Valdemar Anthology - [Tales of Valdemar 02] - Sun in Glory and Other Tales of Valdemar (34 page)

The Companion hardly waited for him to settle himself before it took off—at a much faster pace than before. It was the Companion, rather than any skill of his own, that kept the saddle-leather beneath Elidor's rump. The trees whipped past him in a blur, and the wind that had been cold before turned to a thousand needles of ice seeking every opening they could find in his good wool tunic and heavy trousers. He knew better than to reach for the reins, and clutched with one hand at the edge of the saddle, and with the other, at his wildly-flapping cloak. He barely had time to realize how acutely miserable he was—and only think, this was a Herald's job, to ride out in all seasons and all weathers!—before the Companion stopped once more, and again Elidor had that sense of barely-restrained impatience.

He scrambled from the Companion's back without even looking around, and then saw he was in the middle of nowhere.

“What?” he said aloud.

Snow covered the ground, but this was the main road, and usually remained passable unless there was a major blizzard. A few yards down the road he could see one of the huts built for emergency shelter in winter. He frowned. Something about what he saw wasn't right.

The Companion shoved him in the back.

“Ow!” Elidor yelped, staggering forward. He'd thought that in person Companions would be the way they were in books—kind and loving and faithful, but this one seemed a lot more like some of his teachers; firm-minded and impatient.

Then he saw it.

“Something went off the road.”

He saw the wheel-ruts in the snow. They stopped short and went to the side of the road—not the inside, where anyone familiar with the countryside would pull off, but the outside of the road, where a screen of trees concealed the sloping hillside that led down to a little stream. With the winter snow, the extent of the drop-off and even the stream were hard to see.

Elidor ran forward to where the tracks stopped. He could see a coach down there, lying on its side—a small one, far too light for the road and the season. There must be something down there, though, some reason a Companion would come all the way into town and lead him back here.

“You stay here,” he told the Companion firmly, speaking to it as if it were a large dog. “If you go down there, you'll break your neck. There's ice, and a stream. Understand?”

He didn't stop to see whether he'd insulted it, but plunged down the hillside, moving carefully through the snow. He slipped and slid, holding onto the trees for support, and finally reached the bottom. The snow was deeper here, all the way to his knees, and he moved through it carefully.

There was someone under the coach.

A man in Herald's Whites—that was why Elidor hadn't seen him before. His spotless Whites made him invisible against the snow. Elidor could see now that the coach had landed on a rock, propping it up so that the man beneath hadn't been crushed. Though his eyes were closed, and his cowl pulled up, covering most of his face so Elidor couldn't see him clearly, the Herald might still be alive.

“Herald? Sir?” Elidor said hoarsely.

When he spoke, the Herald opened his eyes and pushed the cowl away from his face. His skin was dark, and his hair and eyes were black.

“Ah,” the Herald said. He managed to smile, though Elidor could see it cost him. “You're from the Library.”

“Yes, sir, Herald, sir. I'm Elidor. Your, uh, Companion brought me. I told him not to come down here.”

“And did he listen? That would be a great marvel. Darrian rarely listens to anyone. But I forget my manners. I'm Jordwen. I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Librarian Elidor.”

“Oh, no, sir, Herald Jordwen, sir. I'm only a Scribe, and a Journeyman anyway. But you must be cold, sir, lying there in the snow.”

He was babbling like an idiot, and Elidor's ears flamed with the embarrassment of it, and the shame of having thought, even for a moment, that the Companion had come for him. Of course the Companion was already bonded to a Herald, and of course if any Companion were to come looking for Elidor, it would only be to seek help for its Herald. But in the strangest way, mixed in with his feelings of humiliation and wild embarrassment, was the oddest sort of relief.

“We have to get you out of there.”

“Ah, there lies the difficulty,” Jordwen said regretfully. “I'm afraid that when the blessed contraption fell on me, it managed to tangle itself up with me in a way I haven't yet unraveled. I'd resigned myself to lying here until spring came and the birds built nests in my hair. There's beauty in a meadow, of course—”

He was rattling on a little breathlessly, and it occurred to Elidor that whatever had happened to him, it must hurt very much. Somehow, that made his own fear and awkwardness go away.

