“That’s from World War II. Firepower of a battleship, speed of a cruiser. Looked great on paper. German sub killed one with one shot.”
:It was the Bismark, actually, sank the Hood. British battle cruisers got roughly handled at Jutland in the first go, but the Brits didn’t learn the lesson for another war. Figured that just because the idea hadn’t worked didn’t mean it wasn’t still a good idea.:
“Hmmm, that might be a bit obscure for my readers . . . Maybe the Windows ME of Valdemar?”
:No, that’s not right, either. The HM’s worked . . . it was the internal contradictions that they couldn’t resolve.:
“OK, how about like a spork . . . compromise design that works okay, but not outstandingly, and does two mutually contradictory things.”
:Hmmm . . . let me think about that one. Van’s going to be spinning like high-speed lathe in his grave to be compared to an eating utensil, but I guess it does sort of capture the essence of the idea. Vanyel, the most powerful Herald Mage to ever come down the pike . . . as a spork.: The Companion considered it a moment. :Okay. Spork it is.:
It was the obvious question, so Dave asked it. “How do you know so much about our world?”
:I read a lot.:
“How. I mean how do you turn the pages?”
The Companion gave him a very long look. :E-book. Next question?:
Dave looked at his notes, momentarily off stride. “Umm, yeah. Lessee. Okay. But magic eventually came back, right?”
:It never really left. We just sort of locked it out of Valdemar until we were ready . . . until our hands were tipped anyway. Magic had grown more wild and more dominant among people who were wild anyway and didn’t care about consequences. So, we brought it back . . . in a way that shaped it as a tool we could use. It was a tool, a weapon, but secondary to the Herald/Companion team. That remains the core of what we bring to the fight. The wildness of the magic brought under the control of the Herald, under discipline, not competing with it.:
“You said there were two reasons.”
:Yes, with the Herald Mages underfoot, we had an internal elite . . . it got to the point where being a Herald wasn’t quite good enough. There was something a notch higher, a Herald Mage, that you were either born with or not. A lot of people thought it was descended from the male line, so every HM who peed standing up was hip deep in noblewomen ready to breed their own mageling on the spot . . . and not a few noble husbands looking the other way.
:It created real problems within the Heralds, and not the least when the sovereigns saw their magecraft dim, those that had them. There were even whispers among the nobility that not only should heraldry be a condition of sovereignty, that magery should be as well. We were well shut of it.
:Now, it’s good enough to just be a Herald. Those that have magecraft now have an extra weapon, but that’s all.:
“Umm, Okay, then. Internal elites. Let me write that one down.” Dave tapped his pencil against his jaw, the way he had seen reporters do when they were going to ask a thoughtful question. “Okay, then. What about all of the bratty nobles. Every book has at least one. Aren’t they an elite?”
:Same deal, really. Valdemar is an old-fashioned monarchy, common people, nobles, honcho. Garden variety. None of that “constitutional” business. The sovereign’s is absolute but is subject to outside interests. The nobility forms the foundation of the power of the sovereign . . . and that foundation can shift when interests diverge.:
“Oh, that’s crass.” Dave said.
:It’s pragmatic. The Companions are the mortar that holds the foundation of the kingdom together . . . there isn’t a noble family that can’t count exactly the number of Heralds in their ancestry and exactly how many the other noble families have had.:
“So, if someone gets crosswise with the monarchy, then no more Heralds?” :Not exactly, more to say that if you stray too far from the ideals of Baron Valdemar . . . but it’s sufficient that the major Houses are unlikely to take the chance. So, it amounts to the same thing.:
“Wow. Good old fashioned interest politics.”
:Is there any other kind?:
“Now who’s being cynical?”
:Think it through . . . where does succession lie?:
Dave considered a moment, walked back to the car and opened the trunk. He pulled out a marked-up DAW copy out of the cardboard box that served as his filing cabinet. He tucked his notepad into his pants pocket. He riffled through pages. “Sovereign and consort are both Heralds?”
:And?:
“The only way your family gets a shot at being in the royal bed is to be a Herald.”
:Yes. The system is very stable, Sovereign to Heir, to Sovereign to Heir. All in neat succession . . . with the distaff side coming usually from the noble houses, so each major family has an equal shot. No pun intended.:
“Okay, so much for the heroics, then. It’s all about maintaining social order.”
:That’s one reason why is called “Being Chosen,” Dave, and not “Being Random.” Every Choosing serves a larger purpose.:
“Okay, then, I’ll bite. What’s with all the orphans, sneak thieves, and wretched refuse that get pretty ponies?”
:Well, Dave, it’s one part literary convention . . . who wants to read about a bunch of rich kids who get all the prizes? You can get that on the news.:
“I thought you said it was history?”
:Of course, Dave. The woman has to eat, and pure history is pretty dry. Why not sex it up a bit? Doesn’t take much. Some literary conventions are pretty darned universal. Noble falling on his fundament and getting his comeuppance, usually at the hands of poor but proud girl, who flummoxes him all before they fall in love and get married . . . snooty rich girl meets poor guy with heart of gold. Same tale, reverse the genitalia for equality’s sake. Half of all the stories ever sold used it as a theme. This is being sold as fiction, you know.:
Dave refused to be knocked off stride and plowed ahead.
