Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar v(-102 Page 7

  Morning sunshine illuminated the two fighters and the two watchers alike. The first of the season’s swallows labored around them, chattering over stray bits of straw for their nests. The twins’ staffs made loud thunks as they struck each other fairly and well, over and over.

  Breda cleared her throat to gain attention from Gavin, her counterpart from the Healer’s Collegium. “Do you see why I brought you here? They’re mirrors of each other. Can’t stand to be apart for longer than a class period, and we’ve let them live that way. We even let them share a room when they first got here, and somehow no one thought to separate them. Other Bardic students don’t room with Healers.”

  Gavin smiled. “Because you all make too much noise.” The Master Healer shook his head. “They seem healthy enough.”

  “Here, where it’s safe. But just last week the Arms-master told me that together they can beat any other pair from their year-groups, even the healers, and yet neither of them can best another single fighter.”

  Rhiannon and Dionne stopped together and, as if on cue, took great gulps of air.

  “They even have the same cuts and bruises,” Breda pointed out. Both girls sported purpling bruises on their forearms from failing to block with their staffs, and each had matching scabbed-over bramble cuts on their calves.

  Gavin grunted. “When they came to the Collegium, their mother said that if one of them fell, to just wait and call the Healer after they’d both fallen. That’s not unusual for twins. We’ve seen it before.”

  “Both falling maybe. But sympathy bruises when only one of them falls?”

  Gavin arched an eyebrow at her.

  Breda fell silent, watching the girls spar. Surely it wasn’t healthy for each to be so dependent on the other? If one of them died, she was pretty sure the other one would die at almost the same time. When they left Haven to pursue their special Gifts, it would be rare good luck for them both to live to old age. At least in these times.

  “Rhiannon sings well by herself,” Gavin said. “Her solos at student concerts make me cry or laugh. A merchant I bought herbs from last week talked about her and was happy when I said some of her herbs might be used by Rhiannon’s sister.”

  Breda sighed. “You’ve only seen her when Dionne’s in the audience. You haven’t heard her stumble over chords in class.”

  His face had a stubborn set. “There’s always been Bards who need someone to sing to.”

  Breda nodded. “I know Dionne is one of your best Healers this year. But how is she when Rhiannon is off on a field trip?”

  His silence was enough answer. In the salle, the two started bashing each other equally, so it looked like one girl fighting herself in a mirror. Breda continued, “Healers and Bards are more than their Gifts. It’s all right that they’re stronger together, but don’t you think it’s time they learned to live without each other, too?”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Send them to separate places. Make them live on their own for a whole year. I’ve talked with the Bardic Council, and we don’t feel we can give Rhiannon her Scarlets until we know she can survive without Dionne.”

  “Seems cruel. I’ve never seen two people so connected, even lifebonded couples.” Gavin watched the two girls move in unison, balance a mirror of each other, staffs up, staffs down. He waited a few long moments before speaking.

  Did old men lose all their backbone? “And?”

  “I guess it couldn’t hurt.” He blinked as if maybe he’d gotten something in his eye. “But she’ll hate it. I won’t want to tell her.”

  Breda grunted. “Their safety’s more important than their happiness.”

  “I know. But I still think there’s something here we aren’t seeing.”

  What could that be? As Gavin walked away, Breda felt her own age in the slow, measured steps he took. Maybe she should have told him she’d lost sleep over this very conversation last night. A Healer should be able to spot a clearly unstable emotional situation. So was he just getting old? Or was she?

  Dionne bit her tongue for distraction as Rhiannon clambered aboard an old roan mare assigned by the Bardic Collegium, her gittern in a leather case over her shoulder, a leather pack full of clothes and picks and paper for composing tied to the back of the saddle. A strong arm steadied her briefly. She mumbled, “Thank you,” but didn’t look at Mari, the journeyman Healer she’d be spending her year of living alone with. She didn’t want Mari to see her weak. Or more accurately, since Mari had Empathy, Dionne didn’t want to provide an opening to get probed through. Instead, she shouldered her own pack full of Healer’s herbs and apprentice Greens, turning back for one last sight of Rhiannon, only to find her well and truly gone.

