“Me?” she squeaked. “I couldn’t—” Suddenly, the reality of what he was and what she was came home to her. All very well to dream of leaping on his back; but in cold, sober reflection the very idea that she, grubby and ordinary, should sit in the saddle of a Companion shocked her.
The enormous, vivid blue eyes looked back at her with a trace of impatience. One hoof stamped with a certain imperiousness, and he shook his mane at her. His whole manner said as clearly as speech that he thought her scruples were ridiculous. After all, who was going to see her? And now that she thought about it, it was quite possible that he had come from a goodly distance away; if she insisted on walking, it was likely to take forever to return him.
“Are you sure you don’t mind? That it’s all right?” She spoke in a timid voice, unmindful of the incongruity of asking a horse for advice.
He tossed his head impatiently, and the bridle bells rang. There was little doubt that he felt she was being excessively silly.
“You’re right,” she said in sudden decision, and mounted.
Talia was no stranger to riding. She’d done so every chance she could, often sneaking rides when no one was looking. She’d ridden every horse of an age to bear her weight, broken or not, saddled or bareback. She was the oldest of the littles on the Holding, and hence the only one considered responsible enough to be sent to other Elders with messages or to the village on errands. She was usually a-horseback at least once a week legitimately. She was generally found sneaking rides at least three or four times that often.
But riding a Companion was nothing like any riding she’d ever done. His pace was so smooth a true little could have stayed in his saddle without falling, and if she’d closed her eyes she’d never have guessed he was more than ambling along. Her Father’s beasts had to be goaded constantly to maintain more than a walk; of his own volition the Companion had moved into a canter, and it was faster than the fastest gallop she’d ever coaxed out of any of them. The sweet air flowed past her like the water of the river, and it blew her hair back out of her face. The intoxication of it drove all thought of anything else clean out of her mind. It was as if the wind rushing past them had swept all her unhappiness right out of her and left it behind in an untidy heap in the center of the Road.
If this was a daydream, she hoped she’d die in the middle of it and never have to wake to the dreary world again.
2
Within a single candlemark they were farther from her Father’s Holding than Talia had ever been before. The Road here ran parallel to the River; on one side of it was the steep bluff crowned with trees and brush, on the other was a gentler drop-off down to the River. The River here was wide and very slow; Talia could see glimpses of the farther bank through the trees that grew at her edge of it. These trees were huge willows that made a living screen with their drooping branches. There was no sign of any human habitation. All she could hear was birdsong and the sounds of insects in the branches overhead and to either side. All she could see were the trees and the occasional glimpse of the River, and the Road stretching on ahead. Although she couldn’t be entirely sure, Talia had a notion that the lands of the Holderkin were now all behind her.
The sun was still relatively high, and its warmth was very pleasant, not harsh as it would be later in the summer. The Road’s surface was of some material she had never seen before, since she had never actually dared to venture down to the Road itself even once in her life, and there was little or no dust. The scent of green growing things on the breeze was like wine to her, and she drank in every bit of her experience greedily. At any moment now she might come upon the Herald this Companion rightfully belonged to; her adventure would be over, and it wasn’t likely she’d ever get to ride a Companion again. Every moment was precious and must be stored away in her memory against the future.
As candlemarks passed and no Herald—in fact, nothing more than a squirrel or two—came into view, Talia began to fall into a kind of trance; the steady pace of the Companion and the Road stretching ahead of her was hypnotic. Something comforting just at the edge of her awareness lulled her into tranquility. She was lost in this trance for some time, and only came back to herself when the setting sun struck her full in the eyes. Her anxieties and fears had somehow disappeared while she’d ridden unmindful of her surroundings. Now there was only a calm, and a feeling of rightness about this journey—and a tentative feeling of excitement. But night was coming on fast, and she and the Companion were still alone together on the Road.
