Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  Tre'valen laughed. "And know who to ask, and guess what will result, and know how to cope with the results, and after that, the universe is easy to live with, hey?"

  To his own surprise, An'desha laughed along with the Avatar, his earlier shame forgotten. He realized at that moment that he felt much more comfortable with the Avatars now than he ever had dreamed he would.

  "We are your friends, An'desha," Dawnfire said, as if she was following his thoughts.

  He nodded, feeling the same warmth he knew in Karal's company. They were his friends, as well as his guides and teachers—and could it be that the distance between them, that gulf between student and mentor, was narrowing more with every moment?

  "Soon enough," Tre'valen said enigmatically.

  Well, that might be. What was certain was that things were by no means desperate, though Karal had reached his own limit. Karal's own reticence and determination not to reveal his difficulties had actually worked against him. Most of his friends had probably not been aware of his plight; now they knew, and now was the time to organize them to do something about it.

  The gryphons! They like Karal—and it would take a braver man than Jarim to cross them! I need to talk to them, let them know what's been going on—

  "Now you are beginning to see your options," Tre'valen encouraged. "And now, I think, you should go where you can do something about them."

  "But return again, little brother," Dawnfire added, as he prepared to return to his body and the world he knew. "The Moonpaths are always open to your walking."

  He gathered himself; flung himself down, and then in.

  And only then, as he opened his eyes in the quiet of the garden, did he pause to think about the significance of that last remark.

  The Moonpaths are always open to your walking. The Moonpaths—all Shin'a'in could walk them on the nights of the full moon, but for Dawnfire to say that they were always open to his walking meant that he now possessed a status, a power reserved for Sword-Sworn, Goddess-Sworn—

  —and shaman.

  An'desha looked in on Karal the next morning after Firesong had gone, to find him barely awake, drugged and sleepy and not really able to think well. He spoke in monosyllables, yawning between each phrase. That made him tractable, which so far as An'desha was concerned, was all to the good.

  "Can't get up," Karal complained, and yawned. "Too tired."

  "Then stay there; I'll get your breakfast," An'desha told his friend and left before Karal could object. He made certain that Karal ate—soft, mild foods that the Healer had prescribed—then saw to it that he drank all the potions the Healer had left. He left Karal alone with a book to make his own meal, and by the time he returned, Karal was asleep again, the book fallen from his hands onto his chest. An'desha smiled down at him and walked softly out.

  Good. He should stay that way until this afternoon, and that leaves me free to prowl.

  Rather than don his more colorful Shin'a'in garb, he ransacked his wardrobe to find a plain brown tunic and black trews, which he thought would blend nicely into the background. There wasn't a great deal he could do about his hair, but he thought that if he tied it back and kept to the sidelines, he should be, if not ignored, certainly less conspicuous.

  He took an unaccustomed place at Morning Court, staying carefully on the edges of the crowd, near the curtains. He said nothing, but kept his ears open.

  Karal was the major topic of the conversations he overheard; he had positioned himself as near to the Guild Masters as possible, mostly to see what people who could reasonably be thought to be uncommitted would say.

  He strained his ears, eavesdropping shamelessly, the moment he heard Karal's name. "... the Karsite is not in his room," said the Master of the Goldsmith's Guild grimly. "The servants say he was not there last night. I fear that the Shin'a'in's accusations are too true."

  "Your news is late and incomplete," replied a woman in the tabard of the Weaver's Guild crisply. "The Karsite is not in his room because he collapsed last night. The Healers have seen to him, and they say that he is ill with strain and grief." She looked at the Master Goldsmith in a way that made An'desha think there was a long history of rivalry between them.

  "And this means that Envoy Jarim's accusations must then be false?" the Master Goldsmith retorted, with a broad gesture that nearly knocked the cap off of a young page next to him. "I think not! If I were an Imperial spy, I do not doubt I would be under great strain, and as for grief, we have only the Healer's word for that."

