No True Way (7 page)

“As much as I want to start the shearing tomorrow, it might be best to seek out the other farmsteads first,” Cera added. “I'll talk to Athelnor.”

*   *   *

Within days, Lady Cera had a full manor house, crammed with people and livestock. While there was some resistance, most could see the value. The herds were consolidated
and the supplies mustered, and she held a council in the Great Hall to sort out what must be done.

“We will organize as best we can,” she announced from the high table. “We must shear to preserve the sheep and goats and then see to the harvesting of crops and the gleaning of the fields that have gone wild. Some must tend the children, who must have their lessons seen to, as the Queen requires.”

There were nods all around.

“Now, are there any here who know this kind of work?” Cera held the handkerchief with its gold and green embroidery over her head. Hands shot up around the room.

“Excellent. I wish to speak to all of you afterward, in the solar.” she said. “Also, what wool is this?” She gestured to the blanket she'd had set out on the table.

“That's chirra, Ladyship.” One of the men limped forward, smoothing the fabric with his one hand. “The Old Lord's great-grandfather, he brought them down from the north country and tried to start a herd. Most of them died of the heat, but some lived and thrived. The Lords always kept the small herd. This here's from the inner layer of wool, and rare as hen's teeth.”

“Are there any of the animals left?” Cera asked, trying to hide her anxiousness.

The man grimaced. “See, they make fine pack animals, and the army took 'em when they saw 'em here. None returned that I know of. Might be a cot or two around, and they're mightily shy. Possible they are hiding in the woods, but after all this time . . . I doubt it.”

Cera sighed in disappointment, but she nodded. “Still, if anyone sees them or hears of an animal, I'd offer a reward for its return. Make it known to all around, and get word to the neighboring villages.”

She looked around the room, at faces filled with new strength and maybe just the hint of hope. “So, to the shearing. No fancy trims, we need to get those fleeces off as fast as we can. It's been many a day since I've tried my hand, but who'll meet and beat my number? A cask of mead for the winner!”

A cheer rose as they headed to their tasks.

*   *   *

Late one afternoon, they gathered in the courtyard, staring at the handcart the boys had dragged in. Spilling over the sides of the cart was the body of a huge, feral boar that had been prowling the woods. The boys had gone after it, with no warning to their elders. “He was after the sows,” Gareth offered with a shrug, as if that explained it all.

Marga was pale, her hand at her throat as she stared at her grandson, standing so proudly next to the cart with his fellow hunters. Gareth grinned ear-to-ear, spear in hand, bloodied but unbowed. “It wasn't that hard, but he kept lunging up the shaft and trying to use his tusks.”

“That's why . . .” Athelnor had to stop and clear his throat, his expression a mixture of horror and pride. “That's why boar spears have crossguards.”

The boys exchanged looks, their hands filled with daggers, pikes, and axes. All of them bruised, filthy, and covered with blood. Gareth tilted his head to look at his spear tip, then nodded decisively. “Think we can affix one to this for the next one?”

“Next one?” Marga strangled out the words.

“I think we could manage,” Athelnor said, starting to chuckle at Marga's obvious dismay.

“I think,” Cera said gently. “We should be roasting this pig in honor of our fearsome hunters.”

The boys all puffed up with pride and started cheering.

*   *   *

The boxes arrived weeks later.

Alena was in the solar, sewing with the women. Marga sent a messenger to Cera to tell her of the delivery and to say that the trunks and crates had been taken to her room. They'd been told their things would be sent on from Haven, so it wasn't unexpected. Cera really didn't think more of it than the need to sort through when she opened the first trunk.

It contained the clothes that she'd sewn for Sinmonkelrath.

She pulled them out slowly, seeing the fine stitching, the lace at the cuffs, the soft silk sleeve, her painstaking needlework that embellished the trim. The faint traces of the expensive cologne he'd demanded. The hours she'd put into the work, isolated in their chambers in Haven.

The beatings. The words. The hateful, hateful words.

Alena found her there on the floor, the clothing wrinkled in her tight fists, weeping uncontrollably. With a cry, Alena knelt, enfolded her in her arms, and tried to offer comfort.

But Cera just shook her head, forcing the words through the tears, trying to make her dear friend understand. “It's not that he's dead, Alena,” she sobbed. “It's that I am
free
.”

*   *   *

Cera sat in her offices, parchment and pen before her, and smiled. Her windows were open to the warmth of the late summer air, and distant sounds floated to her over the walls. The bleating of sheep, the barks of the dogs and the calls of the shepherds as they herded them
to pasture. The halls were filled with the sound of children's laughter and their mothers calling them to lessons.

