Elspeth slipped inside the tent and tossed two cushions out for them to sit on. Dirk set his hands lightly on her wrists and calmed his own thoughts as best he could. He tried to pretend to himself that this was just another student he was training in her Gift, and began coaxing her into a light trance. The last of the light faded, and the stars grew brighter overhead, while they sat oblivious to their surroundings. She was silent for a very long time, and Dirk began to fear that her untrained Gift would be useless against all that distance, despite the power of the emotions fueling it.
Then, abruptly, Elspeth whimpered in fear and pain and her own hands closed convulsively on his wrists. “I’ve found her—oh, gods! Dirk, they’ve done such horrible things to her! I—think I’m going to be sick—”
“Hold on, imp. Don’t break on me yet! I need you—she needs you!”
Elspeth gulped audibly, and held. He followed her mind to where it had reached, found his target, took hold, and pulled with all his strength.
He could not tell how long he strove against the weight of it—but suddenly pain rose in a wave to engulf him, and he blacked out.
He found himself slumped over, with Elspeth shaking him as hard as she could.
“All of a sudden—you stopped breathing,” she said fearfully. “I thought you were dead! Oh, gods, Dirk—it—it’s no good, is it?”
He shook his head numbly. “I tried, Goddess save me, I tried. I found her all right, but I can’t pull her here. I just don’t have the strength.”
He felt hot tears splash on his hand from Elspeth’s eyes, and decided they would make a second attempt. He knew with conviction that he’d rather die in trying to bring Talia back than live with the knowledge that he wasn’t brave enough to make the second trial.
But before he could say anything, the matter was taken out of his hands.
:Man,: said a voice in his mind. :Dirk—Herald.:
The voice was not Ahrodie’s; it was masculine. He looked up to find three Companions standing beside them; Ahrodie, Elspeth’s Gwena, and leading them, Rolan. They had moved up on them without so much as a twig stirring. Behind them, at the edge of the enclosure that held Elspeth’s tent, were gathered more Companions—every Companion in the encampment, down to Cymry’s foal.
Rolan looked ghostlike, gaunt, and seemed to glow, and the back of Dirk’s neck prickled at the sight of him. He looked like something out of legend, not a creature of the solid, everyday world.
:You have the Gift and the will to use it. She has the Sight. We have the strength you need.:
“I—but—are you saying—”
:That we may yet save her, if our love and courage are enough. But—be prepared—if we succeed, it will not be without high cost to you. There will be great pain. You may die of it.:
Wordlessly, Dirk looked at Elspeth, and knew by her nod that Rolan had spoken to her as well.
Dirk looked into Rolan’s glowing eyes—and they were glowing, a sapphirine light brighter than the starshine. “Whatever the cost is, we’ll pay it,” he said, knowing he spoke for both of them.
They stood up and made room for the three Companions between them. They stood in a circle; Rolan, Elspeth, Gwena, Ahrodie, and Dirk. Elspeth and Dirk clasped hands and rested their arms over the backs of the Companions, obtaining the needed physical contact among the five of them in that way.
It was much easier for Elspeth to find her target the second time.
“I have her,” she said softly when she’d touched Talia again, then sobbed, “Dirk—I think she’s dying!”
Once more Dirk sent his own mind along the path Elspeth had laid for him, took hold, and pulled.
Then a second strength was added to his, and it built, and grew. Then another joined the second, and another. For one awful, pain-wracked moment—or was it an eternity?—Dirk felt like the object of a tug-of-war game, being pulled apart between two forces far greater than his own. Only his own stubbornness kept him to the task, as he felt his mind being torn in two. He held; then felt himself being stretched thinner and thinner, tighter, and tighter, quivering like a harpstring about to snap. All his strength seemed to flow out of him; he felt consciousness fading again, fought back, and held on with nothing left to him but his own stubborn will. Then, one of the two forces broke—and not theirs. And together they pulled their target toward them, cushioning and protecting it against further damage.
