Choices

by Mercedes Lackey

  * * *

  • • •

  The stable was warm, private, and enclosed. After months on the road and camping in the rough, a straw bed with a roof was a luxury. Teralyn had headed off into town to get provisions for the pair. While Kitha could eat mice and the like with ease, she could still eat cooked meat, and craved something warm that she hadn’t had to catch.

  Neither Kitha nor Hadara spoke after Teralyn left. The two of them retreated into their own private thoughts. Despite this, they both could tell what the other was feeling: a chaotic mixture of worry and hope.

  Kitha pulled out the small mirror she’d been given and stared at her reflection. Taken separately, each half of her face was beautiful in its own way. From one side, her human face was smaller than she remembered, and the profile of her nose was wrong, but it was still a human face. The other half was humanoid hawk with feathers and the beginnings of a beak. It was pretty in its own way. Different, yes. But not unattractive. Looking straight on though, her face was two halves that didn’t make a whole.

  Could I live like this for the rest of my life? she wondered.

  :Yes.: She answered in Animal Mindspeech. It wasn’t a lie, but it was a reluctant admission. :I could. I would.:

  Hadara shifted. :Could, would, what?:

  Kitha returned the mirror to her pack and moved over to Hadara. She flopped herself down next to the gryphon and settled into her feathers. :We don’t have to do this. I don’t have to be fixed. I’ve been changed, yes. But I can adapt. Can you? Are you willing to?:

  It took a long time for Hadara to answer. :I miss the light. I miss seeing . . . but with you, I don’t have to. It’s not like my own lost sight, but I can see. At the same time, it’s almost harder—shifting from darkness to your light. Could I do this, remain blind? Could I adapt? Of course I could. I did for months before I met you. But if there’s a chance for me to regain my sight, I want to try.:

  It wasn’t the answer Kitha wanted, but it was the answer she’d expected. :What about us?:

  Hadara’s answer was immediate. :I would remain in darkness forever before I would give up our connection.:

  Kitha relaxed. She hadn’t realized how tense she’d become. :Me, too.:

  “We will adapt to whatever Quenten sssays.” Hadara preened the feathers and hair on Kitha’s head. “We don’t hhhave to do anything.”

  Kitha whistled her acknowledgement. Hope was a hell of an emotion.

  * * *

  • • •

  After two days in the stable, Teralyn convinced Hadara and Kitha that Bolthaven really was a haven for the strange and unusual, and that Kitha would not be looked down upon. It was a town supporting a Mage school. That meant the population was used to elementals in the pantry, strange sightings, and escaped experiments. All would be well.

  A day later, Kitha decided to test this and agreed to meet her mentor in town for the day’s silent language lesson. In truth, she felt closed in. She needed to get out and see what there was to see. While Hadara worried, she was willing to let Kitha go, as long as she promised not to leave the walls of the town.

  It was the right thing to do. Kitha kept her hood raised at first. Then, as no one said anything in the marketplace and barely acknowledged her strangeness, she’d gone into a tavern for food.

  Even now, as she walked down the street toward the meeting place, Kitha marveled at the barkeep’s simple, “Huh. That’s a hell of a magic mistake. Hope you get it fixed soon. What’ll be? The special’s lamb.”

  It made Bolthaven the ideal place after so many wary and scared strangers.

  Something caught Kitha’s attention: The sound of a scuffle in the alleyway next to the building she was to meet Teralyn at. She turned her hawk senses in that direction and listened, blocking out as much of the normal town noise as she could to hone in on the thing that didn’t sound right.

  “—where the black dagger is, or so help me I’ll slit your throat.”

  “I don’t know. I swear it!”

  Both voices were feminine. One a stranger. One she knew. Kitha crept into the alley, using all her training to hide in the shadows. Peeking around a cart, she saw the bandit woman press Teralyn against the wall, a black dagger at her throat.

  “Who has it? That Change-Child girl? Your master?”

  Teralyn gritted her teeth, then clamped her mouth shut.

