"But—"
She turned again and all but ran down the staircase. He called something after her, in a distressed voice. She ignored it, and ran on.
* * *
So now they didn't talk about much of anything anymore. And Talia missed that; missed the closeness they used to have, the way they used to be able to confide their deepest secrets to each other. Truth to be told, she missed that more than the physical side of their relationship— though now that she was no longer used to being celibate she missed that, too... Then there was her relationship— or more accurately, lack of one— with Dirk.
His behavior was baffling in the extreme; one moment he would seem determined to get her alone somewhere, the next, he shied away from even being in the same room. He would be lurking in the background everywhere she went for a day or two, then just as abruptly would vanish, only to reappear in a few days. Half the time he seemed determined to throw Kris at her, the other half, equally determined to block Kris from getting anywhere near her—
* * *
Talia saw her elusive quarry leaning on the fence surrounding Companion's Field. He was staring, broodingly, off into the far distance. For a wonder, it wasn't raining, although the sky was a dead, dull gray and threatening to pour any moment.
"Dirk?"
He jumped, whipped about, and stared at her with wide, startled eyes.
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"W-what are you doing here?" he asked, somewhat ungraciously, his back pressed hard against the fence as if that barrier was all that was keeping him from running away.
"The same as you, probably," Talia replied, forcing herself not to snap at him. "Looking for my Companion, and maybe somebody to ride with."
"In that case, shouldn't you be looking for Kris?" he asked, his expression twisted as if he'd swallowed something very unpleasant.
She couldn't think of a reply, and chose not to answer him. Instead she moved to the fence herself, and stood with one booted foot on the first railing and her arms folded along the top, mimicking the pose he had held when she saw him.
"Talia—" He took one step toward her— she heard his boot squelch in the wet grass— then stopped. "I— Kris is— a very valuable friend. More than friend. I—"
She waited for him to say what was on his mind, hoping that this time he'd finish it. Maybe if she didn't look at him, he'd be able to speak his piece.
"Yes?" she prompted when the silence went on so long she'd almost suspected him of sneaking away. She turned to catch his blue, blue eyes staring almost helplessly at her before he hastily averted them.
"I— I've got to go—" he gasped, and fled.
She was ready to scream with frustration. This was the fourth time he'd pulled this little trick, starting to say something, then running away. And with things somewhat at odds between herself and Kris, she really didn't feel as if she wanted to ask Kris to help. Besides, she hadn't seen Kris much since their last little set-to.
With an exasperated sigh she Mindcalled Rolan. They both needed exercise— and he, at least, would be a sympathetic listener.
* * *
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Kris was avoiding Talia on purpose.
When he'd first returned, his uncle had taken time out to give him familial greetings; that was only to be expected. But Orthallen lately seemed to be going out of his way to speak to his nephew two or three times a week, and the conversation somehow always turned to Talia.
Not by accident, either. Kris was mortally sure of that.
Nor were they pleasant conversations, though they seemed to be on the surface. Kris was beginning to get an impression that Orthallen was looking for something— weaknesses in the Queen's Own, perhaps.
Certainly, whenever he happened to say something complimentary about Talia, his uncle would always insinuate a "Yes, but surely..." in a rather odd and confiding tone.
Like the latest example.
He'd been on his way back from a consultation with Elcarth about some of his latest Farseeing pupils, when Orthallen had just "happened" to intercept him.
"Nephew!" Orthallen had hailed him, "I have word from your brother—"
"Is anything wrong?" Kris had asked anxiously. The family holdings were in the heart of some of the worst flooding in a generation. "Does he need me at home? I'll be free in a few weeks—"
"No, no; things are far from well, but it's not an emergency yet. The smallholders have lost about a tenth of their fields, in total; obviously some are worse off than others. They've lost enough livestock that the spring births are barely going to make up for the losses— oh, and your brother lost one of his Shin'a'in cross-bred stallions."
"Damn— he's not going to find another one of those in a hurry. Are we needing any outside help?"
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"Not yet. There's enough grain in storage to make up for the losses. But he wanted you to know exactly how things stood, so that you wouldn't worry."
"Thank you, uncle. I appreciate your taking the time to let me know."
"And is your young protegee settling in, do you think?" he then asked smoothly. "What with all the emergencies that have come up lately, I wonder if she has more than she can cope with, sometimes."
"Havens, Uncle, I'm the last one to ask," Kris had said with a little impatience. "I hardly see her anymore. We both have duties, and those duties don't let us cross paths too often."
"Oh? Somehow I had gotten the impression that you Heralds always knew what was happening in each others' lives."
Kris really hadn't been able to think of a response to that; at least not a respectful one.
"I only asked because I thought she looked a bit careworn, and I thought perhaps she might have said something to you," Orthallen continued, his cold eyes boring into Kris'. "She has a heavy burden of responsibility for one so young."
"She's equal to it, Uncle. I've told you that before. Rolan wouldn't have Chosen her otherwise."
