Crucible

by Mercedes Lackey

  Wil still sat on the stones, but in a different when. Night had fallen, and the now-blazing lanterns turned the stone landing into a stage. The double doors flew wide, and a white-cloaked figure in scarlet stepped out. Though Ferrin had donned a half-mask with a pointed bird’s nose, nothing could mask the rich timbre of his voice.

  “Welcome all . . . to the Masque,” he said to an audience of at least thirty people, also disguised, albeit in simpler masks of cloth strips. “You have come here tonight to hear the truth, and the truth is this: the Queen is mad.”

  The crowd muttered agreement.

  “The Queen sends our sons and daughters to war,” he continued. “She sends them to death and worse, and for what?” He spread his hands. “Have you seen the armies of Hardorn on our doorsteps? Have you met a Karsite force on our roads?”

  Wil’s stomach twisted with growing disgust.

  “She does it . . . to control us,” he went on. His voice had a honeylike quality Wil recognized from the other night, when the Bard had flung his Gift on Orenn.

  Ferrin lowered his voice a little, requiring listeners to strain to hear. “But we . . . have a choice. We will send her no more fodder. The revolution begins here. Are you all with me?”

  Yes, whispered the crowd.

  Ferrin raised his voice from a whisper to a bellow. “We are the heralds of peace! We are Valdemar’s hope! We will bring an end to Mad Queen Selenay!”

  The crowd screamed, and from there the Masque dissolved into chants and shouts. Eventually, the crowds dispersed, leaving only Ferrin and two others: Eel and Sharlot.

  “Bring him out,” Ferrin said.

  Eel pushed open the moldering double doors and came back a few minutes later dragging someone in Guard Blues. He’d been bound and gagged, but he looked up at his captors fiercely, struggling against his bonds.

  The Bard drew a knife and handed it hilt-first to Eel. “Do it.”

  Eel licked his lips. “I—”

  “We’re starting a revolution, Eel. Prove yourself to Lord Dark. No one will miss this dog. They assume he’s deserted already. We saw to that.”

  “Do it,” Sharlot said, positively ecstatic.

  Eel took the knife. The nameless Guard shook his head frantically.

  “Eel,” Ferrin said, that honeylike quality to his voice again. “He’s a loyal servant of Selenay. Your father went to the border and died, and when he died, it was under orders from a man not unlike this one. This dog—” He kicked the Guard, who grunted. “—is as complicit in his murder as your so-called Queen is.”

  “Yes,” Eel whispered, a glitter in his eye as he knelt down.

  “Do it,” Sharlot repeated.

  Eel raised the knife and swung down. The Guard spasmed and shrieked, writhing and trying to roll away as the knife rose and fell, rose and fell.

  It took far too long for him to die.

  Wil pulled out of the vision, finding himself once more in sunlight. Amelie crouched nearby.

  :Chosen?:

  He didn’t answer Vehs. Couldn’t answer. Words failed.

  “Wil?” Amelie asked worriedly.

  Wil stood up slowly, brushing his palms on his breeches as he turned his mind toward his Companion. :Things are about to get interesting.:

  :You know how much I love interesting.:

  “We’re going back to the inn,” he said. “For now.”

  “And then?”

  He started down the stairs. I’ll arrest Ferrin and drag him by his thumbs back to Haven, he wanted to say.

  “I need a plan.” He scooped up Ivy and put her on one shoulder. “I need to think.”

  • • •

  :Can’t we drop an army on them?: Vehs asked.

  Wil sat in the loft with Ivy, slowly brushing her hair free from its braids as he discussed his plans with his Companion.

  :Gods. I wish,: he thought.

  :That sounds like a “no.”:

  :There’ll be a bloodbath if we pull the Guard in on this.: Wil shook his head. :Ferrin will rally his side. It’ll be no contest, but it’ll make the Queen and her agents look like oppressors.:

  :Which is what he wants.: The backlash of war—even a necessary one—couldn’t be avoided. People lost loved ones, or loved ones came back permanently changed physically and mentally. Ferrin had tapped into this resentment, given it a focus, and then fanned the flames with his Gift.

