Passages

by Passages (epub)

Talia nodded and hurried out. The others started in on their now cold soup. Marjom didn’t touch hers.

  * * *

  * * *

  By the next morning, no one had arrived with any specific orders. But Marjom was a field Herald. She didn’t sit still. Before the sun had been up a full candlemark, she found herself back out in the city. But today, she wasn’t going to just wander the streets. She started at the stables. She passed Candry forking hay into a stall full of milk goats. She waved, wondering how the girl had drawn stable chores when she was clearly close to being a graduate. Candry waved back but didn’t stop to talk.

  Marjom Mindtouched Hannra lightly, just enough to make sure she was comfortable in Companion’s Field, before she started looking for cleaning supplies. Even if she wasn’t going to need it for a while, she never left her tack to sit long without being oiled and checked for spots that needed repairs.

  She sat in a stiff-backed wooden chair in the tack room, a rag in one hand and her reins in the other. Reins were mostly decorative for Companions, particularly in Haven, but Heralds used them outside, if just to make the Companions appear a bit more like horses. They could also be handy to hang onto, or to signal a Companion in full gallop if you didn’t have the attention for Mindspeaking. A twitch of leather reins took a second, and words took three or four seconds. That could matter.

  “Good morning.”

  Marjom startled. She looked up to find Candry standing in the wide doorway. “Hello. How did you end up feeding the goats?”

  “I was looking for you, and I offered to help with animals. Our holding was a goat farm, and I had expected to grow up raising and milking goats. I often do the morning feeding. Lessons won’t start for an hour.”

  “Are you homesick?” Marjom asked.

  Candry blushed. “It’s lovely to be here, and I wouldn’t trade away Blackie for anything.”

  “Someone named a Companion Blackie?”

  “She has a black spot on her nose. Or had. It’s faded to gray, and I’m told it will be invisible soon. She told me it was a birthmark.” She smiled. “Besides, I didn’t name her. We never do.”

  “True enough.” The Companions’ choices often implied a sense of humor. “When do you leave?”

  “It was going to be in three months. But now I’m to ride out next week. They sent me to look for you. There are three of us going out early from my class, and we’re to spend three days with you and another of the Heralds who came back.”

  The reins slid through Marjom’s fingers, slightly slippery with saddle oil. What should she say? Of course, she would go, but what did she know to teach youngsters this green? “Tomorrow?”

  “Today. Can I help you finish your tack? Are you doing your saddle, too?”

  Before she could answer, Candry pulled a saddle horse over, dusted it off, threw a used blanket over it, and started for Marjom’s saddle.

  Marjom hung the bridle over its wooden peg and poured a thin stream of fresh oil across her cloth. She supposed someone would have eventually done this for her, at least here in Haven. “So, when you’re in the field, you’ll have one other Herald with you, maybe a few others sometimes. Once I did a whole Circuit with just me and three Healers. That must have been twenty years ago, a summer when a sickness came through, and we could only save three out of four even with the Healers.” She started rubbing the mud off her stirrups. “But they knew nothing of tack. I had to take care of theirs as well as mine. If I remember, they’d always been in town before. The whole trip was hard for them.” She was getting lost in memory, so she forced herself to refocus. “If you forget anything . . . cleaning or mending or food or first aid materials—it can hurt you, or even kill you.” She checked to make sure that Candry was paying attention and grunted in satisfaction when she saw the girl’s eyes were wide, even though surely she’d had this lesson somewhere before. “Here’s what goes into the most basic of field packs . . .”

  * * *

  * * *

  Half an hour later, the saddle was put away, and Marjom was doing her best to keep up with Candry in spite of her aching feet. They arrived at a small classroom with a cheerful fire and a tray of hot tea. Herald Witman was already there, and he scooted over to make room for her. Sitting down felt good.

  Besides the three students, all of whom looked like mere children, there was one other person in the room, a small woman of middle years in street clothes with bland features. As soon as Marjom arrived she nodded and said, “You all may begin. We’ll bring lunch in three hours. For today, the students have prepared questions.”

