Choices

by Mercedes Lackey

  A lisping boy found her a stash of treats. Entranced by the velvety muzzles plucking sweets from her palm, Kaysa dared a further inquiry. “How’s Lark, do you know?”

  “The Companion forsaken by Tarron’s demise?” The lad sighed. “Brave creature! He’s suffered terribly. Though the healers are doing their best, he might never regain his natural mind.”

  “What happens if he doesn’t recover?” Kaysa asked, fighting tears.

  Steadied by Tassie’s arm, she endured the boy’s piping summary. “His shoes will be pulled for rest, I expect. Then turnout in the Companion’s Field, if a comfortable retirement’s the best can be done. He’ll live peacefully with the mares and foals and the other unbonded Companions.”

  Lark might never select another Chosen. Saddened, Kaysa buried her disappointment. Fortune might yet enable her dream, if not through Lark, then perhaps with another Companion.

  Low spirits masked, she finished the tour through the stables. Sunset brought a return to the Collegium for supper. Tassie took her into the crowded dining hall with the students. Amid deafening noise, everyone seemed friendly. But Tarron’s loss left a hole in the Heralds’ ranks, and Jess’s lively humor was missed. All admired the courage of Lara and Arif. Kaysa flushed under the praise for her role in bearing the news back to Haven.

  “The Mages are studying that saddlecloth cautiously,” one boy ran on with respect. “Dangerous spellcraft, they say, to inflict a perverse influence on a Herald on contact.” His nervous conclusion confirmed the horror that Tarron’s ruin had been unclean. Kaysa’s bravery was acknowledged by others, while the student Mages whispered in dread, then debated in speculation.

  Kaysa had nothing further to contribute. Silent through their animated discussion of which methods were best to locate and disarm such a murderous enemy, she felt useless. Turned out, like Tarron’s broken Companion, as though kindness alone could humor her through the lack of a position based on her merits. Lessons in the Collegium seemed a dull prospect. After the meaningful thrill of service with the Heralds on the open road, the thought of spinning yarn in her sleepy village curdled her spirit. Kaysa could not bear to let a meaningful future pass her by unfulfilled.

  Tassie noticed her stifled unease. “You’ll enjoy your time here, you’ll see. Who knows where the dean will place you? Musical training requires no sight. Valdemar’s had famous Bards who were blind. They were welcomed and gained respectful employment wherever they wished.”

  Kaysa smiled, too wretched to admit she could not sing a true note. Her father’s laughter still stung for her one lame attempt to hum tunes at the spinning wheel. “Your tone is flat as a honking goose,” Mama had teased. Since her brothers had mimicked the noise with seemingly endless mockery, Tassie’s reassurance fell short. A sightless girl could not scribe or keep records. Book learning for Kaysa always meant somebody else must read her lessons aloud. No loyal subject of Valdemar would burden the Collegium during this crisis! Not while an evil Mage in the Pelagiris Forest sought to corrupt Heralds for a wicked purpose.

  Kaysa wrestled with her venomous doubts long after Tassie said goodbye for the night. Washed up and tucked into bed, she lay wakeful, too well aware that she held little worldly experience. Luck and brash impulse had brought her this far. Lara’s insistence that she take pride in the victory of winning through while under mortal danger was not enough. No longer sheltered, Kaysa measured her shortcomings. Good sense insisted that the wisdom of Haven’s counsel was best equipped henceforward to shoulder the dangerous cause.

  Nonetheless, Kaysa ached for her insignificance. Ropewynd’s simple lifestyle had little use for a privileged education. Beyond scribing dye recipes and the straightforward accounting that balanced the ledgers and weighed up raw yarn, knowledge added nothing to the grind of workaday chores: the milking, the butchering, sowing and threshing, the tireless cutting and splitting of wood for the stove. The smith’s tinkering and the family’s profession of twining cord and dyed yarn were the only crafts in the village. Kaysa tossed, tormented by her feelings of worthlessness.

  Her anxious sensitivity to hearing, touch, and smell lent no advantage to the pursuit of higher learning. Kaysa resented being patronized. Only pretense awaited once the dean discovered she possessed no worthy endowment to train. Sent home to carding wool in the loft, she might never be free of her overprotected background again.