“Look here, Herald sir—”

“Do call me Jordwen. I don't think our discourse can survive many more Heralds and sirs, do you?”

“I'm small, and there's space under the carriage,” Elidor said, ignoring his interruption. “I think I can get under there and see how you're pinned, if you're willing. I might be able to get you loose.”

“I think you must,” Jordwen said, and for all his languor, there was steel beneath his words.

Elidor pulled off his cloak and draped it over the Herald like a blanket. Kneeling down beside him, where the gap beneath the coach was deepest, he began to dig and burrow through the packed snow, tunneling his way beneath the coach alongside Jordwen's body.

He soon saw what was wrong. When the coach had fallen, Jordwen's foot had slipped between the spokes of one of the wheels. It was twisted far to the side, swollen to shapelessness, the white leather of his boot ugly with blood. Elidor gulped, swallowing bile. He couldn't begin to imagine how much that hurt.

He slithered back out again. Jordwen was watching him.

“And will I ever dance again on moonlit nights on green lawns with fair ladies? Ah, for the perfumed air, the gentle music of the harp. . . .”

“Your foot's caught between two of the spokes of one of the cartwheels,” Elidor announced, trying not to listen to what either of them was saying. “I think the ankle's broken. I can work it free, and then you can just slide out. But it's really going to hurt.”

“Then give me a moment,” Jordwen said. “I may seem to sleep, but I assure you, I won't be. Since I may be . . . somewhat incapacitated . . . may I beg a further favor?”

“Yes, of course, Herald si—uh, Jordwen,” Elidor stammered.

“There's a shelter by the side of the road—you will have seen it, when Darrian brought you here?”

Elidor nodded.

“The driver and his passenger, and the two coach-horses—Darrian will have brought them there for safekeeping after my disastrous and ill-considered attempt at coach-repair. You will see them safe to Talastyre if I cannot?”

How could Jordwen possibly think he'd be doing anything after Elidor got him out from under the coach? Elidor wondered. Aloud, he said. “Of course I will.”

Jordwen smiled. “Then in just a few moments, we will begin.”

As Elidor watched, Jordwen seemed to fall into a light sleep. His eyes closed, and his breathing deepened, until once again he was as Elidor had seen him first. Only the ache of cold roused him to his own task, and once more he squirmed beneath the coach.

Desperately careful, not wanting to hurt the Herald any more than he must, he took the leg in both hands and eased it forward, toward the edge of the wheel where the gap between the spokes was widest. He still had to turn it to get it through, though he was as careful and as gentle as he could be in the cramped and awkward space. When at last he could lower the mangled leg gently to the snow, he was trembling and covered in sweat.

Now to get Jordwen out from under the carriage.

When he crawled out from under the carriage again, it was to confront Darrian standing over Jordwen, nuzzling gently at his face. Elidor had the sense he'd somehow intruded on a very private moment, that he was watching something forever beyond his reach.

As if feeling automatically for a broken tooth, he probed for feelings of jealousy and resentment—the same feelings he'd had when hearing the other children at the Talastyre school speak of their families and their futures—but for the first time, they weren't there. But they
ought
to be there, shouldn't they? Because this was a Companion with his Herald. He was looking at what he'd always wanted most.

Wasn't he?

He put those thoughts aside. There was work to be done.

Jordwen was starting to rouse. As his eyes fluttered open, he gasped and grimaced, then set his teeth against the pain.

“Yes, I know,” he said, answering a comment Elidor hadn't heard, “but we can't always choose the easiest path, can we?” He turned to Elidor. “Thank you for your help. You were very brave.”

“Me?” Elidor shook his head. “We aren't done yet. I need to pull you out of there.”

“As to that—” Jordwen's voice was slightly breathless with the pain, “I think it's time for Darrian to start earning his keep. If you can get my hand to his stirrup—”

“Be careful,” Elidor said quickly, not sure to which of them he spoke. “There's a stream right behind you, and I don't think it's frozen through.”

