Arrow's Fall (33 page)

“You will. You must,” Talia’s voice was flat, implacable, with no tinge of anger, only of command. But Devan folded before it, and the look in the eyes she opened to meet his.

“Old friend, it
must
be,” she added softly. “More than my well-being is at stake.”

“This could kill you, you know,” he said with obvious bitterness, beginning to touch her forehead so that he could establish the painblocks she demanded. “You’re forcing me to violate every Healing Oath I ever swore.”

“No—” Dirk couldn’t quite fathom the sad, tender little
 
smile she wore. “I have it ... on excellent authority ... that it isn’t my time.”

She got other protests from the rest when she decreed that only she and Elspeth should receive Orthallen,

With total painblocks established she was able to speak normally, if weakly. “It has to be this way,” she insisted. “If he sees you, I think he might be able to mask his reaction. At the least he’ll be warned by your presence. With us alone, I think it will be genuine; I don’t think hell bother trying to hide it initially from two he doesn’t consider to be physically or mentally threatening.”

She relented enough to allow them to conceal themselves in the room next door, watching all that went on through the door that linked the two, provided they keep that door open only a bare crack. Once everyone was in place, they sent for Orthallen.

It seemed an age before they heard his slow, deliberate footsteps following the pattering ones of the page.

Hie door opened; Orthallen stepped inside, his head turned back over his shoulder, dismissing the page before be dosed the door behind himself. Only then did he turn to face the two that awaited him.

Talia had set her stage most carefully. She was propped up like an oversized doll, but to all appearances was sitting up in bed normally. She was a deathly white, but the relatively dim light of their single candle concealed that. Elspeth stood at her right hand. The room was entirely dark except for the candle that illuminated both their faces—concealing the fact that the door behind the two of them was propped open a tiny amount.

“Elspeth,” Orthallen began as he turned, “This is an odd place for a meet—”

Then he truly saw who was in the room besides the Heir.

The blood drained swiftly from his face, and the condescending smile he had worn faded.

As he noted their expressions, he grew even more agitated. His hands began trembling, and his complexion took on a grayish tinge. His eyes scanned the room, looking for anyone else who might be standing in the shadows behind them.

“I have met Ancar, my lord, and seen Hulda—” Talia began.

Then the staid, poised Lord Orthallen, who always preferred words over any other weapon, did the one thing none of them would ever have expected him to do.

He went berserk.

He snatched his ornamental dagger from its sheath at his side, and sprang for them, madness in his eyes, his mouth twisted into a wild rictus of fear.

For the men hidden behind the door, time suddenly slowed to an agonizing crawl. They burst through it, knowing as they did so that by the time they reached the two women, anything they did would be far too late to save them.

But before anyone else even had time to react, before Orthallen had even moved more than a single step, Elspeth’s right hand flickered out sideways, then snapped forward.

Halfway to them, Orthallen suddenly collapsed over Talia’s bed with an odd gurgle, then slid to the floor.

Time resumed its normal pace.

Elspeth, white-faced and shaking, reached out and rolled him over with her foot as the four men reached her side. There was a little throwing dagger winking in the candlelight that fell on Orthallen’s chest. Blood from the wound it had made stained his blue velvet robe black. It was, Dirk noted with an odd, detached corner of his mind, perfectly placed for a heart-shot.

“By my authority as Heir,” Elspeth said in a voice that quavered on the edge of hysterics, “I have judged this man guilty of high treason, and carried out his sentence with my own hand.”

She held to the edge of the bed to keep her shaking legs from collapsing under her, as Talia touched her arm with one bandaged hand—in an attempt, perhaps, to comfort and support her. Her eyes looked like they were going to pop out of her head, and dilated with shock. When Devan threw open the door to the hall, she looked at him pleadingly.

“And now,” she said in a strained voice, “I think I’d like to be sick. Please?”

Devan had the presence of mind to get her a basin before she lost the contents of her stomach; she retched until she was totally empty, then burst into hysterical tears. Devan took charge of her quickly, leading her off to clean herself up and find a quiet place where she could vent her feelings in peace.

Kyril and Alberich removed the body, quickly and efficiently. The Seneschal wandered after them, dazed and shaken. That left Dirk alone with Talia.

Devan reappeared for a moment before he could say or do anything. The Healer removed the cushions that had been propping her up, and got her lying down again to bis own satisfaction. He pressed his hand briefly to her forehead, then turned to Dirk.

“Stay with her, would you? I took some of the painblocks off before they do her an injury, but all this would have been a heavy strain if she had been healthy. In the shape she’s in—I can’t predict the effect. She may very well be perfectly all right; she seems in no worse state than she was before. If she starts to go into shock, or looks like she’s relapsing—or really, if you think
anything
is going wrong, call me. I’ll be within hearing distance, getting Elspeth calmed.”

What else could he do, except nod?

When Devan left, he turned hungry eyes back toward Talia. There was so much he wanted to say—and had no idea of how to say it.

Now that the impetus of the emergency was gone, she seemed confused, disoriented, dazed with pain. He could see her groping after coherent thought.

Finally she seemed to see him. “Oh, gods, Dirk—Kris is
dead
. They murdered him—he didn’t have a chance. I couldn’t help him, I couldn’t save him. And it’s all my fault that it happened—if I’d told him we had to turn back when we first knew something was wrong, he’d still be alive.”

She began to weep, soundlessly, tears trickling slowly down her cheeks; she was plainly too exhausted even to sob.

