He held up his right hand, with a dagger that matched the first in it. “Anybody who tries forcing their way in here is going to have to get around six inches of steel in his throat.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Keren rose and sheathed her sword. “You may regret this—because I’ll probably arrange for you to share Talia-watch from now on.”
“So? I volunteered, but Ylsa wouldn’t take me seriously.”
“Well, I will.” She passed him, waving him into the room. “And youngling? Thanks. You’ve got a good heart.”
Skif just shrugged and pulled his knife out of the wall.
“What’s going on?” Talia whispered hoarsely. “What’s the Death Bell?”
Skif perched himself cross-legged on the top of her desk; his expression was unwontedly serious. “What do you want answered first?”
“The Bell.”
“All right—since I don’t know what you know, I’ll take it from the beginning. There used to be a little temple in the Grove in Companion’s Field; King Valdemar had it put up. It had a bell-tower, but not until just before he died was there a bell in it. The bell was actually installed the day before he died, but the rope to ring it hadn’t been hung, and it didn’t have a clapper. So you can imagine that when a strange bell was heard tolling before dawn the next morning, people were pretty startled. When they went out to look, they saw what you’d see now if you were to go out to the Field—every Companion here gathered around the tower and staring at it. When they got back to the Palace they learned what the Heralds had already known—that Valdemar was dead. The temple’s long gone, but the tower is still there—and every time a Herald dies, the Death Bell tolls.”
“And Keren?”
“Every Herald knows when another one dies, and whether or not it was from natural causes. You sort of start to get the sensing of it around about your third year—sooner if your Gift is strong; I haven’t got it yet. It hurts, they tell me, like something of yourself has died—the ones with the strongest Gifts may know details of what happened. You always know who, if you’re a full Herald, and a little of how, as soon as the Bell begins to ring. Most of ’em find it easier to be together for a while, especially if it was someone you knew really well. That’s why Herald Teren sent me—Beltren was one of Keren’s year-mates.”
There wasn’t much Talia could say in reply. She and Skif stared gloomily out the windows for a long time, listening to the Bell; the tolling that sounded like the cold iron was sobbing.
Word on what had actually befallen Beltren did not reach the Collegium for several days. When news came, it was not good. Someone or something had ambushed him, and sent both Beltren and his Companion over the edge of a cliff. There were no clues as to who the murderer was—and if the Queen knew why it had happened, she kept her own council.
The atmosphere became more desolate and oppressive, with every passing day. Talia’s newly-awakened sensitivity left her painfully aware of it, and the weakness she was prey to as she recovered did not make bearing the brunt of this easy.
Skif (who, true to Keren’s threat, was now sharing guard-duty with the three adults) did his best to cheer her with Collegium gossip and more of his absurd stories, but even he could not completely counteract the effect of the mourning of all those around her.
Finally the Queen gave orders—and the Heralds flew like the arrows they were named for to obey. Talia never did hear details, but the murderer was caught—though not even the news that he had been found and condemned by Queen and Council did anything to ease the atmosphere of pain, for Beltren had been universally held in high regard by the members of the Circle.
The entirety of the Collegium as well as those of the Circle at Court assembled for the memorial service several weeks later. As was all too often the case, there was no body to bury, and the service was held at the single pillar that held the names of all those Heralds who had sacrificed themselves for Monarch and Kingdom.
Talia had only just been allowed to leave her bed, but something impelled her to beg the Healer, Devan, to permit her to attend the memorial. Impressed by the urgency she was obviously feeling, he overrode his own better judgment and agreed that she should be allowed to go. She had not confided how strongly she was being affected by the mourning about her to anyone yet; she had been hoping that Keren had been right and it would go away. And having been accused of having an overactive imagination more than once, she couldn’t be entirely sure how much of this she might be conjuring out of her own mind.
Nothing of the ceremony was any too clear in her mind; everything seemed to be washed away in a flood of sadness and loss. She stood through it in a fog of pain, sure only now that she was in no way inflicting any of this on herself. When those assembled had begun dispersing, a locus of agony sharpened and defined.
It was the Queen.
Talia had not been this close to Selenay since her first day at the Collegium; she would not have dared to disturb her except that the Queen’s emotional turmoil drew on her with an irresistible attraction. She approached shyly, as quietly as she could.
“Your Majesty?” she said hesitantly. “It’s Talia.”
“I sent him to his death,” Selenay replied as if in answer to some internal question. “I knew what I was sending him into, and I sent him anyway. I murdered him, just as surely as if it had been my hand that pushed him to his death.”
The pain and self-accusation of the Queen’s words triggered something within Talia, something that impelled her to reply. “Why are you trying to convince yourself that he didn’t know the kind of danger he was in?” she said, knowing that her own words were nothing less than the stark truth, but not knowing how she knew. “He was fully aware, and he went despite that knowledge. He wasn’t expecting to die, but he knew it was a possibility. Majesty, we all know it can happen, and at any time. You had no choice either—wasn’t it absolutely imperative that someone be sent?”
“Yes,” the word came reluctantly.
“And wasn’t he the best—perhaps the only—Herald for the task?”
