“Of course.”
He closed his eyes. “Will you tuck me in, too?”
She laughed. “And ruin our professional relationship?”
Then she started singing, and the music stepped between him and the Vision, granting him peace.
Several nights of solid sleep did much to restore Wil’s spirits. A fog had lifted from his thoughts. He found himself picking out details in the Vision that he hadn’t noticed before.
Things Kyril would want to know.
So long as Lelia sang him to rest, Wil no longer dreamed of Elene’s death. The only dream he had—that he remembered having—was of the shadow-Herald and the clearing.
Tell him I’m waiting.
Tell who?
Vehs reported no disturbances from the invisible “it.” But that didn’t mean it was gone, and as soon as Lelia was delivered safely in Winefold, Wil would have to figure out what “it” was.
They reached the inn at Boarsden before dusk and enjoyed a leisurely dinner. Lelia, as usual, found the biggest chair in the house, curled up on it with her special blend of tea, and regaled him with tales of the Court.
“The clothing is the best,” she said. “Some of those women layer so much junk over the bodies the gods gave ’em, they can hardly walk a straight line!” Her eyes gleamed mischievously. “Sometimes I want to go cow- tipping . . . if you know what I mean.”
As Wil wiped tears of laughter from his eyes, she signaled a server to bring more hot water for steeping tea.
He took the opportunity to change subjects. There was something he’d been cogitating.
“Lelia, tell me—have you ever heard of anyone having a Gift like Foresight but . . .” He grasped for words. “More like Hindsight?”
She frowned. “Not sure what you mean?”
“Visions of the past instead of the future.”
“Uh. Hm.” She pondered. “Well, as you know, I am the realm’s preeminent Vanyel expert.”
Vehs snorted mentally.
“I recall stories where he did that. But it wasn’t a Gift. It was just something a Herald-Mage of his caliber could do.” She cocked her head. “Why?”
Wil shook his head. “Just—”
“Curious?” She raised a brow. “I’ve heard that before.”
He smiled despite himself. “Maybe later.”
She grunted. “Better.”
They talked until well into the night. When it came time to sing to him, she looked so sweet at his bedside that he felt a momentary wild urge to sit up and drag her into his arms.
Sleep always came before he could act on that urge.
The squat house was built into the hillside, a bit apart from the grain fields. Flowers and aromatics flourished in boxes and neat plots around the tidy stone structure. Laundry hung from a line, faded blue and green garments fluttering in the breeze.
Wil stood on the rutted path leading up to the front door, Elene’s carved box clenched in his hands.
Such a miserable recompense for a daughter.
“She’s alone in there,” Lelia said.
Wil glanced at her. She had a distant look on her face, a slight crease to her brow.
“How are you doing that?” he asked.
Lelia smiled. “It’s a Bard thing.”
“Oh?”
Lelia hugged her cloak around her. “You should go, Herald, before she notices us.”
Wil couldn’t argue with that logic. He started up the path, Vehs following.
Too soon the door was before him, and he knocked.
“One moment!” a cheerful voice called. He heard glass clink and then the thump of footfalls. The door swung open, and a rosy-cheeked dark-haired woman looked up at him.
“Yes?” she asked.
Wil cleared his throat. “Kaylene Baernfield?”
“Yes?” Her expression turned to perplexity.
“Elene’s mother?”
Her face froze, and suddenly Wil didn’t know how, or even what to say. Everything Kyril had told him, all the things he’d thought up along the way—they all scattered. With the cessation of the Vision, with all the rest, he’d thought he was prepared.
He knew now that he never would be.
“Elene?” her mother whispered.
“She died.” He swallowed, extending the box to her and thinking again: So small. So paltry. “I’m sorry.”
Kaylene took the box. She looked up at him, tears growing in her eyes. He reached out and touched her shoulder.
And then she was not looking at him at all but at something past him.
A good day to be alive.
Lelia sat at the base of the hill, leaning against a spreading oak. The ride had been long and draining, and the nightly lullabies weren’t as easy on her as she let on. It felt good to sit, and rest, and breathe.
The sorrow unfolded in miniature on the hill. Kaylene clutched the box. Wil touched her shoulder, and Vehs bent his head. Lelia dashed tears from her own eyes.
Something stirred in the brush to her right. Something big.
Her heart skipped a beat.
She extended her Gift, as she’d done that first night she’d sung Wil to sleep, and she felt it—that oddly familiar presence—
Familiar, because it was a Companion that stepped silently from the trees. Odd, because this Companion should not be. His tack was heavily worn and stained with mud. A bit of frayed rope trailed behind him, one end still secured to his saddle.
The saddle . . .
Lelia’s eyes traced the name worked into the leather, and her mouth formed a silent “oh.” She used the tree to clamber to her feet and put a hand out to the Companion.
Up on the hill, a voice called, “Alrek?”
Kaylene pushed past Wil, shoving Elene’s box back into his hands. Wil turned to see the Bard slowly making her way up the hill, a Companion beside her.
:Vehs?:
:It’s him.:
“Alrek,” Kaylene said again, hoarsely. She stumbled forward and wrapped her arms around the Companion’s neck, weeping.
:I am sorry,: an unfamiliar mind-voice said, and by the startled look on Lelia’s face, Wil guessed that they all heard it. :I did not protect her. I did not bring her home.: Lelia looked down and away, tears on her cheeks. :I am so sorry.:
“You brought her home plenty of times.” Kaylene stepped back. “And you brought yourself home.” She stroked his cheek. “That’s more’n I had before.”
The Companion sank to his knees, Kaylene kneeling beside him. “It’s all right,” she whispered, over and over. “Oh, dearie, I know you did your best.”
:I did not protect her.:
:Alrek,: Wil Mindspoke to him.
The Companion looked up, agony in his eyes.
:Why have you been following me?: Wil asked.
:She—: Alrek bent his head. :I don’t know why, but she . . . is near you, somehow. I feel my Chosen