  Only Gran’s advice encouraged her passionate desire for independence. “If you don’t risk the knocks in life for yourself, the choices of others will limit your days. Safety will tame every dream that you have, until you destroy your free spirit.”

  Kaysa must act tonight to determine her destiny. Tomorrow would be too late. Before the distinctive clothing of an assigned school marked her as a Collegium student, her plain country garments would let her blend in. The bold moment to shelter with the servants in the stables must be seized straightaway.

  Kaysa slipped out of bed and dressed quickly. Stick in hand, undeterred by the dark that would hamper anyone sighted, she steered herself through the Collegium’s corridors with the confidence gained on the open road. She counted the doors and descended the stairwell by touch. The smell of baking bread, and the late, muffled talk from the kitchen marked her turn toward the outside door.

  Mouse quiet, she ducked into the side alleys to avoid the steps of passersby. Caution let her through the gate to the stables. She slipped inside where, in a nook behind the hayloft ladder, she slept until nearly dawn.

  Before birdsong at sunrise, she woke to the clang of buckets and the rustles of the sleepy staff, who set about measuring oats and forking fresh fodder. Kaysa crept into the open, just one more shadowy figure tending to chores. She picked her way down the row of stalls. Shortly, her stick tapped a box filled with brushes, comb, and a hoof pick. She snatched the equipment, slipped through the nearest half door, then propped her stick in a corner and set to work on the animal quartered inside.

  Nobody noticed one more busy groom. A faked limp masked her reliance on the stick, and a chatterbox boy who assumed she was new showed her where to fetch the breakfast baskets sent from the kitchen. Afternoon found her tucked into a dim corner in one of the tack rooms. Amid the small group detailed to oil bridles and scrub saddle cloths, she learned by touch how to polish the bells worn by the Heralds’ Companions. Nobody remarked upon her lack of sight. Listening, she found the stables employed the deaf and a backcountry girl who was mute.

  The Master of Horse criticized no one who wasn’t shirking or lazy. Quiet amid the bustling grooms, Kaysa applied herself with singular will. She could prove herself worthy! Immersed in her work, determined one day to be trusted to attend the Companions, she missed the abrupt stillness until too late.

  A deliberate tread advanced down the aisle outside. Someone of authority, she deduced in dismay as the industry of the staff faltered around her. She ducked her head, frozen. Perhaps her delinquent presence would be overlooked.

  But the boy at her elbow poked her in the ribs. “The Queens’s Own!” he whispered, astonished. “Looks like he’s here to see you!”

  Kaysa’s face flamed. Her impulsive plan left her nowhere to hide. Now the foremost Herald in all the realm had been sent to rebuke her wayward behavior. Mortified, she braced for a scolding.

  But the Herald met her embarrassment with mild reproof. “When you left your room, Kaysa, no one knew where you’d gone. The dean was concerned when you didn’t show for your interview. Did you think the realm of Valdemar is ungrateful? Or are you unbearably homesick?”

  “Neither.” Kaysa swallowed. “Truthfully, I’d rather make myself useful tending the animals here.” She pleaded with fate that her heart did not show that access to the Companions meant more than everything else.

  The pause stretched while she burned red under the interest of the bystanding grooms and the Herald’s piercing regard.

  Out of pity, perhaps, h
e chose not to humiliate her. “If you’re certain, Kaysa, do as you like. The Queen wishes only to make your stay rewarding. If academic instruction doesn’t suit you, I’ll make disposition with the Master of Horse. Your room at the Collegium stays assigned to you, meantime, along with meals with the students. Inform the dean if you change your mind. You may tire of menial tasks well before we’ve subdued the threat lurking in the Pelagiris Forest.”

  Struck by the timbre of dismay that marred the man’s otherwise mellow temperament, Kaysa blurted, “Were the Mages unable to track down the source of the bane from the residue in Lark’s saddlecloth?”

  “They tried.” The Queen’s Herald sighed with heavy regret. “But their effort triggered an embedded safeguard placed against outside magic. The fabric burst into flame and destroyed the bloodstain that preserved the evidence.”