Their combined strength was enough. Barely, but enough.
* * *
The conference of war was proceeding in Selenay’s tent, with Council members, Officers of the Army and Guard, and Heralds perched wherever there was room. Kyril was pointing out weak spots in their own defenses—places that appeared to be candidates to be attacked—on the map laid over her table. Then a cry of horror from someone standing just outside the tent flap made everyone look up with startlement.
Someone shoved the tent flap and those standing inside it abruptly out of the way, and Elspeth stumbled inside, face paper-white and drained, pushing others from her path. Following her was Dirk, who looked even worse. When those inside saw what he bore in his arms, the cry of horror was echoed inside the tent as well—for it was a mangled, bloody wreck of a human body and it had Talia’s face.
No one moved—no one but Dirk and the Heir. Elspeth emptied Selenay’s bed of the five Heralds perched on the edge of it, pushing them out of the way without a word. Dirk went straight to the bed and set Talia down gently on it. Without even looking around he reached out a blood-smeared hand and seized the most senior Healer present by the arm, pulling her to Talia’s side. Then he straightened up with exaggerated care, moved two or three steps out of the way, and passed out, dropping to the ground like a felled tree.
When the furor was over and Selenay had a chance to look around, she discovered that Elspeth had done the same—but less dramatically and more quietly, in the corner.
* * *
Elspeth’s recovery was rapid—which, as she remarked somewhat astringently, was fortunate for the sanity of those who could not imagine how the impossible rescue had been accomplished.
She was the center of attention for all those who were not involved with the attempt to save Talia. Kyril was her particular demon, insisting on being told every detail so many times she thought she could recite the tale in her sleep, and coming up with countless questions. Eventually Elspeth’s patience reached a breaking point, and she told him, in a quiet, but deadly voice, that if he wanted to know any more he should ask his own Companion about it—she was going to see what she could do about helping the Healers with Talia and Dirk.
* * *
Healer Thesa was worried; Dirk’s recovery was not as rapid. He was still unconscious the next day, and it was some time before she and the other Healers diagnosed the problem as a relapse of his pneumonia coupled with incredible psychic strain. She had charge of his case; her old friend Devan had charge of Talia’s, though they shared every germ of expertise they had on both cases. Dirk had inadvertently brought the bottle Talia had drunk the argonel out of with her; and the traces of it within the bottle told Devan what it was they had to fight besides her terrible injuries. Within a day or two he and Thesa decided between them that they had done all they possibly could for both of the patients under the primitive conditions of the encampment. They decided that while it was dangerous to move them, it was far more dangerous to leave them there. There might be warfare waged there at any moment, and they both badly needed the expert touch of the teachers at the Healer’s Collegium.
Yet there was no time to spare—and assuredly no Heralds to spare—to move them back to the capital. Instead, after a hasty conference, Thesa and her colleague decided to take the patients a few miles up the road, and install them in the stone-walled home of the Lord Holder, who gladly gave up his dwelling to the Queen—and was equally glad to move himself and his family well out of the way of possible combat.
The Queen had called for all the Healers of the Collegium that could be spar
ed. The Lord Holder’s residence was more than half fortress; it was readily defensible at need. The Healers were installed there as soon as they arrived, with Thesa organizing them as soon as Dirk began showing signs of improvement. Thesa knew with grim certainty that although they had only Talia and Dirk to treat now, if there should be war, they would have other patients, and soon.
* * *
Elspeth spent most of her time there; her mother had asked her—asked her, and not ordered her, a sign that Selenay trusted her good sense and was tacitly acknowledging that she was becoming adult—to stay with the Healers and some other of the officials of the Court who began arriving as she called them.
“But—” Elspeth began to protest, until the haunted expression in her mother’s eyes stopped her. “Never mind. What do you want me to do?”
