Changes

by Mercedes Lackey

Even as he was thinking this, he noticed something . . . odd.

  The Trainees on his team stiffened. So did those on the opposing team. Was some sort of message being passed? Then why hadn’t he heard it? And why was every Gray on both teams turning furtively to look at him?

  A Mindvoice that was completely new to him “spoke” inside his head. ::Mags. It’s Riker.::

  Riker? But he was the Captain of—

  ::We all just got told by our Companions what’s going on.:: Mags looked up, startled, to meet Riker’s solemn gaze. ::Gennie’s blocking everything at the moment, I think she’s a bit stunned at the mere idea that Amily could be in serious danger. Ask her to come over and talk to me quick, please.::

  Mags gave an abrupt nod and turned to see that Gennie was looking at him with a horrified gaze before she got herself under control. “Gennie, Riker wants ye t’ go talk to ’im,” he told her. “Not sure why, ’cept ’e says you an ’im need t’ talk ’bout what’s goin’.”

  She nodded brusquely and moved out of the pack, heading for the other side of the Kirball field.

  “What’s going on?” asked Jeffers, puzzled. “Gennie—”

  “Huddle up,” Pip said sharply. “I’m going to tell you.”

  When they had huddled, Pip and Mags together explained the situation as best they could. A shocked silence filled the space where the team huddled together when they were done.

  No one objected, though. Everyone remembered what had happened a mere few moons ago. And when Mags said that Ice and Stone were more dangerous, and more skillful, than the man who’d nearly burned down Companion’s Stable with Companions locked into it, the team was inclined to believe him.

  “I . . .” Halleck rubbed his helmet absently. “This is insane. How can we play a game when—how can you think to play, Mags—”

  Gennie came trotting back over to the huddle. “That’s what we were just talking about. We aren’t going to play a game. We’re going to give a show. Riker and I will call the moves, Mags will tell the rest of you. We’ll end in a tie. Stay sharp. Mags, keep most of your attention on the crowd, keep watching for those men. All we need out of you is the occasional brilliant move that I’ll plan for you, and relaying orders to the non-Gifted. So long as you do a few plays that look like our star Kirball player, no one is going to notice that you’re nothing more than Dallen’s passenger the rest of the time. That suit?”

  There were no dissenters.

  “Right, then. First play out of the box, scrum a bit, and whoever gets the ball, kick it to the twisted elm and let Riker’s bunch run it up and down the sidelines for a while. When the crowd gets tired of that, we’ll break for a new play. Hup!” She pulled the face-guard down over her helmet; they did the same. Both teams headed for the middle of the field, and the start of a game-that-wasn’t.

  ::You just stick tight, and I’ll make it look as if you’re actually playing,:: Dallen told him, as the pack scrummed over the ball. ::Concentrate on watching for those devils.::

  Mags hunched down over his saddle horn obediently, while Dallen was seemingly everywhere. It probably looked very exciting to their audience, and Dallen was working up quite a sweat. But it was all running and leaping and fancy footwork that didn’t actually accomplish anything, though it wasn’t likely anyone would notice.

  Meanwhile, Mags cast his mental net wide, searching for either a hint of those cold, cold thoughts or the shields that guarded the two.

  ::Mags!:: A cautious call from Gennie got his attention. ::Ball coming, right right back. Give me a brilliant hit down the center toward the goal. Now!::

  He swiveled in his saddle, saw the ball coming at him at exactly the right angle for him to give it a boost onward—of couse, the other team also had a Fetcher, which was probably why it was flying so true—stood up in his stirrups and hit the ball with all the pent-up fury over this situation he had dared not otherwise express—

  He hit the ball so hard he came close to bursting it. Probably the only reason that it didn’t was that it was already moving and he just boosted the speed. It screamed toward the opposing team’s goal with a force that surprised everyone, including him. Pip just got out of its way instead of giving it a helping whack. The goaltender stiffened, then dove to the side, not even pretending to try to intercept it.

  The ball hit the back of the goal, in the deep black shadows of the little stone building. Hit it so hard that the tiny building echoed with a hollow boom—

  “Did the ball just explode?” Halleck asked in the sudden silence.

  The goaltender peered inside. And signaled for a new ball.

  One of the judges rode up to the goal, brought out the flattened remains of the Kirball, and held it over his head.

