So that’s what’s become of you, Digby.
He clearly didn’t recognize her except as what she was now, which was exactly as she wanted it. He’d gone past her six times now, and only once had he said anything, when he made her horse snort and back up a pace. “Beg pardon, Healer Vixen,” he’d said, and tugged at the rim of his hat apologetically. Her throat had tightened, and she’d felt a sickness in the pit of her stomach when she’d first spotted him, but as it became clear he didn’t recognize her, the fear had turned to something else. Anger, a little. Some self-satisfaction, the sort you get when you see someone who deserves it in misfortune. There really should have been a word for that.
The inn’s boy heaved the wicker panniers holding her Healing supplies over Brownie’s rump, and while he fastened the belly strap, she tied them to the back of the saddle. She made sure that the lids were tied down tight, feeling both accomplishment and bitterness.
Well, there it was, he hadn’t changed; he looked like the same bullying dullard who’d thought it was so funny to run after her, chanting, “Where’s your Companion, Herald Rosie?” with the others. He looked shabby, work-worn, and duller than he had been as a boy. She wondered how he’d ended up here, right on the Border and within a shout of the Pelagiris Forest. He’d certainly thought he was the cock of the walk back in the day: blond, strong, wide-shouldered, and if he wasn’t handsome, he also wasn’t homely. He’d been sure he was destined for a fine and easy life. It looked as if he was a carter now, hauling loads between the villages, which was a hard way to earn a living.
Maybe his older brothers had run him off the farm but granted him a horse and a cart so he didn’t starve. Well, if so, it served him right, since he and his friends had been part of why she’d scarpered off as soon as she was old enough to do so.
Her hunter snorted at the sight of the innkeeper’s boy bringing the saddlebags holding her personal possessions. He knew that meant they were about to leave. She patted his neck and then turned in the saddle to help the boy fasten them properly behind the panniers.
Brownie flicked his ears back at her. :Go soon?: she heard in her mind.
:Soon,: she promised. Unlike every other Healer she knew, besides the Healing Gift, she had Animal Mindspeech. Mostly it was a nuisance, though occasionally it was useful. It happened to be quite sensitive, and unless she kept her—well, they weren’t shields, exactly, they were more like sieves, or cloth filters—up, she was subject to all sorts of background nonsense. It was a lot like being in an enormous crowd, where everyone was talking at once. Fortunately, the Animal Mindspeech Gift had not started out nearly that sensitive, so she’d had time to learn how to put up protections that kept the babble at bay and let in only the important things. She’d learned to welcome the winter woods, with so much of the wildlife gone or hibernating. Absolutely the worst were busy farms, with not only farm animals but also flocks of sparrows in the thatch, hordes of starlings in the trees, and armies of mice everywhere. By contrast, cities were almost restful, because she couldn’t hear people, only animals.
She finished settling panniers, saddlebags, and all to Brownie’s satisfaction, making sure he was happy with the load; after all, he was the one doing all the work on the road, and he deserved to be comfortable. It didn’t take long; the two of them had been doing this routine for four years now, and gods willing, Brownie was good for another twenty at least. With a pat to his neck, she let him set the pace out of the village and down the road toward the Pelagiris Forest. There were a lot of little villages and hamlets out here that had no resident Healer and would never see one if she hadn’t taken this Circuit on. It was the same route the Herald assigned here took, but so far she’d managed to keep from running into him. That was by design, not accident, though she’d taken pains to keep that her own little secret.
For such a big horse, Brownie was very light-footed, and he preferred a brisk pace; his big hooves made solid clops on the dirt road as he set off on his ground-eating fast walk. Out of the village they paced, across the little stone bridge over the slender river that supplied the village’s water, and then they were back on the main road, passing immediately under the first trees of the forest. There was no cultivated land this side of the river. The folk of the next hamlet on the route were hunters and gatherers rather than farmers. What they needed, they traded for.
But the sight of Digby had put her into a bad mood. And memories she didn’t want bubbled up out of the past.
She was only four, and she had no idea why her parents were so excited. She only knew that she was getting to wear that pretty dress they almost never let her put on, and Ma had put a wreath of flowers on her head and they had all run out to the road. Everyone was craning their necks, and there was a sound like bells off in the distance. The sound got nearer and nearer, and then she saw what made it—the prettiest white horse she had ever seen, dancing its way toward them! Her parents got more and more excited the closer it came, and then it danced right past them all and off into the distance, and she wondered why her parents were suddenly so disappointed. They picked her up and took her back to the cottage, and Ma made her take off the dress and put her everyday tunic back on. “She’s young for it yet,” her pa said. “Next time, surely.”
She hadn’t understood, that first time, what had happened—or rather, what hadn’t happened. Nor the next, nor the next. She’d only known that her parents would get excited, drag her out of whatever it was she was doing, dress her up as if for a festival, and make her stand by the side of the road, waiting for another white horse to come. And then they would be disappointed when it just raced on by. And look at her as if she had somehow done something wrong.
