“Would I lead you that far astray?” Nerys demanded, but there was no mistaking the affection in her tone. She faced the Heralds and the Companions, and last but never least, her rival. “Thank you,” she said, “for both of us.”
Egil moved to respond, but Kelyn was already speaking. “You’re welcome,” she said stiffly. “You’re not hurt? Either of you?”
“We’re well, now we’re out of that place,” Nerys said. She shuddered. “What was it?”
:Gone,: Coryn answered.
“You really do think like a horse,” said Kelyn.
“He does,” Nerys agreed.
That felt strange. Kelyn was not sure she liked it. “Listen,” she said. “I’ve made up my mind. You can have him. Go. Be a Herald. I don’t need the glory, and my family needs me here.”
“And mine doesn’t?” said Nerys. “Go ahead, keep him. You know that’s all you’ve ever wanted.”
“What we think we want isn’t always what we ought to get,” Kelyn said. She had always thought her mother was a sour and cynical woman for saying so, but in that moment, in that place, she understood perfectly.
She slid down off Coryn’s back, though it was brutally hard, even harder than closing a rift in the fabric of the world. “Goodbye,” she said. “I don’t know why you did this, but we’re done now. It’s one Chosen to one Companion. We all know that.”
:Not here,: Coryn said.
“Think!” said Nerys. “What will we do? Ride double? We’ll kill each other. Take turns on patrol? What’s the point in that? Just Choose one of us and be done with it. I won’t die if it’s not me. I might want to, but I won’t.”
:No,: Coryn said.
“Why?” Kelyn demanded. “Why are you so stubborn?”
:Why do you hate her so much?:
“I just do,” Kelyn said.
That was not exactly true. It used to be, but now, instead of the itching and crawling that had always beset her when she was near Nerys, she felt nothing. She looked at her old enemy and through habit wanted to hate her, but it was as if the rift had swallowed up all the hate.
“No,” said Nerys, following her thoughts through Coryn—arguing as always; that was still the same. “It’s him,: Coryn. He’s doing it.”
“I still don’t like you,” Kelyn said. “But I can stand to look at you.”
“Heralds don’t have to like each other,” Herald Bronwen said. Her eyes were on Egil; their expression made perfect sense to Kelyn. “They just have to be able to work together.”
“With the same Companion?” asked Kelyn. “How are we supposed to do that?”
It was Nerys who answered. “I don’t know, but I think we’re supposed to try.”
“I think so, too,” Egil said. “Look at what you did, the three of you. You saved a life and disposed of a powerful threat. That’s what Heralds do. You did it as it’s never been done before: two together with the Companion between. It wouldn’t have been possible if there had been just one of you.”
He was right. Kelyn had to admit it. “It’s allowed, then? If we can stand it?”
“I’m not riding double,” Nerys said. “I’d rather walk.”
“We can take turns,” said Kelyn, “and take our ponies for the rest of the time. At least I will. I’m not leaving Brighteyes behind.”
“You think I’d abandon Cloud?”
“No,” Kelyn said. “I don’t think you would.”
“It’s settled, then,” said Egil. He shook his head. “Gods and Powers help us all.”
:That they will,: said Coryn.
The other Companions nodded, dipping their beautiful white heads. It was a blessing and a promise—with a spark of mirth. Whatever the humans might think of it all, the Companions were inordinately pleased with it.
Kelyn would not go that far. Her heart was beating hard, and she was dizzy, caught between joy and terror. But mostly what she felt, in spite of everything, was joy.
Be Careful What You Wish For
by Nancy Asire
Nancy Asire is the author of four novels, Twilight’s Kingdoms, Tears of Time, To Fall Like Stars, and Wizard Spawn. Wizard Spawn was edited by C.J. Cherryh and became part of the Sword of Knowledge series. She has also written short stories for the series anthologies Heroes in Hell and Merovingen Nights; a short story for Mercedes Lackey’s Flights of Fantasy; as well as tales for the Valdemar anthologies Sun in Glory and Crossroads. She has lived in Africa and traveled the world, but she now resides in Missouri with her cats and two vintage Corvairs.