  "And you doubt the Queen's Own, who says the same?" the woman snapped, crossing her arms over her thin chest. "One might well ask where your loyalties lie, if you choose not to believe what Herald Talia says!"

  The Master Goldsmith smiled at her in a superior fashion. "I say only that it is strange that the boy survived when the master did not. I say it is strange that the boy was made envoy. It is strange that the mage-storms first appeared after his arrival, and it is strange that the boy preaches peace with the devils who are responsible for the death of his master." The Master Goldsmith was clearly not deterred by the vehemence of his fellow Master, and it seemed that Karal's plight represented a way for him to voice some agenda of his own.

  There were plenty of people gathered around these two, courtiers and high-ranking tradesmen alike, all dressed in the fine costumes An'desha had come to expect for a Court ceremony of any kind. An'desha examined the faces of those within earshot of this conversation. All of them mirrored the same emotion; grim concern.

  They think Karal's illness is nothing more than a corroboration of Jarim's accusations. An'desha knew that his face mirrored concern, too, but it was for a far different cause. He hoped there were enough people here who knew Karal too well to even suspect him of something so outrageous.

  The two Guild Masters turned their verbal sparring match to another topic. He moved on, wondering what he should do about the situation, and circulated among the onlookers at Morning Court, still silent, still listening. Karal had his friends at Morning Court, and they were out in force—even Treyvan the gryphon made a rare appearance, and he was brief but adamant in his support.

  But Jarim's adherents were far more vocal—and it was difficult to prove a negative. Karal's supporters had only their feelings and a few facts to support them; Jarim's had all the wild speculations they cared to concoct.

  An'desha debated attending the Grand Council meeting, knowing that Jarim would do his best to turn it into an indictment of Karal. There had to be a way to keep him from having that official channel!

  He debated it all through the Court, and finally decided to take full and unfair advantage of his position and approach Prince Daren himself.

  He waited until Morning Court was over, extracted himself from the milling crowd, and presented himself at the door of the Queen's Chambers, requesting a private audience with the Prince-Consort.

  He waited in the wood-paneled antechamber, watched carefully by both door guards, who clearly did not recognize him out of his normal costume. He found himself wondering if the Prince would even hear his request, or if some official, unfamiliar with his name and position and deceived by his modest costume, would simply intercept the message. They'll probably ask me to come back later, or wait until the Grand Council meeting, he told himself. If it was Firesong who was asking—

  "Sir?" a page popped his head out of the door, startling not only him but the two guards. "You're to come in immediately, An'desha, sir!"

  As the guards stared at one another and at him, obviously wondering who he was that he rated this kind of reception, An'desha didn't wait for a second invitation. The page opened the door, and he slipped in past the boy and into the reception room of the Queen's Chamber.

  Apparently he was not the only one who was wasting no time; rather than a servant, Prince Daren was standing right there in person waiting for him, one hand stretched out in welcome.

  "An'desha!" he exclaimed, clasping An'desha's hand warmly as the Shin'a'in re
ached for the Prince's hand. "Talia warned us what was happening last night. How is Karal, truly? She wasn't certain just how he was responding." He gestured at one of the carved chairs that stood beside a small table in the middle of the room, and An'desha took it, although the Prince himself remained restlessly standing.

  "Sick and asleep, Highness," An'desha answered gravely. "He will mend his body, and the Healers say soon, but it is up to us, I think, to mend this situation. If we cannot, he will collapse again from the strain."

  Daren ran a hand through thick blond hair and sighed gustily. "I was afraid that he might be sicker than anyone had told us," the Prince said with relief. "He's—he's a good boy, but much too inclined to hide his hurts, I think. Listen, I intend to overturn every attempt by Jarim to make any accusations against Karal in the Grand Council meetings. If he won't come around, I'll exercise my prerogative as the Queen's proxy and dismiss the meetings altogether." He smiled grimly. "We can afford to do without these meetings for a week or two. The real work is being done by Kerowyn, the mages, and the artificers anyway. Frankly, we've been going through with them partly because we must keep the people appraised of our progress, and partly out of hope that something new might come out of them. I must admit that I would not mind an excuse to cancel these time-wasting exercises for a while."