Better still, the ovens were baking the bread for the evening meal, and the scent filled the room. She sighed with pleasure, then took up her pen. She must finish her letter, for the caravan to Rethwellan's border was set to depart on the morrow.

*   *   *

So, Father, with the grace of Agnetha of the LadyTrine and much hard work, we'll survive the coming winter. Whether or not Sandbriar will thrive is another story, one that I hope I will be able to share with you at a future time.

But onto business. The caravan master who delivers this letter has been well recommended to me. He has been entrusted with five crates of fine clothing that belonged to Sinmonkelrath that I have asked him to deliver to you. The fabric is of the highest quality, and the sewing is all mine, and I know you know its worth. Sell them.

I have also entrusted the caravan master with funds. Use those, as well as any proceeds from the sale of the clothing, for the purchase of foodstuffs such as might make the return journey between Rethwellan and Sandbriar intact. Salted and preserved meats and dried fruits and spices would be most welcome. I trust you to select the best, and assure a good selection.

In one of the crates you will find a parcel containing fine handkerchiefs embroidered in the local fashion. Please see if there is an interest in trade in these items. The handkerchiefs can be provided immediately. I would ask you to be my agent in this, and I of course offer the usual fee for such arrangements. I am still exploring the potential for other trade items as I learn more of my land's blessings.

Lastly, Father, I would ask you kindly to refrain from any speculation as to matrimonial alliances on my behalf. I know that you and Mother were very happy together, but my heart is sore and tired. I have no immediate plans to enter into the wedded state even after my year of mourning has passed. Further, said alliance would have to be approved by the Queen and her Council in Haven, a long and tedious process, I am sure.

Indeed, Father, it is my intention never to marry again.

With much love and affection,

Your daughter, Lady Ceraratha of Sandbriar, the Kingdom of Valdemar

Jennifer Brozek

:Today's our birthday.:

:And the choosing.:

:Then the darkness.:

:Maybe. It's foreseen, but not yet written.:

:It's because of our spark.:

:I know. But there are still two paths.:

*   *   *

Betta watched her twins stare off into space. They were talking again. Mindspeaking. She could tell by the way their unseeing gazes looked through things. Even though they looked like the rest of the family—dirt-brown hair and doe-brown eyes, with that unfortunate Haldon nose—they were still as strange and fey as the fabled Hawkbrothers of the Pelagiris. Ten years old today, and she still didn't understand how they could've come from her and her husband.

Maybe it was something in his lineage. Highborn he was, even if he was a bastard. But the Lord barely acknowledged him, had sent him away by giving his unwanted son a hold as far as he could from his august presence. The thought still made her angry on his behalf. Then again, at least he got something, even if it was a thing none of the others, the trueborn, wanted.

She squashed her bitter thoughts. The twins would feel her anger, and she didn't want to disturb their birthday. She smiled at the boy and girl who looked like each other and felt a mother's love for them. No matter what, with their special gifts, they would rise above their lot.

“Orun, Milla. Wash up for breakfast. Then we'll have presents.”

As one, the twins looked at her and smiled, their faces shifting from the Mindspeaking blankness into childlike joy. Fey and strange they may be, but they were still children, and they loved the brightly ribboned gifts.

*   *   *

The twins' birthday was usually chaotic. Between a special breakfast, the entire family arriving for the gift giving, the catching up, and of course, the unwrapping, the main hall was a riot of people, laughter, and ribbons (carefully collected and saved for the next celebration). In the middle of it all, Orun and Milla sat with their presents around them. A real sword, his first metal one, and a shield for Orun. A new overdress and pretty slippers for Milla. Knitted socks for both. And the carefully carved set of Horses and Hounds pieces and board. Most of the family had chipped in to get the twins an actual game board and pieces, carved from stone, of the twins' favorite game.

It was the thing that had their attention now. They sat huddled, going over each piece, examining and admiring them. Milla held each piece first, turning it over in her delicate hands.
:This one is Margrave.:
She handed over the hound.

:A good name.:
Orun took the hound and looked it over.
:I like it. Got dignity.:

Milla gave him a sly smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. A name like a Companion.”

The twins gave each other a knowing smile. Then looked up.

:They're here.:
Orun looked toward the hall doors a moment before they burst open.

“Companions! In the courtyard. Riderless!” Erbeck, one of the guards, gasped for breath; it was clear that he had sprinted from the courtyard, across the hold, to the main hall. He looked at the twins. “Two of them.”