“They still followin’ us?”
Doron rose in his stirrups and looked. “Don’t see nobody,” he said, settling down into his saddle and letting his winded horse rest. “Maybe they gave up, Ferrin.”
Ferrin snorted. “Likely.”
He was a big man, was Ferrin. Tough as they come. As leader of this small band, he radiated authority . . . an authority accompanied by a big right fist if necessary.
Doron turned to the man at his left and grimaced. Jergen was pretty much the opposite in all ways from Ferrin. Slender, sandy hair always falling in his eyes, he never had much to say, but when he did, the rest of them tended to listen.
“Damn pack horses slow us down,” Jergen grumbled, letting their lead ropes go slack. “Only got two, and we’d be farther away if’n we didn’t have ’em.”
“Ain’t no cure for that.” Chardo, another big man, rode to Doron’s right.
Doron nodded. No cure for that, for sure. Behind them they’d left a merchant’s caravan in disarray, two of its guards dead or wounded enough they’d hardly pose a problem. The other three were the danger. The chase hadn’t lasted long, Vomehl’s skill with the bow keeping their pursuers at bay.
Maybe we bit us off a little bit more’n we could chew, Doron thought. Gerran lay dead behind them, taken in the neck by a lucky swordstroke. He offered a brief prayer to Vkandis Sunlord that Gerran might find a better life in the hereafter. So now they were only five: Ferrin, Jergen, Chardo, Vomehl, and himself. With the element of surprise on their side, it had seemed a fairly sure thing: five of the merchant’s guards and six of them. Didn’t turn out that way. Truth be told, the caravan guards were obviously better fighters.
And now that the Son of the Sun (a female Son of the Sun!) had repealed many of the laws that had governed Karse for generations and had reined in the worst of the offending priests, things were changing here on the border between Valdemar and Karse. They’d even heard rumors Solaris had hired mercenaries from the Guild to hunt down bandit bands, and had plans to arm villagers. If that was true, their future could turn out to be a very bleak one.
“So,” Chardo asked, “what d’we do next?”
Ferrin was silent. Doron watched his leader from the corners of his eyes. This raid hadn’t gone well, and Ferrin was smarting over it. The bandit chief shrugged.
“Guess we ain’t got no choice,” he responded, lifting his reins. “Make for yonder grove, and we can see what these packhorses carry.” He glanced at Doron. “Don’t think those caravan guards will keep after us now. Only three of ’em, and we outnumber ’em, and we know the land ’round here. They don’t.”
Doron relaxed somewhat. Now that Ferrin was making decisions again, things were righting themselves. The grove was a resting place for the band, somewhere they could make camp before returning to their stronghold in the hills. If fortune smiled, the contents of the packs they’d snatched from the caravan would prove enough to keep them in food, clothing and supplies for some time to come. Unless, of course, the rumors were true and the Guild came looking for them.
Tomar had been this way before, only going in the opposite direction.
Yet the land he rode through looked the same, smelled the same. Brought back memories in a rush. The setting sun seemed right to him; it had always seemed a bit out of place in Haven . . . too far to the south. It had taken some getting used to after he and his family had fled Karse years back for the safety of Valdemar. And all
because of his “witch powers,” which would have doomed him to the Fires.
Yet his Gift was slight, and he knew it. A small power of Empathy, the ability to put folk at ease, to lower mental barriers and encourage them talk to him when otherwise they would have been reticent to say much of anything.
:A Gift nonetheless, Chosen,: Mindspoke Keesha. :One cannot change what one is born with. And your Gift has proven itself numerous times. Don’t sell yourself short.:
Tomar leaned forward and stroked his Companion’s neck, warmth filling him as always when sharing thoughts with her.
:I’m not dismissing it, Keesha. It’s just that—:
He let the thought die. Sometimes it was hard to watch those other Heralds who had Gifts far more powerful than his. Yet, he knew he would not have been Chosen unless he had something of value to offer the world. Companions did not make mistakes in their Choosing.