  The crowd went insane, as one of the sideline helpers brought in the new ball.

  His entire team was staring at him.

  ::Well . . . :: Mags managed. ::Ye wanted a brilliant move.::

  ::Bastard,:: said Riker, with no rancor whatsoever. ::How the hell are we supposed to top that?::

  Mags didn’t manage to top that move himself, although he did execute three more showy plays, one in each quarter. That was enough to make it look as if he was playing the game brilliantly, when in fact he wasn’t playing the game at all.

  It was just as well, because early in the second quarter he knew that the Foreseers had been absolutely right. He sensed the odd blankness of those shields somewhere beyond the watching crowd. He caught faint hints of Ice, thought none of Stone, during the last quarter. He relayed all of that to the Heralds guarding Amily.

  They were all glad to exit the field at the end of the last quarter. Mags had a throbbing headache, and they were all drenched with sweat. Riker walked over to the horse trough and fell into it, armor and all, then got out, pumped his helmet full of colder water from the pump and dumped it over his Companion’s head.

  “I hope we never have to fight a battle in heat like this,” he said aloud.

  “Weaponsmaster says heat kills more fighters in a summer war than anything else but disease,” Gennie observed. They both cast a brief but penetrating glance at Mags. He shook his head slightly.

  ::Where’s Amily?:: he asked Dallen.

  ::Still judging dogs. They’re restless. Herald Sorald says they sense something out there, but they haven’t managed to locate it.:: Dallen sounded worried.

  ::Then they’re better nor me. I’m jest gettin’ liddle flashes. So she’s still judgin’? Hev I got time t’—::

  ::Yes, just as we planned. I’ll go to the judging ring, Nikolas will put her up on me and we’ll meet you there.:: Dallen tossed his head impatiently. ::Go!::

  Mags stared at him, askance. He was filthy, covered in sweat and sweat-caked dirt. ::But ye look—::

  Dallen gave a quick glance around, as if to make sure no one was watching. No one was. He shook himself vigorously, and for a moment the sun winked off him as if he were made of something reflective.

  And in the next moment, he stood there looking as if he were fresh from the hands of the groomers.

  Mags gaped.

  ::What?:: Dallen said, with irritation.

  ::Ye—::

  ::Yes, I did.::

  ::Why don’t ye—::

  ::Because you’d get lazy. Now move, if you please. The dogs are not happy, and my skin is crawling. Something is about to happen. There’s something important about this whole situation we don’t understand, and—something’s about to happen. I can feel it.::

  Mags moved, pulling off his armor as he ran to the stable. He’d left a clean set of Grays at the pump; he stripped off, washed, and changed in record time, then ran toward the dog-judging ring.

  He crossed the end of the new Kirball field, where the remaining members of the Trainees’ teams were chatting with the Guard teams before their game, and he spotted Amily on Dallen, coming toward him.

  And that was when he sensed Stone. Nearby. Very nearby. Practically—

  But wait—there was Ice! Ice on
one side of him, Stone on the other! But why were they here, instead of focusing on Amily? Weren’t they—wasn’t it Amily they wanted?

  But he felt it now, felt their concentration on him, felt a chill of real fear lance through him.

  “Lady Amily! Lady Amily!” A middle-aged man ran up to Amily waving his arms wildly. He looked vaguely familiar; Mags tried to place him. Guard? No, he didn’t have a fighter’s build. He wasn’t in the uniform of any of the Collegia—

  “Pawel!” Amily said, in surprise.

  Course. Pawel. One’a th’ servers at Collegium— Of course Amily would recognize him and remember his name. Like her father, she made a point of being able to recognize almost everyone she had ever been introduced to.

  “What—Pawel, what is it?“ she asked. Loudly. Loudly enough to make heads turn toward both of them.

  Not nearly as much attention as Pawell’s shouting attracted. “Lady Amily, don’t—don’t go to the Kirball field!” he shouted desperately. “It’s a trap, Lady Amily! It’s a—”

  Mags had wormed his way through the pack at the end of the field and felt a surge of icy anger that stabbed right through his head and made him double over with the unexpected pain.

  Which was why the man who had been following him stumbled right into him. Fear joined the pain—

  It was Stone! How had he gotten so close?

  Instinctively, Mags ducked under him so that the man rolled over his back and landed on the ground. Mags got a startled glimpse of something in his hand that glittered, reflexively kicked it away, spun, and ran toward Amily.

