Chapter Text

They rode three abreast down Exile’s Road, occasionally dropping into single file when another party had to pass the other way; the road wasn’t as wide as the main Trade Roads. Which was an oversight, Vanyel thought. It had nearly as much traffic. Western Valdemar might have been next to uninhabited eight hundred years ago, but the Pelagirs were receding, decade by decade, and now the area was densely populated right up to Valdemar’s borders, and past in Lineas and Baires.

It was a beautiful late summer day – closer to autumn now, the warm weather was deceptive. A few fluffy clouds drifted across a deep blue sky, the sun beat down on fields already turned golden, and there was just enough of a breeze to be pleasant.

“You’d never know there was a war,” Lissa said out loud.

Vanyel glanced over. “You can tell. Should be a lot more hands out for the crops.” There were people working in the fields they passed, but mostly women, old men, and children. He had wondered, obscurely, if there was any way he would be able to help with magic. Maybe he could take something from that book on the Eastern Empire logistics, they used mages in everything–

No, making Valdemar more dependent on mages is the opposite of what we need. There were so few Herald-Mages left. Even in Haven, they were having to rethink some of the routine work that had historically been done with magic.

“Right.” Lissa hesitated. “That must be a problem.”

“It is,” Savil said dryly, catching up. “Weather’s been fine – it’d better be, I’ve been working flat-out trying to keep up with it – but it’s not going to be a good harvest.” She sighed. “We can’t sustain a standing army of twenty thousand for too much longer. This is one of the reasons why.”

They rode a while in silence. At a very comfortable pace, for the Companions – Lissa’s mare couldn’t keep up with anything faster.

Savil sighed. “I really hope this isn’t too much of a disaster. Haven’t got the energy for the sort of arguments your father and I used to get into.”

“Oh?” Lissa looked very interested. “Please say more.”

Savil laughed, though without much humour. “The usual rubbish, I’m sure. Kids these days, the woeful state of the kingdom. He never approved of Elspeth, I don’t think. Probably because she was a woman, though he was smart enough not to say it outright.” She shook her head. “Honestly, though? Sometimes he was in the right. Not that I’d ever let him hear that. Gods, he always could goad me. Make me feel fourteen again.”

She was silent a moment. Vanyel didn’t know what to say; somehow he had never imagined Savil would feel this way. She kept her insecurities to herself. Or at least kept them from him.

“Maybe it’ll be easier now,” she said. “I haven’t seen him since, it must not be since seven ninety-four, that time he was in Haven.” After the nearly-successful assassination attempt, Vanyel thought, shivering. “And he didn’t exactly pick a fight then. Hasn’t shouted at me since…hmm, seven eighty-nine?” Her eyes widened a little. “Before that I hadn’t even spoken to him in ten years. I’ve changed a lot since then. Maybe I’ll finally be able to keep my cool.”

I’m not sure I will, Vanyel thought. His last visit home had been only for a day, and he had still felt scraped raw by the end of it. It must be easier for Liss; she didn’t mind loud and boisterous so much. Hells, maybe she liked it. She had certainly tried to drag him out to the wildest taverns in Haven every time she visited.

“I can’t wait to meet some of the littles,” Lissa said. “You know Meke’s got six now?”

“Six!” Vanyel’s breath hissed out. “They must’ve been busy!”

“And Kaster’s married!” Lissa shook her head. “Hard to believe. He’s still eight years old in my head.”

Vanyel winced. Did I sent anything for the wedding? He vaguely remembered hearing the news, in one of Father’s letters, but he hadn’t exactly been staying on top of things like that – it had only been about six or seven months ago, while he was still on the Border.

:Savil took care of it for you: Yfandes sent. :Sent those bed curtains you never had a use for:

He smiled, a little surprised – he hadn’t realized Savil was so on top of these things. It was a better gift than the hideous silver-and-crystal candlesticks he’d sent for Deleran’s wedding-gift – Deleran, who had two children now! He did remember sending something for his younger sister Charis’ betrothal, a horrible tapestry of the Lady of Fertility, yet another gift received out on the road that he had immediately packed away. Not that our family needs any help with fertility, he thought with amusement. None of them had any sense of good taste either, so probably Charis had loved it.

“I’ve missed all the weddings,” Lissa said wistfully. “Almost made it out for Deleran’s, but things always come up.”

“You wanted to go?” It sounded like a nightmare to him.

“I like weddings. Music, dancing – gods, the food…”

Vanyel shook his head. “Our family’s got terrible taste in music.”

“Yes, well, not everyone’s a snob like you, Van.” Lissa softened it with a smile. “Anyway. Tell me about this new spell-working you mentioned?”

“The Web?” He felt a little knocked sideways by the change of topic. Liss was always like that. “Something I’d wanted to do for years. Do you know much about elemental spirits?”