“So, then, every scullery maid, every farmer’s daughter, every (he flipped the book a few more pages) Holderkin girl of a certain age has to be dreaming that a white horse is going to sweep in and take her away from her Cinderella-ashes and to a life of Cinderella-princess. How do they fit in?” Dave trailed off. The Companion actually managed to look a little embarrassed.
:Umm, well, there is also a practical side. The orphaned, the poor kids aren’t conflicted, you see. They are typically so happy to be there . . . and just so darned lucky . . . that they don’t count the cost and are just happy to be in Haven. The rich kids know they are important. Sometimes the nobles are divided, loyal to both House and Sovereign. In the moment of truth, sometimes Heralds have to lay it all on the line . . . easier in that moment for it to be someone whose only care is to Sovereign and Crown.:
Dave blinked. “So, the lower classes are cannon fodder?”
The Companion shook his head, silvery mane flying.
:Not at all. Companions are too great an investment to spend willy-nilly, but the hardest missions often go to those with the least to lose. It’s never phrased that way, but the sovereign has to balance considerations. Losing a key connection that diminishes a major House may hurt the realm. It good to have some people around where you don’t have to balance those considerations. One is whether a moment’s hesitation, a moment’s pause, means failure and death. It’s better to send someone who’s already chosen. Pun intended.:
“That’s a harsh pun.”
:It’s a harsh business. To be fair and answer your question . . . it’s mostly the commoners who excel at the spying. Our noble Heralds do better at the raids and up-close combat, or riding circuit and meting judgment. Most are superb circuit riders. They understand and care about law and work with their Companions to mete justice. Many have too strong a sense of themselves to make good sneaks, however. It just isn’t in them.
:The confidence, the sureness . . . soldiers turn to it in battle. HUP HUP! Head to the Front! Follow the shiny white
coat! But for a spy, you need a street rat.
:The poorer kids have had their lives torn up and have had to adapt themselves, make themselves over to survive, become someone, something else to survive. They get hazed once they hit the Academy. It’s a harsh change for them, harsher than it seems, but it is necessary. Once they are broken down, a mentor comes and lifts them up. That mentor is close to the state, linked to the sovereign. The mentor will take the newer Herald, and will become teacher, confessor, and sometimes, yes, even lover. But the purpose is to attach the loyalty of that Herald to that group who is bound only to the sovereign, no conflict with lineage, or House Honor.:
Dave blinked, taking it in. “I remember a war correspondent telling me a similar thing about how commandos are trained. Just how many Heralds make it to retirement?”
The Companion shuffle-stepped.
:Most times, most. Now, with the Wars, maybe a third get sent out to pasture. The ranks got thinned during the Tedrel Wars, a few for Hardorn, but now that it’s gotten worse, there is some serious attrition. Training standards have slipped, as bodies are needed in the field, so losses go up. For those loyal only to crown, it’s higher. The queen has to measure carefully how many of the noble Heralds she spends.:
“Still in the white coats?”
:Mostly, yes. The heraldry is a symbol, and the symbol is White. A few get into mufti, but for most, the heraldry is what we are. Skulking about is all very good for Alberich, and it works for those who came from outside the system, but surrendering the Whites is surrendering who we are. Going to grays is a surrender of sorts, that we have to hide who we are, what we represent. We’ll do it, of course, but its really hard. Even for the street kids. Sometimes they out White the nobles.:
“Out White?”
:Play the orthodox Herald more vigorously than the nobles. Then their Companion has to find a creek somewhere and drop them in it, to shrink their heads.:
“Why? So far you’ve described it as a prop for an oligarchy with some pretty hard- nosed ideas about who gets killed in the line of duty.”
:Baron Valdemar’s Bargain was to create someplace special, a rallying point, a beacon in the night. He was an idealist, of course, but a realist as well. He realized that you can create something special, but sustaining it would need help, so he committed himself, his children, and his children’s children to standing against the forces that threaten all free peoples everywhere always. The agreement was simple: to provide a Haven against the dark, to stand as a beacon, to succor all in need, and to rise in defense when no one else would. The Companions are the visible, tangible sign that the Bargain is being honored. Valdemar delivers up idealists, some noble, some common . . . none of whom ride cheerfully into the cannon’s mouth, but who will ride nonetheless if there is no other choice.:
Dave dropped the book back in the cardboard box. He closed the trunk hard, using the heel of his hand to get it going. The latch stuck, of course, bouncing the lid back an inch or two. He leaned his hand down on the trunk, trying to hold it closed while he fumbled for the piece of wire that was his backup for when the trunk latch failed, which was most of the time. It took two tries to get it threaded through the trunk latch. He released it and watched the trunk open again and stop about an inch free. He pulled his notepad out of his pocket.
“Now we get to it. So, then, what exactly are the Companions then? Angels sent by God?”
