Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  “ ‘They seem to know exactly where the Guard is at all times,’ Patris had written. ‘They strike, and are away before we can do anything. They know these hills of stone and the caves that honeycomb them better than we guessed; I suspect them of traveling a great deal underground, which would certainly answer the question of how they move about without being spotted. At this point, we are beyond saving the livestock or the harvest; Majesty, I must be frank with you. It will be all we can do just to save the lives of these people. And I must tell you worse yet—having stripped them of all possessions, the bastards have taken to carrying off the only thing these folk have left. Their children.’ “

  “Great Goddess!” Lady Wyrist had exclaimed.

  “I’m on it, Majesty,” Lady Cathan had said grimly at almost the same moment. “They won’t get children out past my Guildsmen—not after that slaver scandal—with your permission?”

  Selenay had nodded distractedly, and Lady Cathan sprinted from the room in a swirl of colorful brocades.

  “Majesty,” Orthallen said then, “It is as I have been saying. We need a larger standing army—and we need more autonomy in local hands. If I had been given two or three companies of the Guard and the power to order them, this emergency would never have become the disaster it is!”

  Then the debate had broken out—yet again. The Council had split on this issue of granting power at the local level and increasing the size of the Guard; split about equally. On Orthallen’s side were Lord Gartheser, Lady Wyrist, Bard Hyron, Father Aldon and the Seneschal. Selenay—who did not want the size of the army increased, because to do so would mean drafted levies and possibly impressment—preferred to keep the power where it was, with the Council, and was lobbying for hiring professional mercenaries to augment the existing troops. Backing her were Talia, Kyril, Elcarth, Healer Myrim, and the Lord Marshal. Lady Kester, Lord Gildas, and Lady Cathan remained undecided. They weren’t especially pleased with the notion of foreign troops, but they also weren’t much in favor of hauling folk away from their lands and trades either.

  Talia was pondering the state of things when her sharp ears caught the sound of a muffled sob. Without hesitation she unshielded enough to determine the source, and set out to find out was wrong.

  Her sharp ears led her into a seldom-used hallway near the Royal Library, one lined with alcoves which could contain statues or suits of plate-mail or other large works of art, but which were mostly vacant and screened off by velvet curtains. This was a favored place for courting couples during great revels, but the lack of seating tended to confine assignations to those conducted standing.

  She had a little problem finding the source of the sob, as it was hiding itself behind the curtains in one of those alcoves along this section of hall. Only a tiny sniffle gave her the clue as to which of three it was.

  She drew the heavy velvet curtain aside quietly; curled up on a cushion purloined from a chair in the audience chamber was a child.

  He was a little boy of about seven or eight; his eyes were puffy from crying, his face was smeared where he’d scrubbed tears away with dirty fingers, and from the look of him, he hadn’t a friend in the world. She thought that he must have been adorable when he wasn’t crying, a dark-haired, dark-eyed cherub; the uniform Selenay’s pages wore, sky-blue trimmed in dark blue, suited his fair complexion. He looked up when the curtain moved, and his face was full of woe and dismay, his pupils dilated in the half-light of the hall.

  “Hello,” Talia said, sitting on her heels to bring herself down to his level. “You look like you could use a friend. Homesick?”

  A fat tear trickled slowly down one cheek as he nodded. He looked very young to have been made one of Selenay’s pages; she wondered if he weren’t a fosterling.

  “I was, too, when I got here. There weren’t any girls my age when I first came, just boys. Where are you from?”

  “G-g-gyrefalcon’s Marches,” he gulped, looking as if her sympathy had made him long for a comfortable shoulder to weep on, but not daring to fling himself on a strange adult.

  “Can I share that pillow?” she asked, solving the problem for him. When he moved aside, she settled in with one arm comfortingly around his shoulders, projecting a gentle aura of sympathy. That released his inhibitions, and he sobbed into the velveteen of her jerkin while she soothingly stroked his hair. He didn’t need her Gift, really. All he needed was a friend and a chance to cry himself out. While she gentled him, she pummeled her memory for who he could be.

