Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  She was transferring the Truth Spell to him even as she accused him, forcing him to speak his real thoughts when next he opened his mouth.

  It worked more thoroughly than she had imagined it would. "Yes—and why not? Do I not feed and clothe them? Am I not their owner? They are mine, like their slut of a mother! She died without giving me my money's worth, and by the Gods, it is their duty to fill her place!"

  Talia was nauseated by the mind behind those words. No punishment seemed adequate to her to fit what he had done. An odd, disinterested corner of her weighed all the facts—and coldly made a thought-out, logical decision.

  Her revulsion and anger built until she could no longer contain it—and then it found the outlet that matched the decision she'd come to. She forced rapport on him—not the gentle sharing she had had with Kris, but a brutal, mental rape such as she had not dreamed she was capable of. Then with a sidewise twist, she pulled the stepdaughter into the union— and forced her memories into his mind, forced him to be her through all her pain-filled and horrified experiences.

  He gave a single gargling howl, stiffened, then dropped to his knees. His startled captors released him, but he was in no shape to take advantage of the situation. When they pulled him to his feet, his mouth hung slack and drooling, and there was no trace of sanity left in his eyes. Talia had locked him into a never-ending loop, as he re-lived, over and over, every waking moment that his stepdaughter had spent as his victim.

  The villagers moved away from her, one involuntary pace.

  Now she'd just shown them what she could do.

  "Herald?" one of the men said timidly, looking at her with respect tinged with fear. They knew that she had punished him herself even if they had no idea how. "What must we do with him?"

  "What you piease," she said wearily, "and according to your own customs. Whether he lives or dies, he has been dealt with."

  As they took him away, one of the women caught her attention. "Herald, we have heard you have a mind-magic. Is there aught you can do for this girl? And—I am a midwife. Would you take it amiss if she should 'lose' the child? Though I am not Gifted, I learned my craft among Healers. It can be done with no harm to her."

  In for a lamb—she thought, and nodded.

  The people were dispersing, too shocked and appalled even to whisper among themselves. Talia stumbled wearily to the knot of women, and knelt beside the shivering, sobbing girl. She eased into trance, and probed as Kerithwyn had taught her. She could "read," though she could not act on what she read. It was as she had suspected; the girl was too young, the not-born malformed. She transferred her attention to the girl's mind and began laying the foundation for a healing that time and courage could complete without any further intervention on Talia's part— imprinting as forcefully as she could that none of this had been the girl's own fault. Lastly, she sent the girl into a half-trance which would last for several days, during which the damage done to her body, at least, could be mended.

  She stood, bone-weary, and faced the midwife. "What you suggest would happen eventually, and it will be easier on her body if it were to happen now. She hates what she bears as much as she hates the father, and the cleansing of her body may bring some ease to her heart. And—tell her that she was never to blame for this. Tell her until she believes it."

  The midwife nodded without speaking, and she and the others led the half-aware girl to her house.

  Only the trader was left. His eyes brimmed with tears and gratitude; the proximity of his clean, normal mind was infinitely comforting to Talia. After the running sewer of the stepfather he seemed like a clear, sparkling stream.

  "Lady Herald—" he faltered at last, "—my life is yours."

  "Then take it, and do good with it, trader," she replied, burying her face in Rolan's neck, feeling her Companion's gentle touch slowly cleansing her of contamination.

  The trader's footsteps receded.

  And the sound of three sets of hooves was approaching. They rang with the unmistakable chime of Companion hooves on stone—and were accompanied by the soft sound of gently-moving bridle bells.

  Oh, Goddess, help me! she thought. No more—I can't bear any more.

  But the hooves continued to approach, and then she heard footsteps and felt hands take her shoulders. She looked up. It was Kris.

  "I saw the end, and I heard the rest from the midwife," he said quiedy. "But—"

  "But—you made a judgment and a punishment, Herald," said a strange voice, a female voice, age-roughened, but strong. Talia looked beyond Kris to see two unfamiliar faces; a woman about Keren's age, but strongly and squarely-built, and a young man perhaps a year or two older than Kris, with mouse-brown hair. Both wore the arrows of Special Messengers on the sleeves of their Whites.

  Special couriers—their Companions must have sensed the trouble, and brought them to help.

  And they were senior Heralds. "You did use your Gift on that man, did you not?" the young man asked, somberly.

  "Yes," she replied, meeting their eyes. "I did. And I would do the same if the circumstances warranted it."

  "Do you judge that to be an ethical use of your Gift?"

  "Is shooting raiders an ethical use of my hands?" she countered. "It's part of me; it is totally in my control, it does not control me. I made a reasoned and thought-out decision—if the man ever accepts his own guilt and the fact that what he did was wrong, he'll break free of the compulsion I put on him. Until then he will suffer exactly as he made his victims suffer. That seemed to me to be far more in keeping with his crime than imprisoning or executing him. So I judged, and meted out punishment; I stand by it—and I would do it again."

  She regarded them both with a certain defiance, and somewhat to her surprise, they both nodded with a certain amount of satisfaction.

