Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  His nose was cold, and the fog had an odd, metallic taste and smell to it. He hated getting up this early at the best of times; the fog made it that much worse.

  "You're just as much city-bred as me," he countered, resentfully, a harder edge to his voice than he had intended. "Since when did you get to be such an expert on wilderness travel?"

  She swiveled quickly and peered back at him, hardly more than a dark shape in the enshrouding fog. "What's wrong with you?" she asked, astonishment and a certain amount of edge in her voice as well.

  "Nothing," he said quickly—then, with more truth—"Well, not much. I hate mornings; I hate fog. And there's something that's been bothering me—you're different. It's as if you're turning into Kero."

  Or even Selina Ironthroat.

  "So what if I am?" she countered. "Who would you rather have next to you in trouble—Kero, or mousy little princess Elspeth, who would have let you try and figure out where we were going and what we were doing? What's wrong with turning into Kero? That's assuming that I am; I happen to think you're wrong about that."

  Now it was his turn to be surprised. He'd never heard her refer to herself as a "mousy little princess" before. And while she had sometimes railed about things to him, she'd never turned on him before. "Uh—" he replied, cleverly.

  "Or is it just that I won't let you take care of me? Is that the problem?" He heard the annoyance in her voice that meant she was scowling. "You've been sulking since we left Bolthaven, and I'm getting damned tired of it. As long as I let you make all the decisions, everything was fine—but this is my trip, and I'm the one with the authority, and you know it. I pull my own weight, Skif. I was perfectly capable of doing this trip by myself, in fact, I was ready to. I admit I didn't think about disguises—and you were right about that idea. But the fact is, if I'd been able to go on my own, I was intending to travel by night and hide by day. And if anyone saw me, I was going to pretend I was a ghost-rider and scare the blazes out of him."

  "It's not that you're making the decisions. It's just the changes in you. You're so—hearty," he said feebly. "You're kind of loud, actually. Everybody notices us, wherever we go. I thought the point was to keep from drawing attention to ourselves."

  She snorted, and it wasn't ladylike. "You think these costumes aren't going to draw attention to us? Come on, Skif, we're walking advertisements for the life of the merc! Sure, I'm loud. That's what a woman like Berta would be. Like Selina Ironthroat. I spent that night studying her, I'll have you know. I'm competing for men's money in a man's world, and I'm doing damn well at it, and the more I advertise that fact, the more jobs I'll be offered. In fact, I've been offered jobs, quite a few of them; I turned them down, saying we were going off to take another job with a caravan we were picking up at Kata'shin'a'in."

  "Oh," he replied, feeling overwhelmed. Admittedly, he hadn't thought much about the part he was supposedly playing. Certainly not the way she had. She had everything; motives, background, character—even an imaginary job that would give them an excuse to turn down any other offers.

  "Don't cosset me, Skif," she said, her voice roughened with anger. "I'm sick to death of being cosseted. Kero wouldn't, and you know it. This is exactly the kind of job she'd love. She'd be right beside me, slapping those drunks on the back—and if she had to, I bet she'd be hauling them off to bed with her, too."

  "Elspeth!" he yelped, before he thought.

  "There!" she said triumphantly. "You see? What's the matter, don't you think I know about the simple facts of a man and a woman? An ordinary man and woman, not Heralds, the kind of people who are driven by the needs of the moment? Just what, exactly, are you trying to protect me from? The idea that drunk strangers grab each other and hop into strange beds and proceed to forn—"

  He tried, but he couldn't help himself. He emitted an inarticulate moan.

  "—each other's tails off?" she finished, right over the top of him. "And I deliberately didn't use any of the ten or so rude words I know for the act, just to avoid bruising your delicate sensibilities. I can swear with the worst of the mercs if I have to, and I know hundreds of filthy jokes, and furthermore, I know exactly what they mean! I've spent lots of time with Kero's Skybolts, and they treated me just like one of them. Skif, I grew up. I'm not the little sister that you used to leave candy for. And I don't need you to shelter me from what I already know!" A pause, during which he tried to think of something to say. "Stop treating me like a child, Skif. I'm not a little girl anymore. I haven't been for a long time."

