Camayo clearly snapped off an answering comment. Evita received nothing but a hint of cynical irritation that only upset her further.
“Are you suggesting I don’t have an open mind? Because I pride myself on being the most open-minded person I know. I look at sides of situations that most people would never even consider.”
Camayo drew his legs tighter to his hip-shot body. :Your so-called wide open mind snapped shut faster than a trap when I mentioned weapons training.:
“Well, that’s just . . . wrong. Weapons are . . . ”
:Evil?: Camayo suggested. :Bad? So, let me make sure I understand this. As long as a person wholly condemns something with an unpleasant adjective, it’s perfectly acceptable to close her mind about it?:
Evita knew she was treading on thin ice. :As long as it’s truly . . . bad.:
:So, if I declare that horses sporting flaxen manes are bad, it’s all right for me to hate them.:
“No!” Evita caught herself speaking again. :Because horses with flaxen manes aren’t actually bad.:
:By whose standards?:
:What?:
:Who gets to decide what’s actually bad?:
Evita wondered if she had condemned herself to a life of arguing with a horse. :Everyone just knows. Flaxen manes have nothing to with good or bad. Weapons are . . . just bad.:
:Weapons have saved the lives of many Heralds and Companions. I don’t think you could find five other Heralds who agree with your statement, never mind this elusive ‘everyone.’.:
:And I doubt you could find any Herald who believes that flaxen manes make a horse bad.:
Camayo nodded. :Which brings me back to my original query. Whose definition of ‘bad’ takes precedence when determining whether or not we can close our minds to something?:
Evita knew when she had lost an argument. :Fine. I’ll keep an open mind about the Collegium. Including . . . : She could not help making a bitter face as she finished, : weapons training.:
:That’s all I’m asking.: Camayo closed his eyes.
But I don’t have to like it. Evita snuggled against Camayo’s legs, using his side as a pillow. Within seconds, all discomfort from the argument left her. She found her mind suddenly at peace, as if she had spent all of her life searching for the missing piece of a puzzle that had come to her at last. She could not remember a finer pillow or a more comfortable bed. This, I could definitely get used to.
True to his word, Camayo kept the trip to Valdemar slow. They slogged mostly through woodlands, stopping to cavort on the open meadows or just sitting for hours staring at the sky. They splashed through creeks, chasing water birds into the sky, sending frogs leaping in all directions, driving fish into silver flashes of hurry beneath the water. Birds of every color and combination flitted through the trees, scolding them or regaling them with brilliant song and plumage. Woodland creatures appeared around every turn. Evita knew many of them, but as the terrain changed from the familiar broad-leafed trees of home to squatter conifers and gnarled older-growth forests, she made delightful new discoveries as well.
As they rode, Evita became more comfortable with Camayo and his irascible nature, as well as Mindspeech. But as the month wore on, she found herself craving human contact and the sound of spoken words. She missed her parents and Bruno more than she expected, and she found a void she thought Camayo had completely filled. Her pack had become uncomfortably empty, even supplemented by the berries, stems, and roots she gathered. :What do you say we ride through a town today?:
Camayo hesitated, as if the thought had never previously entered his mind. :Are you sure you’re ready?:
The question seemed nonsensical. :Ready for what? Do you think I’ve never been around people before?:
:Not astride a Companion.:
Evita could only see that as a bonus. She wanted people to see her sitting proud atop Camayo, one of the Chosen. :Will that matter?:
:Greatly.: Despite his obvious concern, Camayo did not seem afraid. His voice came through strong, with just a hint of discomfort. :There are still a few places where Heralds are mistrusted, even hated. Some would kill the Gifted on sight.:
Evita suffered all the dread Camayo removed from his sending. :Is this one of those places?:
:No. Here, Heralds are loved and respected.:
Evita clutched her chest. As the fear drained away, outrage replaced it. :Then why are you trying to scare me?:
:I’m just preparing you for the variety of people that exist in Velgarth.:
:In their hearts, all people are the same.: Evita felt certain of it.
