“You’ll kill yourself trying, you know,” Gaurane said conversationally.
“I don’t care,” Hedion repeated, stepping away from the campfire’s light.
“Then if you’re going to help, help smart—or do you want to die just so you can get out of a task you know is hopeless?”
“It isn’t hopeless,” Hedion protested. Even to his own ears the words sounded weak and unconvincing.
Gaurane laughed; to Hedion’s surprise there was no bitterness in the sound, only joy. “Never lie to a drunk, boy. You think it is, and you’ll do anything not to see yourself fail at it—even die.”
“I—” Hedion began, and stopped. Was Gaurane right?
“Oh, come back and sit down, boy,” Gaurane said, gesturing expansively. “The night’s young—but it isn’t young enough for you to go haring off in it.”
“Don’t call me ‘boy,’” Hedion said, because it was the only thing Gaurane had said that he felt he could safely protest.
“I won’t call you ‘boy’ if you don’t call me ‘Herald,’ ” Gaurane agreed. “Now come, sit, have a drink, and let’s figure out how you can solve all the problems of the world without killing yourself.”
Elade waited in concealment, every muscle tense. In the distance, she could hear the sound of Meran’s harp. The sound put her teeth on edge, but—she’d be the first to admit—she had no ear for music. Bard or not—and a day didn’t pass that Meran didn’t bring up his Collegium training and Collegium credentials—all that plink-plink-plink was just noise, and Elade wouldn’t say otherwise.
Most of the time their patients had been captured before they were called in, and then all Elade had to do was guard the door so no one came in while Hedion was doing a Healing. Of course, that meant she had to listen to Meran and his damned harp, too, but both Hedion and Gaurane swore it soothed the Touched and made Hedion’s work easier. And Meran was a handy man to have in a brawl. No one grew up on the streets of Haven without learning to defend themselves.
There was a flicker of movement from the trees edging the meadow. Damn him, he’s gone round the other side, Elade thought, as the man burst out of concealment. Naked, covered in dried blood, no ear for music—that’s him, she thought, springing forward. She wouldn’t reach him before he reached Meran. She’d owe Meran a new harp. She hoped that was all—Hedion was a great Healer, but the man couldn’t Heal anything useful to save his life . . .
Elade was focused on her target, her hand clenched tight on the grip of her truncheon. She carried a sword, and she was damned good with it, but it was only for use as a last resort. You couldn’t Heal someone after they were dead.
Meran saw her, and she saw him realize she wouldn’t reach him in time. He got to his feet, one hand going to his own truncheon, when Elade saw a flash of white.
Here comes the cavalry.
Rhoses hit the Touched hard enough to knock him from his feet. It was enough time for Meran to get the first folds of the net over him—a good strong net, the same kind the fishers up north used when the speckle-fish were running in the spring—and by then, Elade had arrived. She gave the patient a light expert tap with her truncheon—enough to stun him and let her and Meran finish rolling him into the net.
“You owe me a new harp,” Meran said.
“What? He never touched you!”
“If Rhoses hadn’t been here, he would’ve.”
“All right—shall I break this one first?” Elade said. “I mean, if you’re getting a new one.”
Rhoses tossed his head, and Elade knew he was probably saying something. She tossed him an apologetic glance. You couldn’t have a conversation with Rhoses unless Hedion was there.
“Is it safe to come out now?” Hedion came out of the woods leading his horse. Gaurane rode beside him, leading the rest of their mounts and a pack horse they could use to carry the patient. She’d always wondered why Gaurane didn’t ride Rhoses, since Rhoses was his Companion, but she’d never quite worked up the nerve to ask. Maybe next year.
“This is him,” Meran said cheerfully. “I think,” he added.
“Or someone else who doesn’t like music,” Gaurane commented.
“No,” Hedion said, kneeling beside the man struggling in the net. “This is Ablion Taus.”
“Who is going to have to find another line of work now that his smuggling business has taken such an unfortunate turn,” Gaurane added.