  Rhiannon was off to join Bard Lleryn to ride the southern border circuit near Rethwellan. They’d been tasked to help Bard Stefan with his quest to convince the still-healing kingdom that Heralds were as capable as Herald-Mages—now all gone—had once been. Rhiannon and Lleryn weren’t likely to actually see Stefan; a full quarter of the younger bards were part of the vast project.

  Dionne and Mari would ride northeast, toward Iftel, but only about halfway to the border. Even as a child, she’d never been more than a few miles from her twin. Already they were that far apart, and the gulf felt like a hole in her very self. As soon as Mari laid a fire by their first night’s campsite, Dionne collapsed and cried. Mari sat beside her, rubbing her back in great big slow circles, whispering that it would be all right.

  But it wouldn’t. Not until the whole year passed. And that might take forever.

  The next morning, and the morning after that, and every morning for another three weeks, Dionne woke from dreams of Rhiannon. In the crack between night and day when the summer sun was just starting to warm her cheeks, she’d see her twin’s face behind her closed eyes, as clear as if Rhiannon were right beside her. She’d know how Rhiannon’s day had been. Dionne would know if Rhiannon had been rained on, if she was weary, if she’d practiced her scales enough or started a new song. She also knew that Rhiannon missed her.

  Or maybe she was making it all up.

  How was she supposed to tell?

  The days were no better. Every step took her further from Rhiannon. She tried to be effective for the villagers who needed her. Sometimes she did all right, but nothing like what she knew her best work to be. Mari had needed to help her with every major Healing. Dionne could manage on her own if someone just needed to talk or to have a few herbs from her stores—the simpler things that village wisewomen knew. But the Gift that had earned her the second-highest ranking of her class had become almost inaccessible.

  Gavin and Breda were both respected teachers. But what if they were wrong?

  After a particularly hard day when Dionne had actually made an old woman’s headache worse, Mari built them a fire in a small grove of trees just between villages. The big raven-haired journeywoman twisted her large hands in her lap and looked at the fire for a while before saying simply, “I can’t stand it anymore. Your pain. Your power is all leaking down whatever thread you have with your sister, and I can feel it draining away from you. I’m going to take you back to Haven soon if you can’t figure this out.”

  And Dionne would never get her Greens.

  “I am trying. Really I am.”

  “Try harder.”

  Mari’s slightly condescending tone made Dionne’s fists clench, but she tried to keep her voice even. “I’m just as tired of failing as you are of me failing. What if Rhiannon and I are just meant to be together?”

  “Don’t you want families of your own someday?”

  Dionne shook her head. “We never have. It’s always been us, and that’s always been what we need.”

  “I guess I don’t understand.”

  “I know.” Mari was an Empath, and surely Dionne’s pain gave her pain. But knowing that just made Dionne hurt more. She threw a stick onto the fire, sending sparks scrambling for the sky.

  Halfway across Valdemar, Rhiannon’s f
ingers ran scales in front of a different and slowly dying fire. They were camped in a small copse of trees very near the border and had kept the fire low to avoid unwanted attention. The scales kept her hands supple and warm in spite of the cool night and provided a steady beat to keep her wandering thoughts from going too far. Tomorrow, they were supposed to finally meet up with one of the border Heralds, a man named Deckert. Maybe that would jolt her out of her malaise.

  So far on this trip, she’d barely sounded better than a local minstrel at any of the taverns or village squares they’d sung in, and for the last two nights she’d done no better than play a good backup to Lleryn’s soaring soprano.

  But even if she couldn’t sing, surely she could interview a Herald and gather information. Even though she’d tried again and again, her will for singing and performing seemed to have stayed behind with her sister. But the ability to create music was her strongest gift, and surely it hadn’t deserted her, too.

  At least Lleryn had already crawled into their shared tent, so she didn’t see the tears tracing down Rhiannon’s cheeks as she sang a new lament she’d penned for far-away Dionne. The night, and her voice, and even the delicate instrument in her lap felt heavy. As she finished the song, even the stars bore down more closely, adding to her melancholy.

