He rolled over. “Mrrrgrrrarrr.”
She flopped over him, and through slitted eyes he could see her face hanging in front of his. “Daaaa—”
His tickle assault was sudden and ruthless. She squealed and laughed. Then it was her turn, and though she didn’t yet have the art of tickling down, he made high-pitched giggling sounds anyway, mimicking her.
:Oh, if your yearmates could see you now,: Vehs chortled.
From there Wil got her dressed, and he washed her face as she squirmed and grimaced. She hated wash-ups, though she loved hot baths. They went together down to the dining hall, he in Whites and she in a brown dress with blue cornflowers embroidered around the hem. A gift from “Aunt” Maresa.
The hall buzzed with somber conversations about Jalay’s death. The teachers sprinkled amid the Trainees very firmly squashed any wild gossip, emphasizing that the Trainee had slipped and fallen—nothing more.
Ivy herself seemed more subdued than usual, and it dawned on Wil that she was listening. Together, they fed on cheese and bacon tarts, stewed fruits, and steaming mugs of spiced cider. He ate lightly, knowing their next destination. Bringing a full belly to Alberich’s training salle would invite disaster. But it was one of the few places one could take a three-year-old in the winter, and Wil needed practice if he was going back in the field.
“Littles, so full of energy,” the Weaponmaster commented as they entered and Ivy began to run back and forth along the salle’s length. The scarred Karsite turned a critical eye on her father. “Soft.” He poked Wil’s belly with a staff. “Time for resting is over, I think.”
Wil schooled his face. The Weaponsmaster probably knew, even if Kyril hadn’t made it official. “You think?”
Alberich pointed to a rack full of staves. “I think . . . get a weapon.”
* * *
The meeting with Kyril confirmed his fear.
He had two weeks.
“Understand that if we could, we would give you a position here in Haven,” Kyril had said.
Wil knew him to be sincere, even as he knew that two weeks was more time than they could afford. He didn’t envy Kyril’s job—part balancing act, part puzzle solving, and possibly some knife juggling thrown in for fun. As a Herald, he understood the dilemma perfectly.
As a father, he seethed.
“It may be an option in the future,” Kyril had gone on. “If . . . if there isn’t another war. And if—”
If.
Every year Wil was in the field was a year he became less a father to his daughter. Time was finite, and Valdemar would eat into that resource with every little nibbling need.
After receiving his orders, he’d gone back to Lelia’s old quarters to stare at the ledgers. He didn’t bother chasing his Gift. His turmoil would only muddle the signals.
His orders were for Forst Reach sector, where things were—as Kyril had so delicately put it—“going south.” Wil had experience there, and locals would remember him, which was part of why he couldn’t be spared—his experience and familiarity were in short supply. And with war looming, the last thing Valdemar needed was the lords of Forst Reach shorting the Crown on soldiers when the Queen made her call to arms.
He chewed over these thoughts while flipping through Lelia’s ledgers, pages covered in cryptic runes. Heralds had their codes. Who knew Bards did, too? She’d never told him, and he’d only discovered them . . . after.
They were important. His Gift gnawed at him every time he looked at them, giving him nudges.
But he couldn’t read them, so the ledgers remained a nagging mystery. And annoyance. Why didn’t she tell me? Or Lyle? he thought. What did she have to hide?
* * *
The next day dawned cold, but not so cold it snapped up the breath from your lungs, so he took Ivy down to Companion Field. She ran ahead of him, yelling and flailing her arms, and scrambled over the fence to charge at Vehs, who had the simplest of riding tack on. She didn’t quite differentiate between Companions yet, but Vehs had put himself out front and center, so she had no choice but to run to him. She bounced up and down, yelling, “Vehs!”
The Companion knelt, and the girl crawled onto his back, gripping his mane with her mittened hands. Vehs stood and started at a slow trot as Ivy whooped. Other Companions watched, and Wil felt a glow of paternal pride. His daughter. Not more than three and already riding.