“Yes,” Hedion said, in tones indicating he was answering a question Elade hadn’t heard. “But not for murder. Taus didn’t murder any one. Karse did. There will be charges,” he added, for their benefit.
She and Meran got Taus settled on the back of the pack horse before mounting their own animals. The village of Estidan was less than half an hour’s ride from here, and they’d already arranged for everything they’d need: a secure place for Hedion to work. A quiet place for him to rest afterward. Or for Gaurane to sit on him, more than likely, because they’d already gotten word of another case, and Hedion would work himself into the ground if they let him.
“Hush, you,” Meran said to Taus. “Healer Hedion is going to save your life.”
Mindhealers were rare. Powerful Mindhealers were rarer. If you couldn’t find more, or train more, you had to make better use of the ones you had.
The one you had.
Hedion had sacrificed everything to his desire to put right what the Sunpriests had spoiled. He’d had a home, a family, a wife, a child. He’d lost them all. He’d nearly lost his life, refusing to admit what he already knew: the task was too big for one man and too endless for one life.
None of them could do what Hedion could do. But they could do everything else. Elade was quick and clever, able to capture a patient if that was what they needed, able to guard Hedion during a Healing, or restrain a patient when a Healing went wrong. No one—town mayor, village elder, post commander—wanted to argue with Elade when she made up her mind.
And Meran: if a Healer couldn’t be Healed by another Healer, he could be soothed to sleep by a Bard. Gaurane would never tell anyone—especially Meran—that he valued him more for that than for any skill in luring or comforting one of the demon-touched.
As for him, Gaurane had no illusions. He was mostly deadweight. A sometimes-charming distraction. Someone who could tell Hedion no and make it stick. And of course, where he went, Rhoses went. He was becoming resigned to that.
Gaurane looked sideways, and saw Rhoses watching him. The one thing he still regretted was not being able to Hear Rhoses’ voice. Hedion had offered to try to Heal him, but if he did, would the memories in that black missing time in the Sunpriests’ city return? Were they something he could live with?
Gaurane wasn’t sure he was willing to take the risk.
Maybe someday.
Unintended Consequences
Elizabeth A. Vaughan
She heard nothing beyond the man’s first words.
“Your husband, Lord Sinmonkelrath, was killed in an attack on Queen Selenay.”
Ceraratha’s senses failed her, as did her weak grasp of Valdemarian. Surely she had misunderstood. Sinmon, killed? Committing treason? It could not be so.
But to her dawning horror, it was. The man, the Queen’s Own, spoke on, but his words were so much noise in her ears. Dryness caked her mouth, and her vision narrowed to the man and the desk and the papers in his hands. A plot to slay the queen?
She’d known something was terribly wrong when she’d heard the alarms ringing out and strident calls in the halls outside her door. Her maidservant had tried to go out to get word, but had been prevented by Guardsmen in dark blue, with stern faces.
That had been no hardship. Sinmon rarely permitted her to leave their quarters, small as they were. He preferred to forget that he was wed to a wool merchant’s daughter, a woman more trained in the ways of the loom and spindle then court airs and graces.
Sinmon was the second son, and had seemed glad enough at the time of their marriage to wed the daughte
r of a wealthy merchant. Her father had been more than willing to buy a small farm for them to set up their home and lives. But Sinmon had rejected that bride price in favor of a settlement of funds. Those were gone now, despite her attempts to run a frugal household.
The first time he’d taken his fist to her had been over the cost of his clothing. Thankfully, her skills were such that she could keep him clothed as he demanded. She herself retained the country styles, to save a bit of coin.
But then this most recent plan of his, to follow Karathanelan to a strange land, with strange ways, little more than a sycophant. As swept up as Sinmon had been in the visions of wealth and power, Cera had not dared to protest the move.
Since the Royal marriage, Sinmon had left her to her sitting room and embroideries and silences, with little more than her handmaiden for company.
Now she stood before the Queen’s Own, his scarred executioner at his side. Palace guardsmen just behind her, their weapons at the ready. Cera tried to swallow, to concentrate on what had happened.
