Closer to Home: Book One of Herald Spy Read online

  For the second time, her anxiety ebbed, and she laughed at herself. What was she so afraid of? That he’d not marry her after all? That he’d spirit her away, like some scoundrel in a song, and murder her? Well, that was truly absurd; he loved her! The last thing he wanted to do was harm her! And as for not marrying her, well, if he wanted that land and manor the King promised, he’d have to marry one of the Chendlar girls, and she would be a better wife to him than Aleniel!

  Then she chided herself for even thinking that he’d be wedding her for the sake of the property. He loved her! And she loved him! Silly girl, she told herself, as the horse trotted further and further from Haven, and the noise and lights of the city receded behind them. This is like a song in good truth, the one in which the lovers live happily together forever.

  17

  Amily had fallen asleep “watching” Violetta, it had been so dull. All the girl did was eat pastry, pet her dog, stare into the fire and drink a little mead. She had decided, after a while, that the reason the girl had changed into another dress and not into her bedgown was because there were no servants awake to bring her anything, and she didn’t want to be wandering about the place in a night rail if she decided to go back down to the kitchen for more food. After all, if she hadn’t eaten much today, which was possible with all the excitement, she was probably starving, and pastry was not going to assuage that for long.

  Trust a child to go straight for the sweets, she had thought. In so many ways, Violetta was still a child, which made her father’s plan to marry her to that old man rather . . . nauseating to be fair. Somehow, I must do something about that, Amily had decided. What that would be, she wasn’t sure, but it had to be something that would benefit, not just Violetta, but every girl in her position. I must speak to the King, once Brand and Aleniel are married and we’ve got this stupid feud behind us. Wasn’t that what the King’s Own was supposed to do? Advise him on matters that his Council would not think of?

  At least Violetta had shown some common sense in this, enough that Amily’s instincts had let her drowse off. She clearly understood that it wasn’t a good idea to be ghosting about a mostly-deserted manor in something as flimsy as a bedgown. There were far too many young men living here at the moment who might lose whatever inhibitions they normally had when drunk. Oh, it was true that her rank should keep her safe. And yes, certainly, anyone who transgressed would pay and pay dearly for molesting one of the Lord’s daughters. But that would be after the damage had been done. And that sort of forethought doesn’t usually come to a man deep in his cups.

  Especially the sort of men that the cousins were, who thought that their rank entitled them to anything they wanted. In her bedgown, she could be a kitchen maid taking advantage of the situation to help herself to kitchen dainties she would never otherwise get. But if Violetta was properly and appropriately dressed, a cousin would likely mind his manners. Even drunk, it was easy to tell the difference between a fine lady’s gown and the common chemise and skirt of a maid.

  Which led her to thoughts of how unfair it was that just because a girl was a menial, she didn’t have the same protection against being molested as the lord’s daughter. And Amily’s thoughts went around and around and around.

  And it had been a long and exhausting several weeks, what with everything she was expected to do. Keeping track of Lord Leverance. Keeping track of Violetta, just in case. Morning sessions with the King, learning what her father knew. Council sessions in the later morning and afternoon. Dinner with the Court, attending the evening Court functions at Lydia’s side, and maybe, if she was lucky, some time before bed with Mags. Even if she was lucky, she still felt impelled to check on Lord Leverance and Violetta at intervals over the evening. It made for a long, long day, and she’d had long, long days for quite some time now.

  So . . . she’d dozed off.

  Until Rolan awakened her.

  Instead of words, images flooded into her mind. The feast-tent, and all the collapsed bodies of both clans. Brand striding out the tent door. Mags, running at top speed through the dark, heading for the tent and its victims. It all rushed into her head at once, and for that moment she understood exactly what it must have been like for him to share his thoughts with his cousin Bey. It all came in exactly as if she herself had experienced it, it was all coherent and just there.

