Changes

by Mercedes Lackey

  ::Thanks,:: he told Dallen briefly, and even that single word hurt his head to project.

  Quarrelsome voices and hoofbeats moved out of the stable. It seemed as though now they were arguing about which of them had given Mags the headache.

  Except, of course, that was not what they were fighting about. It was just the excuse to fight. They might not recognize, as he had, the underlying causes, but they certainly felt those causes. They knew, all three of them, that they were getting nowhere. But at least two of the three weren’t willing, or weren’t ready, to do what they had to to solve their situation,

  “Treat th’ cause an’ not th’ symptom,” he muttered. But if you couldn’t make yourself face the cause?

  “Hellfires,” he growled. He levered himself up out of his bed and laid down on the floor. At least it was cooler there.

  A lot cooler.

  He closed his eyes and prepared to wait out the pain.

  That, at least, was something he was good at.

  But the next thing he knew, it was morning.

  16

  Morning, sadly, did not bring much relief. His room still felt stifling once he stood up. His head throbbed, and he felt vaguely nauseated. He began to wonder if he had eaten something bad—or if those murdering bastards had somehow managed to poison him after all. Was this how that guide had felt, and just brushed it off as something that would go away?

  He didn’t feel all that bad.

  But he didn’t feel all that good either.

  Dallen whispered something into his mind—too faint to make out. Th’ hell? he thought with irritation. ::What?:: he replied. ::Cain’t hear ye.::

  This time, though still whispered, the sense was clear. ::You’ve over-taxed your Gift. It took both of us to fend off the attacks of Ice and Stone’s shield-constructs. Holding your shields against it took more than either of us would have thought. You were shouting for help so loudly that the Gifted heard you down in Haven. Then you helped interrogate Pawel. Now you’re paying for it.::

  Bah. Well, he wasn’t going to use Mindvoice then until it stopped hurting. Doing so would probably only make things worse. He looked down at himself, realized he was still dressed, and opened the door into the Stable.

  He marched straight over to Dallen’s stall. “Is there anythin’ I kin do fer this?” he asked aloud.

  Dallen regarded him with his head tilted to the side, then managed to make a strange sound. After a moment, Mags recognized it as snoring.

  “Sleep’t off, eh?”

  Dallen nodded.

  Well, he wasn’t going to get any sleep in that room. All the things that made it so nice and warm in the winter were turning it into an oven, and he was the bread.

  “Look, tell—whoever—I’m a-gonna find somewheres cool t’sleep. Don’ care iffen I miss class. Don’ care iffen I miss food. Cain’t eat anyroad.”

  After a moment, Dallen nodded, then rattled the chain on his water bucket. That was easy enough to understand.

  Drink plenty of water.

  “Aye. I will.”

  He stopped long enough to take a pillow and one of his leather water bottles. He filled the latter at the pump and trudged up through air that was positively leaden with heat and humidity to the Palace. That lower level where the crystal sphere was had been cool enough . . . maybe there was another room down there he could borrow long enough to get some sleep.

  But all the doors were locked except that one.

  He opened the door and stepped just inside, and the cool felt like a gift from the hand of a god. Even the lamp didn’t seem to be giving off much heat. He considered the room. Considered the crystal with a wary eye. True, he was not intending to use it, but what if it . . . oh . . . used itself? He drank from his water bottle while he considered the risk.

  After all, there was probably a reason why the thing was down here all by itself, hidden away in a room hardly anyone seemed to visit . . .

  On the other hand, it hadn’t done anything when he and Amily had been here. The benches were padded, and with his pillow one would be as good as a bed.

  But the breath of cold from the room finally persuaded him. He closed the door behind himself, sat down, then laid himself down on his side, fitted his back along the curve of the bench, shoved his pillow under his head and closed his eyes.

  It just felt so good . . . even if he didn’t actually get any sleep, the cool made his head throb a lot less.

  He drifted off into a semiconscious state that was not quite sleep and not quite wakefulness.

  It felt as if there were something, or someone, in the room with him. Uneasily, he tried to move but found he could not. Under other circumstances he might have panicked—

  But he was in the Palace. Whatever it was, it would have had to get past so many protections, it couldn’t possibly be a danger. And it wasn’t actually doing anything. It wasn’t even paying any attention to him. It was just there. As if it had been there all along, and he was only just noticing it.

  He slowly became aware that it wasn’t anything alive—at least, not as he understood the state of being alive. Finally, he knew what it was, what it had to be.

  It was the stone.

  The stone became aware of him as soon as he became aware that the stone was what it was. He felt it regarding him in a detached way.

  Perhaps he should have been alarmed, but he wasn’t. And yet, he knew he had sensed something similar recently, from a source that did alarm him. What was it? Where had he seen this before?

  The shields. The shields on Ice and Stone. This was like those shields. Except for the part about trying to kill him. So what were those shields, and why were they like the stone, anyway?

  He felt the stone noticing, becoming aware of that thought. It didn’t respond as such, but . . . something floated to the surface. The stone had seen this before.

  There was a strangely peaceful indifference to the stone. It wasn’t responding to him or to his emotions so much as responding to the mechanical stimulation of his question. As he not-quite drowsed, the stone presented him with an answer.

