Val’s face had gone rather sick, which Darian was extremely grateful for. Breon’s son—thank all the gods!—was intelligent, and had imagination. That was probably why he’d gotten all caught up in the idea of adventure in fighting in the first place. That imagination would save him from his misguided notions of honor and glory, if Darian had any say in the matter.
“When it’s all over, if you’re on the winning side, you’re absolutely sticky with blood, ready to drop with exhaustion, and every place on your body aches. Hopefully the blood you’re covered with is other people’s; if some of it’s yours, this is when you realize just how much even a little wound hurts. If you got a big wound, if you aren’t on the ground already, or you aren’t dying, you generally fall down when everything’s over, screaming with the pain. You could have broken bones sticking through your skin, and you’re seeing parts of the inside of yourself you never wanted to see. If you are really, really lucky, someone recognizes that you’re an important fellow and gets the Healer to you in a hurry. If not, you’ll be lucky to get yourself to the Healer’s tent somehow to wait for candlemarks while he works his way down to you. This is also when the excitement and fear and so forth that carried you through wears off, and you start to remember that you stepped in your cousin’s face, you saw your uncle’s head caved in, and you’re not sure if your best friend is still alive. There’s stuff besides blood on you that used to be parts of people. That’s when you look around, see all the dead, dying, and wounded, and you throw up. Practically everyone else who never fought before—and some who have—is doing the same thing. That’s what real combat is like.” He stopped for a moment. “Oh, and after a fight, Healing takes second place to wound closure, so you may wait days or weeks before that wound in your leg that was cauterized closed—burned closed with a red-hot poker—gets properly Healed up.” Val licked his lips, which were just a shade greenish.
“It’s not like that in—I mean, I’ve never heard anyone talk about it like that.” He seemed shaken, but not inclined to doubt Darian’s word. Darian was quite glad he’d made a point of never exaggerating in front of Val; this was turning out as he’d hoped.
Darian shrugged and tried to look weary and worldly-wise. “That’s because no one wants to remember those parts, but ask your Weaponsmaster, and let him know you want to know what it’s really like on a battlefield, before, during, and after the battle. If he’s honest, he’ll tell you the same things I did.” He thought of something else. “If you want, I can get one of the dyheli to give you the memory. They were in on the forest-battle four years ago.”
“Oh.” Val remained silent, looking out over the lake for a while. Darian let him stew things over; he needed some time to get his mind wrapped around Darian’s blunt description. But Val had, out of incredulity, gotten a dyheli to give him a memory of k’ Vala Vale. He hadn’t believed the descriptions he’d heard of it, until he’d experienced Tyrsell’s memory, and he knew that Darian would never have offered him access to a memory of combat if it wasn’t as vivid—or more so—than Darian’s own description.
Actually, given that the dyheli aren’t predators, their memory is going to be a lot nastier than my description. Bloodletting offends every instinct they’ve got.
“I wondered why Father, and you—” Val shook his head and looked mortified. “I came very close to making a serious mistake. I have to apologize to you.”
“Thought I was a coward?” To Val’s obvious surprise, Darian grinned. “I’m not offended! I used to think the same things that you did about fighting. Honor, glory, adventure, fame, all that stuff. Probably everybody does, until he does it himself. Maybe a mercenary’s children know better, and probably anyone who’s had a fight go over his land does, but unless you’ve seen it for yourself, how can you know?” His grin turned cynical. “Well, think about it, how could they get us bone-headed youngsters go out to get bits hacked off if they didn’t make it sound glorious?”
Val managed a sickly sort of smile himself. “You’ve got a point.” He blinked, as if something had just occurred to him. “Now that I think about it, battles almost never happen in empty land, do they?”
“Not unless somebody manages to force it that way, no,” Darian replied. The fellow was thinking, all right! “Obviously, we’re going to try to choose the ground ourselves, but we may not get to make that choice.”
“So Father isn’t going to want something like that rampaging through the village, or over the crops, ruining them—”
Darian decided on a final ghoulish touch. “Imagine trying to eat crops that came up the next year in a field where people died! Crops fed on blood!”
Val shuddered. “I’d—rather not.”
“So we bluff them, or negotiate with them, or—well, Firesong, Snowfire, and your father have a lot of ideas, I expect. They’ve all fought before, and they’ve got all the reasons in the world to make peace first, if it can be done without making a bad bargain.” It was Darian’s turn to look pensively out over the lake. “Believe me, if it were up to me—These people, or ones like them, killed Justyn right in front of me. They hurt a lot of people I knew, and killed a couple. They tried to kill me, twice, and they nearly managed it. I’ m the last person to want them to get off easy, but—” He shook his head and looked back at Val. “If we force them to fight, things will almost certainly be bad, and more people I know will be dead or hurt. I don’t want revenge half badly enough for that.”
You know, I think Justyn would be very happy to hear me say that.
Val nodded, very slowly, and Darian decided to change the subject so that they could part on a good note. “So, tell me about this girl you’re marrying! When does she get here? What is she like? How did you meet her?”
