Arrow’s Flight (11 page)

Kris answered the tap on his door late that evening, expecting to see Dirk; in fact, he’d already gotten out a bottle of wine and two glasses, figuring that his partner wouldn’t let the evening pass without coming by for a farewell drink and chat. He got a fair shock to find his uncle, the Councilor Lord Orthallen, standing in the dim hallway instead.

He managed to stammer out a surprised greeting, which Orthallen took as an invitation to enter. The silver-haired, velvet-robed noble wore a grave expression on his still-handsome, square-jawed face, so Kris had more than a faint suspicion that his visit was not just to bid farewell to his nephew.

He directed his uncle to the most comfortable chair in the room and supplied him with the glass of wine intended for Dirk before taking the chair opposite him.

“Well, uncle?” he said, deciding he was too tired to dance diplomatically around the subject. “What brings you here? I know it wasn’t just to bid me a fond farewell.”

Orthallen raised one eyebrow at his bluntness. “I understand you have the new Queen’s Own as your internee.”

Kris shrugged. “It’s no secret.”

“How well do you know her?”

“Not at all,” he admitted. “I’ve seen her twice, worked with her once. She seems nice enough—quite well balanced, all told. Her Gift is an odd one, but—”

“That is exactly what is worrying me.” Orthallen all but pounced on the opening. “Her Gift. From all anyone has been able to tell me, it is a very unusual one for a Herald, much less the Queen’s Own. It seems to be one that the Heralds themselves know very little about, and I’m not entirely happy that an inexperienced child should be in her position with a power so ... out-of-the-ordinary.”

“Rolan Chose her,” Kris replied warily. “That should be proof enough that she’s capable of handling it.”

“Yes, but—emotions—it’s such a volatile area. No black-and-white there, only gray. There are rumors in the Court. . .”

“Such as?”

“That she has fostered an unnatural dependence in the Heir. After all, the child is vulnerable to that sort of thing. It was her unnatural dependence on that foreign nurse, Hulda, that led to her nearly being disallowed in the first place. And there are other rumors.”

Kris bit back an angry retort; best hear his uncle out. “Go on.”

“That Talia has used her power to influence the Council; you can imagine for yourself how easy that would be. If a Councilor were wavering ... it would be very easy to nudge his emotions, make him feel happier about one side or the other. Or not even that.. . simply sense that he is wavering, and use that knowledge to persuade him in a more ordinary fashion. By knowing how Councilors stood, it would make it quite simple for her to manipulate them just by tone of voice. .. .”

“That’s absurd! No Herald would ever use her Gift in any such fashion!”

“So
I
have maintained,” Orthallen replied smoothly, “But—the only others Gifted with Empathy are the Healers; Healers put it to very specific and humanitarian use. There is no corresponding protocol of use among Heralds. And, nephew—what if she truly were not aware she was using her abilities? These powers are not material properties one can weigh or measure or hold in one’s hand. What if she were doing this sort of thing without even realizing it?”

Kris felt as if he had been hit with a pail of cold water. “I—I suppose it’s just barely possible. I don’t think it’s at all likely, but I can’t dismiss the notion out of hand.”

Orthallen rose, a satisfied smile creasing his lips. “That is what I hoped you would tell me, I’m counting on you, nephew, to lay these phantoms of doubt to rest. You’ll be with her night and day for the next eighteen months, and I’m sure you will be able to tell me on your return that all these rumors are no more than smoke.”

“I’m sure I will, uncle,” Kris replied, letting him out—but not at all sure in his own mind.

It was just false dawn when Talia woke, and she dressed as quickly as she could, discovering that someone had left a breakfast tray for her outside her door. She had only just finished it when a Guardsman tapped discreetly on the doorframe, explaining that he was there to help her carry her packs down. With his aid she managed to get everything down to the tackshed in one trip.