Treason. Sinmonkelrath, her lord and husband, had committed treason against the Crown of Valdemar.
Treason. She would be executed, her family shamed. . . .
She stood straight as an arrow, as she’d been taught, head high, hands clasped before her, paralyzed, unable to breathe.
The executioner, the one who wore dark gray, with his scarred face and cruel eyes, stood next to the seated man. His face stern, his hand on the hilt of his blade. Was her death now? Without a prayer? Without a plea?
She would have spoken, but what words could she say? Sinmon had betrayed her, betrayed this new land, on the promise of that false prince. She knew in an instant that Prince Karathanelan’s charming smile and honeyed tongue had done this.
The executioner’s eyes narrowed, and he spoke softly to the Queen’s Own, who looked up at her face. There was a flash of concern there, and he paused. “Lady, perhaps you should be seated.”
Ceraratha stared at the man, not sure she really understood.
A hand at her elbow then. Cera turned to see Alena at her side, her face filled with worry. The executioner was shutting the door, as if he had summoned her maidservant from the hall. But—
Alena urged her back, and Cera felt a chair press against her legs. She sat, trying hard to understand what was happening. Alena was speaking in a hushed whisper, her familiar voice speaking in Rethwellan, a balm to Cera’s heart.
“Sit, my lady, sit,” Alena raised a cup to her lips and pressed the cool rim to them. “Drink.”
Cera sipped obediently of the sweet wine, but pulled back as the liquid hit her stomach. She reached out her hand, and grasped Alena’s hard. “Did you hear? Do you know?”
Alena nodded, keeping a tight grip on Cera’s fingers. “Lady, yes. I heard,” she whispered softly, her lips close to Cera’s ear. “But hear the Queen’s Own, lady. Hear his words.”
“A shock,” Talamir said, this time speaking in Rethwellan. “I ask your pardon, lady. This day has been a long one.”
The executioner, the one known as Alberich, returned to his position, his face solemn and stern.
“Your husband was involved in a treasonous plot against the queen, Lady Ceraratha. We must ask, were you involved in—”
“No,” Cera jerked back to her feet, staggering. “No, no, a thousand times I say this. Not I nor my servants would ever—”
“Lady, please,” Talamir gestured for her to return to her seat. “We can verify that with a Truth Spell easily enough.”
The tightness in Cera’s chest eased a bit, as she sat. That was right, this strange land held no magic, but it did have that spell. They would believe then. That was well.
“There is still the matter of your future, lady,” The Queen’s Own said.
Cera jerked her head in a half-nod. What was to be done? To return home, after this had happened? To the shame of her parents? Or the retribution of her in-laws? For the fault would be hers, that she was certain of. Without thinking, she reached for Alena’s hand.
Alberich spoke then, a soft comment meant only for the Queen’s Own. Cera blinked in surprise. Had he said something about sheep?
“Queen Selenay had issued a grant of land to Lord Sinmon shortly after her marriage to the prince,” Talamir said, looking down at the papers in his hands.
Cera frowned, remembering. Sinmon had said something to that effect, just in passing. Cera had asked if they would be leaving court, but had been met with a sharp rebuke and a blow. Sinmon had disparaged the gift in private, while publicly expressing his gratitude.
“Herald Alberich reminds me that it is not the most prosperous lands. Sheep country, really. On the borders of Rethwellan and Karse.”
Sheep?
“The war has depleted the lands and its people, but there is enough there to make a beginning. To rebuild. You understand, this is not a rich—”
Just for a moment, Cera could hear the bleating of newborn lambs and the squalls of sheep being sheared. The sound of her mother’s loom filled her head, her mother humming as she worked. “Mine?”
“Yes, lady,” Talamir’s look was sharp. “Both Crowns would prefer that this matter be dealt with quietly and quickly. Her Majesty is willing to confirm the lands and title in you, upon your oath of fealty and prompt departure for your lands.”
