Beyond

by Mercedes Lackey

  “No, it makes sense,” Kordas replied. “You live or die by truth, and so you want to know who you can trust.” A new understanding of an old phrase occurred to him. “You want to know who is true.”

  All three Dolls replied in unison, “It is as you say.”

  Kordas pushed further. “Can you read people’s pasts? Forgive their mistakes, their guilt?”

  Star replied, “We do not phrase it as forgiveness, but we can tell whether someone is flawed in any untrustworthy ways. And how much. Sir.” Star bent to help Kordas slip off his new boots. “If you mean, if I may, Sir, that you were judged by us and found worthy of trust, that is true. Despite the guilt, anger, and terror you feel, and the incongruent feelings you have about your maneuvering in the Great Game, your reasons are understood and also found to be true. Feelings of fact and worth can be true even if they contradict each other. Humans, especially, are able to function with scores of truths in conflict inside of their minds. Including the truth that there are things you may never understand and that you must accept that as a truth to survive by.”

  Kordas was struck silent. Star removed the new boots and set them aside while Kordas rocked back against the wall, trying to process that. I’ve never been—read like that before. They must have done that with everyone in the Court, and the—they must be sick from what they’ve seen, and then I come along, and I’ve made a lot of mistakes and—things I haven’t ever forgiven myself for—and the Elementals just—they just see what I’m made of, they judge—

  “But if you’ve taken the place of the servants and staff here—where did the people go?” asked Beltran, utterly oblivious of where his lord’s mind was going. Which was just as well, really.

  “Specialists and chefs remain.” Star paused a moment, as if listening to a distant voice. “The Master of Records says with few exceptions, the humans and all pets were sent to the war front. Dolls are impractical in any use but backline support. Scribes, pages, any other male human that could wield a weapon, were conscripted to the Imperial forces as combatants. The females were conscripted as menials or entertainment. The pets have likely all been eaten by now.”

  Beltran looked pale. Kordas rubbed at the Ducal Crest, holding his breath.

  We have to get away from the Empire before it’s our turn. But that would still leave the Dolls, the—vrondi to, inevitably, be—

  An impulse arose in him. A stupid impulse. Possibly a suicidal impulse. A generous impulse to be sure, but that didn’t make it less stupid.

  On the other hand—if he didn’t act on it, he wouldn’t be worthy of the name of Valdemar.

  “Star,” he said, looking directly into the creature’s blue, unwinking eyes. “My people and I are in the process of escaping from this part of the world, and intend to travel far beyond the reach of the Emperor. Would you and the rest of the Dolls like to come with us, if I can manage it? I can’t promise it will happen, but I can promise that I will die trying, if need be. My people are largely innocents, and they could be—better off with you than with me.”

  Star did freeze; went so rigid that only now was Kordas aware that until this moment it actually had been making minute movements, probably continuously adjusting its weight and balance. He was not sure whether he had insulted it, whether or not it believed him, whether it might be compelled to report what he had just said to its masters. He held his breath, waiting for the answer—

  —or a troupe of the Emperor’s guards to burst in.

  But finally, Star spoke, in tones of such mingled hope and anguish that his heart almost broke.

  “Oh yes!” Star cried softly. “Please.”

  10

  With Kordas gone, implementing the Plan had taken on more urgency. Delia didn’t know why Isla wasn’t absolutely frantic with worry over the fact that he’d been “invited” to the Imperial Capital, but—

  Well, maybe she is. She’s just really good at hiding it. She and Kordas must have been working on the Plan for half of their lives, after all, and they were all too well aware that at any moment the Emperor’s people could step in and do something that could threaten it. The Empire had killed the older brother she had never known. Kordas had spent five years as a “foster” in the Imperial Palace. And it occurred to her in that moment that she had led an incredibly sheltered life. She’d never been a hostage to the Emperor. She’d never had to deal with politics of any sort, much less Imperial politics. In fact, the only time the reality of the Empire had intruded on her life had been when the Emperor gave her home away at the time of her father’s death.