Bright tight from oil lamps along the wall dazzled her eyes as she entered. Waiting in the very center was Rolan; his harness was piled beside him. Next to him was a second Companion stallion, and Talia could see Kris’ legs behind him as she and the Guard approached. Tethered beside the strange Companion were two most unusual pack animals.

Talia had never seen chirras before except in pictures, for their heavy coats made summer at the Collegium far too uncomfortable for them. Rather than keep them there, the Circle had a northern farm where they were bred and stabled, and only brought them down on rare occasions like this. Had this been within the normal order of things they would have taken mules from the Collegium stables for the first part of the journey. Then they would have met the Herald they were replacing at the edge of her Sector and exchanged their mules for her chirras.

Talia discovered that pictures and descriptions were inadequate to convey the charm of the northern beasts. The chirras were as tall at the shoulder as a horse, but a much longer neck put their heads on a level with the head of a human on horseback. Instead of hooves they had doglike, clawed feet, except that the feet were almost round and far bigger than Talia would have expected from the overall size of the animal. Both chirras were creamy white with black markings; one had a little cap-like spot on the top of its head, and a matching saddle-marking on its back, the other had a collar of black fur that ran around its throat and down its chest. Their ears were large, resembling rabbit ears, but rounder, with tips that flopped over. Their ears were set on the tops of their skulls and faced forward. Their faces were vaguely rabbit-like. Their brown eyes were very large, gentle, and intelligent. When Talia approached them with her hand held out to them, they scrutinized her closely, then politely took turns whuffling her palm.

Kris was already halfway through his inspection of the beasts and their gear.

“Kind of cute, aren’t they? Anybody ever tell you how they manage to live through those blizzards? They’ve got three layers of fur,” he said, bent over and adjusting the girth of the pack-harness, half-hidden by the chirra’s bulk. “The outermost is long and coarse, and pretty much waterproof—even frost won’t form on it. The middle layer is shorter, and not quite so coarse. The inner layer is what they shed every year; it’s dense, very soft and fine, and is what does most of the work of keeping them warm. We’ll have to groom them very carefully every night to keep all that fur from getting matted, or they’ll lose the warming and waterproofing effect.”

“Why are their feet so big?”

“To hold them up on the snow; they’ll be able to walk on snow crusts that the Companions will break right through.” He moved to the front of his and picked up its forefoot while it whiffled his hair. “Look here—see all the hair between the toes? If you think their feet look big now, wait till they spread them out on snow. You’d think that hair wouldn’t make any difference, but it does, like the webbing on snow-shoes. I much prefer chirras over mules in any kind of climate that they can tolerate. They’ve got sweet tempers, and they’re really quite intelligent. If a mule balks, you can’t tell half the time if he’s being stubborn, or if there’s really something wrong. A chirra never balks unless there’s something wrong.”

The chirra next to Talia stretched out his neck and nudged her hand, obviously wanting to be petted. “How much can they carry?” she asked, complying by scratching behind the chirra’s ears. It sighed happily and closed its eyes in content.

“Almost half their own weight—as good or better than a mule. Well, look at the packs they’re bringing now, and you can see.”

Talia was astonished at the size of the pack the stablehands were loading on the chirra she was scratching. It didn’t seem the least bit uncomfortable.

Kris looked it over, then eyed the packs Talia had brought down from her room. “They’ve left enough leeway for you to load those on him as well, Talia. Don’t worry, he’s smart. If it’s going to be more than he can carry, he’ll just lie down until we lighten the load.”

To her relief, the chirra showed no sign of wanting to lie down after her packs had been strapped on top of the supplies. Kris saw to the distribution of the rest of the supplies and his own belongings, while Talia made sure the chirra’s harness was firm, but comfortable, with nothing twisted or binding.

She harnessed Rolan herself, then double-checked her work, and asked him in an undertone, “You don’t mind traveling with these beasties, do you?”