  Because with the images came the knowledge of what each of these things meant, as if she and Mags momentarily shared every thought he’d had. Disorienting, and yet, at the same time, because she had so much experience in lurking in the minds of animals, not disorienting at all.

  It was like a pail of cold water to the face, and she came completely awake all at once. Rolan released her mind, and for a moment, she sat there in paralysis, and had no idea what to do. Her heart was pounding, and she felt breathless, cold, and afraid. If Brand had left that tent full of victims—what of Violetta? Was this why she had left early? Was this why she was dressed suitably to go outside again?

  Then, just on the wild chance that she might learn something, she sought for the puppy, Star’s, mind.

  He wasn’t where she’d “left” him. She searched further, and found him at last. He was in the dark, and lying quietly in the bottom of some sort of small container not much bigger than he was. His nose told him—and thus her—more or less where he was. Outdoors, and by all the “country” smells, no longer in Haven. By the sounds, on horseback. And there was someone with him besides Violetta. Someone male.

  He poked his head up then, as if he understood that she needed him to get at least a glimpse of where he was.

  Snow-covered fields. Grazing fields, farm fields, all under a blanket of snow in the moonlight. So much open space surprised and actually frightened the little dog, who was used to rooms, and enclosed gardens that were like outdoor rooms. He didn’t like it at all, whimpered, and ducked his head back down again.

  There was only one road out of Haven that cut through empty fields, and not the Commons (currently occupied by the Fair) or houses and workshops that had been built outside the walls.

  South Road.

  Even as she thought that, the pup whimpered again, and a man’s voice she knew spoke sharply and incredulously.

  “In—for the love of the gods, Violetta, did you bring that damned muff-dog?”

  Brand. . . .

  She was shocked out of her trance. Violetta was with Brand, riding out of Haven. Surely Violetta had no idea of what he had just left!

  Good gods, what is he going to do with her? She was surely a potential hostage at the least. Had he taken her to protect himself? Dear gods, what was going on here?

  :Rolan!: she cried, but before she even said anything, she already knew from the information pouring into her—every Herald and every Healer was either speeding down to the Commons or mounting up to do so. There was no one to chase after Brand and Violetta.

  Except me.

  Again for a moment, she was paralyzed with indecision, as her heart continued to pound. Go with the others?

  No. What if Violetta knows nothing of this? Surely she knows nothing of this! What if. . . . Brand had been so duplicitous, fooling them all—who knew what he was going to do with her? He didn’t know his scheme had been uncovered, and when he realized it, yes he would surely use her as a hostage! There was no one to send. The Guard would never get to them in time. We have to get her away from him!

  :Meet me outside!: Rolan cried, and she leapt to her feet, and grabbed for her bow and arrows as she sped out the door. No time for a cloak. She had to rely on Rolan to tell—anyone—where she was going. As she hit the cold air, an enormous white form skidded to a halt next to her and collapsed to its knees. She rolled onto his bare back, twined her fingers in his mane, and he lurched to his feet and was off in a single motion.

  It was freezing, but Rolan radiated heat like an oven, and she just crouched as low on his back as
she could to take advantage of that. Her mouth was dry, and her hands in Rolan’s mane shook. She had never done anything like this alone before. But she was the only one who could find Violetta. She had to go.

  :I’m telling others, the Trainees, the ones who aren’t already on the way down to the tent. They’ll follow my guidance.:

  Well that was a small comfort. There would be people coming. Just . . . not immediately.

  Other Heralds were mounting up, or already galloping down to the Theater Tent around her, in front of her, behind her, some carrying Healers doubled up behind them.

  Rolan joined the river of white. They all poured down the street that wound through the mansions and palaces like an avalanche—but then she and Rolan dashed alone down a side road that would take her to the South Road.

  Clutching her fingers in Rolan’s silky mane, she closed her eyes again and sought the puppy. Gods, it was cold, so cold. Her unprotected ears were freezing.