“What?”

“The details don’t matter too much. I recruited the vrondi, a type of air-elemental. They’re quite common in Valdemar – they’re actually involved in the Truth Spell. You’ve seen that before, right?”

“Yes.” She shivered a little. “Gives me the collywobbles.”

Vanyel was surprised. There wasn’t much that bothered Liss. “Anyway, I made a sort of agreement with them. In exchange for letting them use the Web as an energy source, they’re keeping an eye out for the use of mage-energy within Valdemar. Anytime someone does magic, the vrondi will flock to watch them – and if they’re not tied into the Web through a Companion, the vrondi will raise an alarm and the Web will pass it on to the nearest Herald.” He shook his head. “Unfortunately, they can’t distinguish a foreign mage up to no good from a Valdemaran child with a newly awakened Gift. It was hard enough finding a way for them to tell Herald-Mages apart from the rest. And it’s quite discomfiting, having them watching you. Not an ideal first experience for some poor Border-child who might already think they’re losing their mind. I’ll keep working on it, but I judged that for now this was better than nothing.”

Lissa’s eyes were wide. “It’s incredible! A way to find foreign mages… Could’ve saved a lot of lives on the Border.”

I wish I’d done it sooner. How many Heralds would still be alive if he hadn’t been so overly cautious?

“You’re kidding me,” Randi said quietly. “Are you sure?”

“Sure as we can be, in these circumstances.” Tantras’ hands fidgeted in his lap. “She had the royal family seal. Can’t see why anyone would try to impersonate her.”

Randi looked down at the two halves of the wax seal he’d just broken, the stamp he recognized all too well. Princess Karis. He could recall her face perfectly, for all that they’d met four years ago and not for long. Anyone would have been paying attention in his place, he thought – she was the woman he might have married. Not a happy thought. Though, gods, it might have saved them three years of war.

“She wants an alliance,” he said dully.

Tantras nodded. “It’s hard to be sure how much that would mean – how much she can actually promise. She’s in exile, after all. Almost none of her personal Guard got out alive. She can’t offer us troops.”

No. Only words. This war is destroying both of our countries, and to no good end, she had written. The priesthood are corrupt, and I do not believe that they speak for Vkandis. Perhaps we have lost His favour, in this foolish and wasteful destruction, yet I do believe my Vkandis Sunlord would wish me to bring an end to it if I can. She had written in the Karsite script – and, below it, the same sentiment expressed in iffy Valdemaran. Randi read Karsite well, and hadn’t needed the translation.

He ran his finger over the paper. Fine, heavy paper – he wondered how far she had carried this missive. It was written in her own hand, which he recognized. Beautiful script. The product of years with strict tutors, like his own skill with the Karsite language.

What do I do about this?

Randi stared at the tapestry on his wall. They needed the war to be over. Everyone knew that – but he knew it better than most. It was coming on twelve years since Vanyel had begun having the Foresight dream of an army in the north, and they were already within the time-period he had initially guessed at. Van thought they would have a few more years, now – his hair wasn’t as silvered as in the dream, and the pass was still desolate.

But how many more years? Probably less than ten. Meaning they very, very badly needed not to be at war on two borders at once.

They had the strength for a direct invasion. We’ve lost so many mages, but Karse lost more. Their troop losses had been heavier, too, and Karse had been trying to sustain a wartime-size standing army for at least four years. It would be taking a toll on their economy, and the wizard-weather along the Border, without mages of their own to reverse it, had to be cutting their crop yields as well. Randi knew from the reports of their remaining spies that people were already starving.

And Vanyel had pointed all of this out, in his letters and in conversations before he left. Pointed out that they might end the war sooner, with fewer deaths on both sides, if they could march – or Gate – their people all the way to Sunhame and demand peace.

It hadn’t been an option. Valdemar does not invade and conquer. In eight hundred years, that unwritten rule had never been broken.

This offered a way.

We could declare that we recognize Princess Karis as the legitimate ruler of Karse. In practice it would be the same – but on paper, and perhaps in the eyes of his people, they wouldn’t be invading at all. They would be providing assistance to an ally in resolving a purely internal civil war.

How likely was it to succeed? It depended a lot on what Karis could offer them. Were there people still loyal to her in positions of power? Who would take her side, if she chose to fight to reclaim her throne?

He had to talk to her, to know.

And he had to know.

Randi took a deep breath. “Tran, draft a message for me.” He would have done it himself, but he was inexplicably tired again today; editing it would be enough. “We’re going to send an armed escort. Hmm, forty should be enough to show our respect – I want her to know we’re taking her seriously, without making her feel threatened. We’ll invite her to the capital to discuss an alliance.” And to verify that she was who she claimed to be. He would remember her face, of course, but she would have changed, and faces could be changed as well. They could discreetly place her under Truth Spell to verify her intentions – if they used the first-stage only, she wouldn’t know.

