The Heralds of Valdemar (A Valdemar Omnibus) E-Book

Mercedes Lackey

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

A VALDEMAR OMNIBUS Collecting the New York Times bestsellers: ARROWS OF THE QUEEN ARROW'S FLIGHT ARROW'S FALL Thirteen-year-old Talia longs for a better life, far away from her repressive stepmothers and the village of Sensholding, where books chronicling the adventures of the Heralds of Valdemar and their Companions offer her only escape. But when her family decide she is to be married, Talia flees, only to be rescued by one of the very Companions of legend, a magical steed with incredible powers. Talia soon discovers she has powers of her own, and, together with her Companion, she arrives at the Collegium to fulfil her dreams and train as a Herald. But as Talia struggles to master her unique abilities, she unearths a deadly plot that could destroy both Queen and kingdom. The Heralds of Valdemar omnibus sees Talia grow from teenage runaway to a Herald whose powers will affect the future of the entire realm.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Also by Mercedes Lackey

Title Page

Copyright

Arrows of the Queen

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

Arrow’s Flight

Prologue

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2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

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12

Arrow’s Fall

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

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7

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About the Author

Also Available from Titan Books

Also by Mercedes Lackey and available from Titan Books

THE COLLEGIUM CHRONICLESFoundation Intrigues Changes Redoubt Bastion

HERALD SPYCloser to Home (October 2014)

VALDEMAR OMNIBUSESThe Mage Winds (March 2015)The Mage Storms (September 2015)

THE ELEMENTAL MASTERSThe Serpent’s Shadow The Gates of Sleep Phoenix and Ashes The Wizard of London Reserved for the Cat Unnatural Issue Home from the Sea Steadfast Blood Red

The Heralds of Valdemar Omnibus Print edition ISBN: 9781783293780 E-book edition ISBN: 9781783293797

Published by Titan Books A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd 144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First edition: September 2014 1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Mercedes Lackey asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. Copyright © 1987, 1988, 2014 by Mercedes R. Lackey. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ARROWS of the QUEEN

BOOK ONE of The HERALDS of VALDEMAR

1

Agentle breeze rustled the leaves of the tree, but the young girl seated beneath it did not seem to notice. An adolescent of thirteen or thereabouts, she was, by her plain costume, a member of one of the solemn and straight-laced Hold families that lived in this Borderland of Valdemar—come there to settle a bare two generations ago. She was dressed (as any young Holdgirl would be) in plain brown breeches and a long, sleeved tunic. Her unruly brown curls had been cut short in an unsuccessful attempt to tame them to conform to Hold standards. She would have presented a strange sight to anyone familiar with Holderfolk; for while she sat and carded the undyed wool she had earlier cleaned, she was reading. Few Hold girls could read, and none did so for pleasure. That was a privilege normally reserved, by longstanding tradition, for the men and boys of the Holdings. A female’s place was not to be learned; a girl reading—even if she was doing a womanly task at the same time—was as out of place as a scarlet jay among crows.

If anyone could have seen her thoughts at that moment, they would have known her to be even more of a misfit than her reading implied.

* * *

Vanyel was a dim shape in the darkness beside her; there was no moon, and only the dim light of the stars penetrated the boughs of the hemlock bushes they hid beneath. She only knew he was there by the faint sound of his breathing, though they lay so closely together that had she moved her hand a fraction of an inch, she’d have touched him. Training and discipline held her quiet, though under other circumstances she’d have been shivering so hard her teeth would have rattled. The starlight reflected on the snow beneath them was enough to see by—enough to see the deadly danger to Valdemar that moved below them.

Beneath their ledge, in the narrow pass between Dellcrag and Mount Thurlos, the army of the Dark Servants was passing. They were nearly as silent as the two who watched them; only a creak of snow, the occasional crack of a broken branch, or the faint jingling of armor or harness betrayed them. She marveled at the discipline their silent passage revealed; marveled, and feared. How could the tiny outpost of the Border Guard that lay to the south of them ever hope to make a stand against these warriors who were also magicians? Bad enough that they were outnumbered a hundred to one—these were no simple barbarians coming against the forces of Valdemar this time, who could be defeated by their own refusal to acknowledge any one of their own as overall leader. No, these fighters bowed to an iron-willed leader the equal of any in Valdemar, and their ranks held only the trained and seasoned.

She started as Vanyel’s hand lightly touched the back of her neck, and came out of her half-trance. He tugged slightly at her sleeve; she backed carefully out of the thicket, obedient to his signal.

“Now what?” she whispered, when they were safely around the ledge with the bulk of a stone outcropping between them and the Dark Servants.

“One of us has to alert the King, while the other holds them off at the other end of the pass—”

“With what army?” she asked, fear making her voice sharp with sarcasm.

“You forget, little sister—I need no army—” The sudden flare of light from Vanyel’s outstretched hand illuminated his ironic smile, and bathed his white uniform in an eerie blue wash for one moment. She shuddered; his saturnine features had always looked faintly sinister to her, and in the blue light his face had looked demonic. Vanyel held a morbid fascination for her—dangerous, the man was; not like his gentle lifemate, Bard Stefen. Possibly the last—and some said the best—of the Herald-mages. The Servants of Darkness had destroyed the others, one by one. Only Vanyel had been strong enough to withstand their united powers. She who had little magic in her soul could almost feel the strength of his even when he wasn’t exerting it.

“Between us, my Companion and I are a match for any thousand of their witch-masters,” he continued arrogantly. “Besides—at the far end of the pass there isn’t room for more than three to walk side by side. We can hold them there easily. And I want Stefen well out of this; Yfandes couldn’t carry us double, but you’re light enough that Evalie could easily manage both of you.”

She bowed her head, yielding to his reasoning. “I can’t like it—”

“I know, little sister—but you have precious little magic, while Evalie does have speed. The sooner you go, the sooner you’ll have help here for me.”