:And lest you think yourself all that unimportant,: Keesha continued, :a Herald who was born in Karse, who knows the land, the language and the customs, can be invaluable in the coming days.:
Truth. If what had recently happened in Karse with the election of a new Son of the Sun, whose very existence as a woman ruler was earthshaking, and if the potential alliance between Valdemar and Karse solidified, there would be need of Heralds who spoke fluent Karsite. Even more valuable, those who had been born in Karse.
Keesha snorted softly, not needing Mindspeech to tell him he was thinking straight.
:Well, I suppose you’re right, as usual,: Tomar admitted. He glanced to the west, at the sun sinking closer to the horizon. :We’re going to have to find a place to camp for the night. If I remember, there’s a sheltered grove with a clearing in it not all that far ahead. Has a stream for water, and the trees offer some protection. Let’s make for it, Keesha, and let tomorrow take care of itself.:
Once they’d reached the grove, Doron and Jergen had hobbled the horses and now stood watching Ferrin sift through the packs they’d stolen from the merchant’s caravan. Doron hunched his shoulders, feeling unease in the group rising. What they’d hoped would be goods they could barter in return for food and clothing turned out to be books. Books! As if any one in this area of Karse cared for books, even if they could read. He could read and cipher some; his parents had sent him to what passed for a village school in these parts. Not that he was all that interested in sitting down and plowing his way through a thicket of words or numbers. His parents had held lofty expectations for their only son: perhaps he could become a scribe who traveled from village to village, writing down various agreements between villagers, to be sanctioned later by local priests.
So much for that wish. His parents had died of a winter flux, and he, at the awkward age of twelve, became an orphan. All that schooling and he didn’t know a damned thing about farming. His aunt and uncle had taken over the little farm with the intent of keeping it in the family. Their attitude toward Doron had been much the same as if they’d been caught out in a violent storm with no cover handy. For several years, they’d tried their best to make a go of it but, having little experience farming, they’d finally sold the land to a neighbor. Now sixteen and finding himself cast adrift, he’d tried to live on what little money his aunt and uncle had granted him from the sale. He’d done odd jobs here and there, but when his money ran out and no one seemed likely to hire him, he’d joined Ferrin’s band of outlaws, choosing that life over starving to death.
They had become his family. Been so for nigh on five years.
Books.
“Damn it to all the hells!” Ferrin exploded. “Who be interested in books?”
“We could always use ’em for fuel,” Chardo ventured. “Burn right nice, I think.”
Ferrin growled something. “Won’t get us no food, Chardo, or d’you think you can eat words?”
Chardo subsided. Doron shifted uneasily as Ferrin opened the packs from the second horse.
“Well, now. What we got here?” Ferrin lifted something and held it up for inspection. His big hands tore open the bindings. “By all the demons below!” he bellowed. “Paper! Books and paper!”
Doron cringed. And for this Gerran lay dead behind them?
“Could be worse,” Jergen said, “village priests always need paper. They might even find somethin’ to use in them books there.”
Ferrin angrily jammed the paper in the pack. “You best hope that be so,” he snapped, “or we may go hungry real soon!”
“Least we got waybread to eat tonight,” Chardo said.
“Gettin’ sick of that stuff myself,” Doron offered in a conversational tone. “Glad we got some supplies waitin’ for us when we get home.”
Ferrin muttered something vile under his breath. At least he hadn’t lashed out at Doron’s comment. It was just bad luck. Real bad luck. How was anyone to guess the merchant would be carrying items that weren’t in demand out here on the border? Nothing anyone could do about bad luck.
“Wish things been different,” Chardo said. “Wish we could’ve got somethin’ worth while.”
Sudden noise made them all turn. They’d left Vomehl at the edge of the grove, bow in hand, to serve as sentry in case the caravan guards had followed. Or, Vkandis forbid, some of the Guild had turned up. Vomehl rode into the clearing by the stream, his face hard to read in the dusk.
“Someone comin’,” he said, tethering his horse to a tree. “Seen ’im a ways off.”
Doron stiffened, his hand automatically going to his sword.
“Recognize ’im?” Ferrin asked.