“I’m giving you powers of regency,” Selenay replied. “The rest of the Kingdom isn’t going to cease to exist while we wait here. You’ve sat through enough Council meetings, catling; you have a good idea what to do. You handle the day-to-day needs of the Kingdom unless you have to have a decision from me. And one other thing—if the worst happens, you and the Council and whatever Heralds are left escape together into the west and north; Sorrows should hold you safe.”
“But what about you?” she asked, around a lump in her throat.
“Elspeth—if it goes that badly—you’ll be their new Queen.”
That was an eventuality Elspeth preferred not to contemplate. She had enough worries as it was. Talia looked far more dead than alive, and the Healers were obviously baffled and frightened by something about her condition, though they would not reveal to Elspeth what it was.
It was stalemate at the Border, and stalemate in the sickroom, and in neither case could Elspeth do anything about the matter. It was not a position she enjoyed—and she began to realize just how often it was a position the Queen was in. All she could do was pray.
So she did, with a fervor that matched that of her ancestor, King Valdemar—and she hoped that fervor would make her prayers heard.
10
Dirk came to himself shortly after being put in the Healers’ hands, but he was confused and disoriented, as well as fevered. And the reaction-backlash he was suffering had him near-blind with a headache no amount of herb tea could remedy. They had to darken his room almost completely until the pain ebbed. In living memory—or so Healer Thesa told him multitudinous times—no Healer had ever seen anyone suffering from a case of backlash as profound as his—not and still be alive to tell about it.
Once again he found himself alone in a small room—but this time it was not in the House of Healing. For several days it was all he could do to feed himself and respond to the orders the Healers gave him. This time he was far too weak to even protest at the regime the Healers directed for him—unlike his previous encounter with them. For a while he remained pliant and well-behaved—but as he recovered, he began to grow suspicious and worried when his questions about Talia remained unanswered or were evaded.
The more they evaded the subject, the more frustrated and angry he became. He even queried Gwena, as soon as his reaction-headache wore off. Gwena couldn’t help; she tried to tell him what was wrong with Talia, but her answers were frightening and confusing. She couldn’t seem to convey more than that there was something seriously ailing the Queen’s Own. Finally, he decided to take matters into his own hands.
* * *
Little Robin had been brought by Lord Orthallen—although he had the feeling that his lord did not realize it. The boy was a part of his household, though Orthallen seemed to have long since forgotten the fact; and when the order came to pack up the household and move to the Border, Robin found himself in the tail of the baggage train, with no small bewilderment. He’d been at a loss in the encampment, wandering about until someone had seen him and realized that a small child had no place in a camp preparing for warfare. So he was sent packing; first off with Elspeth, then pressed into service by the Healers. They’d set him to fetching and carrying for Dirk, thinking that the child was far too young to be able to pick anything up from the casual talk around him, and that Dirk wouldn’t think to interrogate a child as young as he.
They were wrong on both counts.
Robin was very much aware of what was going on—not surprising, since it concerned his adored Talia. He was worried sick, and longing for an adult to talk to. And Dirk was kind and gentle with him—and had he but known it, desperate enough for news to have questioned the rats in the walls if he thought it would get him anywhere.
* * *
Dirk knew all about Robin and his adoration of Talia. If anyone knew where she was being kept and what her condition was, that boy would.
Dirk bided his time. Eventually, the Healers stopped overseeing his every waking moment. Finally, there came a point when they began leaving him alone for hours at a time. He waited then, until Robin was sent in alone with his lunch—alone, unsupervised, and more than willing to talk—and put the question to him.
“Robin.” Dirk had no intention of frightening the boy, and his tone was gentle. “I need your help. The Healers won’t answer my questions, and I need to know about Talia.”
Robin had turned back with his hand still on the doorknob; at the mention of Talia’s name, his expression was one of distress.
“I’ll tell you what I know, sir,” he replied, his voice quavering a little. “But she’s hurt real bad and they won’t let anybody but Healers see her.”
“Where is she? Do you have any idea who’s taking care of her?”
