No True Way Page 3

  “Maybe.”

  He took a deep breath. “Bring Bloom back to me.”

  * * *

  For Vehs to verify Maresa’s claim about Lelia, he’d had to talk to Rolan. And because Talia and Rolan could not Mindspeak to each other, that had meant that Rolan had communicated to Ahrodie to talk to Dirk to talk to Talia. . . .

  :Maresa didn’t lie. Lelia was a spy for the Queen. Ahrodie wants us to meet Dirk and Talia in Alberich’s office,: Vehs said.

  :In the salle?: Wil frowned. :What about Ivy?:

  The others clearly hadn’t thought of that. :Er . . . bring her?:

  Wil muttered to himself, and then—halfway into the bedroom to pick up his sleeping daughter, paused.

  Bring her. . . .

  :That’s an interesting notion,: Vehs observed as Wil scooped up his daughter, wrapping her in blankets.

  :Isn’t it, though?: Wil replied.

  * * *

  At the salle, Alberich composed a makeshift nest for Ivy out of padded armor, and when Wil set her down, she curled up and went right back to sleep.

  Four Heralds gathered around a table with Bloom, a resigned Maresa (who’d been intercepted by Guards and redirected to the salle), and a stack of ledgers. Wil was on his third mug of willowbark tea for his headache, one of the few tonics he tolerated.

  His heart leaped when they twisted off the rosette of the gittern and peered inside. Black runes and corresponding Valdemaran letters and words covered the inside of the gittern’s body. They needed a spot lantern to make them all out, but within half a candlemark they had the cypher transferred to a sheet of paper.

  “Can I just say how much I dislike plots?” Dirk said. “And plotting in general?”

  Talia smiled at her husband and patted his hand.

  Among the five of them, they translated the first few pages of the oldest-looking ledger and the last few pages of the newest. The tedious work took longer than Wil expected and warranted a fourth mug of tea.

  “She’s naming names,” he noted.

  Maresa looked miserable. “All Bards. Every single one has been worrisome to the Circle in some way. Songs that just ride the line of venom, questionable uses of Bardic Gift, shady patrons. Mostly hearsay.”

  “A gut feeling,” Wil murmured.

  “That’s our biggest problem,” Talia said. “We need evidence, not hunches.”

  “Who . . . is Amelie?” Alberich asked, tapping the newer ledger.

  “Lelia’s protégé,” Maresa said, frowning. “I haven’t seen her in months. . . .”

  “Might be a reason for that.” Dirk pointed to the section he’d translated with Alberich. “Lelia sent her to Forst Reach. Last entry.”

  “Hunh. My Circuit will take me near there,” Wil said.

  “Convenient,” Alberich said ominously.

  “Or not . . . if things are ‘going south,’ as Kyril put it,” Wil said.

  Maresa chewed on her lip. “I don’t think Amelie knew anything.”

  “Are you sure?” Dirk asked.

  The Bard looked uncertain.

  Alberich pointed at Wil. “Send a Herald. Find the truth.”

  “Agreed,” Dirk said. “If there is a conspiracy, and it catches wind that we know . . .”

  Wil rubbed his eyes. “My thought as well. If I can buy a little time to make some copies, I’ll take them and Bloom with me, and leave the originals and the cypher copy with you, Alberich. Gods willing, I’ll substantiate what—if any of this—is truly a threat.”

  “Secret, we keep,” Alberich said, sounding simultaneously threatening and weary. “Until secret it no longer need be.”

  From there the little group broke up. Wil went to pick up his daughter and found her awake and watching him. He wondered how much she had heard. More importantly, he wondered how much she’d understood.

  “Daddy,” she whispered.

  “Hello, dearling,” he whispered back as he picked her up.

  She hugged his neck. “Don’t want you to go.”

  He rubbed her back. “Me neither.”

  Wil carried Ivy out of the salle, joining back up with Talia, Dirk, and Maresa. It was past midnight, but Dirk carried a little lantern for light.

  As the door shut, Wil said, “Maresa, I can’t leave Ivy with you.”

  The Bard turned, startled. “What?”

