Choices

by Mercedes Lackey

  Wil glanced at his daughter as she said that.

  :Just not yet,: Aubryn concluded, and pointedly withdrew.

  Wil grimaced. Stupid, he thought to himself. But before he could beat himself up, a third Companion’s voice said, :Knock knock!:

  Some days I liked it better when it was just my voice in here, Wil thought, but Ivy jumped up and bolted out of the Waystation, shrieking, “Uncle Lyle!”

  Wil followed.

  Ivy ran straight at Lyle, who scooped up his niece in a hug. Behind the dismounted Herald came brightly painted wagons, with men and women on horseback. They all looked akin to Lyle—the black hair, the creamy tea skin.

  But of course they did—because they were Lyle’s kin.

  “Hellfires,” Wil muttered.

  “Is there a problem, Herald Wil?”

  The question came from his side. He hadn’t heard the woman come up next to him, yet there she stood, a curiosity in subdued midnight blue, a curved sword on her hip. She looked the same and yet different from the others. He didn’t immediately recognize her, yet he couldn’t shake the sense that he knew her.

  “No,” he said flatly. “Sorry. Lelia and Lyle’s family is prolific, to say the least. You are . . . ?”

  She inclined her head. “Khaari.”

  Wil fumbled through his memory for what Lelia had taught him of her family’s language. “Zha—um—hall—”

  “Wind to your wings, too, Herald,” Khaari said, clearly amused by his attempt.

  From there, Wil waded in amidst the cousins, enduring handshakes and hugs as he sized up what had been brought to the Waystation’s doorstep. He counted two dozen. Their weapons consisted of knives, compact bows, and a few short, curved swords. Little to no armor, but they did all have good mounts. A handful had participated in the last war with Ancar or skirmished with brigands, but most had only heard tales.

  Wil withdrew into the Waystation. The stone in his belly tumbled and spun. He couldn’t spot Ivy, but he could hear her laughter. When he’d last seen her, they’d put bright clothes on her and threaded flowers through her hair. She now blended in seamlessly with the family, just one cousin among the many. Outside of a Companion, he couldn’t ask for better caretakers.

  :Vehs,: he thought, :this is a good time for us to do some scouting.:

  :Oh. You . . . don’t want to wait for the cover of night?:

  :It will take us a candlemark to get to the quarry, then back again. We don’t know what’s waiting for us, and we don’t have anyone with a Gift to survey the terrain. Cover of night would not be advised.:

  A heavy sigh. :Okay. Look. I was enjoying handpies.:

  Wil rolled his eyes skyward. :I’m sure Aubryn would be happy to—:

  :You will do no such thing!:

  :Then get your shiny tail over here.:

  As Wil ducked out of the tack shed with Vehs’s gear in his arms, he found Lyle waiting for him.

  “Heading out?” he asked.

  “Thought I’d take a chance to survey the quarry,” Wil replied.

  “What quarry?”

  “I’ll explain when I return. Sorry, Lyle. No time to waste. If you want to talk, do it while I’m saddling Vehs.”

  :You’re not being nice, Wil.:

  :Hunh. So, if I’m nice, will Madra think twice before killing another Companion?:

  Vehs recoiled mentally from the retort.

  “So . . . what do you think?” Lyle gestured to the rapidly emerging camp of his kin.

  “There’s . . . certainly a lot of them,” Wil said.

  Lyle grinned. “Well, plenty of room for them here. These southern Waystations sure are something.”

  “Vehs says this one used to be part of Solmark before they moved the village.”

  “Yeah?”

  Wil shrugged. “Companion wisdom. Just have to trust it.”

  :Would I lie to you, Chosen?:

  :Lie? No. Omit. . . . :

  :Well. That cuts both ways, doesn’t it?:

  Wil flinched and swung into the saddle.

  “No bridle?” Lyle said.

  “On a Companion? Waste of time.” And I have so little time left, Wil thought. “Keep an eye on Ivy, okay? I should be back by dinner.”

