Changing the World: All-New Tales of Valdemar

swinging the discarded weapon; her assailant’s ribs cracked like greenwood.

The figure issued an ear- piercing shriek, turned—and ran.

“Oh, no!” Lelia yelled, brandishing her new weapon. “Get back here you ba—guh!”

Her own pack fouled her. One moment she was on her feet, the next she sprawled on the pathway, tangled in books and leather, the club bouncing merrily away. The sound of footfalls receded. By the time she regained her feet, she was alone.

“Gods damn it,” she whispered.

Somehow, she made it up to Lyle’s room and lit the hearth with shaking hands. The warm familiarity of her brother’s quarters kept her from curling up into a hysterical sobbing ball. She locked and barred every window and door, shivering despite the warmth of the fire.

Wil heard a knock early the next morning. He stumbled out of bed to find the Bard on the other side of his door. “You look—”

“Got attacked,” she said wearily. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“What?”

She told him with monosyllabic sentences and a demonstrative stomp. She showed him the short, lead- weighted stick of wood she’d turned on her attacker’s ribs. She hadn’t seen a face. But she also hadn’t told anyone.

She did, however, tell him where she’d been staying.

“The Herald’s wing?” He struggled to keep his voice level.

She blinked. “Everyone knows Lyle’s my brother.”

:I, uh, forgot to mention that’s where she was staying, didn’t I?: Vehs managed to sound sheepish.

:You’re worse than me at being sneaky,: Wil thought. “Why didn’t you come and get me?” he asked her.

“Very wary after near-death experience. Long walk. No magic horse.”

“Lelia!”

“ ’Sokay. Not hurt.” Her eyes drifted shut. “Need sleep. Just a candlemark. Here okay?” Her eyes opened again, pleading.

He pointed to the bed. “Go.”

She patted his cheek. “Good Herald.”

The Bard curled up on his bed, dragging the covers over her. Snores drifted up from her a moment later.

Wil picked up the club. His gut twisted.

“Hellfires,” he muttered.

Wil scanned the crowd, feeling a rising level of annoyance and frustration as he watched the countess dance gaily to Lelia’s composition. Not a sign of pain or a limp.

The room was packed, stifling with heat despite it being (nearly) the middle of winter. The only reason Wil spotted the countess was that she’d dressed like a peacock that had been doused in rainbow- hued pitch and set ablaze, a gesture he took to be overcompensation for Lelia stealing her glory.

Lelia gestured him over and whispered, “Time now.”

He nodded. “I’ll get you that right away, ma’am,” he said as he straightened, turned, and strode off.

“Ladies and gentlelords!” Lelia’s voice boomed over the crowd, rolling out like a banner. “Who wants to hear a story about Valdemar’s greatest king?”

Wil breathed more freely when he got into the corridor and away from the crush of people and the roaring cheers. Servants jostled past, babbling about whats- her-name and the Sendar-song. Someday, he realized, he would need to ask her to play it for him.

The wide corridor beyond the great hall and kitchens echoed, utterly deserted. He tried to be quiet, but the farther he went, the more urgently his Gift nudged him, twisting his gut into harder and tighter knots. The need to get there overwhelmed the lesser need to be silent.

He turned a corner. His destination—possibly his destiny—came into view. A terrible notion slid over him—what if the door was locked?

Then I will break it down, he thought grimly.

He touched the doorknob. It turned with a click, opening on a room lit by a single lantern. A wan, familiar face floated in the inky darkness. Something metal gleamed.

Wil’s insides gave one final, painful, all-too-familiar lurch—

Not now!

Knife. Blood. Silver settings, empty of gems. Crossbow.

Wait—crosswhat?

As Wil staggered under the weight of Foresight, he heard the snick of a quarrel being fired.

The enraptured audience stood motionless before Lelia as she stretched her Gift, her attention utterly focused on the count, the countess, and her entourage of—

Where’s Einan? Lelia thought.

Her fingers continued strumming even as her thoughts turned frantic.

Where is he?

Einan fired the crossbow cradled in his arms just as Wil’s vision drove him to his knees. The bolt slammed into the wood paneling behind him, raining splinters into his hair.

Wil drew his long-knife. Einan swore and struggled to rise from the settee he’d been reclining on. Wil tackled him to the floor and, on a wild guess, punched him in the ribs.

The bones yielded easily. Einan screamed.

Handy Gift, Foresight.

“Heyla,” Wil said, at a loss for words. “That wasn’t very nice.”

Einan’s lips pulled back, showing his teeth. “You—displease—her.” He coughed, then drew himself up, and spat at Wil.

Wil flinched and jerked back for just a second—all the time the steward needed. A dirk appeared in his hand from a holster on his wrist.

“Chantil!” he shrieked, and rammed it into his own throat.

Blood painted the walls and Wil. Einan expired, gurgling his lady’s name.

“His neck?” Lelia said, toying with a silvery pendant dangling about her own throat.

Wil nodded from the edge of his bed—the real one, in his room in the Heraldic wing.

“Einan was Chantil’s childhood friend. Low-class family. Couldn’t marry her, so became her steward.” Wil rubbed his eyes. He’d been debriefing for candlemarks since last night. Sleep had not been possible. “We found journals and . . . madness doesn’t begin to cover half of it. Pages about how much he adored Chantil, how perfect she was, how the people who served her didn’t deserve her. Including her husbands.” He pointed at her. “You, too.”

Lelia grimaced.

“He followed you home every night. Palace Guards keep records of visitors, but since he was the Tindale steward, no one questioned him being there. Einan was convinced you were a Herald in disguise.”

She gaped. “What?”

“The irony is really not lost on us.”

“What?”

“You were staying in the Heraldic wing.”

“But—everyone knows—”

“Not everyone, it seems.”

“Oh.”

Wil rubbed his face. “Found the jewelry under the floorboards of Einan’s bedroom. Empty settings. Chantil was flabbergasted.”

“Would have loved to see that.”

“Heh.”

“In retrospect, she’s not that bad a person.” Lelia shrugged. “Still a snob, but—not a murderer.”