Valdemar Anthology - [Tales of Valdemar 02] - Sun in Glory and Other Tales of Valdemar (10 page)

“His family?”

“He was their only child. They were newly married. His grandmother is in the town to the east. She is his only living relation; it is why he was here—when it happened.”

She pulled the boy away from her chest and her neck; held him out so that she could meet his serious, brown eyes. He was
so
damn thin. “Daniel,” she said softly, “my name is Kayla.”

“I know.”

“I am going to the capital. I am going to learn how to become a—a Herald.”

He was too tired to look awed, and she loved him for it. Was afraid of that emotion, because she knew it should not have come so quickly, so easily, for a stranger.

“But I don't want to leave you here, alone. I dream of the dragon. I have always dreamed of the dragon; he hunts me in my sleep. But he has never caught me, never once. If you want—if you would like—you can come with me.”

The boy slid his arms around her neck and held her tightly, and that was his entire answer. She turned to the priest, a mixture of defiance and possessiveness lending strength to the soft lines of her face. “I cannot help them all,” she said quietly. “Not yet. But I promise, if it is in my power, that I will.”

And wondered what the word of an Oathbreaker was worth.

Looked at the child's head, his messy hair, the wax in his ears that hadn't been cleaned out by whoever had been attending him.

And knew that the word was everything.
Mother, forgive me. Forgive me. I will return to Riverend when I am done.

“I am taking this child with me,” she told the priest. She almost lied. She almost told him that if she didn't, he would lapse back into his state of wide-eyed immobility. But she didn't believe it.

“Will you take him into safety, Herald—”

“Call me Kayla. Kayla Grayson.”

“Will you take him into safety, Kayla? Or into danger? If you ride toward the capital, you will find this . . . disease . . . is far more prevalent as you approach the palace. We have had care of him for two weeks, and we are prepared to care for him until—”

“Until he falls victim to the terrors once again? No. If I take him into danger, I take him with me, and I know—I
know
how to comfort a child.”

“You will have your duties.”

“What duty is more important than this? I will protect him. But—”

And a head appeared in the doorway; a white, large head, with deep blue eyes the size of palms and a long, straight muzzle wearing a silver-and-blue strap and bells. Companions had no words to offer anyone but each other—and their Heralds—if the stories were true, but Darius did not need words; he butted the priest gently in the chest, and met his eyes, unblinking.

It was the priest who looked away.

“I won't abandon you,” she said softly, and hesitantly, as Riverend flashed before her eyes. “But . . . but I think I understand now why I was called.”

“What are you, child?”

“I don't know.”

“Darius says my Gift is Empathy.”

The priest closed his eyes. “Then he is taking you to an unkind fate, Kayla.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The Empaths, the greatest of the Empaths, were the first to fall.”

 

The town's many inns offered food and wine and water when Darius entered their courtyards. But they were silent as they made their offers, and the fear that she had sensed in the infirmary had extended outward in an echo that was terrible to witness. On impulse, she said, “I have with me one of the children who was in the cathedral infirmary. He's not very talkative,” she added, as the boy shyly turned his face into her shoulder, “but he's recovering. I know it's been bad on the town, but as an outsider, I'm amazed at the way the town has come together to help the fallen, even when they don't understand the disease.

“There's hope,” she added softly.

And the innkeepers, their wives, their guests, leaped at the words that she had spoken aloud, a clear indication that eavesdropping was a way of life in any place, be it small hold or large town.

They might have called her a liar, but she was astride a Companion, and the Heralds
did not
lie.

So they breathed a sigh of relief instead. “We've been pleading for help,” the innkeeper's wife said, as she added four extra pies to their load. “But the only help the King sent lies in the infirmary with the others. We didn't know—” She ran the back of her hand across her eyes. “My brother's in back, same as them that you saw. Thank you, Herald.” Kayla had given up telling people that she wasn't. The woman composed herself, although the redness of her eyes spoke of unshed tears. “You'll want a blanket for the boy; it's chilly on the hills in these parts.”

 

The boy ate like a pig. Which is to say, he ate everything they put in front of him, and he ate it in a way calculated to leave the most food on his clothes. The innkeeper's wife—a woman, and a mother, who therefore thought of these things—had seen fit to pack him extra clothing; Kayla was grateful for it.

She did not let the boy leave her, and he did not wander farther than her hand could reach. But his ordeal had left him easily tired, and he slept frequently, his back against her chest, her arms on either side of his upright body to stop him from plunging the distance between Darius' back and the forest floor.

“Is it true, Darius?”

“How long has this been happening?”

Darius was silent.

“Darius, I think I've figured out why you came to Riverend by now. How does my ignorance serve your purpose? Tell me. If I'm to help, I need to know.”

She knew when she heard his words that she suddenly didn't want that much trust.

 

Daniel chattered as they rode. And he helped with the food that was meant for Darius; helped with the blankets that were meant to keep him warm in the night. But he helped in a way that he didn't understand, for he would not sleep without Kayla's arms around him. She held him.

When the nightmares came that night, they were subtly different. The beast that roared with the voice of a thousand—tens of thousands—of screams, had eyes that were focused. Its flight was lazy, the circles it drew in the night sky slow and deliberate.

He was searching, Kayla realized. For her. For the child she had taken from him.

She did not scream. She wanted to, but she knew what it would cost the boy, and she kept it to herself.

And because of that, she reached the capital, and the Herald's Collegium, before sun's full height the next day.

