Redoubt: Book Four of the Collegium Chronicles (A Valdemar Novel) Read online

  Contents

  Also by Mercedes Lackey

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  REDOUBT

  THE COLLEGIUM CHRONICLES BOOK FOUR

  MERCEDES LACKEY

  Copyright © 2012 by Mercedes Lackey

  All Rights Reserved.

  Jacket art by Jody A. Lee.

  DAW Book Collectors No. 1602.

  DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Book designed by Elizabeth Glover.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law.

  ISBN 978-1-101-59758-3

  Dedicated to the memory of Anne McCaffrey.

  No one could have had a better inspiration or role model.

  1

  Herald Trainee Mags and his Companion Dallen stood so quietly in the blue dusk that they might have been an equestrian statue. The last light of the sun burned a rim of muted rose against the trees and the wall around the western side of the Palace. Overhead, stars gleamed in a sky gone a blue so dark it was just barely a color. Mags knew there would be only a sliver of new moon tonight, nothing to drown the splendor of the stars. The scent of newly cut grass surrounded them, but the gentlest of breezes at their backs brought whiffs of the mingled perfumes of roses, lilacs, honeysuckle, and lilies. The stars seemed near enough to touch, blazing jewels strewn across velvet.

  Dallen dipped his head a little, and Mags absently patted his Companion’s neck. Dallen was attired in unusual splendor, in his full formal gear, with blue leather saddle and bitless bridle, the bridle adorned with silver-plated bridle bells, browband with his name tooled into it, and blue-and-white barding embroidered with silver. Mags had spent hours grooming him, and it showed; there was not a hair that didn’t gleam like the finest satin. Mags had even polished his silver-gray hooves until they looked almost like real silver.

  Mags was clothed to match in a set of formal Grays in a velvet as light as a cobweb and linen fine enough to use in a Temple. And for once, these weren’t hand-me-downs from some other, wealthier Trainee; no, this was a very special occasion that warranted a very special outlay by the Crown itself. Every Trainee at the Collegium had an identical set of splendid new Grays, or the dull Scarlets and Greens of the Bard and Healer Trainees—and every Herald, Bard, and Healer here who didn’t already own a sumptuous uniform or set of robes of his or her own had been supplied with dress uniforms that had left some people gaping.

  Mags wasn’t thinking about his new uniform. He was putting himself into the quietest state of mind he could manage. What he and the others were about to do required that every Herald and Trainee surrender himself to a kind of common pool of doing. It wasn’t unlike Kirball in that way, actually, and the more he thought about it in that fashion, the calmer he felt himself becoming. Finally he felt that last little bit of tension ease out of his shoulders, and Dallen shook his head gently.

  :It’s time, Chosen.:

  Mags took the blue-glass lantern hanging from the saddle horn, found the fire-striker in his belt pouch without even thinking about it, and set the wick alight. Then Dallen turned, and they moved down toward the chapel in Companion’s Field, joining one of half a dozen processions of Heralds and Trainees, all carrying identical lit lanterns in one hand, coming from all parts of the Collegium and moving as if they were all directed by the same will. Dallen moved smoothly under him, not like a horse at all—the few times Mags had ridden one of the Kirball horses had left him with a hearty sympathy for the Riders.

  The lanterns provided the only light anywhere up on the Hill. Not a single light of any sort shone from the Palace or the Collegia. As dark as it was, they all might as well have been riding through a forest somewhere in the wilderness rather than through Companion’s Field. Within a few moments, Mags was at the head of the farthest left of the six lines, and he sensed, rather than saw, that King’s Own Nikolas was at the head of the farthest right. All the lines stopped. And in that same moment, with one accord, the Companions took up the curiously slow, graceful, and beautiful gait that was known as “Companion Dancing.”

  The only sound was that of the rhythmic chiming of the bridle bells as all six lines halted in place, Companions still pacing. Then Mags and Nickolas led their lines out, while the inner four remained pacing in place. When they were six lengths in front of the rest, Mags and Nikolas turned toward each other. The lanterns seemed to make graceful arcs in the darkness as they moved, with the blue light reflecting off the snowy coats of the Companions and the white and gray uniforms. The next two lines began to move forward, as the outermost lines curved toward each other, met, and passed. Then the innermost lines moved up, until the entire path to the chapel had become an interlacing of dancing Companions, coats throwing back the blue light of the lanterns, bridle bells making the only music needed for this dance. From any distance, it would all blur into a moving, weaving, and reweaving braid of light whose goal was clearly the chapel.

  Mags found himself in a kind of pleasant half-trance, aware of every Companion and every Herald and Trainee around him, aware of exactly where they were in the procession, somehow conveying minute corrections to the others so that the distances between the riders never varied, and every hoof was precisely placed.

  He and Nikolas arrived at the chapel, again at the heads of the two outermost lines, and Dallen and Rolan pivoted so that they faced one another with a broad stretch of the path between them. As the rest arrived, they too lined up, and only when the last of them were in place did the Companions cease to dance.

