Arrows of the Queen (8 page)

“Rolan!” he cried with delight, seeming to forget momentarily about Talia's existence. “Finally! We were beginning to think you'd never find someone! There was even a bet on that you'd jumped the Border! The Collegium's been in a fine pother since you left—”

He finally seemed to see Talia, nerves strung bowstring-taut and white-faced.

“Your ordeal is almost over, childing,” he said with real sympathy even as she shrank away from him. “Come down now, and I'll see that you get to where you need to go.”

He aided her down out of the saddle as if she'd been a princess; no sooner had she set her feet on the ground than another uniformed person came to lead Rolan away. Talia watched them vanish with an aching heart, wondering if she'd ever see him again. She wished with sudden violence that she'd followed her first impulse and ridden him far away. Whatever was to happen to her? How could she have dreamed that she'd be of any significance to folk who lived in a place like
this?

The guard led her into the gray stone, multi-storied building at the end of the path they walked. It was totally unlike any structure Talia was familiar with. Her heart was in her shoes as they entered a pair of massive, brass-inlaid wooden doors. Never had she seen anything to equal the work in those doors, and that was just the beginning of the wonders. She was feeling worse by the minute as she took in the grandness of her surroundings. The furnishings alone in just one of the many rooms they passed would have exceeded the combined wealth of the entire Holding. Not even the Temple High Sanctuary was this impressive. She would have bolted given a moment to herself, except that after the first few minutes she was well and truly lost.

At last he brought her to a room much smaller than many of the ones they'd passed; about the size of a large pantry, though no less rich than the rest of the building.

“Someone will be with you in just a few moments, youngling,” he said kindly, relieving her of her townchits, “You're among friends here, never doubt it. We've been waiting for you, you know! You and Rolan were a welcome sight to these eyes.” When she didn't respond, he patted her carefully on the head. “Don't worry, no one is going to harm you—why, I have little ones nearly your age myself! Make yourself comfortable while I let the proper people know you're here.”

Make herself comfortable? How, in a room like this?

She finally chose a leather-padded chair as the one she was least likely to damage and sat on it gingerly. In the silence of the unoccupied room, she began to lose her fear, but her discomfort grew as the fear faded. Surrounded by all this luxury, she was acutely aware of the fact that she was sticky, damp with nervousness, smelt faintly of horse, and was dressed in the kind of fabrics they probably made grain bags out of here. She was also painfully aware that she was only thirteen years old. When she'd been with Rolan, none of that had seemed to matter, but now—oh,
now
she was all too aware of her shortcomings. How had she ever dared to dream she might become a Herald? Never—never—only people born and bred to surroundings like these could aspire to such a position. The Guard had probably gone for some underservant to give her a bit of silver and send her on her way—if she was lucky, it would be someone she could talk into giving her a job.

A miniature whirlwind burst into the room, interrupting her thought.

“Oh!” said the girl, a little of about seven with chestnut hair, blue eyes, and a rather disagreeable expression on an otherwise pretty face, “What are
you
doing here?”

For the first time since she'd seen the city, Talia felt back on secure ground. Littles were one thing she
could
handle!

“I'm waiting, like I was told,” she replied.

“Aren't you going to kneel?” the child asked imperiously.

Talia hid a smile. It was amazing how so simple a thing as having to deal with an obviously spoiled child made her feel so very much more confident.

“Kneel?” she asked with mock-astonishment. “Why should I kneel?”

The child was becoming red-faced with temper. “You're in the Presence of the Heir to the Throne!” she replied haughtily, the capital letters audible, her nose in the air and her expression disdainful.

“Really? Where?” Talia looked around her with an innocent face that covered inner mischief newly aroused by the child's pretensions. This little was about to receive the treatment her bad manners deserved. If she
was
the Heir—well, someone was obviously not doing his job in training her. And if she wasn't, she deserved it for lying. “I don't see anyone like that.”

“Me! Me!” the girl shouted, stamping her foot, frustrated and angry.
“I'm
the Heir!”

“Oh, I don't think so,” Talia said, thoroughly enjoying herself. “You're nothing but a little having a temper tantrum; one that fibs a lot. I've read all about the Heirs. The Heir is always polite and gracious, and treats the lowest scullery maid like she was the Queen's own self. You act like you'd treat the Queen like the lowest scullery maid. You can't possibly be the Heir. Maybe I should call a guard and tell him there's an imposter in here.”

The child's mouth opened and closed wordlessly with frustration and rage.

“Maybe you're a fish,” Talia added ingenuously, “You certainly look like one.”

The girl shrieked in anger, and drew back one balled-up fist.

“I wouldn't,” Talia said warningly, “I hit back.”

The child's eyes widened in surprise, then her face grew even redder with rage. “I—how—oh!”

“You said that already.”

At that the girl gave an ear-piercing squeal, pushed over a small table that stood nearby, and ran out of the room before it hit the ground. Talia had expected her to do something of the kind and had sprung to the table's rescue, catching it before it was damaged and righting it with a sigh of exasperation.

A dry chuckle came from behind Talia, who turned to see a curtain pushed aside, and a tall, handsome woman in Herald's Whites step into the room. Though she wore a long skirt with the thigh-length tunic instead of breeches, and the materials were clearly fine velvet and silk, she was no different in appearance from other Heralds Talia had seen or heard about. Her face was triangular and strong rather than pretty; her hair was bound in a knot at the nape of her neck and was the same golden color as raival leaves in the fall. She had very penetrating, intelligent blue eyes the same intense sapphire blue as a Companion's.

Talia started to scramble to her feet, but the woman gestured that she should remain seated.

“Stay where you are, youngling,” she said, as Talia resumed her place and continued to watch her shyly. “You've had a long and tiring ride—you deserve to sit on something that isn't moving for a while!”