The shape of the landscape had changed while she rode unaware. The double drop-off had leveled off, very gradually, so gradually that she hadn’t noticed it. Now the woods and fields to her right were level with the surface of the Road, and the Road itself was only a foot or two above the lapping surface of the water. The River was a scant two horse-lengths away from the verge of the Road. The land had flattened out so much that Talia knew for certain she was no longer even close to the lands belonging to the Holderfolk that lay on the Border of the Kingdom.
“Are we going to travel all night?” she asked the Companion, who cocked his ears back to catch her words. He whuffed, shook his head, and slowed to a walk. Now she could hear the sounds that birds make only when they’re preparing to roost; quiet, sleepy little chirrups and half-calls. The Companion seemed to be looking for something on the woodward side of the Road; at least that was the impression Talia got. Just as the setting sun began to dye his white coat a bright scarlet, he seemed to spot what he was looking for. With no warning, he sped up and trotted right off the Road and down a path into the woods.
“Where are you going?” she cried.
He just shook his head and kept to the path. The trees were far too thick on either side for her to even think of trying to jump off. The underbrush was thick and full of shadows that made her fears reawaken. She had no idea what might be lurking in the growth beneath the trees. There could be thorns there, or stenchbeetles, or worse. Biting her lip in vexation and worry, she could only cling to the saddle and wait.
The path abruptly widened into a clearing, and in the center of the clearing was a small building; only a single room, and windowless, but with a chimney. It was very clearly well-maintained, and just as clearly vacant. With a surge of relief, Talia recognized it from her reading as a Herald’s Waystation.
“I’m sorry,” she said contritely to the ears that were swiveled back to catch her words. “You did know what you were doing, didn’t you?”
The Companion only slowed to a stop, pivoted neatly before the door of the Waystation, shook his forelock out of his eyes and waited for her to dismount.
The tales she’d read were a great help here; Talia knew exactly what she’d find and approximately where to find it. She swung her leg carefully over the Companion’s back and slid slowly to the ground. Moving quickly (she discovered with a touch of dismay) wasn’t possible. She’d never spent this much time in a saddle before, and her legs were feeling very stiff, and a little sore and shaky.
She knew that her first duty was to see to the needs of the Companion. She unsaddled him quickly, and noticed with a start of surprise as she removed the bridle that it had no bit, being little more than an elaborate hackamore. There was no way that it could “control” him, not unless his Herald had the strength of arm to wrench his head around by main force. It was a most peculiar piece of tack—and what it implied was even more peculiar.
She stacked the tack carefully by the door of the Waystation, then lifted the latch and peered around inside. There was just enough daylight left for her to locate what she was looking for; a tinderbox on a shelf just inside the door.
She laid tinder and cautiously lit a very small fire in the fireplace; just enough to give light to see. With the interior of the Waystation illuminated, Talia was able to locate her second requirement; rags to clean the tack, and a currycomb to groom the Companion.
He stood far more placidly than any of her Father’s horses while she groomed every last
speck of sweat and dust from his coat. When she’d clearly finished with him he cantered to the center of the clearing for a brisk roll in the grass. She giggled to see him drop his dignity and act so very horselike, particularly after the way he’d been acting up until this point—almost as if it was he that was taking her to someone. She cleaned the tack just as carefully as she’d cleaned him, with a sensuous enjoyment of the leathery scent. She put it just inside the door where the dew wouldn’t reach it. There had been two buckets next to the pile of rags; in the blue dusk she hurried down to the river with them while she could still see. The Companion came with her, weeds whisking his legs and hers, following her like a puppy, and drank his fill while she filled the buckets.
The delightful feel of the cool water around her feet reminded her how grubby and sticky she was. There had been first her run through the woods, followed by the fall down the bank, then the long ride to ensure that she needed a bath. And part of the regime of any Holdchild was an almost painful devotion to cleanliness. Talia was more used to feeling scoured than dirty, and fastidiously preferred the former sensation.
