Heralds of Valdemar (A Valdemar Omnibus)

by Lackey, Mercedes

  From most of the Councilors Talia only received a well-intentioned (if irritating) eagerness to help “the children” (and she cursed—not for the first time—her slight stature that made her seem barely an adolescent). But from others—

  Lord Orthallen, one of Selenay’s closest advisors (as he had been to her father) regarded both of them with a cool, almost cold, gaze. And Talia felt very like a prime specimen of some unusual beetle on the dissecting table. She got no emotional impressions from him at all; she never had. That was profoundly disturbing for one whose Gift was Empathy—and even more disturbing was the vague feeling that he was not pleased that Elspeth had at last been Chosen.

  From Bard Hyron, speaker for the Bardic Circle, she got a distinct feeling that all this was happening far too quickly. And that not enough caution was being exercised. And that he didn’t quite trust her.

  Lord Gartheser’s feelings were of general displeasure over the whole affair, but she couldn’t pinpoint why. There was also a faint overtone of disappointment; he was related to Kemoc, one of the three other contenders for the position. Could that be all, though? Or was there something deeper in his motivation?

  Lady Wyrist was downright annoyed, but why, Talia couldn’t fathom. It might have been simply that she was afraid that Talia would favor her own relations, the Holderkin, who lived in the area Wyrist spoke for. She could hardly know that there was small chance of that!

  Orthallen was the one who bothered her most, but as the meeting broke up, she knew she would mention this to no one. She had nothing of fact to report; and she and Orthallen had bad blood between them over his treatment (and near-expulsion) of her friend Skif from the Collegium. She knew better than to give Orthallen so powerful a weapon if he was an enemy as to seem to be holding a grudge. Instead, she smiled sweetly and thanked him for his good wishes. Let him think her an innocent idiot. Meanwhile she would make sure to have one eye on him.

  But soon, very soon now, she would be gone, on her year-and-a-half internship, and that would take her entirely out of the current intrigues at Court. It would also make it impossible for her to deal with any of it. If Gartheser, Orthallen, or any of the others had deeper schemes, there would be no one near Elspeth who could detect the shadow of the scheming.

  She would be gone—and who would watch them then?

  2

  Three weeks to the investiture. Only three weeks, but they seemed like three years, at least to Talia.

  There was an elaborate ceremony of oaths and bindings to memorize, but that wasn’t the worst of it. Talia’s main function at this particular rite would be apparently to perform the original duties of Heralds, the duties they had held in the days before Valdemar founded his kingdom, to announce each dignitary by name and all ranks and titles before escorting him or her to the foot of the Throne.

  This was, of course, the lesser of her twin functions. In reality the more important would be using her empathic Gift to assess—and, one hoped, neutralize—any danger to the Queen and Heir from those about to come within striking distance of them. The full High Court ceremonial costumes included a wide variety of instruments of potential mayhem and assassination.

  There was one small problem with this; Talia was farmbred, not highborn. The elaborate tabards of state that a highborn child could read as easily as a book were little more than bewildering patterns of gold and embroidery to her eyes. And she would be dealing with nobles who were very touchy over their titles, and apt to take affront if even the least and littlest were eliminated.

  That meant hours closeted in Herald Kyril’s office, sitting until her behind went numb on one of the hard wooden chairs he favored, memorizing plate after plate from the state book of devices until her eyes were watering. She fell asleep at night with the wildly colored and imaginative beasts, birds, and plants spinning in mad dances behind her eyes. She woke in the morning with Kyril’s voice echoing out of her dreams, inescapably drilling her.

  She spent at least another hour of every day in the stuffy Council chamber, with the Councilors engaged in pointless debate about this or that item of protocol for the coming ceremony until she wanted to scream with frustration.

