Heralds of Valdemar (A Valdemar Omnibus)

by Lackey, Mercedes

  “So?”

  “So we asked Herald Kyril to help. He was here for a solid day, holding her hand and Mindcalling her. He pushed himself to his limits, pushed himself until he had a reaction that sent him into a state of collapse. It did no good at all. Frankly, I don’t know what else we could try—” He glanced sideways at Dirk. Devan had something in mind, but from what he understood about this young man, Dirk would have to be lured into it very carefully. “—unless—”

  “Unless what?” Dirk snatched at the offered scrap.

  “As you know, her Gift was Empathic. She did not Mindhear or Mindcall very well. It may be that Kyril simply wasn’t able to reach her. I suppose if someone who had a strong emotional bond with her were to try calling her, using that bond, she might hear. We tried communicating with her Companion, but he apparently had no better luck than Kyril, and possibly for the same reasons. Herald Kris had a strong emotional tie with her, but…”

  “Yes.”

  “And no one can think of anyone else.”

  Dirk gulped and closed his eyes, then whispered, “Could… I try?”

  Devan almost smiled despite the grimness of the situation. Come on, little fishy, he thought, trying to imbue his will with all the coercive force of a Farspeaking Herald. Take the nice bait. I know all about your lifebond. Keren told me about the night you fell ill—and about your performance over the death arrows and how you rescued her. But if you don’t admit that lifebond exists you might as well be calling into the hurricane for all she’ll hear you.

  He pretended to be dubious. “I just don’t know, Herald. It would have to be a very strong emotional bond.”

  The answer he was praying for came as a nearly inaudible whisper. “I love her. Is that enough?”

  Devan almost cheered. Now that Dirk had admitted the existence of the lifebond, the idea stood a chance of working. “Then by all means, do your best. I’ll be just outside if you need me.”

  * * *

  Dirk sat heavily in the chair next to the bed, and took one bandaged, unresisting, flaccid hand in his own. He felt so helpless, so alone… how in the names of all the gods could you call through emotions? And… it would mean letting down barriers to his heart he’d erected years ago and meant to be permanent.

  But they couldn’t have been permanent, not if she’d already made him admit that he loved her. It was too late now for anything but complete commitment—and besides, he’d been willing to die to save her, hadn’t he? Was the lowering of those barriers any greater a sacrifice? Was life really worth anything if she wasn’t sharing?

  But—where was he going to find her?

  Suddenly he sat ramrod straight; he had no way of knowing how or where to call her from, but Rolan must!

  He blanked his mind, and reached for Ahrodie.

  She settled gently into his thoughts almost as soon as he called her. :Chosen?:

  :I need your help—and Rolan’s,: he told her.

  :Then you’ve seen—you know? You think we can help to call Her back? Rolan has been trying, but cannot reach Her, not alone. Chosen, my brother, I had been hoping you would understand and try!:

  Then the other came into his mind. :Dirk-Herald—she has gone Elsewhere. Can you See?:

  And amazingly, as Rolan projected strongly into his mind, he could See—a kind of darkness, with something that flickered feebly at the end of it.

  :Do you call her. We shall give you strength and an anchoring. You can go where we cannot.:

  He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and sent himself into the deepest trance he’d ever managed, trying to send out his love, calling with his heart, trying to use his need of her as a shining beacon to draw her back through the darkness. And somewhere “behind” him Rolan and Ahrodie remained, a double anchor to the real world.

  How long he called, he had no way of knowing; there was no time in the currents through which he dove. Certainly, the candle on the table had burned down considerably when the faint movement of the hand he held broke his trance and caused his eyes to fly open in startlement.

  He could see color coming back into her face. She moved a little, winced, and moaned softly in protest. Her free hand reached for her temple; her eyes opened, focused, and saw him.

  “You… called me.”

  It was the faintest of whispers.

  He nodded, unable to speak through a throat choked with conflicting joy and doubt.

