Arrow’s Flight (15 page)

“High marks; completely correct.” He looked about him at the falling leaves, at trees whose branches were almost bare. “I’m sorry that this isn’t going to an easy beginning for you. This is a bad time of ytar to start riding this Sector. There’s going to be snow in the next couple of weeks. Trainees usually aren’t faced with conditions this hard at the beginning of their internships.”

“I’m Borderbred, remember? This is a lot more like the kind of life I was bred to than my life at the Collegium. I’ll manage.”

“You know,” he said soberly, “I know you’ll do your best. I know you’ll try your hardest. That’s all anyone can ask. I trust you. Talia.”

At least, he thought to himself,
I
think I do.

The boughs of the nearly-leafless trees arched above them, skeletal hands reaching for the gray sky. The road continued before them, a leaf-carpeted tunnel through the bleak, gray-brown forest. The sodden leaves had been flattened by so many rains that the Companions didn’t even kick them up; the dense mat only served to muffle the sounds of their hooves. There were no birds, only the occasional sound of a branch cracking somewhere off in the shadows of the underbrush.

Talia and Kris rode well past sunset and on into the dark to reach the Waystation Kris intended to use as their first stop in their new Sector. With the last rays of the sun went the last hint of warmth; as the last dim, red light filtered through the branches, a cold wind began to sigh among them. Kris took the lead, but it was Tantris, with the superior night-sight of Companions, who was really picking out their way, through cold and dark that was enough to drive just about any other consideration from human minds. Talia was strongly considering unpacking her heavy cloak and was definitely glad that all Waystations, however small or primitive, had fireplaces. The wind had a sharp bit to it, and carried a hint of snow along with the cold.

This Station, as it loomed up out of the shadows in front of them, did not appear to be all that small. Hopefully, it was not primitive either.

One thing was always the first order of business, no matter how late the hour, nor how foul the weather, when Heralds opened a Waystation. Talia dismounted, felt along Rolan’s saddle, and took out her firestarter and tinderbox. After no little fumbling and cursing, she managed to get a tiny flame going in the tinder. Protecting it carefully from the wind, she removed a small, fibrous bundle from one of the packs; it had a waxed wick sticking out of it, which she lit at the tiny flame. While Kris pulled off the packs and saddlebags, she tossed it inside and shut the door. He left the packs at her feet, and took Companions and chirras around to the side of the building. While she waited, she shivered in the cold wind, and started a little when an owl cried in the distance. The little, homely sounds Kris was making in the lean-to stable were very welcome against all that dark, with the wind sighing in the boughs of the trees.

She nursed the tiny fire she had going; if it went out, the whole rigamarole was to do over again. When she had counted to one hundred, slowly, she opened the door again. The Station was full of a pungent, oily smoke that was now being swiftly drawn up the chimney with the help of the draft from the open door. And any vermin that had been within the Station were either dead or fled.

Talia hauled the packs and bedrolls inside, then began to get them set up while Kris ducked inside long enough to get grain for the Companions and the chirras who were now in the stabling at the side of the building. She took a rushlight from her saddlebag by feel, and lit it from her bit of tinder. To her immense relief, the place seemed to be quite sturdy, and well maintained and supplied. She threw the bedrolls into the twin bedboxes, then proceeded (wistfully wishing for just a touch of Griffon’s Gift) to get a fire going. It took several false starts, but eventually she managed to get a respectable blaze on the cold hearth. Once the flames were high enough to provide illumination as well as warmth, she extinguished the light she’d lit; no sense in wasting what wasn’t really necessary, and the rushlights took up so much space in the packs that they didn’t carry many of them. She unpacked some of their food supplies and unsealed the vermin-proof cendal-wood bins the Station staples were kept in to put together a reasonable meal, then took two of the larger pots outside to the well to get water for washing and cooking.

Kris seemed to be taking overly long with bedding down the chirras and Companions; she’d managed to heat enough water for both of them to wash, had fixed a meal, and had cleaned herself up and changed into a worn shift and old breeches she kept for sleeping in before he finally appeared. She was about to chide him for being so slow, when she realized that he’d dawdled on purpose.

“Kris, you don’t have to be so thrice-blessed chivalrous, you know,” she said instead, feeling his reticence sharply, and being irrationally irritated by it. “All the children on the Holdings sleep in the same room until they’re thirteen, and you know very well I’ve shared Waystations and tents with my whole year-group while we were in training. I can’t possibly have something you’ve never seen before—and the same goes for you.”

“I’m . .. just not used to having a woman as a partner,” he said.

“Then stop thinking of me as a woman,” she yawned, bundling herself into her bedroll and blinking at him sleepily through the firelight. Her irritation was gone as quickly as it had come, once she’d reinforced her shielding—although the fact that she’d had to do the latter bothered her; she shouldn’t have needed to.

“That’s easy for you to say!” he retorted.

“Then pretend I’m Keren, with no interest in men whatsoever. Because if you don’t, one of these evenings I’m going to find an ice statue waiting outside the door—and it’ll be you!”

He chuckled, and admitted that she just might be right.

Her heart pounded a little the next day as they approached their first village of their Sector. There was no telling what reception awaited them—or what requests. This far from the capital, a village often didn’t even boast its own priest, but shared one with several other villages; and the only representatives of Kingdom law were the Heralds.

Her shields were so very thin; she’d discovered that last night. She couldn’t fathom why; shielding had always been second-nature, nearly instinctive— and now they seemed to be eroding, slowly, inexorably. She was frightened by the loss of control and was afraid to tell Kris, afraid her confession would simply reinforce his own doubts about her, and create more stress than she already had.

