they were old and frail, they had all done their turns in the salle during training, and a few of them would have been on the front lines of various wars and skirmishes. Even though Heralds didn’t tend to retire in Shelter’s End, the assortment of older Bards who didn’t want to teach and retired Healers who wanted the outdoors instead of the noisiness of the city included its own strengths. Melony was that way. She’d been offered a permanent place in Haven. Her answer had been that she’d spent forty years there, and now she was just darn well going to relax and be an old woman.

  Melony! Where was she? Her patient groaned, and Dionne returned to the job at hand. Whatever had led him to choose this place for the end of his days, he’d come near them now. Blunt force—probably a fall—had shattered his hip, and he’d have to be really tough to make it out of this alive. The injury under her hands was simply insult added onto the deeper challenges of old age. But she could encourage his body to increase the flow of blood and help it feel less pain. After that, it would be pretty much up to him and how much he still wanted to live. She bent to her task, spending most of her awareness drawing and feeding energy, her lips spilling soft good wishes for the man under her hands, her eyes watching his cragged and lined face and his light green eyes. He stared at the ceiling, barely moving.

  His breathing slowed and regulated. His skin began to regain color. His heartbeat was a thin thread. Rest would do him more good than she could now. Her knees hurt from kneeling on the thin rug, and her back screamed that she’d better stretch or find a Healer for herself. As she sat up straight and raised her arms, she came a little more aware of the room around her. There were fewer people; some must have gone off to bed or something. She hadn’t heard the door open or felt the fall chill enter the room. Rhiannon held a teapot in one hand, conferring in low tones with two women. Lioran stood against a wall, an impassive look on his face. Surely he should be outside?

  “Where did everyone go?” she asked.

  Rhiannon glanced over at her, met her eyes, and the look in them sent a cold fear to settle into Dionne’s chest. “What’s wrong?”

  “They’re digging graves for the dead.” Rhiannon put the teapot down on the top of the great cast iron stove and crossed the room, pulling Dionne up and holding her. “Your friend, Melony, she’s the first one they actually killed. She got mad when they knocked down the guy you just finished working on. She told the leader off, and they made an example of her.”

  It couldn’t be true. Melony should have died of old age, not violence.

  Not after being the best teacher for three years running.

  Violence shouldn’t happen to old women.

  What an irrational thought.

  She was a Healer. So was Melony. They knew the world was unfair. But still, Melony’s face swam in Dionne’s imagination as she slumped into her twin’s arms, grateful as always for Rhiannon. She swayed, held up by her sister, feeling as if everyone left in the room was watching them. Rhiannon brushed the hair from her face and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  “I know.”

  Rhiannon, of course, knew what to say next, how to drag her into the present and focus her. “They killed two others, and one more fell and cracked his head. They’re all outside digging graves together.”

  Dionne shivered, the room suddenly cold and her skin clammy. She swallowed. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t seen and felt death. But she’d so wanted Melony’s help! She glanced toward Lioran, to find him watching her closely, his narrow, pale face a closed book, his eyes almost afraid. “I should go help them dig.” She kept her gaze on Lioran. “We all should.” Although people from nearby towns bartered for singing and healing with strong backs, she h
adn’t seen any. This near the end of harvest, there might not be any. They were the three ablest hands left here, and Lioran was the strongest by far in spite of being slight of frame.

  The look he gave her was deep with resentment, almost like hatred. It couldn’t be hatred. People with hatred in their hearts didn’t get Chosen, but it was it was an emotion as dark as his eyes and his hair and as unfocused as her own pain. He stalked to the door, threw it open, and headed outside without so much as a word. Dionne took a step to follow him, but Rhiannon’s arm shot out and stopped her. “Not after all that work you just did.” For emphasis, she glanced down at the old man Dionne had just finished with. She led Dionne to an empty overstuffed chair. “You’ll be wanted when they’re ready to bury her. These people are used to digging graves, if usually for different reasons than this. It’s probably familiar salve to their wounds.”

  “But Lioran?”

  “Can hang himself for all I care.” Rhiannon shook her head. “I don’t mean that. He’s just gotten under my skin. Besides, Mila won’t let him. Hang himself, I mean. If he doesn’t go off into a blue funk, he might even be useful to the diggers.”

  He was already in a blue funk. Before Dionne could get even one word out, Rhiannon had covered her with an extra coat, kissed the top if her head, and turned back to the stove and the teapot. No use talking to the Red-headed Queen of any Situation when she was in this mood.

  Her next conscious thought was to wonder how the room had gotten so warm. It smelled like black tea and flowers. Rhiannon was humming a soft ditty about working she often sang when they were setting up or taking down camp. Dionne blinked and looked around, her eyes starting out on Rhiannon, who held out a steaming cup. Dionne took the cup, warm in her hands. She sipped, the tea so pungent it opened her sinuses and made room for fresh thoughts in her full head.

  Memories came back. Melony. Murder. The bandits.

  Maybe she should have skipped the tea. The wounded still lay in the back of the room. One of the two Healers leaned back against the wall with her eyes closed, soft snores indicating she slept. A tired old woman who’d just done too much. She would look like that soon, herself. She and her sister were both getting old.