Another run, this time to wash and change yet again, and she was back at Healer’s Collegium, going over the past eighteen months with Devan and Rynee. Both were blessedly succinct; there had not been any truly major mental traumas for Rynee to deal with among the Heraldic Circle. As a result, Talia was able to flee to Companion’s Field just as the warning bell for supper sounded at the Herald’s Collegium.
Rolan was waiting at the fence, and she pulled herself onto his back without bothering with going for a saddle.
“I think,” she told him, as he walked off into a quiet copse, “that I may die of exhaustion. This is worse than when I was a student.”
He lipped her booted foot affectionately; Talia picked up a projection of reassurance and something to do with time.
“You think I’ll get used to it in a few days? Lord, I hope so! Still—” She thought hard, trying to remember just what the Queen’s schedule was like. “Hm. Council sessions aren’t more than three times a week. Audiences, though, they’re every day. Alberich will torture me every day, too. But I could reschedule, say, Devan before breakfast and just after lunch—save weapons drill for just before dinner, so I’m only changing twice a day. You, my darling, whenever I can squeeze a free moment.”
Rolan made a sound very like laughing.
“True, with the tight bond we have, I don’t have to be with you physically, do I? What did you think of the audiences?”
To Talia’s delight, he hung his head and did a credible imitation of a human snore.
“You, too? Lord and Lady, they’re as bad as State banquets! Why did I ever think being a Herald would be exciting?”
Rolan snorted, and projected the memory of their flight across country to get help for the plague-stricken village of Waymeet, following that with the fight with the raiders that had attacked and fired Hevenbeck.
“You’re right; I think I can live with boredom. What do you think of how Elspeth’s coming along?”
To her surprise, Rolan was faintly worried, but could give her no clear idea why he felt that way.
“Is it important enough to trance down to where you can give me a clearer idea?”
He shook his head, mane brushing her face a little.
“Well, in that case, we’ll let it go. It’s probably just the usual rebelliousness—and I can’t say as I blame her. Her schedule is as bad as mine. I don’t like it, and I can’t fault her if she doesn’t either.”
Talia dismounted beside a tiny, spring-fed pool, and sat in the grass, watching the sun set, and emptying her mind. Rolan stood beside her, both of them content with a quiet moment in which to simply be together.
“Well, I’m into it at last,” she said, half to herself. “I thought I’d never make it, sometimes…”
This had been the first day she had truly been Queen’s Own—with all the duties and all the rights; from the right to overrule the Council to the right to overrule Selenay (though that was one she hadn’t exercised, and still wasn’t sure she had the nerve for!); from her duty to ease the fears of her fellows in the Circle to the duty to see to the Heir’s well-being.
It was a frightening moment in a way, and a sobering one. On reflection, it almost seemed as if the Queen’s Own best served the interests of Queen and country by not being too forward; by saving her votes for the truly critical issues and keeping her influence mostly to the quiet word in the Queen’s ear. That suited Talia; she hadn’t much enjoyed having all eyes on her this afternoon—especially not Orthallen’s. But Selenay had been more at ease just because Talia was there; there had been no mistaking that. In the long run, that was what the job was all about—giving the Monarch one completely honest and completely trustworthy friend…
The dying sun splashed scarlet and gold on the bottoms of the few clouds that hung in the west, while the sky above them deepened from blue to purple, and the Hounds, the two stars that chased the sun, shone in unwinking splendor. The tops of the clouds took on the purple of the sky as the sun dropped below the horizon, and the purple tinge soaked through them like water being taken into a sponge. The light faded, and everything began to lose color, fading into cool blues. Little frogs began to sing in the pool at Talia’s feet; night-blooming jacinth flowers opened somewhere near her, and the cooling breeze picked up the perfume and carried it to her.
And just when she was feeling totally disinclined to move, a mosquito bit her.
“Ouch! Damn!” She slapped at the offending insect, then laughed. “The gods remind me of my duty. Back to work for me, love. Enjoy your evening.”
3
As if that tiny insect bite had been an omen, things began to go wrong, starting with the weather.
The perfect spring turned sour; it seemed to rain every day without a letup, and the rain was cold and steadily dismal. The sun, when Talia actually saw it, gave a chill, washed-out light. Miserable, that was what it was; miserable and depressing. The few flowers that managed to bloom seemed dispirited, and hung limply on their stems. The damp crept into everything, and fires on the hearths all day and all night did little to drive it out. The whole Kingdom was affected; there were new tales reaching the Court every day of flooding, sometimes in areas that hadn’t flooded in a hundred years or more.
This was bound to have an effect on the Councilors. They worked like heroes at all hours to cope with emergencies, but the grim atmosphere made them quarrelsome and inclined to snipe at each other at the least opportunity. Every Council session meant at least one major fight and two ruffled tempers to be soothed. The names they called each other would have been ample cause for dueling anywhere else.
At least they treated Talia with that same lack of respect—she came in for her share of sniping, and that was a positive sign, that she had been accepted as one of them, and their equal.
The sniping-among-equals was something she could cope with, though it was increasingly difficult to keep her temper when everyone around her was losing theirs. Far harder to deal with in any rational way were Orthallen’s subtle attempts at undercutting her authority. Clever, those attempts were; frighteningly clever. He never said anything that anyone could directly construe as criticism; no, what he did was hint—oh, so politely, and at every possible opportunity—that perhaps she was a bit young and inexperienced for her post. That she might be going overboard because of the tendency of youth to see things always in black and white. That she surely meant well, but… and so on. It made Talia want to scream and bite something. There was no way to counteract him except to be even more reasonable and mild-tempered than he. She felt as if she were standing on sand, and he was the flood tide washing it out from under her.
Things were not going all that well between herself and Kris either.
* * *
“Goddess, Talia,” Kris groaned, slumping back into his chair. “He’s just doing what he sees as his duty!”
Talia counted to ten, slowly, counted the Library bookshelves, then counted the rings of the knothole in the table in front of her. “He was claiming I was overreacting at the same time that Lady Kester was calling Hyron a pompous peabrain at the top of her lungs!”
“Well—”
“Kris, he’s said the same damn things every Council session and at least three times during each session! Every time it looks as if the other Councilors are beginning to listen to what I’m saying, he trots out the same speech!” She shoved her chair away from the table, and began pacing restlessly, up and down the length of the vacant Library. This had been a particularly bad session, and the muscles of her neck felt as tight as bridge cables.
“I just can’t see anything at all sinister in my uncle’s behavior—”
“Dammit, Kris—”
“Talia, he’s old, he’s set in his ways—you’re frighteningly young to him, and likely to usurp his position! Have some pity on the man, he’s only human!”
“So what am I?” She struggled not to shout, but the argument was giving her a headache. “I’m supposed to like what he’s doin
g?”
“He’s not doing anything!” Kris scowled, as if he had a headache, too. “Frankly, I think you’re hearing insult and seeing peril that isn’t there.”
Talia turned abruptly, and stared at him, tight-lipped, fists clenched. “In that case,” she replied, after a dozen slow, careful breaths of dust-laden air, “maybe I should take my irrational fantasies elsewhere.”
“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.
“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, K 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.
* * *
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?”
“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 protégée 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 other’s 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, as the Queen’s eldest Councilor, I should be aware of possible trouble. I’d be only too 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.
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?
Heralds of Valdemar (A Valdemar Omnibus) Page 63
