The hertasi, who appeared to be the work-crew chief, looked around, and nodded after a moment. “You’re probably right,” it admitted. It (it was usually impossible for humans to tell which hertasi was male and which female) stowed the last of its tools in its toolbox, then bent and picked up the heavy box as easily as if it had weighed no more than a basket of eggs. The other hertasi cleared out as the crew chief took a last look around and nodded again. “It’s solid,” the hertasi said, the ultimate compliment that any hertasi would ever pay to its own work. “Even Ayshen will agree to that.”
It trotted out with a wave of farewell to Darian, who shook his head and had to laugh.
He left through the door into the guest lodge just as more hertasi arrived, bearing bales of hay and bags of grain. More were following, carrying cleaning supplies, although he could not imagine how the place could possibly be any cleaner. But then, he wasn’t a hertasi.
The guest lodge had been cleaned and polished until every surface gleamed; the mattresses taken out and restuffed, new linens made for the beds, new blue gauze curtains hung on the windows. There were flowers in all the rooms, scented candles in holders on every table, with bundles of additional candles tied with a ribbon stocked in an open cabinet in the main room. Last year a bathing room had been added to the guest lodge since not every guest cared to bathe in company; like Darian’s, this bathing room was supplied with sun-heated water from a tank above the roof. He took a quick peek, and saw that everything possible had been supplied here, as well. In two of the rooms, a set of white clothing designed by the hertasi was laid out on the bed. Presumably one set had been made to Shandi’s measurements. As for Herald Anda, perhaps the hertasi had simply guessed at the size for the other set. It was easy enough to tell which room had been designated for each Herald, though. The room that was to be Shandi’s held some of her old possessions brought from Errold’s Grove, and a specially chosen basket of sewing and embroidery supplies.
Obviously there was nothing more he needed to do here. As Darian walked out onto the covered porch that surrounded the Lodge, he nearly ran into another hertasi, an adolescent by its build. “Dar’ian - you are to prepare!” the youngster blurted out before he could apologize for his clumsiness. “The guests are less than two hours distant!”
He glanced up at the sky, trying to tell where the sun was through the trees, and judged that it was early afternoon. The Heralds had made good time, but the Vale was ready for them.
All except me! he reminded himself, and bolted up the trail to his ekele.
It was empty when he arrived; Keisha had probably gotten ready hours ago. He had seen her outfit earlier; the hertasi that had adopted the two of them had outdone themselves in the way of clothing for her. She now had a set of Greens that would be the envy of every Healer who saw them. There would be plenty of Healers to impress, too; every Sanctuary Healer that could get away had been arriving all morning. Even if they hadn’t been anxious to meet the new Heralds, no one wanted to miss a Vale-wide Hawkbrother celebration. K’Valdemar had a far-flung reputation for its hedonistic hospitality on such occasions.
The hertasi hadn’t exactly shirked when it came to Darian’s outfit either, but at the moment he wasn’t concerned with his clothing. After helping with the stables since early morning, what he needed most was a bath.
Once clean, he hurried into the first of his four sets of “welcoming” garb. This first set, the most exotic and ornamental of the lot, was for today, when the Heralds were formally -greeted and welcomed into k’Valdemar Vale. This was to mark his primary allegiance to his Vale and Clan. Tomorrow, he would wear Valdemaran formal military garb, although it would not be in Guard blue, but in brown, with badges of owls rather than the winged horse of Valdemar. This outfit included light ornamental armor and came complete with embroidered surcoat displaying his new arms. But the arms were not in Valdemaran style, but in the mode of the Hawkbrothers - the fluid, sinuous curves and stylization they had developed over the course of centuries. And the device itself was not Valdemaran either, for there was not a single noble family in all of the land that used an owl for their device. It seemed odd to him, but it was so. Lord Breon told him that owls were considered ill-omened in some parts; it was said that if an owl landed on one’s house three nights in a row and called, someone in the house would die. Others swore that owls were the eyes of evil spirits, because they flew so silently and attacked in the darkness when no other creature could see. There were plenty of nocturnal creatures besides owls, including animals no one thought of as evil - but there was no arguing with superstition. The good part was that there was no one to argue with when he planned his device around a stylized portrait of Kuari coming in to land, wings spread wide.