  A crushing defeat, bound to delay the full explanation of Tarron’s mysterious demise. Kaysa shivered. Jess and his Companion had lost their lives for that precious lead, delivered to Haven at terrible risk. This brutal setback would devastate Lara and Arif, left grieving with no telltale trace left in hand.

  “Still, forewarned is forearmed,” the Herald allowed in commiseration. “The next foray sent to investigate will take a trained Mage, along with additional guards. They’ll carry word back to your parents as well. Rest assured, you’ll stay under the Queen’s protection. See the dean for any needs that arise until we’ve secured the road for your safe return.”

  Kaysa related her grateful thanks, overwhelmed with relief. She had asserted her independence. Seize the day, keep on reaching, and fortune might open the way for her secret ambition to become Chosen.

  * * *

  • • •

  Kaysa applied herself without reserve. She groomed horses, brushed their coats to slick silk, and gently combed tangles from manes and tails. Her careful, slow movement and sensitive touch quieted the excitable foals and won over the most stubborn chirra. Moreover, her natural penchant for listening and the practiced interpretation of nuances earned favorable notice from the Master of Horse. His appreciation of her redoubled the day he discovered her knack for settling quarrels.

  “How did you know which of my grooms was the bully?” he inquired, amazed, while she knelt drying the tears of a nobleman’s child muddied from a fall in a puddle.

  “Easy.” Kaysa shrugged. “I listened for the braggart.” The boys’ brash intonation had exposed the culprit whose shove tripped young Jordie up from behind. “To my ear, arrogance has a smug ring that marks a liar’s evasion.”

  “Well, there’s a vital asset for keeping the peace.” The Master of Horse chuckled, quite pleased. “Kindly help Jordie saddle his pony before he’s late for his lesson.”

  Shortly thereafter, he called upon Kaysa to weigh who was responsible for the loose chirra that raided the grain bin and later, again, to finger which lad deserved scolding for neglecting to unload the hay cart. Before the week passed, her place was accepted without further question.

  “You never complain for yourself,” the Master of Horse observed while she bent over her latest assignment to oil harnesses on a damp afternoon. “An even temperament’s a virtue not to be wasted. Let’s put your quality to better use caring for the newly bonded Companions.”

  “Truly?” Kaysa embraced that trust with a dazzling smile. “Might I also see Lark?”

  “You’ve certainly earned the privilege to ask.” The Master of Horse plucked the polishing rag from her grasp. “What are you waiting for? Off you go!”

  Kaysa snatched up her stick, brimming over with happiness. She tapped her way down the aisle, ducked outside, and splashed through the rain in the puddled yard to the specialized wing that housed the Companions. There, no latches fastened the doors. A rear gate in the loose boxes opened into a clipped meadow for grazing, backed by the hedge that bounded the Companion’s Field and the secluded Grove at its center.

  Kaysa approached the woman in charge for assignment and asked whether Lark had recovered.

  “Not fully,” the elderly mistress lamented, “though the Healers did all they could. A pity, since he posed the best link we had left to discover what overcame Tarron. Turnout with the herd in the Companion’s Field has caused some improvement. He’s regained his Mindspeech, but he still has no memory of whatever horror befell him. Shock left his mind blank until the moment you rescued him from that deadfall in the Pelagiris Forest.”

  “Poor Lark. I’m sorry.” Crushed by more than grief, Kaysa nursed disappointment. Hope flagged that return of the Companion’s Mindspeech might enable the bond to make her Lark’s Chosen.

  “Well, it’s thanks to you we have him back at all.” The mistress patted her shoulder and brightened. “Tomorrow, when the weather clears, you may visit Lark for yourself. Meantime, there’s work. You come from a yarn loft, perhaps you can braid?”

  “Easily,” Kaysa responded. “How many strands? I can weave most patterns by touch.”

  “Excellent!” The mistress steered her ahead. “We’re always short of experienced hands. A state delegation’s scheduled to depart. The two Heralds assigned will require blue ribbons woven into their Companions’ manes.”

  That task finished the day. As Kaysa left for her quarters at dusk, the Master of Horse fell in stride at her shoulder. “Your transfer went well? Good. You were sorely missed.”