  Elspeth, at least, was spared this nonsense; she had quite enough on her plate with her new round of Collegium classes and duties. For the next five years or so, once the ceremony was complete, she would be neither more nor less important nor cosseted than any other trainee—within certain limitations. She would still be attending Council sessions once she’d settled in, and certain High Court functions. But these were far more in the nature of duties rather than treats—and were, in fact, things Talia reckoned that Elspeth would really rather have foregone if she’d had any choice in the matter.

  When Talia had taken the opportunity to check on her, the girl seemed well-content. She was surely enjoying the new-found bond with her Companion Gwena. Keren had told Talia that every free moment saw the two of them out in the Field together, which was exactly as it should be.

  But there was one unsettling oddity about the Council sessions that kept them from sending Talia to sleep—an oddity that, in fact, was contributing to an uneasiness ill-suited to the general festive atmosphere that hovered over Court and Collegium.

  Talia was catching Councilors and courtiers alike giving her bewildered, almost fearful glances when they thought she wasn’t watching. If it had not happened so frequently, she might have thought she was imagining it, but scarcely a day passed without someone watching her with the same attention they might have given to some outre creature that might prove to be dangerous. It troubled her—and she wished more than once for Skif and his talents at spying and subterfuge. But Skif was furlongs away at very best, so she knew she’d have to muddle along beneath the suspicious glances, and hope that whatever rumors were being passed about her (and she had no doubt that they were about her) would either be put to rest or come to light where she could confront them.

  Another goodly portion of each day she spent helping to train a young Healer, Rynee, who was to substitute for her while she was gone on her internship circuit. Rynee, like Talia, was a mindHealer; she could never replace Talia, not without being a Herald herself, but she could (and would) try to keep her senses alert for Heralds in stress and distress, and get them somewhat sorted out.

  And last, but by no means least, there were exhausting bouts with Alberich, all with the express purpose of getting both Talia and Elspeth prepared for any kind of assassination attempts that might occur.

  * * *

  “I really don’t understand why you’re doing this,” Elspeth said one day, about a week from the date of the ceremony. “After all, I’m the one who’s the better fighter.” She had been watching from a vantage point well out of the way, sitting cross-legged on one of the benches in the salle, against the wall. Talia was absolutely sodden with sweat, and bruised in more places than she cared to think about—and for a wonder, Alberich wasn’t in any better condition than she.

  Alberich motioned to Talia that she could rest, and she sagged to the floor where she stood. “Appearances,” he said, “partially. I do not wish that any save the Heralds should know how skilled you truly are. That could be the saving of your life, one day. Also, it is tradition that crowned heads do not defend themselves; that is the duty of others.”

  “Unless there’s no other choice?”

  Alberich nodded.

  Elspeth sighed. “I’m beginning to wish I wasn’t Heir, now. It doesn’t look like I’m going to be allowed to have any fun!”

  “Catling,” Talia panted, “if this is your idea of fun—you’re welcome to it!”

  Elspeth and Alberich exchanged rueful glances that said as plainly as words, she’ll never understand, and made shrugs so nearly identical that Talia was hard put to keep from laughing.

  * * *

  Finally, the day arrived for the long awaited—and dreaded—rite of Elspeth’s formal investiture as Heir. The fealty ceremony was scheduled for the evening with
a revel to follow. Talia, as usual, was running late.

  She dashed from her last drilling session with Kyril to the bathing-room, then up to her tower suite, taking the steps two at a time. She thanked the gods when she got there that one of the servants had had the foresight to lay out her gown and all its accoutrements, else she’d have been later still.

  She donned the magnificent silk and velvet creation with trepidation. She’d never worn High Court ceremonials in her life, though she’d helped Elspeth into her own often enough.

  She faced the mirror, balancing on one foot while she tied the ribbons to the matching slippers around the ankle of the other.

  “Oh, bloody hell,” she sighed. She knew what a courtier ought to look like—and she didn’t. “Well, it’s going to have to do. I just wish…”

  “You wish what?”

  Jeri and Keren rapped on the side of the tower door and poked their heads around the edge of it. Talia groaned; Jeri looked the way she wished she looked, gowned and coiffed exquisitely, every chestnut hair neatly twisted into a High Court confection and precisely in place.