“Vanyel—” She touched his gloved hand with one fur mitten. “Be—be safe—” She suddenly feared more for him than for herself. He had looked so fey when the King had placed this mission in their hands—like a man who has seen his own death.

“As safe as may be, little sister. I swear to you, I will risk nothing I am not forced to.”

A heartbeat later she was firmly in the saddle, Evalie galloping beneath her like a blizzard wind in horse-shape. Behind her she could feel Bard Stefen clinging to her waist, and was conscious of a moment of pity for him—to him, Evalie was strange, he could not move with her, only cling awkwardly; while she felt almost as one with the Companion, touched with a magic only another Herald could share.

Their speed was reckless; breakneck. Skeletal tree-limbs reached hungrily for them, trying to seize them as they passed and pull them from Evalie’s back. Always the Companion avoided them, writhing away from the clawlike branches like a ferret.

“The Dark Servants—” Stefen shouted in her ear “—they must know someone’s gone for help. They’re animating the trees against us!”

She realized, as Evalie escaped yet another trap set for them, that Stefen was right—the trees were indeed moving with a will of their own, and not just random waving in the wind. They reached out, hungrily, angrily; she felt the hot breath of dark magic on the back of her neck, like the noisome breath of a carrion-eater. Evalie’s eyes were wide with more than fear; she knew the Companion felt the dark power, too.

She urged Evalie on; the Companion responded with new speed, sweat breaking out on her neck and flanks to freeze almost immediately. The trees seemed to thrash with anger and frustration as they eluded the last of them and broke out on the bank above the road.

The road to the capital lay straight and open before them now, and Evalie leaped over a fallen forest giant to gain the surface of it with a neigh of triumph…

* * *

Talia blinked, emerging abruptly from the spell her book had laid on her. She had been lost in the daydream her tale had conjured for her, but the dream was now lost beyond recall. Someone was calling her name in the distance. She looked up quickly, with a toss of her head that threw her unmanageable hair out of her eyes. Near the door of the family house she could make out the angular figure of Keldar Firstwife, dark-clad and rigid, like a stiff fire iron propped against the building. Keldar’s fists were on her hips; her stern carriage suggested that she was waiting Talia’s response with very little patience.

Talia sighed regretfully, put up her wool and the wire brushes, and closed the worn little cloth-bound volume, laying aside the rocks she’d used to hold down the pages as she’d worked. Though she’d carefully marked the place, she knew that even without the precious scrap of ribbon she used to mark it she’d have no trouble finding it again. Keldar couldn’t have picked a worse time; Herald Vanyel was alone, surrounded by the Servants of Darkness, and no one knew his peril but his Companion and Bard Stefen. Knowing Keldar, it would be hours before she could return to the tale—perhaps not even until tomorrow. Keldar was adept at finding ways to keep Talia from even the little reading she was grudgingly allowed.

Nevertheless, Keldar was Firstwife; her voice ruled the Steading, to be obeyed in all things, or suffer punishment for disobedience. Talia responded to the summons as dutifully as she could. She put the little book carefully away in the covered basket that held carded and uncarded wool and her spindle. The peddler who had given it to her last week had assured her many times that it was worthless to him, but it was still precious to her as one of the three books she owned and (more importantly) the only one she’d never read before.

For an hour this afternoon she’d been transported to the outside world of Heralds and Companions, of high adventure and magic. Returning to the ordinary world of chores and Keldar’s sour face was a distinct letdown. She schooled her expression with care, hoping none of her discontent showed, and trudged dully up the path that led to the Steading, carrying her basket in one hand.

But she had the sinking feeling as she watched the Firstwife’s hardening expression that her best efforts were not enough to mislead Keldar.

Keldar noted the signs of rebellion Talia displayed despite her obvious effort to hide them. The signs were plain enough for anyone with the Firstwife’s experience in dealing with littles; the slightly dragging feet, the sullen eyes. Her mouth tightened imperceptibly. Thirteen years old, and still fighting the yoke the gods had decreed for her shoulders! Well, that would change—and soon. Soon enough there would be no more time for foolish tales and wasted time.

“Stop scowling, child!” Keldar snapped, her thin lips taut with scorn, “You’re not being summoned for a beating!”

Not that she hadn’t warranted a beating to correct her attitude in the past. Those beatings had done precious little good, and had drawn the feeble protests of her Husband’s Mother—but it was the will of the gods that children obey, and if it took beating to drive them into obedience, then one would beat them with as heavy a hand as required, and pray that this time the lesson was learned.

It was possible that she, Keldar, had not possessed a hand heavy enough. Well, if that were indeed the case, that situation would be corrected soon as well.

She watched the child trudge unwillingly up the path, her feet kicking up little puffs of dust. Keldar was well aware that her attitude where Talia was concerned was of a harshness that bordered on the unfair. Still, the child drove her out of all patience. Who would ever have imagined that so placid and bovine a creature as Bessa could have produced a little scrap of mischief like this? The child was like a wild thing sometimes, intractable, and untamable—how could Bessa have dared to birth such a misfit? And who would have thought that she’d have had the poor taste to die of the birthing and leave the rearing of her little to the rest of the Wives?

Talia was so unlike her birth-mother that Keldar was perforce reminded of the stories of changelings. And the child had been born on Midsummer’s Eve, a time long noted for arcane connections—she as little resembled the strong, tall, blond man who was her father as her plump, fair, deceased mother—

But no. That was superstition, and superstition had no place in the lives of Holderkin. It was only that she had double the usual share of stubbornness. Even the most stubborn of saplings could be bent. Or broken.

And if Keldar lacked the necessary tools to accomplish the breaking and bending, there were others among the Holderkin who suffered no such lack.

“Get along, child!” she added, when Talia didn’t respond immediately, “Or do you think I need hurry your steps with a switch?”