  Kitha gave a frantic call to Hadara, but the gryphon didn’t respond. There was a feeling of sudden urgency from her friend, but nothing concrete. She was on her own. Change-Child or not, Kitha was still Shin’a’in trained. She pulled her dagger as she unclipped her cloak, letting the fabric slump to the ground in a soft whoosh. She wouldn’t be caught up in its folds.

  “Answer me, or I’ll kill you where you stand.” The bandit pressed the dagger into Teralyn’s flesh.

  “I can’t answer you if I’m dead.”

  “I’ll kill them all, one by one until I get that dagger back. You, your master, the gryphon, the Change-Child, and anyone else who gets in my way. Now tell me where it is!”

  Kitha narrowed her eyes, tensed, then sprinted at the woman. With a leap, she crashed into her back, hoping Teralyn wouldn’t be too hurt in the process.

  The bandit reared back and spun around and around, trying to dislodge Kitha as she punched at her. Kitha clung on like the hertasi of song. She wrapped her legs around the bandit in the parody of a piggyback ride. Then, bypassing the woman’s attacks, Kitha slit her throat.

  The bandit gave a gurgling cry, dropped her dagger, and threw Kitha from her. As she did, Teralyn summoned the wind and pressed the woman against the opposite side of the alleyway.

  The woman jerked, gagging, as she still tried to fight. She flicked a hand at the fallen dagger. Having seen the woman’s gifted skill in the last battle, Kitha knocked aside the dagger Fetched at Teralyn. She threw her own at the bandit. Already weakened and beset by the wind, the woman was unable to keep Kitha’s dagger, pushed by Teralyn’s spell, from plunging into her chest. After that, it was a matter of waiting until the woman stopped moving. As they watched, her silver belt buckle shimmered and disappeared.

  Bleeding, Teralyn lowered her hands, dropping her dead foe with a thump, and sank to the ground. Kitha hunkered next to her. Teralyn grasped Kitha’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

  She nodded.

  They both looked up at the distant sound of a frantic, blind gryphon crashing through the marketplace, shouting, “Cloak and Daggerrr! Wherrre is the Cloak and Daggerrrr?”

  * * *

  • • •

  It was days later when Quenten summoned them back to his office. He gave them a kind smile as they came in like schoolchildren who’d been caught doing something forbidden. “It’s not that bad, my friends. Not at all. Well, it’s not all good either. Come in and brace yourselves.”

  Returning to the same spots they had before, Kitha felt like she was going to throw up until she heard the Mage’s next words.

  “I’ve done some research. According to all known lore, lifebonds cannot be broken. Yours wasn’t created because both of you were affected by magic. A lifebond is soul deep. If neither of you had been blinded nor caught up in a Mage Storm, and you met, you would still have the same connection you have now. As far as I can tell, curing you will not break your lifebond.”

  Both Hadara and Kitha relaxed into this new knowledge. “Good newsss indeed,” Hadara murmured as Kitha whistled her agreement.

  Quenten crossed his arms and leaned against the edge of his desk. “That’s the good news. I have bad news and other news.”

  Bad news first, Kitha signed. She had gotten much better at the silent language under Teralyn’s tutelage. Even Hadara had learned some of it, though neither of them could fathom a situation where they would be able to see each other, but not communicate via Animal Mindspeech.

  :He can’t
help us,: Hadara sent to Kitha as Quenten spoke.

  “I don’t have the skills to cure, or even attempt to undo, what the magic had done to either of you. Hadara, yours would be the simpler of the two, I think, as it only affects your sight. But, the magical trap was old and powerful.” He turned to Kitha, “You are much more complicated. The magic, the melding of your body and the hawk’s body, is systemic.”

  Hadara and Kitha nodded in unison.

  “But . . .” Quenten held up a hand. “There are Healer Adepts in Haven who might have the skill to help you. I have heard things . . .” He gestured to Kitha. “If not get your voice back, perhaps to allow you to have the whole of your face again. I don’t know. I do think the healers in Haven are your best bet.”

  He stopped, allowing them a scant few seconds to absorb the good, the bad, and the possible. “Now, you both said you wanted to be couriers no matter what. As it so happens, I have a job that needs a courier . . . and an escort. If you are interested?”

  Kitha gave him an open-handed gesture to continue.