 

The Kings' guards bowed quietly as Darius approached the main gates, and although it was evident that they were curious, they merely welcomed him home.

:They are usually more friendly,:
Darius said apologetically,
:but things in the Collegium have been dark for many months. I—Come, Kayla. Here is a woman you must see.:

 

Kayla learned this almost instantly. A Herald met her at the front doors to the dauntingly huge building; he bowed to Darius. “So you've brought her,” he said. “Finally.”

“Yes,” Kayla replied, although the words had clearly not been directed at her. “He did. And I guess he didn't tell you that I'm not used to being talked about as if I'm not here.”

The man raised a brow. “I see that you have more in common with Magda Merton than it seems.” His frown, edged with weariness, deepened. “Darius—you did not choose someone with a child that young?”

“No,” she said flatly. “He waited until all mine were dead.”

The Herald had the grace to look shocked, and she regretted the words almost instantly. Such a grief, such a loss, was never meant to be used as a weapon; it was wrong. It was just wrong. She slid off the back of her Companion, gently extricating herself from Daniel's arms. “My pardon, Herald,” she said, to the chest of the man in Whites. “I woke the child from a . . . from a deep sleep. It was safest to bring him here.”

“There is no safety here, if the child was affected by the—” He grimaced. “The Kings' Own has been waiting for you, if you are Kayla; please, follow me.”

She hesitated a moment, and then Daniel said, “It's all right, Kayla.” His words were thin and shaky; she could see the fear in his eyes. But he drew himself up to his full height, as if he were adult; as if he could bear the weight of her absence. “Darius says that he'll take care of me.”

“Darius says—” Her eyes widened. “You can
hear
him?”

“Sometimes. When he's talking to me.”

 

She pondered that as she followed the Herald. He led her down the hall into a very finely appointed room—a room that was the size of the gathering hall in the Hold of Riverend. There, a woman was standing by the great window that ran from floor to ceiling, an ostentatious display of glass.

Kayla had the ridiculous urge to kneel; she fought it carefully, although she did bow deeply.

“I am Gisel,” the woman said.

“I'm Kayla.”

“Kayla Grayson, Margaret Merton's daughter.”

“Her youngest, yes.”

“Arlen says that you've been through Evandale.”

“Arlen?”

“Ah. My Companion. She has been speaking with Darius. It appears that you . . . met with . . . the victims of the shadow plague. And that you saved two.”

Kayla nodded hesitantly.

“I guess that means that Magda took it upon herself to teach you.”

“T–teach me?”

Gisel frowned. “Yes, teach you. Your Gift.” When silence prevailed, the unpleasant frown deepened. “You must understand your Gift?”

“W–what Gift would that be?”

Gisel raised a hand to her gray hair and yanked it out of her face. “I wish I had time, child. I don't. Your mother was one of the most gifted Empaths the kingdom of Valdemar has ever known.”

“E–empath?”

“I really do not have the patience for this.”

It was true. Kayla could feel the older woman's anger, but it was mixed with a terrible sorrow and a deep guilt. Guilt, in her experience, had always been a double-edged sword; it could drive men mad. In the hold, it had.

“Empathy is a Gift that is deeper than words, and more subtle. You have that Gift. And if your mother didn't teach you how to use it, and you've survived the passage through Evandale . . . than you are more than just her daughter.” Gisel walked away from the window and the light in the room grew. It was a cold light. “There are people who are born with other talents; you must have heard their stories. Some can summon fire; some can work great magic; some can heal with a touch; some can hear the words that men don't speak aloud. Any of these, untrained, are a danger to themselves, or to others. But Empaths can exist without such training; they are often sympathetic, or perhaps skittish, because of what they can sense. Feelings often run deeper than words; most men and women never really learn how to adequately speak of what they feel.

“I have wine here, and water; would you care for either?”

Kayla shook her head.

“As you wish. I intend to have a great deal of the former before this is over.” True to her word, she poured herself a glass of a liquid that was a deep crimson, and stared at its surface as if she could glean information from it.

“An Empath can do these things. It is why empaths have often made better diplomats than those whose Gift it is to read the thoughts, the unspoken words of others.”

Kayla had only barely heard of people like that, and she had always feared them. She said nothing.

“You'll be given your grays, and settled in, but you won't have the chance to train and learn with the newest of the Chosen. Your work is already waiting, and—I'm sorry child—but we don't have the time it would take to prepare you.

“This is a risk. I apologize for forcing you to take it. You know that the King has three sons, yes?”

“And two daughters. Which is more children than—”

“Yes, yes.”

“And they've all survived,” Kayla added, unable to keep the bitterness out of the words.

“It depends. The youngest of his sons was a . . . difficult lad. He doted on his mother, the Queen. When she passed away, he drifted, and his father was not a sensitive man; the running of the Kingdom during the border skirmishes kept him away from the capital for much of the year.

“But Gregori was Chosen, in spite of his black moods and his despondency. His Companion—” and here, she did flinch, “was Rodri. Rodri was as sensitive as Gregori, and gentle in a way Gregori was not, and when Rodri did Choose him, we rejoiced.” Again the words were bitter.

‘We rejoiced anew when we discovered that Gregori was Gifted; that he was an Empath of exceptional power. It was part of the reason he was so withdrawn and so moody as a child; he could not bear the constant anger, fear, and hatred that he felt around him. The court . . . is not a suitable place for a child of such sensitivity.”