Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  "I won't argue," Kethry replied. "I can feel 'Bane straining now."

  Unspoken was the very real danger that was in all of their minds. It was obvious that the snow was falling more thickly with every candlemark; it was equally obvious that unless they found a good campsite they'd be in danger of death by exposure if they fell asleep. That meant pressing on through the night if they didn't find a secure site. This little rest might be the closest to sleep that they'd get tonight.

  And when they got to the cul-de-sac, they found evidence of how real the danger was.

  Huddled against the boulders of the back was what was left of a man.

  Rags and bones, mostly. The carcass was decades old, at least. There were no marks of violence on him, except that done by scavengers, and from the way the bones lay Tarma judged he'd died of cold.

  "Poor bastard," she said, picking up a sword in a half-rotten sheath, and turning it over, looking for some trace of ownership-marks. "Helluva way to die."

  Kethry was tumbling stones down over the pitiful remains, Jadrek was doing his best to help. "Is there any good way to die?"

  "In your own bed. In your own time. Here—can you make anything of this?"

  Jadrek dug into his packs while the women were occupying themselves with the grisly remains they'd found. He was aching all over with pain, even through the haze of drugs. Worse, he was slowing them down.

  But there was a solution, of sorts. They didn't need him now, and if the weather worsened, his presence—or absence—might mean the difference between life and death for the two partners.

  So he was going to overdose. That would put him to sleep. If they did find shelter, there would be no harm done, and he would simply sleep the overdose off. But if they didn't—

  If they didn't, the cold would kill him painlessly, and they'd be rid of an unwieldy burden. Without him they'd be able to take paths and chances they weren't taking now. Without him they could devote energy to saving themselves.

  He swallowed the bitter herb pellets quickly, before they could catch him at it, and washed away the bitterness with a splash of icy water from his canteen. Then he pressed himself up against the sheltered side of Kethry's mount, trying to leech the heat from her body into his own.

  Kethry took the sword from her partner, and turned it over. The sheath looked as if it had once had metal fittings; there were gaping sockets in the pommel and at the ends of the quillions of the sword that had undoubtedly once held gemstones. There was no evidence of either, now.

  "Poor bastard. Might have been a merc, down on his luck," Tarma said. "That's when you know you're hitting the downward slide—when you're selling the decorations off your blade."

  Kethry slid the sword a little out of the sheath; it resisted, with a grating sound, although there was no sign of rust on the dull gray blade. Tarma leaned over her shoulder, and scratched the exposed metal with the point of her dagger, then snorted at the shiny marks the steel left on the metal of the sword.

  "Well, I feel a little less sorry for him," Kethry retorted. "My guess is that he was a thief. This was some kind of dress blade, but the precious metal and the stones have been stripped from it."

  "Have to be a dress sword," the Shin'a'in said in disgust. "Nobody in their right mind would depend on that thing. It isn't steel or even crude-forged iron. You're right, he must have been a thief—and probably the pretties were stripped by somebody that came across the body."

  Tarma turned back to her inspection of her mare's condition, and Kethry nodded, shoving the blade back into its sheath. "You're right about this thing," she agreed. "Metal that soft wouldn't hold an edge for five minutes. Damn thing is nearly useless. That pretty much confirms it. The departed wasn't dressed particularly well, I doubt he'd have much use for a dress-sword." She started to stick the thing point-down into the cairn they'd built—then, moved by some impulse she didn't quite understand, put it into her pack, instead.

  There was something about that sword—something buried below the seeming of its surface, something that tasted of magic. And if there was magic involved, Kethry thought vaguely, it might be worth saving to look into later.

  Neither Tarma nor Jadrek noticed; Tarma was checking Ironheart's feet. and Jadrek was pressed up against Hellsbane's side with his eyes closed, trying to absorb some of the mare's warmth into his own body.

  Tarma straightened up with a groan. "Well, people, I hate to say this, but—"

  Kethry and Jadrek sighed simultaneously.

  "I know," Kethry replied. "Time to go."

  Darkness was falling swiftly, and the snow was coming down thicker than ever. They'd given up trying to find a campsite themselves; Tarma had sent Warrl out instead. That meant they had one less set of eyes to guard them, but Warrl was the only one who stood a chance of finding shelter for them.

