gesture toward Charlin, uncertain how much the Herald could still hear and understand.
Sietra continued to look askance at Mola, clearly expecting more.
“That’s about it,” Mola said. “But it seems so real, more real than any dream I’ve ever had before. And ... I’ve had it every night since ... my lady ... lapsed.”
As Sietra still said nothing, Mola asked directly, “What do you think?”
“I think,” Sietra said with obvious caution, “that you love and miss your lady.”
That being self-evident, Mola continued to press, “Do you think it’s possible there is such a ... a healing clover?”
Sietra went even more quiet, but she seemed to be giving the matter significant thought, so Mola waited. Finally, Sietra spoke her piece, “Mola, have you ever had prophetic dreams before?”
Mola lowered her head. “Of course not. I have no magic of any kind. I’m only ... what I am.”
“You mean a devoted, sweet, kind, and generous person? With courage and hope and intelligence? Because I’d hardly use the word ‘only’ when explaining that.”
The warmth in Mola’s cheeks increased to a bonfire. “That’s ... that’s so very nice of you to say. I’m not Gifted, though. Not in the sense of a Herald or a Healer or a Bard or anything. But this dream. It’s telling me —”
“—to
“Me?” Mola laughed, the sound odd to her ears. She could not recall the last time she had managed such a thing. “Slopping through swamps? Climbing mountains? That’s a job for Heralds, not hand-maidens.”
Sietra’s slender shoulders rose and fell. “You’ll have a hard time convincing a Herald to go on a fool’s mission on no better pretext than a servant’s recurring dream. Even if the servant is as wonderful as you.”
It was exactly what Mola had figured, the very reason she had not yet told her dream to anyone else. “I have to try.”
Sietra rose. “I understand. And I wish you the best of luck.” She headed for the door. “Please eat, Mola.”
“I will,” Mola promised, immediately turning her attention to the stew. She could not have resisted it if she had tried, and she fairly drank it, without bothering to chew.
Mola washed and curried Elborik until her coat shined, though the old Companion never bothered to open her eyes. She lay in the pasture, fetlocks grass-stained and ragged, chestnuts marring the perfect, snowy lines of her legs. Mola had rubbed and oiled her hooves until they gleamed like metallic silver. The mane and tail lay spread in beautiful waves, combed to silky perfection. Even so, brushing could not hide the moth-eaten patches of fur, the ashen eyelashes, and the slumping frame incapable of standing. The Companion was dying slowly, along with her Herald.
Spotting Corry playing with his own Companion, Rexla, in the field, Mola gathered her supplies and dumped them into her pack. She embraced Elborik’s neck and kissed her soft nose and furry muzzle. Then, tossing her tack bag over one shoulder, Mola walked toward Corry.
Sun rays turned the blades of grass into sparkling jewels, and the cloudless warmth made a negative mood nearly impossible. As she headed toward Corry and Rexla, Mola found herself smiling for the first time in many days. The all-consuming darkness lifted from her soul, as well as her eyes, as she watched the playful dance of man and animal. Heralds worked hard, and she did not begrudge them their moments of play, even with her own heart so heavily burdened.
Seeing her coming, Corry waved in greeting, and Rexla trotted to her, snuffling her pockets for the sugar and carrots she usually carried. The stallion’s blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight, mischievous and joyful, two states she had not experienced in what seemed like months.
Mola shoved the Companion’s face away, then found herself immediately drawing him back for a warm hug and a nose kiss.
“Hey,” Corry shouted, running toward them. “Save some of that affection for me.”
Mola studied her feet. Corry was thirty years old, a Collegium-trained Herald, and far above her station. Yet, he always treated her with great kindness. She found him nearly irresistibly attractive and wondered why he had never bonded with anyone other than his Companion. True, he had a generous, hawk-like nose that had been broken once or twice, and his sandy hair fell in greasy clumps, always into his eyes; but she saw those as endearing characteristics rather than flaws.
When he arrived, Corry threw his arms around Rexla and began plastering the Companion with kisses. The stallion stomped his feet and tossed back his head, mane flying.
“Ooops, sorry,” Corry said in mock apology. “Wrong one.” With dexterous ease, he switched from his mount to Mola, hugging her with the same warmth and exuberance.
It was all Mola could do to keep her balance as Corry planted a welcoming kiss directly on her lips.
Mola found herself incapable of breathing. Though chapped, his lips felt spongy, delightful. She wanted nothing more than to suck his tongue into her mouth, to wind herself around him, to become lost in his embrace. But she was only a servant, and he was so much more.
“Sleep with me,” Corry said.
Mola disengaged and slapped him. “Stop teasing me, you lizard. I’m in no mood for games.”
Corry rubbed his face, becoming appropriately somber. “I understand. I shouldn’t joke around while Charlin . . .”
Reminded of the cause of her anxiety, Mola felt tears forming in eyes too sore to hold any more.
Cursing himself under his breath, Corry took Mola into his arms again, this time more gently. “I’m sorry, Mo. So sorry. But Charlin is so very old, and the Healers can’t do anything more.”
Alerted by the change in mood, or by some mind-magic from Corry, Rexla returned to grazing. Corry led Mola to a grassy hill, where he pushed her down, then sat beside her. “Mola, life goes on. They’re not going to send you away just because your—”
Mola stiffened. She had not even considered that possibility. “You mean they might send me away?”
Corry cringed, obviously realizing he had worsened, rather than soothed, her distress. Again. “No, no. Of course not. There are plenty of jobs, and no one would consider such a thing.”
Corry studied her in silence for a moment.
Mola stared back. “Corry, don’t try to figure out what I want to hear. Just speak the truth.”
Corry cleared his throat. “Well. Mola.” So far, he had done nothing but delay. “I’m an open-minded man. I’m taught to believe
Mola hung on every word.
Corry stopped talking.
Mola dodged his gaze. “Would you be willing to look?”
“Mola ...” Corry started.
Mola could tell by his tone that he was going to say something she did not want to hear. “I mean, if you had reason to believe such a thing existed. And someone told you where to find it.”
Corry squeezed his eyes shut. “Mola, our Healers are some of the best and as well-trained as Healers come. I trust them.”
“But if you had reason to believe,” Mola insisted.
Corry turned and took both of her hands in his. “Mola, if a trusted, magical source told me where to find a cure for Charlin, I’d ride to the ends of the world for it. But, Mola, there is no cure for old age. Some few mages have managed to greatly extend their lives; but, ultimately, time catches up even to them.”
Mola could deal in hypotheticals no longer. “I’ve been having this dream. Every night for four nights now. There’s a healing clover growing on the mountainside. That one there.” She pointed southward toward the nearest of the few scattered peaks in the distance. “It’s barely a few hours’ travel by Companion. Couldn’t you, at least, check for me?”
Corry’s lids glided shut again, and he gritted his teeth. “I’m sorry, Mola. I have a mission that starts just after midday meal, and I’m not sure how long it will take.”
The tears dripped from Mola’s eyes, down her cheeks.
“Mola, please. If it’s that important, I can get a horse for you.” Corry opened his eyes, saw the tears, and