  He was no longer in the carrier. He was floundering through snow too deep for him, whimpering, trying to follow the fast-fading scent of his mistress.

  Brand must have grabbed him and tossed him aside.

  And what did that mean for Violetta?

  She shuddered, and Rolan put on a little more speed.

  —

  :Help is coming!: Dallen cried again, but Mags knew that help was not going to arrive in time. Not for what he had just seen in the killer’s mind. For the next part of the plan was to tip over all the braziers, all the lanterns, all the candles, and set the tent and its contents on fire with everyone in it.

  He didn’t even have to think about what he was going to do; he was going to have to surprise the killer and buy time. So he stood up and strode right through the door of the tent as if he owned the place, startling the killer—who was standing between the tables full of unconscious guests—into jumping back a pace or two.

  The murderer stared. Then he grinned, crookedly, as if he was entirely amused, and at that moment, Mags realized something.

  He wasn’t wearing his Whites. He wasn’t even wearing his disguise of “Magnus.” He was dressed as Harkon, a cheap bully-boy from the bad part of Haven. So he wasn’t going to have the murderer as intimidated as he might have been if he was facing off against a Herald. In fact, the man probably thought that he was a cheap tough who had noticed the silence and come in here looking to see if there were some quick pickings to be had. That he was someone easily intimidated, or easily killed along with the rest.

  “Well . . . what’ve we got ’ere?” the killer drawled. “I don’ recall you bein’ on m’roster.” The grin turned cruel. “Well. One more set’a burned bones ain’t gonna matter one way or t’other.”

  :I can’t get to you!: Dallen said frantically. :I can’t get through that door! It’s too small, and if I try to kick it down the whole tent might come down!: Mags knew immediately that would be a very bad idea, The canvas would come down on all that flame, and he and the killer and everyone unconscious would burn together.

  :Don’t worry about it,: Mags replied, most of his attention on the murderer. :All I need to do is hold him off and keep him busy until help comes. All I need to do is keep him from starting fires. . . .:

  So he grinned, as cocky as Harkon was, out in the streets, when he knew that he had a foe outmatched. “Could be them bones’ll be yours, cobber,” he replied arrogantly. “Ain’t found a match fer me in Haven yet.”

  The killer chuckled nastily. “Oh, I’m gonna laugh when I put m’blade in yer gut,” he replied, and lunged.

  But of course, Mags wasn’t there. He’d already leapt back out of reach, but as the killer reached the limit of his lunge and had not yet recovered, he dashed back in, and smacked the other’s extended blade aside, slashing down with his dagger at the killer’s sword-hand.

  Only the fact that he was fractionally faster than Mags saved him from a severed wrist. He managed to pull back, and Mags’ dagger hissed along the edge of his sword as the killer leapt out of the way.

  But he’d lost that smile. And Mags could see his thoughts as clear as if they were his own.

  As always, since he had shared the Sleepgiver’s thoughts, Mags went into a cool and detached frame of mind the moment he began fighting. Oh, he was afraid, but the fear was locked away behind a mental wall. What was in charge now was calm, calculating, and above all, observant. Nothing escaped him, not the tiniest squint of an eye or the fractional movement of a hand.

  Mags lunged before the killer could get his hands on a table-lamp, but there were dozens on either side of him and it was only a matter of moments before he was able to grab one and send it crashing into the canvas of the tent, or the flammable baize—

  Dallen screamed in his head. :Mags! I grant you leave!:

  Time froze.

  —

  “So . . . I s’pose I could . . . like . . . take over somebody’s head?”

  He and Dallen were walking along the riverbank near the Waystation just outside Bastion. They’d been talking about his Gift, how strong it had become. How Dallen thought that after that session with the Sleepgiver drugs, and trading memories with his cousin, he might be the strongest Mindspeaker in all of Haven. And it had occurred to him, more than once, that if he could put words into someone’s head . . . he could probably put thoughts there, too. And maybe . . . actions?