  "Then I think that we are not needed here after all," said the woman. "Clear roads to you, brother— sister—"

  They wheeled their Companions and rode back out the gates without a single backward glance.

  That left only Kris.

  "You did very well, Herald Talia," he said gently.

  She stood wearily in the firm grasp of his hands, with his voice recalling her to duty. She longed beyond telling to lay that duty on him, and she knew that if she asked, he would take it.

  But if she laid it on anyone, she would be proving false to her calling. If this were a normal circuit, there would be no Kris to take up the burden of her tasks because she felt too worn, too sickened, too exhausted—and yes, too cowardly, too cowardly to face all those people and prove again to them that their trust was not misplaced, that a Herald could bring healing as well as punishment. And they must be shown yet again that though a Herald had powers the guilty had to fear, the innocent would never feel them. She must face the fear in those faces and turn it back into trust. Kris could not do that for her, and if he were not here, she would not even have the brief luxury of imagining that he could.

  She sighed, and hearing the weariness, the pain in that sigh, Kris almost wished that she'd ask for him to take over. His heart ached for her, but this was the trial by fire that every Herald had to face, soon or late, and she most of all. No matter what the personal cost, a Herald's duty must come first. She had proven that her Gift was under her control. She had proven that she was willing to accept the ethical and moral responsibilities that particular Gift laid upon her. Now she must prove she had the emotional and mental strength to carry any job she undertook to its end.

  She had no choice, and neither did he. They had accepted this responsibility along with every other aspect of becoming a Herald. But—he hurt for her.

  She looked up, and must have seen his thoughts writ plainly in his eyes.

  "I'd better locate the Town Council, the Mayor and the Clerk," she said, pulling herself up straight and schooling her face into calm. "There's work to do."

  As Kris watched her walk away, head high, carriage confident, nothing reflecting her inner agony, he felt a glow of pride.<
br />
  Now she was truly a Herald.

  Kris preceded her to the Waystation nearest the town and had all in readiness when she rode up, shoulders slumped in exhaustion. The rules governing both of them allowed him to do that much for her, at least. She sought their bed long before he, and was apparently asleep by the time he joined her, but in the darkness he felt her shaken with silent tears, and gathered her into his arms to weep herself to sleep on his shoulder.

  The second day she took reports and news, and began settling grievances. Kris winced to see how warily the townsfolk regarded her, like some creature from legend—powerful, and not necessarily to be trusted. It was well that this was such a large place, for after her performance of the previous day, it might have been difficult to find those willing to have her sit in judgment over them—except that there was no choice in the matter here. Anyone with a grievance to settle before a Herald in a place this size must register that fact in writing; with the witness of their own words, there was not one of them bold enough to deny his original will.

  Talia had the right to choose the order of their judgments; normally she did not exercise that right, but she chose otherwise this time. Wisely, she picked those cases to settle that required tact, understanding, and gentleness to come first. Gradually the townsfolk began to relax in her presence, began to lose their fear of her. By the third day, they were laughing at the occasional wry jest she inserted into her comments. By day's end, the fear was forgotten. By the fourth day, when she took her leave of them, she had regained their trust in Heralds, and more. Kris was so proud of her that he fairly shone with it as they rode on to their next stop.

  The gods must have agreed with him, for they were kind to Talia in this much, at least. There were no further crises for the rest of the circuit.

  "I can't believe it's over."

  "You'd better," Kris laughed, "since that's the rendezvous point ahead of us. And unless my eyes are deceiving me—"

  "They're not. That's a Companion grazing, and I think I see two mules."

  "So tonight is the last we'll spend in a Waystation for a while. Sorry?"

  "That I won't be eating your cooking or mine, or sleeping on straw? Be serious!"

  Kris chuckled, and squinted against the light of the westering sun. "Hark!" he intoned melodramatically. "Methinks our relief hath heard the silver sound of our Companions' hooves."

  "Or the rattling of your few thoughts in your empty head—" Talia kneed Rolan and they galloped into the lead. "It's Griffon!"

  Sure enough, it was Talia's year-mate, who had gotten into Whites at the same time, but evidently finished his own internship early. She slid off Rolan's back after both of them had pulled up beside him with a clattering of hooves and jangling of bridle bells, and delivered a hearty kiss and embrace that sent him blushing as red as ever she had. He greeted Kris with such obvious relief that both of them were hard put to keep from chuckling at his bashfulness.

  "There's an inn just a half hour down the road from here," he told them, stammering a trifle. "They're expecting you. I thought you'd probably rather sleep soft tonight, so when Farist caught the edges of Rolan's sending, I rode down there and warned them."

  "Right, and thanks!" Kris answered for both of them, touched by the unexpected courtesy. "Seems like it's been forever since we had real beds."

  "Not true," Talia interrupted him. "We had a real bed just a bit over four months ago, with Tedric."

  "So we did, but it still seems like forever. That reminds me though; my first bit of advice to you is to always plan to stop at the northernmost Resupply Station; it's right near Berrybay. Tedric is a good host, loves having company, and his cooking—!" Kris rolled his eyes heavenward in mock ecstacy.

