Arrow's Fall Read online

  He swallowed hard, and his hands were shaking. "I heard screaming, worse than before; the older Herald, she jerked like she'd been shot. She shouted at us to take the brigands before they got themselves over their fright, then she headed into the fires herself; I followed— my hands were too burned to hold a weapon, but I thought I might be able to help with the fires. The younger one had gotten trapped on the second floor of one of 76

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  the houses; I was right behind the older one and I could see her against the fire. Calm as you please, she's tossing younglings out to their parents. At least I think she was tossing 'em— she'd have a little one in her hands one moment, then the next, his mum or dad would be holding it. The older one ran up, started shouting at her to jump. She just shook her head, and turned back one more time— the floor collapsed then. That damn horse of hers crashed through the wall and went in after her— the other Herald was right on his heels. She'd no sooner cleared the door when the whole roof caved in. We got her out, but the other—"

  One of Selenay's pages brought him wine, and he drank it gratefully, his teeth chattering against the rim of the tankard.

  "That's what happened. For us, we beat 'em back, but we didn't get more than a handful of them compared to the numbers we know they've got.

  They're comin' back, we know they are. 'Specially since they must know the Heralds are— gone. We lost half the town— most of the able-bodied. I was about the only one that could make the ride here. We need help, Majesty, m'lords— we need it bad—"

  "You'll have that help," Selenay pledged, her eyes hard and black with anger as she stood. "This isn't the first incursion of these bastards we've heard of, but it's by far and away the worst. It's obvious to me that there is no way we can expect you folk to handle brigands as organized as these are. Lord Marshal, and good sir, if you'll come with me we'll mobilize a company of the Guard." She looked inquiringly at the rest of the Council.

  Lady Cathan spoke for all of them. "Whatever is needed, Highness. You and the Lord Marshal are the best judge of what that is. We'll stand surety for it."

  Talia nodded, with all the other Councillors. What Selenay had told the man was true; for the past few months there had been tales of bandits growing organized in Gyrefalcon's Marches. Sporadic raids had occurred before this— but never had the brigands dared to put an entire town to the sword! It was obviously more than local militia could handle; the entire Council was agreed on that.

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  Talia slipped away then, knowing with certainty that Selenay did not need her at the moment, and that another most definitely did. The tug at her was unmistakable. She opened the door to the Council chamber just enough to slip through— and once she was out into the cool, dark hallway, broke into a run.

  She ran out through the old Palace and passed the double doors of Herald's Collegium— then down the echoing main hall, heading for the side door and for Healer's. She felt the pull of a soul in agony as clearly as if she were being called by voice. She all but collided with Devan, who was on his way to look for her.

  "I might have known you'd know," he said gratefully, hitching up his green robes so that he could run with her. "Talia, she's fighting us, and we can't get past her shielding to do even the simplest painblocks. She blames herself for Christa, and all she wants to do now is die. Rynee can't do anything with her."

  "That's what I thought; Lord and Lady, the guilt is so thick I can almost see it. Well, let's see if I can get through to her."

  They had accomplished a certain amount of Healing at the site of the battle, while Destria was still unconscious; enough to enable moving her safely. She still was a most unpretty sight, lying on a special pad in one of the rooms reserved for burn patients. The room itself was bare stone; scrubbed spotless twice a day when unoccupied, and not so much as a speck of dust was ever allowed to settle there. The one window was sealed tight so that nothing could blow in. Everything that was brought in was removed as soon as it was no longer needed, and scalded.

  It was a tribute to the onsite Healers that Destria was still among the living. The last person Talia had seen with burns like hers had been Vostel, who had taken the full fury of an angry firebird on his fragile flesh.

  Where her burns had been relatively light— though the skin was red, puffed, and blistering— she was unbandaged. But her arms and hands were wrapped in special poultices of herbs and the thinnest and most fragile of tanned rabbit and calfskin, and Talia knew that beneath those bandages the skin was gone, and the flesh left raw. They had laid her on a 78

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  pallet of lambskin, tanned with the wool on; the fibers would cushion her burned skin and prevent too much pressure from being exerted on it. Talia knelt at the head of the pallet and rested both her hands on Destria's forehead. Destria's face and head were the only portions of her that were relatively untouched. As Talia reached into the whirlwind of pain, delirium, and guilt with her Gift, she knew that this was likely to be the hardest such fight she'd ever faced.

  * * *

  Guilt, black and full of despair, surrounded Talia from all directions. Pain, physical and mental, lanced through the guilt like red lightning. Talia knew her first priority was to find out why the guilt existed in the first place, and where it was coming from— That was easy enough; she simply lowered her shielding a fraction more, and let herself be drawn in where the negative emotions were the thickest.

  The fading core that was Destria spun an ever-tightening cocoon of bleakness around herself. Talia reached for that cocoon with a softly glowing mental "hand" and withered it until that which was Destria stood cringing before her.

  Talia paid no heed to her attempts at escape, but drew her into a rapport in which nothing was hidden; not from her— and not from Destria. And she let Destria read her as she strove to begin the Healing of the other Herald's mental hurts.