*   *   *

Cedric headed the procession to the courtyard flanked by his children. He walked with a spring in his step and triumph in his eyes. “For you?” he had asked his twins under his breath. Their father had come to trust their foresight flashes. When they had nodded, they both heard his mental cry of joy and wistful thought.
He'll have to acknowledge me now. My children, his grandchildren, Heralds!

They didn't respond to his joy. They didn't want to ruin the moment for him. All Orun and Milla could do was walk the path, for good or ill, toward their fate.

*   *   *

Where once there were only two, there were now four. Then, the four split back into two again, the twins separating more than they ever had in their short lives as they bonded to their Companions. One look into those sapphire eyes had told both twins that they were no longer alone. No longer dependent only on each other. They still Mindtouched, a habit they were unwilling to break.

Orun clung to Torin's neck in the stable where Companions were given berth.
:I didn't know it would be like this. I didn't know we . . . :

: . . . weren't alone. No one else has Mindspeech, and we
stopped looking for it.:
Milla finished. She and Sorcha were in the next stall over. Sorcha nickered and nuzzled the girl.

:You will never be alone again, Chosen. I will always be here for you.:

Torin's wave of love and care echoed the emotion to Orun.
:Now, Chosen. Tell us why you two feared our coming. You both know who and what we are. We could feel your expectation.:

:And your dread.:
Sorcha's mind voice was tinged in concern.

Without words, Orun gave over control of the telling to Milla. She had always been better at explaining what they both foresaw. Milla took a breath and spoke, not wanting to sully the mental closeness with the imagery. She knew it would be at least a candlemark before anyone came for them.

“All our lives, we have touched mind-to-mind. No one else has the gift of Mindspeech. For a long time, we couldn't understand why they wouldn't talk to us.” She touched her head as she leaned back against Sorcha's side. “Then we realized they couldn't. Realized we were different.”

She paused, forming their fears into words. “For a couple of seasons now, we've both begun to see what lies ahead. Little things. A lost sheep. A broken bone. A found love. A new baby. Then, we started to see us. Our path. It always starts with joy. Then . . .” Milla stopped, afraid to continue. She bowed her head as Sorcha radiated care, love, and support to her, bolstering her. “There are two paths now. One where we continue, where we have long lives in service. The other . . . darkness takes us.”

:Do you know what this darkness is?:
Torin's question was colored with his alert concentration.

Orun shrugged. He still hugged his Companion's neck. “No. But it's because of what we can do. A gift not yet born.”

:Gift?:

“The spark . . .” Milla groped for the words, trying to explain something she didn't quite understand. “We will do what the songs say Herald Vanyel does on the Karsite border. We can see the energy around us and in the land. You both are shining blue.”

:Magecraft,:
Sorcha supplied.

“Yes. That. The spark. Something hunts those with the spark.”

The twins felt the surprise and shock of their respective Companions. Felt it morph into sudden understanding and determination.

:That explains something we had not yet understood.:
Sorcha tossed her head, agitated.
:We need to return to the Palace and tell the Circle.:

“Explains what?” Milla turned to look into those sapphire eyes.

:Why there are almost no Herald-Mage trainees. What is happening to those with potential and why they have not been Chosen.:

Fear blossomed anew in Milla's heart. “Someone has been killing us before that could happen.”

:Yes.:

*   *   *

When it came to arguing with their father, Orun took the lead. He was more apt to listen to his son than his daughter. While Orun and Cedric had words—Orun's quiet and firm, Cedric's rising with frustration—Milla explained the situation to their mother.

“You can't come with us. No one can come with us.
That's not how things are done. Not with newly Chosen.” Milla folded the clothing she would take with her as she spoke. “Chosen don't have entourages. And Sorcha says it would look bad on us if we did. We're already unusual enough with twins being Chosen.”

“It means so much to your father. You know why.” Betta packed Orun's things while they spoke.

:Sorcha?:

:Yes, it's usually highborn who are chosen, but blood really doesn't matter. It's the heart.:

:What do I tell her?:

:That they may come in a moon to see how you are settling in.:

“Are you . . . talking . . . to her now?” Betta's voice was soft and wistful.

Milla nodded, trying to ignore her mother's pain. “Sorcha says you can come in a moon to see how we're settling in. That would be best. Plus, we can let the other chosen Trainees and Heralds know so they can prepare for Father and you. But you must make Father understand that we belong to the Crown now. Our first duty is to Valdemar. Besides, Sorcha tells me that they move a lot faster than normal horses. Instead of a fortnight to get to Palace, it'll be half that. Father's horses couldn't keep up.” It was an exaggeration—like much of her explanation—but it got her point across.