Camayo did not accept what seemed clear to Evita. :Perhaps. But, in other vital organs, you will find that people vary to a great extent. How they treat you, and what they expect from you, will have far more to do with their own prior experiences than your current actions.:
Evita nodded and tried to prepare herself. :And what will they expect from me in the nearest villages?:
:On schedule, Heralds pass through here only three times a year and do not stay long. They will expect wisdom and assistance.:
Evita liked the sound of that. She straightened to her full height and made a solemn vow. :I will try my best to give that to them.: She expected Camayo to appreciate her pronouncement, but he seemed more perplexed than satisfied.
:Very well,: the Companion finally said, :but you need not forget. Not only have you not yet earned your Whites, you have not even received your Grays. You are not a Herald, Evita, not even, officially, a Herald-in-training.:
:I know that,: Evita said, more crossly than she intended. She could not help wondering why Camayo seemed duty-bound to point out her every shortcoming.
The village of Bonarme took up most of a large hill, with the poorer dwellings at the bottom giving way to finer cottages on the upward route and a manor house at the top. Garlock’s Inn sat about midway, solid stone with a heavily thatched roof. Spotted well outside the village, Evita and her Companion found themselves escorted to the building without having made any formal inquiry. Surrounded by a swell of townsfolk and children, all talking at once, Evita saw no reason to even attempt speech.
Before Evita could decide whether or not to protest, they had separated her from Camayo and ushered her into the tavern. It contained a single large table in the exact center of the room and a wide-open kitchen where two men and a woman worked over a fireplace and several low tables. Surprised by the greeting, Evita barely managed to send a message to Camayo as she entered. :Will you be all right out there?:
:I’ll be fine. The children seem determined to handfeed me every blade of grass in the village.:
Evita could not help smiling. One of the villagers pulled out a seat for her. A moment after she took it, every other one at the table was suddenly full. As the single table could not seat everyone, others gathered in layers behind them. Evita tried to focus on one person at a time, as they all begged news of various homesteads, settlements, towns, and individuals.
One man finally took control. “Easy! Easy! She only has two ears.”
Evita hoped they did not think she could use both separately and simultaneously.
Someone shouted, “Let Larram speak. He has the most pressing issue.”
Murmurs suffused the crowd, some grumbling and some happy, but the general gist seemed to comprise agreement. A slender man with a sunburned face stepped directly to Evita’s side. “My Lady Herald, we were hoping you’d adjudicate a problem for us.”
Adjudicate? Evita swallowed hard. In her own village, she had heard that people sometimes saved difficult issues or decisions for Heralds to decide, but she had never actually witnessed one. “I’m not a Herald,” she protested.
Everyone went silent at once. The expressions on their faces ranged from stunned to angry to disappointed. The man at her side, apparently Larram, pointed vaguely toward the door and Camayo. “You mean, that’s not a . . . ” He brought his finger back to Evita. “And you’re not a ...”
Evita amended quic
kly. “Oh, Camayo is a Companion. And I will be a Herald. When I complete my training. My name is Evita, by the way.”
The conversations restarted softly. Excitement reappeared on the many faces. Larram said, “You’re the closest thing we’ve got to a Herald for a long time. If the others agree, I’m willing to be bound by whatever you decide, ma’am.”
Murmurs of agreement spread around the table. Their gazes mostly fell on a heavyset, filthy man in patched homespun standing on the outskirts. “All right,” he said carefully.
Evita grinned. She could scarcely believe the esteem with which these villagers held the Heralds of Valdemar. She could imagine herself riding from town to town, thrilling the people not only with her presence but with her renowned and wise proclamations. Evita the Just, they would call her, the fairest judge in all of Velgarth, a champion of righteousness who had no equal. She would never need to wield a sword. If a basilisk attacked, her many followers would dispatch it and consider themselves lucky for the opportunity.
Plates of food began to appear, the first in front of Evita herself. After so many weeks of forest fare, she found the aroma of mashed roots and pulled pork impossible to resist. It took tremendous self-control to eat in a slow, mannerly fashion while Larram presented the facts of his case.