  But there was still the sound of bridle bells, for coming down the path they had left was a single Companion with two riders, followed by another, followed by a very select group of witnesses.

  The first riders were, of course, the Heir, Prince Sedric, and his bride, Master Soren’s niece Lydia, and as they reached the chapel, the door opened, spilling out a carpet of soft, warm light, although there was no other light visible. Lydia was radiant, her green eyes shining with happiness, her tumble of red curls pinned up under a wreath of white flowers. Mags knew more about cloth and dresses than most young men, since such knowledge was part of the training he had as what was essentially a spy for the Crown. Her white gown, trimmed in silver, was rich but not ostentatious—quite good enough for a princess, but it said without words that this was a lady who would not break the Treasury for the sake of a dress. Sedric, of course, looked every inch the Prince and Herald and very much his father’s son, dark as his father was and with his father’s chiseled features. And very, very happy.

  The Prince dismounted, and his lady slid down into his arms; the King and Queen followed suit, and the wedding party proceeded into the chapel to the sound of a harp from somewhere inside. The door closed, leaving everyone outside with only the blue light of the lanterns illuminating them all.

  It was a very small wedding party. The chape
l wasn’t very large and they all fit inside handily, with room to spare. Faced with an ever-increasing guest list, the princess-to-be had finally put her foot down, gently, but firmly. “Every time we meet, there is someone else who cannot be left out without offending them,” Lydia had said, with the aplomb of someone who had spent all her life watching the factions and movements in the Court. “Very well. We will offend everyone. I want no one at the ceremony but our immediate families.”

  The Council had been horrified. But Lydia was both firm and charming in a way that made some suspect some sort of Gift at work. Or, as Nikolas had said, in tones of admiration, “She can tell you to go to hell in a way that will send you running off to pack your bags.” Lydia had gotten her way.

  Of course, no one was going to be offended. The vast mobs of people who could not possibly have been accommodated in any temple or cathedral in all of Valdemar could certainly fit into the Palace grounds, and as soon as the two were declared officially wed, the celebration would begin. And meanwhile—

  Nikolas nodded at Mags, who dropped back into his trance. Rolan and Dallen pawed the ground three times in perfect synchronization, and the Heralds and Trainees raised their lanterns again on the third beat as the Companions resumed their dance.

  This time it was only two lines, crossing and recrossing, weaving and reweaving, to the sound of the bridle bells. When the King signaled from within the chapel that the ceremony had concluded, they needed to be back in their places for the recessional within four beats of the dance. But it was certainly a fine display up there on the hill, and it was making those who had been shut out of the ceremony feel as if they were part of it. Or that was the theory, anyway.

  As if someone had conjured it to make the entire scene perfect, a flower-scented breeze came up from somewhere deep in the Field, wafting up to the top of the hill where the silent onlookers waited.

  :Now,: Mags heard in his mind, and within the allotted four beats, they were all back in place.

  :Ready,: Nikolas replied to the King, and the entire chapel suddenly blazed with light. Light poured from every window. Light streamed from the Bell Tower. And that, of course, was the signal for the Palace and gardens to answer with their own blaze of glory, as the chapel doors opened, and the wedding party came out.

  From up on the hill, it was the Bards’ turn to contribute, as the massed musicians of the Collegium and every other Bard who could possibly get here broke into a processional march especially composed for the occasion. The Prince mounted his Companion; Nikolas, who had dismounted, lifted the new Princess up onto the pillion pad behind him. Then the King mounted, and Nikolas then did the same for the Queen. Then with the Prince leading Mags’ row, and the King leading Nikolas’, they made their way in two long lines back up to the Palace. The breeze seemed to accompany them like an invisible train of flowers, and the music came down to them like a blessing.

  The onlookers withheld their applause until the royal party reached the half-circle of splendidly clad Guardsmen awaiting them, and the Companions stopped just as the recessional ended. Then the clapping and shouting began.

  The two rows of Heralds and Trainees passed by a pair of tables, where a couple of servants took their lanterns from them.

  Mags was mightily glad to be rid of that lantern when he got to that edge of the grounds and the people waiting to relieve the honor guard of their glowing burdens. It might not have been very heavy, but they were awkward to carry, and you couldn’t just hang a lit lantern on your saddle-bow. The lanterns were going to be gifts to all those people who dared not be offended; he was pretty certain they’d be satisfied enough with them. If you couldn’t be at the ceremony itself, it certainly would not displease anyone to have a pretty thing like the silver-plated lantern to show you had been to the event.

  The lanterns were placed on a table next to the King and Queen to be distributed (after which they became the problem of their new owners!), and a long reception line began to form to tender congratulations.

  Not, however, to the bride and groom.

