Kayla learned this almost instantly. A Herald met her at the front doors to the dauntingly huge building; he bowed to Darius. “So you’ve brought her,” he said. “Finally.”
“Yes,” Kayla replied, although the words had clearly not been directed at her. “He did. And I guess he didn’t tell you that I’m not used to being talked about as if I’m not here.”
The man raised a brow. “I see that you have more in common with Magda Merton than it seems.” His frown, edged with weariness, deepened. “Darius—you did not choose someone with a child that young?”
“No,” she said flatly. “He waited until all mine were dead.”
The Herald had the grace to look shocked, and she regretted the words almost instantly. Such a grief, such a loss, was never meant to be used as a weapon; it was wrong. It was just wrong. She slid off the back of her Companion, gently extricating herself from Daniel’s arms. “My pardon, Herald,” she said, to the chest of the man in Whites. “I woke the child from a . . . from a deep sleep. It was safest to bring him here.”
“There is no safety here, if the child was affected by the—” He grimaced. “The Kings’ Own has been waiting for you, if you are Kayla; please, follow me.”
She hesitated a moment, and then Daniel said, “It’s all right, Kayla.” His words were thin and shaky; she could see the fear in his eyes. But he drew himself up to his full height, as if he were adult; as if he could bear the weight of her absence. “Darius says that he’ll take care of me.”
“Darius says—” Her eyes widened. “You can hear him?”
“Sometimes. When he’s talking to me.”
She pondered that as she followed the Herald. He led her down the hall into a very finely appointed room—a room that was the size of the gathering hall in the Hold of Riverend. There, a woman was standing by the great window that ran from floor to ceiling, an ostentatious display of glass.
Kayla had the ridiculous urge to kneel; she fought it carefully, although she did bow deeply.
“I am Gisel,” the woman said.
“I’m Kayla.”
“Kayla Grayson, Margaret Merton’s daughter.”
“Her youngest, yes.”
“Arlen says that you’ve been through Evandale.”
“Arlen?”
“Ah. My Companion. She has been speaking with Darius. It appears that you . . . met with . . . the victims of the shadow plague. And that you saved two.”
Kayla nodded hesitantly.
“I guess that means that Magda took it upon herself to teach you.”
“T–teach me?”
Gisel frowned. “Yes, teach you. Your Gift.” When silence prevailed, the unpleasant frown deepened. “You must understand your Gift?”
“W–what Gift would that be?”
Gisel raised a hand to her gray hair and yanked it out of her face. “I wish I had time, child. I don’t. Your mother was one of the most gifted Empaths the kingdom of Valdemar has ever known.”
“E–empath?”
“I really do not have the patience for this.”
It was true. Kayla could feel the older woman’s anger, but it was mixed with a terrible sorrow and a deep guilt. Guilt, in her experience, had always been a double-edged sword; it could drive men mad. In the hold, it had.
“Empathy is a Gift that is deeper than words, and more subtle. You have that Gift. And if your mother didn’t teach you how to use it, and you’ve survived the passage through Evandale . . . than you are more than just her daughter.” Gisel walked away from the window and the light in the room grew. It was a cold light. “There are people who are born with other talents; you must have heard their stories. Some can summon fire; some can work great magic; some can heal with a touch; some can hear the words that men don’t speak aloud. Any of these, untrained, are a danger to themselves, or to others. But Empaths can exist without such training; they are often sympathetic, or perhaps skittish, because of what they can sense. Feelings often run deeper than words; most men and women never really learn how to adequately speak of what they feel.
“I have wine here, and water; would you care for either?”
Kayla shook her head.
“As you wish. I intend to have a great deal of the former before this is over.” True to her word, she poured herself a glass of a liquid that was a deep crimson, and stared at its surface as if she could glean information from it.
“An Empath can do these things. It is why empaths have often made better diplomats than those whose Gift it is to read the thoughts, the unspoken words of others.”
Kayla had only barely heard of people like that, and she had always feared them. She said nothing.
“You’ll be given your grays, and settled in, but you won’t have the chance to train and learn with the newest of the Chosen. Your work is already waiting, and—I’m sorry child—but we don’t have the time it would take to prepare you.
“This is a risk. I apologize for forcing you to take it. You know that the King has three sons, yes?”
“And two daughters. Which is more children than—”
“Yes, yes.”
“And they’ve all survived,” Kayla added, unable to keep the bitterness out of the words.
“It depends. The youngest of his sons was a . . . difficult lad. He doted on his mother, the Queen. When she passed away, he drifted, and his father was not a sensitive man; the running of the Kingdom during the border skirmishes kept him away from the capital for much of the year.
“But Gregori was Chosen, in spite of his black moods and his despondency. His Companion—” and here, she did flinch, “was Rodri. Rodri was as sensitive as Gregori, and gentle in a way Gregori was not, and when Rodri did Choose him, we rejoiced.” Again the words were bitter.