Though maybe she would consent to the second stage, as a show of good faith…

Plan later, he thought. Tantras nodded uncertainly; he seemed surprised.

Alone in his office, Randi put his head down on the desk for a moment. He was trying not to dwell on it, it was premature – but he remembered the original suggested terms of the alliance.

Would I really marry her? Knowing how much it would hurt Shavri, though she would never say a word?

Yes. In a heartbeat, if it gave Valdemar even a slightly better chance.

He would have to tell Shavri. Even if it was nowhere near a certain thing, she deserved to know, and Randi tried never to hide anything from her.

But he couldn’t face it yet.

Riding through Wyrfen Wood, on the far side of Halfway Inn, Vanyel felt the tension pulling at his midsection. He recognized it, now – his long-ago speculations had been right. There was magic here, old magic, lying deep under the ground. Dormant – but restless.

The Tayledas would have cleansed this area centuries ago. Why did the currents feel so uneasy? It reminded him of the disruptions around the Border, the way he could feel echoes in the Web when a Karsite priest-mage used node-energy even outside of Valdemar.

“Savil?” he said cautiously. The woods were too quiet; he almost wanted to whisper. Lissa was riding ahead of them, oblivious.

“I feel it too.” She kept her voice low as well, maybe feeling the same discomfort. “Want me to have a poke around in the Web?”

“I can do it.” Savil was better at investigative magic in general, but he had built the Web. He closed his eyes and reached for the blue.

Disturbance. Echoes, resonating from a point in the distance–

“Someone’s been throwing a lot of power around,” he said, opening his eyes. “Not in Valdemar. Somewhere across the Border.” He pushed a lock of hair out of his eyes; he had been keeping it shorter during the war, vanity wasn’t worth much on the Border, but he hadn’t gotten around to having it trimmed in a long time, and right now it was a very awkward length, too short to tie back but long enough to get in the way. Something to take care of here, maybe. Or he could grow it out properly.

“Baires?” Savil said quietly.

“Could be.” It was difficult to tell exactly. “That or Lineas, and Baires makes a lot more sense.” They would have heard, surely, if Mardic and Donni had run into trouble and needed to throw a lot of node-energy around. He hoped they hadn’t – it would ruin their cover.

Besides, he couldn’t tell exactly, but he had a feeling it wasn’t node-power at all. :It feels like blood-magic: he sent, not wanting to say the words out loud.

:I was afraid of that. Felt wrong to me as well:

Yfandes, picking up on his discomfort, broke into a canter. :Let’s get out of here:

Vanyel was happy to do just that.

:Randi needs to know about this: he sent. Four years ago, he could have used the Mindspeech-relay, and passed a message right now – but nearly all the strong Mindspeakers were on the southern border. Nearly all the survivors, rather. All the strongly Gifted Heralds had been decimated, not just mages. There was no relay between here and Runeford, and at that point he might as well try directly for Haven, and Tantras. Which meant being deep in trance, to boost his Gift with node-energy, and he would rather not do that in the saddle.

:I agree. You’ll try for Tran tonight?:

:That was my plan: As usual, Savil had guessed the direction of his reasoning. And her Kellan had broken into a canter as well.

In moments they had outpaced Lissa. “Hey!” she called after them. “What’re you in such a hurry for?”

“A hot bath!” Vanyel shouted over his shoulder.

“Sybarite!” But she nudged her mare to a faster pace as well.

They weren’t far from Forst Reach, and they rode out into fields barely ten minutes later. Vanyel sighed, feeling the tension in his spine unwind. Farmers and smallholders paused in their work to wave, and he heard people shouting his name. They recognized him, even if it had been years since he had come this way – but there was no fear. Only a sort of possessive pride. It had been like that at Halfway Inn as well. He was local; it was as though they thought he was still theirs, and his current fame reflected well on them.

Five years ago, maybe that would have bothered him. He had been miserable enough growing up here, after all. But it was in the past, and there was no point dwelling on it. Let them have their stories.

Approaching the gates of the Forst Reach estate, he saw a small figure wave, then dash away, sprinting in the direction of the keep. Sure enough, by the time they rode up the well-maintained path, everyone had crowded out to meet them.

Nearly fifty people – no, more than that, the children all pushing and shoving for a first look. This isn’t a family, it’s a clan, Vanyel thought wonderingly. His siblings were all in the front row – gods, Mekeal looked so much like Father. Standing side by side, they resembled brothers more than father and son. Meke was holding onto a boy of perhaps three, who perched on his shoulders.

Lady Treesa wasn’t with Withen; she stood off to the side with her little Court, the ladies-in-waiting and fosterlings, and there were more of them as well.

