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.
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 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 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 Councilors, 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 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—”
He swallowed hard, and his hands were shaking. “I heard screaming, worse than before; the older Herald, she jerked like she’d been shot. She shouted at us to take the brigands before they got themselves over their fright, then she headed into the fires herself; I followed—my hands were too burned to hold a weapon, but I thought I might be able to help with the fires. The younger one had gotten trapped on the second floor of one of the houses; I was right behind the older one and I could see her against the fire. Calm as you please, she’s tossing younglings out to their parents. At least I think she was tossing ’em—she’d have a little one in her hands one moment, then the next, his mum or dad would be holding it. The older one ran up, started shouting at her to jump. She just shook her head, and turned back one more time—the floor collapsed then. That damn horse of hers crashed through the wall and went in after her—the other Herald was right on his heels. She’d no sooner cleared the door when the whole roof caved in. We got her out, but the other—”
One of Selenay’s pages brought him wine, and he drank it gratefully, his teeth chattering against the rim of the tankard.
“That’s what happened. For us, we beat ’em back, but we didn’t get more than a handful of them compared to the numbers we know they’ve got. They’re comin’ back, we know they are. ’Specially since they must know the Heralds are—gone. We lost half the town—most of the able-bodied. I was about the only one that could make the ride here. We need help, Majesty, m’lords—we need it bad—”
“You’ll have that help,” Selenay pledged, her eyes hard and black with anger as she stood. “This isn’t the first incursion of these bastards we’ve heard of, but it’s by far and away the worst. It’s obvious to me that there is no way we can expect you folk to handle brigands as organized as these are. Lord Marshal, and good sir, if you’ll come with me we’ll mobilize a company of the Guard.” She looked inquiringly at the rest of the Council.
Lady Cathan spoke for all of them. “Whatever is needed, Highness. You and the Lord Marshal are the best judge of what that is. We’ll stand surety for it.”
Talia nodded, with all the other Councilors. What Selenay had told the man was true; for the past few months there had been tales of bandits growing organized in Gyrefalcon’s Marches. Sporadic raids had occurred before this—but never had the brigands dared to put an entire town to the sword! It was obviously more than local militia could handle; the entire Council was agreed on that.
Talia slipped away then, knowing with certainty that Selenay did not need her at the moment, and that another most definitely did. The tug at her was unmistakable. She opened the door to the Council chamber just enough to slip through—and once she was out into the cool, dark hallway, broke into a run.
She ran out through the old Palace and passed the double doors of Herald’s Collegium—then down the echoing main hall, heading for the side door and for Healer’s. She felt the pull of a soul in agony as clearly as if she were being called by voice. She all but collided with Devan, who was on his way to look for her.
“I might have known you’d know,” he said gratefully, hitching up his green robes so that he could run with her. “Talia, she’s fighting us, and we can’t get past her shielding to do even the simplest painblocks. She blames herself for Christa, and all she wants to do now is die. Rynee can’t do anything with her.”
“That’s what I thought; Lord and Lady, the guilt is so thick I can almost see it. Well, let’s see if I can get through to her.”
They had accomplished a certain amount of Healing at the site of the battle, while Destria was still unconscious; enough to enable moving her safely. She still was a most unpretty sight, lying on a special pad in one of the rooms reserved for burn patients. The room itself was bare stone; scrubbed spotless twice a day when unoccupied, and not so much as a speck of dust was ever allowed to settle there. The one window was sealed tight so that nothing could blow in. Everything that was brought in was removed as soon as it was no longer needed, and scalded.
It was a tribute to the onsite Healers that Destria was still among the living. The last person Talia had seen with burns like hers had been Vostel, who had taken the full fury of an angry firebird on his fragile flesh. Where her burns had been relatively light—though the skin was red, puffed, and blistering—she was unbandaged. But her arms and hands were wrapped in special poultices of herbs and the thinnest and most fragile of tanned rabbit and calfskin, and Talia knew that beneath those bandages the skin was gone, and the flesh left raw. They had laid her on a pallet of lambskin, tanned with the wool on; the fibers would cushion her burned skin and prevent too much pressure from being exerted on it. Talia knelt at the head of the pallet and rested both her hands on Destria’s forehead. Destria’s face and head were the only portions of her that were relatively untouched. As Talia reached into the whirlwind of pain, delirium, and guilt with her Gift, she knew that this was likely to be the hardest such fight she’d ever faced.