  “Where—I’m home? But how—” Then intelligence and urgency flooded into her eyes. And fear; terrible fear. “Orthallen—oh, my God—Orthallen!”

  She began struggling to rise, whimpering involuntarily in pain, but driven beyond caring for herself by some knowledge only she possessed.

  “Devan!” Dirk could see she had something obsessively important to impart. He knew better than to try and thwart her if the need was that urgent—and her evident fear coupled with that name could mean worse trouble than anyone but she knew. So instead of trying to prevent her, he gave her the support of his arms, and called for help. “Devan!”

  * * *

  Devan nearly broke in the door in his haste to respond to Dirk’s call. As he stared at Talia, dumbfounded, she demanded to know who was in authority. Devan saw she would heed nothing he told her until he gave her what she wanted, and recited the all-too-brief list.

  “I want—Elspeth,” she said breathlessly, “and Kyril—the Seneschal—and Alberich. Now, Devan.” And would not be gainsaid.

  When Devan sent messengers for the four she had demanded, she finally gave in to his insistent urgings to lie quietly.

  * * *

  Dirk remained in the room, wishing passionately that he could take some of the burden of pain from her, for her face was lined and white with it.

  The four she had sent for arrived at a run, and within a few moments of one another. From the despair on their faces, it was evident they had expected to find Talia at least at Death’s door, if not already gone. But their joy at seeing her once again awake and aware was quickly turned to shock and dismay by what she had to tell them.

  * * *

  “So from the very beginning it has been Orthallen?” Alberich’s question appeared to be mostly rhetorical. He didn’t look terribly surprised. “I would give much to know how he has managed to mindblock himself for so long, but that can wait for a later day.”

  Both Kyril and the Seneschal, however, were staggered by the revelation.

  “Lord Orthallen?” the Seneschal kept muttering. “Anyone else, perhaps; treason is always a possibility with any highborn—but not Orthallen! Why, he predates me in the Council! Elspeth, can you believe this?”

  “I… I’m not sure,” Elspeth murmured, looking at Alberich, and then at Dirk.

  “There… is a very simple way… to prove my words.” Talia was lying quite still to harbor her strength; her eyes were closed and her voice labored, but there was no doubt that she was very much alive to everything about her. “Orthallen… surely knows… where I was. Call him here… but do not let him know… that I have… recovered enough to speak. Devan… you will painblock… everything. Then… get me propped up… somehow. I… must seem to be… completely well. His reaction… when he sees me with Elspeth… should tell us… all we need to know.”

  “There is no way I will countenance anything of the sort!” Devan said angrily. “You are in no shape to move a single inch, much less—”

  “You will. You must.” Talia’s voice was flat, implacable, with no tinge of anger, only of command. But Devan folded before it, and the look in the eyes she opened to meet his.

  “Old friend, it must be,” she added softly. “More than my well-being is at stake.”

  “This could kill you, you know,” he said with obvious bitterness, beginning to touch her forehead so that he could establish the painblocks she demanded. “You’re forcing me to violate every Healing Oath I ever swore.”

  “No—” Dirk couldn’t quite fathom the sad, tender little smile she wore. “I have it… o
n excellent authority… that it isn’t my time.”

  * * *

  She got other protests from the rest when she decreed that only she and Elspeth should receive Orthallen.

  With total painblocks established she was able to speak normally, if weakly. “It has to be this way,” she insisted. “If he sees you, I think he might be able to mask his reaction. At the least he’ll be warned by your presence. With us alone, I think it will be genuine; I don’t think he’ll bother trying to hide it initially from two he doesn’t consider to be physically or mentally threatening.”

  She relented enough to allow them to conceal themselves in the room next door, watching all that went on through the door that linked the two, provided they keep that door open only a bare crack. Once everyone was in place, they sent for Orthallen.

  It seemed an age before they heard his slow, deliberate footsteps following the pattering ones of the page.