  No, the Prince waited until all the Companions were back up at the gardens and all the lanterns collected and blown out. Then with a general wave and an exuberant whoop, he and his bride galloped back down to Companion’s Field and their own secluded little wedding bower somewhere in it. There they would be guarded by all the unpartnered Companions, and heaven help anyone who tried to disturb them. That had been the Prince’s demand, and who could blame him? He’d had to wait two years for Lydia already. The festivities were scheduled for three days; they’d come out for some things, and at the end of the third day, he and the Princess would return to the Palace and take their congratulations at a formal reception as the invitees left.

  The gardens had been illuminated not only with their usual lamps but also with scented lanterns and torches. Tables with drink and refreshments—drink, mostly, Mags suspected–were scattered about. The guests had been feasting all afternoon, unlike the Trainees.

  Mags was scanning the crowd for another face entirely, and he felt his heart lift as he spotted Amily slowly, and with great determination, making her way toward him. You had to be watching for her to see her; as always, she was dressed to blend in, rather than stand out. Among all of the jewels and extravagant costumes, she was like a sparrow among scarlet jays.

  He did not urge Dallen to her, for he knew she was exceedingly proud of how strong she was growing, and he was not going to undermine that by offering more help than she wanted. But by the time she had reached him, Nikolas had pulled up beside him and dismounted, and he boosted her up behind Mags exactly as he had helped the Princess and Queen.

  Amily was very like her father; you had to look at her closely to realize she was pretty, and you had to really know her to understand she wasn’t merely pretty but had a quiet beauty that was so self-contained that very little of it escaped. Like her father, she had soft brown hair and brown eyes, and something about her made the eye tend to slide over her. In his case, Mags suspected that the ability to make people overlook Nikolas was entirely training. In Amily’s case, it was something more subtle than training; it had been, at least in part, the desire to draw no attention to herself and her disability. A disability that, thanks to Bear, no longer existed. She had learned all the ways she could distract attention from herself by sending it to someone, or something, more interesting.

  “How did we look?” Mags asked her, as her father remounted and he and Rolan trotted off elsewhere. The breeze lifted her soft hair and teased it into gentle curls. He had to crane his neck around to see her.

  “Magnificent,” she told him, with a touch of pride. “The bridle bells were quite clear up here as well. Everyone was really impressed. They would probably have been even more impressed if they could have seen the dancing clearly, but the light reflected off of all of you and turned the whole thing into ribbons of glowing blue.”

  “Good,” Mags sighed. “I was hopin’ it was going to be worth it. I swear to you, that poxy dancin’ took more working out and practice than Kirball.” He’d lost a great deal of his thick, rural accent by dint of a lot of practice. It still slipped out a little when he was relaxed and among friends, but he was as proud of his speech as Amily was of her ability to walk.

  Of course, when he was really playing a part, his concentration on his speech ensured nothing would slip.

  Amily laughed and patted his shoulder. “It was more than worth it if all the oohs and ahs I heard were any indication. Well, where do we go tonight?” she asked. “The gardens and the official celebration?”

  Mags made a face that she, of course, could not see, since she was behind him. “Thank you very much, no. I’m not interested in being feted because I can bung a ball through a goal.”

  “Surely not everyone here is a Kirball fanatic,” she teased. “I’m sure one or two people have heard of you as something other than the neck-or-nothing player. You actually have done one or two things besides that.”

 
“Oh, no,” he replied firmly, as Dallen waited patiently for the path before them to clear. “I’ve even less interest in talkin’ about what happened when those fiends took you.”

  He felt her shiver, but she said, quite bravely, “Mags, you were a hero . . . and there are people who know that.” He could not imagine how she must have felt—drugged, terrified, in the hands of a couple of known murderers, and fully aware that even if she managed to throw off the effects of the drugs they had poured into her, she would never be able to escape from them on her own. Not a day went by that he didn’t berate himself for not being there when she had been kidnapped. Because of his Gift, he would have known that the carriage sent for her was not the right one. He would never have let her get into it.

  Just as bad was the fact that he had been within inches of catching the carriage, and he and Dallen had been neatly knocked senseless.

  It had been the worst day of his life.

  “The fewer people who think I’m some kind of hero when I ain’t, the better,” he said shortly. “I’m just Mags. Let’s leave it at that. No, the Trainees are havin’ a stable party. I thought we’d go there.”

  “Oh!” she exclaimed happily. “I love stable parties!”

  “It’s going to be in the hayloft,” he told her, as people managed to clear away from the way they wanted to go, and Dallen turned his head and ambled in that direction. It was almost as bright as day up here, but down at the stable, things were a little more subdued, at least from this side. It was lit up, but it looked no different from any other early evening. “Stablemaster took the opportunity to clear the place out down to the bare floor, since we were going to have to feed all the visitors’ mounts anyway. Once they’re gone, he’ll bring in the first of this year’s cutting.”

  He didn’t ask Amily if she could climb to the loft; he knew she would, or die trying. But he had something else in mind for her.