  “That dagger you brought me, along with witnessing of the disappearance of the belt buckles, makes me believe that there is a new evil rising. Dark Mages are organizing under the name of Silence Breakers. I believe it might be a reference to when Ma’ar fought Urtho, the Mage of Silence . . .” Quenten stopped at the blank looks. “More information than you need.”

  He gathered his thoughts. “I need the thorn—that’s the dagger—taken to the Mage Council of Valdemar, along with a missive and my apprentice, Teralyn. She is one of the first to be attacked during the day. The first in Bolthaven proper that we know of. We don’t know if she was a target of opportunity, a specific target, or attacked because she is a White Winds Mage. The Silence Breakers know of you three. With the magical Fetching of the belt buckles, I believe they are still trying to hide. This may make all of you targets. Thus, I am sending you to an old friend of mine, Kerowyn . . . what?” Quenten furrowed his brow at their mutual grins.

  Relative of mine, Kitha signed.

  “Well, that makes it easier. Of course, you don’t look like you used to. Had you two met?”

  Kitha shook her head.

  “You’ll still need a letter of introduction and Teralyn along. I’ll ask Kerowyn, or someone she trusts, to meet you in Sweetsprings and escort you into Haven itself. While gryphons are seen more and more . . .” He spread his hands wide.

  “We underrrrsssstand,” Hadara said.

  Quenten moved around the desk and sat in his chair. “I’ll perform a sending to both the Skybolts and to a Mage friend in Haven so you’ll be expected. I imagine you should arrive by the end of Fall.” He squared his shoulders. “Now, my courier friends, what will it cost me to have you escort my apprentice, along with a possibly dangerous artifact, to Haven?”

  At a loss for words, Hadara blinked a couple of times. :Uh, Kitha . . . ?:

  Kitha rubbed her hands together. :Speak for me?:

  :Of course.:

  The Letter of the Law

  Angela Penrose

  The narrow road of packed gray dirt finally passed through the mouth of the cut—a tight opening that had been chiseled out to the width of a farm wagon some centuries past—and Herald Josswyn felt as though he could breathe again. A thin wind ran down the cut, the only pass between the North Trade Road and the Tolm Valley, but somehow the soaring granite walls had seemed to suck away all the air while he and his Companion, Dashell, had passed through.

  Joss had a decent time sense and knew it was only midafternoon, but the western end of the Tolm was already shadowed, giving the impression of evenfall. The spreading vista of tough, scrubby grass spotted with the occasional clump of low, gray-green shrubbery, was far preferable to the tight granite walls, but the landscape still looked bleak and empty in the dim light.

  :This time of year, the sheep will be in the eastern pasture,: Dash commented. :No need to be imagining boojums.:

  :I’m not imagining anything,: Joss retorted. :It’s just not my favorite place to visit.:

  :Especially after riding through the cut.: Dash’s mental voice had a note of sympathy. He was familiar with Joss’s preference for open, airy spaces.

  :That doesn’t help, no.: Riding through the cut and places like it took more courage than he’d ever admit to anyone but Dash. But even aside from the unpleasant transit, the Tolm wasn’t a friendly place to outsiders. This particular stop on Circuit was more about keeping contact and showing willingness than anything else; the Tolmen hadn’t actually brought a problem to a visiting Herald in longer than Joss had been in Whites.

  Dash said, :The sooner we get there the sooner we can leave,: and he shifted from a walk to a canter. Joss agreed, and in less than a candlemark, they were passing farmsteads, and Baron Tolm’s manor appeared in the distance.

  The smaller farmhouses were built of sod, which was cheap and plentiful in the valley, warm in the winter and cool in the summer—if one didn’t mind living in a dirt house. The better-off farmers and more prosperous crafters built of stone set in earthen mortar. All the roofs were sod over rafters, no matter what the walls were built of. Some of the more enterprising families had herbs or even shallow-rooted vegetables like greens growing on their rooftops.

  The houses were built low—none more than a single story—and wide. Each one had a fenced yard behind it, the width of the house and one hundred paces deep. More vegetables grew in the yards, and some had berry bushes. Here and there, a sheep grazed in one of the yards, the few not in pasture with the others.