He played his eyes over them. Meke’s Roshya was as slim as ever, even after six children, and the youngest couldn’t be more than a month old! She held the infant in her arms, and two more toddlers – twins, he guessed – peered out from behind her skirts. Deleran’s wife, he couldn’t remember her name, held a baby as well, and as for Kaster’s rather plump new bride – she looks like she’s ready to pop the child out any minute, he thought, smiling.

He stopped directly in front of Father, nodded to him, and started to dismount. Lissa beat him to it, slipping down and flinging herself into her father’s arms.

“I missed you,” he heard her say, the words heartfelt. He looked away. She was clearly overjoyed to be here – why wasn’t he? What was wrong with him?

Father clasped Vanyel’s arm and slapped him on the shoulder, a little awkwardly, then greeted Savil as well. And then they went through the same rigamarole as the last time – Meke trying to direct a stableboy to take their ‘horses’. This time, Vanyel was minded to insist.

Savil rescued him. “Remember that they’re our Companions. Us Heralds are quite particular about them. We’ll get them settled ourselves. In a moment.” She went to greet Mekeal. “Young Meke! You’ve certainly done some growing up. Roshya, I’ve heard so much about you – and you’ve littles I’ve never even met! May I have an introduction?”

Impressed by her poise, Vanyel watched as she greeted all six of the children, even the newborn, starting with a sturdy red-headed girl of seven or eight – who, aside from the hair and her mother’s green eyes, looked a good deal like Jisa. Maybe it was only obvious to him; Savil said nothing of it.

Vanyel squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and exchanged greetings with his siblings as well. Deleran’s wife was called Niva, and she was quite shy. He quickly lost track of the children’s names, except for Meke’s eldest, the redhead, who was called Ariel. As soon as she had discharged her manners adequately, politely greeting all the adults, she was fawning over Yfandes and Kellan. She had come prepared; her pockets were full of apples.

Vanyel endured Treesa’s tearful hug, and pushed down the uncharitable thought that she wasn’t exactly aging gracefully. The girlish, diaphanous gown she wore didn’t suit her physique, already succumbing to the ravages of time, and he could tell that the colouring of her cheeks and hair were false. Poor Mother, he found himself thinking. All she ever had was her looks. On the heels of that thought: and her children, but I barely write to her and haven’t been home in years. He felt a little guilty – he knew he had been Mother’s favourite, and since leaving Forst Reach twelve years ago, he had never even thought about how it would affect her.

The welcome finally complete, Savil forged off towards the stables, and he was relieved to follow in her wake. He reached out a tendril of Mindspeech. :Thank you for doing this:

:They are my family as well:

It wasn’t until nearly two candlemarks later, ensconced in a guest-room with the door locked behind him, that he could finally relax a little. Gods, why can they still put me so off balance? At least half a dozen people wanted to ‘talk to him later’ – inexplicably, one of them was Jervis. The craggy old armsmaster had spoken civilly enough to him, if gruffly, but he still made Vanyel’s stomach churn. As did Father Leren, the priest, with whom he’d exchanged a few barbed pleasantries.

:’Fandes?: he sent. :Comfortable?: He’d set her up in the big loose-box that still had the split door, even though he’d had to move another mare out of it and scrub it down with his own hands. And replace the bit of string, long gone.

:Very: Her mindvoice was sleepy. :I think I’ll go have a good roll in the meadow: A pause. :I’ve got an absolutely awful roommate, though:

:Roommate?: he sent, confused.

:Didn’t Father mention something in his last letter? Meke buying a ’Shin’a’in stud’?:

:Oh, right: Father had been very disparaging about it. :Take it the stallion’s not Shin’a’in, then?:

:I would say not! Hideous beast. Vicious, too. They just brought him in from the field and he kicked a stableboy right over!:

:Oh dear: Vanyel sighed. :That’s probably what Father wants to talk to me about. Maybe Meke too: He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes for a moment. :I’m tired, ‘Fandes. More than I realized: He had noticed it on their journey, too – it had taken a great deal of effort to drag himself out of bed for their departures.

:Then rest: He felt her affection, and concern. :You need time to recover. It’s been a hard two years:

:I’ve been off the Border for ages!:

:Not all that long, you spent two weeks of it on the road to the north, and you weren’t exactly on vacation in Haven:

No, not exactly. He had been very busy, in fact, and sometimes it felt like he’d been trying to do the work of five Herald-Mages there as well. Lessons with the trainees, Council meetings, routine and urgent mage-work everywhere in Haven.

:But you are now. Enjoy it. You could call for supper to your room:

:No, I should go down for it. Mother will be sad otherwise: He flopped over onto his stomach. :And I should try to reach Tran, but I don’t know if I’m up for it:

:Tomorrow morning will be fine, I’m sure:

He thought vaguely of contacting Mardic and Donni – but better not to. They were undercover, and far enough away that he would have to boost to reach them. It was possible they could be detected that way, and he ought not to risk it. They had been communicating via message-drops with Herald Lores, the official envoy, and they could receive messages that way as well.