He would spend the night in that outfit, in vigil. The next morning he would change into his third outfit, Valdemaran Court garb, with a more elaborate version of his embroidered surcoat, this one sparkling with gold-and-silver thread and tiny gem-stones. He had no idea how the hertasi had managed to get not one, but two embroidered surcoats done in time, yet they had. There was always the belief that there were more hertasi than anyone ever actually saw, down in their burrows - and since so many looked alike to human eyes, who could count for sure just how many there were to make the goods they brought? That outfit was for the feast celebrating his knighting. Hopefully they’d let him get a nap before he had to endure hours of a formal Valdemaran feast. . . .
But that wasn’t the end. On the fifth day - they were going to allow him a day to rest before he took up the trial again - he would don a set of clothing that was a blend of Ghost Cat and Hawkbrother styles. Crafted mostly of supple leather, it was decorated with Kuari’s feathers, ornaments of carved bone harvested from Kuari’s kills, beadwork with an owl-and-feather theme, and finished with a belt and dagger-sheath carved with a frieze of standing owls. Under it all was a draped loincloth, woven with a decorative pattern of feathers. He would put it all on only to take it off again (except for the loincloth), for this was his costume for his presentation at the Ghost Cat sweathouse.
At least both Heralds would have to keep him company through most of this. They would stand guard to make certain he didn’t fall asleep during the vigil, and Anda would join all the men in the sweat-house ceremony while Shandi waited with the women in the drum-circle outside. The women had their own rituals, which were held secret from the men; all he knew was that they involved drumming for the men in the lodge.
Right now, however, he had best concentrate on today’s ordeal.
This was not the sort of outfit he would have chosen to wear to a celebration, but fortunately, like the clothing that Snowfire and Nightwind wore for their wedding, he was going to be able to abandon part of it once the most formal portions of the evening were over. The base was a comfortable, soft sleeveless tunic of silk the color of red amber, and a pair of dark brown silk trews. Over this went a hip-length vest woven with a pattern of owl feathers, buttoned with amber toggles. Over that went an ankle-length coat, this cut of and lined with silk the color of honey amber, with a high collar, sleeves scalloped to resemble great wings, and so completely embroidered with owl feathers that very little of the original silk showed through. It was belted over the hips with a belt made of plaques of tiger-eye stone carved with more owls, no two of which were alike. The belt clasp was the mask of an owl, made in two halves that met so perfectly that it looked like a solid piece when buckled. The eyes were amber, the beak of creamy shell all the way from Lake Evendim, and the owl mask of carved horn, each feather individually carved and fitted to a metal backing plate. His boots of warm brown leather were inlaid on each calf with a design of an owl feather in four different shades of brown deerskin.
The coat was infernally heavy; not hot, but heavy. The weight of all that beading and embroidery hung on his shoulders like the heaviest pack he’d ever had to hike with.
Once the entire outfit was on, he waited for Meeren to return to inspect him and put the fin
ishing touches on his appearance.
He certainly couldn’t put the finishing touches on himself; he could hardly move without knocking something over with his sleeves.
It wasn’t long until Meeren trotted in the door, clad himself in a coat made of thousands of tiny black octagonal scales of metal, forming a “fabric” as flexible as silk. Meeren examined him closely, looking at him from all angles, before pronouncing his satisfaction. “You’ll do,” the hertasi said. “Now sit, and let me make you presentable.”