Since Belinda was obviously a subject Val could wax eloquent on for hours, this was the best thing he could have done. Until Lord Breon came to fetch his son for the trip home, Darian heard so much about Belinda that he suspected he could write a book—or at least several pages—about her many virtues. Val was completely smitten.
When Breon did come to get Val, though, the hand-clasp Darian got from the younger man, coupled with the thoughtful look and the nod they shared, let him know that Val had not forgotten the earlier subject. As Breon and his son rode off on the trail back to Kelmskeep, Darian felt quite proud of himself.
Firesong came up beside him at that point. “You look like a cat that’s gotten into the cream,” he said. “What have you been up to?”
“Convincing Val that fighting in battle isn’t the way the Bards sing about it.” He glanced sideways at Firesong to see how the mage would react.
Firesong laughed aloud, crossing his arms over his chest. “Good for you! I knew you had more sense than he did about that particular subject, but I didn’t know you’d take it on yourself to talk to him.”
“Somebody had to. I’d as soon not see his bride become a widow, you know?” He turned to Firesong, and grinned. “I’d have felt responsible.”
“Good,” Firesong nodded. “You are responsible. It’s when we stop feeling responsible for each other, for the people we know we can affect, that we become the barbarians.”
Firesong waited, and Darian sensed that there was another Talk with his Teacher in the offing. On the whole, he didn’t mind those, except when Firesong seemed to expect an unreasonable level of magical expertise from him, given how short a time he’d been studying with good teachers. One of those had been just yesterday, in fact. Firesong had shouted impatiently at him, and he had left the lesson abruptly rather than lose his temper.
Firesong cleared his throat, and Darian put on an attentive look. If there was any chance his teacher would actually apologize, he wanted to encourage it.
“Silverfox gave me a bit of a lecture this morning, before the meeting,” Firesong finally said, actually sounding sheepish. “When you do something that is exceptionally mature, like taking on young Val and disabusing him of the notion that battle equals painless glory, I st
art thinking of you, not as a student, but as a potential peer. I get both of us in trouble when I do that, because then I expect a similar level of skill in mage-craft. I expect that’s what happened last night.”
He glanced at Darian out of the comer of his eye, and Darian just nodded, warily. He didn’t quite trust himself to actually say anything yet, but this was certainly a promising start.
“I got very impatient with you last night, and that was wrong of me. Silverfox very properly reminded me that you are someone who has not had the benefit of working with unlimited energy, and that you are a real youngster, not an adult like the people I’m used to training. You act like them, but you simply haven’t got experience.” He tossed his hair back over his shoulder, a habit Darian noticed he had when he was nervous. “The Herald-Mages I’ve trained have almost all been in their twenties, or even older. I keep forgetting that you’re only eighteen, and at the same level of teaching I was when I was only twelve or fourteen.”
Now Darian gingerly cleared his throat. “One year with poor Justyn, and four years working with teachers who are not Healing Adepts doesn’t equal the kind of education you had, no. But you are right in that sometimes I just am not grasping what’s going on. You were wrong in thinking it was because I’m too stubborn to admit my way is wrong; what you expect me to do simply doesn’t occur to me.” He flushed, thinking about how angry he’d gotten; the accusations still stung because they were so unjust. “You’re supposed to be my teacher, and it isn’t fair to force me to guess answers I can’t possibly reach! I think it might be because I’m not really Tayledras, and I’m not used to thinking and seeing things as so intimately interconnected. Hellfires, your entire religion is built around that!” He scratched his head and managed a sheepish grin of his own. “Maybe that’s why I got so hot and walked out of the lesson. It wasn’t until I cooled down that I was able to figure out what you were saying, and put it to use.”
“Maybe you should wear a crest of Valdemar on your forehead to remind me,” Firesong suggested facetiously.
He snorted. “Don’t tempt me, if wearing one would prevent another dressing-down like last night! Teach me, or don’t, but don’t play guessing games with me! That’s all I ask.”
Firesong’s posture conveyed a certain amount of discomfort—possibly because Darian had hit on several of the things Silverfox had evidently chided him about. “Silverfox has promised to sit in on our lessons if you don’t mind, and throw things at my head if I start getting unreasonable. And I wondered if you’d mind if we included that little Healer for the next couple of days? Having her there will keep me on better behavior, I suspect—and according to Nightwind, she could do with some of the same lessons you’re getting.”
“Having both Silverfox and Keisha there is all right with me,” Darian said instantly, hoping he could keep himself from betraying the fact that he would welcome Keisha there for more reasons than just sharing the lessons. He was more than a little interested in Keisha, yes indeed, and he wouldn’t mind the opportunity to see more of her at all!
“I’d also like to get the two of you working together now, so you can mesh your skills under my eye and not have to try it on your own,” Firesong continued, at last looking more at ease. “I work with Healers all the time, but the first time you try is often full of pitfalls. It’s like trying to do the kyanshi couple-dance when all you’ve ever done is children’s round-dances.” Darian sensed a sudden grin behind the mask. “Just thought you’d like to know what you’re in for.”