“Yes, ma’am. I mean, no, ma’am!” Talia replied in as neutral a voice as she could manage. She tried to smooth her expression into one more pleasing to her elder, even as she smoothed the front of her tunic with a sweaty, nervous palm.

What am I being summoned, for? she wondered apprehensively. In her experience summonings had rarely meant anything good.

“Well, go in, go in! Don’t keep me standing here in the doorway all afternoon!” Keldar’s cold face gave no clue as to what was in store. Everything about Keldar, from her tightly wrapped and braided hair to the exact set of her apron, gave an impression of one in total control. She was everything a Firstwife should be—and frequently pointed this out. Talia was always intimidated by her presence, and always felt she looked hoydenish and disheveled, no matter how carefully she’d prepared herself for confrontations.

In her haste to edge past the authoritative figure of the Firstwife in the doorway, Talia stumbled a little on the lintel. Keldar made a derogatory noise in the back of her throat, and Talia felt herself flush. Somehow there was that about Keldar that never failed to put her at her faultiest and clumsiest. She regathered what little composure she had and slipped inside and into the hall. The windowless entryway was very dark; she would have paused to let her eyes adjust except for the forbidding presence of Keldar hard on her heels.

She felt her way down the worn, wooden floor hoping not to trip again. Then, as she entered the commonroom and she could see again in the light that came from its three windows, her mouth suddenly dried with fear; for all of her Father’s Wives were waiting there, assembled around the rough-hewn wooden table that served them all at meals. And all of them were staring at her. Eight pairs of blue and brown eyes held her transfixed like a bird surrounded by hungry cats. Eight flat, expressionless faces had turned to point in her direction.

She thought at once of all her failings of the last month or so, from her failure to remember her kitchen duties yesterday to the disaster with the little she was supposed to have been watching who’d gotten into the goat pen. There were half a hundred things they might call her to account for, but none of them were bad enough to call for an assemblage of all the Wives; at least, she didn’t think they were!

Unless—she started guiltily at the thought—unless they’d somehow found out she’d been sneaking into Father’s library to read when there was a full moon—light enough to read without a betraying candle. Father’s books were mostly religious, but she’d found an old history or two that proved to be almost as good as her tales, and the temptation had been too much to resist. If they’d found that out—

It might mean a beating every day for a week and a month of “exile”—being locked in a closet at night, and isolated by day, with no one allowed to speak to her or acknowledge her presence in any way, except Keldar, who would assign her chores. That had happened twice already this year. Talia began to tremble. She wasn’t sure she could bear a third time.

Keldar took her place at the head of the table, and her next words drove all thought of that out of Talia’s head. “Well, child,” she said, scowling, “you’re thirteen today.”

Talia felt almost giddy with relief. Just her Birthing-Day? Was that all it was? She took an easier breath, and stood before the assemblage of nine Wives, much calmer mow. She kept her hands clasped properly before her, eyes cast down. She studied the basket at her sturdily-shod feet, prepared to listen with all due respect to the lecture about her growing responsibilities that they’d delivered to her every Birthing-Day she could remember. After they were sure that she’d absorbed all their collective wisdom on the subject, they’d let her get back to her wool (and not so incidentally, her tale).

But what Keldar had to say next scattered every speck of calm she’d regained to the four winds.

“Yes, thirteen,” Keldar repeated significantly. “And that is time to think of Marriage.”

Talia blanched, feeling as if her heart had stopped. Marriage? Oh, sweet Goddess, no!

Keldar seemingly paid no heed to Talia’s reaction; a flicker of her eyes betrayed that she’d seen it, but she went callously on with her planned speech. “You’re not ready for it, of course, but no girl is. Your courses have been regular for more than a year now, you’re healthy and strong. There’s no reason why you couldn’t be a mother before the year is out. It’s more than time you were in a Household as a Wife. Your Honored Father is dowering you with three whole fields, so your portion is quite respectable.”

Keldar’s faintly sour expression seemed to indicate that she felt Talia’s dower to be excessive. The hands clasping the edge of the table before her tightened as the other Wives murmured appreciation of their Husband’s generosity.

“Several Elders have already bespoken your Father about you, either as a Firstwife for one of their sons or as an Underwife for themselves. In spite of your unwomanly habits of reading and writing, we’ve trained you well. You can cook and clean, sew, weave and spin, and you’re trustworthy with the littlest littles. You’re not up to managing a Household yet, but you won’t be called to do that for several years. Even if you go to a young man as his Firstwife, you’ll be living in your Husband’s Father’s Household. So you’re prepared enough to do your duty.”

Keldar seemed to feel that she’d said all she needed to, and sat down, hands folded beneath her apron, back ramrod straight. Underwife Isrel waited for her nod of delegation, then took up the thread of the lecture on a daughter’s options.

Isrel was easily dominated by Keldar, and Talia had always considered her to be more than a little silly. The Underwife looked to Keldar with calflike brown eyes for approval of everything she said—nor did she fail to do so now. She glanced at Keldar after every other word she spoke.

“There’s advantages to both, you know; being a Firstwife and being an Underwife, I mean. If you’re Firstwife, eventually your Husband will start his own Steading and Household, and you’ll be First in it. But if you’re an Underwife, you won’t have to ever make any decisions. And you’ll be in an established Household and Steading—you won’t have to scrimp and scant, there won’t be any hardships. You won’t have to worry about anything except the tasks you’re set and bearing your littles. We don’t want you to be unhappy, Talia. We want to give you the choice of the life you think you’re best suited for. Not the man of course,” she giggled nervously. “That would be unseemly, and besides you probably don’t know any of them anyway.”

“Isrel!” Keldar snapped, and Isrel shrank into herself a little. “That last remark was unseemly, and not suited to a girl’s ears! Now, child, which shall it be?”

