Heralds of Valdemar (A Valdemar Omnibus)

by Lackey, Mercedes

  “Has the child-Herald made any further attempts at Elspeth?”

  “No, my lord. She seems to have become discouraged.”

  “Still,” the first speaker paused in thought, “we cannot take the chance. I suggest you continue your practice of telling ‘bedtime tales’—you know the ones I mean.”

  “If my lord refers to those featuring Companions who carry off unwary children to a terrible fate, my lord can rest assured that I will do so.”

  “Excellent. Here is another supply of the drug for the nurse and your usual stipend.”

  Talia heard the chink of coins in one of the two pouches Hulda accepted.

  “You will come out of this a wealthy woman, Hulda,” the first speaker said as footsteps marked his retreat.

  “Oh, I intend it so, my lord,” Hulda said with venom to the closed door. Then she, too, turned and left the room by a second door.

  Talia was too busy thinking about what she’d witnessed to worry about the return trip.

  When they reached her room, Talia seized a towel and began ruthlessly scrubbing the soot away. “Is that the first time you’ve watched that?” she asked, as she scrubbed.

  “The third. The first time was by accident; I’d been following the witch and had to duck into that other room to hide from her; I found the cracks behind a patch in the closet. The second time I took a guess that the first was a regular meeting. I was right. You know something else—no, that’s too far-fetched.”

  “What is?”

  “Well, a couple of times Melidy started to refuse that drug the witch has been feeding her, and—well, she did something, I dunno what, but it made her drink it anyway. If I didn’t know better, I’d have sworn she was using real magic, you know, old magic, like in the legends, to hold power over Melidy’s mind.”

  “She’s probably got some touch of a Gift.”

  “Yeah—yeah, I guess you’re right.”

  “Here, get into these. They’re too big for me, so they might fit you.” Talia handed Skif a set of clothing.

  “Why?” he asked, astonished.

  “Because as soon as you’re dressed, we’re going to Jadus.”

  Jadus was asleep when they reached his room. Under ordinary circumstances Talia would never have dared disturb him, but she felt the occasion warranted her waking him. Skif opened his door silently, and both of them slipped inside.

  He roused before Talia and Skif could reach his side, staring at them with a dagger suddenly in his hand.

  The elderly Herald had been sleeping uneasily for several nights running and had taken to sleeping as he had in his younger days; with a knife beneath his pillow. He woke with wary immediacy and sat up with the knife in one hand before they were halfway across his bedroom. He blinked in surprise to see the two soot-streaked trainees frozen in midstep.

  “Talia!” He was shocked at her presence—Skif, with his penchant for pranks, he might have expected. “Why—”

  “Please, sir, I’m sorry, but it’s an emergency.”

  Jadus shook the last sleep from his head, sat up, and gathered a blanket around his shoulders. “Very well, then—I know you better than to think you’d be exaggerating. Blow up the fire, light some candles, and tell me about it.”

  He heard them out, Talia prompting Skif to tell his part. Before they’d told him more than a quarter of their tale, he knew that it definitely warranted the classification of “emergency.” By the time they’d finished it, he was chilled.

  “If I didn’t know you both, I’d have sworn you were making up tales,” he said finally. “And I almost wish you were.”

  “Sir?” Talia asked after a lengthy silence, her face drawn with exhaustion. “What should I do?”

  “You, youngling? Nothing.” He reached out to both of them, gathering one in each arm and hugging them, grateful for their intelligence and courage. “Talia, Skif; both of you have done far more than any of your elders have managed; I’m pleased and proud of both of you. But now you’ll have to trust me to take care of the rest. There are those who need to be told who will listen to an adult, but not to the same words from the mouth of a child. I hope you’ll let me speak for you?”

  Skif sighed explosively. “Let you? Holy stars, I was afraid you were going to make me tell all this to Kyril or Selenay myself! And after getting caught going after those records, I’m afraid my credit isn’t any too high with them right now. Oh, no, Herald, I’d much rather that I was not the bearer of the bad news. If you don’t mind, I’d rather go find my bath and my bed.”