But eventually . . . eventually she learned. Learned that the white horses were Companions, that they Chose their Heralds, that Heralds were Very Important People, and that her parents expected her to become one. Not just hoped, but expected, as if they had the power to control the future. And by all the gods, they were going to dress her up, drag her to the road, and shove her under the nose of every Companion on Search that came through until she did become one. And every time the Companion passed on without Choosing someone, they were disappointed—in her.
It quickly became an embarrassment as well as a misery. Impossible in such a small hamlet for people not to know that her parents had such inflated ideas about what their offspring should become. She got pitying looks or snickers behind sheltering hands. And there was a pack of little bullies who tormented her about it every chance they got, running after her, calling her “Herald Rosie” and asking where her Companion was. Digby wasn’t the chief, but he certainly relished the “fun” and egged the others on when they lost interest.
And meanwhile, her parents piled things on her that they reckoned would “improve” her: lesson on lesson, hours spent in schooling, and lots of correction, from her speech to her posture. . . .
Some of those tormenting bullies got the bright idea to call false alarms, just to see her dragged into the house and dragged out again, dressed up in her finery, to stand between her parents, head hanging and miserable, waiting for Companions that didn’t come.
Seeing Digby had brought all that up again, knotting her stomach with unhappiness until even those lovely pocket pies were more nauseating than tempting. She shoved the old memories away as best she could, but it wasn’t easy. There wasn’t much to distract her from her own thoughts. The winding, twisting road was completely empty, and by the state of the drifts of leaves on it, no one had been on it for a day or more. Bandits weren’t much of a problem here; the forest itself was the danger. This was just on the edge of Hawkbrother territory, and strange things roamed under these trees.
That had never bothered Vixen. She could sense most of them long before they were close enough to be a danger, Brownie was big enough that most predators wouldn’t even consider trying for her, and he was fast enough that so far he’d been able to outrun any
thing that did.
It would be winter soon. The trees were leafless, and the dead, fallen leaves themselves had all turned brown and lifeless, lying in drifts on the roadway and among the trees. Berries and nuts were gone, and anything that was going to hibernate had found a den or a cave or a hollow tree. The birds were far enough away that their mental chatter didn’t bother her, so she allowed her protections to thin. Brownie had a remarkably quiet mind; he enjoyed her company, he enjoyed his work, and he was enjoying this morning, and he managed to do all of that without internally babbling, although she didn’t know many horses that babbled. Birds were the worst for that, and chickens were the worst of the birds.
So it’s a good thing I don’t ride a chicken, I suppose.
Brownie had already grown out his shaggy winter coat, so the cold breeze didn’t trouble him at all. He was staying alert, however; she could tell by the way his ears were constantly moving. He knew this route, and he knew there could be dangers on this road. His nose and hearing were those of a prey animal; if by some chance something out there was both dangerous and able to hide itself from her Gift, Brownie would probably scent or hear it. And while he stayed watchful, she wrestled with her uncomfortable emotions until she had them all clamped down and under control again. She told herself, over and over, as the road wound on beneath the leafless trees and a clear, cold sky, that Rosie was gone, and only Vixen remained. And no one, no one, ever mocked Vixen.
She wondered about her parents, though. She’d sent them a single message, about six months after the Healers had taken her in. I’m fine. Don’t try to find me. I never want to see you again. Harsh, perhaps, but . . . true then, and true now. What had they done with their lives once she was gone? Did they have another child, or children, and put those poor things through the same torture she’d gone through, or had they learned their lesson?
She allowed Brownie to pick the place to pause for their midday rest, right around noon. They had made good time, and he deserved a break to browse on what he could find beside a small stream that cut across the road. He wore a bitless bridle, so he was free to wander along the stream, cropping the last of the green grass, taking occasional drinks of water. She stayed in the saddle and had a meat pie and an apple pie, finding ones that were miraculously still warm at the bottom of her saddlebag, and enjoying them with water from the inn’s well. She reckoned that at the rate they were going, they would easily reach the next hamlet before sundown. The wind had stilled, and the sun actually warmed her a bit as she ate.
Finally she took up the reins and got Brownie back on the road again. Refreshed by the halt, he took up his ground-eating fast walk again, and she settled into keeping watch for trouble and trying to keep from brooding. Matya will probably put me up, unless one of her boys returned to the nest and claimed the spare bed. Matya was one of the few people she counted as a friend. The old woman never chattered, had a refreshingly sardonic sense of humor, was practical, and good company. And . . . she cooked divinely. Her nut porridge ought to be outlawed, it’s so good.
The hamlet they were heading for hardly justified having a name, but it did; Kettleford. She was well known there, and it was one of her favored stops on this circuit, even when there was no one there who needed her services.
It wasn’t likely anyone from her old village of Hartrise would come that far and recognize her, so she always felt reasonably safe from detection there. Hartrise had its own Healer and wouldn’t send anyone looking for the Healer on Circuit, no matter who was hurt or ill. As for people from Hartrise coming to Kettleford, the people of Kettleford shrewdly took their trade and sale goods to the larger village, rather than let anyone sharp them by offering less than the market value.
And no one ever questioned why she left Hartrise out of her Circuit.