‘We rejoiced anew when we discovered that Gregori was Gifted; that he was an Empath of exceptional power. It was part of the reason he was so withdrawn and so moody as a child; he could not bear the constant anger, fear, and hatred that he felt around him. The court . . . is not a suitable place for a child of such sensitivity.”
“It’s not just those things.”
“What isn’t?”
“That you feel. That I feel. There’s more. There’s joy. There’s silliness.”
“Magda did teach you, even if she didn’t tell you what it was she was teaching.”
“Rodri did teach Gregori to listen to those things, and Gregori—flourished. We were grateful. The King was grateful.”
She knew that the story was going someplace bad, and she almost raised a hand to stem the flow of this autocratic woman’s words. But she knew that would be a mistake.
“Rodri died, didn’t he?”
Gisel raised a brow. Lifted her glass. “Yes. He died.”
“And Gregori?”
Gisel closed her eyes. Set the glass down and filled it again. “There are Empaths among the Heralds,” she said, when she chose to speak again. “I am not one of them.
“If I were, I would not be here to speak to you now.”
And Kayla knew, as the words left the lips of the King’s Own, that she was angry; that had it been up to this woman, Gregori would be dead.
She took a step back, a step away, and lifted her hand.
Gisel’s dark eyes became narrowed edges into a harsh expression. “Yes, Kayla, you’re right. If it had been up to me, I would have killed the boy. If it were up to me, he would be dead now.”
“But the King—”
“Yes. The King feels guilt. Even though he sees the cost of Gregori’s continued . . . existence, he feels that if he had somehow been present, he could have prevented what did happen. What is happening even as we speak. And he has summoned every Healer in the kingdom to the side of his son’s bed in an attempt to revive him, to bring him back.
“They have failed, all of them.”
“And the Empaths?”
“Two of them were my closest friends,” Gisel said. She walked back to the tall window and stood in its frame, look
ing out. “The bells have tolled for the youngest.”
“But—”
“But?”
“I don’t understand.”
“That much is clear. Ask, and ask quickly.”
“If the Empaths couldn’t help him, why have you been waiting for me?”
“I don’t know.”
“P–pardon?”
Gisel turned; the light was harsh; it made her face look like broken stone. “I don’t know. I don’t know what it was that Magda—that Margaret—Merton might have done to save him. I was there when Sasha fell. I was there when Michael joined her. I’ve been all over the city looking at the sleepers who are just waiting to join the dead. And I can hear what they think, when their terror has any words at all. It’s my belief that if Gregori died, they would wake.”
Kayla listened as Gisel spoke.
:Darius.:
:Kayla?:
:It is—the King’s son—he is—:
:Yes.:
:The dragon.:
“You’re wrong,” she heard herself say.
Gisel raised a brow.
“If you killed him, he’d take them all with him when he went. All of them.”
Gisel closed her eyes. Her turn. But she snapped them open quickly enough. “And you know this how?”
Helpless, Kayla shrugged. “I don’t know. But . . . I’d bet my life on it.”
“Well that’s good, because you will be. Go and get a bath, get food, settle into your room. We’ll come for you.”
Kayla nodded. “Can I have—”
“What?”
“Darius. Can I have Darius with me?”
Gisel hesitated. It was a cold hesitation. “It would be . . . better . . . if you did not.”
In her room—and it really was a single room—she found Daniel perched on the edge of her bed. He started when he saw her, and leaped up from the bed’s edge, shortening the distance with his flight of steps. She caught him in her arms and held him tightly, seeing another child in his stead.
“You need a bath,” she told him gently.
He said very little, but she managed to ask for water, hot and cold, and she tended him first. She had spent most of her life taking care of the children of Riverend, and this one was no different.
Or so she told herself.
:Darius,: she said, as she worked, soap adding to tangles of hair and the murk of what had been clear water, :What was Gregori doing when Rodri died?:
:He was at the Border,: Darius replied.
It was strange, that she could speak to him from such a distance, and that it could feel so natural. :During the skirmishing?:
:Yes.:
:Why?:
:He was a Herald.:
:That’s not enough of an answer. If he was so sensitive . . . Gisel spoke of training. Was he trained?:
:He had better teachers than you, if that’s what you meant.:
:But he—:
:He was very, very powerful, Kayla.:
:Then why did it take so long to figure out what he was?:
:He let no one know. No one but Rodri.:
:He was in the middle of battle.:
:Yes.:
:Constantly?:
:Not . . . physically. But there is evidence that he was aware of it. He could sense the movement of our enemies well before any others could. War breeds fear and hatred.:
She pulled her son—no, this child, this stranger’s son—from the bath water and set him in the towel in her lap.
:Darius. I need the truth.:
:I have not lied to you, Bright Heart. Between us, there can be no lie.:
:Could he use his Gift as a weapon?:
Darius did not answer.
Answer enough.
She did not sleep that night. She knew that sleep, in this place, was death. Close her eyes, and she could see the black spread of dragon wings, the lift and curl of air beneath their span. Close her eyes, and she could hear those borne aloft by that terrible flight; the screaming and the terror of those who had not yet realized they were dead.