  “I wish I could look like you—stunning, instead of stunned.”

  Jeri laughed; to look at her, no one would ever guess this lady was nearly the equal of Alberich in neatly dissecting an opponent with any weapon at hand. “It’s all practice, love. Want some help?” Her green eyes sparkled. “I’ve been doing this sort of nonsense since I was old enough to walk, and mama usually commandeered all the servants in the house to attend her preparations, so I had to learn how to do it myself.”

  “If you can make me look less like a plowboy, I will love you forever!”

  “I think,” Jeri replied merrily, “that we can manage at least that much.”

  For the next half hour Talia sat on her bed in nervous anticipation as arcane things happened to her hair and face while Jeri and Keren exchanged mysterious comments. Finally, Jeri handed her a mirror.

  “Is that me?” Talia asked in amazement, staring at the worldly sophisticate in the mirror frame. She could scarcely find a trace of Jeri’s handiwork, yet somehow she had added experience and a certain dignity without adding years or subtracting freshness. Replacing her usual disordered tumble of curls was a fashionable creation threaded through with a silver ribbon.

  “Do I dare move? Is it all going to come apart?”

  “Havens, no!” Jeri laughed. “That’s what the ribbon’s for, love. It isn’t likely to happen this time, praise the Lord, but you know very well what your duty is in an emergency. The Queen’s Own is supposed to be able to defend her monarch at swordpoint, then calmly clean her blade on the loser’s tunic and go right back to whatever ceremony was taking place. That’s why your dress is ankle-length instead of floor-length, has no train, and the sleeves detach with one pull—yes, they do, trust me! I ought to know; I supervised the making of it. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a female Monarch’s Own, and nobody knew exactly how to modify High Court gear to suit. At any rate, you could work out now with Alberich without one lock coming loose or losing any part of the costume you didn’t want to lose. But don’t rub your eyes, or you’ll look like you’ve been beaten.” She gathered her things. “We’d better be moving if we don’t want to get caught in the mob.”

  “And you’d better take care of the important part of your costume, childing,” Keren warned as they started down the stairs.

  Talia had not needed the reminder. The rest of her accessories were already laid out and waiting. A long dagger in a sheath strapped around her waist and along her right thigh that she could reach—as she carefully determined—through a slit in her dress was the first weapon she donned. Then came paired throwing knives in quick-release sheaths for both arms—gifts from Skif, which he had shown her how to use long ago. Even Alberich admitted that Skif had no peer when it came to his chosen weapons. Lastly, were two delicate stilettos furnished with winking, jeweled ornaments that she inserted carefully into Jeri’s handiwork.

  No Herald was ever without a weapon, especially not the Queen’s Own, as Keren had reminded her. The life of more than one Monarch had been saved by just such precautions.

  * * *

  Just as Talia was about to depart, there was a knock at her door. She opened it to find Dean Elcarth standing on her threshold. Towering over him, fair and raven heads side by side, lit by the lantern that cast its light beside her door and looking like living representatives of Day and Night, were Dirk and Kris. Talia had not heard that either of them had returned from the field, and surprise stilled her voice as she stared at the unexpected visitors.

  “Neither of these gallants seems to have a lady,” the Dean said with mischief in his eyes. “And since you have no escort, I thought of you immediately.”

  “How thoughtful,” Talia said dryly, finally regaining the use of her wits, and knowing there was more to it than that. “I don’t suppose you had any other motives, did you?”

  “Well, since you are interning under Kris, I thought you might like to get acquainted under calmer circumstances than the last time you met.”

  So Kris was to be her counselor. Sheri had been right.

  “Calmer?” Talia squeaked. “You call this calmer?”

  “Relatively speaking.”

  “Elcarth!” Dirk exclaimed impatiently. “Herald Talia, he’s teasing you. He asked us to help you because we know most of the people here on sight, so we can prompt you if you get lost.”