  “Are you Robin?” she asked finally, when the tears had slowed a bit. At his shaky affirmative she knew she’d identified him correctly. Robin’s parents, who held their land of Lord Orthallen, had prevailed on Orthallen to take their only child to the safest haven they knew—Court. Understandable, even laudable, but poor Robin didn’t see their reasoning. He only knew that he was alone for the first time in his young life.

  “Haven’t you found any friends yet?”

  Robin shook his head and clutched her sleeve as he looked up to read her expression. When he saw that she was still sympathetic and encouraging he took heart enough to explain.

  “They—they’re all bigger an’ older. They call me ‘tag-along’ an’ they laugh at me ... an’ I don’t like their games anyway. I—I can’t run as fast or keep up with ‘em.”

  “Oh?” She narrowed her eyes a little in thought, trying to remember just what it was she’d seen the pages playing at. You took them so for granted, they were almost invisible—then she had it,

  “You don’t like playing war and castles?” That was understandable enough, when fighting threatened his parents.

  The flicker of the oil-lamp opposite their alcove showed her his sad, lost eyes. “I—I don’t know how to fight. Da said I wasn’t old enough to learn yet. That’s all they want to do—an’ anyway, I’d rather r-r-read—but all my books are still at h-h-home.”

  And if she knew the Seneschal, he’d strictly forbidden the pages to enter the Palace Library. Not too surprising, seeing as most of them would have played catapults using the furniture, with the books as ammunition. She hugged his slight shoulders, and made a quick decision.

  “Would you like to be able to read and take lessons at the Herald’s Collegium instead of with the pages?” Selenay had all of her pages schooled, but for most of them it was a plague to be endured or a nuisance to be avoided. He nodded, his eyes round with surprise. “Well, my master Alberich is going to have to wait a little; you and I are going to go see Dean Elcarth.” She Lackey rose and offered her hand, he scrambled to his feet and clutched it.

  Fortunately there were plenty of other youngsters being schooled at the Collegia—though few were as young as this one. They were the unaffiliated students—the “Blues”—who belonged to no Collegium, but were attending classes along with the Bardic, Healer and Heraldic students. They, too, wore uniforms, of a pale blue, and not unlike the page’s uniform. A good many of them were well-born brats, but there were others that were well-intentioned—those studying to be builders, architects, or scholars in many disciplines. They’d be well pleased to welcome Robin into their ranks, and they’d probably adopt him as a kind of mascot. Talia knew she’d have no trouble in arranging with Selenay for this little one to spend most of his time at the Collegium when he wasn’t standing his duty—and at his age, his “duty” was probably less than an hour or two a day. She was pretty certain she’d be able to convince Elcarth as well.

  She was right. When she took the child to Elcarth’s cramped office, piled high with books, the Dean seemed to take to Robin immediately; Robin certainly did to him. She left him with Elcarth, the gray-haired Herald explaining some of the classes, Robin snuggled trustingly against his chair, both of them oblivious to the dust and clutter about them. It seemed that she’d unwittingly brought together a pair of kindred spirits.

  So it proved; she met Robin from time to time thereafter—once or twice when he’d unthinkingly sought her out as a never-failing wellspring of com
fort for homesickness, the rest of the time trudging merrily about the Collegium, his arms loaded with a pile of books almost as tall as he—and more than once, in the Library, with Elcarth. Once she found both of them bent over an ancient tome of history written in an archaic form of the language that little Robin couldn’t read himself, but just knew Elcarth could—and said so. He was convinced that Elcarth was the original fount of all knowledge. He was bringing Elcarth all his questions, as naturally as breathing.

  Until now Talia frequently found both of them immersed in something so dry that she needed a drink just thinking about it! Kindred souls, indeed.

  Four

  Dirk sprawled in his favorite chair in his quarters, a battered old piece of furniture long ago faded to indeterminate beige, but one that was as comfortable as an old boot. He wished that he could be as comfortable inside as he was outside.