“He was the only Herald with any hope of convincing the people of the area to part with the information I needed. He worked as my agent there for three years, and they knew and trusted him.”
“And did he not succeed in sending you that information? Was there any substitute for it?”
“What he sent to me will save us a war,” Selenay sighed. “Even among rulers blackmail sometimes works wonders, and I’ll blackmail Relnethar with a cheerful heart if it will keep him off our borders and within his own. Lady knows I’d tried every other way to get it—”
“Then you had no choice at all; you acted for the good of all our people. It’s the kind of decision that you and only you can make. Majesty, in Orientation class they told me in good plain terms that it is quite likely that a Herald will perish, perhaps horribly, before he ever has to think of retiring because of age. They tell everyone that—but it’s never stopped anyone from becoming a Herald. It’s something we have to do—-just as making hard choices is something you have to do. And behind all of it, I think, is that we all have to choose to do what we know to be right; you as Queen, the rest of us as your Heralds. I know if Beltren could be standing here right at this moment, he’d tell you that the choice you made was the only one you could have made.”
The Queen stared al Talia, her eyes bright with unshed tears, but Talia could feel the agony within her easing. “Child,” she said slowly, “you very nearly perished yourself because of my actions—or lack of them. Can you stand there and tell me you would have been glad to die?”
“No,” Talia said frankly. “I was awfully afraid—I didn’t want to die, and I still don’t, but if it happens, it happens. I made the choice to become a Herald, and if I knew I was going to die tomorrow, I still wouldn’t choose otherwise.”
“Oh, Talia—child—” the Queen sat abruptly on the side of the memorial, and Talia hesitantly touched her, then sat beside her and put one arm ar
ound her shoulders, feeling odd and a little awkward, and yet impelled to do so nevertheless. It was apparently the correct action, as Selenay suddenly relaxed long enough to shed a few, bitter tears, allowing herself the brief luxury of leaning on a strength outside her own.
“How have you become so wise, so young?” she said at last, composing herself. “Not yet even a year at the Collegium—yet, truly Queen’s Own. Talamir would approve of you, I think ....” She rose gracefully, her face once again a serene mask. Talia sensed that while she still mourned, the burden of guilt had been lifted from her shoulders. “But you are not yet well, little one—and I see your keepers looking for you. And I must face the Ambassador of Karse, and dance in diplomatic circles about him until he knows with absolute certainty that I have the proof of his lord’s double dealings. Thank you, Queen’s Own.”
She turned and walked swiftly back to the Palace, as Keren and Teren approached.
“When you didn’t come back with the rest, we began to worry,” Teren half-scolded. “Healer Devan wants you back in bed.”
“You look like someone forced you through a sieve, lovey,” Keren observed. “What’s wrong?”
“The Queen—she was so guilty-feeling, so unhappy. I could feel it and I had to do something about it—”
“So you went to talk to her,” Keren nodded with satisfaction at her twin. “All the right words just seemed to flow from you, right?”
“How did you guess?”
“Lovey, that’s what makes you Queen’s Own, and the rest of us ordinary Heralds. Grandfather used to claim he never knew what he was going to say to the King beforehand, yet it was always exactly the right thing. Trust those instincts.”
“Grandfather?” Talia asked in a daze.
“Talamir was our grandfather,” Teren explained. “I think he secretly hoped one of us would succeed him.”
“Well I didn’t,” Keren replied firmly. “After seeing the kind of hell he went through, I wouldn’t have the job under any circumstances. I don’t envy you, Talia, not at all.”
“I agree,” Teren nodded. “Talia, you still look a bit wobbly. Will you be all right now?”
“I ... think so,” she said slowly, beginning to feel a bit better now that the overwhelming burden of the sorrows of the rest of the Heralds was dissipating.
“Let’s get you back to your room then, and I’ll have a little talk with Dean Elcarth. If nothing else, we should show you how to shield yourself so you don’t take on more of other people’s feelings than you can handle. If your Gift hasn’t faded by now, it’s not going to,” Keren said as her twin nodded his agreement.
Keren stayed with her until Elcarth arrived, then left the two of them alone. Talia sat carefully on the edge of her chair, concentrating on what Elcarth had to say, afraid she might miss something vital. She was beginning to think she couldn’t bear much more of this business of carrying other people’s emotions and thoughts around inside of her. If there was a way to stop it from happening, she most devoutly wanted to learn it!
But this “shielding” was a simple trick to learn—for which Talia was very grateful.
“Think of a wall,” Elcarth told her. “A wall all around you and between you and everyone else. See it and feel it—and believe that nothing and no one can reach you through it.”
Talia concentrated with all her strength, and for the first time in days, she felt a blessed sense of relief from the pressure of minds around her. With its lessening her own confidence in the “shield” grew—and the shield grew stronger in response. At last Elcarth was satisfied that nothing could penetrate what she had built, and left her to her own devices.
“Don’t ever hesitate to drop it, though,” the Dean urged her. “Especially if you suspect danger—your Gift may give you the best warning you’re likely to get.”
Talia made a thoughtful gesture of acquiescence, thinking how, if she’d been able to detect the maliciousness of her tormentors, she’d have been warned enough to have gotten help with them long before things had come to so nearly fatal a conclusion.