“You see, ma’am, my animals had been disappearing one by one over a period of time. At first, I thought it was some kind of beast, except it never left anything behind: not a bit of torn skin, not a patch of fur, not a bone or feather. Never found a single track that wasn’t made by a boot or a cow, chicken, goose, or pig.” Larram interrupted himself. “See, that’s the kinds of animals I have. And my neighbors were noting the same thing about their animals. No fences seemed to be able to stop this thing. We started thinking it must be a monster. Then, last night, I caught the culprit red-handed.”
All eyes returned to the heavy-set, filthy man on the outskirts who seemed to be trying to lose himself in the very crowd that fingered him.
In case Evita had not caught on to the obvious, Larram pointed. “I caught Stelkaw strangling one of my geese and stuffing it into a sack.”
Every other person in the tavern stepped away from Stelkaw, leaving him fully open to Evita and her judgment.
Stelkaw stood alone, clearly frightened, and miserable. He kept his shaggy head low, dodging Evita’s gaze. Sympathy welled up in Evita. He looked so utterly broken, a damaged image of a once-proud man. “Did you steal Larram’s goose?”
Stelkaw’s voice emerged thin and reedy, muffled by the hair hanging over his face. “My lady, my family was starving. I couldn’t look at their hungry faces, their needy eyes, any longer. I had to do something.”
Evita nearly choked on her dinner. She could imagine his scrawny, filthy children, their eyes as enormous as Camayo’s and desperate with hunger. “Oh,” she said softly.
A dense silence followed as Evita considered her words. No one should have to go hungry when food existed. No man should have to suffer his children begging for food, to helplessly watch them die. She cleared her throat. “From this day forth,” she proclaimed into the hush, “if a man or woman needs sustenance for himself and his family, he must only ask.”
Evita looked up to find the entire room staring at her. Every face appeared rapt, waiting. She stood, the remainder of her food forgotten. “If someone comes to you requesting food for his family, you must invite that family to your table and freely share whatever you are eating. Either that, or you must supply him with the same amount of foodstuffs, meat and vegetable, that you give your own family for a day.”
Evita stepped up on her chair. “From now on, no one in Bonarme will ever go hungry again!” Having made her point, Evita sat back on her seat to finish her meal.
For a few moments, nothing happened. Then came a small smattering of applause that gradually grew to encompass the entire room. Riding on this wave of approval, Evita stuffed the last of her dinner in her mouth, walked out of the tavern, mounted Camayo, and rode off into the sunset.
Evita’s second chance to play Herald came only two weeks later. She and Camayo huddled beneath a crude, wayside structure clearly built to shield travelers from the rain. Alone together, they listened to the hammer of rainfall on wood and thatch, defining rhythms and song from the chaos. Camayo worked with Evita to refine her Mindspeech, but he refused to assist in developing her Empathy skills because, he stated, he would not do so without the support of the Collegium and its many skilled teachers.
A flash of lightning rent the sky, outlining a small figure rushing toward their shelter. Evita pressed closer to Camayo to allow more room for the stranger to join them, which he did. Water dripped from the sodden hood of his cloak, and he dodged into the shelter, threw down his pack, and turned toward Evita. Safely beneath the ceiling, he tossed off his hood to reveal young, swarthy features, silky black hair in a snarl, and a broad-featured face. Despite being wet from head to toe, he smelled faintly of unfamiliar spices.
“Herald Evita,” he said breathlessly. “I’ve been searching for you.”
Camayo whickered. :Tell him you’re not a Herald.:
Evita smiled at the newcomer. “My name is Evita, but I’m not a Herald. Not yet. I’m newly Chosen.”
The man made a broad gesture. “That doesn’t matter. We’ve heard what you’ve done for Bonarme. My people are greatly oppressed, and we want you to help us as well.”