:Perhaps there was some truth to Lelia’s claim that her family is descended from the Shin’a’in?: Vehs suggested.
Wil snorted. :And my mother was an Iftel courtier. More likely that you’re why she rides so well.:
:Well, I am pretty fantastic.:
:Modest, too.:
“Wil!”
He turned to see a figure in scarlet walking toward him, waving and grinning cheerfully. He nodded and called back, “Maresa. Thanks for coming.”
The honey-haired Bard had once been Lelia’s handler—finding her work, negotiating contracts, helping her arrange playlists. She’d recently joined the Ruling Circle, helping to earn fair wages for Bards and to raise awareness of some of the less-than-savory employers out there.
She was also the mother of two fine children, and she fostered war refugees who trickled in from Hardorn. Her offer to take in Ivy wasn’t just idle courtesy. Wil knew she’d be a good surrogate mother. Moreover, she wanted the job.
:And if Ivy ever shows Bardic talent, she’d have a built-in teacher,: Vehs added helpfully.
:Please focus on keeping my child from breaking her neck.:
“Happy to get your message,” Maresa said. “How are you?”
“Contemplating.”
She lifted her brows. “About?”
“Your offer, of course.” He glanced back toward the field. Vehs did a small “hop,” earning a shriek of glee from the (still-seated) Ivy. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure. And before you offer again—no compensation, I won’t hear it. The Applegates have buckets of money.”
Wil nodded, not trusting himself to speak around the knot in his throat. Maresa undoubtedly sensed this, as she kept talking in a light, friendly tone. “She’ll have the best scholars money can buy—until she gets Chosen or discovered, of course.”
He chuckled weakly. “Possibly both?”
“Worked for Herald Jadus.”
Out in the field, Vehs pranced and tossed his head. Ivy showed no sign of wear; indeed, she seemed energized, yelling, “Faster! Faster!”
Wil felt a smile touch his lips. It seemed impossible to stay sad too long with Ivy around.
So what happens when I go on Circuit, and she isn’t there?
“She’s a very happy child,” Maresa said, belying his thoughts.
“She gets it from her mother.”
“Oh, I’m sure there’s some of you in her.”
He smirked. “She does have her tantrums.”
“Every child does. Ah . . . not to be a Court gossip. . . .”
He raised a brow. “Yes?”
“The Death Bell. Do you know anything about that boy who died?”
Wil considered his words carefully. Maresa Applegate was entirely sensible by Bard standards . . . but she was still a Bard. “A slip on untended ice. We think he was going out to see his Companion. Or tour the Collegium grounds.”
“Hmm.” She didn’t look convinced, but Bards tended not to appreciate the elegant answer. They wanted intrigue and mystery. Wil had had his fill of that with Lelia’s ledgers.
Speaking of which. . . .
“Do Bards have a coded alphabet?” he asked.
Maresa gave him a curious look. “What do you mean?”
“Runes.” He used the snow to scribe one of the characters he’d seen in the ledger. “Like that one.”
She shook her head. “I’ve not seen such. Why do you ask?”
The Herald shrugged. “Just some books of Lelia’s I found. Nothing important.” He cleared his throat. “I have a little less than two weeks. We’ll start moving Ivy’s things over next week, maybe have her spend a night to get used to your home. In the meantime, could you come over and watch her some nights, so she gets to know you?”
Maresa smiled. “I’d be delighted.”
He breathed a mental sigh of relief. Lyle had gone back on Circuit, and Wil still had much to try to unravel in Lelia’s former quarters.
Maresa left not long after, and he watched as Ivy began to slowly wilt over Vehs’ neck.
In the distance, at the outskirts of the old Grove, he saw a lone white figure. Just one Companion among many. It shouldn’t have caught his eye, but it did.
:That’s Aubryn. Jalay’s Companion.:
:How is she?:
Vehs glanced in her direction. The mare turned and trotted off.
:Defying the odds,: he said. :Honestly, I don’t know. She isn’t talking to anyone. Not even Rolan, and I know he’s tried. There are definitely some Companions who think she should go Choose immediately, get past this. But I think she needs time.:
Time. Again, that finite, precious resource.