Darrian shook his head, and all the bells on his harness jingled. He stepped daintily through the snow behind the Herald, onto the frozen stream. The ice groaned beneath his silver-shod hooves, then gave way. The Companion turned and stamped, until he had cleared a safe place to stand on the streambed, then came up the bank again, standing over Jordwen so that his stirrup dangled above the Herald's face.

Carefully, Elidor guided Jordwen's hands to the stirrup, though his own were nearly numb with the cold. “Okay,” he said. “Now.”

Darrian backed carefully into the stream again, and Elidor pushed, making sure that no part of Jordwen stuck or caught. The Herald's clothing had frozen to the snow, and Elidor winced in sympathy as it tore free.

But then Jordwen was sitting up, his good leg drawn up to his chest, leaning against Darrian, who had come forward to support him.

“Well-served for my vanity,” he said shakily, regarding the bloodstained leg. “Here, Journeyman Elidor, your cloak. Winter Whites are much warmer, I assure you, when one is not lying in the snow. You look blue with cold, and only think, if someone had to come and rescue you in turn—why, it would be like the tale of Mistress Masham and the Goosegirl's Daughter: by spring we would have all of Talastyre here, one by one, each coming to rescue the one who had come to rescue the one before.”

Elidor grinned at the image as he took his cloak and wrapped it around himself again, but the seriousness of their situation quickly sobered him. He was strong for his age, but he could not carry Jordwen up the slope to the trail-hut, or even lift him to his Companion's back, and there was no way under heaven the man could walk even a step.

“But what now, you may ask? Well, if my good Darrian will consent to humble himself—a great concession, I do assure you—and you will give me some trifling assistance, we shall ride in style back to the road, collect our dependents, and be on our way.”

“Yes, of course,” Elidor said dubiously.

The Companion regarded him sternly. Elidor slipped his arm around Jordwen's back for support, and the great white stallion moved away, then slowly and carefully knelt in the snow.

“Now, help me to my feet,” Jordwen said.

Elidor scrambled around to his other side, where the bad leg was, and squatted beside him. He got an arm beneath Jordwen's shoulders, knowing how this was done and knowing he must do it well. He must not slip. He must not fall. He must not fail.

“Now,” Jordwen said softly, and Elidor rose to his feet.

Cold muscles screamed with cramp, but he ignored them. He clutched Jordwen hard against his side, pulling with all his wiry strength, a strength honed by years of working among the heavy volumes of Talastyre. To his surprise, he and the Herald were much of a height.

“Not—much—farther—now—” Jordwen gasped. His bronze skin had an ashy tint.

Elidor shifted his grip to the Herald's belt, and half lifted, half dragged him through the snow to his Companion. The bad leg scraped against the drifts. There was no way to stop it, and Elidor heard Jordwen's breath catch in ragged sobs, starting tears in his own eyes.

When they reached Darrian, it was all Elidor could do to deposit Jordwen sideways upon his back, as if the saddle were a chair.

“This won't do,” Jordwen said after a long moment, with a brave attempt at his usual light tones.

“If—If—If he puts his head down,” Elidor said, amazed at his own presumption, “I could lift your bad leg over, I think. But—”

“—But it will hurt,” Jordwen finished for him, with the ghost of a smile. “Still, I think it will work. What say you, my friend?”

The last remark hadn't been addressed to him, Elidor realized. In reply, Darrian stretched his neck out as far as it would go, and laid his head against the snow. The position looked awkward.

Elidor hurried around to the Companion's other side, and gently reached for Jordwen's leg. He slid his hands beneath it, above and below the knee, and raised it high, flexing it like the joints of a doll, and swiveled it toward him, across Darrian's neck, until Jordwen sat astride the saddle.

Darrian raised his head quickly, with a huff of relief.

“You have good hands,” the Herald said. “Gentle and deft.”

“Scribes have to have good hands,” Elidor said, still holding Jordwen's leg so that the heel didn't have to rest against the snow. He was proud of being a Scribe, he realized. He was good at it, and it wasn't something everyone could do. He put the thought aside for later consideration. “I don't think you should try to put your foot in the stirrup,” he said gravely.