  “Okay.” Lyle’s brow furrowed. “Wil—are you—”

  “I’m fine, Lyle.”

  :No. You’re not.:

  Oddly enough the comment came not from Vehs but from Aubryn, the perennial eavesdropper. Wil glanced around and found her lurking a distance away—across the clearing, where Ivy played a game of tag with the cousins. Khaari stood beside the Companion, an odd duck in her midnight-blue leathers.

  :Out of my head,: Wil thought at Aubryn.

  “Set up your camp, Lyle,” he said. “We’ll talk later. Someplace private.” He indicated the Waystation pointedly—with Madra near and Lyle’s limited Mindspeech, it would be the best place for them to talk.

  “All right.” Lyle sketched a salute. “Herald.”

  “Herald.”

  Wil placed his hand on Vehs’s neck. :Let’s go.:

  The Quarry

  The bolt fired and pain striped Wil’s shoulder. Madra’s face twisted as he spun, but they both knew the truth: She’d missed.

  “Damn—it—” Madra fumbled with the device, trying desperately to reload it.

  Wil charged at her.

  There’d been a time when she’d been Androa Baireschild, an agent of peace. When she’d lived to help others, to Heal. He’d known that person, once.

  Wil drew his long-knife and slashed at Madra and the monster she’d become.

  The Waystation

  A Waystation, but not of Velgarth.

  Wil wandered down a path in a starry place, toward a small building with warmly lit windows. Someone played a gittern, singing a song he hadn’t heard in ages. Just one more loss in his life, but one he felt the keenest.

  You uncovered the false Bards and Madra’s plans, Lelia, he thought. But I’m the one who’ll put an end to them, if it’s the last thing I do.

  And it probably will be the last thing I do. . . .

  Every step he took made his worries sink into the ground, the stone in his belly whittling down to a pebble. A few more steps and it would vanish to nothing at all.

  His hand reached for the door—

  :Chosen.:

  Wil started awake, gasping. He’d fallen asleep, lulled by the gentle summer heat and his Companion’s rolling gait—and true, Vehs would protect him—but given what they’d found at the quarry, the fact that he’d dozed at all made him sick all over.

  :But you’re tired, and I am glad to shoulder this load. You need your rest so you can plan.:

  Vehs’s reassurance washed over him, tamping down on his racing heart and the flood of anxiety. Wil took several deep breaths, pressing his face into his Companion’s mane.

  :Another vision?:

  He shook his head. Not the starry place Waystation. He didn’t know quite what it was, but it didn’t feel like it came from his Gift. It felt . . . different.

  :Are you okay?:

  “I’m okay,” he whispered.

  :Really?:

  The stone in his belly turned. No.

  But to his Companion, he said, “Yes.”

  Vehs sighed. :Very well.:

  The cousins had a full meal waiting for Wil—a welcoming stew of pulses and minced meat, with plenty of charcoal-baked bread to scoop it up with. The fiery spices made his eyes water, but he had become accustomed to the pain of eating their food over the years, and he now welcomed it.

  “It’s good?” one of the cousins, Megyn, asked.

  “Amazing,” he said, guzzling water.

  Lyle sat down next to him as he finished.

  “How’d it go?” he asked.


  “I went unnoticed,” Wil replied.

  “Was there a danger you’d be caught?”

  Wil shrugged. “Madra could have had an army waiting. She’s surprised me more than once.”

  “But you’re still here.”

  “I daresay I’ve surprised her, too.” Foresight has to have some advantages other than making me crazy.

  Ivy came out of nowhere and pounced on him, giving him a fierce hug that nearly upended his plate of food.

  So much for that Foresight advantage, he thought.

  “Can-I-sleep-in-a-tent-tonight-ple-e-e-ease?” she asked.

  “Uh—yes?” he said.

  “Yay!” She kissed his cheek. “Love you!” And she vanished again, running off to rejoin the horde.

  Wil furrowed his brow. “What just happened?”

  “You were visited by a rare but powerful chaos spirit,” a soft voice said from the side where Lyle wasn’t. Wil started, turning to find that Khaari had—once again—materialized out of nowhere. “Herald, we should talk.”