Goddess! Talia wanted to die, to turn into a bird, to sink into the floor—anything but this! Trapped; she was trapped. They’d Marry her off and she’d end up like Nada, beaten every night so that she had to wear high-necked tunics to hide the bruises. Or she’d die like her own mother, worn out with too many babies too quickly. Or even if the impossible happened, and her Husband was kind or too stupid to be a danger, her real life, the tales that were all that made living worthwhile, would all but disappear, for there would be no time for them in the never-ending round of pregnancy and a Wife’s duties—

Before she could stop herself, Talia blurted out, “I don’t want to be Married at all!”

The little rustlings and stirrings of a group of bored women suddenly ceased, and they became as still as a row of fenceposts, all with disbelief on their faces. Nine identical expressions of shock and dismay stared at Talia from the sides of the table. The silence closed down around her like the hand of doom.

“Talia, dear,” a soft voice spoke behind her, breaking the terrible silence, and Talia turned with relief to face Father’s Mother, who had been sitting unnoticed in the corner. She was one of the few people in Talia’s life who never seemed to think that everything she did was wrong. Her kind, faded blue eyes were the only ones in the room not full of accusation. The old woman smoothed one braid of cloud-white hair with age-spotted hands in unconscious habit, as she continued. “May the Mother forgive us, but we never thought to ask you. Have you a vocation? Has the Goddess Called you to her service?”

Talia had been hoping for a reprieve, but that, if anything, was worse. Talia thought with horror of the one glimpse she’d had of the Temple Cloisters, of the women there who spent their lives in prayer for the souls of the Holderkiri. The utterly silent women, who went muffled from head to toe, forbidden to leave, forbidden to speak, forbidden—life!—had horrified her. It was a worse trap than Marriage; the very memory of the Cloisters made her feel as if she was being smothered.

She shook her head frantically, unable to talk around the lump in her throat.

Keldar rose from her place with the scrape of a stool on the rough wooden floor and advanced on the terrified child, who was as unable to move as a mouse between the paws of a cat. Keldar took her shoulders with a grip that bruised as it made escape impossible and shook her till her teeth rattled. “What’s wrong with you, girl?” she said angrily. “You don’t want an Honorable Marriage, you don’t want the Peace of the Goddess, what do you want?”

All I want is to be left alone, Talia thought with quiet desperation, I don’t want anything to change—but her traitorous mouth opened again and let the dream spill.

“I want to be a Herald,” she heard herself say.

Keldar released her shoulders quickly, with a look of near-horror as if she’d discovered she’d been holding something vile, something that had crawled out of the midden.

“You—you—” For once, the controlled Keldar was at a loss for words. Then—“Now you see what comes of coddling a brat!” she said, turning on Father’s Mother in default of anyone else to use as a scapegoat, “This is what happens when you let a girl rise above her place. Reading! Figuring! No girl needs to know more than she requires to label her preserves and count her stores or keep the peddlers from cheating her! I told you this would happen, you and your precious Andrean, letting her fill her head with foolish tales!” She turned back to face Talia. “Now, girl—when I finish with you—”

But Talia was gone.

She had taken advantage of the distraction of Keldar’s momentary tirade to escape. Scampering quickly out the door before any of the Wives realized she was missing, she fled the Steading as fast as she could run. Sobbing hysterically, she had no thought except to get away. With the wind in her face, and sweating with fear, she ran past the barns and the stockade, pure terror giving her feet extra speed. She fled through the fields as the waist-high hay and grain beat against her, and up into the woodlot and through it, following a tangled path through the uncut underbrush. She was seeking the shelter of the hiding place she’d found, the place that no one else knew of.

There was a steep bluff where the woodlot ended high above the Road. Two years ago, Talia had found a place where something had carved out a kind of shallow cave beneath the protruding roots of a tree that grew at the very edge of the bluff. She’d lined it with filched straw and old rugs meant for the rag-bag; she kept her other two books hidden there. She had spent many hours stolen from her chores there, daydreaming, invisible from above or below so long as she stayed quiet and still. She sought this sanctuary now, and scrambling over the edge of the bluff, crept into it. She buried herself in the rugs, crying hysterically, limp with exhaustion, nerves practically afire, ears stretched for the tiniest sound above her.

For no matter how deep her misery, she knew she must keep alert for the sounds of searchers. Before very long, she heard the sound of some of the servants calling her name. When they drew too near, she stifled her sobs in the rugs while her tears fell silently, listening in fear for some sign telling her she’d been discovered. She thought a dozen times that they’d found some sign of her passage, but they seemed to have lost her track. Eventually they went away, and she was free to cry as she would.

Wrapped in pure misery, she hugged her knees to her chest and rocked back and forth, weeping until her eyes were too dry and sore to shed another tear. She felt numb all over, too numb to think properly. Any choice she made seemed worse than the one before it. Should she return and apologize, any punishment she’d ever had before would seem a pleasure to the penance Keldar was likely to devise for her unseemly and insubordinate behavior. It would be Keldar’s choice, and her Father’s, what would befall her then. Any Husband Keldar would choose now would be—horrid. She’d either be shackled to some drooling old dotard, to be pawed over by night and to be a nursemaid by day—or she’d be given to some brutal, younger man, a cruel one, with instructions to break her to seemly behavior. Keldar would likely pick one as sadistic as Justus, her older brother—she shuddered, as the unbidden memory came to her, of him standing over her with the hot poker in his hand and the look on his face of fierce pleasure—

She forced the memory away, quickly.

But even that fate would be a pleasurable experience compared to what would happen if they decided to offer her as a Temple Servant. The Goddess’s Servants had even less freedom and more duties than Her Handmaidens. They lived and died never going beyond the cloister corridor to which they were assigned. And in any case, no matter what future they picked for her, her reading, her escape, would be over. Keldar would see to it that she never saw another book again.