  “You’re very sad.” The male voice coming from behind her made her jump. She clutched her instrument to her chest and turned to face the intruder. She saw an old man in Whites, and behind him, a bit like a ghostly image in the darkness beyond the campfire, the outline of his Companion.

  She flicked the tears from her face. “Herald Deckert?”

  He smiled. “Deck.”

  “We didn’t expect you until tomorrow.” She thrust a hand out. “I’m Rhiannon.” She stepped aside. “Care to sit by the fire? Shall I wake Lleryn?”

  “Don’t bother anyone. But warming my old bones would be nice.”

  “Of course.” This was one of the people she was supposed to be singing about, the saviors of Valdemar. She felt awkward. At least the fire had fallen low enough that the old man wouldn’t see her blush. “How has the border been?”

  He added two dry branches to the fire, so it brightened merrily and warmed her. “The border has been ... busy. But not as sad as your song. Care to talk about it?”

  She shook her head. She’d sound like a spoiled child saying she couldn’t bear to leave her sister.

  “Well,” he said, “I hope whatever the hurt is doesn’t trouble a pretty Bard like you for long.”

  He was old enough his words were simply sweet. As he sat with his hands out in front of him, warming them, the firelight illuminated a nasty scar crisscrossing his left cheek. A hero. He turned back to her. “Did you write that song? Does it have a name?”

  She nodded. “I call it the Lament for Twins.”

  “It is ... affecting.”

  He looked sad. Hopefully it wasn’t her fault for singing the lament where he could hear it. “What about your Companion? Won’t he or she want to get warm, too?” she asked.

  “You’re camped on the very border. Ashual will be happy enough to stand guard and keep us safe.”

  The tent flap rustled, and Lleryn untied the strings holding it closed. The young Bard popped her head out. Lleryn was shorter than Rhiannon by a head, but broader, with whipcord muscles and slightly mussed dark hair and dark eyes. “I see we have a visitor.”

  Deck blinked and said nothing. Rhiannon filled the silence. “This is Herald Deckert, come a night early.”

  Lleryn nodded, squinting at the Herald. “Welcome.” She gestured to Rhiannon. “Can you give me a hand for a moment?”

  “Sure.” What could she need more than to come say hello to the man they’d just ridden for days to find? She picked up her gittern rather than leave it where the heat of the newly fed fire might warp its sound, and handed it in to Lleryn.

  Lleryn took the instrument and immediately extended a hand. As soon as Rhiannon ducked into the tent, Lleryn squeezed her arm and whispered, “Not Herald Deck,” while at the same time thrusting a knife hilt into Rhiannon’s other hand.

  Rhiannon squelched the sharp breath she wanted to take.

  Lleryn whispered, “Did you see his Companion?”

  Had she? “I saw something white. He said his Companion’s name is Ashual.”

  “That’s a name from an old song.”

  “So what?”

  “So if he’s a Herald, I’m the Queen of Valdemar. I’ve met Deckert, and this isn’t him. The scar’s on the wrong side of his face.”

  Rhiannon found she was still resisting the idea. “He seems nice. Why would he pretend?”

  Lleryn shook her head. “We’d better find out.” She opened the door with her right hand, her knife loose in her left hand behind her. She looked back and whispered, “Be careful.”

  As soon as Lleryn stepped out, she was jerked sideways with a grunt. Lleryn’s knife hand came up quickly, only to be caught by the wrist, gripped by the Herald’s hand.

  Not a Herald then. He couldn’t be. Rhiannon bit her lip, then plunged out to help her mentor, bringing her own knife hand up toward the older man’s chest. It impacted but slid away sideways. He grunted, feeling the force of her blow, but he didn’t release Lleryn. Rhiannon’s knife slipped off his chest. She side-stepped, swinging around to the back of him and trying to slash him behind the knees.

  Once more the blade slid off.

  She tried again, aiming lower, for the back of his heel. She missed entirely.

