Arrow's Fall (12 page)

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.”

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 tike 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?”

“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 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.

“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, Kyrit, Elcarth, Healer Myrrim, 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 audience 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 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.

“Are you Robin?” she asked finally, when the tears had slowed a bit. At bis shaky affirmative she knew she’d identified him correctly. Robin’s parents, who held their land of Lord Orthallen, had prevailed on Orthallen to take their only child to the safest haven they knew— Court. Understandable, even laudable, but poor Robin didn’t see their reasoning. He only knew that he was alone for the first time in his young life.

“Haven’t you found any friends yet?”

Robin shook his head and clutched her sleeve as he looked up to read her expression. When he saw that she was still sympathetic and encouraging he took heart enough to explain.

“They—they’re all bigger an’ older. They call me ‘tag-along’ an’ they laugh at me ... an’ I don’t tike their games anyway. I—I can’t run as fast or keep up with ‘em.”

“Oh?” She narrowed her eyes a little hi thought, trying to remember just what it was she’d seen the pages playing at. You took them so for granted, they were almost invisible—then she had it.

“You don’t like playing war and castles?” That was understandable enough, when fighting threatened his parents.

Hie flicker of the oil-lamp opposite their alcove showed her his sad, lost eyes. “I—I don’t know how to fight. Da said I wasn’t old enough to learn yet. That’s
all
they want to do—an’ anyway, I’d rather r-r-read—but all my books are still at h-h-home.”

And if she knew the Seneschal, he’d strictly forbidden the pages to enter the Palace Library. Not too surprising, seeing as most of them would have played catapults using the furniture, with the books as ammunition. She hugged his slight shoulders, and made a quick decision.

“Would you like to be able to read and take lessons at the Herald’s Collegium instead of with the pages?” Selenay had all of her pages schooled, but for most of them it was a plague to be endured or a nuisance to be avoided. He nodded, his eyes round with surprise. “Well, my master Alberich is going to have to wait a little ; you and I are going to go see Dean Elcarth.” She rose and offered her hand, he scrambled to his feet and clutched it.

Fortunately there were plenty of other youngsters being schooled at die Collegia—though few were as young as this one. They were the unaffiliated students—the “Blues” —who belonged to no Collegium, but were attending classes along with the Bardic, Healer and Heraldic students. They, too, wore uniforms, of a pale blue, and not unlike the page’s uniform. A good many of them were well-born brats, but there were others that were well-intentioned—those studying to be builders, architects, or scholars in many disciplines. They’d be well pleased to welcome Robin into their ranks, and they’d probably adopt him as a kind of mascot. Talia knew she’d have no trouble in arranging with Selenay for this little one to spend most of his time at the Collegium when he wasn’t standing his duty—and at his age, his “duty” was probably less than an hour or two a day. She was pretty certain she’d be able to convince Elcarth as well.

She was right. When she took the child to Elcarth’s cramped office, piled high with books, the Dean seemed to take to Robin immediately; Robin certainly did to him. She left him with Elcarth, the gray-haired Herald explaining some of the classes, Robin snuggled trustingly against his chair, both of them oblivious to the dust and clutter about them. It seemed that she’d unwittingly brought together a pair of kindred spirits.

So it proved; she met Robin from time to time thereafter—once or twice when he’d unthinkingly sought her out as a never-failing wellspring of comfort for homesickness, the rest of the time trudgingly merrily about the Collegium, his arms loaded with a pile of books almost as tall as he—and more than once, in the Library, with Elcarth. Once she found both of them bent over an ancient tome of history written in an archaic form of the language that little Robin couldn’t read himself, but just knew Elcarth could—and said so. He was convinced that Elcarth was the original fount of all knowledge. He was bringing Elcarth all his questions, as naturally as breathing.

Until now Talia frequently found both of them immersed in something so dry that she needed a drink just thinking about it! Kindred souls, indeed.