Then it hit him—

“Goddess—” he said. “Kris—oh,
Kris
—”

He knelt beside her, not touching her, while his shoulders shook with the sobs she was too weary to share— and they mourned together.

He had no idea how long they wept together; long enough for his eyes and throat to go raw. But flesh has its limits; finally he got himself back under control, carefully wiped her tears away for her, and took a seat beside her.

“I knew what happened to him,” he said at last. “Rolan made it through with your message.”

“How did—how did I get here?”

“I Fetched you—” he groped for the right words. “I mean, I had to, I couldn’t leave you there! I didn’t know if it would work but I had to try! Elspeth, the Companions, we all Fetched you together.”

“You did that? It—I’ve never heard of anything like that— It’s like—like some tale. But I was lost in the dark,” She seemed almost in a state of shock now, or a half-trance. “I could see the Havens, you know, I could see them. But they wouldn’t let me go to them—they held me back.”

“Who? Who held you back?”

“Love and duty—” she whispered as if to herself.

“What?” She wasn’t making any sense.

“But Kris said—” Her voice was almost inaudible.

He had feared before. Now he was certain. It
had
been Kris whom she loved—and he’d prevented her from reaching him. He hung his head, not wanting her to see the despair on his face.

“Dirk—” Her voice was stronger, not quite so contused. “It was
you
who called me. You saved me from Ancar, then brought me out of the dark. Why?”

She’d hate him for it, but she deserved the truth. Maybe one day she’d forgive him.

“I had to. I love you,” he said helplessly, hopelessly. He stood up to leave, his eyes burning with more tears— tears he dared not shed—and cast one longing glance back at her.

Talia heard the words she’d been past hoping for— then saw her hope getting ready to walk out the door. Suddenly everything fell into place. Dirk had thought that Kris was the one she’d been in love with!

That was why he’d been acting so crazy—wanting her himself, yet fearing to try to compete with Kris. Havens, half the time he must have loathed himself for a very natural anger at his best friend who had turned rival. No
wonder
he’d been in such a state!

And now Kris was gone, and he thought that she’d want no part of him, the constant reminder, the second-best.

Damn the man! Stubborn as he was, there would be no reasoning with him. He would never believe anything she told him; it could take months, years to straighten it all out.

Her mind felt preternaturalty clear, and she sought frantically for a way out of her predicament—and found one in memory.

“. . . just like with a Farspeaker.”
Ylsa’s words were dear in her memory.
“They almost always begin by hearing first, not speaking. You’re feeling right now—but I suspect that one day you’ll learn how to project your own feelings in such a way that others can read them, can share them. That could be a very useful trick—especially if you ever need to convince someone of your sincerity!”

Yes, she’d done that without really thinking about it already. There was the forced rapport, and the kind of rapport she’d shared with Kris and Rolan. And the simpler tasks of projecting confidence, reassurance—this was just one step farther along—

She reached for the strength and the will to
show
him, only to discover that she was too drained, too exhausted. There was nothing left.

She nearly sobbed with vexation. Then Rolan made his presence felt, filling her with his love—and more—

Rolan—
his
strength was there, as always, and offered to her with open-hearted generosity.

And she had the knowledge of what to do and how to doit.

“Wait!” she coughed, and as Dirk half-turned, she projected everything she felt into his open mind and heart. All her love, her need for him—forcing him to see the truth that words alone would never make him believe.

Devan heard a strange, strangled cry that sounded as if it were something torn from a masculine throat. He whirled and started for Talia’s room, fearing the worst.

He paused for a moment at the door, steeled himself against what he was likely to see, and opened it slowly, words of comfort on his tongue.

To his total amazement, not only was Talia still living— but she was actually clear-eyed and smiling, and trembling on the knife-edge between laughter and tears. And Dirk was sitting on the side of her bed, trying his best to find some way of holding her without hurting her, covering every uninjured inch of her that he could reach with kisses and tears.

Half stunned, Devan slipped out before either of them noticed him, and signaled a page passing in the hail. He absently noted that it was one whose face he had seen often in this corridor, though he couldn’t imagine why the child should have spent so much time here. When the boy saw who it was that had summoned him and what door he had come out of, he paled.

Incredible,
Devan thought wryly.
Is there anyone who isn’t worried to death about her?

“I need a messenger sent to the Queen, preferably a Herald-courier, since a Herald is the only one likely to be able to find her without looking for hours, and this is fairly urgent,” he said.

The page’s mouth trembled. “The Lady-Herald, sir,” he said in an unsteady treble. “Is she—dead?”

“Lord of Lights, no!” Devan suddenly realized that he felt like laughing for the first time in days, and shocked the child with an enormous grin. “In fact, while you’re getting me that messenger, spread the news! She’s very much with us—and she’s going to be very, very well indeed!”

Dirk’s pure joy could not last for long: all too soon he recalled that there were far more important issues at stake than just his happiness. Talia alone knew what had transpired in Ancar’s capital; might know what they could expect. Surely, surely there was danger to Valdemar, and only she might be able to guess how much.

He sobered; she caught his mood immediately. “Orthallen isn’t the only enemy,” he said slowly.

.She couldn’t have gotten any paler, but her eyes widened and pupils dilated. “No—how long—was I—”

“Since we Fetched you? Let me think—” he reckoned it up. He’d been unconscious for two days; then spent six more recovering from backlash. “Just about eight days.” He guessed at what she’d ask next. “We’re in Lord Falthern’s keep, right on the edge of the Border.”

“Selenay?”

“Devan’s sent for her. You’re in pain—”