For one moment, she contemplated running away, truly fleeing the Steading and the Holderkin. Then she recalled the faces of the wandering laborers she’d seen at Hiring Fairs; pinched, hungry, desperate for anyone to take them into a Holding. And she’d never seen a woman among them. The “foolish tales” she’d read made one thing very clear, the life of a wanderer was dangerous and sometimes fatal for the unprepared, the defenseless. What preparation had she? She had the clothing she stood up in, the ragged rugs, and nothing else. How could she defend herself? She’d never even been taught how to use a knife. She’d be ready prey.

If only this were a tale—

An unfamiliar voice called her name—a voice full of calm authority, and she found herself answering it, climbing out of her hiding place almost against her will. And there before her, waiting at the top of the bluff—

A Herald; resplendent and proud in her Whites, her Companion a snowy apparition beside her, mane arid tail lifting in the gentle breeze like the finest silk. Sunlight haloed and hallowed both of them, making them seem more than mortal. She looked to Talia like the statue of the Lady come to life—only proud, strong and proud, not meek and submissive. Behind the Herald, looking cowed and ashamed, were Keldar and her Father.

“You are Talia?” the Herald asked, and she nodded affirmatively.

She broke out in a smile that dazzled her—it was like a sudden appearance of the sun after rain.

“Blessed is the Lady who led us here!” she exclaimed. “Many the weary months we have searched for you, and always in vain. We had nothing to go on except your name—”

“Led you to me?” she asked, exalted. “But, why?”

“To make you one of us, little sister,” she replied, as Keldar shrank into herself and her Father seemed bent on studying the tops of his shoes. “You are to be a Herald, Talia—the gods themselves have decreed it. Look—yonder comes your Companion—”

She looked where the Herald pointed, and saw a graceful white mare with a high, arched neck and a knowing eye pacing deliberately toward her. The Companion was caparisoned all in blue and silver, tiny bells hanging from her reins and bridle. Behind the Companion, at a respectful distance, came all her sibs, the rest of the Wives, and all the servants of the Holding.

With a glad cry, she ran to meet the mare and the Herald helped her to mount up on the Companion’s back, while the Hold servants cheered, her sibs stared in sullen respect, and Keldar and her Father stared at her in plain fear, obviously thinking of all the punishments they’d meted out to HER and expecting the same now that she was the one in power—

The sound of hoofbeats on the Road broke into her desperate daydream. For one panicked moment she thought it was another searcher, but then she realized that her Father’s horses sounded nothing like this. These hoofbeats had a chime like bells on the hard surface. As the sound drew nearer, it was joined by another; the sound of real bells, of bridle bells. Only one kind of horse wore bridle bells every day, and not just on Festival Days—the magical steed of legend, a Herald’s Companion.

Talia had never seen a real Herald, though she’d daydreamed about them constantly. The realization that she was finally going to see one of her dreams in actual fact startled her out of her fantasy and her tears completely. The distraction was too tempting to resist. For just this one moment she would forget her troubles, her hopeless position, and snatch a tiny bit of magic for herself, to treasure all her days. She leaned out of her cave, stretching as far out as she could, thinking of nothing except to catch a glimpse—and leaned out too far.

She lost her balance, and her flailing hands caught nothing but air. She tumbled end over end down the bluff, banging painfully into roots and rocks. The wind was knocked out of her before she was halfway down, and nothing she collided with seemed to slow her descent any. She was totally unable to stop her headlong tumble until she landed on the hard surface of the Road itself, with a force that set sparks to dancing in front of her eyes and left her half-stunned.

When the grayness cleared away from her vision and she could get a breath again, she found herself sprawled face downward on the Road. Her hands were scraped, her sides bruised, her knees full of gravel, and her eyes full of dirt. When she turned her head to the side, blinking tears away, she found she was gazing at four silver hooves.

She gave a strangled gasp and scrambled painfully to her feet. Regarding her with a gentle curiosity was a—well, a Herald’s Companion was hardly what one would call a “horse.” They transcended horses in the way that panthers transcend alleycats, or angels transcend men. Talia had read and heard plenty of descriptions of the Companions before, but she was still totally unprepared for the close-hand reality.

The riderless Companion was in full formal array, his trappings silver and sky-blue, his reins hung with silver bridle bells. No horse in Talia’s experience had that slender, yet muscular grace or could match the way he seemed to fly without taking a single step. He was white—Companions were always white—but nothing on earth could possibly match that glowing, living, radiant white. And his eyes—

When Talia finally had the courage to look into those sapphire eyes, she lost track of the world—

* * *

She was lost in blue more vast than a sea and darker than sky and full of welcome so heart-filling it left no room for doubt.

Yes—at last—you. I Choose you. Out of all the world, out of all the seeking, I have found you, young sister of my heart! You are mine and I am yours—and never again will there be loneliness—

It was a feeling more than words; a shock and a delight. A breathless joy so deep it was almost pain; a joining. A losing and a finding; a loosing and a binding. Flight and freedom. And love and acceptance past all words to tell of the wonder of it—and she answered that love with all her soul.

Now forget, little one. Forget until you are ready to remember again.

* * *

Blinking, she came back to herself, with a feeling that something tremendous had happened, though she didn’t know quite what. She shook her head—there had been—it was—but whatever had happened had receded just out of memory, though she had the odd feeling it might come back when she least expected it to. But for now there was a soft nose nudging her chest, and the Companion was whickering gently at her.

It was as though someone were putting loving arms about her, and urging her to cry all her unhappiness out. She flung both her arms around his neck and wept unrestrainedly into his silky mane. The feeling of being held and comforted intensified as soon as she touched him, and she lost herself in the unfamiliar but welcome sensation. Unlike her lone crying in her cave, this session of tears brought peace in its wake, and before too long she was able to dry her eyes on a corner of her tunic and take heed of her surroundings again.

