Arrow's Fall (32 page)

They were wrong on both counts.

Robin was very much aware of what was going on— not surprising, since it concerned his adored Talia. He was worried sick, and longing for an adult to talk to. And Dirk was kind and gentle with him—and had he but known it, desperate enough for news to have questioned the rats in the walls if he thought it would get him anywhere.

Dirk knew all about Robin and his adoration of Talia. If anyone knew where she was being kept and what her condition was, that boy would.

Dirk bided his time. Eventually the Healers stopped overseeing his every waking moment. Finally there came a point when they began leaving him alone for hours at a time. He waited then, until Robin was sent in alone with his lunch—alone, unsupervised, and more than willing to talk—and put the question to him.

Dirk had no intention of frightening the boy, and his tone was gentle, “I need your help. The Healers won’t answer my questions, and I need to know about Talia.”

Robin had turned back with his hand still on the doorknob; at the mention of Talia’s name, his expression was one of distress.

“I’ll tell you what I know, sir,” he replied, his voice quavering a little. “But she’s hurt real bad and they won’t let anybody but Healers see her.”

“Where is she? Do you have any idea who’s taking care of her?”

The boy not only knew
where
she was, but the names and seniority of every Healer caring for her—and the list nearly froze Dirk’s heart. They’d even pulled old Farnherdt out of retirement—and he’d sworn that no case would ever be desperate enough for them to call on him.

“Robin, I’ve got to get out of here—and I need you to help me, all right?” he said urgently.

Robin nodded, his eyes widening.

“Check the hall for me—see if there’s anybody out there.”

Robin opened the door and stuck his head out. “Nobody,” he reported.

“Good. I’m going to get dressed and sneak out. You stood just outside, and if anybody comes this way, knock on the door.”

Robin slipped out to play guard, while Dirk pulled on his dothing. He waited just a few moments more, then left his room, giving Robin a conspiratorial wink on the way out, determined to discover the truth.

The Healer in charge was Devan. Though not the most senior, he was the one with the most expertise and the strongest Gift for dealing with wounds and trauma. He was also one of Talia’s first and best friends among the Healers, and had worked with her on many other cases where Heralds were involved. There were times when loving care was more important than seniority—and Devan would have been one of Dirk’s first choices to care for her, had he been consulted.

Dirk had a fairly good idea of where to find him at this hour—and most castle-keeps were of the same design; Devan would be in the still-room, just off the herb garden neat the kitchen—snatching lunch with one hand while he worked with the other. Dirk used all his expertise at shadow-stalking to avoid being caught while making his way to the little first-floor workroom, redolent with the odors—pleasant, and not so pleasant—of countless medicines.

He heard someone moving about behind the closed door, and slipped inside quickly and quietly, shutting it behind him and putting his back up against it. Devan, his back to the door, didn’t seem to notice his presence.

“Devan, I want some answers.”

“I’ve been expecting you,” the Healer said calmly, without taking his attention from the task in front of him. “I thought you might not be satisfied with what you were being told about Talia. I said so, but I wasn’t in charge of your case, and Thesa felt you shouldn’t be worried.”

“Then—how is she?” Dirk demanded and at the sight of the Healer’s gloomy face, asked fearfully, “Is she—?”

“No, Herald,” Devan replied with a sigh, stoppering the bottle he’d been decanting liquid into and turning to face him. “She’s not dying; not yet, anyway. But she isn’t alive, either.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dirk asked, becoming angry. “What do you mean, ‘she’s not alive’?”

“Come with me, and you’ll see for yourself.”

The Healer led the way to a small room in the infirmary, one of several that were interconnected, such as were used for patients that needed to be isolated. There was little there besides a bedside table with a candle and the bed in which Talia lay without moving.

Dirk felt his throat constrict; she looked as if she’d been laid out for a funeral.

Her face was pale and waxen. By watching very closely, Dirk could see that she was breathing—but just barely.

“What’s wrong with her?” His voice cracked with strain.

Devan shrugged helplessly—feeling a lot less helpless than he looked, now that Dirk had finally approached him. “I wish we knew. We think we counteracted the argonel in time—well, the pain she was in neutralized a great deal of it, and if we hadn’t taken care of the rest she
would
be dead; argonel doesn’t allow for mistakes. We’ve restored some of the blood loss, we’re doing painblockages on most of the major injuries—we’ve done everything we can to restore her, but she simply doesn’t wake. No, it’s more than that — it’s as if ‘she’ wasn’t there anymore, as if we were dealing with an unensouled body. Her body works, the reflexes are all there, it breathes, the heart beats — but there’s no one ‘home.’ And we don’t have the slightest notion why. One of the older Healers speculates that her soul has ‘gone somewhere,’ perhaps trying to escape some kind of mental coercion. I suppose that’s possible; tradition claims many mages have had Gifts like ours, and used them for evil purposes. It may be she encountered one of them, along with her other trials. It’s possible that now she fears returning to herself, not knowing she is in the hands of friends again, We were willing to try almost anything—”

“So?”

“So we asked Herald Kyril to help. He was here for a solid day, holding her hand and Mindcalling her. He pushed himself to his limits, pushed himself until he had a reaction that sent him into a state of collapse. It did no good at all. Frankly, I don’t know what else we could try — “ he glanced sideways at Dirk. Devan had something in mind, but from what he understood about this young man, Dirk would have to be lured into it very carefully. “ — unless—”

“Unless what?” Dirk snatched at the offered scrap.

“As you know, her Gift was Empathic. She did not Mindhear or Mindcall very well. It may be that Kyril simply wasn’t able to reach her. I suppose if someone who had a strong emotional bond with her were to try calling her, using that bond, she might hear. We tried communicating with her Companion, but he apparently had no better luck than Kyril, and possibly for the same reasons. Herald Kris had a strong emotional tie with her, but ...”