  The door opened; Orthallen stepped inside, his head turned back over his shoulder, dismissing the page before he closed the door behind himself. Only then did he turn to face the two that awaited him.

  Talia had set her stage most carefully. She was propped up like an oversized doll, but to all appearances was sitting up in bed normally. She was a deathly white, but the relatively dim light of their single candle concealed that. Elspeth stood at her right hand. The room was entirely dark except for the candle that illuminated both their faces—concealing the fact that the door behind the two of them was propped open a tiny amount.

  “Elspeth,” Orthallen began as he turned, “This is an odd place for a meet—”

  Then he truly saw who was in the room besides the Heir.

  The blood drained swiftly from his face, and the condescending smile he had worn faded.

  As he noted their expressions, he grew even more agitated. His hands began trembling, and his complexion took on a grayish tinge. His eyes scanned the room, looking for anyone else who might be standing in the shadows behind them.

  “I have met Ancar, my lord, and seen Hulda—” Talia began.

  Then the staid, poised Lord Orthallen, who always preferred words over any other weapon, did the one thing none of them would ever have expected him to do.

  He went berserk.

  He snatched his ornamental dagger from its sheath at his side, and sprang for them, madness in his eyes, his mouth twisted into a wild rictus of fear.

  For the men hidden behind the door, time suddenly slowed to an agonizing crawl. They burst through it, knowing as they did so that by the time they reached the two women, anything they did would be far too late to save them.

  But before anyone else even had time to react, before Orthallen had even moved more than a single step, Elspeth’s right hand flickered out sideways, then snapped forward.

  Halfway to them, Orthallen suddenly collapsed over Talia’s bed with an odd gurgle, then slid to the floor.

  Time resumed its normal pace.

  Elspeth, white-faced and shaking, reached out and rolled him over with her foot as the four men reached her side. There was a little throwing dagger winking in the candle light that fell on Orthallen’s chest. Blood from the wound it had made stained his blue velvet robe black. It was, Dirk noted with an odd, detached corner of his mind, perfectly placed for a heart-shot.

  “By my authority as Heir,” Elspeth said in a voice that quavered on the edge of hysterics, “I have judged this man guilty of high treason, and carried out his sentence with my own hand.”

  She held to the edge of the bed to keep her shaking legs from collapsing under her, as Talia touched her arm with one bandaged hand—in an attempt, perhaps, to comfort and support her. Her eyes looked like they were going to pop out of her head, and dilated with shock. When Devan threw open the door to the hall, she looked at him pleadingly.

  “And now,” she said in a strained voice, “I think I’d like to be sick. Please?”

  Devan had the presence of mind to get her a basin before she lost the contents of her stomach; she retched until she was totally empty, then burst into hysterical tears. Devan took charge of her quickly, leading her off to clean herself up and find a quiet place where she could vent her feelings in peace.

  * * *

  Kyril and Alberich removed the body, quickly and efficiently. The Seneschal wandered after them, dazed and shaken. That left Dirk alone with Talia.

  Devan reappeared for a moment before he could say or do anything. The Healer removed the cushions that had been propping her up, and got her lying down again to his own satisfaction. He pressed his hand briefly to her forehead, then turned to Dirk.

  “Stay with her, would you? I took some of the painblocks off before they do her an injury, but all this would have been a heavy strain if she had been healthy. In the shape she’s in—I can’t predict the effect. She may very well be perfectly all right; she seems in no worse state than she was before. If she starts to go into shock, or looks like she’s relapsing—or really, if you think anything is going wrong, call me. I’ll be within hearing distance, getting Elspeth calmed.”

  What else could he do, except nod?

  When Devan left, he turned hungry eyes back toward Talia. There was so much he wanted to say—and had no idea of how to say it.

  Now that the impetus of the emergency was gone, she seemed confused, disoriented, dazed with pain. He could see her groping after coherent thought.