As they rode in, it appeared as though the entire population of the area had asssembled to meet them. Talia thought they must have had lookouts posted, perhaps for the last week or so, waiting for the Heralds they knew were replacing the injured one. The emotional atmosphere—which she felt in spite of her best efforts to shield—was tense, with no hint of why. The village was a small one, single-storied houses of gray wood and darker gray stone, topped with tile roofs, all clustered about a central square. There were no bright-painted shutters here; the wind-driven ice of winter storms would have etched the paint off in a single season. The inn was so small it obviously had no guest-rooms; those overnighting would have to sleep in the common room on the benches when the inn closed for the night. There was no sign of damage to any of the buildings, no hint of disorder; whatever had these folk anxious had nothing to do with their material life. The village folk, though—they were dressed in gaudy colors, as if for a festival. So why the feeling of apprehension so thick she could almost smell it?

“Thanks be to the Lady, you’ve finally come!”

A plump woman who reminded Talia for all the world of a hen bustled forward, pushing before her a young couple of about sixteen or so until they stood less than a foot from Kris’ stirrup. Both were dressed in heavily embroidered finery, and the girl was roundly pregnant. They clutched each other’s hands as if they were afraid, and neither of them would look at the Heralds. Talia was puzzled beyond her own worries. What was it that could be wrong— that she hadn’t sensed?

“The priest took sick and hasn’t been able to make his rounds since eight weeks ago,” continued the plump woman, tucking a stray strand of hair behind the girl’s ear, “and in any case, he hasn’t been here since before Midsummer. There hasn’t been anyone to marry these two in all that time!”

“Were they properly year-and-day handfasted?” Talia asked, knowing the Border custom, meant to ensure fertility before a permanent bond was made.

“Bright Stars, yes—the priest did it himself last Midwinter!” the woman exclaimed impatiently, while the other villagers nodded in agreement.

Enlightenment dawned on Talia, though Kris was obviously still perplexed about the reason for their obvious apprehension.

“You’re both still willing?” he asked. Both gave a very shy assent, but one obviously unforced.

“They’re just victims of very bad timing,” Talia whispered to him. “And they’re afraid we’ll disapprove—maybe even refuse to wed them—because they left the formal ceremony so long. They should have wedded as soon as they knew she was with child, but I’ll bet a pretty they were so busy with planting that they put it off until after Midsummer, assuming the priest would get here in plenty of time— Except that they hadn’t counted on him falling ill. Poor babies! They’re terribly in awe of us, and they’re afraid we’ll make difficulties for them because they didn’t take care of it right away. We’d be within our right to do so ... by the letter of the law.”

“But not by the spirit,” Kris whispered back, relieved that it was so simple. “Well, since everyone’s agreed,” he said loudly enough for everyone to hear, smiling broadly, “what’s holding up the celebration?”

There was a general sigh of tension vanishing, and trestle tables and food began appearing as if conjured by a spell. Before very long the square had been transformed and a proper wedding celebration was in full swing. To save them any further embarrassment, Kris took the young couple off to one side and witnessed their vows, signing their wedding contract as officiating Herald in lieu of a priest.

The young couple returned to enjoy their feast, their shyness nearly gone. They were obviously comforted on two counts: that the Heralds had made no difficulty over the lateness of their vows, and that now their Firstborn would have no taint of illegitimacy about it.

The remainder of that day they spent in relative idleness, since there was no use whatsoever in trying to get any official business conducted. The press of people was putting a considerable strain on Talia, but she thought she was succeeding in keeping the strain from showing, even to Kris. She sat mostly on the edge of things, speaking pleasantly when spoken to, but letting Kris take the lion’s share of the attention.

And she was even more worried than when they’d first entered this village; her shields hadn’t been this fragile since before she’d learned the full use of her Gift. Virtually anything would bring them down, and she had to expend ridiculous amounts of energy to put them back up again.

If only she’d never heard those filthy rumors. .. .

The thought of the rumors brought her back full circle to her self-doubt and fear, and the press of emotions became almost painful, until she finally resorted to an old expedient; drinking enough wine to blur the edges of her sensing, and make it all bearable. It was rather too bad that it left her sober enough to negotiate the dark path back to the Waystation with no trouble at all—for that meant she was still sober enough to think.

They returned the next day, ready for business. The people of the village had no grievances that needed settling, but they were eager to hear the news from the capital and the other towns of the Sector. The common room of the inn, dark and smokey as it was, was the only “public” room in the whole village, so that was where they conducted their business. The village storyteller—who doubled as the clerk—sat drinking in every word they spoke, and making copious notes, for it would be his duty to repeat all that the Heralds related for those who were absent from the village, or for those small holders who seldom came to town.

They gave the morning to the decisions of the Queen and Council, how and why those decisions had been reached, and what, if any, laws had been passed to uphold and enforce those decisions; and the afternoon they spent relating the news of the Court and events of major importance to the entire Kingdom—all of which took them until darkness fell, and they returned to the Station again.

This day had lain easier on Talia’s wire-taunt nerves, for there was nothing to excite anyone’s emotions in the dry news they recited, and even if there had been, the storyteller
I
clerk was too intent on mem-orizing every word to allow his feelings to intrude.

Two of them returned to the Waystation, made herself a cup of double-strength shamile tea, a strong soporific. She was determined to get to sleep, and to sleep deeply, thinking perhaps weariness was part of the cause of her troubles.

But her dreams were uneasy, and she woke feeling more drained than she had been when she’d gone to sleep.

They spent the third day on the reports of the headman and clerk, and taking the verbal news of the village to be passed on up the line. Kris would carry the headman’s written reports until they came to a center of population large enough to boast a messsenger, or until they arrived at a Resupply Station, at which point he could send what he had collected south to the capital, together with his own observations on the probable truth or falsehood of the information contained in them.