  She had a lot to think about the morning that Kordas left, but most of it so overwhelmed her with worry and even fear that she sought refuge in the company of her little foal, able for a little while to shove all that concern aside in the simple pleasure of working with her charge.

  As she carefully schooled little Daystar in the manners that a horse meant to grow into a companion and friend should have, the presence of the horses around her felt oddly comforting. And Arial seemed to approve of both the schooling and Delia’s presence.

  Of course, it didn’t hurt that Delia always brought a treat for the mare; a carrot, an apple, a piece of sweet bread. She had cleared this beforehand with Grim, of course. Everything to do with the horses needed to be cleared with Grim first.

  Today, they were out in the paddock. Daystar had taken to the halter surprisingly well, and was learning to answer to gentle, persistent pressure on it. Of course, the fact that when the foal did what Delia asked her to she was immediately rewarded with a soft brushing or scratch to her neck certainly helped with that.

  It was in the paddock that Isla found her, just as she was thinking of her sister, wondering if Isla had any way of communicating with her husband, and when she looked up to see Isla at the fence, she wondered if Isla’s Mindspeaking ability had alerted her to the fact that Delia had Isla on her mind.

  “Are you done with your little beauty for this morning?” Isla called, resting her right hand on the top of the paddock fence. “I could use your help.”

  “I am,” she said, and took the halter off Daystar. An older horse could wear a halter day and night to make it easier to catch them, but a foal this young could not be trusted not to stick her silly nose where it didn’t belong, get a halter-strap caught on something, and—

  Well, at the least, she’d panic and then be afraid of the halter. At the worst she could break a leg or strangle herself.

  Daystar trotted—it was more like a bounce—a few lengths away, then frisked, kicked, and bounded over to play with some of the other foals.

  I wish I was a foal. Their lives are full of nothing but joy.

  Delia patted Arial, then joined her sister, climbing over the fence.

  “I need you to start taking messages to our people and bringing their concerns back to the manor, as Kordas has done,” Isla said. “I can’t spare the time. First of all, they need to know he’s been called to the Capital and we don’t know when he’ll be back, and second, we like to keep on top of what our people need at all times. So you’ll have to be his surrogate. I’ll loan you my mare Sundrop. She knows you, and everyone will recognize your authority if you are mounted on a Valdemar Gold.”

  Delia easily read between the lines of this bland statement. She was to tell the people that Kordas trusted that the first Gate had been established, and it was time to start moving people through it.

  The thought actually made her insides feel weak for a moment. This wasn’t just a fantasy, or a “maybe someday.” It was happening, and not even (or perhaps especially) was Kordas’s absence going to slow or stop it. In fact, it might just make things more urgent.

  “Now?” she asked. Isla nodded.

  “I need you to ride out to Squire Lesley and Count Endicrag today. I’ve gotten one of the scribes to copy a map for you to follow, and they’re the nearest. Come snatch some lunche
on while Grim has Sundrop saddled for you.”

  She blinked her eyes in surprise. Count Endicrag? That made sense. He was one of the eight ranking landholders in Valdemar. But Squire Lesley?

  “The pig farmer?” she said incredulously.

  “He’s anything but just a pig farmer,” her sister replied in a note of gentle rebuke. “He serves as the local magistrate. He knows everyone in his corner of Valdemar, and everyone knows him. Lord Merrin might think he is the one in charge of those lands, but everyone in that County looks first to Lesley for guidance, because Merrin knows nothing about them, and cares less. Kordas knows this, and knows that asking Merrin about things will yield no useful information, but Lesley will know all the blessings and ills, and likely how to fix the latter.”

  Delia felt her cheeks growing hot with embarrassment. “I’ll go get that lunch at the kitchen,” she said meekly, and followed her sister back to the manor.