She let go of his neck with reluctance, and took another long look at him. For one wild moment, she was tempted to leap into his empty saddle. She had a vision of herself riding away, far away; anywhere, so long as it was away from here and she was with him. The temptation was so great it left her shaking. Then practicality reasserted itself. Where could she go? And besides—

“You’ve run away from someone, haven’t you?” she said quietly to the Companion, who only blew into her jerkin in answer. “I can’t have you, you could only belong to a Herald. I’ll—” She gulped. There was a huge lump in her throat and tears threatened again at the idea of parting with him. Never, ever in her short life had she wanted anything as much as the way she wanted to—to—be his, and he hers! “I’ll have to take you back to whoever you belong to.”

A new thought occurred to her, and for the first time that afternoon, hope brightened her for a moment as she saw a way out of her dilemma. “Maybe—maybe they’ll be grateful. Maybe they’ll let me work for them. They must need someone to do their cooking and sewing and things. I’d do anything for Heralds.” The soft blue eyes seemed to agree that this was a good idea. “They’re bound to be nicer than Keldar—they’re so kind and wise in all the tales. I bet they’d let me read when I wasn’t working. I’d get to see Heralds all the time—” Tears lumped her throat again, “—maybe they’d let me see you, once in a while.”

The Companion only whickered again, and stretching his neck out, nudged her with his velvet nose toward his saddle, maneuvering for her to mount.

“Me?” she squeaked. “I couldn’t—” Suddenly, the reality of what he was and what she was came home to her. All very well to dream of leaping on his back; but in cold, sober reflection the very idea that she, grubby and ordinary, should sit in the saddle of a Companion shocked her.

The enormous, vivid blue eyes looked back at her with a trace of impatience. One hoof stamped with a certain imperiousness, and he shook his mane at her. His whole manner said as clearly as speech that he thought her scruples were ridiculous. After all, who was going to see her? And now that she thought about it, it was quite possible that he had come from a goodly distance away; if she insisted on walking, it was likely to take forever to return him.

“Are you sure you don’t mind? That it’s all right?” She spoke in a timid voice, unmindful of the incongruity of asking a horse for advice.

He tossed his head impatiently, and the bridle bells rang. There was little doubt that he felt she was being excessively silly.

“You’re right,” she said in sudden decision, and mounted.

Talia was no stranger to riding. She’d done so every chance she could, often sneaking rides when no one was looking. She’d ridden every horse of an age to bear her weight, broken or not, saddled or bareback. She was the oldest of the littles on the Holding, and hence the only one considered responsible enough to be sent to other Elders with messages or to the village on errands. She was usually a-horseback at least once a week legitimately. She was generally found sneaking rides at least three or four times that often.

But riding a Companion was nothing like any riding she’d ever done. His pace was so smooth a true little could have stayed in his saddle without falling, and if she’d closed her eyes she’d never have guessed he was more than ambling along. Her Father’s beasts had to be goaded constantly to maintain more than a walk; of his own volition the Companion had moved into a canter, and it was faster than the fastest gallop she’d ever coaxed out of any of them. The sweet air flowed past her like the water of the river, and it blew her hair back out of her face. The intoxication of it drove all thought of anything else clean out of her mind. It was as if the wind rushing past them had swept all her unhappiness right out of her and left it behind in an untidy heap in the center of the Road.

If this was a daydream, she hoped she’d die in the middle of it and never have to wake to the dreary world again.

2

Within a single candlemark they were farther from her Father’s Holding than Talia had ever been before. The Road here ran parallel to the River; on one side of it was the steep bluff crowned with trees and brush, on the other was a gentler drop-off down to the River. The River here was wide and very slow; Talia could see glimpses of the farther bank through the trees that grew at her edge of it. These trees were huge willows that made a living screen with their drooping branches. There was no sign of any human habitation. All she could hear was birdsong and the sounds of insects in the branches overhead and to either side. All she could see were the trees and the occasional glimpse of the River, and the Road stretching on ahead. Although she couldn’t be entirely sure, Talia had a notion that the lands of the Holderkin were now all behind her.

The sun was still relatively high, and its warmth was very pleasant, not harsh as it would be later in the summer. The Road’s surface was of some material she had never seen before, since she had never actually dared to venture down to the Road itself even once in her life, and there was little or no dust. The scent of green growing things on the breeze was like wine to her, and she drank in every bit of her experience greedily. At any moment now she might come upon the Herald this Companion rightfully belonged to; her adventure would be over, and it wasn’t likely she’d ever get to ride a Companion again. Every moment was precious and must be stored away in her memory against the future.

As candlemarks passed and no Herald—in fact, nothing more than a squirrel or two—came into view, Talia began to fall into a kind of trance; the steady pace of the Companion and the Road stretching ahead of her was hypnotic. Something comforting just at the edge of her awareness lulled her into tranquility. She was lost in this trance for some time, and only came back to herself when the setting sun struck her full in the eyes. Her anxieties and fears had somehow disappeared while she’d ridden unmindful of her surroundings. Now there was only a calm, and a feeling of rightness about this journey—and a tentative feeling of excitement. But night was coming on fast, and she and the Companion were still alone together on the Road.

The shape of the landscape had changed while she rode unaware. The double drop-off had leveled off, very gradually, so gradually that she hadn’t noticed it. Now the woods and fields to her right were level with the surface of the Road, and the Road itself was only a foot or two above the lapping surface of the water. The River was a scant two horse-lengths away from the verge of the Road. The land had flattened out so much that Talia knew for certain she was no longer even close to the lands belonging to the Holderfolk that lay on the Border of the Kingdom.

“Are we going to travel all night?” she asked the Companion, who cocked his ears back to catch her words. He whuffed, shook his head, and slowed to a walk. Now she could hear the sounds that birds make only when they’re preparing to roost; quiet, sleepy little chirrups and half-calls. The Companion seemed to be looking for something on the woodward side of the Road; at least that was the impression Talia got. Just as the setting sun began to dye his white coat a bright scarlet, he seemed to spot what he was looking for. With no warning, he sped up and trotted right off the Road and down a path into the woods.