The one thing we all know Valdemar cannot afford, Wil thought.
He collected Ivy from Vehs’ back and carried her to their room for a nap. Later, they would go into Haven and have a nice meal. Tomorrow, he’d get her whatever she wanted—picture books, dolls, wooden swords. Anything.
Two weeks.
He would make what he could of them.
* * *
Lelia sat before him, alive, healthy.
One of the ledgers lay open on the desk, alongside her gittern, pens, and a cast-off scarlet cloak. More ledgers rested on the bookcase behind her.
She picked up a pen, a faint smile on her face—
The Vision evaporated, and Wil found himself alone in the darkened room, grasping at shadows.
A steady stream of curses issued out of him as he angrily paced back and forth in front of the desk. Every passing day the imprint of her life eroded from this place, and the Visions became more fleeting. They certainly didn’t give any insight on the cypher.
He didn’t doubt that Lelia had had the runes in her head—most Bards had incredible memory—but if she wrote it down then she did so with the intent of someone reading them. And he had to believe that there was a corresponding code to break the cypher, and that if he could just go back far enough, he’d find it in her past.
But where? Or, alternately, who had she intended the ledgers for?
If he knew that, the whole thing would unravel.
If his Gift were just stronger. . . .
:Ahem.: Vehs’ mind-voice was the equivalent of a delicate cough.
:Yes?:
:You’re in the Palace. You’re two hallways down from the workroom.:
At first the suggestion confused him. Then realization dawned. :Would that . . . work? I’ve been assuming this room was the key.:
:It’s worth a try. Maybe all you need is the ledgers and . . . whatever it is that makes the workroom special?:
Wil picked up a stack of the ledgers and headed out. :Hellfires. Won’t know unless I try.:
He opened the door to the closet-sized space slowly and peeked in. Empty. He set the stack of ledgers next to the crystal sphere and settled onto a padded bench. He knew about the “workroom”—most senior Heralds did—but didn’t have much cause to visit it. Amplifying his Gift had never been a desire. If anything, he’d been plagued by Visions too strong. He hadn’t needed the ancient room and its curious power.
The room had an oddly calming quality to it—as if it muffled some of the constant background chatter of his life. The muscles in his shoulders relaxed. He rested his hands on the ledgers, his eyes on the crystal, and let his thoughts still.
The Vision unfurled instantly.
Lelia sat before him.
No, not in the little room with the crystal. In the quarters Lord Grier had gifted her, two hallways down. He was here but also there, in a different then—different even from the ones he’d been to previously.
There were no ledgers on the bookcase behind her. The one she opened looked fresh, unused. The first one, he realized. She tapped her lip with her pen, her brow creasing—and then reached for Bloom.
And took the cover off the sound hole.
Her eyes scanned the darkness inside the gittern and, slowly, she started to write crisp, black runes in the ledger.
The first time, he realized. Before she’d fully memorized the code.
She lifted her eyes, and they locked with his. A smile spread across her face, the smile he missed every damn day. His heart pounded like a war drum in his chest.
The Vision, mercifully, melted away. He found himself slumped on the table, half sprawled over the ledgers. His temples burned with the threat of an oncoming headache.
A weak groan escaped him, and then, quite unexpectedly, he laughed.
The gittern. Of course. She’d hidden the code in the one place he’d never look, inside the one object she knew he’d never part with.
Not sure I’ll ever forgive you for not telling me about this, he thought, dragging himself upright. But I also can’t deny your cunning.
He found a burst of energy that carried him back to his quarters, and he dumped the ledgers on a table before reaching for Bloom’s case.
“Welcome back, Wil,” Maresa said behind him, but he ignored her. He flipped open the case and took the unstrung gittern out. As he’d seen Lelia do in his vision, he twisted off the rosette over the sound hole and peered inside.
Empty.
Nothing.
No . . .