  “The brawl out by the smithy, perchance?” Kaysa tested the slope with her stick and adjusted her downward step.

  “Oh, yes.” A sigh followed. “Two lads took to fisticuffs. Longtime friends, who could guess? Bloodied their faces before we separated them. I sent the older one home to cool down. The younger won’t say what started the fight. Have you a moment? Maybe we’d sort out the root of the problem if you gave the story a hearing.”

  “Sure. No trouble at all.” Kaysa valued her chance to be useful, though her acute senses were nothing extraordinary. Most likely, blindness made her seem unassuming to others. Lads shared their confidence more freely with someone who wasn’t a formal official.

  The boy sat through the interview, words slurred by his swollen lip. Between sniffles, his terse answers lashed out like a person tied in a knot. Kaysa marked his aggressive tone, spiked through by sullen resentment. The argument had started in the forge by the scrap barrel, which seemed odd. The smith had no shortage of leftover steel. His Shin’a’in generosity often fashioned sundry pins for the asking, and he mended worn pots for the goodwives.

  Cued by that peculiarity, Kaysa asked after the source of contention.

  “T’was a used nail,” the lad confessed, defensive. “Nor do I have it. Turn out Mic’s pockets, not mine.”

  Clothing sighed nearby as the Master of Horse unfolded crossed arms. “Then Mic will be asked to turn over the disputed item tomorrow. Thanks to Kaysa, you’re excused to go home. Be sure you soak that split lip in cold water.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Kaysa picked her way to the Collegium through the drizzle and sat down to a welcome hot supper. Around her, the Herald Trainees discussed the delegation appointed to return to the Pelagiris Forest. The recovery of Lark’s abandoned saddle posed the logical next step in the thwarted investigation. Kaysa’s account had described the bloodstains left ingrained in the claw scarred leather. The last clue left from Tarron’s demise, the gear might still retain a residue for reliable scrying if weather had not ruined the evidence.

  “Lara’s going,” said the older girl about to graduate. “She volunteered in Jess’s memory. Arif was insistent, too, but the Queen refused to risk him with a recent wound. Two more Heralds and an experienced Mage will accompany her. Even so, Lara shoulders a dangerous assignment, no matter she’s taking four of the Guard for extra protection.”

  While the talk bent toward particulars and speculation, Kaysa pushed her supper plate aside. More than anyone else, she graspe
d the mission’s high stakes. Direct contact with the stains in a saddlecloth that had been washed repeatedly posed a dire threat to a Herald. Their flight to Haven had been harried by ChangeBeasts, even carrying the perilous artifact heavily wrapped. Only Kaysa had handled Lark’s gear with impunity. More, her sensitivity had detected the presence of hostile pursuit before anyone else.

  Yet nobody thought to approach her for help. Even Lara, who would face the lethal threat yet again. Worse, if she failed, or if the jettisoned saddle was lost to recovery, Valdemar’s investigators must return to Ropewynd to seek Tarron’s cold trail at the source.

  * * *

  • • •

  Kaysa tossed through a restless night. Concern drove her to rise at predawn. She hurried to the stable before breakfast. Birdsong heralded daybreak at the Companion’s Field, where she paused for her visit with Lark. Fierce hope sparked her excitement. How she longed on this day to be Chosen! If a Companion bonded with her, she might claim a place with the party sent after the essential trace of dark magic.

  But Lark was not among the herd of mares and foals crowded in for their morning grain. The unbonded Companions kept their distance, too, which nearly broke Kaysa’s heart. Her dejected step dragged to the tap of her stick as she turned away. Quiet as shadow she crept into the stable for her assigned duties.

  Disturbed shouts and the chinking clatter of hooves echoed down the Companion’s aisle from the smithy. An unknown Herald confronted the Shin’a’in farrier, who snapped in his regional accent, “Hold her still! If I can’t set that nail, your Companion will cast off her loose shoe. A split hoof and lameness will delay your mission far worse than a moment taken to tighten a clinch.”

  “Then why won’t she stand for you?” the Chosen yelled back.

  Lara’s exasperation heightened the fracas. “We’ll have Change-Beasts dogging our trail, mark my word! We must clear the city gate by sunrise if we’re to reach shelter by dark.”