:Hrmmm . . . human concepts are so limited. Let’s try this. In my universe there is a Manifestation, a great Creator, a Great Maker, if you will. Humanity can only touch a portion of that concept, and then only imperfectly . . . so that flawed understanding is what gets interpreted locally, in different ways, shaped by different cultures and different experiences. In Karse, Vkandis is a very real god, very male, oft given to showmanship, and with a blisteringly large ego. He is definitely his own man . . . err, god. But he is also, at the same time, a part of the Manifestation.:
:We are also part of that Manifestation, not unlike the fire-cats, who are of Vkandis’ shaping. But as part of the Bargain we represent all the gods and so are truer to being the agents, the avatars of the Manifestation itself.:
“So, kind of like an angel then?” asked Dave.
The Companion tossed his head, impatient now.
:There is no way I’m going to take a stab at that. Your world is caught in enough killing over whose version of “peace and love” is the right one. I’m not going to toss any more theological fuel on the fire.
:What we are works for Valdemar. Translating it into your world isn’t going to help you understand. Let’s just stick with avatars—damned stylish avatars, if you will. Let’s move on, shall we? Got enough background?:
“Okay. I think so. I still don’t see a story.”
:Then ask the right question.:
“All right, then. Why are you here? I get that you like the grass, but I’m not buying the vacation bit.”
If a horse could smile, the Companion conveyed the sense.
:It’s not an accident that many heroes, even in your world, have ridden on white steeds. Your George Washington, of course, a paragon among men, who willingly handed over the reins of power lest he be thought a king. Do you have any idea how rare that is? How astonishingly, vanishingly rare that is? How often does anyone today in your world willingly, voluntarily relinquish power . . . much less when there was no precedent for it?:
“You’re saying he had a Companion?”
:He had a conscience to help him be who he already was. A voice to steady him in the darkest watches of the night, when he was afraid or most in doubt. A friend when he was most alone.:
“There were others?”
:A few. A man in Spain who set the conditions for the world to change, to break through and become when it was, ready to be born in modernity. Much tragedy and millions of lives would be lost in the birthing.:
“Spain . . . ummm, Spain. White horse. El Cid?”
:Very good.
“Thanks. Liberal arts education. Any others?”
:Girl in France. Thought she was talking to God. Rode a white horse.:
“The Maid of Orleans. Joan of Arc.”
:Yes. Her inspiration created the idea of the nation of France, set the stage for the rise of the modern state . . . and began the end of the idea that land and king were one.:
“Others?”
:General in your Civil War. Led the southern armies in the east, and whose graciousness in defeat set the tone for knitting the country back together once it was done. And his nemesis, because the rebel had to lose. Both were needed in their essential roles. That war made the country that followed possible, brutally hard for those at the time.”
“Lee and Grant . . . But neither of their horses were white. Traveler was a chestnut.”
:Was he? Are you sure? Interesting choice of names, isn’t it?:
“No. I’m not sure, now that I think on it. I’ll have to look it up.”
:Wikipedia has a good entry. Try that. And like our Chosen, we can go in mufti, when needful.:
“Good to know. Any others?”
:Hrmm . . . Okay. General in Greece, opened up the east and west. Great tragedy in his wake but made possible the rise of the west and the linking of the world, the Silk Road.:
“Alexander. But he wasn’t Greek, he was Macedonian.”
:Whatever.:
“So, just how many Companions in this world?”
:A few. For critical people at a nexus in time, where one person’s single choice will decide the fate of millions, for those few, we are a quiet voice, a nudge here, a suggestion there. We are Companions to our Chosen. We suggest, we recommend, we aid.:
“But, compared with here, Valdemar is lousy with them.”
The Companion drew himself closer to the fence. The voice in Dave’s mind lost its humorous edge and became all business.
:The Chosen are Chosen by Fate, David. We become their Companions to help them fulfill that fate. We’re an expens
ive line item, silver hooves and all, so we go where the need is most.:
“So, then you’re here to Choose someone?”
:Yes, David.:
He looked up and down the road. No one was in sight. He began to get an odd, warm feeling in the of his stomach.
:No, David. That role is not yours. There is always a bard, to record the history, to document the story of the Chosen for all ages. It will be your story, if you choose to write it.:
He felt a surge of bitter disappointment. In an instant, he’d seen, he’d read, the flash of sublime joy at being Chosen, and it was gone. “So, then. A job as a sidekick. Great.” He made no effort to hide the hurt. “What about the woman in Oklahoma?”
:This is beneath you, Dave. She can tell our story as fiction, but I will not be in this story, except as steed. My story is told elsewhere. This will be the Chosen’s story. The one who changes the future.:
The Companion glanced towards the golf bag. :Would you get my clubs? The woods are Calloways, but even good clubs can’t fix a tendency to slice. I have an appointment.:
The Companion turned toward the barn.
“The girl?”
:The girl who changes the world. Want to write the story?:
Dave thought about it for almost a minute.
“Sure.”
Changing the World Page 32