Closer to the Heart

by Mercedes Lackey

  Hmm. I wonder. . . . There just might be something she could do with this.

  She sent her mind roaming farther, and as she had hoped, she found owls. Eagle-owls, specifically, which nested very early in the year, and now had a clutch of two youngsters to feed. They were looking for prey. The easier the better, as the fledglings were learning how to hunt at this stage.

  I’m sorry, pigeons. . . .

  The female was hunting already, lofting silently along, and Amily flew with her. Now she was very glad she had been memorizing maps for as long as she had. As the owl flew over a village, and then a town, she recognized by the configuration of the latter, and especially by an outsized and very imposing temple to the goddess Hestapha of the Hearth in the very center of town. This place had been mentioned quite a lot in the Heraldic Chronicles of this part of Valdemar. Women came to this temple from all around, when their men were going off to war; Hestapha was reputed to bring them home to their own hearths again in time of battle. One of the Chroniclers had noted wryly that there was no guarantee on the part of the priests what sort of shape the men would be in when they returned, but enough grateful spouses, sisters, and daughters had made thank-gifts over the centuries that this temple was quite splendid indeed.

  The village was Swallownest. The town was Hestaford. And there was a mostly unused Guard garrison-post just above the town, about two leagues away. Not abandoned; this post was a relic of the old days, when even the capitol of Haven could be menaced by bandit-lords, warlords, and other hostile sorts. The post was kept in good repair, just in case it might be needed for some other purpose—to house people rescued in the event of a disaster, or the Guards sent to rescue them, or both. It took very little to maintain a set of buildings in good repair, especially if they were made of stone, with slate roofs, as these were. From time to time, especially in wartimes, the garrison was put to use as a recruiting and training station for the Guard.

  And that answered the question of where she and Mags must be. Thallan must have taken over the fortress. There would have been no one there to question or oppose him, and it was within striking distance of Haven.

  She suggested to the owl that there was tasty prey at that normally empty garrison. Having found starlings and wild pigeons there in the past, the owl hooted a summons to her family, and bent her wings in that direction.

  It was very, very odd to experience this flight through an owl’s senses. Everything was black and white, of course, the owl could see an enormous amount, and her eyes were as keen as any falcon’s. But better still was her hearing. She actually heard the pigeons cooing in their sleep before Amily spotted, through her eyes, the dovecote that had been put up in the observation tower. They must have put it there so the pigeons would get a good start flying, and to protect them from weasels. If Amily hadn’t alerted the owl to its presence, though, likely enough the owl would never have known it was there, either, until Thallan and his men were gone.

  That cooing certainly got the owl’s attention.

  She had never seen a dovecote before, however, and as her mate and two owlets landed on the rail behind her, she prowled the little structure, staring intently at it, the pigeons inside utterly oblivious to what was about to happen.

  Because as the pigeons shifted on their perches, made soft little noises, and slept on, Amily pointed out the place where the thatch covering the top of the dovecote was thin, and put an image in the owl’s mind of how using her powerful talons to tear it apart at that point would bring a rich reward.

  A few moments later, there was carnage.

  A couple of the pigeons escaped the adult owls slaughtering the rest in the dovecote by flying out in a panic, but it was dark, and they landed almost immediately, becoming easy prey even for the unpracticed youngsters. The owls ate their fill of the best parts, then each seized a bird and lofted away, carrying it back to be cached near the nest for another meal later. They left behind nothing but blood, headless birds, and feathers.

  Not one pigeon escaped.

  And, of course, besides cutting off Thallan’s means of fast communication, now Amily knew exactly where they were jailed.

  :And now so do I,: said Rolan, triumphantly.

  • • •

  :We know where you are,: Dallen said, interrupting Mags’ search to identify every man within the walls of this place. He left off what he was doing and lay down for a little on the mattress; the straw inside crackled and gave off a clean scent of dried grass. His head might not have been hurting as much, but it had been a very long time since he last ate, and he was feeling a bit nauseous and a little weak. He had to get through that. He couldn’t afford weakness.

  :Well, th’ bad news is, they’re locked up tight’s ticks in ’ere, they’re all right cozy, they’re bein’ careful, an’ this place was made fer a siege. Thallan pretty much has ’em set up as if they was in a siege. Ain’t crackin’ this place soon.: Mags had drifted through minds waking and sleeping, and learned that although the garrison was small, it was of handpicked, battle-hardened men who knew exactly how best to defend what was essentially a fortress. Unless someone needed to enter or leave with a cart, the main entrance was kept shut, barred, and the portcullis down. There was a hidden postern-door around the back of the fortifications that the men used in case only one or two needed to get in and out. They had not revealed themselves to the people of the town; they’d brought in their own provisions, and they had brought a lot. This had not been an impulsive move on Thallan’s part. He had planned to be here, right now, probably because he had correctly deduced that getting Menmellith to declare war on Valdemar was the weakest part of his plan. These were probably not all of the men he had brought North with him, either. He probably had the great portion of them scattered around Haven, each with a particular set of Companions to target. They would fit right in. No one ever looked twice at a member of the Guard in and around the Palace, nor in and around Haven.