  “Mage!” Lleryn hissed, and Rhiannon looked around for a second pursuer before realizing Lleryn must mean the false Deckert. Was he somehow shielded from a physical blow? Even without Dionne, she wasn’t this bad a fighter.

  Lleryn leaned her whole body into him, her teeth flashing at his arm where he had her wrist pinned. Except she kept missing—her teeth gnashing open air instead of closing on soft flesh. Even Lleryn’s balance looked off, as if she might topple sideways any moment.

  Was that it? Did she need to strike a little off?

  Rhiannon slashed at him again, missing by more than she thought. Her vision seemed to be sliding a little left of where the mage and the Bard struggled. As if whenever she wanted to focus directly on him, something stopped her. She struck in a place that looked like empty air and felt her knife draw shallowly through his skin near the shoulder.

  He grunted.

  Rhiannon’s vision shifted and the ground came up and slapped her across the side. She coughed and hacked as the world spun around her. Lleryn and the mage were spinning as well, moving a full dizzying turn until Lleryn landed beside her with a grunt, her eyes wide and frightened.

  Rough hands wove ropes around Rhiannon’s wrists and tied her right foot to Lleryn’s left foot. Her stomach stopped screaming dizzy and her head and vision cleared only after both of them were well and truly trussed.

  A man Rhiannon would have sworn she’d never seen before stood over them. Tall and raven haired, with wild blue eyes and no scars at all, he might have been attractive if he hadn’t just tied her up. Sweat dripped down his temples, and his breath came hard.

  “Are you—”

  Lleryn interrupted. “It must have been a glamour.”

  Rhiannon took a deep breath. Something was wrong with this picture. “I thought people couldn’t do magic inside Valdemar.”

  He laughed bitterly. “The watchy things hurt. Which is why we’re going over the border right now.” He leaned over and offered his hand to Rhiannon. She stayed still, refusing to help him capture her. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to get them both up. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to stand being here for long. Maybe a real Herald would come along and help them.

  “Take my hand.” His voice was deep and commanding, as though he was used to being listened to. “Now.”

  She kicked at him, her foot going wide.

  “Why do you want us?” Lleryn demanded.

  “Take my hand!” He grabbed Rhiannon’s unwilling hand and
squeezed hard. Really hard. Something popped inside her hand, and she prayed nothing was broken.

  Maybe he’d hurt her so much she wouldn’t be able to play anymore. And Dionne. What would happen to Dionne if Rhiannon got killed? Miserably, she nodded. “If you stand back, we’ll try to stand up.” She glanced at Lleryn, who gave a short, pained nod.

  The mage backed up. He looked drained, but she wasn’t willing to bet they could get away, especially tied.

  At least they’d kept some semblance of control, made him listen to a little. Small satisfaction, but something. Getting up tied together was harder than she’d thought, and they fell all over each other twice. Lleryn growled at the mage once, and Rhiannon growled at him the second time, and he let them struggle through it. He still looked pretty uncomfortable, maybe because of the reported difficulty with using magic since Vanyel’s death. Not that she was a mage, but there were enough songs about it.

  Rethwellan was close. No more than a few minutes’ walk. That was why they’d kept their fire low. She glared at her captor. “Why do you want us?”

  “My keep could use a Bard or two.”

  “You can’t imprison a Bard!” Lleryn exclaimed.

  “I already did.”

  Dionne’s head spun. Only this time she was sure it wasn’t just over another bad day. In fact, it hadn’t been that bad—two of the people in the village had needed herbs, and dispensing that kind of help was easy. Mari had stopped trying to sweet-talk, encourage, or force her cooperation. She sat placidly across from Dionne with the firelight brightening her cheeks as she measured herbs into handwoven net tea bags a mother had given her for calming a colicky baby.

  They were in a pretty safe rest between two villages, with a pen the horses stamped quietly in, and two other sets of travelers near enough to see each other’s cookfires, if not near enough to hear each other.

  All in all, it was a calm evening. But still, the fire spun around her, and she gasped and twitched, and suddenly her balance turned so awkward she leaned and then fell off the sturdy log she was sitting on.