Changing the World: All-New Tales of Valdemar

with it.:

Ferrin gave up trying to get a response from the Herald. Doron frowned. Ferrin’s reaction wasn’t what he was used to seeing. In the past, he would have tried to beat his victim into talking, sometimes merely to take out his frustrations. But Ferrin only sat staring at the Herald, a somewhat puzzled expression on his face.

“Now what we goin’ to do?” asked Jergen. “He don’t speak our language.”

“I’ll think of somethin’,” Ferrin said.

Doron sat frozen, shaken by the knowledge his cousin lay tightly bound by the campfire. When he’d seen the birthmark, that was all he needed to be convinced the Herald was Tomar. It had been a sad day for Doron when he’d learned Tomar and his family had fled Karse all those years ago. Not that they were all that close, though they had become friends. Farms hereabouts lay far enough apart that folk seldom got together unless it was to help each other during harvest. But those days still remained fresh in his memory. He and Tomar had played together, had wound up in the trouble young boys could so easily find. When Tomar began to exhibit his witch-powers, Doron had first reacted in fear. He wasn’t afraid of Tomar—well, not exactly. No, he was more fearful Tomar would be given up to the Fires if any priest recognized what he might become.

And now Doron faced a terrible conflict. He couldn’t let his long-lost cousin be harmed, yet his loyalty to his companions was all he had left in the world. They were what passed for family, had been for years.

An odd feeling of ease stole through his mind. He glanced at Jergen and Chardo and saw they’d relaxed some, weren’t as edgy as before. Even Vomehl had set his bow aside, no longer keeping it trained on the Herald. Doron’s own inner power reacted to something he couldn’t place a name to. He felt certain, however, Tomar was its source.

“You said our luck’s changed,” Vomehl said. “How be that, Ferrin? We got ourselves a demon-rider with nowhere to take ’im.”

“I said I’d think of somethin’,” Ferrin said, rubbing his stubbled chin.

“Who we goin’ to take ’im to?” Chardo asked.

“Maybe one of the priests could arrange for ransom,” Jergen suggested.

“Don’t think so, Jergen,” Vomehl said. “Likely his fellow demon-riders will come lookin’ for ’im, and then where will we be?”

“I said I’d think of somethin’,” Ferrin repeated.

Doron blinked in amazement. Not even a moon-turn before, Ferrin would have backhanded the man foolish enough to question him. Now, all Ferrin could say was he’d think of something.

“It been your idea,” Chardo complained. “We could’ve just brought ’im down and left. He wouldn’t have knowed what hit ’im.”

“My idea?” Now some heat entered Ferrin’s voice. “Damned right, Chardo. Ain’t none of the rest of you had any bright ideas lately.”

Doron shook his head. No group of men living close as they did could go day after day, week after week, without some minor quarrels. But this reminded him of times when he’d seen strong drink lower inhibitions, when men would say things they’d normally keep locked behind their teeth.

“Our luck’s turned, you said.” Vomehl stared into the fire. “So what we got ourselves now? Got us a demon- rider and nowhere to take ’im. Since you be the one with all the ideas, Ferrin, come up with one for this situation.”

Doron cleared his throat. “Calm down, everyone. We ain’t got no choice. We got ’im, and we got to figure out what to do with ’im. Vomehl, you think maybe you killed the Herald’s horse?”

“No, dammit. And I be a better shot than that! Cursed hell-horse must’ve dodged at the last moment.”

Doron tried to sound utterly reasonable. “Then how ’bout we leave ’im bound here and ride out at first light.”

“Why d’you say that?” Ferrin demanded, growing more belligerent than ever.

“Because,” Doron said, keeping his voice level, “if his horse ran off, hard tellin’ where it went to. Perhaps to get help. You want to face down a group of angry Heralds?”

“Doron’s right.” Jergen sat up straighter. “Been a mistake to capture ’im to begin with.”

“Whole damned bunch of you gettin’ weak-willed,” Ferrin snapped. “We got ’im and I’m goin’ to make somethin’ of it. We got nothin’ but books and paper, and it ain’t sure we can barter that. Least we can try to get a ransom out of ’im!”

Doron looked away. So much for his attempt to help his cousin. Now Ferrin would be calling all the shots.

At least that was normal.

It was not easy, projecting his Gift while suffering from a splitting headache. What was nearly second nature now became an effort. Tomar tried to concentrate harder, but that only made his head hurt worse. However, from what he could tell, the bandits were responding, their mental defenses lowered enough for them to start arguing among themselves. He could only hope this was not normal behavior. If he could just keep trying, he might be able to convince them nothing would be served by keeping him captive.

He looked at each man in an attempt to see who his Gift had affected the most. Certainly not Ferrin, obviously chief of this band. The bowman who had wounded Keesha had grown peevish, as had the two men named Chardo and Jergen. Tomar thought he had the best chance of influencing the fifth man, who had suggested leaving him behind.

The fifth man. The one who seemed oddly familiar, but whose name was quite common in Karse.

He listened to the bandits snipe at each other, aware he had loosened control over their tongues. They probably never confronted their leader this way. Even outlaws needed discipline, especially when away from their stronghold.

:It’s hard, Keesha,: he Mindspoke, aware without looking that his Companion lurked unseen somewhere in the trees and brush. :My head feels like it’s splitting open.:

:I know, Chosen. I can feel it. Keep trying.:

:They’ll have to sleep sometime. Maybe then you—:

:I doubt it. They’ll take turns watching through the night. They’re away from their base, and they won’t rest easy until they get home.:

Tomar sighed. Even if all of them slept, Keesha would be hard pressed to take down the entire group. And he was bound tightly, of no help whatsoever. He glanced around the fire at the outlaws who still argued among themselves. The fifth man kept silent, eyes glinting in the firelight. Who was he? Nothing about him stood out to Tomar. He could have been any number of men from this area of Karse. But, aside from being familiar, it was as if he had power of his own, though it lay banked, hidden from all but the most intrusive probes.

:Keesha, I think I’ve got an idea. These outlaws possess a lot of buried animosity. Instead of making them trust me, as I’ve been able to do with people in the past, I’ve lessened their inhibitions to the stage they’re quarreling. What would happen if my Gift was stronger? If I could lay bare the injustices they feel, their anger at each other over slights in the past?:

:Then what, Chosen? You’re hoping they’d come to blows and possibly wound each other?:

:If I could do it, that’s a possibility. And if I succeeded, there might be fewer of them for you to immobilize.: He swallowed heavily. :But my Gift isn’t that strong, and I can’t stand to see you hurt again.:

:Then let’s try this,: Keesha responded. :I’ll add power to yours and, between us, we could be more than one alone.:

Tomar inwardly nodded in assent. He felt the touch of Keesha’s mind intensify on his own, added to the familiar warmth that came with the connection. And then, as if he had taken some stimulant, strength poured into him from Keesha, augmenting his Gift.

:Let’s see how they deal with this,: he said to Keesha. :It’s worth a try and it could work.:

Doron felt tension mounting again, only this time on the verge of explosion. His own thoughts clamored in a jumble. He remembered times when he’d been pushed aside, when his opinions had been overlooked. Just because he was the youngest didn’t mean he should be—