  Mags had located Cuburn, but the Healer had his shields up again, and there was no getting inside without alerting him to the fact that someone was trying to read his thoughts. He thought about forcing his way in . . . but it was unlikely he’d learn anything of use. The Healer was cowed and rattled, a very different man than the one that had bullied Bear and informed on Bear to Bear’s father. He’d spill whatever information he had, if Mags got hold of him and pressed him, but it was highly unlikely that Thallan had told him very much.

  He’d also located Thallan, who was asleep. He’d taken the best room in the garrison, but it was fairly sparsely furnished. Whatever was motivating this man, it wasn’t greed, nor a desire for the luxury that came with rank. Could it be that he was driven by patriotism, as he claimed?

  :If so,: Dallen said dryly, :It’s not the sort of patriotism that you and I would recognize as such, at least not for this land. He thinks he is the only arbiter of what is right for Valdemar. He thinks the King is weak because he is merciful; he thinks the Heralds are unnecessary at best, and an impediment to getting things done at the worst. He’s perfectly prepared to bring fire and the sword to innocent people in order to bring about the sort of changes he wants to see here.:

  Mags regarded the man’s dreams, which were, oddly, not full of the sort of martial imagery he had expected. No first-person view of battle, although there was battle raging in this dream. It was all at one remove, as if Thallan viewed it from above. As if it were all a military sand-table, where counters were moved to represent, not individual troops, but groups of them on the battlefield. As if troops were not people at all, but things, toys he could use and discard.

  :I don’ think he’s ever been in a real fight,: Mags said, slowly.

  :I don’t think so either. I think he’s sent men to fight, but never fought himself.:

  If anything, that made Mags even sicker. This was one of those despicable men who didn’t even regard his own men as human and important. They were
just counters in a grand game, to be used up and dispensed with as it pleased him. :You think he plans t’make hisself King?:

  Dallen’s reply surprised him. :No. I think if his wildest wish came to pass and Kyril was murdered or deposed, he’d pick some amiable, empty-headed highborn in the line of succession and set him up as a puppet. But I think what he intends to do, practically speaking, is that same thing in Menmellith. He’s going to win the pretender’s throne for him, then call in the debt and become the power behind the throne. He might well advise the new King to make Menmellith a client-state of Valdemar, but I doubt he’d ever let Heralds across the border. I think that is what this is all about; putting himself in real charge of an entire country, behind a figurehead that can be used to deflect all blame.:

  That made an ugly sort of sense.

  Dallen had more information, this part of it somewhat better. :Amily has just eliminated the likeliest means of his sending a message. She’s arranged for some owls to remove all of his messenger pigeons. That leaves only sending a human as a messenger, or gathering up his men and just making a charge for the Border or for Haven. He’d be an idiot to march on Haven; he has to know that by now Haven’s been warned.:

  All right then. Mags had plans of his own. :I don’ want Heralds within bow-shot of ’ere. I’m pretty certain-sure this bastard’s tol’ ’is men t’shoot th’ Companions first. I don’ think that was an idle threat, I think ’e don’ give a crap about Heralds or Companions. It ain’t worth the risk.:

  Dallen went silent. Mags sensed he was arguing—with Rolan, perhaps or maybe many Companions at once.

  :I ain’t backin’ down on this,: Mags warned. :I ain’t gonna be the one respons’ble fer a buncha dead Companions an’ a buncha Heralds broken. It ain’t gonna happen. I got better idears. Hear me?:

  Dallen did not reply.

  Mags waited, feeling something in the air, something like a storm, only this was a very personal storm. There was the sense of tension, building, building, building . . .

  Then the tension broke. Dallen responded in almost the same moment. :All right, we will follow your lead.:

  Mags did not smile; the situation was too grave for that. But there it was; the acknowledgement from Dallen . . . and likely, Rolan . . . that he knew what he was doing. Really knew what he was doing. This was the moment when he had been accepted as Dallen’s full partner, Dallen’s equal.

  I jest hope I act’lly do know what I’m doin’ . . .

  :Right then. ’Ere’s the basic plan . . . :

  • • •

  Amily clung to the bars of the door of her cell, her knuckles going white with tension, and her ears straining for the faintest of footfalls. Not Mags . . . she was fairly sure she was not going to hear Mags coming. But just in case something happened, and one of the guards decided to take an unexpected stroll. She hated this place. The cell was cold, the air was slightly damp, and everything smelled of stone. And there were almost no sounds. A hint of a cough far in the distance, a single drip of water somewhere, nowhere nearby, but nothing else, not even the squeak of a mouse. It made her feel a little frantic, this silence. It was horrid.

  She peered down one way, and then the other, her cheeks pressed tightly against the cold iron bars. The corridor outside the cell went on for about five lengths in either direction before ending in a T-junction. The walls, the floor, and the ceiling were all made of the same smooth, brown stone. Light from the lantern on the wall opposite her door reached all the way to the T-junctions, and there was light from another source gleaming off the walls down there. She wasn’t sure how far away Mags was, or which direction he would be coming from. She still hadn’t been able to coax the garrison’s only cat down here to find out what the place looked like. The cat already knew there was nothing she wanted, no prey to be found in the area of the cells, and she was disinclined to leave the kitchen.

