Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar (35 page)

“Will they wait that long, do you think?”

Trey gave the southern bank a narrow-eyed glare. “I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.”

 

That night, huddled beside the ponies tethered in the center of the barge, Trey struggled to sink down into sleep, but the unfamiliar movement of the deck beneath him and the faint sounds of guards maintaining a constant watch all around him kept jerking him back to wakefulness. With a growl of frustration, he pulled the blanket over his head. Everything he’d seen or dreamed and every decision he’d made since leaving the vale seemed to hinge on this one final night and it looked as if he were going to spend it fighting his own restless fears. In his mind’s eyes the blue coat seemed to shimmer with life, hovering just out of reach, its silver trim sparkling in the pale moonlight almost menacingly.

“Yes, I know Bayne,” he said wearily. “I’m trying.” Using the soft, familiar scents of fleece and hide and ponies, he forced himself to relax. “We’ll face it together like a family just as you said. But what if I see your death, or Kellisin’s? There’s been too many good-byes already. I can’t face another one.” He closed his eyes. “I can’t.”

 

Two days later in the early hours of the morning, three small boats carrying half a dozen bandits in each pulled up alongside the first barge in the covering fog. They swarmed over the low sides only to be met by total, empty silence. Padding cautiously between the great stone blocks, their leader made to signal that the barge had been deserted when a frightful apparition, dressed in hides and furs, rose up to catch his arm. A piercing whistle filled the air and suddenly the deck was alive with people. The apparition struck the leader down and violence erupted across the barge.

When the fog finally burned off in the wake of the morning sun, the fight was nearly over. Taken completely by surprise, the remaining bandits either surrendered or fled back to their own boats only to be shot down by a hail of arrow fire from the Valdemar guardsmen. Their bodies, floating just above the surface, bobbed against the barge side, and Trey stared down at them for a long time before turning away.

On the deck, the captain was kneeling before the body of one of his younger guardsmen. The boy had taken a knife slash to the neck and had died instantly. He glanced up as Trey approached.

“Your kin are all unharmed?” he asked, his voice thick.

Trey nodded. “Kellisin has a nasty cut in the left shoulder, but Gabrielle’s bound it up. He should be fine.”

“That’s good.” The Valdemar man stared out at the water. “The barge captain tells me that we should make the village of Deedun by late tomorrow,” he said. “We can prepare Marik’s body there and send it home to his family by road.”

“He fought bravely,” Trey offered.

“Yes, that will comfort his father.” The other man sighed. “But not his wife.”

“No.”

“Your people fought bravely as well,” the captain continued. “And your aid as . . . shaman,” he said, hesitating over the unfamiliar word, “was invaluable. My thanks.” He stared out at the water for a long time. “You said you were heading south to Haven?” he asked finally.

“Yes, I dreamed of it, so did the eldest of our people.”

“Haven has a need for . . . what did you call it, sharp eyes and courageous arms?”

“Offered honestly.”

“Yes. I would be honored if you would consider another offer made honestly. If the king agrees, there could be place for all three of you among the palace guard if you were willing.”

“Palace guard? I thought your people were settlement guards.”

“My people are
Valdemar
guards who go where they’re needed,” the captain replied stiffly. “Not just
settlement
guards. But I am palace guard, on loan to Gabrielle and her workers to ensure her safe return.” He smiled faintly. “The king values his Master Builder’s peace of mind and the Master Builder values his incautious daughter’s health and well-being.”

Trey frowned uncertainly. “It’s a fine offer,” he began.

“But you need to think about it.”

“And consult my kin.”

“I understand. Take what time you need.”

 

Later, after the barges had put in to the wharfs of Deedun and the Valdemar guardsmen had carried Marik’s body ashore, Trey told Bayne and Kellisin of Captain Danel’s offer.

Tugging irritably at the edge of the bandage around his shoulder, the younger man fixed his cousins with a firm stare. “We should accept,” he said. “This is good new life. Purpose, arms . . .”

“A girl,” Bayne added.

“Yes, a girl. A home, family, eventually children. It’s everything we came south to find.”

“I agree. We should accept.”

They both looked at Trey stood, staring down at the water with a pensive expression.

“Trey?” Bayne prodded.

“Yes,” he answered. “You’re right, we should accept.”

“But?”

“But I don’t know. There’s something missing.”

“You dreamed of Valdemar and of Haven, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then trust your dreams like Vulshin told you to. If there’s anything missing you’ll dream of that, too, and we’ll find it together, yes?”

Trey took a deep breath. “Yes.”

“Then go and tell Captain Danel that we accept, shaman.”

 

Deedun was not a large village, but nevertheless it took Trey some time to find his way through the dizzying crowds of people on the docks. Finally he spotted one of the guardsmen he recognized standing at the entrance to a low, wooden building and the man escorted him into the hushed anteroom at once. Captain Danel stood before Marik’s body laid out on a long table and the silver trim on his formal uniform tunic flashed in the afternoon sun as he turned.

Trey gaped at him in shock.

“I thought Valdemar guards wore bright blue,” he said weakly.

“They do,” the Captain answered. “Palace guards wear . . .”

“Coats the blue of a summer evening sky,” Trey finished for him.

“If you like. We call it midnight blue.” He came forward. “You have an answer for me?”

Still staring at his tunic, Trey nodded slowly. “Yes.” He drew himself up. “We accept. If your king agrees, the last of Goshon Clan will join the palace guard and make a new life in the south.”

The Captain smiled. “Welcome to Valdemar.”

As he took his outstretched hand, Trey thought he saw a man and woman mounted on shaggy ponies with purple and yellow flowers in their manes. Vulshin and Shersi smiled down at him, then turned and melted into the distant mountains beyond.