  :You can, I am sure of it,: was Dallen’s reply, though it sounded troubled. And Mags knew why. To do something like that . . . it was dangerous. He could get lost in someone else’s head. It was bad enough when he was simply listening to what they were thinking, but to go right inside like that was courting great peril. You didn’t know what was in peoples’ heads, what their secrets were. Ugly things could overwhelm you, knock your feet right out from under you. Like being trapped in someone else’s nightmare. He’d gotten a sense of that with the first Sleepgiver ritual when the talisman had tried to take him over; he’d nearly lost himself then. To open himself deliberately to that sort of thing would be perilous.

  It was also very wrong. Listening without asking was bad enough, though certainly there were plenty of extenuating circumstances, like if someone was trying to kill you or other people. But taking over their thoughts? Or taking over their body entirely? That was . . . well, it was wrong in so many ways he couldn’t count them all.

  On the other hand . . . killing people was very wrong too.

  “So how do I know when it’d be all right?” he asked after a long, long moment. “If I even can, that is.”

  More silence on Dallen’s part. And then came the answer.

  :You’ll know, if I give you leave,: the Companion said, almost too quietly to be heard.

  —

  Time unfroze, and so did Mags’ thoughts. He saw the killer reaching for a lantern.

  And as if he was plunging a sword into the man’s body, he plunged his mind into the man’s head.

  The man screamed in sheer terror, sensing that something was terribly, terribly wrong, but Mags was already on his knees, grabbing his own head in both hands. A moment later, the killer was mimicking his pose, though not voluntarily. Mags had put him there.

  And now Mags was fighting to keep his sanity in a sea of horror.

  For all that they were assassins and murderers, the Sleepgivers were curiously . . . clean. Bey, in particular, had a high sense of honor. And aside from that one insane one, when they killed, they killed cleanly, quickly, and dispassionately. They didn’t enjoy killing, although they enjoyed the skillful exercise of their talents. They didn’t torture. They didn’t enjoy inciting fear. In fact, when they did their work right, the victim never even knew they were there until it was too late.

  This man loved to kill, reveled in it, reveled in the fear of his victims and their pain. When he got a chance to torture, he took it, and his mind was full of those m
emories and how he had enjoyed every one of those experiences. His one regret on this job was that he wouldn’t be able to stand here and gloat while his victims burned. Being inside his mind was like drowning in sewage.

  And this time Mags didn’t have the luxury of curling his “self” up and just riding it all out. He had to keep control of this man’s body, keep him down with every muscle locked in place. Had to hold him until help came. The images, the memories of what this man had done in the past surged through him, threatening to shake him loose with their foulness, for it was exactly as if he had done these things, rejoicing in the pain, thrilling to the terror.

  He sweated and wept and gagged—and held, and held, and held.

  —

  Amily and Rolan galloped at full speed through the Old South Gate. Everywhere her body didn’t physically touch Rolan’s she was painfully cold, and she’d had to try keeping her ears warm by putting first one side of her head, then the other, against his outstretched neck. Her muscles were cramping as she fought to stay on his back without a saddle. Her stomach was a knot, and the cold air seared her lungs.

  The moon was high overhead, and the road a ribbon of dark through the white snow. She blessed the road-clearing crews, and Rolan’s night-sight. Was her bow still on her back, her quiver of arrows on her belt? She freed a hand to check. Yes. She sent her mind ahead, searching now for a single horse, somewhere out there, probably deep under that mass of darkness that was an orchard.

  Suddenly, she found them, felt them. Found the horse’s mind, anyway. He was not happy; confused at being asked to go outside the city at night, confused by the darkness of the road, confused by everything about this journey he found himself on.

  There they are . . . Brand was shifting in his saddle, looking back over his shoulder. Could he hear the galloping hoofbeats in the distance? The horse certainly could. He kept flicking his ears backward, anxiously, hoping for another of his kind.