  The streets of Highjorune would run with blood if Wil didn’t stop him.

  :He also mentioned a “Lord Dark,”: he thought.

  Vehs’ unease matched Wil’s. :Yes. I . . . don’t like the sound of that name.:

  :So, we need him alive so we can interrogate him about who “Lord Dark” is. And we need him alone.:

  :Get him when he sleeps?:

  Wil shook his head. :He shares his bed with Sharlot. Eel sleeps outside his door.: Wil had wandered the inn several times after midnight and had seen the stableboy curled up outside Ferrin’s door. :The boy thrives on crumbs of praise.: Wil felt a shadow of pity for the young man, but then he remembered the terrible fervor with which Eel stabbed the Guardsman to death. Wil’s sympathy withered. :It’s no accident Ferrin picked him.:

  Aubryn’s voice shouldered into the conversation. :His rides to the castle.:

  She’s eavesdropping. He wanted to be annoyed, but her suggestion matched what he had been about to propose. :Yes. That’s our best opportunity. Vehs, I have a job for you.:

  :Yes?:

  Wil settled back, drawing Ivy close to him. :Go up the castle road. Be my eyes. I need to see it again. Every way to the palace . . . every hiding place. Every secret passage.:

  • • •

  Ferrin had been wearing a mask every month since he came to Highjorune nearly a year ago.

  It had only been him and Sharlot at the castle that first Masque. But now—through word of mouth and careful selection—they’d grown to nearly fifty. It would be time to execute Lord Dark’s plan soon.

  Ferrin rode up the moonlit avenue toward the castle, feeling positively ebullient. Some people sought intoxication in powders and potions; he found his in performing before a crowd. He’d sorely missed it, the first few months away from Haven.

  The Companions had spooked him, but he took it as a sign that the denouement drew near. Highjorune would be one among the many, nibbling away at Selenay’s power. Like tiny worms boring into a mighty oak, all it would take then would be one strong wind—say, from the direction of Hardorn—to knock the whole thing down.

  That’s what the Bardic Circle gets for exiling me to this godsforsaken place. The memory filled him with white-hot rage every time it crossed his mind. Like those girls weren’t begging for it, the way they dressed and simpered before us. Like there weren’t a half-dozen other lordlings doing the same as me.

  He took a turn before arriving at the courtyard, heading toward an old stone building. The Companions. Yes, the Companions. They would not be a problem soon. Eel had been an experiment—a ridiculously easy one, in the end. Ferrin just needed to extend that to his audience. He had every confidence it would work; Madra herself had told him over and over again it would. His mob would descend on the inn in an ecstasy of violence, and seal themselves to his cause in their lust to please him. Sharlot hadn’t even flinched when he’d mentioned the stable might burn tonight. He’d found a dark spark in both her and Eel and fanned it week after week, month after month. They were his now.

  He smiled at that thought. Mine.

  He dismounted, tied his horse to a rusted iron ring, and took a small lantern hanging off the saddle.

  He didn’t realize he’d been flanked until he felt the swish of air against his cheek.

  In his last moments of consciousness, he saw the two Companions looming over him. Incredulously, a small child rode pillion behind a woman on one.

/>   “What—” he started to say.

  Then something grabbed him from behind, and he found himself locked in a chokehold. He gasped and clawed at the air as stars sparkled across his vision, then collapsed in on themselves into darkness.

  • • •

  Ferrin groaned and got up—or tried to. He seemed to be tied up. His head pounded and throbbed. A draft told him he’d been stripped down to his smallclothes. A small lamp lit the space around him, and he smelled a dank, mushroomy smell. Dust and mold. The castle.

  A bearded man sat down beside him, his eyes pinned to a point above Ferrin’s head. The Bard blinked. “Attikas. What are you—”

  Cold gray eyes focused on him. “I’ve cast Second-Stage Truth Spell on you,” he said.

  Ferrin’s head swam with confusion. “But . . . only a Herald could do that.”