  Left unsaid, the implication that the Heralds were expected to develop a lesson for the next day.

  Candry directed a question at Marjom. “What scared you the most the first time you were on Circuit?”

  That was easy. “We were in the woods one night when three bandits surprised us. They wore bearskin coats and came from upwind, and somehow even the Companions . . . .”

  She and Witman told three stories each about fear before lunch arrived. As the students started to set out the food, Witman took her outside. “We should change the topic,” he told her.

  “To what?”

  He smiled “What do you think?”

  “Failure. They have to learn to fail.”

  “All right. Then after the break I want to work on courage.”

  “That’s broad,” she said. “What kind of courage?”

  He paused. “The courage to do what you have to, even when you don’t like it.”

  He had that right. She smiled at him as they started back in. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one chafing at this assignment.

  By the time they finished, she felt as tired as she did at the end of a full day of protecting the Border. The students hurried off to somewhere, chattering, leaving her and Witman to walk back together. He moved as slowly as she did. She didn’t mind. It was easier than keeping up with Candry. They were silent, so she spoke to Hannra. :How was your day?:

  :Excellent.:

  She did sound happy. :What did you do?:

  :I spent the day testing Blackie’s reflexes.:

  Whatever that meant. :Was that fun?:

  :Yes, and now I’m tired. You feel tired, too.:

  :I am. Sleep well.:

  When they were halfway to Heritage House, Witman broke the long, companionable silence. “That was better than I thought it would be.”

  She pursed her lips. “I miss the Border. Already. Where were you?”

  “In the north. Not as much fighting there. But there have been some wicked storms, even for this time of year. We lost a few barns to twisters. We had to spend three days dragging livestock out of flooding pastures. The storms seem like a bad omen.”

  “I hope not.”

  “Me, too. I’ll be glad of a bed tonight.”

  It was her turn to say, “Me, too.” Her feet didn’t have any sharp pains like after a day of riding, but all of her joints ached. The cooling night wasn’t doing anything to help her move more easily. “I’m ready to just sit still and not talk to anyone until tomorrow.”

  As if his voice felt as worn as hers, he merely nodded.

  They rounded the corner and Heritage Hall came into view. “I really hate that name,” she said.

  “Me, too.”

  Still, the windows spilled light cheerily into the street, and the planter boxes had been finished sometime today while they were gone, making the place look a little bit more settled.

  Chalena opened the door for them, and the surprising chatter of students and some older voices as well spilled into the street. “Welcome home.”

  “Who’s here?” Witman asked.

  “Some of the Heralds who get to leave because you came back, and the students you helped today. And a few others. The party is to celebrate your sacrifice, and welcome you to your new role.”


  As a retiree. She swallowed, and she felt her eyes flash with tears that she breathed away. Today hadn’t gone too badly. And she’d get better at teaching with practice. She looked around at the food and the many people, and she heard both celebration and apprehension in the undertones of the conversation.

  Chalena stepped past them to greet someone else.

  From the corner, Candry raised a glass.

  Witman leaned in and said, “Is it that bad?”

  Had he seen the tears, or did he understand because he felt the same? “No. No, it’s not too bad.” She glanced at Candry, who had turned back to her circle of friends. “No. We can still be useful.”

  The table overflowed with food and drink. Bright candles and oil lamps illuminated almost every corner of the big kitchen and dining room. The smell of fresh baked bread and fresh meat helped her perk up. Maybe she wasn’t, actually, too tired for a glass of wine and some conversation. She smiled at Witman. “Wine?”

  He smiled back. “Yes. And I like chocolate. I think I see some.”

  Maybe they’d let her go back at the end of the war. Maybe she could find a student Healer to work on her feet.

  She reached out to Hannra, showing her a quick taste of her day, the students. :What do you think? Bandits tomorrow? Or something about small-town diplomacy?:

  Hannra’s reply washed through her, warm with amusement and pleasure. :I think that whatever it is, you should enjoy it as much as you did today.:

  Marjom reflected on that for a bit before replying. :I did enjoy it.:

  She followed Witman after the chocolate.