Evita’s brows twitched upward. She turned to look at Camayo. :They know what I did for Bonarme.:
Camayo’s response seemed wary. :I’ve informed you that everything a Chosen does affects the entire world. That is why you must consider everything you do with utmost attention to detail.:
:I want to help them, Camayo. They’re oppressed:
Evita had grown accustomed to Camayo’s oddities, his elegant speech, his cynicism, his unwillingness to accept the most obvious morality as definitely right.
:I’ve found,: the Companion said as slowly as Mindspeech allowed, :that when one allows people to act wholly within their natures, they usually get exactly what they deserve.:
Her Companion’s words scandalized Evita. :No one deserves oppression, Camayo. No one.:
Camayo did not argue the point, though he did not concede it, either.
Evita turned her attention to the stranger. “What’s your name?”
“Ahjaman,” the young man said, huddling deeper into his cloak.
“I’ll look away,” Evita said. “While you change into something warm and dry. When the rain stops, we’ll ride for . . . for . . . ” Evita realized she had no idea where they were going. In fact, for all she knew, Camayo might have carried her to the moon. She recognized only that they had ridden far from her home and probably much nearer to Valdemar than she had ever been.
“It’s called Firisain, ma’am.”
“Firisain,” Evita repeated. Only then, she wondered what one lone woman could do to help an entire village of the oppressed.
Ahjaman explained the situation as they rode. According to him, the citizens of Firisain had been at odds with their savage neighbors from Arran for as long as anyone could remember. Three decades earlier, the Arranis captured Firisain in a bloody war that saw many Firisainians killed. Since that time, the Arranis had oppressed the Firisainians by occupying their land, utterly disarming them, and greatly limiting their freedom. Unable to ply their trades, the Firisainians had descended into squalor. “If someone does not help us soon,” Ahjaman told her, “our people will die.”
Evita’s heart went out to Ahjaman, but this seemed far beyond anything she could handle. She told him as they rode together on Camayo’s back. “I feel for you and your people, I truly do. But I’m just one person. How can I possibly help?”
Ahjaman grabbed Evita’s arm, pleading, his dark eyes brimming with pain. “The Arranis respect the Heralds of Valdemar. If you tell them to leave our land, they might. If you tell them not to oppress us, they will listen.”
Evita coul
d only nod her head and hope he spoke the truth.
Muddy and overcrowded, Firisain was a tent city filled with the stench of urine, vomit, and feces. Women carried enormous burdens, their backs bent, their limbs marked with burns and bruises, their faces filled with anguish. Children walked around the puddles; they did not run and squeal like those of Bonarme or her own hometown. The men huddled in a group around a roaring fire, caught up in discussion. Ahjaman dismounted and pointed westward. “You see, Evita? You see the Arrani pigs.” He spat into the mud. “They treat us like animals. They stand there in their fancy uniforms with their weapons and keep us from crossing the border.”
Evita looked in the indicated direction. A row of young men and women stood attentively at a border that could not have been more striking. Grass grew lush beneath their feet, and beyond them stood neat rows of cottages that might have looked welcoming if not for the grim stone walls around them.
Camayo picked his way carefully through the mud, but his white legs still bore a series of brown stripes and his silver hooves turned black with grime. Cautiously, they approached one of the Arrani guards who met them with a friendly smile. “Are you a Herald, ma’am? It’s the first I’ve seen one dressed in normal garb.”
“I’m Chosen but not yet a Herald,” Evita explained for what seemed like the twentieth time. “My name’s Evita. May I speak with someone in charge?”
The woman gave Evita a formal nod. “Wait right here, and I’ll fetch Captain Fasson.” She hurried off, leaving Evita to marvel over the drastic differences between the villages. She had never seen such a stark and sudden contrast. Even riverbanks did not form such an intense and severe division between land and water. An infant could not miss the boundary between Firisain and Arran: on one side, a thriving paradise; on the other nothing more substantial than rubbish. The obvious disparity upset Evita, so obviously and blatantly unfair.
The female soldier returned with a middle-aged man astride a chestnut mare. As she stepped back into her position, the captain took over her duties as host. “I’m Captain Fasson, and I understand you’re a Herald-in-training called Evita.”
Finding the Way and Other Tales of Valdemar Page 9