The pure fact was, she never wanted to see it again.
Once again, her thoughts reverted to the past. It seemed even when she was determined not to think of it, the mere sight of Digby had triggered memories she’d hoped were long buried.
It had been a fine spring day, and she had been fifteen, when it finally got too much to bear. No matter how much she objected, her parents would not give over the charade. Not one, but two Companions had passed through in the same week, and twice more of being dragged out—and the taunting afterward by boys who, by now, should have been old enough to know better and should have by rights been too busy with work to take the time to find her and tease her—had been the straw that broke the cow’s back.
By that point, she was an easy target for taunting; for years she’d been stuffing herself with anything she could get her hands on whenever the hurt got too bad. Food had turned into a source of comfort, and if it was salted with her tears, well, it was still consolation. But all that food had taken its own sort of toll. Now it was “Herald Fatty,” not “Herald Rosie,” with taunts about how she must have broken her Companion’s back.
So that night, before she could lose her nerve, she packed up what she could carry and a big basket of food, and she ran away. By dawn, she was far enough away from Hartrise that she figured she’d outpaced her pursuit—she could walk for leagues when she put her mind to it, and she’d been determined to escape. She did have some skills she could use to make her way, thanks to all those lessons her parents had forced down her throat. She’d reckoned that if she could find some religious place or a House of Healing, she could go to work making copies of books or writing letters for those who couldn’t. There was always room for a good scrivener. The one thing her parents’ constant nagging had done was ensure she had excelled past just about anyone in the village except the local priest when it came to reading and writing and figures. Certainly far past the bullying boys who reckoned they didn’t need to learn anything, since their strong shoulders and handsome faces were all they’d need. Marry a rich farmer’s daughter, and live in clover, was their idea of how they would prosper.
That didn’t work out so well for you, did it, Digby? she thought maliciously.
She’d come to a House of Healing first, but when she’d rung the bell and got no answer, then decided to go ahead and come in anyway, she discovered a scene out of a nightmare. There’d been an avalanche down onto the mining village of Stonetree, where a pile of tailings that had built up for generations had given way, and the place was full of smashed-up men, women, and children. She’d stood in the doorway of the main ward, transfixed with horror. There was blood everywhere, and the moans of the injured were somehow worse than screams. The Healers and their helpers had seen nothing in her but another pair of healthy hands; they’d snatched her things out of her hands and off her back, given her some rudimentary instruction, and shoved her at the least-injured, figuring anyone could bandage cuts and staunch the bleeding.
And then came the miracle she had never expected.
The moment her hands had touched the first child, she felt something flowing out of her, and before her own astonished eyes, the bleeding gashes down his arm and face stopped bleeding, closed, and sealed . . .
One of the Healers felt it happening, felt the flow of Healing energy suddenly surging out of her, and rushed to her. He was on his last legs, but she was fresh. He could muster enough energy to coach her in what she needed to do, though he was so spent he was just barely able to stay coherent.
Then came the second miracle, as she used up that store of fat she had built up, burning it off in a frenzy of Healing. By the end of the day, she was a full two stone lighter—and at the weight she should have been, if she hadn’t been cramming food in her mouth all these years. That was when she learned that the energy to Heal generally came from the Healer herself, and that the store of fat she had built up over the years was the source of the fuel that had driven her to do more that day than any but the most experienced. She had an instinctive talent for Healing that more than made up for her lack of training. And that put her out of reach of any other demand. Even if he
r parents had shown up at the door and demanded her back, the Healers would never have let her go.
Rosie, calling herself “Ruby,” had done her best to cover her trail so there was never a chance they’d find her in the first place. She’d spun a tale of being orphaned and looking for work, and the Healers didn’t question her, not once in all the time of her being there.
They’d asked once if she wanted to go to Healers’ Collegium in Haven. “And what can I learn there that you can’t teach me?” she’d asked. Since the answer was “Nothing,” she was spared having to face a horde of Companions, and Heralds, too, and be reminded how she had managed to fail over and over.
I’m not a failure, she told herself fiercely, as the wind stung her eyes and made them water. I’m not. I was never meant to be a Herald in the first place. And I am a damn good Healer, so there.
And just as she thought that . . . she heard the sound of bells and bell-like hooves racing toward her.
Brownie reacted to her start by stopping dead in his tracks, and before she could collect herself, the Companion whose hooves and bells she had heard rounded a bend of the road just ahead and skidded to a halt in front of her.
:Oh, thank goodness,: she heard, clearly, in her mind. :I didn’t think you were so close!:
Vixen held back the half-dozen things she might have said, most of them angry retorts that would have upset the poor thing, and throttled back on all the emotions pouring through her. After all, absolutely nothing she had gone through as a child was the fault of any Companion, or Herald either. “I take it your Herald is injured? Ill?” She did let out a slight sigh of exasperation. After all, it would make a Healer’s job a great deal easier if Heralds didn’t persist in flinging themselves enthusiastically into danger at the drop of a hat.
:Injured. He broke his ankle this morning; a plank on a footbridge gave way under him.:
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