He was glad that he and Savil were here now. It was a secondary advantage of taking their family leave now – he would be able to act as a Mindspeech-relay for the sector if necessary. Though I hope I don’t have to. His reserves hadn’t had much of a chance to recover. Maybe he could ask Randi to add Forst Reach, or Lissa’s camp, as a stop on the nearest courier-circuit, so he could pass non-urgent messages to Mardic and Donni without having to go via the capital.

He missed them a great deal. Maybe if the situation calmed down enough over there, they could come take a few days at Forst Reach before traveling back. Or maybe if he got tired enough of his family, he might go undercover as well and visit…

:You make a terrible spy: Yfandes reminded him. He had a few disguises – most recently he had gone as a minstrel called Valdir, speaking in a hard-learned Hardornen accent and sneaking into Karsite camps that way. It wasn’t ideal; no matter what he wore, his hair and eyes were very distinctive, and he wasn’t good at changing his body language on purpose.

Well, it was worth a thought.

:Mardic?:

Mardic accepted the fine tendril of Mindspeech; he and Donni were only two streets apart, bedded down in separate doorways, and with good directional shielding their conversation ought to be undetectable even if there were other Thoughtsensers around. Which he hadn’t seen a sign of. A surprising number of the Linean citizens had the Mage-Gift in potential, but it seemed the rumours were true – there were no active mages.

:I’m here, love: He curled more tightly under his cloak – which, though it looked ragged, had a padded wool lining that no real beggar would be able to afford. And a well-disguised weather-barrier spell, one that Vanyel had worked out after studying some artifacts from the late Karsite Adept. He didn’t exactly like sleeping outside on the ground, but he’d had worse during the war.

:Learn anything today?: She was as tired as he was, he thought, and he could sense the edge of her hunger. Both of them were begging for their meals, for verisimilitude, though they had well-hidden caches of coins on their persons, and he had buried some more just outside city limits. He’d gotten a good enough take today, a rind of cheese and half a loaf of stale bread along with quite a pile of coppers – apparently he made a sufficiently pitiable beggar, a scarred, blind man playing an old gittern badly. Donni didn’t tend to do as well, despite her leg.

:Everyone’s talking about Tashir having been disowned: He hesitated. :Not sure how far to trust it, but gossip says he’s a nice young man. His father, not so much:

:Hmm: He could feel her thinking. :I’ve heard the same. Some Palace servants were buying fruit at the stand next to where I was. I have the feeling they don’t like King Deveran much at all:

Mardic tucked his head deeper under a fold of his cloak; it was starting to get cold at night. :Did you learn anything more about the situation with the servants?:

:It’s like we thought. They’re all blood-relatives of the Remoerdis family. Won’t accept anyone who’s not:

It was very odd, Mardic thought. Donni had initially tried to get a position as a Palace servant, and been turned down. She was considering changing to her disguise as a boy – she could still pass for a lad of thirteen or fourteen, if she had enough dirt on her face and wore a cap to hide the white in her hair – and trying to find a position as a dishwasher at one of the row of inns frequented by the Linean soldiers. The question was one of whether she would hear more there, or in her current begging-area by the small market.

There were quite a lot of soldiers around – an indication as good as any that the King was anticipating war.

:I have noticed something: Donni sent. :All the Palace servants I’ve seen out and about have the Mage-Gift in potential. It’s not rare here, but still. Every single one:

:Huh: Mardic rolled over; the stone was digging into his shoulder. :Wish we could ask Herald Lores to check in the Palace itself: The envoy wasn’t Mage-Gifted. :I’ll put it in with the message-dump. Think I need to sleep now:

:Same:

:Goodnight. I love you:

:Always:

Lady Treesa sipped her wine, and dabbed delicately at her lips with a napkin before setting it down and turning back to Lissa. “You didn’t tell us you wouldn’t be staying in the manor!” she pouted. “We aired out a room for you.”

“I’m sorry.” Lissa flung a half-desperate glance in Van’s direction, but she couldn’t catch his eye; he was talking to Withen, and looked just as trapped as she felt. “Mother, you have to understand,” she said, hating the whine that crept into her voice. “King’s orders. I’m lucky Randale’s letting me have lighter duties near home at all.” She lifted her own wine-goblet and took a deep pull.

There was no sign of understanding in Treesa’s eyes. “But surely you would prefer a room inside?” she simpered. “And better company than your crass fighting-men.” Lips pursed in disapproval

Lissa managed, barely, to bite back an angry retort. No one gets to say a word against my people. Every single man and woman she had brought to Forst Reach had seen her through years of service, proved themselves in dozens of battles and skirmishes. But her mother wouldn’t understand, and there was no point in starting a fight. Impossible to win an argument when the other party could end it instantly and ignominiously by breaking into tears. It’s unfair, that’s what it is.