“Never to return” was the implication, but that troubled Cera not one bit. Never to have to tread these halls of power and cruelty seemed more gift than punishment. But her own lands . . . her own herds . . . was it possible? A strange feeling rose in her breast. It took her a breath to recognize it for what it was.
Hope.
“We’ll provide an escort, to see you safely south, and the necessary documents to claim your holdings.” Talamir continued. “If such is acceptable ...?”
He offered land, work, her own income. Her emotions threatened to overwhelm her. She clutched Alana’s hand even tighter.
“It is,” Cera said firmly.
Alana was sent back to their chambers to pack what she could as fast as she could. The Heralds explained Cera would be taken directly to a carriage when her audience was over. Anything left behind would be sent to her later.
Cera found herself hustled down a long silent servants’ hall by her escort. The Heralds were polite but firm, and Cera had no argument with that. She had no desire to parade through those halls, dressed in her country best, under the eyes of the nobility.
Oddly enough, she found herself emerging through doors that led to the queen’s garden.
The day was fair enough, the sun shining down through the new green leaves.
The queen was seated on a bench, her bright white Companion at her side. The Companion’s lovely head close to Selenay’s, as if they were confiding in each other. Or offering each other comfort. It seemed somehow a private moment; Cera looked down as she and her escort advanced.
There were other Heralds all around, on guard, tense. No others, which meant no prying eyes or gossiping tongues. The gray one was there as well, with his own Companion.
Talamir appeared at Selenay’s side as Cera approached. There was a cushion there before the queen, and Cera knelt, placed her palms together, and bowed her head.
“Your Majesty, this is Lady Ceraratha, wife of the late Lord Sinmonkelrath. The lady wishes to become your loyal subject and hold the lands that were gifted to her late husband. The lady has expressed her desire to swear fealty to the Crown under the Truth Spell and then to depart to her estates for a period of mourning.”
“Let it be so,” Selenay’s voice seemed to echo out over the garden. For one so young, it sounded tired. Worn.
Hands came around hers then, young hands of a noble woman, warm against her cold fingers.
A murmur then, from one of the Heralds, probably casting the Truth Spell. Cera felt nothing, but knew the glow would demonstrate the truth of her words.
“Repeat after me,” Talamir said. “I, Lady Cerarath, do solemnly swear th
at ...”
Cera dutifully repeated the words, staring at Selenay’s hands. They were not as perfect as she’d thought a queen’s would be. There were calluses there, both of the sword and the pen. But there was pain there too. And worry.
“That I shall hold the lands in fealty and honor, striving to serve the land and the Crown, as long as my breath shall issue from my body and the Gods see fit to preserve my life.”
Cera spoke the last with fervor, her voice cracking slightly. She wanted this woman to understand, to know that she meant every word with every fiber of her being.
With the last of her words, she looked up and into the eyes of her queen.
Cera caught her breath.
In those blue eyes, it was there to see. The anguish of betrayal. The pain of the truth. The joy of release. The guilt that joy brought.
Selenay’s eyes looked into hers and then widened with the shared knowledge of shared pain.
The oath was completed. Talamir was reaching out his hand to assist Cera to her feet. But in that long instant, Ceraratha and Selenay stared at one another. And each knew the bond they shared, with no need for words.
Cera pulled her hands away as the queen released them. She reached for Talamir’s hand, allowing her wide cloth sleeve to fall back.
A soft hiss left the queen’s lips at the sight of the fading bruises. The Companion snorted softly, its head jerking back. Cera knew then that the queen, at least, had not suffered that at the prince’s hands.
Ceraratha rose to stand straight before her queen, allowing the sleeve to fall back down. She curtsied low before Selenay, then lifted her head proudly and spoke carefully in Valdemarian. “In me, your Majesty will have no more loyal and devoted subject in all your Kingdom.”
Selenay studied her, then nodded. “I wish you well, lady.”
Cera retreated a few steps and then turned and headed back the way they had come, her escort following a few steps behind. Head high, back straight—
Finding the Way and Other Tales of Valdemar Page 7