“No. Light not the best, but I could see enough. White horse and white rider.”
A chill ran down Doron’s spine. White horse? White rider? That could only be a Herald. A Herald from Valdemar! What in Vkandis’ name was a Herald doing out in this part of the borderlands?
“A demon-rider on a hell-horse?” Chardo shuddered in an automatic response to fear. “You sure?”
“Trust my own eyes,” Vomehl said. “Be headed our way.”
Ferrin straightened, a look of anticipation crossing his face. “Our luck’s turned. Comin’ in from behind you?”
Vomehl nodded.
“Then we be less’n charitable not to welcome ’im to our fire,” Ferrin said with a nasty grin. “Doron, you and Jergen hide left of the trail. Chardo, me and you wait to the right. Vomehl, you and that bow of yours make this demon-rider and his hell-horse wish they’d never come this way. Now, move!”
Tomar rode toward the grove, deep in thought. Though fairly new to his Whites, he had asked for, and been granted, leave of absence to seek out kin in Karse. As far as he knew, he still had aunts, uncles, and cousins living near the edge of the border between Valdemar and Karse, and for years he had wanted to seek them out. Tomar always wondered what had happened to the relatives they had left behind when he and his family fled.
His father, mother, and sister had settled into a fairly normal existence in Valdemar, made all the more secure because of Tomar’s Gift. Now, after attaining a position none of them had ever dreamed of, his heart had turned to the rest of his family. With the possible normalization between Karse and Valdemar, it seemed a good time to make the journey.
:You don’t think this is a stupid idea, do you, Keesha?: he asked.
:Why should I think that, Chosen? Family is always important. And this gives you a chance to see your home-land again.:
Tomar smiled. He looked ahead at the large stand of trees, just about where he remembered it from his earlier days in Karse. The light was fading fast, and the sooner he and Keesha found a place to camp, the better he would feel. He had seen no one on his journey through the borderlands thus far, only a remote farm or two. Aside from that, he imagined they would encounter few people. He still felt it a bit risky to be riding as a Herald into a country that had been an enemy for so long, despite all the reforms of the Son of the Sun.
And yet, given the choice of venturing into his native land disguised and riding a horse of no disti
nction, he had been unwilling to leave Keesha behind. Oh, Keesha could ghost after him, but the physical closeness of Companion and rider was one thing Tomar did not want to lose.
:Nor do I,: Keesha said. :It would have been lonely without you on my back.:
The warmth of their bond filled Tomar’s heart with joy. How could anyone be more fortunate than to have been Chosen by such a being as Keesha? Wise—so very, very wise—elder partner in all he did, she filled an inner space he had not realized lay empty.
Reaching the edge of the trees, he rode a bit to his left, then cautiously urged Keesha forward down the trail he found. The light was getting chancy enough that he did not want to risk a fall on uneven ground. It grew darker under the trees, and he radiated his concern to his Companion.
:Do you think—:
:Chosen!: Keesha’s Mindspeech was suddenly urgent. :Horses ahead. We need to get out of this place. This could be very bad for us!:
Tomar came alert in an instant. He reined Keesha around. :Where?:
Keesha screamed.
It was a scream of both a horse and the mental cry of a Companion. Tomar grabbed for the saddle as Keesha reared. A heavy weight tore him from her back. He landed hard on the ground, partially smothered by two large men who pinned him down. His last view of Keesha was of his Companion racing off toward the edge of the grove. He heard the thrum of an arrow being released as a searing blow of pain ripped across his consciousness.
Blackness filled his mind.
Doron stared at the bound Herald who lay unconscious by the fire. Vomehl had returned, his head hanging and a sour look on his face. He’d loosed several arrows, but he knew he’d hit the hell-horse only once.
Hell-horse. Doron grimaced. The Son of the Sun had said there were no hell-horses, no demon-riders. Most everyone in Karse would be slow to change long-standing beliefs about the Heralds of Valdemar and their unnatural mounts. But change they must, because it was the will of Vkandis, spoken through the Son of the Sun.
Changing the World Page 29