Lissa reached for the wine-jug to refill her cup, holding it out for Treesa as well, who nodded and half-giggled. Maybe once she was drunk, she would find her mother’s conversation easier to bear. “I find my men to be excellent company,” she said, keeping her voice light – and only realizing a heartbeat later what that might sound like.

Lady Treesa raised her finely plucked eyebrows. “Oh! Is there a man in particular?” She patted Lissa’s arm, possessively. “Of a good family, perhaps? I have been so worried for your prospects, and at your age…”

Oh, gods. “Mother,” Lissa said firmly. “I’m not going to marry. I’m an officer, all right? I have responsibilities. Duties to the kingdom.”

Lady Treesa’s eyes lit. “Oh, but it’s not so rare at all for an officer to be married! Your father said–”

“It’s different.” It was true than many of her colleagues were married; there was an old saying. Lieutenants mustn’t marry, captains may, majors ought, generals must. There were men under her command with wives and babies at home – and that was the distinction, wasn’t it? They weren’t the ones pushing out squalling infants. And with their Guard-pay, their wives could afford help at home. A poor recompense for a father missing his daughter’s first steps, she thought, but it was what it was.

“I don’t see why–”

“It. Just. Is.” Lissa forced the words out through gritted teeth. Made herself take a deep breath, lower her shoulders, and soften her expression. Why can she always get under my skin like this? “I’m sorry, Mother. It’s just… I’m not looking to marry. Ever.” Which should have been obvious five years ago. It was clear that Treesa thought an unmarried woman of thirty was doomed to be a bitter old maid forever. Maybe because she was married and pregnant with me by nineteen. What a strange thought. Treesa had left her familial home at the same age Lissa had, but for such a different reason.

Treesa just stared at her, eyelashes fluttering. Lissa caught a snippet of Withen’s voice, raised.

“–And that’s not even getting into the livestock tax–”

She hid a smirk. Trust Van to get into an argument about treasury-budgets. Judging by the way he held his shoulders, he wasn’t exactly comfortable either. Lissa thought it would have been a much better idea for them to switch places. She and Withen got along better with every promotion she was granted, and her brother had always been the apple of Treesa’s eye. Even if he wasn’t married either, or likely to be ever.

Treesa sipped her wine again, clearly trying to find her composure. Her voice, when she spoke again, was quiet. “All I want is for you to be happy, Lissa. I could wish…” She trailed off.

“I know, Mother.” Treesa really did mean well; that was the worst part. “Mother, listen… I am happy. Truly.” As happy as anyone could be, given what was going on down south. Or, well… Be honest with yourself, girl. You might be happier with a war to fight.

Blank, uncomprehending silver eyes. There was something unnerving about seeing the echoes of Vanyel’s features in her mother’s face. “But the danger,” Treesa breathed. “We’re afraid for you.” Her nose wrinkled. “Besides which, it grieves me to think of you sleeping in a tent. In squalor. Fleas and rats.” She shuddered, delicately.

“Mother, my camp did not have fleas. Or rats.” Some of the others did, but Horn had always had enough facilities, and enough Gifted, to take preventative measures. Rats and fleas both were a disease-risk. “And officer’s tents are practically houses.” She could have had a room indoors, if she’d wanted; the mayor of Horn had made the offer regularly. She had always turned it down. “Mother, anyway, I’m quite safe, really. They start coddling you once you pass captain.”

Treesa fluttered her eyelashes again. “Don’t mind your old mother, then.” A note of bitterness in her voice, and she couldn’t quite hide the downwards twist of her lips.

Lissa shifted her weight in the chair, unsure what to say. “You’re not old at all,” she mumbled finally. I mean, she isn’t, is she? Not quite fifty, a decade younger than Father, though she wore her years with much less grace. All her pregnancies, six living children and several more stillbirths, miscarriages, and siblings dead in early infancy, couldn’t have helped.

Lissa hid a shiver. Thank the gods for the Healers’ tonics. She wasn’t likely ever to end up with child by mistake.

Treesa coloured slightly. “How kind of you.” She was silent for a moment.

This is so awkward. Lissa cast about her mind for common topics of interest. “I did manage to visit Haven briefly,” she tried.

“Oh!’ Her mother’s eyes flashed again with pleasure. “Now, tell me, is it true that pink gowns are in fashion this year…”

As she tried her best to ramble off something vapid about the gown-styles she had noticed, Lissa had to admit that she had probably asked for this. She looked past Treesa, trying again to get Van’s attention. He would be able to rescue her – even now, somehow, he paid a lot more attention to clothing styles than she ever had – but Withen was keeping him thoroughly distracted. Her brother’s face was taking on the pinched look it always did when he was starting to get overwhelmed. Maybe he needed rescuing more than she did.

