Someone shoved 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 steep, 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 spared. 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
“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.
Ten
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 stood 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 neat 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—”
“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 it?
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?:
:1 need your help—and Rolan’s,: he told her.
:Then you’ve seen—you know? You think we can help to ca
ll 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, 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!”
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