  "And my first bit of advice is to watch out for the other northernmost surprise—" Briefly Talia outlined the plague's symptoms and described how it had decimated Waymeet.

  They took turns detailing some of the hazards and pitfalls of this circuit, then turned their chirras and their remaining supplies over to him. Griffon helped them load their own gear on his mules, and by the time it was dusk, he was well settled into the Station and they were ready to be on their way.

  As the lights of the inn shone through the darkness ahead of them, Kris sensed Talia's involuntary shiver.

  "I know," he told her softly. "Now it's over—and now is when it really starts to get hard. But you're ready. Trust me, little bird, you are ready."

  "You're sure?" she replied in a small, doubtful voice.

  "As sure as I've ever been of anything in my life. You've been ready since Westmark. If you can handle that, you can handle anything; touchy nobles, Heirs with adolescent traumas, heart-wounded Heralds—"

  "Mooncalf Heralds with lifebonds?" she asked with a tinge of sarcasm.

  "Even that. Especially that. You haven't let it get in the way of anything yet, and you won't now. You're ready, dearheart. And if you dare make a liar out of me—"

  "You'll what?"

  "I'll—I'll commission a Bard to write you into something scathing."

  "Great Goddess!" she reeled in the saddle, clutching her heart as if stabbed, her high spirits restored. "A death worse than Fate!"

  "See that you behave yourself then," he grinned. "Now come on—there's dinner waiting, and soft feather beds; and after that—"

  "Yes," she sighed, staring down the road to the south. "Home. At last."

  --3 Arrow’s Fall (1988)—

  V1.1. There were lots of scanning errors, and a few really bad patches. Spell-checked, and chapters 0-2 and 8-end read. A couple of bad patches remain.

  V1.2 Fixed bad patch towards end of story. Put in page-breaks.

  Prologue

  Long ago—so long ago that the details of the conflict are lost and only the merest legends remain—the world of Velgarth was wracked by sorcerous wars. With the population decimated, the land was turned to wasteland and given over to the forest and the magically-engendered creatures those peoples had used to fight those wars, while the people that remained fled to the eastern coastline, for only in those wilderness areas could they hope to resume their shattered lives. In time, it was the eastern edge of the continent that became the site of civilization, and the heartland that in turn became the wilderness.

  But humans are resilient creatures, and it was not overlong before the population once again was on the increase, moving westward, building new kingdoms out of the wilds.

  One such kingdom was Valdemar. It had been founded by the once-Baron Valdemar and those of his people who had chosen exile with him rather than face the wrath of a selfish and cruel monarch. It lay on the very western-and-northernmost edge of the civilized world, bounded on the north and northwest by wilderness that still contained uncanny creatures, and on the far west by Lake Evendim, an enormous inland sea. Travel beyond Valdemar was perilous and uncertain at the very best of times, and at the worst a traveler could bring weird retribution on innocents when the creatures he encountered back-trailed him to his point of origin.

  In part due to the nature of its founders, the monarchs of Valdemar welcomed fugitives and fellow exiles, and the customs and habits of its people had over the years become a polyglot patchwork. In point of fact, the one rule by which the monarchs of Valdemar governed their people was, “There is no ‘one true way.’”

  Governing such an ill-assorted lot of subjects might have been impossible—had it not been for the Heralds of Valdemar.

  The Heralds had extraordinary powers, yet never abused those powers; and the reason for their forbearance—in fact for the whole system—was the existence of creatures known as “Companions.”

  To one who knew no better, a Companion would seem little more than an extraordinarily graceful white horse. They were for more than that. The first Companions had been sent by some unknown power or powers at the pleading of King Valdemar himself—three of them, at first, who had made bonds with the King, his Heir, and his most trusted friend, who was the Kingdom Herald. So
it came to be that the Heralds took on a new importance in Valdemar, and a new role.

  It was the Companions who chose new Heralds, forging between themselves and their Chosen a mind-to-mind bond that only death could sever. While no one knew precisely how intelligent they were, it was generally agreed that their capabilities were at least as high as those of their human partners. Companions could (and did) Choose irrespective of age and sex, although they tended to Choose youngsters just entering adolescence, and more boys were Chosen than girls. The one common trait among the Chosen (other than a specific personality type: patient, unselfish, responsible, and capable of heroic devotion to duty) was at least a trace of psychic ability. Contact with a Companion and continued development of the bond enhanced whatever latent paranormal capabilities lay within the Chosen. With time, as these Gifts became better understood, ways were developed to train and use them to the fullest extent of which the individual was capable. Gradually the Gifts displaced in importance whatever knowledge of “true magic” was left in Valdemar, until there was no record of how such magic had ever been learned or used.

  Valdemar himself evolved the unique system of government for his land: the Monarch, advised by his Council, made the laws; the Heralds dispensed the laws and saw that they were observed. The Heralds themselves were nearly incapable of becoming corrupted or potential abusers of their temporal power. In all of the history of Valdemar, there was only one Herald who had ever succumbed to that temptation. His motive had been vengeance—he got what he wanted, but his Companion repudiated and abandoned him, and he committed suicide shortly thereafter.