“Mother,” she said, “why don’t you ask Van? He was spending a lot more time at Court than I was, and you know he’s always had an eye for colours.”

A delighted, girlish giggle. “Oh! But I shouldn’t interrupt.” Treesa lowered her voice, conspiratorially. “Let them have their man time.”

Trust me, that’s the last thing Van wants. Not that she could say so out loud. “Of course, Mother,” she said instead. “Why don’t you tell me what’s in style here in the west?” And hope to god she didn’t fall asleep in her dessert-plate from sheer boredom.

The boy stood on the street-corner, and he sang.

His name was Stefen, though he went by Stef. He was probably ten years old – he didn’t know, exactly, because he was an orphan. As far back as he could remember he had been with Berte, but he knew she wasn’t his mother. She was too old, for one. Sometimes, looking at her craggy face by the moonlight, he thought she must be the oldest person in the world. Her wrinkles were like a map to someplace he had never been.

He had never been anywhere, really – no further than the river and the fishmonger’s stall, or the fruit-stand in the other direction. Vaguely he knew that he must live in a city, and elsewhere there were farms and villages and even other cities. Sometimes when Berte wasn’t looking, he would shimmy up the drainpipe by old Tatar’s pawn-shop and see how far he could go, jumping from one roof to the next. If he climbed to the top of the alehouse, the only two-story building he knew of, on clear days he could see all the way to the other side of the river. Sometimes he saw blots that might be cows, and he wondered if there were farms there. He thought he would like to go to a farm, someday. In the songs they sounded like peaceful places, with enough food to go around.

Today there wasn’t enough food, and he could feel his belly cramping, distantly through the music that filled him. It had been a rent-day and he had saved and scrimped and hidden coins when he could, because Berte couldn’t be trusted anymore these last two years. Not since she had started to buy dreamerie again. Lately she cuffed him, sometimes, if there weren’t enough coins in the hat to buy her dose from Tatar, who sold plenty of things that he didn’t show on his counter.

They still had a room, though, with a dry dirt floor and only a few cracks between the boards – in winter Berte sent him down to the river to bring back mud and cattail-fluff and block the drafts. Better than before, when he was small and they slept huddled together in Tatar’s doorway. Better than before he learned to open the door in his head, and sing so that people would listen.

But not so good as they had been for those few glorious months, when there was coin enough to buy good hot food from the street-sellers, and warm blankets and a new tunic that fit him, and for a little while Berte had been almost happy.

Now she was happy only when she drifted in her cloud of blue smoke, eyes looking at somewhere even further away than the other side of the river. On nights that there wasn’t enough for dreamerie, sometimes she bought rotgut liquor from the back door of the alehouse instead. And then she was angry in the morning, because her head ached, and sometimes she wanted to stay in her bedroll all day – and if he wanted to go out in time to claim their good spot, he needed to sing. Sing in the way he only did for her, to open the other door in his head and soothe her pain away into the music.

Sometimes he sang for her anyway, in the quiet chill of their little room, even though it made his head hurt too when he pushed too hard for too long – because she was his Berte, even if she wasn’t his mother. Because her joints hurt and she was tired and there was something wrong inside her head, and maybe-if-he-could-be-enough-somehow, she wouldn’t have to go away inside the blue smoke – and if she didn’t have to buy dreamerie anymore, there would be enough coin for good food again, and maybe a tunic that covered his arms. But it was never enough.

And so Stef sang on a street corner, and people stopped to listen. Tired, dusty people, and he knew half of their names, because when Berte sent him out to buy food he talked to them, and if you knew someone’s name there was a power in that. He could put a bit of their names into the songs, not in the words but in the music itself, and they would stop and maybe they would put a coin in Berte’s hat, or tear off a piece of the loaf they were taking home for their dinner.

He sang a song about a farm, that had a pond and a dog that barked and a dairy-maid with flowers in her hair. He imagined how the grass would be green and tall and the dog would be plump, not starved and bony like the half-wild mongrels in the streets near the fishmonger, and the dairy-made would be plump too – he imagined it, a little picture in his head, and he put that into the music as well.

There was a song about a war – he didn’t know all of the words, he had only half-overheard it from a minstrel who had come to the alehouse once. He made up new words instead, and sang about a place called Sun’s Hill, imagining a hill that was shining and gold. He had never seen a soldier, but the song said they wore blue, and so he imagined their blue tunics made of velvet and their tall blue boots, and how they marched in rows, because that was what soldiers did. There was a man in white who reached across the world and held out his hand, and made a wall that the other soldiers couldn’t cross. Which was silly, but he sang it anyway, it wasn’t any sillier than the song about the fishmonger’s daughter with the talking dog.

