“In anybody.”
“I sure hate him going off like that.”
“He’s a full Herald; he’s supposed to be watching over old women.”
Rhiannon arched an eyebrow.
“Well, that’s what most would think.” Dionne flexed her fingers and added another handful of small sticks to the fire. “Hard not to see him as a kid, even if we were younger when we got our uniforms. This is our last chance to get him out of his depression—we’re due back in Haven in two weeks.”
“So how do you think Shelter’s End is going to help?”
Dionne shook her head. “It’s not Shelter’s End itself. I mean, it’s a good town, and they always need help from a strong back. I hope that will get past his head and engage his heart.” She sighed heavily, shifting her weight to ease her aching back. “I haven’t been able to do it.”
“So what makes you think anybody else can? He’s skittish and hard.”
Dionne added a log to the fire and watched the sparks do a sky- dance in the wind. “Well, one of my old teachers is there. Melony. She helped us all out of funks, and that’s what he seems to need. I mean, it seems like he stopped being an adult in full Whites the minute he learned his parents died, and became a spoiled kid. I haven’t been able to reach him; whatever’s broken in him isn’t physical, or even really in his emotions. It’s like his very self is cracked. I bet Melony has some ideas. I’m going to ask her for advice. Don’t you remember how she helped Jon after he broke his hand and Yvette after that merc in town roughed her up?”
“Maybe. I was pretty dazzled by the Collegium.”
“Melony taught me salves and teas in my first two years there. Everybody loved her so much she got awarded Teacher of the Year three times in a row.”
“She’s still alive?”
“She was last time we came through.”
“Five years ago? I think I remember her. Gray hair?”
Dionne play-slapped at Rhiannon. “That describes the whole town.”
“Sorry. I don’t remember everything.”
“Yeah, well maybe age is getting in the way of your memory.”
“Already?” Rhiannon laughed. “We’re not gray yet.”
“I pulled out two gray hairs yesterday.” She looked toward the trees Lioran had disappeared through. “We should think about what we’re doing next.”
Rhiannon sighed. “I’m not ready to stop performing yet. But I hope your friend’s alive to help. Old age and experience beats smarts.”
Dionne let out a short, bitter laugh. “Then we should have succeeded by now.”
“We’re
“Tell that to my fingers.” Truth tell, it was Rhiannon she worried about, even though she showed no interest in even slowing down. As a Healer, Dionne would be fine even with the beginnings of arthritis, which was, truthfully, a bit noticeable on a cold morning of late. But old hands did real damage to a Bard. A Healer could speed the body’s natural response to damage, but there wasn’t much Dionne, or anybody else, could do about old age. And Rhiannon was stubborn as an old mule. She liked to take charge of everything. Queen of the Road. It made Dionne smile.
Sure enough, Rhiannon had a pronouncement about the topic. “We’re not ready for Shelter’s End yet.” And that would be the end of that. Rhiannon reached into her pocket and pulled out a hand-carved wooden flute. She started playing, and Dionne settled in to listen, content for the moment to just be with her sister and pleased that the unhappy Herald had taken himself off somewhere else. They’d both be older tomorrow, and they could worry about being older then.
Lioran, true to form, returned after about an hour. He looked as bad as Dionne expected him to, his face thin and drawn, his skin so pale he might be the child of a ghost. It was all she could do not to wince as Mila picked her way carefully through camp and stopped at a good place to drop her tack. Lioran took good, if quick, care of his Companion. Then he lay down on his rumpled bedroll, plumped his coat up to be a pillow, pulled his thick woolen blanket close up around his ears, and turned away from them all.
Mila took the first watch. Rhiannon gave Dionne a resigned look, with a small smile attached. When Dionne nodded, Rhiannon picked up her flute and blew the first soft notes of a lullaby. Dionne followed, and so the two women sang together, Rhiannon’s trained voice, the stronger, washing over Dionne until she, too, felt sleepy and content. They sang five songs and then the same five songs again, looking over at the back of the shivering, silent Herald from time to time. His breathing finally regulated into sleep. Rhiannon carefully packed her flute, and the women began to get ready to sleep themselves.
Dionne nestled closest to the fire, listening to the faint sounds of the warm coals and the stomp of the horse’s feet. Wind brushed branches together above her head. She imagined finding Melony the next day, making little lists in her head of all the things she had to tell her old mentor.
She must have eventually gone to sleep since Rhiannon’s soft hiss woke her.
Dionne opened her eyes, careful not to make a sound or change her breathing until she knew more. If it was Rhiannon’s watch, it must be the middle of the night. A light fog threaded through the trees above her and dampened her cold cheeks and nose. The thud of at least five horses, maybe seven, went by on the road below. The flash of a torch blinded her to the details of the riders. Gruff voices called out, “Hurry,” and “Quiet, now,” although clearly no one in the party really believed they needed to be quiet. They had thick accents and gruff voices. Undoubtedly from somewhere else and, if allowed to pass, not likely to come back this way.
There were too many to confront. Maybe fifteen years ago, but now? Dionne’s blood pounded through her as she held still, ready to leap up and grab her staff if the horses called attention to them. Or worse, if Lioran woke up and decided to play hero. The sounds faded slowly. Still, Dionne and Rhiannon held their tongues, listening until all they could hear was the night wind and an owl hooting mournfully in a tree above them. “Bandits,” Rhiannon whispered. “Not good. Riding away from where we’re going.”
“And they sounded proud of themselves.”
Mila must agree with them. She was already nosing Lioran up, her blue eyes wide with worry. Rhiannon covered the coals with dirt while Dionne and Lioran saddled up. They were on the road in short order. Mila’s tossing head made Dionne ask Lioran, “What does she know?”
“Something bad’s happened.” His eyes looked big in his pale face, his expression hard to make out in the meager light thrown by the stars overhead. “There’s death, and fear. She can feel it, but she can’t tell what it is . . . what happened. In Shelter’s End.” His voice sounded high and a bit squeaky. “I’m the only Herald around.”
In spite of their hurry, they started the horses at a fast walk before moving into a slow canter. It was too dark to allow them a full run. Mila pranced, keeping a close eye on the road ahead and behind, herding them toward town. Dionne glanced over at Rhiannon to see her eyes narrowed with worry, a combination of fear and fierceness playing across her features.
By the time they could see the town, dawn had started kissing the horizon. Gray light illuminated the two long streets full of small houses beside a placid, thin river. Nothing appeared to have been burned. No dead bodies littered the streets.
Hooves clattered as they trotted from the dirt trail onto the stone road. When they stopped, they heard the horses ‘hard-blowing breath and above that the sound of voices and tears and a low mournful wailing from one of the close-in houses.
Two men stepped out from behind a tree, both gray haired, one stooped and slow while the other still moved well. The slower one had on a torn red shirt. An old Bard, then. The stronger man wore no telltale colors, although that meant little. He smiled grimly as he neared them, looking to Lioren. “Glad to see you. I’m Jared.” He nodded toward the house they’d clearly been guarding. “In there. Ask them to send someone out to walk your horses cool.”
And this was where Lioran should be taking control of the situation. Dionne swallowed and let a beat of time go by. Rhiannon ran out of patience first, dismounting and handing her reins to the man. “I’m Rhiannon, and this is my sister, Dionne. “ She glanced at the Herald, her look driving him from Mila’s back. “And this is Lioran.”
The man gave the threesome a puzzled look but jerked his head toward the house. “They need you in there.” He nodded toward Dionne, who was untying her healing bag from the back of Ladystar’s saddle. “Especially you.”