Kayla, her mother said, from the distance of years, from the safety of death, people make weapons out of anything. It’s important that you understand this.
Her mother’s voice, sad but firm, was all that remained her. She could not see her face in the darkness. In the hands of the wrong men, guilt is a weapon. Love is a weapon. Hope is a weapon.
You have the ability to make weapons far sharper, far harsher, than others can. And the only person who can choose how those weapons are wielded is you.
She hadn’t understood what her mother meant, then. She had been younger.
Young Caroline makes a weapon of desire every time she wanders past the boys at the mine. She understands this, but she wants only the power of their adoration.
Others are not so kind.
You cannot be Caroline.
I’m not beautiful enough.
Hush. You are far, far more beautiful. To me. But that’s not the point, and I won’t let you distract me tonight. There is a difference between manipulation and motivation. Sometimes desire is good, sometimes it is bad; she will discover that in her time.
You must understand it now. You understand love as a young girl does, and not as an old woman, like me. You must let it come to you; you must never force it upon another.
But—
I’ve seen you. I’ve seen you make Caroline cry because you’re jealous of her. I’ve stopped you from doing it myself, but I will not always be here to stop it. She will grow, child. She will change. Let her. Instead of forcing others to respond to you, become something worthy of the response you desire.
Kayla was silent. In the present, with a child cradled against her, she lay open-eyed in the dark, hearing his heartbeat as if it were her own. Her mother’s words continued, the past seeping into the present in a way that Kayla would never have foreseen.
Why do you think I came to Riverend?
Because of Father.
Yes. And no. Why do you think I tell you this, now, when I could keep it hidden?
I don’t know.
Because I killed a man, Kayla.
She felt the harsh shock she had felt upon first hearing the words; felt the panic as she had attempted to deny the truth of them by finding the lie in her mother’s mood. It wasn’t there.
B–but why? How?
I forced him to feel my despair, my self-loathing, as if it were his own. He was not trained; not aware that what he felt came from outside of his core; he could not cope with what it was I placed there. I did not lift a hand, of course, but the end was the same as if I had.
And worse.
I look at my hands now, and I see a killer’s hands. I look at my hands, and I see worse: I taught this Gift. I passed it on.
But—but what does that have to do with Riverend?
Nothing. Everything.
The Holds are so dark and so isolated people can go mad in the winters. And do. But . . . with my Gift, here, among these people, I can remind them, without words, of the spring and the summer; I can give them hope. They take hope, and they make of it what they will, and we survive until the passes open.
But is that so different? If you make them feel what they don’t feel—
Is there a difference between watering a plant and drowning it? Here, in Riverend, there are few. The ore the mines produce is needed by the King. I have chosen to help these people, as I can, because I have grown to love them.
She had been silent, then.
Promise me, Kayla.
I promise, Mother.
In the end, she slept.
And the great beast was waiting for her, eyes red with fire, wings a maelstrom of emotion. He was despair, anger, loathing, but worse: He made mockery of the transience of the things Kayla valued: Love. Loyalty. Hope.
And who better to know of transience than she? She had buried a husband, a mother, a father. But worse, so much worse.
The dreams had always been her terror
and her salvation.
When she lost her oldest child, Darius, unnamed and unnamable, had come to her in the untouched winter of a Riverend that was barren of life, and she clung to his back and wept, and wept, and wept.
Her youngest was old enough to walk, not old enough to speak, and he was also feverish, and she prayed to every god that might have conceivably lived, and in the end, weak and almost weightless, her second child’s fever had broken.
But he never recovered, and although he seemed to take delight in the coming of spring, in the warmth and color of summer, the weight he had lost did not return. And she had wept then, at the start of winter, because she knew what it would mean. But at least, with her second, she had time. She told him stories. She sang him songs. She held him in the cradle of aching arms, and she comforted him, and herself, until she was at last alone.
But she was considered young enough in the village, if her heart was scarred; she was twenty-two. Her oldest son had survived six years, which was better than many, and the oldwives gathered to discuss her fate, and to ask her to marry again.
She had almost forgotten her mother’s words, that day, and the promise she had made to her mother—for her mother was dead, and that death was so less painful than this terrible intrusion of the living.
She had had nothing, nothing at all. She had carried the blackness and the emptiness within her until it had almost hollowed her out completely. She felt it now; it was a visceral, terrible longing.
A desire for an end. An ending.
And she knew it for her own.
The dragon nodded, wordless; swept back huge wings, opened its terrible jaws. They were kin, she thought. He offered nothing but truth.
Two things saved her.
The first was the flash of white in the darkness: Darius, the Companion of winter in Riverend. And the second, more real, more painful, the small fingers that bruised her arms, the whimpering that reached her ears, that pierced the fabric of a dream she could not escape, tearing a hole in the wall between sleep and the waking world.
The child was weeping. She held him, and the ache in her arms subsided. This was what she was. This was what her mother had taught her to be: comfort. Hope.
Valdemar Anthology - [Tales of Valdemar 02] - Sun in Glory and Other Tales of Valdemar Page 8