  He stared at the half-empty glass in his hand morosely. He shouldn’t be drinking on such a fine night. He was drinking far too much of late, and he knew it.

  But what’s a man to do when he can’t sleep? When all he thinks of is a certain pair of soft brown eyes? When he doesn’t know whether to betray his own heart or his best friend?

  The only cure for his insomnia was to be found at the bottom of a bottle; so that’s where he usually was at day’s end.

  Of course the cure had its drawbacks; wretched hangovers, increasingly ill temper, and the distinct feeling that avoiding problems was the coward’s way out. He longed for a field assignment—oh, gods, to get away from the Collegium and Her! But nothing of the kind was forth-coming—and anyway, they wouldn’t assign anything to Kris or him until their current batch of students was fully trained in the use of their Gifts.

  Their students—gods, there was another reason to drink.

  He finished the glass without even noticing he’d done so, eyes burning with unshed tears.

  Poor little Christa. He wondered if anyone else had figured out she had been using her Gift to save the little ones in that fire.

  Any tune I close my eyes, I can almost see her—

  The self-conjured vision was horrific. He could picture her only too easily; surrounded by an inferno, steadfastly concentrating with all her soul—because moving anything alive by means of the Fetching Gift was hard; hard and dangerous—while the building went up in flames around her. And it was all his fault that she’d sacrificed herself that way.

  He raised his glass to his lips, only to discover that it was empty already.

  I’m drinking this bottle too fast—

  And the way she’d died—it was all his fault.

  Before Christa had finished training with him she’d asked him if it was possible to move living things by Fetching. Anyone else he’d have told “no”—-but she was so good, and he was so infernally proud of her. So he told her the truth, and what was more, done what he’d never done before and showed her how; how to move live creatures without smothering them, without twisting them up inside. And he’d told her (gods, how well he remembered telling her) that when it had to be done, it was far safer to move a living thing from your bands to where you wanted it to go, than from where it was to your hands.

  I am definitely drinking this too fast—the bottle’s half empty already.

  That was why she’d gone in to send the babies out, not Fetched them out to her. If only he’d known when he’d taught her what he’d discovered since, researching in the Library—that under great stress it was often possible for someone with their Gift to transport themselves short distances. He’d meant to tell her—but somehow he never found the time.

  Now she’s dead, horribly, painfully dead, because I “never found the time.”

  He shook the bottle, surprised to find it empty already.

  Oh, well, there’s another where that one came from.

  He didn’t even have to get up; the second bottle was cooling on the windowsill. He reached out an unsteady hand and somehow managed to grab the neck of it. He’d already taken the cork out when he was sober, then stuck ft back in loosely. If he hadn’t, he’d never have gotten the bottle open.

  Gods, I’m disgusting.

  He knew this was not the way to be handling the problem; that he should be doing what his heart was telling him to do—find Talia, and let her help him work it all out. But he couldn’t face her. Not like this.

  I can’t let her see me like this. I can’t. She’ll think I’m—I’m worse than what Naril called me.

  Besides, if he did go to her, she’d read the rest of what was on his mind, and then what would he do? Gods, what a tangle he’d gotten himself into.

  I—I need her, dammit. But—do I need her more than Kris does? I don’t know. I just don’t know.

  He couldn’t ask Kris for help, not when Kris was the other half of the problem. And music was no longer a solace, not when every time he played he could hear her singing, haunting every line.

  Damn the woman.’ She steals my friend, she steals my music, she steals my peace of mind-In the next instant he berated himself for even thinking such things. That wasn’t fair, it wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t the least notion of what she’d done to him.

  And so far as he’d been able to tell, she really hadn’t been spending all that much time with Kris since she’d gotten back. Maybe there was hope for him, after all. She and Kris surely weren’t behaving like lovers.

  But what would he do if they were in love?

  For that matter, what would he do if they weren’t?