"Well, I'm sure you're correct," Orthallen replied, sounding as if he meant the opposite. "Those rumors of her using her Gift to manipulate—"
"Were absolutely unfounded. I told you that. She has been so circumspect in even reading others that she practically has to be forced to it—" Kris broke off, wondering if he was saying too much.
"Ah," Orthallen said after a moment. "That is a comfort. The child seems to have a wisdom out of keeping with her years. However, if she should feel she's having problems, I would appreciate it if you'd tell me. After all, 70
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as the Queen's eldest Councillor, I should be aware of possible trouble. I'd be only to happy to help her in any way I can, but she still seems to be carrying over that grudge from her student days, and I doubt she'd ever give me the correct time of day, much less confide in me."
Kris had mumbled something noncommittal, and his uncle had gone away outwardly satisfied— but the whole encounter had left a very bad taste in Kris's mouth. He was regretting now the fact that he'd confided to his uncle in one of those early conversations his belief that Talia and Dirk were lifebonded; the man had seized on the tidbit as avidly as a hawk on a mouse. But at the same time, he didn't want to have to face Talia herself with these suspicions awakened; she'd get it out of him, no doubt of it.
And while she wouldn't say, "I told you so," she had a particular look of lowered eyelids and a quirk at one corner of her mouth that spoke volumes, and he wasn't in the mood to deal with it.
Besides, it was only too possible that she'd infected him with her paranoia.
If only he could be sure of that— but he couldn't. So he avoided her.
* * *
Dirk straddled an old, worn chair in his room, staring into the darkness beyond the windowpane. It was nearly dusk— and as black as midnight out there. He felt as if he were being torn into little bits. He couldn't make up his mind what he wanted to do; part of him wanted to battle for Talia by all means fair or foul, part of him felt that
he should be unselfish and give Kris a clear field with her, part of him was afraid to find out what she thought of all this, and a fourth part of him argued that he really didn't want any commitments to females anyway— look what the last one had gotten him.
The last one. Lady Naril— oh, gods.
He stared at the sullen flickers of lightning in the heart of the clouds above the trees. It had been so long ago— and not long enough ago.
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Gods, I was such a fool.
He and Kris had been posted to the Collegium, teaching their specialties—
Fetching and Farsight. It had been his first experience of Court and Collegium as a full Herald.
I was a stupid sheep looking for a wolf.
Not that he hadn't had his share of dalliances, even if he'd always had to play second to Kris. He hadn't minded, not really. But he'd been feeling a little lost; Kris had been born to Court circles, and flowed back into them effortlessly. Dirk had been left on the outskirts.
Then Naril had introduced herself to him—
I thought she was so pure, so innocent. She seemed so alone in the great Court, so eager for a friend. And she was so young— so very beautiful.
How could he have known that in her sixteen short years she'd had more men in her thrall than a rosebush had thorns?
And how could he have guessed she intended to use him to snare Kris?
Gods, I was half out of my mind with love for her.
He stared at the reflection in the window, broodingly. I saw only what I wanted to see— that's for certain. Lost most of my few wits.
But there had been just enough sense left to him that when she'd asked him to arrange a private meeting between herself and his friend, he'd hidden where he could overhear her. The artificial grotto in the garden that she had chosen was secluded— but had ample hiding space in the bushes to either side of the entrance.
Dirk probed at the aching memory as if it were a sore tooth, taking twisted pleasure from the pain. I could hardly believe my ears when I heard her issuing Kris an ultimatum: come to her bed until she tired of him, or she would make my life a living hell.
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He had burst in on them, demanding to know what she meant, crazy-wild with anger and pain.
Kris had slipped away. And Naril turned to him with utter hatred in her enormous violet eyes. When she'd finished what she had to say to him, he'd wanted to kill himself.
Again he stared at his reflection. Not everything she said was wrong— he told himself sadly. What woman with any sense would want me?
Especially with Kris in reach...
It had been a long time before he'd stopped wanting to die— and a longer time before life became something he enjoyed instead of something he endured.
Now— was it all happening again?
He was doing his level best to come to terms with himself, and being stuck at the Collegium with Talia in sight at least once a day wasn't helping. The whole situation was comical, but somehow when he tried to laugh it off, his "mirth" had a very hollow sound even to his ears. He had thrown himself into his work, only to find that he was watching for her constantly out of the corner of his eye. He couldn't help himself; it was like scratching a rash. He knew he shouldn't, but he did it anyway, and it gave him a perverse sort of satisfaction. And even though it troubled him to watch her, it troubled him more not to.
Gods, gods— what am I going to do?
The reflection gave him no answer.
* * *
After three weeks of rain, the weather had cleared for a bit. To Talia's great relief, things were emotionally on a more even keel, at least where the tempers of Court and Collegium were concerned. The evening had been warm enough to leave windows open, and the fresh air had made a gratifying change in the stuffiness of her quarters. Talia was fast asleep 73
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when the Death Bell shattered the peace of the night with its brazen tolling.