Betta looked uncertain for a moment, then understood the unspoken message of not wanting to embarrass Cedric with his inability to match speeds with the Companions. “One moon?” Then she nodded. “That will give us enough time to prepare and to get appropriate clothing made. Think of it, the Palace!” She finished
packing Orun's bag and hurried off to stop the argument between her husband and her son.

Milla smiled, but it was false. That would be long enough for them to make it to the Palace . . . or not. It also would make sure whatever was hunting them wouldn't get their family.

*   *   *

The attack came on the second night away from the hold with no warning. No flicker of foresight or even uneasy dreams. Just after sunset, as they set up their camp, sinewy creatures of shadow and teeth with glowing red eyes, barely seen in the firelight, appeared. Torin screamed a challenge and charged the swarming creatures.

:Wyrsa!:
Sorcha joined Torin with her own challenge and flying silver hooves, pummeling the creatures.

Both children reacted to the mental feel of the monsters as much as their visage. Orun wrenched his new sword from its sheath and set to guard Milla as she dug for her sling and iron stones. The hold was so far from the Palace and so near the borderlands, every child was taught to fight as best they could from the time they could walk.

One of the
wyrsa
got past the Companions' guard position and came for the children. It dodged Milla's expert shot and dove for Orun. He swung his sword, catching it in the shoulder as it clawed his arm. Milla pelted it with a handful of iron stones, half-panicked, half in response to Orun's cry of pain. The creature backed off and charged Orun again, this time avoiding the sword and catching the boy's already wounded arm in its wicked teeth.

“Orun!” Milla's scream was high-pitched and frantic. The Companions couldn't help, as they battled the rest
of the pack. Orun punched at the creature as it savaged his arm and raked claws down his leg. Milla grabbed a log out of the fire and thrust it into the
wyrsa
's side. It screamed its own pain, released Orun, and turned on her.

Holding the burning log like a sword as she had seen Orun do, Milla swung at the creature as it snarled. The fire drove it back, but she knew it wouldn't be for long as the
wyrsa
dodged, charged, and dodged again, trying to get to her.

The sudden slashing of hooves at the
wyrsa
's backside sent it running to the underbrush, keening in pain. It took one look back, just long enough to see that it was quite alone and both Companions were coming for it, then disappeared into the forest. Sorcha gave chase as Torin came back to guard the twins.

Milla was still clutching the burning log, ready to fight, when Sorcha returned.

:It's gone. It escaped. I don't think it'll be back now that it's alone.:

“Orun. He's hurt.”

Torin pressed his long forehead to the boy's brown hair, and a soft glow surrounded them. Milla felt the sympathetic pain in her arm and leg lessen and fade into an itchy sensation. Orun looked up and smiled wanly. Despite the healing, he was still pale under his tanned skin. “We survived.” He sounded as if he couldn't believe what he was saying.

Milla matched his smile. “We did survive.”

:These aren't
wyrsa
.:
Sorcha's mental voice was filled with revulsion.
:They're some sort of demon that look a bit like
wyrsa
.:

Milla and Orun looked at each other.

:Explains why there's no poison in Orun's wounds.:
Torin walked over to look at the body Sorcha was examining.
:Camouflaged to look like
wyrsa
?:

:I think so.:

“Why?” Orun watched the Companions, rather than his sister, who was examining his arm. Unlike the scratches on his leg, it wasn't completely healed.

Torin shook his head, silver mane flying in agitation.
:I don't know. These are blood-fed demons. That means the Mage who called them is still out there.:

Sorcha flicked the body she had been looking at into the underbrush with a gore-spattered hoof.
:And one got away.:

“Was it coming for us?” Milla wrapped Orun's salve-covered arm with strips of cloth torn from one of her underskirts.

:Coming for the Mage talented. I don't think for you two specifically. However, now that it knows there are four of us, if the Mage attacks again, he'll summon something bigger, I fear.:
Sorcha returned to the fireside.

“Then we'll be ready for it.” Orun looked determined as he held his bandaged arm. “We've got no other choice.”

*   *   *

They pushed hard for two days, stopping only when they reached a defensible Waystation. The twins, unused to being in the saddle all day at a full run, were exhausted by the time they stopped. Knowing that something was hunting them—that it could, and would, attack at any moment—was as draining as their physical exertion. No uneasy dreams troubled their sleep. They were too tired for that.