  But Isla took her by the elbow and steered her into an empty little room, almost an ornamental nook, just off the corridor on the way to the kitchen, and closed the door. “We don’t have much time, so listen and don’t ask questions,” she said. “This room is warded completely, but it’s small enough that it’s not likely anyone spying on us has noticed. Always assume you are being scryed. If you need to tell me something, do it here, or in the cellars. We don’t ward our apartment, because we assume that’s the first place a mage would try to eavesdrop. There are a couple more safe places, and I’ll show them to you later. Now, I want you to tell Lesley and Endicrag, and covertly pass them these notes.” She gave a couple pieces of folded parchment to Delia, who tucked them into a pocket. “It doesn’t matter which you give to whom; they are identical. They’ll probably take you somewhere safe to read them, then tell you what they want me to know. You may be bringing back someone from Lord Endicrag’s manor.”

  She opened the door again and gave Delia a push to send her out of it. They hadn’t been in there but a few moments. Was this how Isla and Kordas lived all the time?

  Probably. And I never noticed it. I guess I just assumed when they were a little late, they’d been loitering over something.

  They went on to the kitchen, where Delia gulped down a hasty lunch, and Isla conferred with the Head Cook. Isla left before Delia had finished, and Delia hurried back to the stable.

  One of the stablehands had Sundrop saddled and ready for her, and passed her a map. She vaguely knew where Squire Lesley’s home was, but the map confirmed that it wouldn’t be hard to find.

  She wanted to gallop Sundrop there, but was afraid that would look as if she had been sent on an errand more urgent than its outward appearance. But then she thought again, and decided to put Sundrop into a canter for at least a little bit. It was a gorgeous day, sunny and warm, and what young lady with any spirit at all, given a Valdemar Gold to ride, wouldn’t urge her mount into a run?

  So she did; Sundrop was perfectly willing to oblige, and she allowed herself a moment of pure pleasure in the speed and the wind in her hair. Her pony had never been able to run like this!

  Soon enough, she found herself on the little lane that the map told her led to Squire Lesley’s country manor, and when she saw it, she felt a pang of nostalgia and even some grief, because it was a miniature version of her old home. Not as many stories, and not as broad, but it was of the same weathered stone that fit into the landscape, and just as surrounded by beautiful trees and flowering bushes and a low stone wall with a gatehouse. Even the scent of the air was familiar, old-fashioned roses and sweetbush, cut grass and a hint of cypress.

  Old-fashioned. When we’ve left Valdemar, will that term even make sense any more? We might never see these flowers and birds again, and have only memories of them. We don’t even know if we’ll be safe there. Even enjoying a day might fade into a memory. We might live in fear of disease, or monsters, or—or just loneliness. The Empire may be awful for us, but even so it gives a sense of being part of something. We could end up somewhere that will offer even less mercy. Nothing to fall back upon, no resources or Healing. What will that do to us? Even now, I’m in safe enough surroundings, with beauty all around, and the thought scares me. How much harder will bravery be when we’re actually there? Surrounded by that much unknown?

  This was not the first time she’d had similar thoughts. How would this strike those for whom it would be sudden news?

  In a way, the Empire has done us a favor in that regard. It isn’t outright slavery—here in Valdemar, at least, thank gods big and little—but the way the Empire has taught them all, every soul is obedient to those above them in rank, and “belongs” to them, in the sense that a horse is part of a herd, a leader guides the herd, and someone commands the leader. A farmer is part of the farm, not a person who works a farm. Bless them, the commoners will have less conflict about leaving, if their Lords tell them to. And some—well, some will have intense trouble with the fact they’ll be given a choice. But Kordas has been adamant that everyone will have that choice, to go or to stay, even if it makes some Valdemarans just shudder in anxiety. Some of them, I know, won’t want that choice.

  Delia rode up to the front door, and before she had gotten there, a servant stepped out of the gatehouse and waved her hat.

  “Lady Isla Valdemar’s sister Fidelia, sent by Lady Isla, to see Squire Lesley,” she said, before the servant could ask her name or her business.

  “Is it urgent, my lady?” the servant asked. Mindful of the fact that she might be being scryed, she shook her head.