  Ice and Stone were each wearing a talisman. This did not mean what he thought it meant. To his mind, a talisman was a religious token, something meant to bring one closer to one’s god, and make it easier to reach the god when asking for help. But to the stone, a talisman was an item created by magic to protect, hide, and defend the bearer from attacks that were not physical. Like mental coercion, or magic.

  Magic? he thought involuntarily. Protects them from magic?

  The reply wasn’t a thought, exactly. It certainly wasn’t framed in words. But his own mind put it into words, somehow.

  Of course, magic. Just as the stone protects everything within its influence from magic, from even the thought of magic.

  That—don’t make any sense—

  It doesn’t have to, not to you.

  The reply had come with such . . . cheerful indifference . . . that he couldn’t take offense. It would be like taking offense because the leaves were green instead of blue. Well, if the stone knew so much and was answering questions—

  So where are they?

  Near. Their talismans interfere with the stone. The stone interferes with them. The result is a pattern of confusion. This means the stone cannot locate them

  Oh.

  Mags drifted a while. The ache in his head ebbed and was soothed as the stone became disturbed by it and moved to rectify the situation.

  He came a little more awake—or maybe just aware—when he sensed . . . conflict. It was nearby. He groaned a little when he realized it was Amily and her father, fighting. Or rather, Amily was fighting; Nikolas was just standing there, helplessly letting the tirade pour over him.

  A brief flash told Mags what had triggered it. Nikolas had suggested Amily might be better off leaving Haven for a while. He had been going to suggest that she go with an entire group of her friends—Mags included—and just for the summer until it was cool enough to fix
her leg. But she hadn’t let him get that far.

  She had worked herself up to the point of hysteria with her terrifying theories anyway. This had just triggered some old, old resentments. “You just want to be rid of me!” The words were distorted by sobbing. “You think I don’t know, that I’ve never figured it out? You’ve always been angry because I lived and mother died! And you’ve always been guilty because you weren’t there! You’ve always resented me because you have to take care of me, and that’s a burden on you that the King’s Own doesn’t need! And you’ve always been disappointed in me because I wasn’t the son you wanted and I was never Chosen!”

  And Nikolas wanted to say, no—no—but he couldn’t. Because that would be a lie. Amily had poured out the bitter truth. It wasn’t all the truth, how could it be? He loved his daughter. He was proud of her, prouder than ever after she willingly made bait of herself, even though she was terrified. But every word she said was also true . . . how could it not be? He had adored his wife, and her loss was an ache inside him that would never heal. How could he not but feel guilt that he was not there? And . . . at the times when the ache was the worst, how could he not look at Amily and think, why was it you and not her?

  As for Amily being a burden—she was. There was nothing she could do about that. There was nothing he could do about the fact that he was not just a Herald, he was the King’s Own, and that brought with it an entire load of additional responsibilities. And he knew, because he winced when he thought about it, that there had been so many times when he had been laden down already and she had needed something, and he had thought, Oh, if only you were not here . . .

  As for not being a son . . . every man wants a son. Every man is filled with fear and unease, along with delight, at being presented with a daughter instead. Daughters belong to that strange, delightful, but incomprehensible woman-tribe, but a son . . . ah, a son is a member of the man-tribe. A man can understand a son. A man doesn’t have to be afraid for a son . . .

  And not being Chosen? Oh, that opened up a world of mingled relief and disappointment—what father doesn’t want the best for his child? And there was nothing better than having that perfect friend, that perfect support, that was a Companion. But relief that she would never know the endless self-sacrifice required of a Herald, never have to look at someone she loved, and think If only you were not here . . .

  Mags pulled away from the fight, feeling queasy. That wasn’t anything he wanted to know . . . and how in hell was Nikolas going to reconcile all of that? How could anyone? Suddenly, Mags felt a lot more sympathy with Jakyr, who fled any hint of connection, much less commitment.

  Maybe that was why Nikolas had practically thrown Amily at Mags when he realized the two were attracted to each other. Mags . . . could take her, take the burden onto himself and leave Nikolas free to only be the King’s Own, and not Amily’s father. Mags could protect her, when Nikolas could not—as Nikolas had not been able to protect her and her mother. Mags would shoulder the burden, and Mags certainly wasn’t disappointed with her . . .

  No, Mags didn’t want to know any of this.

  Not when he had felt that burden, felt Amily desperately clinging to him, trying to infect him with her crazy theories so that he would make protecting her and being with her his priority.

  And he felt the same frantic smothering that Nikolas did. The same desperate bewilderment as he faced two duties with only enough time, energy, and attention for one.

  He blocked out the fight. He didn’t want to know any more, didn’t want to hear any more. And somewhere deep inside him a little voice whispered that this might not be so bad . . . he would miss her company if he used this as an excuse to break off the never-official betrothal . . . but would he miss the burden?

  But in turning away from one quarrel, he was drawn to another.

  Lena was sitting in a little wilted heap in the herb garden, talking, while Bear tried to get cuttings. From the look of things, she had started talking when she sat down, and had not paused since.