  And that's the problem, he thought, unhappily. She wasn't a little girl anymore, and he wasn't sure how to act around her. It wasn't that competence in women bothered him—he loved Talia dearly, and he looked up to Kero as to his very own Captain, for she was one of the few at Court to whom his background meant nothing in particular. It was seeing that confidence in Elspeth that bothered him. He couldn't help but think that it wasn't confidence, it was a foolish overconfidence, the headiness of freedom.

  The warnings Quenten had given him had made him wary to the point of paranoia. Every time someone approached her, he kept examining them for some sign that they weren't what they seemed, that they were really blood-path mages stalking her, like a cat stalking a baby rabbit.

  : She just doesn't understand,: he confided to his Companion, thinking that she, at least, would sympathize. :There're all those mages out there Quenten warned us about. She doesn't even think about them, she doesn't watch for them, and she's not trying to hide from them.:

  :But you warned her about everything Quenten said,: Cymry said, answering his thought. :You told her everything you knew. She may be right about hiding in plain sight, you know. Why would a mage look for someone like her to have Mage-Gift? Everyone knows mages can't be fighters. Besides, don't you think she's as capable as you are of telling if someone is stalking her?:

  :Yes, but—:

  :In fact,: she continued, thoughtfully, :it's entirely possible that she would know sooner than you. She does have mage abilities, even if they aren't trained. Quenten said that power calls to power, and she's keeping a watch on the thoughts of everyone around her. Don't you think she'd know another mage if one came that close to her?:

  :Yes, but—: He lapsed into silence. Because that wasn't all, or even most, of what was bothering him.

  She'd grown up, all right. She was no longer anything he could think of as a "girl." And whether it was the new attitude, or the new clothing, or both—he couldn't help noticing just how much she had grown up. Certainly the new clothing, far more flamboyant than anything she wore at home, enhanced that perception. It seemed almost as if she had taken on a new life with the new persona.

  Maybe it was also, at least in part, the fact that no one was watching them together. There was no one to start rumors, no one to warn him that she was not exactly an appropriate partner for an ex-thief; no one to wink and nod whenever he walked by with her, no one to ask, with arch significance, how she was doing lately. The friends had been as annoying as the opponents.

  But now both were gone, far out of distance of any gossip. And he was free to look at her as "Elspeth" instead of The Heir To The Throne.

  And he was discovering how much he liked what he saw. She was handsome in the same vibrant way Kero was—and, admit it, he thought to himself, you're more than half in love with Kero. Clever, witty, with a ready laugh that more than made up for her whiplash temper. Oh, she was a handful, but a handful he wouldn't mind having by his side....

  Dear gods. A sudden realization made him blush so hotly he was very glad that the fog was still thick enough to hide it. It wasn't outraged sensibilities that made him yelp at the idea of her entertaining one of those mercs in bed—it was jealousy. The very last emotion he'd ever have anticipated entertaining, especially over Elspeth.

  He didn't want her running off with someone else, he wanted her to run off with him.

  He must have been giving an ample demonstration of his jealousy over the past few days; s
urely she had guessed long before he had.

  But now that he thought about it, she didn't seem to notice anything except his increasing protectiveness—"mother-henning," she called it. This wasn't the first time she'd complained about it.

  But it was the first time she had done so at the top of her lungs. She might not have noticed his attraction, but she had certainly noticed the side effects.

  I guess she's really mad, he thought guiltily. And cleared his throat, hoping to restart the conversation, and get it turned back onto friendlier ground.

  She didn't say anything, but she didn't turn around and snap at him, either. The growing light of dawn filtered through the fog, enveloping them both in a glowing, pearly haze—and it was a good thing they were both wearing their barbaric mere outfits; the Companions just faded into the general glow, and if they'd been wearing Whites, they'd have lost each other in a heartbeat. This kind of mist fuddled directions and the apparent location of sound, too. He peered at her fog-enshrouded shape up ahead of him; it looked uncannily as if she was bestriding a wisp of fog itself.