  I failed— that was the most overwhelming. They counted on me, and I failed.

  But there was something more, something that kept the guilt feeding on itself until Destria loathed her own being. And Talia found it, hiding underneath, festering. And I failed because I wanted something for me. I failed because I was selfish; I don't deserve my Whites— I deserve to die.

  This was something Talia was only too familiar with; and was something Rynee wouldn't understand. Healers were firm believers in a little honest 79

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  selfishness; it kept a person sane and healthy. Heralds, though— well, Heralds were supposed to be completely unselfish, totally devoted to duty.

  That was nonsense, of course; Heralds were only people. But sometimes they started to believe in that nonsense, and when something went wrong, because of their natures, the first people they tended to blame were themselves.

  So now Talia had to prove to Destria that there was nothing wrong with being a Herald and human. No small task, since Destria's guilt was akin to doubts she shared about herself.

  How often had she berated herself for wanting a little corner of life to call her own— some time when she didn't have to be a Herald— when she had been so tired of having to think first of others before taking the smallest action? How many times had she yearned for a little time to be lazy, a chance for a bit of privacy— and then felt guilty because she had?

  And hadn't she had been ready to assume that she was guilty of unconsciously using her Empathy to manipulate others?

  Hadn't she been angry enough to strangle someone more than once, and then been angry at herself for giving in to the weakness of rage?

  Oh, she understood Destria's self-loathing, only too well.

  * * *

  Rynee and the rest of the Healers watched soberly, sensing the battle Talia fought, though (except for the perspiration beading Talia's brow) there were no outward signs of a struggle. They all remained in the same positions they had first taken as the shadows cast through the window lengthened almost imperceptibly and the light
slowly faded; and still there was no outward indication of success or failure. Then, after the first half-hour, Rynee whispered to Devan, "I think she's getting somewhere; Destria threw me out after the first few minutes and wouldn't let me in again."

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  When a full hour had passed, Talia sighed, then carefully broke her physical contact with the other Herald, and slumped with exhaustion, her hands lying limply on her thighs.

  "Go ahead; I've got her convinced for now. She won't fight you at the moment."

  As she spoke, the waiting Healers converged on Destria like worker-bees on an injured queen. Rynee, whose Gift of Healing was (like Talia's) for minds rather than bodies, helped Talia to her feet.

  "Why couldn't I get through to her?" she asked plaintively.

  "Simple; I'm a Herald, you're not," Talia said, edging past the Healers and out into the hall. "She reacted to you the way you would react to a nonHealer trying to tell you that a gut-stab was nothing to worry about.

  Gods, I'm tired! And I'll have it all to do again tomorrow, or she'll fight you again. And then, when I finally convince her permanently that it wasn't her fault, I'll have to convince her she isn't going to revolt men with— the way she'll look when you're done. And that the scarring isn't some punishment set on her for being a bit randy."

  "I was afraid of that." Rynee bit her lip. "And she is going to scar; I can't tell you how badly yet, but there's no getting around it. Her face wasn't touched, but the rest of her— some of it isn't going to be at all pretty. The only burn victim I've ever heard of that was as bad was—"

  Despite her weariness, Talia's eyes lighted when she saw an idea begin to form behind Rynee's frown. "Out with it, milady— you've the same Gift as I have, and if you've gotten a notion it's probably going to work." She paused in the hallway and leaned against the wood-paneled wall; Rynee rubbed the bridge of her long nose with her finger.

  "Vostel— what does he do now? Could he be recalled here for a while?"

  she asked finally, hope in her cloud-gray eyes.

  "Relay at the Fallflower Healing Temple; and yes, anyone on relay work can be replaced. What are you thinking of?"

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  "That he'll be the best 'medicine' for her; he went through it all himself. He knows how it hurts, and when it'll stop, and how you have to force yourself to work through the pain if you intend to get the full use of your limbs back. And he's a Herald, so she'll believe what he says. Besides all that, despite the old scars he's still a better-than-passable-looking man.

  And he doesn't believe in the fates dealing out arbitrary punishments for a little healthy hedonism."

  Talia chuckled in spite of herself. "Oh, very good! If we have him at her side coaxing and encouraging, he'll do half our work for us! You're right about his beliefs, too. All I had to do was keep reassuring him that the pain would end, and that he wasn't being a coward and a whiner for occasionally wanting to give up. I've no doubt they'll find each other quite congenial when Destria's back to something like her old self and her old appetites. I'll see Kyril and get Vostel sent here as soon as he can be replaced; he'll be here by the time she starts to need him."

  Talia moved away from the wall and stumbled as her knees wobbled a little. They had only gotten a few feet down the hall, and already her exhaustion was threatening to overwhelm her. Rynee steered her toward a soft and comfortable-looking padded bench, one of many placed at intervals along the walls, for Healers were apt to catch oddments of rest wherever and whenever they could.

  "And you— you get yourself down onto that couch and take a short nap.