  “We also know who the possible troublemakers are—not that we expect any problems,” Kris continued, a smile warming his sky-blue eyes. “But there’s less likely to be any trouble with two great hulking brutes like us standing behind the Queen.”

  “Oh, bless you!” Talia exclaimed with relief. “I’ve been worried half to death that I’ll say something wrong or announce the wrong person and mortally offend someone.” She carefully avoided mentioning assassination attempts, though she knew all four of them were thinking about how useful the pair would be in that event.

  Kris smiled broadly, and Dirk executed a courtly bow that was saved from absurdity by the twinkle in his eyes as he glanced up at her.

  “We are your servants, O fairest of Heralds,” he intoned, sounding a great deal like an over-acting player in some truly awful romantic drama.

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous.” Talia flushed, feeling oddly flattered and yet uncomfortable. “You know very well that Nessa and Sheri make me look like a squirrel, and the last time you saw me, I was passing out at your feet like a silly child and probably looked like leftover porridge. Among friends my name is Talia. Just Talia.”

  The Dean pivoted and trotted down the staircases, seemingly very pleased with himself. Kris chuckled and Dirk grinned; both of them offered her their arms. She accepted both, feeling dwarfed between the two of them. There was barely enough room for all three of them on the stairs.

  “Well, you devil, you’ve done it again,” Dirk said to his partner over her head, blinking as they emerged from the half-dark of the staircase into the light of the hall. “I get a scrawny ex-thief with an appetite like a horse for my internee, and look what you get! It’s just not fair.” He looked down at her from his lofty six-and-a-half feet, and said mournfully to her, “I suppose now that you’ve gotten a good look at my partner’s justifiably famous face, the rest of us don’t stand a chance with you.”

  “I wouldn’t go making any bets if I were you,” she replied with a hint of an edge to her voice. “I have seen him before, you know, and you don’t see me falling at his feet worshiping now, do you? My father and brothers were just as handsome. No insult meant to you, Kris, but I’ve had ample cause to mistrust handsome men. I’d rather you were cross-eyed, or had warts, or something. I’d feel a great deal more comfortable around you if you were a little less than perfect.”

  Dirk howled with laughter at the nonplussed expression on his friend’s face. “That’s a new one for you, my old and rare! Rejected by a woman! How’s it feel to be in my s
hoes?”

  “Odd,” Kris replied with good humor, “distinctly odd. I must say though, I’m rather relieved. I was afraid Elcarth’s mind was going, assigning me a female internee. I’ve only seen you once or twice, remember, and we weren’t exchanging much personal information at the time! I thought you might be like Nessa. Around her I start to feel like a hunted stag!” He suddenly looked sheepish. “I have the feeling I may have put my foot in it; I hope you don’t mind my being frank.”

  “Not at all. It’s my besetting sin, too.”

  “Well, you seem unexpectedly sensible. I think we’ll do all right together.”

  “Provided that I haven’t taken a dislike to you.” Talia was just a little nettled at his easy assumption that she would fall swift prey to his admittedly charming manner. “Haven’t you ever been told not to count your eggs till the hens lay them?”

  From the look on Kris’ face, that possibility hadn’t occurred to him, and he was rather at a loss to deal with it. Dirk didn’t help matters by becoming hysterical.

  “She’s got you there, old boy!” he choked. “Stars be praised, I’ve lived to see the day when it’s you that gets put in his place, and not me!”

  “Oh, Bright Havens, don’t worry about it,” Talia said, taking pity on him. “We’re both Heralds, for pity’s sake! We’ll manage to get along. It’s just for a year and a half. After all, it’s not as if somebody were forcing me to marry you!”

  Kris’ expression was indescribable when Talia spoke of being “forced” to marry him as if it were something distasteful.

  “I’m fairly sure you didn’t insult me, but that certainly didn’t sound like a compliment!” he complained forlornly. “I’m beginning to think I prefer Nessa’s attitude after all!”