A few days later the Healer pronounced her fit, and she returned to her normal round of classes. Outwardly her life seemed little different—yet there were some profound changes.
The first thing that had changed was her bond with Rolan; it was so much stronger now than it had been before the river incident that there was no comparison.
She discovered this not long after she had learned how to shield out the emotions of others.
She was sitting in a quiet corner of the Library; she had just finished her book and had closed it with a feeling of satisfaction, as it was one of the histories that concluded on a positive note. There wasn’t enough time for her to start a new book before the next class, so she was simply sitting for a moment with her eyes closed, letting her mind wander where it would. Almost inevitably it wandered toward Rolan.
Suddenly she was seeing a corner of Companion’s Field, but her view was curiously flat and distorted. There seemed to be a blind spot straight ahead of her, her peripheral vision was doubled, and she seemed to be several inches higher than she actually stood. There was that feeling of slight disorientation that she had come to associate with seeing through the eyes and memories of others—
Then a start of surprise, followed by an outpouring of love and welcome. It was then that she realized that she was sharing Rolan’s thoughts.
From that moment on she had only to think briefly of him to know exactly where he was and what he was doing, and if she closed her eyes she could even see what he was seeing. Thoughts and images—though never words—flowed between them constantly. An emotion so profound it transcended every meaning Talia had ever heard attached to the word “love” tied them together now, and she understood how it was that Heralds and their Companions so seldom survived one another when death broke that bond that held them together.
It was shortly after this that her relationship with the Queen underwent a similarly abrupt change.
Selenay had sought the sanctuary of the barren gardens—a place where, with the last of winter still upon them, it was unlikely that she would be disturbed. Talia had found herself pulled inexorably to those same gardens; on seeing the Queen pacing the paths, she understood why.
“Majesty?” she called out softly. Selenay shaded her eyes against the weak afternoon sunlight and smiled when she saw who it was that had called her.
“Another lover of desolation? I thought I was the only person who found dead gardens attractive.”
“But the potential is here for more. You only have to look ahead to what will be in the spring,” Talia pointed out, falling into step beside the Queen. “It’s not so much desolate and dead here as it is dormant. It’s just a matter of seeing the possibilities.”
“Seeing the possibilities—long-term instead of immediacy,” Selenay became very thoughtful, then began to brighten visibly. “Yes! That’s it exactly! Little one, you’ve done it again—and I have to get back to the Council. Thank you—”
She strode rapidly away, leaving Talia to wonder just what it was that she’d done.
But as time passed, such incidents became more and more commonplace. And as winter became spring, it was less often the case that Talia sought the Queen’s company as it was the other way around. Selenay actively hunted her out at irregular intervals; they would talk together, sometimes for hours, sometimes only for a moment or two. Talia would find the words to express the things she knew, somehow, that the Queen needed to hear, and Selenay would take her leave, comforted or energized. Talia often thought of herself, with no little bewilderment, as two people; one, the ordinary, everyday Talia, no more wise than the next half-grown adolescent, the other, some incredibly knowledgeable and ancient being who only manifested herself in Selenay’s presence.
With this assumption of her duty as Queen’s Own, Talia was reminded of yet another. The apparent reason that Rolan had Chosen her, after all, was because she was supposedly the one person who c
ould civilize the Brat—yet in all this time she had seen Elspeth only once and that when she had first arrived. It was true that until now she had been too busy adjusting herself to the Collegium to have any time or emotional energy to spare for dealing with the child. Still, that wasn’t the case anymore. It was definitely time to do something about the Heir-presumptive.
“Glory! What a long face!” Skif exclaimed, plopping himself down in the chair next to Talia in the Library, and earning himself a black look or two for disturbing the silence from the trainees sitting nearby. “What’s the matter, or should I not ask?” he continued with less volume.
“It’s the Brat. I’m supposed to be doing something about her, but I can’t get anywhere near her!” Talia replied with gloom and self-disgust.
“Oh, so? And what’s keeping you away?”
“Her nurse—I think. The foreigner, Hulda—I haven’t once seen the old one. I can’t prove anything, though. She seems very conscientious; the very model of respect and cooperation, yet somehow whenever I try to get anywhere near the child, she’s there, too, with something Elspeth absolutely has to be doing right that very moment. And it’s all very logical, all quite correct. It’s just that it’s happened too many times now.”
“ ‘Once is chance, twice is coincidence,’” Skif quoted. “ ‘But three times is conspiracy.’ Has it gotten to the conspiracy stage yet?”
“It got to that point a long time ago. But I can’t see how I can prove it, or where everything fits in—
He bounded to his feet and tapped her nose with an outstretched finger. “You just leave the proving it to good old Sneaky Skif. And as for figuring out how everything fits together, I should think Herald Jadus would be the best source for information. He’s been stuck here at the Collegium since the Tedrel Wars were over; the servants tell him everything, and he’s got the thought-sensing Gift to boot. If anyone would know the pieces of the puzzle that go back forever, he would. So ask him—you see him every night.”
“I never thought of Jadus,” Talia replied, beginning to smile. “But Skif—is this likely to get you into trouble?”
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