* * *
Guilt, black and full of despair, surrounded Talia from all directions. Pain, physical and mental, lanced through the guilt like red lightning. Talia knew her first priority was to find out why the guilt existed in the first place, and where it was coming from—
That was easy enough; she simply lowered her shielding a fraction more, and let herself be drawn in where the negative emotions were the thickest.
The fading core that was Destria spun an ever-tightening cocoon of bleakness around herself. Talia reached for that cocoon with a softly glowing mental “hand” and withered it until that which was Destria stood cringing before her.
Talia paid no heed to her attempts at escape, but drew her into a rapport in which nothing was hidden; not from her—and not from Destria. And she let Destria read her as she strove to begin the Healing of the other Herald’s mental hurts.
I failed—that was the most overwhelming. They counted on me, and I failed.
But there was something more, something that kept the guilt feeding on itself until Destria loathed her own being. And Talia found it, hiding underneath, festering. And I failed because I wanted something for me. I failed because I was selfish; I don’t deserve my Whites—I deserve to die.
This was something Talia was only too familiar with; and was something Rynee wouldn’t understand. Healers were firm believers in a little honest selfishness; it kept a person sane and healthy. Heralds, though—well, Heralds were supposed to be completely unselfish, totally devoted to duty. That was nonsense, of course; Heralds were only people. But sometimes they started to believe in that nonsense, and when something went wrong, because of their natures, the first people they tended to blame were themselves.
So now Talia had to prove to Destria that there was nothing wrong with being a Herald and human. No small task, since Destria’s guilt was akin to doubts she shared about herself.
How often had she berated herself for wanting a little corner of life to call her own—some time when she didn’t have to be a Herald—when she had been so tired of having to think first of others before taking the smallest action? How many times had she yearned for a little time to be lazy, a chance for a bit of privacy—and then felt guilty because she had?
And hadn’t she been ready to assume that she was guilty of unconsciously using her Empathy to manipulate others?
Hadn’t she been angry enough to strangle someone more than once, and then been angry at herself for giving in to the weakness of rage?
Oh, she understood Destria’s self-loathing, only too well.
* * *
Rynee and the rest of the Healers watched soberly, sensing th
e battle Talia fought, though (except for the perspiration beading Talia’s brow) there were no outward signs of a struggle. They all remained in the same positions they had first taken as the shadows cast through the window lengthened almost imperceptibly and the light slowly faded; and still there was no outward indication of success or failure.
Then, after the first half-hour, Rynee whispered to Devan, “I think she’s getting somewhere; Destria threw me out after the first few minutes and wouldn’t let me in again.”
When a full hour had passed, Talia sighed, then carefully broke her physical contact with the other Herald, and slumped with exhaustion, her hands lying limply on her thighs.
“Go ahead; I’ve got her convinced for now. She won’t fight you at the moment.”
As she spoke, the waiting Healers converged on Destria like worker-bees on an injured queen. Rynee, whose Gift of Healing was (like Talia’s) for minds rather than bodies, helped Talia to her feet.
“Why couldn’t I get through to her?” she asked plaintively.
“Simple; I’m a Herald, you’re not,” Talia said, edging past the Healers and out into the hall. “She reacted to you the way you would react to a nonHealer trying to tell you that a gut-stab was nothing to worry about. Gods, I’m tired! And I’ll have it all to do again tomorrow, or she’ll fight you again. And then, when I finally convince her permanently that it wasn’t her fault, I’ll have to convince her she isn’t going to revolt men with—the way she’ll look when you’re done. And that the scarring isn’t some punishment set on her for being a bit randy.”
“I was afraid of that.” Rynee bit her lip. “And she is going to scar; I can’t tell you how badly yet, but there’s no getting around it. Her face wasn’t touched, but the rest of her—some of it isn’t going to be at all pretty. The only burn victim I’ve ever heard of that was as bad was—”
Despite her weariness, Talia’s eyes lighted when she saw an idea begin to form behind Rynee’s frown. “Out with it, milady—you’ve the same Gift as I have, and if you’ve gotten a notion it’s probably going to work.” She paused in the hallway and leaned against the wood-paneled wall; Rynee rubbed the bridge of her long nose with her finger.
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