  “And you, Talia?”

  “Please—if you would.” She looked up at him with eyes full of exhaustion and entreaty. “I wouldn’t know what to say. There’s too many questions we can’t answer. We don’t know who ‘my lord’ is, for one thing, and if Lord Orthallen starts shouting at me, I—I—think I might cry.”

  “Then go, both of you. You can leave everything to me.”

  The two rose and padded out, and he sat in deep thought for a moment before ringing for his servant.

  “Medren, I need you to have Selenay wakened; ask her to come to my room and tell her that it’s quite urgent that she do so. Then do the same for the Seneschal, Herald Kyril, and Herald Elcarth. Build the fire up, and bring wine and food.” He stared thoughtfully into the distance for a moment. “I have the feeling that it is going to be a very long night.”

  * * *

  Talia heard no more about Hulda the next day—nor, in fact, did she really care to. She was content to leave the matter in the hands of the adults. The sweet smell of spring blossoms tempted her out into the garden that evening at dusk; since the banishment of the troublemakers there was no danger in roaming the grounds at any hour anymore. She was breathing in the heady scent of hyacinth flowers, when she heard strangled sobs emanating from one of the garden grottoes that were so popular with couples after dark.

  At first Talia thought that it must be a jilted lover or some other poor unfortunate of the same ilk that was weeping, but the sobs sounded childlike as they increased in strength. She began to feel the same compulsion to investigate them that had prompted her to the Queen’s side the winter before.

  She remembered what she’d been told about trusting her instincts, and acted on the impulse. She approached the grotto as noiselessly as she could, and peered inside. Lying face-down on the moss, weeping as if her heart were broken, was the Heir.

  She entered and sat down beside the child. “You don’t look much like a fish anymore,” she said lightly, but putting as much sympathy as she could muster into her words. “You look more like a waterfall. What’s wrong?”

  “Th-th-they s-s-sent Hulda aw-w-way,” the child wept.

  “Who are ‘they,’ and why did they send her away?” Talia asked, not yet knowing the results of Jadus’ conference.

  “M-m-my mother, and that nasty Kyril, and I don’t know why—she was my only, only friend, and nobody else likes me!”

  “I’m sorry for you—it’s awful to be lonely and alone. I know; when I was your age, they sent my best friend away to be married to a ghastly old man, and I never saw her again.”

  The tears stopped. “Did you cry?” the child asked with artless interest.

  “I did when I was alone, but I didn’t dare around other people. My elders told me that it was sinful to cry over something so unimportant. I think that that was very wrong of them because sometimes crying can make you feel better. Are you feeling a little better now?”

  “Some,” the child admitted. “What’s your name?”

  “Talia. What’s yours?”

  The girl’s chin lifted arrogantly. “You should call me Highness.”

  “Not yet, I shouldn’t. You’re not really the Heir until you have a Companion and prove you can be a Herald first.”

  “I’m not? But—that’s not what Hulda said!”

  “It’s true though, ask anybody. Perhaps she didn’t know—or perhaps she lied to you.”

  “Why would she lie to
me?” The child was bewildered.

  “Well, I can think of at least one reason. Because she didn’t want you to make friends with other children, so that she could be the only friend you had. So she made you think that you were more important than you are—and you’ve made other people so annoyed with you that they’ve left you all alone.”

  “How do I know that you aren’t lying?” the girl asked belligerently.

  “I’m a Herald—or I will be in a few years, and Heralds aren’t allowed to lie.”

  The child digested this—and looked as if she found it very unpalatable indeed. “She—probably lied to me all the time then. She probably even lied to me about being my friend!” Her lip quivered, and it looked as if the weeping were about to break out anew. “Then—that means I don’t have any friends!”

  The threatened tears came, and Talia instinctively gathered the unresisting child to her. She stroked her soothingly while she cried herself to exhaustion again and produced a handkerchief to dry the sore eyes and nose when the weeping bout was over.