  Attikas’ smile stretched thin and toothy across his face. “What is your name?” he asked.

  “Ferrin.” His heart pounded and his mouth went dry. “You—this whole time—” His eyes widened. “But—your daughter!”

  “Contrary to popular belief,” the Herald said, “even we procreate. Now. Who is Lord Dark?”

  “My employer.” Ferrin screamed and writhed. “No! Stop! I can’t! He’ll kill me!”

  “What an incalculable loss that would be,” the Herald said with withering dryness. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know.” Ferrin felt sweat pop all over his body.

  “Name? Face? Description?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The Herald nodded. “So you’re someone’s catspaw. How does Lord Dark communicate with you?”

  “His agent, Madra. And I am no one’s—”

  “And the Guard you murdered. Where’s his body?”

  “The Remoerdis family graveyard behind the castle. You’ll find him buried in Jalazar’s plot.” He took a deep breath and howled, “What is a Herald doing here with a child?”

  The Herald’s eyes went momentarily dark. This, Ferrin realized. This is where I twist the knife in.

  “Do you know what Lord Dark will do if he discovers her?” Ferrin whispered. “Break every bone in her body. He’ll make you watch. He’ll—”

  The Herald put his hand over Ferrin’s mouth. “We are leaving my daughter out of this,” he said quietly. “Let me ask you about Queen Selenay now. You don’t actually believe she’s insane, do you?”

  The hand over his mouth pulled back, and the truth spilled out. “No. Of course not. She isn’t mad. She’s soft and gullible. Too kind, too forgiving. She doesn’t even have a dungeon!” He took a deep breath, tried again. “Your little girl—”

  “The Highjorune people whose grief you’ve been exploiting, your audience. What of them?”

  The Bard laughed, he couldn’t help it. “Pawns. Lord Dark wants them to die. The more blood shed, the more groundswell we build. The goal is to undermine, not overthrow. And we are just the beginning.”

  The Herald nodded. “That’s what I thought you’d say.”

  He grabbed Ferrin and forced him to his feet, half-dragging the Bard across dusty gray stones.

  “Let me go!” he screamed, putting the full force of his Bardic Gift behind the effort, attempting to compel the Herald as thoroughly as the Truth Spell compelled him.

  The Herald chuckled. “Keep trying. Wear yourself out. This Bard I knew . . . she taught me a thing or two about shielding against her own kind.”

  When Ferrin realized where the Herald was dragging him, his shrieks turned high-pitched and strangled.

  The moldering oaken doors of Lineas Castle opened out on the stone landing. Light blazed down as fifty or more pairs of eyes turned to watch Ferrin stumble out before them.

  “Now,” the Herald said in his ear, grimly cheerful, “we’ll start with Queen Selenay, then move on to the bit about them all being your pawns.”

  And the Truth Spell left Ferrin no option but to tell the crowd exactly what he thought.

  • • •

  In the end, the presence of the Queen’s agents was all that spared the Bard’s life. The Companions stopped the mob from tearing Ferrin to pieces, and Amelie used her Bardic Gift to amplify Wil’s orders for everyone to calm down.

  The Herald found a bitter irony in that.

  Today was the first day he’d had time to bathe since breaking up the Highjorune Masque. Ferrin languished alone in a narrow cell, his guards under strict orders to stop their ears if they entered, one of the Companions posted outside. Eel and Sharlot had likewise been arrested, though they were being housed elsewhere until he could pass judgment on them.

  Standing now in one of the Crown’s better suites, facing a small polished glass mirror, Wil finally attended to something he’d been itching to do for months now—shaving his beard.

  :And then sleep tonight?: Vehs asked.

  :Sleep tonight,: Wil agreed. :And tomorrow . . . Forst Reach.:

  He’d escort Ferrin that far. A pair of Heralds and another Master Bard would meet them there to take the traitor the rest of the way to Haven. Selenay herself would pass judgment on that one.