When he stopped singing, his throat was dry, so he went to see if Berte had anything left in her waterskin.

A woman in red was watching him. She looked all prim-and-proper, not like someone who belonged there at all. Her robes were the brightest scarlet he had ever seen, even brighter than the berries by the river that looked so good but were poisonous to eat. Her face was clean and her boots were clean and she looked like someone who went home at night to a Great House with ten rooms and a privy indoors.

He tried to see if she had put any coins in the hat. She looked like someone who would have silvers, not just coppers. He could still feel her eyes watching him, so he looked up and smiled.

“Hi, lady! I’m Stefen.” He smiled. Ladies liked it when he smiled. He didn’t think she would want to shake his hand; her hands were white and clean and his were almost black with dust from climbing Tatar’s drainpipe. “D’you have a fav’rite song? I’d sing it.”

“I heard your last song.” Her voice was a rich voice, all proper and crisp, but there was music in it. There was music in her; he could see it in the way she moved. “Very good rendition of ‘The Ballad of Sun’s Hill’, if a little unique. I don’t remember the part about the tunics made of velvet. Who’s your mother, boy?”

“Don’t got no mama, m’norphan.” People gave more coins when he said he was an orphan, especially ladies. Maybe it would still work with ladies in fine clothes who ought not be here at all, and who might have silver coins in their pockets.

“I see.” She frowned. “Is she your grandmother?” She was pointing at Berte.

Berte straightened up, yawning. “Listen here, lady. Why all the questions?”

The woman in red only stood and looked at her. “Are you the boy’s grandmother?”

“No ma’am. Him’s a foundling. Took him in like me own babe.”

“I see.” The lady’s eyes flashed to Stefen’s ragged tunic, and her mouth made an expression like she had tasted a bad fruit. “How old are you, boy?”

He tried to stand very tall, and speak proper. “Ten, ma’am.”

“You don’t look ten.” She was frowning again. Stef tried not to fidget, even though she was making him nervous, she wasn’t acting normal-like and it was confusing and he didn’t like it.

Then she looked at him, and it was like she was trying to smile but it wasn’t real. She bent down a little on her heels, so her eyes were where his were. “Stefen, how would you feel about having a new home?”

He stared at her, not understanding.

She tried harder to smile. “With a bed of your own, and hot food three times a day, and lots of other children to be your friends. How does that sound?”

“Now wait a minute, lady!” Berte was pulling herself to her feet, wincing, and Stef almost sang for her but he wasn’t sure he wanted the lady in red to see. “You can’t take him! He’s mine.”

“You said yourself you are no relation of his.”

“I’ve cared for him like my own son, all his life!” Berte’s face was turning red, bits of spit flying. Stef tried not to flinch. She was angry at the lady in red, not him.

“Cared for him.” Again, the rich lady’s eyes went from his tunic to his bare feet, then back to his face. “He’s your livelihood, you mean. A voice and a Gift like that, singing on a street corner in the slums. The gods be damned.” She paused, and she seemed to be thinking. “I’ll give you five silvers for him.”

Greed flashed in Berte’s eyes. Then suspicion. “Why’s he worth that to you?”

“It’s not your business – but he’s very special. I’ll take him to a place with other children like him, where we can teach him.”

Stef didn’t move, but inside he was quaking. Don’t, please, don’t sell me. There were rumours, people said Berte had sold her own children, a long time ago. He hadn’t wanted to believe it. When people bought children, none of the things they wanted them for were good but some of them were worse.

Berte nodded, gulping. “And you’ll take good care of him?” Her voice cracked a little.

“Of course. We’ll see to it that he has everything he needs.” The rich lady reached into the pocket of her scarlet robes and pulled out a purse. She counted out five silver coins, and put them into Berte’s hand.

Berte came forwards and hugged Stefen, and even though she had just sold him, even though she had abandoned him to the woman in red for five silvers, he buried his head in her dress. His Berte.

Then the woman in red held out her hand. “Come with me, Stefen.”

He looked at her. “Where’re you taking me?”

“To the capital. You belong to Valdemar now.”

Who’s Valdemar? He didn’t dare ask. Some high lord, maybe, in one of the great houses. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe the woman in red was telling the truth, and he would have a bed of his own and hot food every day. He could serve any lord for that, he thought. He hoped this Valdemar wouldn’t be cruel.

Squaring his shoulders, Stef took the woman’s hand.

A few minutes later, they walked past the fruit seller’s stand, and crossed the big road. Carriages and people stopped for the woman in red. Then they were on the other side. Bigger houses, fine houses, and the streets were clear of beggars, though not of horse-turds.

He was further from home than he’d ever been before.