  Try something noncommittal. Ask something harmless. "Did Quenten say why Adept Jendar is living in Lythecare, when the school he founded is all the way back up near Petras in Rethwellan?" he asked, trying to sound humble.

  "Don't try to sound humble, Skif," she replied waspishly. "It doesn't suit you." Then she relented and unbent a little; he thought perhaps she turned again to make certain he was still following, and hadn't halted his Companion in a fit of pique. "Sorry. That wasn't called for. Ah—he did tell me some. Jendar wants to be down here in Jkatha so he's somewhere nearer his Shin'a'in relatives, but he doesn't want to be in Kata'shin'a'in, because it's really just a trade-city, and it practically dries up and blows away in the fall and winter."

  "What did he mean by that?" Skif asked, puzzled. "I should think a trade-city would have anything he'd want."

  She paused. "Let me see if I can do a good imitation of Quenten imitating Jendar."

  Her voice shifted to that of a powerful old man's, with none of the querulousness Skif expected.

  "'I want fabulous food! Carpets! Hot bathhouses and decent shops! Beautiful women to make a fool of me in my old age! Servants to pamper me outrageously, and merchants to suck up to me when I'm in the mood to buy something!'"

  Skif chuckled; Elspeth did an excellent imitation when she was in a good mood—and from the sound of it, she had shaken her foul humor. I have the feeling I'm going to like Kero's uncle as much as I do her.

  "I think I'm going to like the old man," she said, echoing his thought. "Quenten also said that there were two reasons Jendar didn't retire in Great Harsey, even though the school and the village begged him to. The first was that Great Harsey is a real backwater, too far for a man his age to travel to get to Petras, even if it is less than a day's ride away. The other is that he said that if he stayed, the new head would never be a head, he'd always be 'consulting' with Jendar and never making any decisions for himself. He thought that would be a pretty stupid arrangement." Her voice shifted again. "'Let the youngster make his own mistakes, the way I did. You certainly haven't been hanging on my coattails, Quenten, and you're doing just fine.'"

  She paused again, and said, significantly, "Jendar obviously believes in letting people grow up."

  "I get the point," Skif muttered. "I get the point."

  It wasn't far now to the turnoff, but Elspeth was beginning to wonder if she'd make it that far. And she wondered also what happened to a Herald who murdered his Companion.... Once in a while, she wished there was such a thing as repudiation by the Herald, and this was one of those times. The summer heat was bad down here; it was worse, without trees to give some shade. The Pelagiris Forest lay somewhere to their right, but there wasn't a sign of it along this road way, except for the occasional faint, fugitive hint of pine.

  :Well, you're certainly smug today,: Elspeth finally said to Gwena, when, for the fourth time, a sensation as of someone humming invaded the back of her mind. She pushed her hat up on her forehead and wiped away the sweat that kept trickling into her eyes.

  :What?: Gwena replied, her ears flicking backwards. :What on earth do you mean?:

  :You were humming to yourself,: Elspeth told her crossly. :If you were human, you'd have been whistling. Tunelessly, might I add. It's damned annoying when someone is humming in your head; it's not something a person can just ignore, you know.:

  :I'm just feeling very good,: Gwena replied defensively, picking up her pace a little, to the surprise of Cymry, who hurried to match her, hooves kicking up little clouds of dust. :Is there anything wrong with that? It's a lovely summer day.:

  Oh, really? :A candlemark ago you were complaining about the heat.:

  :Well, maybe I'm getting used to it.: Gwena tossed her head, her mane lashing Elspeth's wrist, and added, :Maybe it's you. Maybe you're just being testy.: Her mind-voice took on a conciliating tone. :Is it the wrong moon-time, dear?:

  :No it's not, as you very well know. Besides, that has nothing to do with it!: Elspeth snapped, without thinking. :Skif is being a pain in the tail.:

  :Skif is falling in love with you,: Gwena replied, dropping the conciliating tone. :You could do worse.:

  :I know he is, and I couldn't do worse,: she said, conscious only of her annoyance. :I'm not talking about differences in rank or background, either. And don't you start playing matchmaker. He's a very nice young man, and I'm not the least interested in him, all right?:

  :All right, all right,: Gwena said, sounding surprised at her vehemence. :Forget I said anything.:

  Gwena closed her mind to her Chosen, and Elspeth sighed. It wasn't just Skif and his problem that was bothering her—or even primarily Skif. It was something else entirely.