  “You haven’t any friends now, but that doesn’t mean that you can’t make friends,” Talia told her. “I’ll be your friend, if you’d like, but you have to make me one promise.”

  “Tell me what I have to promise first,” the child said with a hint of suspicion—which told Talia more about “nurse Hulda’s” treatment of the girl than a thousand reports could have.

  “The promise is very simple, but it’s going to be awfully hard to keep. I’m not sure you’ll be able to…” Talia allowed doubt to creep into her voice.

  “I can do it! I know I can! Just tell me!”

  “It’s in two parts. The first part is—no matter what I say to you, you won’t get mad at me until you’ve gone away and thought about what I said. The second part is—you still won’t get mad at me unless what I said wasn’t true, and you can prove it.”

  “I promise! I promise!” she said recklessly.

  “Since you’re my friend now, won’t you tell me your name?”

  The child flushed with embarrassment. “Promise you won’t laugh?”

  “I promise—but I wouldn’t laugh anyway.”

  “Hulda laughed. She said it was a stupid name.” The child stared at her lap. “It’s Elspeth.”

  “There was no reason for Hulda to laugh; you have a very nice name. It’s nicer than Talia.”

  “Hulda said only peasants are named Elspeth.”

  Talia had a suspicion that she was going to grow very weary of the words “Hulda said” before too long. “That’s not true; I know that for sure. There were three Queens of this Kingdom named Elspeth; Elspeth the Peacemaker, Elspeth the Wise, and Elspeth Clever-handed. You’ll have a hard time living up to the name of Elspeth. Especially if you want to become the kind of person that could win a Companion and be the Heir.”

  Elspeth looked frightened and worried. “I—I don’t know how—” she said in small voice. “And Companions—they—I’m afraid of them. Can you—help me? Please?” The last was spoken in a whisper.

  “Well, first you could start by treating people nicer than you do now—and I mean everybody, highborn or low. If you do that, you’ll start having more friends, too, and they’ll be real friends who like being with you, not people who only act friendly because they think you can get them something.”

  “I treat people nicely!” Elspeth objected.

  “Oh, really?” Talia screwed her face into an ugly scowl, and proceeded to do an imitation of the Brat at her worst. “If that’s treating people nicely, I’d hate to have you mad at me! Do you really think that anyone would want to be a friend of someone like that?”

  “N-no,” Elspeth said in a shamed voice.

  “If you want to change, you have to start by thinking about everything you say or do before you say or do it. Think about how you’d feel if someone acted like that to you.” Talia reached out impulsively and hugged the forlorn child. “I can see that there’s a very nice person named Elspeth sitting here, but there’s an awful lot of people who can’t see past the Brat. That’s what they call you, you know.”

  “Can’t my mother make me the Heir? Hulda said she could.”

  “The law is that the Heir must also be a Herald, and not even the Queen is above the law. If you’re not careful, Jeri may get the title. She’s got blood as good as yours, and she’s already been Chosen.”

  The vulnerable child that looked out of Elspeth’s eyes won Talia’s heart completely. “You really will help me?”

  “I already promised I would. I’m your friend, remember? That’s what friends are for—to help each other.”

  * * *

  Lord of Lights, what have I gotten myself in for? Talia frequently asked herself throughout the next few weeks. She found herself running from classes or chores to the Royal Nursery and back again on at least a thrice-daily basis. She had breakfast with Elspeth now, rather than with the Collegium. After supper (which was served at the Collegium at a much earlier hour than at Court) she would return. Then in the evening after supper she would spend the time until Elspeth returned to her rooms with Jadus; when Elspeth got back, they would walk in the gardens before the child’s bedtime.

  Hulda had vanished from her rooms before Selenay could have her taken into custody for questioning. Someone—presumably someone on the Council—had warned her in time for her to flee. Talia had little time to spare to wonder what had happened to the woman; she was too busy trying to unmake the Brat.

  It was an uphill battle all the way.