  “Not urgent, but important,” she answered.

  “Very good, my lady. The Squire is at luncheon, but I am sure he will want to see you. If you will wait here a moment, I will inform him.” At her nod, the servant stepped into the manor and closed the door behind her.

  She returned long before Delia expected, with a young servant lad. “If you will allow me to take your horse, the Squire wishes you to come to him,” he said.

  She dismounted, handed off the reins, and followed the boy inside.

  Another way our dear Valdemar is unlike the Empire proper. Out here, nobody is as strict about what a man’s or woman’s duties are. Parts of the Empire hold that entire categories of behavior are illegal for those of a particular gender: who can speak first, who can be allowed to learn, who can be loved by whom. Even who is allowed to think of loving whom, no matter what a soul’s heart, mind, or body wants; if those in power can control love, they can control anything. So they do.

  Instead of taking her to the Great Hall as she had expected, the boy led her through several linked rooms to what looked like the Squire’s study or office. The Squire was absently eating bread and cheese while attending to some sort of paperwork, but looked up at their footfalls. He stood, putting his half-eaten luncheon aside on a book.

  “Lady Fidelia!” he said. “A pleasure! How can I serve your sister?”

  The Squire was every inch the country gentleman, slightly overweight, balding, and dressed in clothing at least one generation out of date, which might even have been handed down to him from his own father: moleskin trews tucked into well-worn boots, a short brocade waistcoat buttoned over a slight belly, a shorter version of a coat than was currently popular that matched the trews. He looked at the boy and nodded, and the lad vanished.

  “Well,” she said, “I have some unexpected news. Kordas has been called to the Capital along with his tribute-horses, and we don’t know when to expect him back. Lady Isla will be in charge of the Duchy, and I’m to serve as her messenger.”

  “Well, this is unexpected. Please, sit down,” he replied, brows wrinkling as he gestured at the chair on the other side of the desk. She took it, and he sat back down again. “I suppose being recalled was inevitable. He hasn’t been back since his father died, gods keep him, and the Emperor does like to lay eyes on his nobles from time to time. When did this happen?”

  “This mor
ning,” she said. “It was quite unexpected, indeed. And Lord Merrin went with him.”

  “Did he, now. Hmm. Have you eaten? Shall I have some luncheon brought? Tea?”

  She was about to decline when she realized that accepting something from his hand would allow her to pass her note without a watcher being aware of the fact.

  “Yes, please,” she said. “Tea would be lovely.”

  “If you care for lenanberry, that’s what I’m having,” he said, and she thought he looked at her very keenly.

  “One of my favorites,” she lied, and waited as he rang for another thick pottery mug to be brought. He poured a mug-full for her and handed it to her across the desk. When she accepted it, the note was in her hand and she slipped it into his.

  He made it vanish as if he was a conjurer.

  Then he pressed her for details of the morning’s departure—how had Kordas gotten the news? How many people did Merrin have with him? All the while, sipping his own tea, and finishing his luncheon.

  “Well,” he said, when the food was gone. “I’m glad you came to tell me. I’ll just skip making my reports to that worthless steward of Merrin’s and send them directly to Lady Isla. Care to come see the Empress?”

  For a moment she couldn’t imagine what on earth he was talking about. The Empress? What was the Emperor’s wife doing here? And why? And then she remembered that the Empress was Squire Lesley’s Duchy-wide famous pig.

  She still couldn’t imagine why he’d take her to see a pig, but then she remembered what Isla had said, that if they had anything important to tell her, Lesley and Count Endicrag would take her somewhere it was safe to talk.

  “I’d be honored,” she said, and put down the mug of untasted tea as she stood up.

  He stood too. “Come along, then. She’s got piglets. Do you like piglets?”

  Properly roasted . . . she thought, and stifled a slightly hysterical laugh. “I would love to see her piglets,” she said instead, and he came around to her side of the desk and offered her his arm, as if he was escorting her to a ball.