“You may be a Companion,” she told the watching stallion, “but you still smell like a horse, and now so do I. Do you think it would be safe to bathe here?”
The Companion whickered, then took a few steps away from her and pawed with his hoof at the edge of the water, nodding his head as if to be certain she caught his meaning. She went to where he was standing, and peered through the gathering darkness down into the waterweeds.
“Oh!” she cried delightedly. “Soaproot! It must be all right then; Heralds wouldn’t plant soaproot where it wasn’t safe to bathe.”
Without another thought, she stripped down to the bare skin. She started to pile her clothing on the bank, but changed her mind, and took it into the water with her. It would probably dry wrinkled, but wrinkles were better than dirt.
The water was sunwarmed, like silk against her bare skin, and the bottom here was sandy rather than muddy. She splashed and swam like a young otter, enjoying the sensation of being able to skinswim like a little without wondering what Keldar would do if she caught her. It occurred to Talia that her bridges were all burned now, for certain sure. No female of marriageable age gone overnight without leave would ever be accepted back into the Holding as anything but a drudge, and that only if the Husband and Firstwife were feeling magnanimous. For one moment Talia felt frightened by the idea, for after her performance of this afternoon no one at the Holding was likely to feel generosity on her behalf—but then her eyes fell on the luminous white form of the Companion waiting for her on the bank, and she decided that she should make up her mind not to care, not even a little bit.
When she’d scrubbed herself and her clothing with clean sand and soaproot and the air was beginning to feel chilly, she decided she’d had enough. The Companion continued to follow her all the way back to the shelter, and once they’d reached their goal, he nudged her toward the door with his nose and whickered in entreaty. There was no doubt in Talia’s mind as to what he wanted, and it no longer seemed odd to be taking her direction from him.
“Greedy!” she chuckled. “Want your supper, do you? That should teach you not to run away, Rolan!”
She paused then, and frowned a little in concentration. “Now where did I get that name?” she wondered aloud. She gazed at the moonlight-dappled Companion, who stood easily, ears cocked forward, watching her. “From you? Is that your name? Rolan?”
For a moment she felt disoriented, as if seeing through someone else’s eyes. It almost seemed as if she and something else were briefly joined as one—it was uncanny, and yet not at all frightening. Then the moment passed.
“Well, I suppose I have to call you something, no matter where the name came from. Just let me put my things up to dry and go back for the buckets, Rolan. Then I’ll get supper for both of us.”
She poured a generous measure of grain for him, then took a Fire-blackened pot she’d seen earlier to make a grain-and-fruit porridge for herself. Rolan finished his own portion before her porridge was done and moved closer to lie in the grass an arm’s length off from her with every sign of content. Insects sang in the woods all around them, and leaves rustled slightly. The firelight shone on Rolan’s coat as she leaned up against the Waystation wall, feeling oddly happy.
“What I don’t understand,” she said to him, “is why you ran away. Companions aren’t supposed to do that sort of thing, are they?”
Rolan simply opened his eyes wide at her and looked wise.
“I hope you know where we’re going because I certainly don’t. Still, we’re bound to meet a Herald sometime, and I’m sure he’ll know what to do with you.”
The porridge looked and smelled done; she pulled the pot out of the fire with a branch and began to eat it with her fingers as soon as it had cooled enough.
“It really is strange, you coming along when you did,” she told him. “I expect I’d have been found before dark or gotten resigned to the situation and gone back to the Holding myself.” She regarded him with speculative eyes. “I don’t suppose—you didn’t come to rescue me, did you? No, that’s ridiculous. I’m not a Herald, I’m just Holderkin; just strange Talia. Why would you want to rescue me? Besides, if you’d meant to rescue me, you would have brought your Herald along, wouldn’t you?” she sighed, a little sadly. “I wish I was your Herald. I’d like to live like this always.”