“Yes.”

“And no one can think of anyone else.”

Dirk gulped and closed his eyes, then whispered, “Could ...I try?”

Devan almost smiled despite the grimness of the situation.
Come on, little fishy,
he thought, trying to imbue his will with all the coercive force of a Farspeaking Herald.
Take the nice bait. I know all about your lifebond. Keren told me about the night you fell ill—and about your performance over the death arrows and how you rescued her. But if you don’t admit that lifebond exists you might as well be calling into the hurricane for all she’ll hear you.

He pretended to be dubious. “I just don’t know, Herald. It would have to be a very strong emotional bond.”

The answer he was praying for came as a nearly inaudible whisper. “I love her. Is that enough?”

Devan almost cheered. Now that Dirk had admitted the existence of the lifebond, the idea stood a chance of working. “Then by all means, do your best. I’ll be just outside if you need me.”

Dirk sat heavily in the chair next to the bed, and took one bandaged, unresisting, flaccid hand in his own. He felt so helpless, so alone . . . how in the names of all the gods could you call through emotions? And ... it would mean letting down barriers to his heart he’d erected years ago and meant to be permanent.

But they couldn’t have been permanent, not if she’d already made him admit that he loved her. It was too late now for anything but complete commitment—and besides, he’d been willing to die to save her, hadn’t he? Was the lowering of those barriers any greater a sacrifice? Was life really worth anything if she wasn’t sharing it?

But—where was he going to find her?

Suddenly he sat ramrod straight; he had no way of knowing how or where to call her from, but Rolan must!

He blanked his mind, and reached for Ahrodie.

She settled gently into his thoughts almost as soon as he called her.
:Chosen?:

:I need your help—and Rolan’s,:
he told her.

:Then you’ve seen—you know? You think we can help to call Her back? Rolan has been trying, but cannot reach Her, not alone. Chosen, my brother, I had been hoping you would understand and try!:

Then the other came into his mind
. :Dirk-Herald—she has gone Elsewhere. Can you See?:

And amazingly, as Rolan projected strongly into his, he could See—a kind of darkness, with something that flickered feebly at the end of it.

:Do you call her. We shall give you strength and an anchoring. You can go where we cannot.:

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and sent himself into the deepest trance he’d ever managed, trying to send out his love, calling with his heart, trying to use his need of her as a shining beacon to draw her back through the darkness. And somewhere “behind” him Rolan and Ahrodie remained, a double anchor to the real world.

How long he called, he had no way of knowing; there was no time in the currents through which he dove. Certainly the candle on the table had burned down considerably when the faint movement of the hand he held broke his trance and caused his eyes to fly open in startlement.

He could
see
color coming back into her face. She moved a little, winced, and moaned softly in protest. Her free hand reached for her temple; her eyes opened, focused, and saw him.

“You . . . called me.”

It was the faintest of whispers.

He nodded, unable to speak through a throat choked with conflicting joy and doubt.

“Where—I’m home? But how—” Then intelligence and urgency flooded into her eyes. And fear; terrible fear. “Orthallen—oh, my God—Orthallen!”

She began struggling to rise, whimpering involuntarily in pain, but driven beyond caring for herself by some knowledge only she possessed.

“Devan!” Dirk could see she had something obsessively important to impart. He knew better than to try and thwart her if the need was
that
urgent—and her evident fear coupled with that name could mean worse trouble than anyone but she knew. So instead of trying to prevent her, he gave her the support of his arms, and called for help. “
Devan!
”

Devan nearly broke in the door in his haste to respond to Dirk’s call. As he stared at Talia, dumbfounded, she demanded to know who was in authority. Devan saw she would heed nothing he told her until he gave her what she wanted, and recited the all-too-brief list.

“I want—Elspeth,” she said breathlessly, “And Kyril— the Seneschal—and Alberich. Now, Devan.” And would not be gainsaid.

When Devan sent messengers for the four she had demanded, she finally gave in to his insistent urgings to lie quietly.

Dirk remained in the room, wishing passionately that he could take some of the burden of pain from her, for her face was lined and white with it.

The four she had sent for arrived at a run, and within a few moments of one another. From the despair on their faces, it was evident they had expected to find Talia at least at Death’s door, if not already gone. But their joy at seeing her once again awake and aware was quickly turned to shock and dismay by what she had to tell them.

“So from the very beginning it has been Orthallen?” Alberich’s question appeared to be mostly rhetorical. He didn’t look terribly surprised. “I would give much to know how he has managed to mindblock himself for so long, but that can wait for a later day.”

Both Kyril and the Seneschal, however, were staggered by the revelation.

“Lord
Orthallen?
” the Seneschal kept muttering. “Anyone else, perhaps; treason is always a possibility with any highborn—but not Orthallen! Why, he predates me in the Council! Elspeth, can you believe this?”

“I ... I’m not sure,” Elspeth murmured, looking at Alberich, and then at Dirk.

“There ... is a very simple way ... to prove my words.” Talia was lying quite still to harbor her strength; her eyes were closed and her voice labored, but there was no doubt that she was very much alive to everything about her. “Orthallen . . . surely knows . . . where I was. Call him here ... but do not let him know . . . that I have . . . recovered enough to speak. Devan . . . you will painblock . . . everything. Then ... get me propped up ... somehow. I ... must seem to be ... completely well. His reaction . . . when he sees me with Elspeth . . . should tell us ... all we need to know.”

“There is no way I will countenance anything of the sort!” Devan said angrily. “You are in no shape to move a single inch, much less—”