  “It’s not that I mistrust you,” he said. “But if this is as serious as we think, I do not want Ivy becoming . . . a liability.” He swallowed hard. “I’m taking her with me.”

  The other three adults stopped and stared at him.

  “You . . . can’t,” Dirk said, confused.

  “Why not?” Wil asked.

  “Because . . . you can’t,” Dirk repeated.

  But Talia looked thoughtful. “You’d be a moving target,” she said. “Easier to ambush someone when you know where they sleep, and when. If you’re on Circuit, that becomes harder to predict.”

  “Conflict of interest,” Dirk said. “You can’t focus on helping people if you’ve got a baby screaming for attention.”

  “Vehs can watch her,” Wil said.

  “Vehs is your partner. He’ll be just as busy as you.”

  Wil flushed. “I am not leaving my daughter to be captured or worse. If Valdemar has a problem with that, Valdemar is going to have to find a new Herald.”

  :I will watch her.:

  The mind-voice hit all of them—the Heralds and Maresa and Ivy. Ivy sat up and pointed as a white figure approached. “Vehs?”

  :No,: the female mind-voice, a rich, lilting alto, replied. :I am Aubryn.: She fixed her gaze on Talia. :And as I keep telling Rolan, I am not ready to Choose again.:

  Talia smiled weakly.

  Aubryn looked to Wil. :Your Companion and I have been talking. I would go with you, if you would have me.:

  The Heralds exchanged looks.

  “This . . . might work,” Dirk admitted.

  “Mm,” Talia said. “I admit it’ll be an odd sight to see—two Companions, a Herald, and a little—”

  :Sounds like a great setup for a joke, actually,: Vehs quipped.

  “—but Wil, you’ll know that Ivy has someone you trust looking out for her when you and Vehs need to, say, ride all night from a plagued village to a Healer’s temple.”

  Aubryn approached, and Ivy put a hand out to touch her cheek. Aubryn nuzzled her head. The child giggled and wiggled in Wil’s arms. He set her down, and she walked over to Aubryn.

  And then, between one blink and the next, she was on Aubryn’s back.

  “She also has a substantial Fetching Gift, apparently,” Dirk remarked.

  “I could really use that with my kids,” Maresa said.

  If transporting several feet in the blink of an eye bothered Ivy, she didn’t show it. She laughed and grinned, and Wil’s heart inexplicably swelled.

  “I don’t know what to say,” he said. And then, in Aubryn’s direction, “Thank you.”

  She bowed her head.

  “Ivy will need a saddle,” Talia said. “And you’ll need to bolster your supplies. It’ll be a delay, which we needed anyway for you to make copies. I’ll personally talk to Kyril, but I think he’ll agree that it works for Valdemar.” She cocked her head at Wil. “Does it work for you, Herald?”

  Something in his swelling heart broke. The realization that Ivy wasn’t going away. That for once, he wasn’t going to lose what he loved, as he’d lost Lelia, as he’d lost his sister, Herald Daryann. That he could be a Herald and a father.

  The danger he was potentially putting his daughter in . . . the danger he was keeping her from. The danger Lelia had tried to keep from him.

  It all collapsed down on him. He didn’t even know the tears were streaming down his cheeks until Talia offered him a handkerchief, and then opene
d her arms to him.

  He wept into her shoulder. At some point, a small hand touched his hair.

  “Don’t cry, Daddy,” Ivy said, tears in her own eyes.

  He pulled her off Aubryn and held her tight. Held her, as she held him back.

  * * *

  That first day on Circuit, they stopped earlier than Wil would have liked, but he’d come to accept they wouldn’t travel as swiftly as when it was just him and Vehs. A child changed everything, including arrival times.

  So when Ivy had gone to sleep, when she was far enough gone that he could disentangle without waking her, he picked up Bloom and looked inside the soundhole at the characters and then—on a hunch—reached inside and swept his fingers around the chamber.

  High up, out of reach of even a spot-lantern’s light, he felt the brush of paper. He carefully pried the tightly wrapped cylinder out. Scrawled across it was one word, written in (thank the gods) a familiar hand: Wil.