The boy not only knew where she was, but the names and seniority of every Healer caring for her—and the list nearly froze Dirk’s heart. They’d even pulled old Farnherdt out of retirement—and he’d sworn that no case would ever be desperate enough for them to call on him.
“Robin, I’ve got to get out of here—and I need you to help me, all right?” he said urgently.
Robin nodded, his eyes widening.
“Check the hall for me—see if there’s anybody out there.”
Robin opened the door and stuck his head out. “Nobody,” he reported.
“Good. I’m going to get dressed and sneak out. You stand just outside, and if anybody comes this way, knock on the door.”
Robin slipped out to play guard, while Dirk pulled on his clothing. He waited just a few moments more, then left his room, giving Robin a conspiratorial wink on the way out, determined to discover the truth.
The Healer in charge was Devan. Though not the most senior, he was the one with the most expertise and the strongest Gift for dealing with wounds and trauma. He was also one of Talia’s first and best friends among the Healers, and had worked with her on many other cases where Heralds were involved. There were times when loving care was more important than seniority—and Devan would have been one of Dirk’s first choices to care for her, had he been consulted.
Dirk had a fairly good idea of where to find him at this hour—and most castle-keeps were of the same design; Devan would be in the still-room, just off the herb garden near the kitchen—snatching lunch with one hand while he worked with the other. Dirk used all his expertise at shadow-stalking to avoid being caught while making his way to the little first-floor workroom, redolent with the odors—pleasant, and not so pleasant—of countless medicines.
He heard someone moving about behind the closed door, and slipped inside quickly and quietly, shutting it behind him and putting his back up against it. Devan, his back to the door, didn’t seem to notice his presence.
“Devan, I want some answers.”
“I’ve been expecting you,” the Healer said calmly, without taking his attention from the task in front of him. “I thought you might not be satisfied with what you were being told about Talia. I said so, but I wasn’t in charge of your case, and Thesa felt you shouldn’t be worried.”
“Then—how is she?” Dirk demanded and at the sight of the Healer’s gloomy face, asked fearfully, “Is she—?�
��
“No, Herald,” Devan replied with a sigh, stoppering the bottle he’d been decanting liquid into and turning to face him. “She’s not dying; not yet, anyway. But she isn’t alive, either.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dirk asked, becoming angry. “What do you mean, ‘she’s not alive’?”
“Come with me, and you’ll see for yourself.”
The Healer led the way to a small room in the infirmary, one of several that were interconnected, such as were used for patients that needed to be isolated. There was little there besides a bedside table with a candle and the bed in which Talia lay without moving.
Dirk felt his throat constrict; she looked as if she’d been laid out for a funeral.
Her face was pale and waxen. By watching very closely, Dirk could see that she was breathing—but just barely.
“What’s wrong with her?” His voice cracked with strain.
Devan shrugged helplessly—feeling a lot less helpless than he looked, now that Dirk had finally approached him. “I wish we knew. We think we counteracted the argonel in time—well, the pain she was in neutralized a great deal of it, and if we hadn’t taken care of the rest she would be dead; argonel doesn’t allow for mistakes. We’ve restored some of the blood loss, we’re doing painblockages on most of the major injuries—we’ve done everything we can to restore her, but she simply doesn’t wake. No, it’s more than that—it’s as if ‘she’ wasn’t there anymore, as if we were dealing with an unensouled body. The body works, the reflexes are all there, it breathes, the heart beats—but there’s no one ‘home.’ And we don’t have the slightest notion why. One of the older Healers speculates that her soul has ‘gone somewhere,’ perhaps trying to escape some kind of mental coercion. I suppose that’s possible; tradition claims many mages have had Gifts like ours, and used them for evil purposes. It may be she encountered one of them, along with her other trials. It’s possible that now she fears returning to herself, not knowing she is in the hands of friends again. We were willing to try almost anything—”
Heralds of Valdemar (A Valdemar Omnibus) Page 79