  Temper

  Mercedes Lackey

  Lerryn Twoblades did not look like much of a fighter. He wore the same scuffed brown leathers as any of his company, and his woolen cape had seen better days. His boots were good, but a merc needed to take care of his feet. He didn’t even wear his savings—which had to be considerable, for a captain of such a well-reputed merc company—in the form of chains or bracelets. In fact, his only concession to rank was a round Guild Captain pin of enameled copper showing two crossed swords bisected by a lightning bolt, used as a cloak-clasp. Thin and not particularly tall, and just now at rest, he wasn’t very imposing, either.

  But when he had walked alongside Kerowyn, it was immediately apparent that he was whipcord and steel over bone, and moved with a lazy grace that spoke volumes to anyone who had studied hand-to-hand combat. Those limpid brown eyes missed nothing; those foppish curls covered a skull with frightening intelligence inside it.

  Kerowyn had sent Lerryn her letter of introduction this morning, as soon as she had arrived in the tiny village of Bolthaven, where the Skybolts had their winter quarters. And now, at his request, she was meeting Lerryn not in those winter quarters but in the largest building in the village—the tavern. The village was so small there was only one tavern, but anyplace a merc company wintered, there would always be at least one tavern. Bored mercs needed a place to go, a place that wasn’t their quarters.

  Tarma had said you could tell a lot about a company by the tavern in their winter quarters. This one was clean, with an enforcer in the corner who looked like he knew what he was doing and was big enough to be a match even for Hellsbane’s strength, and the servers were a mix of the sexes. They looked like they knew what they were doing too, or at least that was what Kero had judged in the brief time she’d had to survey the common room before Lerryn appeared.

  Instead of discussing her joining his company, he had asked her to take him to the stable, where he took stock of her Shin’a’in warsteed, Hellsbane. According to rumor, there wasn’t a single horse in his entire mercenary company he couldn’t handle, and it seemed to be true; his abilities included Hellsbane, which had surprised the hell out of both Kero and her horse.

  Then they went back to a private room, which was scarcely big enough to be a closet. Since it had a desk and two chairs, it appeared that Lerryn had commandeered the tavern’s office. Once he began to speak at length, it was no secret why the Skybolts were fanatically devoted to their Captain.

  * * *

  * * *

  “So,” Lerryn said, once they had both settled into the two chairs in the tiny room. “According to this—” He tapped the folded paper from her mentor, Tarma shena Tale’sedrin, that Kero had sent to him when she first arrived in Bolthaven. “You’re that Kerowyn. I’d sent to your teacher to see if she had any protégées she’d send my way, or any former students she could recommend, but I didn’t expect to be facing Kerowyn of ‘The Ride.’”

  “The Kerowyn of ‘The Ride’ wasn’t that impressive, Captain,” Kero said dryly. “I assume you know about my grandmother’s sword?” She patted the hilt of Need gingerly. This was neither the time nor the place to be waking the damned thing up. At Lerryn’s nod, she continued. “I barely knew the hilt from the edge. I was basically the sword’s puppet. It did everything, because the only skill I had with a blade was at the dinner table, and the only skill I had as a Mage was the same I have now—none. That song should have been called ‘Need Takes Control.’”

  Lerryn just raised an eyebrow, perhaps surprised at her modesty. “Well, you of all people ought to know about the liberties musicians take,” he said instead. “So, since your mentor sent you here, I assume that you no longer depend on the sword?”

  “Only for protection from magic, and the fact this hunk of tin is an expertly forged weapon no one has ever been able to break.” She didn’t add anything about the ongoing war of wills—if you could call what the sword had a “will”—that she and the blade had. Need had run her grandmother around half a dozen countries righting the wrongs of women and getting paid little or nothing for her pains. Kero did not intend to allow a piece of metal to interfere with her making a living. “But about that business of me being that Kerowyn,” she continued. “I’m going by Kay Taldress for now.”

  Lerryn allowed himself a thin little smile. “Not trading on your fame, then?”

  “No, Captain,” she said firmly. “There are three things that fame will get me. Challenges from people who want to say they could take me, contempt from people who think I’m trading on it, and groveling from people I’d rather not have anything to do with. I’ll make it past my recruitment stage in the Skybolts on my own skills.”