  Greatly daring, An'desha decided to ask a question that he had no right to ask. "Highness, have you heard from High Priest Solaris? I cannot believe that she does not know of all of this. She has had her ways of knowing things immediately before this."

  Daren looked at him strangely. "I have," he said, slowly, "This very morning, a message from her lay among the correspondence on my desk, and it had not been there last night, nor did a page or a messenger bring it. And I believe that you should tell Karal what I have been sent. It was only two words long." He paused, and an odd, unreadable expression passed across his face. "It said, 'Karal remains,' and was signed by Solaris herself." He shook his head. "I am not certain what to make of it, but the meaning is plain enough."

  An'desha nodded. "Karal is still her chosen representative. She could simply be keeping him in place, though, until this current crisis is over so that it does not look as if she is replacing him because of guilt."

  "I hope so." Daren was too well-schooled to pace, but he shifted his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot. "We have done all we can to bolster his authority, but there is only so much we can do when he has to deal with people who have not known him from the moment he arrived here."

  An'desha grimaced, and quickly changed the subject. He and the Prince discussed what they could do to try to redeem Karal's reputation, but both admitted that they were handicapped by Jarim's prejudice.

  "I will see what I can do to have him recalled and replaced by a Sworn or a shaman," the Prince said finally. "But that will take time, time during which he is free to poison minds."

  "And we must try to find an antidote to that poison." An'desha hesitated, then shrugged. "I can think of nothing more to say or do at the moment."

  "Nor I, the Prince admitted. "But thank you for coming to me. You have given me reasons to do things I had wanted to do in the first place. Jarim is not a bad person, but he is a miserable failure as an envoy. I suspect the Shin'a'in have not had much experience at selecting people to represent their interests off the Plains."

  An'desha laughed as he rose to his feet and made his way toward the door. "I would make a better envoy than he, I'm afraid." At Daren's look of sudden interest and speculation, he added in warning, "They would never accept me unless I were to be made a shaman. I possess magic, and as such, I could never be said to represent them. No Shin'a'in can practice magics but the shaman, and there is an end to it."

  "As one who practices magics and has endured more than a hundred warriors, you have an understanding that Jarim sorely lacks," Daren retorted dryly.

  An'desha shook his head, thanked Daren for his time and patience, then took his leave, secure in the knowledge that the Prince-Consort would keep Jarim on a short leash.

  He returned to the ekele to find that Karal was awake and sitting sleepily in the sun in the garden. Warm golden sunlight streamed through the eastward-facing windows, making a green-gold glory out of a scrap of lawn surrounded by flowering shrubs with aromatic leaves. Karal had made himself a soft place to sit with a rug purloined from among An'desha's things, a few cushions, and a blanket from the bed.

  "What are you doing down here?" An'desha asked sternly, gazing down at him with both hands planted on his hips. "The Healer said you were to stay in bed!"

  Karal looked sheepish, but he did not look away from An'desha's face. "I couldn't sleep anymore," he said. "I won't go anywhere else, and I'll drink everything except the sleeping potions, but I can't stand being so muzzy-brained." He looked pleadingly into An'desha's eyes. "I promise that I will take naps if I can, but I don't want to be forced into it. The drugs—" now he faltered, "—they're making me dream of—of the Iftel border."

  An'desha shuddered; that was one experience he didn't particularly want to recall either, and he knew it had been worse for Karal. "All right. I must admit that I'd feel better knowing you weren't asleep and alone here. Herald Kerowyn has beaten enough self-defense into you that I think you can protect yourself if you're awake. Assuming anyone or anything could get past all the Companions out there." He paused for a moment. "Prince Daren asked me to tell you that he's heard from Solaris. It was a two-word message; 'Karal remains.' Maybe you can make more out of that than I can."