  ::They’re ’ere!:: he mind-shouted. ::They’re ’ere and they’re after both of us!::

  Evidently the group going after Amily had not discussed things in advance with the group going after Mags. Or perhaps, vice versa. Mags sensed Stone behind him, dropped, and rolled out from under his grasp, coming right back up on his feet again as rescuers came running from all directions.

  Someone in a Guard uniform had knocked Pawel to the ground and was reaching for Dalen’s bridle. He was saying “Lady Amily, this man is demented, allow me to escort you away from here.” He was saying that, but Mags read his thoughts, and they were not that of a Guard.

  ::Tha’s not a Guard!:: he shouted to the rescuers, as Dallen half reared, lashing out at the man with wicked hooves. ::Trus’ Dallen!::

  As Amily clung to his saddle like a burr, Dallen put his head down and charged an entire small group of “Guardsmen,” barreling right through them and heading for the real Guard and more of the Heralds.

  Mags sensed Ice coming at him from the side. This time instead of dropping and rolling, he abruptly changed direction, heading for the piled supplies for the stables. He vaulted over a stack of hay bales and switched direction again. Ice followed him—out of the corner of his eye he saw that Ice was wearing a Guard uniform. Stone probably was, too.

  Another three men in Guard uniforms had converged on Amily. Two were hanging onto Dallen’s bridle, forcing his head down by their weight. One was shouting something about getting that horse under control. Obviously they hadn’t yet figured out what Dallen was. Mags did another tuck and roll, this time starting with a leap. Ice and Stone nearly collided, saved themselves, and pelted angrily after him.

  He looked for a weapon, spotted a hayfork. That would do. He glanced at Amily—already Herald Caelen was charging up to Dallen’s side, his Companion ramming one of the men trying to “coax” her out of the saddle and sending him tumbling.

  Mags grabbed the hayfork as he ran past it, ran on a couple of paces, felt Ice and Stone breathing down his neck. He turned his headlong run into a fast turn, holding the hayfork like a quarterstaff. He managed to clip Ice across the face with the handle-end. Ice went down, his nose spewing blood.

  Stone danced back, and the two of them stared at each other for what seemed like forever.

  The shields over both of the men were so tight it was as if they weren’t even there. And the shields themselves—

  If I touch ’em . . . they’ll kill me. He sensed the shields roiling with the same sort of energy that had stunned him the last time he got too close. All he could do—all he dared do—was hold his own shields up and tight.

  Stone’s eyes stared into his, and the most frightening thing at that moment was that there was no anger, no animosity, no emotion whatsoever in his expression. There was only calculation. He was being assessed and measured for the next time.

  And there would be a next time.

  Then Stone reached down, hauled Ice up to his feet. The two moved so fast Mags could hardly believe it. Stone glanced around quickly, pulled on Ice’s arm, and they bolted, running straight at the mob milling around the Guard’s Kirball field, the mob of people who were only now beginning to understand that something strange was going on.

  And then they were gone, melted into the crowd.

  Frantically Mags searched for the “sense” of them, but those wretched shields had clamped down, and all he got was the faint impression of the two of them retreating, faster than any human should be able to run.

  Mags leaned against the wall, arms folded over his chest, face impassive. There were some captives out of this fiasco: the group in Guard uniforms who had gone after Amily.

  Unfortunately, questioning them only led to a dead end.

  The men in the stolen Guard uniforms had been nothing more than hirelings, who had been in the generous pay of Ice and Stone for fortnights. Oh, but they were clever hirelings, able to slip in and pass as Guards because, it seemed, they had done it before.

  Many times before.

  Often enough, in fact, to have been recognized by several of the Guard officers actually stationed here at the Palace, who assumed that since they were in uniform, and on the grounds, they belonged here.

  It was stunningly clever. There was always some turnover here, the men had been supplied with the right people to reference, the right things to say, even the passwords.

  “Which are not that hard to get,” one of the captains said in disgust, “We’ve gotten lax. Anyone with a right to be on the Palace grounds could just loiter near the gatehouses when we change and overhear them. We never thought to guard against someone on the inside.”

  As the men were questioned under Truth Spell, they revealed that they even mingled with the Guards in their chosen taverns down in Haven until they were able to swap the right gossip. These were very clever men indeed—and Ice and Stone, who ordered them to do all these things, who kept them so well paid they were not the least bit interested in looking elsewhere? They were brilliant.