It woke her from a nightmare of flame, fear, and agony. That nightmare had held her in a grip so tenacious that she expected to open her eyes to find her own room an inferno. She clutched the blankets to her chest, as she slowly became aware that the air she breathed was cool and scented with night mist, not smoke-filled and choking. It took several moments for her to clear her mind of the dream enough to think clearly again, and when at last she did, it was to realize that the dream and the Death Bell's tolling had related causes.
Fire— her nails bit into her palms as she clenched her hands. When fire was involved, the Herald most likely to be involved with it was— Griffon!
Dear gods— let it not be Griffon, not her year-mate, not her friend—
But as she stared unseeing into the darkness and forced herself into a calmer frame of mind, she knew without doubt that it was not Griffon, after all. The name and the face that hazed into her now-receptive mind were those of a student of the year following hers— Christa, whom she remembered as one of Dirk's pupils in the Gift of Fetching.
And in many ways, this was an even greater tragedy, for Christa had still been on her internship assignment.
* * *
When the pieces were all assembled from the various fragments the Heralds at the Collegium had "read" when the Death Bell began ringing, the result was almost as confusing as having no information at all. This much alone they knew; Christa was dead; the Herald assigned as her counselor, the cheerfully lascivious Destria, was badly hurt, and the cause had something to do both with raiders and a great fire. The information they received from the Heralds stationed with the Healing Temple to which Destria had been carried was nearly as fragmentary.
Their Gifts of Mindspeech weren't nearly as strong as Kyril's or Sherrill's.
But they made it plain that Destria needed more help than they could 74
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provide— and that there was urgent need of a different kind of aid. They were sending Destria back to Healer's Collegium and the Palace, and with her would come clarification.
Within the week they came; one uninjured Herald, Destria (a pitiful thing carried on a litter swung between two Companions, one of them Destria's Sofi), and a battered and bruised farmer whose clothing still bore the smoke stains and ash of a fire. All three of them had to have traveled day and night with scarcely a pause to rest to reach the capital so quickly.
Selenay called the Council into immediate session, and the petitioner came before them. He sagged wearily into the chair they set for him, his eyes sunken deeply into their sockets, his hair so full of ash it was hard to tell what color it was. It was plain he had wasted not even a single hour, but had gotten on with the journey without taking time for his own comfort.
And the tale he told, of well-armed, organized raiders, and the near-massacre of everyone in his town, was enough to chill the blood.
They had given him a seat, since he was plainly too weary to stand for very long, and he seemed like an omen of doom, sitting before the Council Table, both hands bandaged to the elbow. The taint of smoke had so permeated his clothing that it was carried even to the Councillors, and the smell of it brought his message home with terrible force.
"It was slaughter, pure and simple," he told the Council in a voice roughened by the smoke. "And we walked into it like silly sheep. Up until this spring we've had so much problem with brigands, little bands of them, pecking away at us, that we'd come to expect them, like spring floods.
Then, when they all vanished this winter— gods, you'd think we'd have had the sense to realize something was up. But we didn't; we just thought they'd gone off to richer pickings. Ah, fools, fools and blind!"
He dropped his face into his hands for a moment, and when he lifted it again, there were tears on his cheeks from eyes already red. "They'd gotten together, you see; one of the wolves had finally proved the strongest, and they'd gotten together. We'd prided ourselves on having put the village in an unassailable valley
; sheer rock to our back and sides, and only one narrow pass that let into it. We couldn't be starved or forced out from 75
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thirst; we had our own wells, and plenty of food stockpiled. Well, they had an answer to that. A handful of them killed the sentries, and poisoned the dogs that patrolled the heights, then rained fire arrows down on the village by night. We build with wood and thatch, mostly; the buildings went up like pitch torches. The rest waited outside the pass, and picked off those of us that got as far as the cleft. Have you ever seen rabbits running before a grass fire? That was us— and they were the hungry wolves waiting for dinner to leap into their jaws. Men I've known all my life I watched getting their legs shot out from underneath them. Children hardly old enough to be wearing knives, too— even graybeards and grannies.
Anybody likely to be able to take up a weapon. They shot to cripple, not to kill; dead mouths can't tell where they've hid their little treasures, y'see. A good half of those they shot may never walk right again. A good quarter bled to death where they lay. And a full quarter of the children burned to death in the houses they set fire to."
A muted murmur of horror crept around the table; Lady Kester hid her own face in her hands.
A beam of late afternoon sunlight spotlighted the speaker as it poured in through the high windows. It touched him with a clear gold that made his eyes seem even more like burned-out pits in his face. "Your Heralds were not far; overnighting in a Waystation, I think. How they knew our plight, I'll never know— must've been more of your magic, I guess. They came charging up on the backs of the raiders, two of 'em like a blessed army.
Those white horses— the Companions— they were damn near an army by themselves. They broke up the ambush at the head of the pass, got them scattered off into the woods for a bit. Then the older one started getting us organized, got us clearing the snipers off the heights; the younger one took off into the burning buildings, hearing cries and looking for somebody to save, I guess. The older one didn't even notice she was gone— until—"
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