Darian sat gingerly on a low stool, and Meeren moved in, brush and comb in hand. Despite his apprehension, Meeren did not pull every hair out of Darian’s head; in fact, he was remarkably gentle. Darian had allowed his hair to grow long, Tayledras-fashion, so that he could braid feathers and beads into it as his Clan-brothers did. It took a defter hand than his to achieve the kind of effects that Firesong or Starfall managed, and that was where Meeren came in.
He sat patiently as Meeren worked, wondering what was going on, but unable to tell anything from the gentle tugs and pulls on his hair. Meeren didn’t take long, not as long as the hertasi must have taken with Keisha, but Darian was very impatient to see his handiwork, and shifted restlessly on his stool.
“All right, all right, I’m finished!” Meeren exclaimed. “Go ahead and look - but don’t admire yourself too long; they’re waiting for you at the Vale entrance.”
He got up carefully, mindful of his costume, and moved into the bedroom to peer into the only mirror in the house.
It was a pleasant surprise, for he had been a little afraid that Meeren would overdo the decorations; Meeren had worked Kuari’s feathers, a few strands of amber beads, and leather thongs finished with tiny silver feathers and figurines into his hair without making him look like a walking display of hair-jewelry. In fact, with his hair pulled back from his face and given a little more discipline, he looked a few years older than he actually was. That was exactly the effect he’d hoped for, but when he turned to thank the hertasi, Meeren was already gone.
It’s time for me to be gone, too. He took a last look at himself, satisfied himself that everything was fastened in firmly and wasn’t going to come apart, then headed for his destination at a trot that would have been a run if not for the weight.
The Veil distorted the view past the entrance, but there was no doubt that everyone who could possibly appear to greet the Heralds had made it his business to come. As he passed the Veil itself, the tingle along his skin and down his spine seemed a bit stronger than usual; that probably meant Starfall and Firesong had gotten the Veil strengthened enough to keep out rain and inclement weather. Of course, now that they’ve got the “umbrella” up, it won’t rain.
When he emerged on the other side and surveyed the crowd beneath trees that were only large by the standards of those who lived outside a Vale, he saw Keisha wave at him, then run to meet him. She looked a great deal more comfortable in her Greens than he was in his costume; her outfit was a butterfly-sleeved, calf-length tunic over long trews, belted with silver. Silver embroidery of leaves and vines on all hems was the extent of ornamentation, for the real emphasis in her costume was the fabric, which somehow managed to ripple through every possible shade of green as she moved. She seized his arm and tugged him to the right, looking relieved. Out in the crowd, there were at least two brightly painted inflated kick balls being tossed about randomly from person to person.
“Are they here yet?” he asked, wondering if he had missed the ceremony somehow.
“No, no, not yet, but Kel has them in sight.” She gestured upward, and he followed her pointing finger to a patch of blue sky in the canopy of leaves. A small black speck rode a thermal in a slow, lazy circle overhead. Kel is obviously planning on making an impressive entrance, he thought with amusement. His favorite hobby, besides being preened.
But Keisha was tugging on his arm again, and he followed her obediently out past the restless mob of his fellow Hawkbrothers. Anticipation hung thickly in the air, and mingling with the Tayledras were members of Ghost Cat, villagers from Errold’s Grove, and Lord Breon’s people. Errold’s Grove would get its own chance to greet the Heralds, but that wouldn’t take place until the sixth day, and Darian intended to avoid that particular festival if he possibly could. He fully expected to be passed out in his bed then by the time all parties involved had gotten done with him.