  Finally, she seemed to see him. “Oh, gods, Dirk—Kris is dead. They murdered him—he didn’t have a chance. I couldn’t help him, I couldn’t save him. And it’s all my fault that it happened—if I’d told him we had to turn back when we first knew something was wrong, he’d still be alive.”

  She began to weep, soundlessly, tears trickling slowly down her cheeks; she was plainly too exhausted even to sob.

  Then it hit him—

  “Goddess—” he said. “Kris—oh, Kris—”

  He knelt beside her, not touching her, while his shoulders shook with the sobs she was too weary to share—and they mourned together.

  * * *

  He had no idea how long they wept together; long enough for his eyes and throat to go raw. But flesh has its limits; finally he got himself back under control, carefully wiped her tears away for her, and took a seat beside her.

  “I knew what happened to him,” he said at last. “Rolan made it through with your message.”

  “How did—how did I get here?”

  “I Fetched you—” he groped for the right words. “I mean, I had to, I couldn’t leave you there! I didn’t know if it would work but I had to try! Elspeth, the Companions, we all Fetched you together.”

  “You did that? It—I’ve never heard of anything like that—It’s like—like some tale. But I was lost in the dark.” She seemed almost in a state of shock now, or a half-trance. “I could see the Havens, you know, I could see them. But they wouldn’t let me go to them—they held me back.”

  “Who? Who held you back?”

  “Love and duty—” she whispered as if to herself.

  “What?” She wasn’t making any sense.

  “But Kris said—” Her voice was almost inaudible.

  He had feared before. Now he was certain. It had been Kris whom she loved—and he’d prevented her from reaching him. He hung his head, not wanting her to see the despair on his face.

  “Dirk—” Her voice was stronger, not quite so confused. “It was you who called me. You saved me from Ancar, then brought me out of the dark. Why?”

  She’d hate him for it, but she deserved the truth. Maybe one day she’d forgive him.

  “I had to. I love you,” he said helplessly, hopelessly. He stood up to leave, his eyes burning with more tears—tears he dared not shed—and cast one longing glance back at her.

  * * *

  Talia heard the words she’d been past hoping for—then saw her hope getting ready to walk out the door. Suddenly everything fell into place. Dirk had thought that Kris was the one she’d been in love with!
>
  That was why he’d been acting so crazy—wanting her himself, yet fearing to try to compete with Kris. Havens, half the time he must have loathed himself for a very natural anger at his best friend who had turned rival. No wonder he’d been in such a state!

  And now Kris was gone, and he thought that she’d want no part of him, the constant reminder, the second-best.

  Damn the man! Stubborn as he was, there would be no reasoning with him. He would never believe anything she told him; it could take months, years to straighten it all out.

  Her mind felt preternaturally clear, and she sought frantically for a way out of her predicament—and found one in memory.

  “…just like with a Farspeaker.” Ylsa’s words were clear in her memory. “They almost always begin by hearing first, not speaking. You’re feeling right now—but I suspect that one day you’ll learn how to project your own feelings in such a way that others can read them, can share them. That could be a very useful trick—especially if you ever need to convince someone of your sincerity!”

  Yes, she’d done that without really thinking about it already. There was the forced rapport, and the kind of rapport she’d shared with Kris and Rolan. And the simpler tasks of projecting confidence, reassurance—this was just one step farther along—

  She reached for the strength and the will to show him, only to discover that she was too drained, too exhausted. There was nothing left.

  She nearly sobbed with vexation. Then Rolan made his presence felt, filling her with his love—and more—

  Rolan—his strength was there, as always, and offered to her with open-hearted generosity.

  And she had the knowledge of what to do and how to do it.

  “Wait!” she coughed, and as Dirk half-turned, she projected everything she felt into his open mind and heart. All her love, her need for him—forcing him to see the truth that words alone would never make him believe.

  * * *

  Devan heard a strange, strangled cry that sounded as if it were something torn from a masculine throat. He whirled and started for Talia’s room, fearing the worst.