  * * *

  Elspeth pulled temper tantrums over the smallest of things; her milk was too cold, her bath was too hot, her pillow was too soft, she didn’t like the color of the clothing chosen for her. Talia put up with the first two of these displays of temper, hoping if she ignored them, Elspeth would stop. Unfortunately, this trick didn’t work.

  The third of Elspeth’s tantrums brought Talia’s first attempt at correcting her; it began when one of her maids pulled her hair while brushing it out. The child grabbed the brush and slapped the woman with it without thinking.

  Talia took the brush away and handed it to the startled maid. “Hit her back,” she ordered.

  “But—miss, I can’t—” the maid stuttered.

  “I’ll take the responsibility. Hit her back. As hard as she hit you.”

  To Elspeth’s open amazement, the maid gave her a sturdy smack on the rear with the offending brush.

  Elspeth opened her mouth to shriek, indulging in a full-scale fit, the kind that had always cowed others into doing things her way before.

  Talia calmly picked up a glass of water and threw it in her face.

  “Now,” Talia said, as the child sputtered. “These are the new rules around here; anything you do to someone else, you’ll get right back. If you can’t learn to think before you act, you’ll have to take what’s coming to you. She didn’t pull your hair on purpose, after all.” She turned to the maid. “I’m sure you have other things to do than wait on an unruly little beast.”

  The maid recognized a dismissal when she heard one; her eyes gleamed with amusement. She could hardly wait to spread the word about the new ordering of things! “Yes, milady,” she said and vanished.

  “Now, since you can’t be trusted not to abuse the privilege of having a servant do it, you’ll just have to brush your own hair—and tend to everything else as well.” Talia handed the brush back to Elspeth, who gaped in astonishment as she left.

  So Elspeth struggled along without the aid of servants.

  She looked like a rag-bag and knew it and hated it. The servants, on the Queen’s orders, were not bothering to conceal their own enjoyment of the new state of things, nor were they backward in making it obvious that they thought Elspeth was only getting what was due her. The courtiers were worse; they smiled and acted as if nothing were wrong, but Elspeth could tell that they were inwardly laughing at her. Talia continued to spend time with her and would help her with hair or clothing�
�but only if she asked politely. It was an altogether unexpected and unsatisfactory state of affairs.

  Elspeth’s reaction was to prove she didn’t care, by wrecking her nursery. She spent one very satisfying morning overturning furniture, tearing the bedclothes off the bed and heaping them in the middle of the room, breaking toys and flinging the bits about. She was sitting in the middle of the wreckage, slightly out of breath and quite satisfied, when Talia arrived.

  Talia surveyed the ruins with a calm eye. “Well,” she said, “I suppose you realize the nursery is going to stay this way until you clean it up.”

  Elspeth gaped at her; she’d expected Talia to be angry. Then the implications began to dawn on her. “B-b-but where am I going to sleep?”

  “Either in the middle of the floor or on the bare mattress, it’s up to you. Either one is a better bed than Skif ever had in the street or I had on sheep-watch. For that matter, it’s a better bed than I get now when I’ve got foal-watch.”

  Elspeth began to cry; Talia watched her impassively. When the tears didn’t bring capitulation, Elspeth picked up a wooden block and threw it angrily at Talia’s head.

  That brought a response all right—but it wasn’t the one Elspeth wanted. Talia dodged the missile with ease and advanced on the child with compressed lips. Before Elspeth realized what was happening, Talia had picked her up and administered three good, stinging swats to the girl’s rear, then set her down again.

  “Next time,” Talia warned, before the real howls of outrage could begin and drown her out, “it’ll be six swats.”

  Then she left the room (although, unknown to Elspeth, she stayed close by the door) and shut the door behind her. Elspeth cried herself nearly sick, missed dinner, and fell asleep in the tangle of blankets in the middle of the room.

  Talia knew very well that one missed meal was hardly going to hurt the child, but made a point of appearing the next day with a very hearty breakfast on a tray, acting as if nothing was wrong. She helped the much-subdued youngster to bathe and dress, and got her hair untangled for the first time in three days. All was well until lunch—when Elspeth demanded to know when someone was going to clean up her room.