  Unfortunately, the false Guards not only didn’t know who had hired them—other than vague descriptions—they also had had no idea that the girl they had been sent to fetch was the daughter of the King’s Own. They had thought this was all some ransom scheme when they’d finally been given their target.

  Once they discovered that, they couldn’t confess fast enough. The Truth Spell wasn’t even needed at that point. It was clear they were terrified of what the King’s Own—and the King—might do to them if they didn’t cooperate. It was just too bad that they knew so little.

  Pawel, however, looked to be a very different proposition, and Mags had taken his place in the interrogation room with hopes that he would learn something useful.

  Like—why Ice and Stone had wanted to kidnap him.

  The room was crowded to the poing of being stifling. There were four Guards, two Healers, a Herald whose name Mags didn’t know who was in charge of the questioning, Nikolas, who was not being permitted to do anything but glare, and Mags.

  Pawel sat on a hard wooden chair with his head in his hands, weeping. Mags wasn’t even trying to read him; he was pretty sure all he’d get was a flood of incoherent emotions.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, brokenly, over and over again. “I am so very sorry.”

  He’d been saying that for the last couple of candlemarks now. Mags was pretty sure he meant it. So was the Herald w
ho had administered a Truth Spell to him—the kind that compelled you to tell the truth. So were the two Healers who had come to make sure he didn’t do anyone any mischief and see to it that the Truth Spell didn’t harm him any.

  Right now, it seemed, all it would let him do was say how sorry he was.

  Mags finally got tired of it. He walked over to the man, grabbed his shoulder, and shoved him back in the chair so that he had to look up. “Mags!” the presiding Herald snapped, warningly. “Let him be. You won’t get anywhere by bullying him.”

  Mags ignored the Herald for the moment. “Fine,” he growled into Pawel’s face. “We unnerstan’. Ye’re sorry. Now tell us what yer sorry about!”

  He put a good deal of mental force into that command, and it seemed to snap Pawel out of the weeping fit he’d been caught up in.

  Pawel gulped, coughed, and began to stammer. “I—I’m—”

  “Sorry, I know.” Mags glared.

  “No, I mean . . . It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. This—this was all wrong. I was supposed to go home. I was—I was supposed to become a priest. Of Vkandis.”

  “Karsite?” someone gasped.

  “What’s thet s’posed t’mean?” Mags growled.

  Pawel seemed mired in his own thoughts and memories; his eyes were glazed and swollen and not really focusing on Mags.

  “When I was a child, I wanted to be a priest. I’ve always wanted to be a priest. But I didn’t have the money for the love-offering to become a black-robe, or the Sun’s Blessing to command demons to my will as a red-robe. So . . . so they told me, if I served the Son of the Sun in another way, they’d—they’d—” He shook his head. “All my life, all I ever wanted was to serve. All my life. And this was my chance. They sent me here. They told me how to fit in. They got me a position in the kitchen. All I had to do was wait.”

  “Wait a moment.” The presiding Herald was leafing through some papers. “It says you’ve been serving in the Palace and Collegia kitchens since you were thirteen! That’s a good twenty years ago!”

  Pawel nodded, then hung his head. “I thought they’d forgotten about me. But I stayed quiet. I did what I was supposed to. I prayed, I waited for signs, I stayed quiet. I began to think that this was just their way of getting rid of me, or that the Sunlord had chosen another path for me. Maybe I was supposed to learn that you were not so bad after all. I never saw the demons that they said you commanded. I never saw all the evil things they said you White Riders did. You weren’t oppressing your people, or forbidding them to follow the Sunlord’s teachings. Down in Haven, things might not be that good everywhere, but they weren’t any worse than in Echtsten. Maybe I was supposed to come back on my own, and tell the priests myself what I had learned. But I was faithful to the duty I had been given, and I stayed. Then those foreigners—the trading delegation—one of them gave me the sign. I didn’t think there would be any harm in just doing what I’d promised! All I ever did was tell them what I saw and heard! There’s no harm in that!” His tone grew increasingly desperate, and then he sagged back down over his knees. “It was nothing, I never saw anything that was important! I never heard anything but what the Trainees were gossiping about! I didn’t know any secrets! Where was the harm in telling what I knew?”