Rhiannon’s cheeks as she sang a new lament she’d penned for far-away Dionne. The night, and her voice, and even the delicate instrument in her lap felt heavy. As she finished the song, even the stars bore down more closely, adding to her melancholy.
“You’re very sad.” The male voice coming from behind her made her jump. She clutched her instrument to her chest and turned to face the intruder. She saw an old man in Whites, and behind him, a bit like a ghostly image in the darkness beyond the campfire, the outline of his Companion.
She flicked the tears from her face. “Herald Deckert?”
He smiled. “Deck.”
“We didn’t expect you until tomorrow.” She thrust a hand out. “I’m Rhiannon.” She stepped aside. “Care to sit by the fire? Shall I wake Lleryn?”
“Don’t bother anyone. But warming my old bones would be nice.”
“Of course.” This was one of the people she was supposed to be singing about, the saviors of Valdemar. She felt awkward. At least the fire had fallen low enough that the old man wouldn’t see her blush. “How has the border been?”
He added two dry branches to the fire, so it brightened merrily and warmed her. “The border has been ... busy. But not as sad as your song. Care to talk about it?”
She shook her head. She’d sound like a spoiled child saying she couldn’t bear to leave her sister.
“Well,” he said, “I hope whatever the hurt is doesn’t trouble a pretty Bard like you for long.”
He was old enough his words were simply sweet. As he sat with his hands out in front of him, warming them, the firelight illuminated a nasty scar crisscrossing his left cheek. A hero. He turned back to her. “Did you write that song? Does it have a name?”
She nodded. “I call it the Lament for Twins.”
“It is ... affecting.”
He looked sad. Hopefully it wasn’t her fault for singing the lament where he could hear it. “What about your Companion? Won’t he or she want to get warm, too?” she asked.
“You’re camped on the very border. Ashual will be happy enough to stand guard and keep us safe.”
The tent flap rustled, and Lleryn untied the strings holding it closed. The young Bard popped her head out. Lleryn was shorter than Rhiannon by a head, but broader, with whipcord muscles and slightly mussed dark hair and dark eyes. “I see we have a visitor.”
Deck blinked and said nothing. Rhiannon filled the silence. “This is Herald Deckert, come a night early.”
Lleryn nodded, squinting at the Herald. “Welcome.” She gestured to Rhiannon. “Can you give me a hand for a moment?”
“Sure.” What could she need more than to come say hello to the man they’d just ridden for days to find? She picked up her gittern rather than leave it where the heat of the newly fed fire might warp its sound, and handed it in to Lleryn.
Lleryn took the instrument and immediately extended a hand. As soon as Rhiannon ducked into the tent, Lleryn squeezed her arm and whispered, “Not Herald Deck,” while at the same time thrusting a knife hilt into Rhiannon’s other hand.
Rhiannon squelched the sharp breath she wanted to take.
Lleryn whispered, “Did you see his Companion?”
Had she? “I saw something white. He said his Companion’s name is Ashual.”
“That’s a name from an old song.”
“So what?”
“So if he’s a Herald, I’m the Queen of Valdemar. I’ve met Deckert, and this isn’t him. The scar’s on the wrong side of his face.”
Rhiannon found she was still resisting the idea. “He seems nice. Why would he pretend?”
Lleryn shook her head. “We’d better find out.” She opened the door with her right hand, her knife loose in her left hand behind her. She looked back and whispered, “Be careful.”
As soon as Lleryn stepped out, she was jerked sideways with a grunt. Lleryn’s knife hand came up quickly, only to be caught by the wrist, gripped by the Herald’s hand.
Not a Herald then. He couldn’t be. Rhiannon bit her lip, then plunged out to help her mentor, bringing her own knife hand up toward the older man’s chest. It impacted but slid away sideways. He grunted, feeling the force of her blow, but he didn’t release Lleryn. Rhiannon’s knife slipped off his chest. She side-stepped, swinging around to the back of him and trying to slash him behind the knees.
Once more the blade slid off.
She tried again, aiming lower, for the back of his heel. She missed entirely.
“Mage!” Lleryn hissed, and Rhiannon looked around for a second pursuer before realizing Lleryn must mean the false Deckert. Was he somehow shielded from a physical blow? Even without Dionne, she wasn’t this bad a fighter.
Lleryn leaned her whole body into him, her teeth flashing at his arm where he had her wrist pinned. Except she kept missing—her teeth gnashing open air instead of closing on soft flesh. Even Lleryn’s balance looked off, as if she might topple sideways any moment.
Was that it? Did she need to strike a little off?
Rhiannon slashed at him again, missing by more than she thought. Her vision seemed to be sliding a little left of where the mage and the Bard struggled. As if whenever she wanted to focus directly on him, something stopped her. She struck in a place that looked like empty air and felt her knife draw shallowly through his skin near the shoulder.
He grunted.
Rhiannon’s vision shifted and the ground came up and slapped her across the side. She coughed and hacked as the world spun around her. Lleryn and the mage were spinning as well, moving a full dizzying turn until Lleryn landed beside her with a grunt, her eyes wide and frightened.
Rough hands wove ropes around Rhiannon’s wrists and tied her right foot to Lleryn’s left foot. Her stomach stopped screaming dizzy and her head and vision cleared only after both of them were well and truly trussed.
A man Rhiannon would have sworn she’d never seen before stood over them. Tall and raven haired, with wild blue eyes and no scars at all, he might have been attractive if he hadn’t just tied her up. Sweat dripped down his temples, and his breath came hard.
“Are you—”
Lleryn interrupted. “It must have been a glamour.”
Rhiannon took a deep breath. Something was wrong with this picture. “I thought people couldn’t do magic inside Valdemar.”
He laughed bitterly. “The watchy things hurt. Which is why we’re going over the border right now.” He leaned over and offered his hand to Rhiannon. She stayed still, refusing to help him capture her. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to get them both up. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to stand being here for long. Maybe a real Herald would come along and help them.
“Take my hand.” His voice was deep and commanding, as though he was used to being listened to. “Now.”
She kicked at him, her foot going wide.
“Why do you want us?” Lleryn demanded.
“Take my hand!” He grabbed Rhiannon’s unwilling hand and squeezed hard. Really hard. Something popped inside her hand, and she prayed nothing was broken.
Maybe he’d hurt her so much she wouldn’t be able to play anymore. And Dionne. What would happen to Dionne if Rhiannon got killed? Miserably, she nodded. “If you stand back, we’ll try to stand up.” She glanced at Lleryn, who gave a short, pained nod.
The mage backed up. He looked drained, but she wasn’t willing to bet they could get away, especially tied.
At least they’d kept some semblance of control, made him listen to a little. Small satisfaction, but something. Getting up tied together was harder than she’d thought, and they fell all over each other twice. Lleryn growled at the mage once, and Rhiannon growled at him the second time, and he let them struggle through it. He still looked pretty uncomfortable, maybe because of the reported difficulty with using magic since Vanyel’s death. Not that she