  The only other thing all the houses had in common was that they showed no sign of human habitation. Unlike the sod roofs, that was unusual, and Joss felt his scalp start to prickle.

  Relax, he thought to himself, careful not to let it spill over to Dash. It’s nothing, you’re just still spooked from riding with walls pressing on your shoulders for half a day. Relax . . .

  :Likely there’s a festival of some sort in town,: he said. :A wedding perhaps? Something that drew everyone from home.:

  :Likely,: Dash agreed. From his tone, Joss could tell he wasn’t fooling his Companion for a moment, but he appreciated Dash’s discretion in not mentioning it.

  By the time they rode through the gap in the earthen wall that surrounded the Baron’s Town—which had no other name—Joss was feeling more like himself. They’d left the shadow of the mountains behind, and the warmth of the sun drove the chill from his bones. And noise drifting on the breeze told him he’d been correct about there being some kind of gathering ahead. Something solemn.

  Dash had switched into what Joss called “sneak mode.” Companions’ hooves usually chimed like bells when they walked, but they could be amazingly stealthy if they wanted to.

  :Not sneaking, precisely,: said Dash. :But if they’re in the middle of something important, we’d rather not interrupt.: Joss agreed.

  They rode past shuttered shops and empty lanes to the center of town, where the plaza in front of the Temple to the Tolmen gods was packed with folk standing quietly. Everyone wore what Joss recognized as their best clothes: dark greens and dull blues and the occasional brownish gold among the more common black and brown and beige—sheep colors. The men wore their hair in long braids, while the women wore their hair loose, long for the maidens and shorn above the shoulder for the matrons. Joss could tell the sex and marital status of everyone within sight because their backs were to him, facing a dais upon which was set a tall wooden chair.

  It wasn’t quite a throne, but it clearly had pretentions. From the elevation of his seat on Dash’s back, Joss could see that the man on the chair wasn’t Baron Tolm, but his son, Lord Gaulvan. Next to him stood a crier, reading from a scroll he held in front of him, high enough to read but low enough not to block his voice.

  “From Talvan the Carpenter, one keg of nails. From Grun the Baker, a dozen loaves of barley bread. From
Soben the Smith, one keg of nails. From Poren the Cobbler, four pairs of lambskin slippers. From Durn the Potter, sixteen plates or eight mugs, glazed. From Von the Turner, a dozen long tool handles.”

  The crier rolled up his scroll, then looked out at the assembly and said, “From all others, the Baron claims the best beast. Bring the animals to Reeve Colvin before next market day. Thus commands the Baron.”

  He stepped back next to the Baron’s chair and looked down at his feet. That was apparently the signal for the crowd to disperse. The susurrus was too low and contained too many voices for Joss to hear what any particular person was saying, but the tone was hard and grim.

  :Tax day?: suggested Dash. :Nobody is happy on tax day.:

  :Perhaps,: said Joss. :Although this is an odd way to do it, out in public before everyone. Tax collectors usually visit folk one at a time.:

  :The Tolmen do many things differently,: Dash pointed out.

  :True.:

  Joss waited for the crowd to clear. Folk passing by glanced up at him, some eyeing Dash for a few moments before looking away. When most of the people had dispersed, he saw that twenty or so were crowded around the dais, apparently speaking with the Baron. He and Dash approached at a careful walk.

  “But, sir, we’ve a fine laying hen,” one woman was saying as he came into earshot. “Surely that would do. She gives nice, big eggs. Last month, one had two yolks!”

  “Your best fowl is the rooster,” said the man in the Baron’s chair. “I’ll not be cheated of my right, and I’ll not be dickered with.” Lord Gaulvan stood, and all the common folk at the dais shuffled back a step or two. “If you must argue, argue with the reeve.” He turned and left, jumping down off the back of the thigh-high dais with the spry ease of a man in his twenties, despite having some few more years than Joss, who was forty-eight.

  Joss had Dash maneuver around the small crowd and trot up next to Gaulvan. When Gaulvan looked up and paused, Joss slid out of Dash’s saddle as gracefully as he could after some hours in it, and made a short bow.