  Tarma was leading both horses; on a trail this uncertain, she wanted it to be her that stumbled or fell, not the mares. She was cold to the point of numbness, and every time Hellsbane tripped on the uneven ground, she could hear Jadrek catching his breath in pain, and Kethry murmuring encouragement to him.

  Tarma was no longer thinking much beyond the next step, and all her hopes were centered on the kyree. If they didn't find shelter by dawn, they'd be so weary that no amount of will could keep them from resting—and once resting, no amount of foreknowledge would keep them from falling asleep—

  And they would die.

  Tarma wondered how many ghosts haunted the Comb, fools or the desperate, lured into trying to thread the rocky hills and falling victim to no enemy but the murderous weather.

  She half-listened to the wind wailing among the rocks above them. It sounded like voices. The voices of hungry ghosts, vengeful ghosts, jealous of the living. The kinds of ghosts that showed up in the songs of her people, now and again, who sought only to lure others to their deaths, so that they might have company.

  How many fools—how many ghosts—

  A white shape loomed up out of the dusk before them, blocking the path. A vague, ivory rider on an ethereal silver horse, appearing suddenly and soundlessly out of the snow, like a pallid harbinger of cold death.

  "Li'sa'eer!" Tarma croaked, and dropped the reins of both horses, pulling the sword slung at her back in the next instant, and wondering wildly if Goddess-blessed steel could harm a hungry ghost.

  :Mindmate, no!:

  Warrl jumped down from the hillside to her right to interpose his bulk between her and the spirit. :Mindmate—this is help!:

  "Peace upon you, lady." The voice of the one astride the strange white beast was not that of a spirit; nor, when Tarma allowed a corner of herself to test the feel of him, was there any of the tingle she associated with magic. The man's voice was not hollow, as a spirit's normally sounded; it was warm, deep, and held a tinge of amusement. "Your fourfooted friend came looking for aid, and we heard his calling. I did not mean to startle you."

  Tarma's arms shook as she resheathed the blade. "Goddess bless—warn a body next time! You just about ate six thumbs of steel!"

  "Again, your pardon, but we could not tell exactly where you were. Your presences seem rather... blurred."

  "Never mind that," Kethry interrupted from behind Tarma, her voice sharp. "Who are you? What are you? Why should we trust you?"

  The man did not seem to be taken aback by her words. "You're wise not to take anything on appearance, lady. You don't know me—but I do know you; I've talked to your friend mind-to-mind, and I know who you are and what you wish. You can trust me on three counts." He and his horse moved in to stand nose to nose with Ironheart. Tarma saw with no little surprise that even in the fading light the beast's eyes were plainly a bright and startling blue. "Firstly—that you are no longer in Rethwellan; you crossed the Border some time back, and you are in Valdemar. The enemy on your backtrail will not be able to pass the Border, nor would I give you to him. Secondly, that the man you seek, Prince Stefansen, is Valdemar's most welcome guest, and I will be taking you to him
as quickly as your tired beasts can manage. And thirdly, you can trust me because of my office."

  "Look—we're tired, we don't know anything about your land, and our friend, who might, is not even half-conscious."

  So that was what was making Keth's voice sound like she was walking on glass.

  "I seem to be making a mess of this," the man replied ruefully. "I am Roald, one of the Heralds of Valdemar. And you may believe your large, hairy friend there, that any Herald is to be trusted."

  :They are, mindmate,: Warrl confirmed. :With more than life. There is no such creature as a treacherous Herald.:

  All right, Tarma thought, worn past exhaustion. We've got no chance out here—and you've never been wrong before this, Furface.

  "Lead on, Herald Roald," she said aloud. And wearily hoped Warrl was right this time, too.

  Eight

  Tarma clasped her blue-gray pottery mug in both her hands and sniffed the spicy, rich aroma of the hot wine it contained a trifle warily. The stuff was too hot to drink; not that she minded. The heat of it had warmed the thick clay of the mug, and that, in turn, was warming her hands so that they no longer ached in each separate joint. And the heat gave her an excuse to be cautious about drinking it.

