The silence stretched, and Hedion knew better than to break it.
“My brother, his wife, my wife. Our children. A little farm. One day a Karsite supply party came through. I don’t know what happened. I was mending a fence when I smelled the smoke.” Gaurane looked down at his hands. Strong and blunt-fingered. Farmer’s hands. “You studied at the Collegium. I guess they told you about how it is with Gifts. They show up when you’re a kid, just like you cutting your second teeth. Or you can go your whole life not knowing you have them. Unless something rips you open.”
“You felt them die,” Hedion said softly.
“I wish I had. I
heard
them die,” Gaurane corrected sharply. “Heard them hope, heard Liodain lie to the babies and say it would be all right. Heard them beg the Karsites for help. Heard them realize they were all going to die. Heard. Them. Die.”
The fire crackled and popped. The silence was absolute.
“The next thing I’m sure of, Rhoses was telling me Valdemar needed me.” Gaurane sighed. “What do you know about the priests of Vikandis Sunlord?”
“Too much,” Hedion said, and Gaurane raised his cup in an ironic salute.
“The black-robes just kill people and chant. The red-robes kill people, chant, and call demons. Lord Brondrin said we needed to find out what they were doing in their Temple. Queen Alliana agreed. They knew something big was coming up. They knew they couldn’t get a spy in and out. Rhoses went to find me—or someone like me, I don’t know—he told me I had a thing called Mind-Hearing, and it was strong, strong enough to do what Queen Alliana needed. Of course I said yes.”
“What happened?” Hedion said quietly.
Gaurane shrugged. “I don’t know. I was there—and then I was on Rhoses’ back and he was running like hell. I kept shouting at him, but he never answered.” He reached for the keg beside him, and Hedion heard it gurgle, half-empty, as he filled his mug again. “They said in Haven I’d “completed my mission,” and that I might get better. They said I should stay and get proper Herald training. What good is a crazy old drunk to Valdemar? I walked out. Rhoses followed me. I never got better. He won’t leave.”
“He’s your Companion,” Hedion said. He felt helpless, unsure of what to say.
“
Heralds
have Companions,” Gaurane answered. “Me, I don’t even care who wins the war, not any more—no one man can take on the entire Karsite priesthood. You, on the other hand, care too damned much.”
“It’s better than giving up!” Hedion said hotly. “No one else can do what I can. If I don’t care, people will die.”
“What of it?” Gaurane said, shrugging. “Do you know how many people die each moonturn here on the Border because Karse has crossed to Valdemar or Valdemar has crossed to Karse?”
“I don’t care,” Hedion said through gritted teeth. Abruptly he realized he’d been sitting here as if he had all the time in the world when he could be riding toward Stone Tower. He got to his feet. “Thank you for your hospitality, Herald Gaurane. But they need me at Stone Tower. Each time Valdemar crosses to Karse, it’s a chance for a Karsite demon to inflict a wound only a Mindhealer can Heal.” He turned away. His tack had to be around here somewhere—unless Gaurane had thrown it in the stream.
“You’ll kill yourself trying, you know,” Gaurane said conversationally.
“I don’t care,” Hedion repeated, stepping away from the campfire’s light.
“Then if you’re going to help, help
smart
—or do you want to die just so you can get out of a task you know is hopeless?”
“It isn’t hopeless,” Hedion protested. Even to his own ears the words sounded weak and unconvincing.
Gaurane laughed; to Hedion’s surprise there was no bitterness in the sound, only joy. “Never lie to a drunk, boy.
You
think it is, and you’ll do anything not to see yourself fail at it—even die.”
“I—” Hedion began, and stopped. Was Gaurane right?
“Oh, come back and sit down, boy,” Gaurane said, gesturing expansively. “The night’s young—but it isn’t young enough for you to go haring off in it.”
“Don’t call me ‘boy,’” Hedion said, because it was the only thing Gaurane had said that he felt he could safely protest.
“I won’t call you ‘boy’ if you don’t call me ‘Herald,’ ” Gaurane agreed. “Now come, sit, have a drink, and let’s figure out how you can solve all the problems of the world without killing yourself.”