  Wil set the plate aside. “‘We?’”

  “Khaari’s an elder among my people, Wil,” Lyle said. “You can trust her.”

  “Lyle, can we please go talk about this in the Waystation?”

  “Yeah, but Khaari—”

  “No. Heralds only.”

  “She—she’s like a Herald?”

  The seed of doom growing inside Wil thrashed angrily. “Lyle—”

  “Wil, do you know what Kal’enedral are?”

  “No.”

  “What if I told you the Herald Captain trusts her?”

  “What if I told you that I asked the Herald Captain to send an army to stop an insurrection, not a bunch of gleemen who’ve barely seen a battlefield?” Wil snapped.

  Lyle recoiled, and even Khaari’s calm mask broke momentarily, her eyebrows knitting together.

  “Wil,” Lyle said weakly, “you asked the Queen for help. You specifically said: no Guards. She did the best she could. My kinsmen aren’t your typical gleemen. We are descended from Shin’a’in warriors.”

  Wil leaned in close. “Your kinsmen could be descended from northern berserkers. It doesn’t matter. They’re all going to die,” he said. “And it’s going to be because of me.”

  :Chosen—:

  Wil slammed his shields up, cutting out Vehs’s commentary.

  Then he retreated from all of them, into the Waystation’s gloom.

  The Quarry

  Wil slashed once, twice. Madra collapsed in blood, screaming. He took a single step forward, driven by a mix of rage and bloodlust.

  Something large and shadowy moved off to his right, an indistinct blur in his vision. Curious.

  The distraction pulled his focus—

  Madra surged upward, a dagger in her hand.

  “Give Lelia my regards,” she whispered, driving the knife through his ribcage, up through his lungs, and toward his heart.

  With his dying breath, Wil cried his Companion’s name.

  The Waystation

  Wil unrolled a map and used spare teacups and Lelia’s old gittern, Bloom, to weigh it down. From a pouch that hung around his neck he removed a small quarrel head and set it down next to the map. He arranged a handful of small river stones across the map. Eight in a pinkish quartz for the ones he knew, and eight whitish-gray—the ones he didn’t.

  Someone knocked on the door.

  “Go away,” Wil said.

  “Your Companion is about to splinter the door,” came the reply.

  Wil sighed and dropped his shields.

  :Vehs, don’t break the Waystation.:

  :Then LET THEM IN.:

  “Fine.” Wil walked over and lifted the bar up.

  Lyle peeked inside. A moment later, Khaari pushed past him. She glanced down at the map.

  “I’ll put on tea,” she said.

  Lyle barred the door before taking in the table display, touching the rocks with what remained of his left hand. An unfortunate encounter with a Hardorn axman had relieved him of two of his fingers. “This doesn’t look so bad.”

  “And you’d be wrong,” Wil replied acidly.

  “Do you want to berate me or enlighten me?”

  Wil bit back a retort. That’s fair, he thought. He doesn’t know what he doesn’t know.

  He pointed to the spot representing the quarry. “Madra’s been importing outKingdom weapons. Nothing you’ve ever seen before. Crossbows the size of your forearm that cave in a man’s chest. Flasks of oil that incinerate Companions. She could have ten men and still wipe out your whole clan.”

  “Wil—”

  “I wish I were exaggerating, Lyle. I’m the one with Foresight. Do you think I’m running around with a big frown on my face because it’s telling me everything’s going to go perfectly? Do you have any concept of how deep in the muck we are? Because I do. I begged Selenay to send me an army of Heralds for a reason.” His voice took on a keening tremor. He stopped to take a steadying breath. “I’ve been tracking Madra and this—Lord Dark person for two seasons now. I’ve finally found them, and I’m pretty sure it’s not good enough. But if we don’t do something now, she’s either going to escape—with a load of weapons that seem to be designed to destroy the country we’ve spent our lives defending—or she’s going to find us. It’s not like Waystations are hard to find.”

  “And Lord Dark?” Khaari asked.

