Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar v(-101 Page 31

  :You did it, Elvida. You did it!:

  :I did it?: Elvida had not known so many Heralds existed in the world, even throughout the entire history of Valdemar. Yet, they marched in formation before her very eyes, in a grim silence, prepared for a confrontation with an enemy no longer dealing only with three girls and their mounts, most already dead or badly hurt.

  Screams rose from the enemy camp, filled with unholy terror. She watched them flee like frightened children, not bothering to grab their belongings, some half-naked in the growing chill. They left their fires blazing and their packs unclaimed, even the supply cart they had captured from the Heralds. They abandoned meals partially eaten in the dirt, their tents lopsided and incompletely pitched, racing without clear destination or reason in all-encompassing terror.

  Something’s wrong. This can’t be happening.

  Raynor’s mind-voice cut through Elvida’s doubt. :Steady, Chosen One. Steady.:

  Elvida did not know what her Companion meant, but his interference knocked her thoughts askew. She continued to stare at the mass of Heralds as they streaked doggedly through the camp and chased their enemies far beyond her sight. They did it. We’re saved. Only then, she addressed Raynor directly. :What exactly am I steadying?:

  Elvida received no answer. Afraid unconsciousness had claimed Raynor, she whirled toward the Companion to find him staring back at her, his pale eyes moist with a mixture of pain and joy. :You did it!:

  :I did it,: Elvida agreed, finally allowing herself to feel a tinge of relief and happiness, despite the trials that still awaited her. :I reached—: Reality finally intruded. :I reached what? How can this be? How could I draw in more Heralds than actually exist? How could they all have arrived so quickly, all at the precise same time. How . . . ?: Elvida shook off the haze of doubts and questions. :It’s impossible.:

  :Impossible,: Raynor echoed. :Is precisely what it is.: Elvida jerked her attention back outside the cave. The camp remained as she had last seen it: abandoned in clear haste and wild disarray. She saw no sign of the Herald army, not even a hoof print to prove they had ever existed. :What . . . what happened? I don’t understand.:

  :Your Gift.: Raynor raised his head, looking better than he had at any time since their arrival in the cave. Though battered and broken, he radiated hope.

  :Communication. The ability to communicate pictures into the minds of others.:

  “Illusion?” The word was startled from Elvida. She returned to Mindspeech. :You mean that band of Heralds, that massive army was nothing but—:

  :A creation of your mind, yes. A glorious, amazing creation of your great mind, Beloved.:

  Elvida continued to survey the ruined camp, knowing exactly what she must do next. She would have to reclaim the cart and drag her friends into it. She would then have to haul it to civilization. A lot of hard work remained, yet it all seemed so simple after the tragic events of that evening. :But why wouldn’t anyone tell me? Why did you risk our dying without my ever knowing?:

  :Because, Chosen One, doubt is the enemy of illusion. For it to work, it must be believed.:

  Elvida still did not understand.

  :Until today, you were ruled by your doubts. They would have foiled any attempt you made to use your Gift, just as they had your Mindspeech.:

  Elvida considered, still grasping for comprehension. :You mean, for any illusion to work, I have to believe it, too?:

  :Yes.:

  Elvida sighed. It seemed her first great use of her Gift would also be her last.

  Apparently reading her emotions, Raynor continued. :Your teachers will train you to properly blank your mind. You will learn, but your first illusion had to come spontaneously.:

  Elvida shook her head. She still did not wholly get it. :Why?:

  :Because, until you performed the first one, you would always doubt your ability. So long as you doubted, you would fail or, at best, succeed only weakly. You would never have learned the amazing power of your Gift.: He shook his mane impatiently. :Little Sister, you are very strongly Gifted.:

  Elvida sank back to the stony ground. Her rubbery legs would no longer hold her. :Please tell me last night was also illusion.:

  :I wish I could, Beloved. I wish I could.:

  As so many times before, Elvida marveled at the wonder that was Raynor. Even through the emotional agony of the battle, even through his own physical pain, he had kept the secret of her power, knowing they all might take it to their graves. To do otherwise would have prevented the great miracle of the ghostly Herald army. :Thank you,: she sent, along with the awe of the universe.