  He unrolled it and read.

  The whitest lie we ever tell the ones we love is that we will always be there for them. It’s a lie we want to believe. Gods know I did. But, as the saying goes, if you’re reading this . . . then I’ve lied to you one last time, and for that, I’m sorry.

  If there is a Havens, I’ll tarry. Maybe there are Waystations on that final road? Maybe I’ll find one and wait for you.

  I love you,

  —L.

  * * *

  He rolled it back up and tucked it into the gittern.

  “I love you, too, Lelia,” he said to the Waystation’s darkness.

  He hoped that somewhere, in whatever Waystation she’d found, she heard him.

  Old Loom, New Tapestry

  Dayle A. Dermatis

  “The Heralds are here!”

  The cry resonated through the village square of Blenvane, having started when Heralds Syrriah and Joral had arrived at the village walls. The overcast day clearly hadn’t deterred the villagers from keeping a watch on the road.

  Indeed, the cry was tinged with a stroke of desperation. The Heralds had been called, although all they’d been told was that there was a crisis—not what the crisis was. Usually when urgent arbitration was required, the Heralds were given information ahead of time.

  Syrriah had confirmed with Joral on the ride here how unusual this was.

  The village was as pretty as the rolling green hills dotted with copses of trees that they’d ridden through. The whitewashed, thatched-roof houses sat comfortably beside one another, not clustered too close, and it looked as though most homes had ample space for herb gardens and a few pecking chickens. Flower boxes spilled over with riotously blooming flowers in carnelian, cobalt, and gold, their sweet scents filling the air and making Syrriah a bit homesick.

  Based on the healthy, thriving livestock and fields they’d seen on their approach, it was clear Blenvane prospered.

  So why the deep concern bordering on panic? There was confusion, and a disturbing amount of anger simmering under the surface.

  Syrriah’s Empath Gift quivered on high alert, and Cefylla, her Companion, snorted and said, :Remember, be open, but be shielded. You’re allowing too much in.:

  Syrriah ran a hand down Cefylla’s warm, satiny neck. As much as she adored her Companion, she couldn’t wait to be out of the saddle. She ached down to her bones. “Of course you’re right,” she said. “It’s just . . .”

  :This reminds you of who you used to be,: Cefylla finished her thought.

  “Exactly.” She raised her voice to include Joral. “Something is definitely wrong here. It’s a pot ready to boil over.”

  Before Joral had the chance to reply, a man approached them. Tall and slender, he struck Syrriah as young to be the mayor, despite the badge on his tunic.

  Then again, she’d reached an age when everyone seemed too young for their positions.

  “Thank you so much for coming,” he said. He nodded respectfully to Joral, but directed his words at Syrriah. “I’m Mayor Quentlee, and . . .”

  “And I’m Senior Herald Joral,” Joral said, swinging off his Companion. “We came as soon as we could.”

  Quentlee blinked, glancing from Joral to Syrriah, who also took the opportunity to dismount.

  The same thing had happened everywhere Syrriah and Joral had stopped on Syrriah’s internship ride: the spokesperson (be it mayor, lord, or whoever) spoke first to Syrriah, as if she were the Senior Herald.

  Their mistake was understandable, given that Syrriah was twenty years older than Joral.

  Nobody expected a middle-aged intern Herald.

  Goodness knew, Syrriah hadn’t expected to be a middle-aged intern Herald.

  And she still wasn’t entirely sure why it had happened.

  * * *

  Their Companions seen to, Syrriah and Joral joined Mayor Quentlee in his office, a cramped room off one side of the village hall, filled with books and papers and a tabby cat sleeping on the windowsill.

  There was hot tea and dense, scone-like biscuits with jam and cream, the perfect combination of warmth and comfort on a gray day after a long ride.

  Syrriah couldn’t remember when the aches and pains began, the ones she’d heard her mother and aunts complain about. Heraldic training kept her fit, but she still experienced deep twinges, especially after heavy riding. As much as she loved Cefylla, she was grateful to be out of the saddle, even if the wooden chair had no padding to speak of.