  I'll wake you, but if you don't take some recovery time you won't be of any use to any of us. You know the saying— never argue with a Healer—"

  "And I never do!"

  "See that you keep it that way."

  * * *

  About a week later Talia was on her way from the Audience Chamber to her own room to change for arms practice, and her mood was a somber one. The audiences were no longer dull, and that was unfortunate. More and more often those seeking audience with the Queen were from 82

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  Gyrefalcon's Marches reporting the depredations of what was obviously a small army of bandits. It was the wild and rocky character of the countryside that had let them organize without anyone realizing it; that same wild countryside enabled them to vanish before the Guard could pin them down.

  Orthallen was using the existence of these bandits as a political tool— a tactic that disgusted Talia, considering the suffering that they were causing, not to mention that they were preying on some of the lands supposedly in his jurisdiction.

  She had just endured one such session.

  There were six Heralds out there now— along with the Guard company Selenay had sent. The Heralds were organizing the common folk to their own defense, since the Guard could not be everywhere at once. One of those Heralds, Herald Patris, sent a messenger that had only arrived today.

  "'They seem to know exactly where the Guard is at all times,' Patris had written. 'They strike, and are away before we can do anything. They know these hills of stone and the caves that honeycomb them better than we guessed; I suspect them of traveling a great deal underground, which would certainly answer the question of how they move about without being spotted. At this point, we are beyond saving the livestock or the harvest; Majesty, I must be frank with you. It will be all we can do just to save the lives of these people. And I must tell you worse yet— having stripped them of all possessions, the bastards have taken to carrying off the only thing these folk have left. Their children.' "

  "Great Goddess!" Lady Wyrist had exclaimed.

  "I'm on it, Majesty," Lady Cathan had said grimly at almost the same moment. "They won't get children out past my Guildsmen— not after that slaver scandal— with your permission?"

  Selenay had nodded distractedly, and Lady Cathan sprinted from the room in a swirl of colorful brocades.

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  "Majesty," Orthallen said then, "It is as I have been saying. We need a larger standing army— and we need more autonomy in local hands. If I had been given two or three companies of the Guard and the power to order them, this emergency would never have become the disaster it is!"

  Then the debate had broken out— yet again. The Council had split on this issue of granting power at the local level and increasing the size of the Guard; split about equally. On Orthallen's side were Lord Gartheser, Lady Wyrist, Bard Hyron, Father Aldon and the Seneschal. Selenay— who did not want the size of the army increased, because to do so would mean drafted levies and possibly impressment— preferred to keep the power where it was, with the Council, and was lobbying for hiring professional mercenaries to augment the existing troops. Backing her were Talia, Kyril, Elcarth, Healer Myrim, and the Lord Marshal. Lady Kester, Lord Gildas, and Lady Cathan remained undecided. They weren't especially pleased with the notion of foreign troops, but they also weren't much in favor of hauling folk away from their lands and trades either.

  Talia was pondering the state of things when her sharp ears caught the sound of a muffled sob. Without hesitation she unshielded enough to determine the source, and set out to find out was wrong.

  Her sharp ears led her into a seldom-used hallway near the Royal Library, one lined with alcoves which could contain statues or suits of plate-mail or other large works of art, but which were mostly vacant and screened off by velvet curtains. This was a favored place for courting couples during great revels, but the lack of seating tended to confine assignations to those conducted standing.

  She had a little problem finding the source of the sob, as it was hiding itself behind the curtains in one of those alcoves along this section of hall.

  Only a tiny sniffle gave her the clue as to which of three it was.

  She drew the heavy velvet curtain aside quietly; curled up on a cushion purloined from a chair in the audienc
e chamber was a child.

  He was a little boy of about seven or eight; his eyes were puffy from crying, his face was smeared where he'd scrubbed tears away with dirty 84

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  fingers, and from the look of him, he hadn't a friend in the world. She thought that he must have been adorable when he wasn't crying, a dark-haired, dark-eyed cherub; the uniform Selenay's pages wore, sky-blue trimmed in dark blue, suited his fair complexion. He looked up when the curtain moved, and his face was full of woe and dismay, his pupils dilated in the half-light of the hall.

  "Hello," Talia said, sitting on her heels to bring herself down to his level.

  "You look like you could use a friend. Homesick?"

  A fat tear trickled slowly down one cheek as he nodded. He looked very young to have been made one of Selenay's pages; she wondered if he weren't a fosterling.

  "I was, too, when I got here. There weren't any girls my age when I first came, just boys. Where are you from?"

  "G-g-gyrefalcon's Marches," he gulped, looking as if her sympathy had made him long for a comfortable shoulder to weep on, but not daring to fling himself on a strange adult.

  "Can I share that pillow?" she asked, solving the problem for him. When he moved aside, she settled in with one arm comfortingly around his shoulders, projecting a gentle aura of sympathy. That released his inhibitions, and he sobbed into the velveteen of her jerkin while she soothingly stroked his hair. He didn't need her Gift, really. All he needed was a friend and a chance to cry himself out. While she gentled him, she pummeled her memory for who he could be.