  It was almost dawn. That, she knew from the cat, the horses drowsing in their stalls, and the birds on the roof. Some crows had already discovered the poor pigeons, and were having a feast in the guard-tower, but as yet no one had noticed the slaughter, for no one had gone up to feed and water them. They couldn’t be released, of course; if they were, they’d just return to their home-cote, so probably tending them was the last of the morning chores.

  The current guards were tired and sleepy, and the new ones, she knew from Mags, were not due to take their watch until after breakfast. They had at least a full candlemark before the next watch woke, got their meal, and came down to relieve the night-watch.

  Their hope was to get out via the postern door before the morning watch woke. That was the hope . . . because there was a heavy force of Guard troops on the way under the command of Sedric; they had been riding, not marching, most of the night, carried double behind Heralds on Companions, who would leave them just out of weapon-range of the garrison-fort. Rolan had told her all of this while Mags had been setting his own plans, disassembling his outfit, and getting out of his fetters. Once there, now that Thallan had no way of sending messages, they’d lay siege to it. The patient sort of siege, where the goal was to starve the opponents out. All the Valdemarans had to do was stay out of weapons’ range, and this would be as bloodless a conflict as possible.

  Meanwhile, back in Haven, at least according to Rolan, the King was explaining to the Menmellith delegation just what exactly was going on, and what he was doing about it. Of course, the Menmellith delegation might not accept that they had their miscreant and the King intended to bring him to justice. That was the chance they were going to have to take.

  Amily happened to be looking in the right direction as Mags ran silently into her hallway. Her heart leapt to see him; he looked dreadful, his eyes had a sort of bruised look to them, his hair was a fright, and his face was greenish. He dropped and slid to her door on his knees, lock-picks in his hands, and as she waited, wishing there was something she could be doing to help him, he deftly picked the lock and the door swung open. It was like magic, and she longed with all her heart to hug him and hold him—but instead, after he picked the lock on her ankle manacle as well, she ran to the end of the corridor and made sure there was no one coming while he put his tools away and got out his knife.

  Another few moments, and they were easing their way along the wall together, backs to the wall, hands lightly gliding along it on either side; she could not help here, either, as he was using his Mindspeech to determine where the next guard was. She tried not to shiver. It seemed unnaturally cold. She just watched the hand he held behind his back, and when he shook it once and clenched it, she stopped, her little chain-weapon in her hand. They had decided that would be the better of her weapons to use, if she had to attack anyone. She also had a sling, but no bullets or stones for it. Those they hoped to get once they got out of the gaol. The sling, which would keep her out of reach of someone who would certainly be bigger, taller, and heavier than she was, was the weapon she should use even in preference to her tiny, but powerful, bow. The Guards would certainly be armored, but probably not helmeted. A stone would knock them out. An eye-shot with an arrow would probably be fatal.

  Mags inched forward along the wall until he came to another T-junction. She remained where she was, weapon ready to use. He paused. She felt all her muscles clench up, and her heart start to pound as she held her breath.

  Then he whipped around the corner, and she quickly advanced to where he had been, staying out of sight. He would only call out if he needed her. There was a brief scuffling of feet, and a grunt, and then. . . .

  A faint whistle.

  She whisked around the corner to find him bending over an unconscious man in a blue Guard uniform, using his own equipment and clothing to tie him up and gag him. Working together, he at the head, and she at the feet, they took him back to the nearest cell, laid him down out of sight, and shut and locked the door. The Guard had had a sword and a knife; she took the knif
e, Mags took the sword. He was horribly heavy, but she wasn’t going to complain.

  They repeated this three times in complete silence; she took the second one’s sword this time, while he took the knife. The third, they merely took the weapons away and left them in another cell. She was beginning to feel hopeful. There was only one more guard to go. . . .

  And then an alarm bell sounded frantically through the empty halls, echoing and reverberating everywhere.

  Mags swore. “All right. That’s done it. Dunno what they found, but now we run for it.”

  She nodded, and followed on his heels as he dashed down the last corridor and around the corner and right into the startled guard. Mags hit the man in a running tackle and brought him down. The Guard wasn’t ready for it, and hadn’t prepared to fall. His head it the stone floor with a sickening crack.

  “Bloody hell,” Mags cursed, got up, and left the man lying. From the blood starting to pool sluggishly under his head, his skull had been pulped. He wouldn’t be getting up again.

  From the strange way he was breathing, Amily realized with a sinking heart that he might not survive.

  She felt her gorge rise at the thought, but swallowed it down. I don’t want to murder one of our own! her thoughts wailed in the back of her mind. But it was too late to do anything about it now. Mags headed down the corridor, leaving him lying, and she followed.

  Her stomach was in knots and her hands were shaking. It was one thing to have killed those Sleepgivers . . . the Sleepgivers had been trying to kill them, after all, and anyway, they weren’t even Valdemaran. But these were members of the Guard. Their own people. She’d been cuddled and scolded, picked up and carried about, guided and protected by the Guard all her life. That familiar blue uniform had always meant safety. Someone you could always count on, or run to.