  “Lord Prothal Blenvane is dead,” Mayor Quentlee told them.

  Which explained why they’d been greeted by the mayor, rather than the titled head of the manor keep of Blenvane.

  “Is there a question of succession?” Joral asked. That happened when a family tree had many branches. The oldest son wasn’t always old enough, or the best choice, or even a possible choice.

  Quentlee shook his head, crumbling the edge of a scone between his fingertips. “He had a trusted advisor who can handle matters until his first son comes of age. It’s his wife, Meriette.” He looked up at them, and Syrriah noticed the deep circles beneath his eyes. “She killed him. She went mad and killed Lord Prothal.”

  * * *

  The problem, they learned, was that nobody could agree on what to do with Lady Meriette Blenvane.

  The facts seemed clear: a knife in her husband’s chest, blood on her hands, and, most disturbingly, an emotionless “I killed him.”

  Those were the last words Lady Meriette had said to anyone since.

  She was currently under guard in her suite at the manor keep while the villagers argued her fate.

  Some insisted that her admission of guilt without remorse merited her own death. Others had more sympathy, questioning why a quiet, kind woman would do such a thing. Some of those people even suggested dark magic might have been involved.

  The Lady’s unwillingness (or inability? no one seemed to know for sure) to defend or even explain her actions had made the debate more heated—and brought it to an uneasy standstill.

  More than unease, Syrriah realized. This explained the simmering anger she’d felt when they’d arrived.

  With Cefylla’s assistance, she opened herself, extended and focused her Empathic Gift to seek out Lady Meriette.

  Waves of guilt, relief, anger, exhaustion, worry . . . and a deep loneliness. It would have been overwhelming if Cefylla hadn’t been supporting her.

  When she pulled herself back to the mayor’s office, she found Joral and Quentlee staring at her, Joral with a line of disapproval between his eyebrows. She was supposed to be learning, paying attention, seeing how a Herald acted in these situations.

  Her Senior Herald wasn’t wrong. But it wasn’t just her Empathy that made Syrriah feel for Lady Meriette—it was understanding, too. A sympathy that spurred her to say, “I’d like to meet with the lady. I think she’ll talk to me.”

  * * *<
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  The three of them rode to the manor keep. The looming clouds finally shed their tears, a light, steady rain. Syrriah drew up her hood and focused inward, strengthening her shields with Cefylla’s assistance.

  Her first impression of the house brought back another pang of familiarity. Made of local, pale gray river stone, the building had clearly been added to over the centuries, with wings and towers almost haphazardly placed, and yet all working together. Inside, she knew, there would be corridors with stairs going both up and down, hallways that turned suddenly, and hidey-holes that children over generations had discovered anew, with great glee.

  Inside, she saw both a home and a base of operations, a place where the now-deceased lord could handle the responsibilities of his title while his wife created a welcoming haven for their family and guests.

  Syrriah recognized it because, for many years, she had lived in just such a place.

  She’d been Lady Syrriah Trayne then, wife of Lord Brant Trayne, and together they’d run the manor keep of Traynemarch Reach.

  * * *

  Some people yearn for adventure, dream of being different.

  Others, however, find great comfort and joy in hearth and home. Their goal as parents is to raise strong, kind children; they strive for beauty and harmony and well-being.

  Syrriah had never been one of the former people.

  Her joy had always been a well-ordered household and a happy, vibrant family. A home filled with comfort and beauty: tapestries, pillows, food. Laughter, lively debate, music, poetry. A decorated hearth at Yuletide, Mayday baskets in spring, corn dollies and wheat weaving in autumn to celebrate the harvest. Kindness to the servants—they helped bring her vision to reality.

  Her own age had crept up on her like a cat stalking an oblivious field mouse. One minute she’d been beaming proudly through tears as the fourth of her children rode off on his Companion—surely it must be some kind of record to have all four of your offspring be Chosen?—then the next, her beloved Brant was dead from pneumonia after helping the villagers repair a collapsed bridge in a wintry river, taken before his time. Taken just as they’d begun discussing turning the running of the manor and holdings over to her brother-in-law in a few years and enjoying their retirement.