  :For what?:

  Elvida did not bother to answer. She slid from the mouth of the cave and headed toward the camp. She still had friends to rescue. And no force in the world: no magic, no army, no doubt was going to stop her.

  DARKWALL’S LADY

  by Judith Tarr

  Judith Tarr is the author of a number of historical and fantasy novels and stories. Her most recent novels include

  Pride of Kings

  and

  Tides of Darkness,

  as well as the “Epona Sequence”:

  Lady of Horses, White Mare’s Daughter,

  and

  Daughter of Lir

  . She was a World Fantasy Award nominee for

  Lord of the Two Lands

  . She lives near Tucson, Arizona, where she breeds and trains Lipizzan horses.

  LONG ago, after the magic went out of Valdemar but long before it came back again, the Lord of Forgotten Keep had a daughter. He was old and his Lady had thought herself past childbearing; his son was a man full grown and his elder daughter had children of her own. They were already eyeing their inheritance and reckoning the days until it came to them.

  And yet in the twilight of their years, the Lady Beatrice found herself waking ill in the mornings. The Healer confirmed her wild surmise: she was, indeed, with child. In spite of her age and the Healer’s concern, the pregnancy proceeded as it should, and all was well.

  Word of the Lady’s miracle spread through the region. One day, three months before the child was due to be born, a guest came to the Keep.

  The Lady of Darkwall Keep had last visited Forgotten Keep when Lord Bertrand’s daughter was married, five years before. She was not a great traveler and visitor of her neighbors; she lived alone in her isolated Keep, high over a dark river that ran through a deep and fertile valley, and ruled a domain of farmers and river traders.

  Her hosts were somewhat surprised by the visit, but they were hospitable people and she was a not-too-distant neighbor. They received her with courtesy. She responded in kind, with manners that could not be faulted.

  The Lord was charmed. The Lady was not, but her moods had been strange of late. Even she was reluctant to trust them.

  Darkwall’s Lady was an easy enough guest. She professed herself content to rest in her rooms until midmorning, take a turn around the Lady’s garden until noon, then join the Lady and her women in their bower until the day’s meal was served. Her conversation was light and pleasant, like the face she presented to her hosts.

  On the third day, at last, she came to the point of her visit. She did so in the afternoon while the rest of the ladies plied their needlework and listened to their Lady’s page, who had a sweet voice and a singer’s gift. Her long white hands were folded and her expression was serene. She leaned toward Lady Beatrice and said, “I have a favor to ask—and favors to offer in return.”

  Lady Beatrice was tired and uncomfortable and her temper was not at its best. Still, she managed to raise her brows and say reasonably, “Perhaps you should speak to my Lord.”

  Her guest smiled with a touch of indulgence. “Oh, I shall, of course. But you and I know, Lady, that though a Lord claims to rule, his Lady holds the reins.”

  “In your Keep, that may be true,” Lady Beatrice said coolly. Still, she was curious. “What favor can Forgotten Keep do for Darkwall?”

  Darkwall’s Lady bent her head.
Her smile had warmed considerably. It was almost enough to allay Lady Beatrice’s misgivings. “You know of course that I have no Lord, and therefore no heir. I have to come ask if you would consider an exchange: gifts and favors in return for your child.”

  Lady Beatrice’s hand rose protectively over the swell of her belly. Her face hardened. “My child is not for sale.”

  “Oh, no,” Darkwall’s Lady said quickly. “We’re no merchants, to buy and sell our own children. But we are highborn, and our best currency is the inheritance we leave our heirs. Your son will inherit the Keep. Your daughter is Lady of Mourne Fell. What is left for this gift of the gods? A boy may make his fortune as he can. A girl may be traded in marriage. Is either prospect more tempting than the lordship of Darkwall when I am gone?”