  Wil shook his head. “Who knows. He seems more than content to let others do his work for him and to speak through his servants—literally.” His skin crawled at a memory from Cortsberth. He shook himself out of it. “We can assume he’s either Gifted or has access to Gifted. He has access to Madra, at least. Though I wouldn’t call her a Healer anymore. Not after all she’s done.”

  “Wait,” Lyle said. “She’s a Healer?”

  “She’s Androa Baireschild. Madra’s not her real name.” Wil gestured at the map. “That’s why we’re so close to the Baireschild Estates. She put everything where she knew the land. Have to wonder if Lord Grier Baireschild knew about any of this.”

  “Her brother. Isn’t he a Healer, too?”

  “He is.”

  “They’ve got a brother who’s a Herald, too.”

  “Plus a million scheming cousins.” Wil spread his hands. “Who knows who in this family’s involved in this?”

  “So what twists a Healer?” Khaari asked, softly.

  Wil shrugged. “I mean, we have lots of stories of Bards going rogue because . . . well, they’re Bards. Heralds? Tylendel. One legend who shut himself off from his Companion and made a terrible choice. But what causes a Healer to twist?”

  “Pain,” Khaari said into the yawning quiet. “Crippling pain.”

  Wil curled his fingers into fists. “Regardless. She made a choice. She’ll answer for it.”

  Khaari went to fetch the tea, returning with the steaming kettle. “What’s your plan, Herald?”

  “Lyle and I have been on the front lines. Your family and their willingness to sacrifice . . . don’t mistake me. I appreciate it, I do. But I’m tired of loss in this family.”

  Khaari raised her brows. “So when it’s someone else’s family you don’t know, the loss is acceptable?”

  Wil frowned at her. “That’s not the point.”

  “What is the point, Herald? How do you intend to stop Madra and Lord Dark without losses?”

  Wil gazed into the gathering gloom.

  “Wil?” Lyle said.

  “There’s loss,” Wil said. “And then there’s acceptable loss. I think . . . I think Vehs and I can do this ourselves.”

  “Wil, no.”

  :Chosen . . . :

  “Herald,” Khaari said, “that is suicide.”

  Wil let their protests washed over him, but he
turned his ears instead to the distant sound of the cousins—laughing, singing, and clapping.

  Shift the octaves just a bit, and all those happy noises transmuted into cries of terror and pain.

  In his visions, he smelled burning bodies.

  There should be more blood.

  Wil cast his mind back to a memory of a dream. To a Waystation not in Velgarth. To a doorway and a voice he missed.

  I’m so tired, Lelia, he thought.

  “And what’s it called when I lead others to die with me, Khaari?” Wil asked.

  Khaari began to answer; Lyle got there first.

  “So you’ll just leave Ivy,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  Lyle’s hands curled into fists. “You heard me,” he said through clenched teeth. “Your daughter needs you. Just because everyone’s left you doesn’t mean you leave her.”

  Wil’s face flushed. “I—”

  “No.” Lyle slammed his fist down on the table. “No. You listen, Herald. I get it. The people you loved died. Selenay didn’t send you a gift-wrapped Midsummer present of a perfect army of Chosen warriors. As if anyone ever gets what they want. But you know what? Lelia gave you something.” He pointed toward the door. “She gave you her.” Lyle shook with anger. “And you’re going to throw your life away because you think this is about taking turns and you’re too tragically noble to remember that the point of Foresight is to change what you’ve been shown.”

  Khaari sipped her tea. Outside, one of the Companions whickered.

  “Sixteen against nearly double that number,” Lyle said. “I’m no master strategist, and I know nothing about Madra’s weapons, but if she’s down in a quarry with one exit, it seems like we have the upper hand.”

  “Have you considered collapsing the mine entrance and letting the oathbreakers starve to death?” Khaari asked.

  Both the Heralds stared at her.

  “Or . . . a siege?” she asked.

  “Maybe we could divert a river into the quarry?” Lyle asked.

  “Or lure in a nest of colddrakes,” Khaari said.