Disbelief rocked him. She’d clearly looked inside the gittern. There should have been something. The headache knocked, pounding on his temples. Something wasn’t right, he just couldn’t place it. Something. Something . . .
The fretboard. The smooth, dark wood. He peered closer at the gittern.
He was no Bard, but he knew that Lelia’s instrument, though well-tended, hadn’t been this pristine. She’d taken pride in the nicks and bumps, saying it added “texture” to the music. Her nails had worn away parts of Bloom’s fretboard—but this one was perfectly smooth.
Someone had replaced Bloom with a copy, albeit one that passed a cursory inspection. Someone had been in his quarters.
“Wil?” Maresa looked startled, even a little scared.
“No,” he snarled, not to her, but to the impostor gittern. His fingertips wrapped the wooden neck and he focused, reaching—
And Saw—
Reality snapped back into place. He sensed Vehs’ alarm.
:Should I alert the Guard?: he asked.
:Give us a moment,: Wil thought, focusing his fury on Maresa. She took a step back, her face draining of color, her throat moving in a gulp.
“Maresa,” he said, a dangerous edge to his voice. “Where is Lelia’s gittern? Where did you take it?”
Maresa plastered a placating smile on her face. “Wil—I—ah—I thought I would—”
:No Truth Spell needed here,: Vehs commented dryly.
Wil rolled to his feet. “What the hell is going on, Maresa?” His voice was quiet, icy. The madder he got, the quieter he got. A good thing: Ivy slept one room over. “You replaced Bloom with a copy, I Saw you do it. Why?”
Her smile evaporated. “You didn’t know Lelia as well as you thought.”
“Obviously,” he growled.
“She spied for the Queen,” she said.
Wil felt every fiber of his being still.
:Vehs? Can you verify this?:
His Companion said nothing, but Wil got the sense he was doing as asked. “So the ledgers . . . are her reports?”
“Sh
e . . . learned things she wanted to keep from the Queen.”
With that out, Maresa seemed to deflate. Shaking her head, she said, “You Heralds have Companions, and Healers are surrounded all the time by people reading their emotions. Bards—do you know, I’m amazed we haven’t seen more corruption in our ranks.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean she believed someone—somewhere—is trying to strike at the heart of Valdemar through the weaker minds in our Collegium, and Lelia used her skills as a Court spy to try to find out who. She suspected several Bards—yes, multiple—were acting not in Valdemar’s interests. Those ledgers are the sum of the last few years of her work.”
“And you two were keeping this to yourselves?”
“She kept it. She never told me what she learned. Just that she was learning it. And where she kept the cypher’s code.”
Wil growled. “Trusted you, but not me? Not her brother?”
“Yes, damn it!” Maresa exploded, then seemed to remember Ivy, and lowered her voice again—though her fury and intensity did not subside. “And she had reason! Let me just remind you that up until a few years ago, there was a senior member of the Council and a Herald’s own uncle plotting treason and worse. Heralds trusted him. Our Queen confided in him. And he used that to murder people and nearly destroy Valdemar! So before you tell me we could have trusted you—you’re damn right we could have, but that doesn’t mean we could have trusted who you trust!”
Wil sat silently. His fury had split—he found himself, surprisingly, most angry at Lelia.
More lies than just the little white ones, eh?
Maresa sighed. “Honestly, now that you know—maybe it is time to let the Heralds in on it. She had hoped she could find it herself, let the Bards deal with Bardic business. But then she got sicker. . . .
“Wil, we think whoever this is—they rank very high. We think they’re well-funded, and we don’t know what they’re doing, but occasionally we hear things. Songs that portray the Queen or the Heir in an unflattering light. Songs that suggest it’s time for a revolution. The time after a war is a very delicate one—we’ve seen it over and over in the annals. People love the monarch in the beginning, when the victory is fresh . . . but quite a bit less when the war wounded start to come home. Lelia believed someone has figured out they can’t get to Valdemar through Orthallen and is trying another approach.”
No True Way: All-New Tales of Valdemar (Tales of Valdemar Series Book 8) Page 2