Elade waited in concealment, every muscle tense. In the distance, she could hear the sound of Meran’s harp. The sound put her teeth on edge, but—she’d be the first to admit—she had no ear for music. Bard or not—and a day didn’t pass that Meran didn’t bring up his Collegium training and Collegium credentials—all that
plink-plink-plink
was just noise, and Elade wouldn’t say otherwise.
Most of the time their patients had been captured before they were called in, and then all Elade had to do was guard the door so no one came in while Hedion was doing a Healing. Of course, that meant she had to listen to Meran and his damned harp, too, but both Hedion and Gaurane swore it soothed the Touched and made Hedion’s work easier. And Meran was a handy man to have in a brawl. No one grew up on the streets of Haven without learning to defend themselves.
There was a flicker of movement from the trees edging the meadow.
Damn him, he’s gone round the other side,
Elade thought, as the man burst out of concealment.
Naked, covered in dried blood, no ear for music—that’s him
, she thought, springing forward. She wouldn’t reach him before he reached Meran. She’d owe Meran a new harp. She hoped that was all—Hedion was a great Healer, but the man couldn’t Heal anything useful to save his life . . .
Elade was focused on her target, her hand clenched tight on the grip of her truncheon. She carried a sword, and she was damned good with it, but it was only for use as a last resort. You couldn’t Heal someone after they were dead.
Meran saw her, and she saw him realize she wouldn’t reach him in time. He got to his feet, one hand going to his own truncheon, when Elade saw a flash of white.
Here comes the cavalry.
Rhoses hit the Touched hard enough to knock him from his feet. It was enough time for Meran to get the first folds of the net over him—a good strong net, the same kind the fishers up north used when the speckle-fish were running in the spring—and by then, Elade had arrived. She gave the patient a light expert tap with her truncheon—enough to stun him and let her and Meran finish rolling him into the net.
“You owe me a new harp,” Meran said.
“What? He never touched you!”
“If Rhoses hadn’t been here, he would’ve.”
“All right—shall I break this one first?” Elade said. “I mean, if you’re getting a new one.”
Rhoses tossed his head, and Elade knew he was probably saying something. She tossed him an apologetic glance. You couldn’t have a conversation with Rhoses unless Hedion was there.
“Is it safe to come out now?” Hedion came out of the woods leading his horse. Gaurane rode beside him, leading the rest of their mounts and a pack horse they could use to carry the patient. She’d always wondered why Gaurane didn’t ride Rhoses, since Rhoses was his Companion, but she’d never quite worked up the nerve to ask. Maybe next year.
“This is him,” Meran said cheerfully. “I think,” he added.
“Or someone else who doesn’t like music,” Gaurane commented.
“No,” Hedion said, kneeling beside the man struggling in the net. “This is Ablion Taus.”
“Who is going to have to find another line of work now that his smuggling business has taken such an unfortunate turn,” Gaurane added.
“Yes,” Hedion said, in tones indicating he was answering a question Elade hadn’t heard. “But not for murder. Taus didn’t murder any one. Karse did. There will be charges,” he added, for their benefit.
She and Meran got Taus settled on the back of the pack horse before mounting their own animals. The village of Estidan was less than half an hour’s ride from here, and they’d already arranged for everything they’d need: a secure place for Hedion to work. A quiet place for him to rest afterward. Or for Gaurane to sit on him, more than likely, because they’d already gotten word of another case, and Hedion would work himself into the ground if they let him.
“Hush, you,” Meran said to Taus. “Healer Hedion is going to save your life.”
Mindhealers were rare. Powerful Mindhealers were rarer. If you couldn’t find more, or train more, you had to make better use of the ones you had.
The one you had.
Hedion had sacrificed everything to his desire to put right what the Sunpriests had spoiled. He’d had a home, a family, a wife, a child. He’d lost them all. He’d nearly lost his life, refusing to admit what he already knew: the task was too big for one man and too endless for one life.
None of them could do what Hedion could do. But they could do everything else. Elade was quick and clever, able to capture a patient if that was what they needed, able to guard Hedion during a Healing, or restrain a patient when a Healing went wrong. No one—town mayor, village elder, post commander—wanted to argue with Elade when she made up her mind.