  She blinked sleepily at the flames in the fireplace before her, trying to muster herself back up to full alertness. But she was feeling the heat seeping into her bones, and with the heat came relaxation. The fire cast dancing patterns of light and shadow up into the exposed rough-hewn beams of the square common room, and made the various trophies of horns and antlers hung on the polished wooden walls seem to move. She didn't want to stir, not at all, and that had the potential for danger.

  She was wearing, bizarrely enough, some of Roald's spare clothing, all of her own too thoroughly soaked even to bother with. A Kal'enedral in white—Warrior bless, now that's a strange thought. Roald was the only one of them near to her size; off his horse he was scarcely more than a couple of thumblengths taller than Tarma, and was just as rangy-thin. He was exceedingly handsome in a rugged way, with a heavy shock of dark blond hair, a neat little beard, and eyes as blue as his horse's.

  I thought I'd never be warm again. She settled a little more down into her chair and the eiderdown they'd given her to wrap around herself, and blinked at the kyree stretched out between her and the flames. Warrl was fast asleep on the red-tiled hearth at her feet, having bolted a meal of three rabbits first. He trusts them. Especially Roald. Dare we?

  Her chair was set just to one side of the fireplace, practically on the hearthstone. Directly across from her, Kethry was curled up in a second chair, wrapped in eiderdown, looking small and unwontedly serious. She'd been summarily stripped of her wet gear, the same as Tarma, but opted for one of Lady Mertis' soft green wool gowns. Jadrek had been spirited away as well, and regarbed in Stefansen's warmest—heavy brown wool breeches and tunic and knitted shirt.

  If Roald hadn't come when he did—Star-Eyed, we came perilously close to losing him. If I'd known he'd taken enough of that painkilling stuff to put him out like that—

  Jadrek was pacing the floor beside the two chairs and within the arc of heat and light cast by the fire. He limped very badly—walking slowly, haltingly, trying to shake the fog of his medicines from his head so that he could talk coherently again. He was moving so stiffly that Tarma hurt just watching him.

  I wonder; he knew we were in bad trouble when we stopped that last time. I wonder if he didn't dose himself on purpose, figuring that we'd either find shelter and he'd be all right, or that we wouldn't, and while he was unconscious the cold would kill him painlessly and get him out of our hair. That's something a Clansman might do. Damnit—I like this man! And he has no reservations about Stefansen and this Herald. But I do. I must.

  Stefansen's wife, Mertis (that had come as a shock to Jadrek, that Stefansen had actually wedded), was seated in another chair a bit farther removed from the fire, nursing their month-old son. I like her, too. That's a sweet little one—why do I have to distrust these people?

  Stefansen, who resembled Idra to a startling degree, (except that on a man's face the features that had been harsh for a woman were strong, and those that had been handsome were breathtaking) was talking quietly with Roald, the two of them sitting on a pair of chairs they'd pulled up near to Mertis. A most domestic and harmonious scene, if you could ignore the worry in everyone's eyes.

  Good thing we had Jadrek to vouch for us, or Stefansen might have left us to freeze, and be damned to his Herald friend. He did not like the fact that we'd come looking for him out of Rethwellan. He's still watching me when he thinks I'm not paying any attention. We're both like wary wolves at first meeting, neither one sure the other isn't going to bite.

  This turned out to be Roald's own hunting lodge, which, since it was not exactly a small dwelling, told Tarma that whatever else he was, the Herald was also a man of means. It was now the "humble" abode of the Prince-in-exile, his bride of ten months, and their infant son. Valdemar had given Stefansen the sanctuary he needed, but it was a secret sanctuary; the King and Queen of Valdemar dared not compromise their country's safety, not with Rethwellan sharing borders with both themselves and their hereditary enemy, Karse.

  The wine was cool enough to drink now, and Tarma had decided she couldn't detect anything dangerous in it. She sipped at it, letting it soothe her raw throat and ease the cold in the pit of her stomach. While she drank, she scrutinized Mertis again over the edge of the mug.