“Where are you going?” she cried.

He just shook his head and kept to the path. The trees were far too thick on either side for her to even think of trying to jump off. The underbrush was thick and full of shadows that made her fears reawaken. She had no idea what might be lurking in the growth beneath the trees. There could be thorns there, or stenchbeetles, or worse. Biting her lip in vexation and worry, she could only cling to the saddle and wait.

The path abruptly widened into a clearing, and in the center of the clearing was a small building; only a single room, and windowless, but with a chimney. It was very clearly well-maintained, and just as clearly vacant. With a surge of relief, Talia recognized it from her reading as a Herald’s Waystation.

“I’m sorry,” she said contritely to the ears that were swiveled back to catch her words. “You did know what you were doing, didn’t you?”

The Companion only slowed to a stop, pivoted neatly before the door of the Waystation, shook his forelock out of his eyes and waited for her to dismount.

The tales she’d read were a great help here; Talia knew exactly what she’d find and approximately where to find it. She swung her leg carefully over the Companion’s back and slid slowly to the ground. Moving quickly (she discovered with a touch of dismay) wasn’t possible. She’d never spent this much time in a saddle before, and her legs were feeling very stiff, and a little sore and shaky.

She knew that her first duty was to see to the needs of the Companion. She unsaddled him quickly, and noticed with a start of surprise as she removed the bridle that it had no bit, being little more than an elaborate hackamore. There was no way that it could “control” him, not unless his Herald had the strength of arm to wrench his head around by main force. It was a most peculiar piece of tack—and what it implied was even more peculiar.

She stacked the tack carefully by the door of the Waystation, then lifted the latch and peered around inside. There was just enough daylight left for her to locate what she was looking for; a tinderbox on a shelf just inside the door.

She laid tinder and cautiously lit a very small fire in the fireplace; just enough to give light to see. With the interior of the Waystation illuminated, Talia was able to locate her second requirement; rags to clean the tack, and a currycomb to groom the Companion.

He stood far more placidly than any of her Father’s horses while she groomed every last speck of sweat and dust from his coat. When she’d clearly finished with him he cantered to the center of the clearing for a brisk roll in the grass. She giggled to see him drop his dignity and act so very horselike, particularly after the way he’d been acting up until this point—almost as if it was he that was taking her to someone. She cleaned the tack just as carefully as she’d cleaned him, with a sensuous enjoyment of the leathery scent. She put it just inside the door where the dew wouldn’t reach it. There had been two buckets next to the pile of rags; in the blue dusk she hurried down to the river with them while she could still see. The Companion came with her, weeds whisking his legs and hers, following her like a puppy, and drank his fill while she filled the buckets.

The delightful feel of the cool water around her feet reminded her how grubby and sticky she was. There had been first her run through the woods, followed by the fall down the bank, then the long ride to ensure that she needed a bath. And part of the regime of any Holdchild was an almost painful devotion to cleanliness. Talia was more used to feeling scoured than dirty, and fastidiously preferred the former sensation.

“You may be a Companion,” she told the watching stallion, “but you still smell like a horse, and now so do I. Do you think it would be safe to bathe here?”

The Companion whickered, then took a few steps away from her and pawed with his hoof at the edge of the water, nodding his head as if to be certain she caught his meaning. She went to where he was standing, and peered through the gathering darkness down into the waterweeds.

“Oh!” she cried delightedly. “Soaproot! It must be all right then; Heralds wouldn’t plant soaproot where it wasn’t safe to bathe.”

Without another thought, she stripped down to the bare skin. She started to pile her clothing on the bank, but changed her mind, and took it into the water with her. It would probably dry wrinkled, but wrinkles were better than dirt.

The water was sunwarmed, like silk against her bare skin, and the bottom here was sandy rather than muddy. She splashed and swam like a young otter, enjoying the sensation of being able to skinswim like a little without wondering what Keldar would do if she caught her. It occurred to Talia that her bridges were all burned now, for certain sure. No female of marriageable age gone overnight without leave would ever be accepted back into the Holding as anything but a drudge, and that only if the Husband and Firstwife were feeling magnanimous. For one moment Talia felt frightened by the idea, for after her performance of this afternoon no one at the Holding was likely to feel generosity on her behalf—but then her eyes fell on the luminous white form of the Companion waiting for her on the bank, and she decided that she should make up her mind not to care, not even a little bit.

When she’d scrubbed herself and her clothing with clean sand and soaproot and the air was beginning to feel chilly, she decided she’d had enough. The Companion continued to follow her all the way back to the shelter, and once they’d reached their goal, he nudged her toward the door with his nose and whickered in entreaty. There was no doubt in Talia’s mind as to what he wanted, and it no longer seemed odd to be taking her direction from him.

“Greedy!” she chuckled. “Want your supper, do you? That should teach you not to run away, Rolan!”

She paused then, and frowned a little in concentration. “Now where did I get that name?” she wondered aloud. She gazed at the moonlight-dappled Companion, who stood easily, ears cocked forward, watching her. “From you? Is that your name? Rolan?”

For a moment she felt disoriented, as if seeing through someone else’s eyes. It almost seemed as if she and something else were briefly joined as one—it was uncanny, and yet not at all frightening. Then the moment passed.

“Well, I suppose I have to call you something, no matter where the name came from. Just let me put my things up to dry and go back for the buckets, Rolan. Then I’ll get supper for both of us.”

She poured a generous measure of grain for him, then took a Fire-blackened pot she’d seen earlier to make a grain-and-fruit porridge for herself. Rolan finished his own portion before her porridge was done and moved closer to lie in the grass an arm’s length off from her with every sign of content. Insects sang in the woods all around them, and leaves rustled slightly. The firelight shone on Rolan’s coat as she leaned up against the Waystation wall, feeling oddly happy.