He rolled his eyes. “Thanks,” he said dryly. “All I have ever done magically is children’s round-dances, you know! And now you want me to attempt a fiendishly complicated display piece that not one couple in a hundred ever tries!”
“Nonsense,” Firesong dismissed. “Neither the magic nor the dance is as complicated as they look, which is part of the problem. Don’t worry, that’s why I want you to do it under my eye. I’ll walk you through it, and you’ll be amazed how quickly you pick it up.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Darian replied dubiously. “I suppose you’ll want to try this tonight?”
“Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow.” Firesong clapped him on the shoulder. “Tonight I plan to go over what I attempted to hammer into your thick skull last night, since you so obligingly told me you’d gotten the trick of it.”
Oh, hellfires. Now I’m in for it, and I don’t have any excuses. “Yes, Firesong,” Darian sighed. “I’ll be at the work-circle at sunset.”
It was morning, but there was no real reason to leap out of bed, and Darian liked having the leisure to lie in the dark, thinking and listening to the birds twitter in the vines. After the magic lessons of last night, shared with Keisha, he had a lot to think about.
She’d been attentive, very careful, with a fine, delicate mental touch. Much to Firesong’s amazement, they had meshed powers almost at once, with the same surety of mental “hand” reaching for “hand” as long-time partners.
Firesong had at least been polite enough to keep his comment of :Oh, so you like girls, do you?: strictly Sent to Darian, but he hoped that Keisha hadn’t noticed his sudden blush.
He’d been impressed—and although Keisha had not shown any such emotion on the surface, Darian could tell that beneath her calm exterior, she had been very close to tears of relief and joy.
Well, she’s spent a long time not knowing how to use her Gift, and not only being able to use it, but to know she can ask someone else to augment her power, must be just exhilarating.
He stretched and turned over on his side, with the scent of fresh linens and herbs tickling his nose. He could not imagine why other people had told him that Keisha was prickly. Serious, yes, and maybe too serious, but she’d had responsibility shoved at her for so long that she probably hadn’t learned how to have fun. But prickly?
Yet, so far, Val, Nightwind, Healer Gil, and even Lord Breon had warned him that Keisha was touchy, difficult to get to know, and held people at arm’s length. He just didn’t see any of those things in her—unless, if by “touchy,” they meant that she didn’t have any sympathy for fools, if by “difficult to get to know” they meant that she didn’t talk about things she wasn’t sure of, and if by “keeping people at arm’s length” they meant that she was shy. She was certainly shy. That seemed a little odd in someone who had such a mob of siblings, but maybe she’d learned to be very self-contained because of that.
People in Errold’s Grove respected her, but she didn’t have any suitors. She didn’t even have anyone he would have called a close friend. The young men of the village didn’t even seem to think of her as a girl.
All the better for me. If they can’t see how pretty she is, that’s their problem. On the other hand, maybe it’s a bit diffcult for anyone to think romantically about the person who’s patched you up after doing something really stupid, and threatened to hold your nose and pour medicine down your throat when you’ve had a sick stomach.
He grinned into the dimness. He could just see Keisha doing that, too!
His pleasant thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the uncharacteristically rude entrance of a hertasi, who burst in through the front door. “Dar’ian! You are needed!” it cried as soon as the door flew open.
He thrashed his way free of his covers, and flung himself out of bed. “Where?” he asked, stumbling into the room. “What’s the matter?”
“The outsiders come! The Vale pillars—the others wait there—” it said, and whisked out the door again, presumably to rouse other folks.
The outsiders come? Well, it can’t be an enemy attack, or there would be a lot more shouting going on outside. Besides, I don’t think even a hertasi would refer to an enemy attack as “the outsiders come. ” With that in mind, he took some care in dressing, though he did so quickly, and left his weapons behind.
When he reached the two pillars at the entrance, there weren’t too many of “the others” waiting; just Kel, Nightwind, and Snowfire. “What’s go
ing on?” he asked, combing his hair with his fingers and confining it with a headband. He’d combed it properly before he left, of course, but all his efforts at looking neat had been destroyed when he ran.
“Kel spotted an armed force with a pair of Heralds leading it heading this way as he started out on patrol this morning,” Snowfire said, as Kel nodded. “He came back to tell us, and I sent hertasi around to wake you all up.” To Darian’s chagrin, Snowfire looked as if he’d been up for hours, and had gotten the hertasi to give him a complete grooming while he waited for folk to muster out. How did he manage to do that?
“So our reinforcements are here? Why are they coming here, instead of Kelmskeep?” Darian asked, attempting to neaten himself up.
“They’re coming from Kelmskeep; at a guess, they overnighted there, and Lord Breon sent them on to us this morning,” Nightwind hazarded. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
A drowsy-eyed Firesong joined them at that moment, yawning behind his mask, followed by Starfall. Firesong had thrown on a loose robe, and was still in the process of belting it about his slim waist. His hair showed signs of having been hastily braided, and his eyes still looked sleepy. “Ugh,” Firesong said with distaste. “Military types! Why on earth they should think that it’s admirable to shake everyone awake at dawn or before, I can never understand!”
Valdemar 11 - [Owl Mage 02] - Owlsight Page 32