  “Will you stop whining!” Bear snapped. “For Cernos’ sake, Lena! You’re not a little girl anymore! If you don’t like what your precious father is doing, tell him, tell Lita, tell both of them to their faces! Tell that little rat Farris how he’s being used! If you don’t like how you’re being treated, say something. Get up on your hind legs and have it out with them, for once in your life!

  Lena stared at him, tears starting up in her eyes.

  “And stop crying!” Bear spat. “That was cute when you were a little girl and passable when you first got here, but hiding in your room and sulking and weeping until you’re sick are just . . . .juvenile! Grow up!”

  The tears dried up as if a desert wind had sprung up. Lena glared at Bear with her fists clenched at her sides. “Grow up? Say what I feel? Have a confrontation? GROW UP AND FACE MY FATHER JUST LIKE YOU DID?”

  Bear froze, lenses slipping down on his nose, mouth half open.

  “Just like you? Just like you stood up to your father? Because you make such a shining example to follow!”

  Mags winced frantically away from that fight as well. What was wrong with them all? Why were they ripping into each other?

  The stone stirred at his unhappiness. It sensed his question.

  It had an answer.

  Stagnation equals death.

  Well, that “answer” had come right out of nowhere and made just about as much sense. What was that supposed to mean, anyway?

  They are not dying.

  Mags felt a stab of irritation. Of course they weren’t dying. That was pretty obvious. What exactly was the stone trying to get at?

  Change is painful. Birth is painful. Creatures in pain lash out without knowing why, and often without caring what they strike.

  What are you, anyway? he thought at it, resentfully. The storage room for every cliché and worn-out motto that was ever spoken in this Kingdom?

  Yes.

  Uh . . . what?

  Among many other things.

  Right. Now it was having a philosophical dialogue with him. He was talking philosophy with a rock. Had this just gotten very, very strange?

  It already was. You just hadn’t noticed.

  How could he have not—

  You are looking outward so steadfastly you are not looking inward anymore.

  Now you sound like some sort of mystic.

  Yes. You are all out of balance.

  How would you know?

  I am balance.

  Well that made him pause.

  How can I . . . how can we . . .

  I am past and present. I am not future. There is no knowledge stored in me of what you will do. Only what you can do and what you have done in the past, all of you.

  So . . . you’re a library?

  Among other things. Many other things.

  At this point he wasn’t quite sure if he was hallucinating, dreaming, or the stone actually was communicating with him. He wasn’t using his mind-voice, that much he was certain of, because it would have hurt if he had been. This was deeper than that, at a level where he thought very clearly, but very slowly—where he was articulate, but it wasn’t exactly in words.

  Why are you talking to me?

  You are a Herald. You are part of the Web. I am the heart of the Web.

  The Web . . . he thought he remembered that concept, that all Heralds and all Companions were connected in a vast network like a spiderweb—and like a spiderweb, something touching the Web was felt by everything in it.

  Can you help me?

  You must ask the right questions.

  Well, wasn’t that always the case . . . He sighed in his sleep, if it was sleep. That was the problem: What was the right question?

  Who am I?

  That was it. That was the one question that was never answered. The one that lurked under the surface of everything he did, just as Amily’s knowledge of her father’s feelings lurked, and Bear and Lena’s fear of confronting what they most desired
approval from.

  That was what lurked inside Mags. Everyone else he knew, everyone, had a plan, a map, for what they were doing, and every map had the same sort of starting point. This is who you are. This is what you came from. This is where you are going. People might refuse to follow the path on the map, but they still had the map itself, and it gave them the foundation for their entire life—whether that life was spent in rebelling or in conforming. No matter what, they always had an anchor to keep them from drifting away entirely.

  He had nothing. He was only what other people thought they saw. Cole Pieters had thought he saw a piece of human trash, valuable only as long as it dragged rock out of his mine. The priests that had visited had seen the offspring of bandits—likely bad blood himself. Here at the Collegium—he was the star Kirball player—he was the pig-ignorant little slave boy who nevertheless fought tooth and nail to learn—he was Amily’s human crutch—he was Bear’s rescuer—

  But none of these were him. Or, were all of them?

  Who am I? he asked again.

  Who do you want to be?

  What?

  Who do you want to be?

  I don’t understand . . .

  What you want is an anchor. But an anchor can be at the end of the line as well as the beginning. Who do you want to be? Make that your anchor.

  Oh . . . .Oh!

  Yes. Sleep now.

  He slept.

  Someone was shaking his shoulder. He batted at whoever it was and tried to bury his head deeper into his pillow.

  “Mags,” said a voice. One he knew, but couldn’t put a name on. “Mags, wake up.”

  He really didn’t want to wake up. Not when he was finally comfortable for the first time in days. Weeks. He hadn’t realized how poorly he’d been sleeping until now. Classes could go hang for one day. He was finally going to catch up—so there.

  The voice got sterner. “Mags, you can’t stay here. Wake up, that’s an order.”

  Oh, well. If it was an order . . . but dammit, it wasn’t fair. Why shouldn’t he be able to sleep late just once? The only other time he got to sleep late was when he was in the infirmary.