  Karal only shook his head.

  "I have a plan," An'desha continued, "but it's going to take a few days to put into motion. Meanwhile, your friends are out there defending you; you haven't been deserted. I think if I let them know that you're up to seeing visitors, you won't be alone here for long, either." At the sudden interest and veiled hope in Karal's face, he added, "I believe that Natoli in particular has plans to keep you company."

  Karal's blush told him all he needed to know on that score. So, there was something brewing between them besides merest friendship.

  Good. Very good. It's about time, for both of them. Natoli has been one of the boys for too long, particularly since she isn't she'chorne any more than Karal is.

  "And in the meantime, I have brought you books that have nothing to do with politics or wars or magic. Here." He dropped the three books he had taken from the library beside his friend. "You read them and think of nothing. I shall go off and attempt to exercise my Shin'a'in craft and guile."

  Karal laughed at this, because of course the Shin'a'in were noted even as far north as Valdemar for being the least crafty and most direct people in the Alliance. "As straightforward as a Shin'a'in" was an old saying that An'desha had encountered more than once.

  Perhaps that was because no one in the Alliance recognized how directness could be used as cleverly as guile… nor did they realize how telling only part of the truth could be as deceptive as telling a full lie.

  For three days, An'desha left the defense of Karal's honor in the hands of Karal's other friends and concentrated on Jarim himself. It had occurred to him that there might yet be a way to get to the man; he was not unlike the Chief Healer of Karal's old Clan. Tor'getha was not a bad man, but he was quick to leap to conclusions, and quick to look for enemies outside his own folk. Yet when he was presented with enough evidence, Tor'getha had been known to change his mind.

  So the first thing was to establish that he really was what he claimed, and not simply some rootless vagabond pretending to Shin'a'in blood as a door to opportunities. Dressing conservatively, but unmistakably in the Shin'a'in style, An'desha hovered about the edges of any group that included Jarim. Karal's actual whereabouts were not known except to those few of his friends who could be trusted with the information, so Jarim was not aware that An'desha was playing host to the young Karsite. After three days of near-constant attention, Jarim had stopped frowning and sneering whenever he saw An'desha, and was watching h
im with a puzzled expression, as if he was wondering just what An'desha wanted.

  An'desha let him wonder; his plan depended on Jarim approaching him, not the other way around. He felt very much like those who hunted falcons and hawks, who would bury themselves in sand or leaves with a live, fluttering pigeon in one hand, waiting for their quarry to come and take the bait. When the hawk descended, it would be a fight to keep him—though hopefully this particular quarry would not realize there was a struggle going on.

  At last his patience was rewarded; the quarry came to investigate the bait. Jarim intercepted him on the third afternoon of Karal's absence, just as he was leaving the Palace, heading for the ekele.

  Jarim was actually waiting for him at the door to the path through the gardens. "An'desha. I wish to speak with you." He paused awkwardly, looking puzzled as he groped for words. Dust-motes drifted in a shaft of sunlight from the window above the door, lancing between them like a wall. "You claim Shin'a'in blood, yet you do not look Shin'a'in, for all that you ape our dress and customs and speak our tongue freely. I—" His mouth twitched as he tried to find diplomatic words and came up with no diplomatic way to say what he wanted. "I am the representative of the Shin'a'in here, and I would have no impostors claiming to be of the Clans."

  An'desha smiled mildly. This was exactly what he wanted, to establish his credentials. "My father was Le'kala shena Jor'ethan," he replied steadily. "My mother was an Outlands woman, a weaver, dwelling at Kata'Shin'a'in. My father, they say, had a need to wander, which took him often to the edge of the Plains, most often to Kata'Shin'a'in, where he would see and mingle with the largest number of foreign folk." He licked his lips. "My mother died at my birth, and he brought me into the Clan to be raised there as a son of the Bear."

  "Halfblooded, then—" Jarim began dismissively, clearly preparing to deny him true Clan status. An'desha interrupted him.