There was no elevated platform setting the greeting committee apart from the rest, but one wasn’t needed. If nothing else, the costumes marked all of the principal players out; the last time Starfall, Snowfire, and Nightwind had worn their elaborate outfits had been at Snowfire and Nightwind’s wedding. Since then, the heavily embroidered and embellished items had been serving as wall art, as Darian’s own costume eventually would. Firesong had outdone all of them; if sheer magnificence of clothing was the standard of importance, Herald Anda would surely think that he was the leader in this Vale. Silverfox lacked Firesong’s impressive mask, but that was all he lacked; in every other respect, he was Firesong’s reverse-image twin. The two of them were clad in blue and gold; where Firesong had gold in the patterns of beading and embroidery, Silverfox had blue, and vice versa. What first appeared to be subtle streaks of gold or blue in their hair became, on closer inspection, strings of tiny beads, ending in minute feathers. Aya sat on Firesong’s shoulder, and as Darian neared, Kuari hooted a greeting from a branch above Starfall. His parents, Hweel and Huur, sat beside him. Starfall’s falcon was on his gloved fist, and even the glove was beautifully made, with appliqued designs made of layers of dyed deerskin set into the cuff. Birds called, crowed, or screamed to each other, and a yellow kick ball bounced off Kuari’s branch, making him hoot in indignation.
“Sorry!” someone called.
“Well, the boy cleans up rather nicely,” Firesong said to Starfall, with a wink. “Perhaps we won’t have to pretend he’s a servant after all.”
“Hey!” Darian protested, pointing an accusing finger at Firesong. “I’d been working on the stables all morning. What were you doing?”
“Making certain that rain would not interrupt our greetings,” Firesong replied blandly, with a toss of his head that made the beads chime together like tiny bells. “Delicate work, that, requiring the skill of an expert.”
Starfall rolled his eyes and snorted in derision. “Yes it did, which is why you helped,” he corrected. “Or at least, you called it helping.”
Firesong pretended to be greatly offended, and Silverfox just shook his head at both of them. “Indeed! I was there to make certain that instant corrections could be made if you upset something with your blundering. After all, Father, you are getting a bit forgetful lately.”
“Forgetful? My blundering!” Starfall exclaimed. “What about - ”
“Enough, you two,” Nightwind interrupted them, then giggled. “Some of the outsiders might begin to believe that you two hate each other.”
Starfall grinned, and behind the mask, Firesong mock-pouted. “Oh, Mother - ” he began, in imitation of a whining child.
“Don’t!” Nightwind warned, hands on hips. “Just don’t. Act like the baby, and I’ll send you to your room like a baby!”
Firesong chuckled. “She’s getting rather good at that, isn’t she?” he said in an aside to Snowfire. “That whole mother thing, I mean.”
Snowfire nodded ruefully. “It’s a good thing, too, since the baby has me completely under her control. One teary-eyed look, and any resistance I had just evaporates.”
He might have elaborated on that subject, but a shout of “Here they come!” interrupted him. There were several whistles, and the kick balls mysteriously vanished amid the crowd.
The entire group peered up the trail; Firesong and Darian both shaded their eyes with their hands. At first Darian couldn’t see anything, but then a ray of light falling slantwise through the branches glanced off something white, which resolved into two distant riders.
Was it only two years ago that I stood here
waiting for my new teacher, only to find out that he was the famous Adept Firesong? So much had happened since then; he had been so busy he hadn’t even had much time to visit the village except for the seasonal Faires. When I’m not off settling minor disputes, arbitrating trades, or helping the Vale understand the village, I’ve been caught up in Firesong’s training. No wonder time has gotten away from me!
He wished for a breeze, feeling the weight of his coat even more; for once, a breeze sprang up in answer to his wish. The riders neared at a steady pace, and he broke off his musing to examine them at his leisure. They both wore the Herald “working garb” of leather trews, a leather jerkin, and a plain white shirt tied loosely at the neck; it was pretty clear that they hadn’t been expecting a formal reception or a major celebration. It had been a year since he’d last seen Shandi, and it seemed to him at least that she had gotten taller. Her face had thinned out a bit, but aside from that, her new status didn’t seem to have put much of an outward stamp on her.
However, her Whites were obviously new, compared to the well-worn costume of the man riding beside her. So was her Companion’s tack, and Darian made a mental note to have one of the hertasi look it over for stiffness and give it a good oiling with the special lanolin they used on hawk-furniture.
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