The woman studied the child seated obediently before her and liked what she saw. There had been competence in the way that she had handled the Heir's rudeness and temper; there had been enough mischief there to suggest a lively sense of humor, but at the same time this child had been clever without being cruel. That boded very well indeed for her future success.

“Well, so you're Talia. I hope you don't mind the fact that I was eavesdropping, but I wanted to see how you'd handle her,” she said, with a hint of apology.

“With a hairbrush to her behind, if I had charge of her,” Talia replied, almost automatically. The incident and the woman's obvious approval had put some of her fears to rest; and if Keldar exuded an air that always made Talia feel nervous and incompetent, this woman had the very opposite effect on her.

“She's had precious little of that,” the woman sighed, “and I fear she's overdue for a good share of it.”

She examined Talia more closely and was even more encouraged by what she read in the child's face and manner. There was intelligence and curiosity in her large brown eyes, and her expression was that of a child blessed with an unfailingly sweet and patient nature. The woman guessed that she was probably a bit older than she appeared to be; perhaps around thirteen or fourteen. The heart-shaped face crowned by tousled brown curls was very appealing. The sturdily built, well-muscled body showed that this child was no stranger to hard work. With every observation it seemed as if Rolan had supplied the Collegium with the precise answer to all of their hopes and prayers.

“Well, that's tomorrow's problem,” she replied, “I am told you're the one Rolan brought back—is that correct? Has anyone told you anything yet?”

Talia was encouraged by the understanding in the woman's face. The encouragement she found there, and the unfeigned interest, and most of all the reassurance, caused words to boil up out of her without her even thinking about them.

“No! Everybody seems to know what's going on but me!” she blurted, “And nobody wants to
explain
anything!”

The woman seated herself with a careless grace. “Well, now someone will. Why don't you tell me about what's happened to you—from the beginning. I'll try to help you understand.”

Talia found herself pouring out the whole tale, from the time Keldar called her into the house till this very moment. Before she'd finished, she was fighting back tears. All the doubts that had occurred to her were coming back—she had nothing to count on except the dubious possibility of their gratitude. And she fully realized just what kind of a hopeless situation she was in if the Heralds chose to turn her out.

“Please—you must know someone—someone—”

“In charge?”

“Yes. Can't you please find me something to do here?” Talia begged shamelessly. “I'll do anything—mend, wash, scrub floors—” She stopped, afraid the tears would come if she went on. How had she
ever
dared to dream she might join these magical people? They were as much above her as the stars.

“Dirk was right. You haven't a clue to what's happened to you, have you?” the woman said, half to herself. Then she looked up, and Talia averted her own eyes from the intensity of her gaze. “Did you really mean what you said to the Firstwife, that you wanted to be a Herald?”

“Yes. Oh yes!” Talia was studying the hands clenched in her lap. “More than anything—I know it's not possible, but—I didn't know any better, then. No one ever told me what this place was like, and I don't think—I don't think I could have pictured it anyway. Sensholding isn't anything like this. I never could have guessed what I was asking. Please—please forgive me—I didn't mean any disrespect.”

“Forgive?” the woman was astonished. “Child, forgive
what?
It's no disrespect to dream of becoming a Herald—though it's not like the tales, you know. It's work that is both dull and dangerous; if not one, then the other. Half the Heralds never live to reach old age. And it's a life where you find you have very little time for yourself. It's a wonder that anyone
wants
the job, much less dreams of it as her heart's desire. A Herald has to always consider her duty above all else, even her own well-being.”

“That doesn't matter!” Talia cried, looking up.

“Why not? What does matter?”

“I'm not sure.” She groped for the words to express what until now she'd only felt. “It's that Heralds
do
things instead of complaining about them, things that put peoples' lives back together, even if it's only settling a quarrel about a cow. And—” she faltered, “there's the Companion—”

Tears began to flow despite her resolution as she remembered with bright vividness the days on the road, and how, for once in her life, she hadn't been lonely. It might have been imagination, and yet—it had seemed, at least, that Rolan had cared for her. Dared she think—loved her? There was no doubt in her mind that she had loved him. And now he was gone, no doubt taken to the Herald he
truly
belonged with.

“Oh my poor child,” the woman reached out instinctively and gathered Talia to her, to let her sob on her shoulder.

Talia tried to pull away, fighting back the tears, even though she longed to relax on that comforting shoulder. “I'm all over dirt,” she sobbed, “And you're in Whites. I'll get you all grubby.”

“There are more important things in life than dirt,” the woman replied, holding her firmly, exactly as Vris had done more than once. There was something almost as comforting about her as there had been about Rolan—or Vris, or Andrean. Talia's reticence evaporated, and she cried herself out.

When Talia was again in control of herself, the woman gave her a handkerchief to repair the damages with, and said, “It's fairly obvious that, for some reason, you were never told of how Heralds are chosen.”

“Aren't they just born into it, like being Eldest Son? I mean—all this—”

“ ‘All this' means nothing—if you haven't the right makings. It is true that Heralds are born to the job, since no one can
learn
to be a Herald, but blood doesn't matter. No, the Companions Choose them.”

And it all came flooding back—that bright, joyful moment when she'd first looked into Rolan's eyes. “I Choose you,” he'd said in her mind. She remembered it all now....

The woman smiled at Talia's gasp, as all the little bits of the mystery suddenly assumed their rightful pattern. “It usually happens that they don't have to go very far. It's a rather odd thing, but for various reasons anyone who is of the proper material to be a Herald finds his or her way to the city, the Court, or the Collegium more often than not. Sometimes, though, the Companions have to go seeking their Heralds themselves. There's one Companion that
always
does this; tell me, in the tales you read, did you ever come across the title ‘The Monarch's Own Herald'?”