  “You’re smart for someone as young as you look,” Lerryn said.

  “Observant,” Kero corrected. “It was a long road to get here. I had plenty of examples of all three of those sorts of people on the way.”

  And in fact, it hadn’t taken her long to adopt the name of Kay Taldress. Naively, she’d assumed that once she was far enough away from home, no one would have heard the song about her rescue of her brother’s newly-gotten bride. But no; it was a catchy tune and a good story, and she’d generally hear it two out of every three stops at inns and taverns. It no longer made her wince to hear it, but with familiarity had come a good bit of retrospection on the road. What, exactly would her life had been like if she hadn’t made that ride intending to track the raiders down herself and looking for help to do so?

  I suppose Grandmother and Tarma would have gone after them. That might even have been why Tarma intercepted me in the first place; she might already have been on the way to take stock of the situation. Still . . . how much could they have accomplished?

  Probably more than I am giving them credit for.

  And then what would have happened to her? Once brought home, Dierna had quickly put her own stamp on the household—an accomplishment made easier by the fact that there had been no one there to oppose her will, since the Old Lord had gone down fighting, and Kero’s brother didn’t care what went on inside the walls of the keep as long as meals were on time and the household was well-run. So unless I’d been willing to play obedient handmaiden . . . Well, there were a lot of ways to get rid of an inconvenient female relation. Packing her off to a religious order was one
. Marrying her off to someone old enough to not be too picky about a second or third wife was another.

  Or Grandmother could have asked for me herself. In which case I’d be right where I am now. But would she have? Or would she have assumed that the blood I got from her was too thin in my veins for her to pass Need to?

  “Well,” Lerryn said, breaking into her thoughts. “If that’s how you want to play it, present yourself and your horse at the garrison tomorrow and ask to see the recruiting sergeant. But coming in this way means you’ll be in for the hazing every new recruit gets.”

  “Would you want me otherwise?” she countered.

  “As a student of Tarma shena Tale’sedrin? Absolutely. And you can still present yourself as such—you don’t have to claim your name, but you can claim your teaching. You’re not the first of Tarma’s students to take to the road.” He tilted his head to the side, offering this as a sort of tasty bait.

  Which she wasn’t taking. “And plenty of people know Kerowyn was Godmother’s last student.” That was thanks to Prince Daren, who’d been her fellow-student, and hadn’t been shy about telling tales of his experience. “No, I’ll take the hard road.”

  “As you wish.” Captain Lerryn rose and offered her his hand to shake. “I don’t usually look at the new recruits until they’ve been with the Skybolts for a week, so don’t expect to see me before then. Good luck—Kay Taldress.”

  She shook his hand firmly. “Thank you, Captain.”

  They left the little office room without anyone taking much notice of them. Evidently he did business in there often enough that it was commonplace.

  She went up to the bar and ordered pea soup, bread, and beer, then found herself a seat at one of the smaller tables. All three came quickly, delivered by a male server who, with humor and discretion, made certain that food and drink were all she wanted before heading back to the kitchen. The beer was smooth, the bread was brown and came with a spread made of bacon drippings, and the pea soup had plenty of bacon in it. The common room was quiet at the moment; when she’d arrived it had been full of locals getting fed their dinner before going back to work. This wasn’t unusual; plenty of people in a village didn’t have kitchens, only hearths, and they depended on the inn or tavern for their substantial midday meal. Travelers just passing through should start arriving about now. The Skybolts wouldn’t turn up until after their evening meal in their garrison. How many of them—well, now that was the question. If Lerryn was as good a Captain as Kero thought, there would be no strong drink allowed in the garrison itself. So anyone that wanted to drink anything stronger than mild beer would have to come here. Some people might turn up for entertainment—the tavern appeared to have a resident musician, judging by the gittern tucked into a corner of the hearth. Some small tables for two at the back of the room had game-boards carved into their surface, so there could be those looking for a game or gambling with travelers. So it looked as if the tavern got quite a bit of regular custom.