  The level in the bottle continued to go down as he tried—and failed—to cope.

  Robin trotted happily down the hall to the Herald’s quarters. He adored the Heralds, and was always the first to volunteer when someone had a task that would involve his helping them in any way. In this case it was twice the pleasure, for the Queen’s Own, Herald Talia, had come looking for a page to return some manuscripts she’d borrowed from Herald Dirk for copying. Robin loved Herald Talia better than all the others put together—excepting only Elcarth. Heralds were wonderful, and Talia was even more than usually wonderful; she always had time to talk, she never told him he was being a baby (like Lord Orthallen did) when he was homesick. His Mama had told him how important Lord Orthallen was, but so far as Robin was concerned, Talia was worth any twelve Orthallens. He had often wished he could make her smile the way she could cheer him up. She wasn’t looking very happy lately and anything he could do to make her brighten a little, he would, and gladly.

  There was a swirl of somber robes ahead of him—one of the Great Lords. Maybe even his own Lord. Robin kept his eyes down as he’d always been told to do. It wasn’t proper for a little boy to gawk at the Great Lords of State, especially not when that little boy was supposed to be running an errand. If it was Orthallen, it was important for him to see that Robin was properly doing his duty.

  So it was rather a shock, what with the fact that he was watching where he was going and all, when he tripped and went sprawling face-first, all his scrolls flying about him.

  If the one ahead of him had been a fellow page, he would immediately have suspected he’d been tripped a-purpose. But a Great Lord could hardly be suspected of a childish prank like that.

  The Great Lord paused just a moment, papers fluttering around his feet, then went on. Robin kept his eyes down, blushing scarlet in humiliation, and began collecting them.

  Now that was odd. That was very odd. He’d had fourteen scrolls when he’d been sent on this errand. He knew, because he’d counted them in Talia’s presence twice. Now he had fifteen. And the fifteenth one was sealed, not just rolled up like the others.

  He could have gotten muddled, of course.

  But he could almost hear Dean Elcarth’s voice in his ear, because he’d asked Elcarth just this very week what he should do if he was asked to do something that didn’t seem quite right, or if something happened in the course of his duties that seemed odd. One of the older boys had been sent on a very dubious errand by one of the
ladies of the Court, and there’d been trouble afterward. The page involved hadn’t had the nerve to tell anyone until it was too late, and by then his memory was all confused. So Robin had asked the wisest person he knew what he should do if he found himself in a similar case.

  “Do it, don’t disobey—but remember, Robin,” Elcarth had told him, “remember everything; what happened, who asked you, and when, and why, and who was with them. It may be that what you’re being told to do is perfectly legitimate. You could have no way of knowing. But if it isn’t, you could be the only person to know the real truth of something. You pages are in a very special position, you know, people look at you, but they really don’t see you. So keep that in mind, and if anything ever happens around you that seems odd, remember it; remember the circumstances. You may help someone that way.”

  “Isn’t that being a little like a sneak?” Robin had asked doubtfully.

  Elcarth had laughed and ruffled his hair. “If you ask that question, you’re in no danger of becoming one, my little owl. Besides, it’s excellent training for your memory.”

  Very well then. Robin would remember this.

  There was no answer when Robin tapped at Herald Dirk’s half-open door. When he peeked inside, he could see Herald Dirk slumped in a chair at the farther end of the room by his open window. He seemed to be asleep, so Robin slipped inside, quiet as a cat, and left the scrolls on his desk.

  Talia didn’t need a summons that morning; anyone with the vaguest hint of her Gift of Empathy would have come running to the Queen’s side. Emotional turmoil—anger, fear, worry—was so thick in the air Talia could taste it, bitter and metallic.

  She caught the first notes of it as she was dressing, and ran for the royal chambers as soon as she was decent. The two Guards outside the door looked very uncomfortable, as if they were doing their level best to be deaf to the shouting behind the double doors they guarded. Talia tapped once, and cracked one door open.