  Cheeks smarting from the razor, he walked over to a pair of saddlebags and flipped open one, pulling out a compact, red-bound book. He’d retrieved Vehs and Aubryn’s tack from a nearby farm, owned by a friend from the war whom he knew he could trust with his life—and Lelia’s life’s work. Runes covered the page, incomprehensible without their cipher. He’d memorized it in the last three months, and could now read it with ease.

  He flipped it open to a page marked with a purple ribbon. Ferrin. The page said. Minor lordling. Records say: exiled to Highjorune. Very strong Bardic Gift; believed (unproved) that he used it to seduce women against their will. And in the margin, a note from Lelia: (Opinion.) “Seduced”? Where I’m from, that’s “rape.”

  There were a great many more names in there, a great many margin notes. He hoped that not everyone she’d written about proved to be as bad as Ferrin. He’d also double-checked the book’s contents during a spare candlemark. No mention of a Madra or a “Lord Dark.” Uncharted territory, those two.

  Clean-shaven and dressed in Whites, Wil left the room and headed to the kitchen. Ystell smiled in his direction as he stepped in. Care of the inn had fallen on her. She ran it as if there’d never been a Sharlot.

  Ivy sat at the hearth, spinning her top. Amelie—all in Scarlet—sat beside her, playing Lelia’s old gittern, Bloom. Every now and then, Ivy looked up and reached out to pluck a string, making Amelie wince.

  “I may have to steal this from you, Herald,” Amelie said. “Just to keep it safe until your daughter realizes Bloom’s not a toy.”

  “I can find you,” he replied. “And I can catch you.”

  She laughed. “True.”

  Ystell moved past, humming the Sendar song as she placed a savory pie on the table. Amelie plucked a few chords, echoing the melody of Ystell’s song, a faint smile on her lips.

  “Amelie,” he said at last, “it’s not armies we need.”

  “Mm?” she replied, blinking dreamily in his direction.

  “You asked Vehs to send an army to stop Ferrin. But that’s not what we need.”

  She set the gittern in its case and closed it, then set it up on a shelf where Ivy couldn’t reach. “So what do we need?” she asked.

  “You.”

  “Me?”

  “Your songs. Lelia’s songs. All the songs that remind people of what’s good in the world. You were on the right track. We just need more of you.”

  “Are you saying, Herald,” Amelie said, slicing into the pie, “that we need more Bards?”

  “So long as they aren’t Ferrin,” Wil replied, “that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  :Somewhere, Lelia is laughing,: Vehs put in.

  Wil smiled, hauling Iv
y up to sit beside him.

  :I’m certain she is.:

  Lost Song

  Dylan Birtolo

  Navin picked up the mug and swirled it around, watching as the liquid danced up its sides. The ale was redolent with the rich smell of honey; just enough to make it sweet but not enough to make you forget you were drinking alcohol. Although at this point, he couldn’t remember much of anything. Was this his fourth? Fifth? Had he eaten yet today? Navin put the mug down on the table, leaving his hand there to help keep the room from rocking back and forth before his eyes.

  The tavern hosted a collection of people, fuzzy figures difficult to make out through his clouded vision. He did recognize one of the servers as she sauntered past his table. Raising a hand to get her attention, he beamed his best smile out when she turned to face him. He felt his cheeks warm, but hoped the flush might just add to his charm.

  “I don’ suppose it’d be possible to get ’nother round for a thirsty bard visit’ng from Haven?”

  “As long as you’ve the coin, I’ll bring as many as you like.”

  Navin nodded and fished out a few coins from his belt pouch, tossing them on the table. She offered a half-smile while swiping them up with a practiced motion. Even if he’d been sober, Navin doubted he would have seen where in her dress she’d tucked them for safekeeping. As she headed off, he picked up the mug again and drained the last of the ale before she returned. He’d just put the mug down when she arrived to replace it with a new one. She hesitated for a moment before speaking.

  “If you’re a bard, would you be willing to sing us a song or two, or tell us a story? We don’t get much entertainment here, unless a traveler’s heading to Karse.”

  The smile fled from Navin’s face, and he could feel the flush retreat as well. The lines around his face grew deeper, and his hand tightened around the mug.