  Tarma watched the gentle woman rocking her son in her arms, studying her with the same care she'd have spent on the reconnoitering of an enemy camp. Mertis was not homely, by any means, but not a raving beauty, either. She had a sweet, soft face; frank brown eyes that seemed to demand truth of you; wavy, sable-brown hair. Not the kind of woman one would expect to captivate an experienced rake like Stefansen. Which meant there was more to her than showed on the surface.

  Then again—Tarma hid a smile with her mug as she thought of the moment when Roald had brought them stumbling up to the door of the lodge. Mertis had been everywhere, easing Jadrek down from his grip on Kethry's saddle, helping him to stumble into the warm, brightly lit lodge, building up the fire with her own hands, issuing crisp, no-nonsense orders to her spouse, the Herald, and the two servants of the lodge, without regard for rank. That just might have been her secret—that she had been the only woman to treat Stefansen like a simple man, a person, and not throw herself at his feet, panting like a bitch in heat.

  Or it might have been a half dozen other things, but one was a certainty; Tarma knew love well enough to recognize it when those two looked at each other. And never mind that Mertis was scarcely higher in birth than Kethry.

  "Jadrek?" Stefansen called softly, catching Tarma's attention. "Have you walked yourself out yet? I'd rather you got a night's sleep, but Roald seems to think we need to talk now."

  "Not just you two—all of us, the mercenaries included," the Herald corrected. "We all have bits of information that need to be put together into a whole."

  Stefansen is looking wary again. I'll warrant he didn't expect us to be included in this little talk. Ah well, duty calls. "Just for the record," Tarma said, unwinding herself from the eiderdown, "I'd tend to agree. And the sooner we get to it, the less likely one of us will forget some triviality that turns out to be vital. My people say, 'plans, like eggs, are best at the freshest.'"

  Kethry nodded, and got up long enough to turn her chair in a quarter-circle so that it faced the room rather than Tarma; Tarma did the same as the men pulled theirs closer, and Roald brought in a third chair for Jadrek. Mertis left hers where it was, but put the babe back in the cradle and leaned forward to catch every word.

  Tarma watched the Prince, his spouse, and the Herald as covertly—but as intently—as she could. Warrl trusted them, and she'd never known the kyree to be wrong. He trusted them enough that he'd eaten without checking the food for tampering, and was now sleeping as soundly as if he hadn't a worry in t
he world. Still, there was a first time for everything, even for the kyree being deceived.

  There's no sign of the Captain here, either. But that might not mean anything.

  Jadrek spoke first, outlining what Raschar had been doing since Stefansen's abrupt departure. Tarma was surprised by the Prince's reactions; he showed a great deal more intelligence and thoughtfulness than rumor had given him credit for. He seemed deeply disturbed by the information that Raschar was continuing to tax the peasantry into serfdom. He looks almost as if he's taking it personally—huh, for that matter, so does Mertis. And I don't think it's an act.

  Then Tarma and Kethry took up the thread, telling the little conclave what they'd observed in their week or so at the Court, and what they'd noted as they passed through the southern grainlands of Rethwellan.

  The Prince asked more earnest questions of them, then, and seemed even more disturbed by the answers. He plainly did not like Kethry's report of the mages lurking in the Court—and the tale of the attack on Jadrek shocked him nearly white.

  And that is not an act, Tarma decided. He's more than shocked, he's angry. I wouldn't want to be Raschar and in front of him right now.

  And finally all three spoke of Idra—what Jadrek knew, and what the partners had heard before she'd vanished.

  That changed the anger to doubt, and to apprehension. "If she headed here, she didn't arrive," Stefansen said, unhappily, the firelight flaring up in time to catch his expression of profound disturbance. "Damn it! Dree and I had our differences, not the least of which was that she voted for Char, but she's the one person in this world that I would never wish any harm on. Where in hell could she have gotten to if she didn't come here?"

  Tarma wished at that moment that she could have Warrl's thought-reading abilities. The Prince seemed sincere, but it would have been so very easy for Idra to have met with an accident once she'd crossed into Valdemar, particularly if Stefansen hadn't known about her change of heart. He could be using his surprise and dismay at learning that to cover his guilt.