  It was indeed very tempting. But Lady Beatrice was not a gullible woman, nor was she particularly softhearted. “That’s all very well for the child. What do you offer us in return?”

  “A percentage of the river trade,” the Lady answered without hesitation, “to begin as this agreement is concluded and to continue unless or until your child chooses to end it. A promise of military aid for the same term, when and as needed. And, as earnest for the rest, a chest of gold in the amount proper for a Lady’s dowry—for it will be a Lady, my heart tells me, though I would hardly look amiss at a Lord.”

  Lady Beatrice knew as mothers might, cherishing the knowledge that she carried a daughter. She eyed the Lady warily. “It’s a most tempting offer,” she said, “but my Lord must decide whether to accept or refuse.”

  “Of course,” said the Lady with all apparent willingness. Then she smiled and beckoned to the page and asked for a new song—a joyful one, she said, in honor of the hour.

  The Lord’s misgivings were no less than his wife’s, but he was neither as wealthy nor as well defended as he would have liked to be. It was also in his mind that if this last and unexpected child was a daughter, she would serve her family exceedingly well as Lady of Darkwall. And if it was a son, well then, all the better that he should have a Keep of his own and blood ties to Forgotten Keep.

  And so they made the bargain. Darkwall’s Lady would have claimed the child when she was born, but Lady Beatrice would not hear of it. “We will raise our own daughter,” she said, “and teach her everything that you would wish her to know. Send tutors if you wish, but she will be fostered here. When she reaches the age of womanhood, then she may go.”

  Lord Bertrand opened his mouth to upbraid her, but Darkwall’s Lady astonished him by inclining her head. “As you wish,” she said. “I shall send a nurse for her, and tutors when she reaches a suitable age.”

  Lady Beatrice could hardly find fault with that. She bent her head in return.

  The alliance was made and the agreement concluded, and it was settled. The Lord’s youngest child, with three months yet to go until she saw the world, was assured of a lordship and a future.

  Lady Beatrice kept her misgivings to herself. She only spoke of them once, six years later, as she was dying. She summoned her daughter to her bedside and said, “Don’t ask what this means. Only remember it, word for word. Walk warily. Trust no one. Always keep your counsel, and remember everything that you see. We sold you for gold and soldiers, and we will keep that bargain—but you can make a new one of your own. Remember.” That last word came out as a sigh. “Never forget.”

  “I’ll remember,” the child said.

  Not long after that, Lady Beatrice died. But the bargain still held. The child, whom Lady Beatrice had named Merris, continued to live in her father’s Keep. Tutors from Darkwall came to teach her, and the Lady herself appeared once each year on Merris’ birthday, to celebrate it with her and to see how she had been growing.

  She always professed herself pleased, or least not too terribly disappointed. Then she always went away as she had come, leaving the child in her father’s care.

  But those days would not go on forever. When Merris reached her fourteenth birthday, the Lady would come as before, but this time she would take the child whom she had bought for so noble a price.

  Merris ran up the stair at a pace that would have given her tutors palpitations. She meant to have her hair up and her skirts down and her breathing back to normal by the time she reached the schoolroom, but while she could, she gave way to the restless energy that had been tormenting her all day.

  One month from today was her fourteenth birthday. Everyone knew what that meant. Her life in this Keep was nearly over. It was time, finally, for her to fulfill the bargain her parents had made.

  She had been preparing for it since before she was born. She was not afraid, but her mother’s words had never left her.

  She was going into a house of strangers. No matter how many tutors she had had, or how much instruction she was given in manners, deportment, and the conduct befitting a Lady of Darkwall, she had never visited the Keep she was to rule. She knew every nook and cranny, but only in books.

  Her tutors never said anything but good of Darkwall. Still, servants talked, and Merris had sharp ears. She only caught fragments, whispers of fear, rumors that had no real substance—but they were enough to keep her on her guard.