He seemed pleased that she had asked the question but conveyed the impression that he was quite pleased with the packbeasts. Without words, Talia got the distinct impression that the chirras, sporting those thick, warm coats, would be more than welcome company on cold winter nights.

She fastened the lead rope of the chirra to the back of Rolan’s saddle, and mounted. Kris mounted a fraction of a second later. “Ready?” he asked.

“As ready as any internee, I guess.”

“Then let’s go.”

Kris took the lead; they had to go single file in the city. Talia and Rolan followed his chirra out of the gates of the courtyard, past the Collegium and Palace buildings, gray and silent in the early morning light, then down the cobblestoned road to the iron gates leading to city streets themselves, the road she’d ridden up five and a half years previously. She looked back over her shoulder for a last glimpse of the dear, familiar stone buildings, and wondered what she’d be like when she saw them again.

The guard at the gate let them out; it was scarcely an hour until dawn and the streets were not yet crowded. They followed the long spiral outward, passing first through the residential areas that were nearest the Palace—huge buildings belonging to the highest ranked of the nobly-born, some nearly rivaling the size of Bardic or Healer’s Collegium, though not that of the Palace itself. Then, crowded far more closely together, the homes of the rich—merchants and craftsmen and Guild officials. Unlike the Palace and the edifices of the nobles, which were the same gray granite as the city walls, these buildings were wooden. Since land within the walls was at a premium, they crowded so closely the eaves touched— and when there was a need to expand, the only direction to take was up, which sometimes produced some very strange results. Most of these houses had been constructed of ironoak, a wood nearly as tough and indestructible as steel, but that was where any similarity among them ended. They had been built to some highly individual styles, and often had been added to in years and styles varying wildly from the original. Had the spiraling main street not been wide enough for three carriages, it would never have gotten any sun; as it was, riding through this district so early in the morning was rather like riding down a canyon with sides carved in the most fantastic of shapes. Talia had to fight to keep from giggling as she passed some of these houses, for Skif—to “keep his hand in,” or so he claimed—had often paid uninvited visits to the upper stories of some of these places. He’d usually left unsigned notes to be found later, chiding the owners for their lack of security. That was one prank the Provost-Marshal would never have forgiven him if it had been discovered.

After the street took a sharp right-angle turn, the purely residential district came to an end. Now the lower stories of the buildings were devoted to shops and the work-places of fine craftsmen, or offices, with an occasional expensive hostelry. The upper floors were comprised of apartments or lodgings. At this point they began encountering what little traffic there was this early in the morning. Nearly the only people about were the farmers who had brought their produce in to market, for the only cityfolk moving were those who were buying fresh supplies for their inns. Talia and Kris were able to move at a brisk pace, not having to stop for traffic more than once or twice. The streets were so quiet at this hour that they were the chief sources of sound; the ringing of the Companions’ hooves, the chime of their bridle-bells, and the click of the chirras’ claws on the cobblestones.

It took them nearly an hour to reach the Northern gate; the farther from the center of the city they went, the less wealth was displayed. There were no slums within the Old City; those were outside the city gates, huddling against the walls as if in hopes that those sturdy stone structures might shelter them from the elements. It was in one such district that Skif had grown up, the rather odd section along Exile’s Road that led into the West. Talia had never been there; she had seldom been out of the Old City, much less into the New. The one time she’d asked to be taken there, Skif had turned white, and refused. She’d never asked again.

Nor would she go anywhere near that section this time, for Kris1 chosen route led past the warehouses and the shipwrights, after crossing over the River just inside the Old City walls and exiting through the North Point Gate. Here there was no activity at all; workers had not yet arrived, and deliveries to the warehouses had yet to be made. So once again, they rode in silence after a sleepy Guardswoman waved them on their way.

Beyond the gate the road widened and changed from stone to that odd substance that wasn’t stone and wasn’t clay. Talia hadn’t thought about it in years, but it occurred to her now to wonder just what it was that paved some of the roadways of this Kingdom.