Rolan’s eyes were closed, and his head nodded. Now that her stomach was comfortably full, Talia found her own head beginning to nod. The woods were very dark, the ground beneath her was very hard, and the interior of the Waystation looked very inviting to a girl who’d seldom spent a night out under the sky, and never alone.
“Well, if you’re going to go to sleep, I’d better do the same!”
She banked the fire, covering the pot of porridge with the coals and ashes to keep the rest of it warm for breakfast, then pulled up armfuls of the long grass to use to fill the bedbox. It didn’t take very long; once she’d settled, Rolan moved to lie across the door, almost like a guard dog. It seemed to her that she’d no sooner tumbled into it, than she was fast asleep.
She woke to the sound of birdsong with Rolan standing in the Waystation beside the bedbox nudging her shoulder. For one moment she couldn’t remember exactly where she was, confused with sleep; then with full awareness it all came back with a rush. She jumped out of her nest of sweet-smelling grasses to hug Rolan’s neck, overwhelmed with thankfulness that it hadn’t all been a dream.
She ate her breakfast quickly, then cleaned herself and the shelter to the best of her ability. She buried the ashes of the dead fire with a little twinge of guilt; she knew that etiquette demanded that she replace the wood she’d used, but without an axe, that simply wasn’t possible. She’d have felt a lot guiltier had it been Midwinter instead of Midsummer, and she’d really used very little of what seemed to be a plentiful supply. Once all was in as good order as she’d found it, she saddled Rolan and they trotted back to the Road.
The morning passed swiftly. Not only was every moment with Rolan a delight and a treasure, but now there was more to see as well. The dense woods began to give way to cultivated fields; in the distance she saw stock grazing, and once or twice a cottage, shaded by trees and cooled by ivy. Then, just after the sun crossed overhead, the Road curved and dove down into a village, set in a small valley.
Talia couldn’t help but stare about her with amazed eyes; this village was very different from the one she’d lived near all her life. The Holderfolk wore nothing but somber colors, nothing gayer than a dull saffron; but here it seemed that everyone had a touch of bird-bright color about him. Even the shabbiest had at least a scarf or hair ribbon of scarlet or blue. Some (the look of them showing they were prosperous folk who needn’t worry about soiling their clothing with work) were dressed entirely in colors. Even the houses were festive with bright designs on their whitewashed walls, and the shutters were painted to matc
h. Those houses looked extremely odd to Talia—why, they couldn’t have held more than one man, his Firstwife, and a few littles! There was obviously no room at all for Underwives and their littles. Talia wondered if each Wife had her own house, then giggled at the unseemly (but amusing) notion of the Husband running from house to house in the night, intent on doing his duty with each of his Wives.
The village itself, besides looking prosperous and well-cared-for, was also unenclosed; a startling sight to one who was used to seeing walls and stockades around inhabited places.
She reined in Rolan at the sight of a man standing beside a small hut positioned just at the verge of the Road where it first entered the village proper. He looked as if he must be some sort of guard or official; he was dressed in garments of a bright blue that matched, from boots to hat. He had a quiver of short arrows on his back, and Talia saw a crossbow leaning beside him against the wall of the hut.
The sight of him alarmed her no small amount—in her experience, men (especially men in obvious positions of authority) were creatures to be feared. They held the power of life and death over the members of their families; they decreed the rewards of the obedient and the punishments of the rebellious. How many times had the Elders or her Father deemed it necessary that she be beaten or sent into isolation for far, far less than she’d done in the past two days? Too many times to count easily, for certain sure. There was no indication that this stranger might not order the same punishments for her now; or worse, send her back to the Holding. Yet she was going to have to speak to someone; she’d been searching for nearly a day now and hadn’t found any clue to where this Companion belonged. He seemed to have a friendly, open face, and she took her courage in hand to address him.
“P-pray excuse me, sir,” she said politely, stuttering a little, “but have you seen a Herald who’s lost his Companion?”
Heralds of Valdemar (A Valdemar Omnibus) Page 3