“What I don’t understand,” she said to him, “is why you ran away. Companions aren’t supposed to do that sort of thing, are they?”

Rolan simply opened his eyes wide at her and looked wise.

“I hope you know where we’re going because I certainly don’t. Still, we’re bound to meet a Herald sometime, and I’m sure he’ll know what to do with you.”

The porridge looked and smelled done; she pulled the pot out of the fire with a branch and began to eat it with her fingers as soon as it had cooled enough.

“It really is strange, you coming along when you did,” she told him. “I expect I’d have been found before dark or gotten resigned to the situation and gone back to the Holding myself.” She regarded him with speculative eyes. “I don’t suppose—you didn’t come to rescue me, did you? No, that’s ridiculous. I’m not a Herald, I’m just Holderkin; just strange Talia. Why would you want to rescue me? Besides, if you’d meant to rescue me, you would have brought your Herald along, wouldn’t you?” she sighed, a little sadly. “I wish I was your Herald. I’d like to live like this always.”

Rolan’s eyes were closed, and his head nodded. Now that her stomach was comfortably full, Talia found her own head beginning to nod. The woods were very dark, the ground beneath her was very hard, and the interior of the Waystation looked very inviting to a girl who’d seldom spent a night out under the sky, and never alone.

“Well, if you’re going to go to sleep, I’d better do the same!”

She banked the fire, covering the pot of porridge with the coals and ashes to keep the rest of it warm for breakfast, then pulled up armfuls of the long grass to use to fill the bedbox. It didn’t take very long; once she’d settled, Rolan moved to lie across the door, almost like a guard dog. It seemed to her that she’d no sooner tumbled into it, than she was fast asleep.

She woke to the sound of birdsong with Rolan standing in the Waystation beside the bedbox nudging her shoulder. For one moment she couldn’t remember exactly where she was, confused with sleep; then with full awareness it all came back with a rush. She jumped out of her nest of sweet-smelling grasses to hug Rolan’s neck, overwhelmed with thankfulness that it hadn’t all been a dream.

She ate her breakfast quickly, then cleaned herself and the shelter to the best of her ability. She buried the ashes of the dead fire with a little twinge of guilt; she knew that etiquette demanded that she replace the wood she’d used, but without an axe, that simply wasn’t possible. She’d have felt a lot guiltier had it been Midwinter instead of Midsummer, and she’d really used very little of what seemed to be a plentiful supply. Once all was in as good order as she’d found it, she saddled Rolan and they trotted back to the Road.

The morning passed swiftly. Not only was every moment with Rolan a delight and a treasure, but now there was more to see as well. The dense woods began to give way to cultivated fields; in the distance she saw stock grazing, and once or twice a cottage, shaded by trees and cooled by ivy. Then, just after the sun crossed overhead, the Road curved and dove down into a village, set in a small valley.

Talia couldn’t help but stare about her with amazed eyes; this village was very different from the one she’d lived near all her life. The Holderfolk wore nothing but somber colors, nothing gayer than a dull saffron; but here it seemed that everyone had a touch of bird-bright color about him. Even the shabbiest had at least a scarf or hair ribbon of scarlet or blue. Some (the look of them showing they were prosperous folk who needn’t worry about soiling their clothing with work) were dressed entirely in colors. Even the houses were festive with bright designs on their whitewashed walls, and the shutters were painted to match. Those houses looked extremely odd to Talia—why, they couldn’t have held more than one man, his Firstwife, and a few littles! There was obviously no room at all for Underwives and their littles. Talia wondered if each Wife had her own house, then giggled at the unseemly (but amusing) notion of the Husband running from house to house in the night, intent on doing his duty with each of his Wives.

The village itself, besides looking prosperous and well-cared-for, was also unenclosed; a startling sight to one who was used to seeing walls and stockades around inhabited places.

She reined in Rolan at the sight of a man standing beside a small hut positioned just at the verge of the Road where it first entered the village proper. He looked as if he must be some sort of guard or official; he was dressed in garments of a bright blue that matched, from boots to hat. He had a quiver of short arrows on his back, and Talia saw a crossbow leaning beside him against the wall of the hut.

The sight of him alarmed her no small amount—in her experience, men (especially men in obvious positions of authority) were creatures to be feared. They held the power of life and death over the members of their families; they decreed the rewards of the obedient and the punishments of the rebellious. How many times had the Elders or her Father deemed it necessary that she be beaten or sent into isolation for far, far less than she’d done in the past two days? Too many times to count easily, for certain sure. There was no indication that this stranger might not order the same punishments for her now; or worse, send her back to the Holding. Yet she was going to have to speak to someone; she’d been searching for nearly a day now and hadn’t found any clue to where this Companion belonged. He seemed to have a friendly, open face, and she took her courage in hand to address him.

“P-pray excuse me, sir,” she said politely, stuttering a little, “but have you seen a Herald who’s lost his Companion?”

Her question seemed to startle him, and he approached the two of them slowly, as if trying not to frighten her (leaving his crossbow behind, Talia noted with relief).

“No indeed, young miss,” he replied. “Why ask you?”

“I found this Companion alone on the Road yesterday,” she answered hesitantly, still not sure she hadn’t done wrong despite the fact that it didn’t seem he was going to take her into custody or hail her before a Council of Elders just yet, “and it seemed to me I should take him back to whoever he belongs with.”

He measured her with his eyes; she found his scrutiny unnerving. “Where are you from, child?” he asked at last.

“Sensholding, near Cordor. Back that way.” She waved vaguely back down the Road in the direction she’d come.

“Ah, Holderfolk,” he said, as if that explained something to him, “Well, young miss, there’s only one thing you can do if you find a lone Companion. You have to return him to the Herald’s Collegium yourself.”

“Me?” her voice broke with alarm. “The Collegium? By myself?”

He nodded, and she gulped. “Is it very far?” she asked in a near-whisper.