“D
O you think if I swallowed this whole book,” Lelia mused, eyeing the fist-sized volume of songs she had taken off the shelf, “I’d get a bad enough stomach ache that they’d let me postpone the performance?”

“I think the Healers would give you a bottle of preserved plum juice and tell you to cheer up,” Malesa replied, not looking up from where she was scribbling away furiously at her song. “And then the Chronicler would probably flog you for eating one of her books.”

“Mm.” Lelia slumped in her chair, peering about the Collegium Library with a disappointed scowl. “I guess you’re right.” She opened the book to a random page and grimaced when she saw the title.

“Bright Lady,” she muttered.

“What now?”

“Sun and Shadow.” Lelia closed the book with a thump. “Everywhere I look.”

Malesa shrugged. “It’s a good story, made better by good songs.”

“Exactly. Everything that can be sung about Sun and Shadow has been, and by better Bards, and yet
every
year some damn trainee thinks he or she can top the Masters.”

“Ah, capricious youth,” Malesa said dryly.

“So why compete?” Lelia railed on, ignoring her best friend and year-mate. “There are other story jewels to plunder.” She picked up another volume, this one bound in brown leather. “Like this.”

Malesa finally looked up. She frowned. “That’s a journal.”

“The journal of Herald Daryann, to be exact. It’s fantastic.”

“Sure.” Malesa looked back at her sheath of papers. “Except for the fact that she dies at the end. And while it’s many things, it’s
not
a story.”

“It is
so
—”

“No, it’s a
journal
. A
diary
. A collection of events without a discernable plot, antagonist, or resolution.” She lifted her head and raised a brow. “Or did you miss that class?”

Lelia scowled and thumped Daryann’s journal with her knuckles. “Story or not, it’s the untold stuff between the lines that matters. Look.” She flipped the book open to a point near the end. “Here. She mentions that her brother, Wil, got Chosen, too. And how proud she was of him. And then two pages later—last entry. Right before the raiders got her and her Companion.”

Malesa leveled a look at her. “So?”

“Can you imagine being him? Wil, that is.” Lelia’s eyes glazed over. “I bet
he’s
got a story, and I bet it’s no Sun and Shadow.”

“And I bet it’s very sad. Why
is
it you have this morbid fascination with dead Heralds anyway?” Malesa asked suspiciously. “It’s always Vanyel this, Lavan that . . .”

“Hey—if the Bards were right, Vanyel was quite a catch.”

Malesa sighed and shook her head, glancing back at her parchments. “I’m done.”

“What?” Lelia squeaked.

“I’m
done
. Eight verses, one bridge, and a melody already in mind.” She looked up coyly. “You?”

Lelia groaned and buried her face in her arms.

“Oh, ’Lia,” Malesa stood and patted her on the shoulder. “Just write the song and get it over with.”

“But I don’t know what to
write,
” Lelia wailed into the table.

“You’re a Bard—”

“—trainee—”

“—with a brother who’s a Herald—”

“—
trainee
—”

“—I’d think you could cobble up
something
if you’re so opposed to borrowing from the classics.”

Lelia moaned inarticulately.

Malesa patted her shoulder again. “It’ll come to you.” She clutched her papers to her chest. “I’m off to practice my masterpiece.”

Alone in the Library, Lelia lifted her head and stared at the scuffed leather cover of Herald Daryann’s journal.

What did you do, Wil?
she thought.
What did you feel, when you found out she was gone?

She sat with her thoughts and her blank parchments until the Herald-Chronicler came around to put out the lights.

 

The next day didn’t get any better.

It started with waking up.

Lelia emerged from a fitful slumber to the sound of someone knocking on her door. She sat up, papers sliding off her chest to the floor, and stared blearily forward as the knocking droned on. She knew with a grim, growing certainty that when she
did
manage to convince her legs to move, it would be to open the door and throttle whoever had chosen to wake her on a rest day.

“One moment,” she moaned, coaxing her weary arms to pull on a lounging robe. She’d spent all night trying to pry a song out of her head, and bits of parchment with half-scribbled lyrics and notations were strewn here and there. They crunched underfoot as she crossed the room.

She knew before her hand dropped to the handle who was on the other side of the door. The warm touch of the bond she shared with her twin easily cut through her stupor.

The door swung open. Her brother stood in the hallway, dressed from head to toe in Whites.

“Is this some sort of joke?” she blurted.

“I did it!” he whooped, crushing her in a hug. “They voted this morning! Me and all my year-mates!”

“Gnhrr,” she replied.

He set her down, grinning from ear to ear. She sat down slowly on her bed, her hands trembling. Whites. He’d finally earned his Whites. He’d be on Circuit soon enough. He’d . . .

Terror struck her, fast and hard. She managed to regain her composure as he shut the door, picked his way across the floor, and took a seat in the only chair in the room.

“You look great,” she said at last. It hurt to smile, but she forced one onto her face. “Really . . . good.”

His grin faded. “What’s wrong?”

Their twin bond wasn’t legendary, but it was strong enough. He knew she was worried about something. And
she
knew he wouldn’t stop until he found what that something was.

“Enh.” She scrambled for an excuse. It was ironic, really. Her whole training rested on communication, and yet she couldn’t tell him that his becoming a full Herald was the one thing she feared most.

Her eyes lighted on the drifts of discarded paper. She couldn’t talk about her worry. She couldn’t lie to her twin. But she
could
be creative.

“I’m supposed to write a song,” she said, looking more than passably worried. “And—”

“Can’t write it?” A knowing look lit his face.

“Mm. And I know it’s going to affect the Bardic Council’s voting on whether I should be made a full Bard.”

She shrugged, focusing all her fear and frustrations into this one thing. This song. This
damn
song.

She said, “You think if I threw myself in the river and caught pneumonia I wouldn’t have to perform?”