  Halfway up the stair, she stopped short. It was time to make herself decorous for Master Thellen and Mistress Patrizia, but that was not what brought her to so abrupt a halt. While she stood frozen, the bell rang at the gate.

  Preparations for her birthday celebration were already underway. People had been coming and going for days. This morning alone, the bell had rung half a dozen times to let in trains of provisions, companies of workmen, and a succession of messengers bearing replies to the Lord’s invitation.

  This felt different. It felt . . . bright.

  She did not know what she meant by that, but she had to see. Even if her tutors set her a punishment, she reckoned it worth the cost. She turned and ran back down the stair.

  There was always a commotion in the courtyard these days, but when Merris came out into it, there was a circle of unexpected quiet near the outer gate. Brightness filled it, shot through with the tinkle of bells.

  She blinked hard. The blur of light resolved into a pair of white horses with bells on their bitless bridles, and a pair of men dressed in the same striking color. By that she knew that the horses were not horses, and the men were men, but not exactly ordinary.

  Everyone knew about Heralds. Books and stories were full of them.

  Merris had never seen one. Forgotten Keep was small and out of the way, and her father involved himself only rarely with affairs of the royal court far away in Haven. Except for the occasional Bard wandering through to sing his songs, Forgotten Keep was as forgotten as its name.

  Now not one Herald had appeared in the Keep, but two. She found that her mouth was hanging open. She shut it with a snap.

  Everyone else seemed as taken aback as she was. Just as it dawned on Merris that someone ought to at least offer the Heralds a greeting, one of them swayed and sagged against the other.

  The dazzle of what they were vanished abruptly. The one who had fainted was old, she realized, and the one who held him up was young. Inside their shining Whites, they were human—and the old one did not look well at all.

  She ran forward without even stopping to think, calling to people who stood around with their mouths open. “Rolf! Gerent! Take the Companions to the stable. Remember they’re not horses, no matter what they look like. Danil—find the Healer. Move!”

  People moved. Merris planted herself on the other side of the old Herald and took part of his weight, thinking distantly that one of the servants should do this. But she wanted to do something, however unsuitable, and that seemed like the most useful thing.

  She met the young Herald’s brown eyes over the bowed white head. They were deeply worried. There was nothing she could do to soothe that worry, but she could say, “Come with me.”

  The Herald nodded. He looked fairly done in himself, but he could walk. Between th
em, he and Merris carried the old Herald into the Keep and up to one of the guest rooms.

  The bed was freshly made and the room was aired. The shutters were open to the late spring sunlight. Merris and the young Herald laid the old one carefully on the bed.

  His breathing was rapid and shallow. His skin was clammy and his lips were blue. Merris opened her mouth to ask what had happened to him, but the young Herald staggered and sat down abruptly on the stool beside the bed.

  The water jar was empty, but there was wine in the cupboard. Merris poured a few sips into one of the cups and made the Herald drink it. He choked and spluttered, but a little color came back into his cheeks.

  “Good,” said Merris, reclaiming the cup. “We don’t need you passing out, too.”

  He drew himself up. Apart from the glamour of the Whites, he looked perfectly ordinary: not too tall, not too short, well built and sturdy, with a pleasant, blunt-featured face and curly brown hair. There was nothing noble or heroic about that face, and she doubted he was highborn. He looked like half the villagers around Forgotten Keep.

  “I’m Herald-Intern Coryn,” he said, “and this is Herald Isak.” His accent bore out her suspicions. It had a hint of a drawl in it, a countryman’s twang. “And you are . . . ?”

  “Merris,” she said.

  “Thank you, Merris,” he said. “We’ve lost our way, I think. Are we very far from the road to Nottaway?”

  “It’s a day or two west of here,” she said.

  He sighed, then sagged. She jumped toward him, but he had not fainted. It was relief, that was all.