  It was a feeling. One that had been increasing, every step she rode toward Lythecare. The feeling that she was being herded toward something, some destiny, like a complacent cow to the altar of sacrifice.

  As if she were doing what she "should" be doing.

  And she didn't like it, not one tiny bit.

  Everything had fallen into place so very neatly; she could almost tally up the events on her fingers. First, Kero showed up, with a magic sword. Then, Elspeth, having seen real magic at work, firsthand, just happened to get the idea that Valdemar needed mages. Then, Kero just happened to back that up, having had to deal with mages herself in her career.

  All that could have been mere coincidence. But not the rest. Why was it that within a month, she was attacked by an assassin who may have been infiltrated into Haven magically, there was a magic attack on a major Border post—manned by Kero's people, so an accurate report got back, and the Council, for some totally unknown reason, seemed to be forced into letting her go look for mages?

  And lo, as if in a book, Kero just happened to have kept up contact with her old mage, who happened to have kept up contact with his old teacher, who happened to be Kero's uncle and doubly likely to cooperate. No one had stopped them on this trek, no one had even recognized them as far as Elspeth knew. Everyone was so helpful and friendly it was sickening. Even the mercs seemed to take her stories at face value. There was no sign of Ancar or his meddling. Everything was ticking along quietly, just like it was supposed to occur.

  They were barely a candlemark away from the turnoff for Lythecare. And the Companions were so smug about something she could taste it.

  Gwena was humming again.

  And suddenly she decided that she had had enough.

  That is it.

  She yanked so hard on her reins that Gwena tripped, went to her knees, and scrambled back up again with a mental yelp—and Cymry very nearly ran into her from behind.

  She turned to look at Skif; he stared stupidly back at her, as if wondering if she had gone mad.

  "That's it," she said. "That is it. I am not playing this game anymore."

  "What?" Now Skif looked at her as if certain she had gone mad.

  "I am being herded to something, an
d I don't like it," she snapped, as much for Gwena's ears as his. "I did want to do this, and Valdemar certainly needs mages, but I am not going to be guided by an invisible hand, as if I were a character in a badly-written book! This is not a foreordained Quest, I am not in a Prophecy, and I am not playing this game anymore."

  With that, she dismounted and stalked off the side of the road to a rough clearing. Like seemingly all wayside clearings in this part of Jkatha, it was a bit of grass, surrounded by fenced fields of grain, with a couple of dusty, tall bushes, and a very small well. She sat down beside the well defiantly and crossed her arms.

  Skif dismounted, his expression not the puzzled one she had expected but something she couldn't read. He walked slowly over to her, the Companions following with their reins trailing on the ground.

  "Well?" she said, staring up at him.

  He shrugged, but the conflicting emotions on his face convinced her that he knew something she didn't.

  "I am not moving," she said, firmly, suppressing the urge to cough as road dust went down her throat. "I am not moving, until you tell me what you know about what's going on."

  He looked helplessly from side to side; then his Companion whickered, and looked him in the eyes, nodding, as if to say, "You might as well tell her."

  I thought so. She glared at Gwena, who flattened her ears. :You should have told me in the first place..:

  "It—was the Companions," Skif said, faintly. "They, well, they sort of—ganged up on their Heralds, when you first wanted to go looking for mages. The Heralds that didn't want to let you go, like your mother—well, they kind of got bullied."

  "They what?" she exclaimed, and turned to Gwena, surprise warring with other emotions she couldn't even name.

  :It had to be done,: Gwena replied firmly. :You had to go. It was important.:

  "That's not all," Skif said, looking particularly hangdog. "For one thing, they absolutely forbid you to be told what they were doing. For another, they're the ones that suggested Quenten in the first place. They said he was the only way to an important mage that they could trust."