And Meran: if a Healer couldn’t be Healed by another Healer, he could be soothed to sleep by a Bard. Gaurane would never tell anyone—especially Meran—that he valued him more for that than for any skill in luring or comforting one of the demon-touched.
As for him, Gaurane had no illusions. He was mostly deadweight. A sometimes-charming distraction. Someone who could tell Hedion no and make it stick. And of course, where he went, Rhoses went. He was becoming resigned to that.
Gaurane looked sideways, and saw Rhoses watching him. The one thing he still regretted was not being able to Hear Rhoses’ voice. Hedion had offered to try to Heal him, but if he did, would the memories in that black missing time in the Sunpriests’ city return? Were they something he could live with?
Gaurane wasn’t sure he was willing to take the risk.
Maybe someday.
Unintended Consequences
Elizabeth A. Vaughan
She heard nothing beyond the man’s first words.
“Your husband, Lord Sinmonkelrath, was killed in an attack on Queen Selenay.”
Ceraratha’s senses failed her, as did her weak grasp of Valdemarian. Surely she had misunderstood. Sinmon, killed? Committing treason? It could not be so.
But to her dawning horror, it was. The man, the Queen’s Own, spoke on, but his words were so much noise in her ears. Dryness caked her mouth, and her vision narrowed to the man and the desk and the papers in his hands. A plot to slay the queen?
She’d known something was terribly wrong when she’d heard the alarms ringing out and strident calls in the halls outside her door. Her maidservant had tried to go out to get word, but had been prevented by Guardsmen in dark blue, with stern faces.
That had been no hardship. Sinmon rarely permitted her to leave their quarters, small as they were. He preferred to forget that he was wed to a wool merchant’s daughter, a woman more trained in the ways of the loom and spindle then court airs and graces.
Sinmon was the second son, and had seemed glad enough at the time of their marriage to wed the daughter of a wealthy merchant. Her father had been more than willing to buy a small farm for them to set up their home and lives. But Sinmon had rejected that bride price in favor of a settlement of funds. Those were gone now, despite her attempts to run a frugal household.
The first time he’d taken his fist to her had been over the cost of his clothing. Thankfully, her skills were such that she could keep him clothed as he demanded. She herself retained the country styles, to save a bit of coin.
But then this most recent plan of his, to follow Karathanelan to a strange land, with strange ways, little more than a sycophant. As swept up as Sinmon had been in the visions of wealth and power, Cera had not dared to protest the move.
Since the Royal marriage, Sinmon had left her to her sitting room and embroideries and silences, with little more than her handmaiden for company.
Now she stood before the Queen’s Own, his scarred executioner at his side. Palace guardsmen just behind her, their weapons at the ready. Cera tried to swallow, to concentrate on what had happened.
Treason. Sinmonkelrath, her lord and husband, had committed treason against the Crown of Valdemar.
Treason. She would be executed, her family shamed. . . .
She stood straight as an arrow, as she’d been taught, head high, hands clasped before her, paralyzed, unable to breathe.
The executioner, the one who wore dark gray, with his scarred face and cruel eyes, stood next to the seated man. His face stern, his hand on the hilt of his blade. Was her death now? Without a prayer? Without a plea?
She would have spoken, but what words could she say? Sinmon had betrayed her, betrayed this new land, on the promise of that false prince. She knew in an instant that Prince Karathanelan’s charming smile and honeyed tongue had done this.
The executioner’s eyes narrowed, and he spoke softly to the Queen’s Own, who looked up at her face. There was a flash of concern there, and he paused. “Lady, perhaps you should be seated.”
Ceraratha stared at the man, not sure she really understood.
A hand at her elbow then. Cera turned to see Alena at her side, her face filled with worry. The executioner was shutting the door, as if he had summoned her maidservant from the hall. But—
Alena urged her back, and Cera felt a chair press against her legs. She sat, trying hard to understand what was happening. Alena was speaking in a hushed whisper, her familiar voice speaking in Rethwellan, a balm to Cera’s heart.
“Sit, my lady, sit,” Alena raised a cup to her lips and pressed the cool rim to them. “Drink.”
Cera sipped obediently of the sweet wine, but pulled back as the liquid hit her stomach. She reached out her hand, and grasped Alena’s hard. “Did you hear? Do you know?”