Arrows of the Queen (5 page)

For a moment she felt disoriented, as if seeing through someone else's eyes. It almost seemed as if she and something else were briefly joined as one—it was uncanny, and yet not at all frightening. Then the moment passed.

“Well, I suppose I have to call you
something
, no matter where the name came from. Just let me put my things up to dry and go back for the buckets, Rolan. Then I'll get supper for both of us.”

She poured a generous measure of grain for him, then took a fire-blackened pot she'd seen earlier to make a grain-and-fruit porridge for herself. Rolan finished his own portion before her porridge was done and moved closer to lie in the grass an arm's length off from her with every sign of content. Insects sang in the woods all around them, and leaves rustled slightly. The firelight shone on Rolan's coat as she leaned up against the Waystation wall, feeling oddly happy.

“What I don't understand,” she said to him, “Is why you ran away. Companions aren't supposed to do that sort of thing, are they?”

Rolan simply opened his eyes wide at her and looked wise.

“I hope you know where we're going because I certainly don't. Still, we're bound to meet a Herald sometime, and I'm sure he'll know what to do with you.”

The porridge looked and smelled done; she pulled the pot out of the fire with a branch and began to eat it with her fingers as soon as it had cooled enough.

“It really is strange, you coming along when you did,” she told him, “I expect I'd have been found before dark or gotten resigned to the situation and gone back to the Holding myself.” She regarded him with speculative eyes. “I don't suppose—you didn't come to
rescue
me, did you? No, that's ridiculous. I'm not a Herald, I'm just Holderkin; just strange Talia. Why would you want to rescue me? Besides, if you'd meant to rescue me, you would have brought your Herald along, wouldn't you?” she sighed, a little sadly. “I wish
I
was your Herald. I'd like to live like this always.”

Rolan's eyes were closed, and his head nodded. Now that her stomach was comfortably full, Talia found her own head beginning to nod. The woods were very dark, the ground beneath her was very hard, and the interior of the Waystation looked very inviting to a girl who'd seldom spent a night out under the sky, and never alone.

“Well, if you're going to go to sleep, I'd better do the same.”

She banked the fire, covering the pot of porridge with the coals and ashes to keep the rest of it warm for breakfast, then pulled up armfuls of the long grass to use to fill the bedbox. It didn't take very long; once she'd settled, Rolan moved to lie across the door, almost like a guard dog. It seemed to her that she'd no sooner tumbled into it, than she was fast asleep.

She woke to the sound of birdsong with Rolan standing in the Waystation beside the bedbox nudging her shoulder. For one moment she couldn't remember exactly where she was, confused with sleep; then with full awareness it all came back with a rush. She jumped out of her nest of sweet-smelling grasses to hug Rolan's neck, overwhelmed with thankfulness that it hadn't all been a dream.

She ate her breakfast quickly, then cleaned herself and the shelter to the best of her ability. She buried the ashes of the dead fire with a little twinge of guilt; she knew that etiquette demanded that she replace the wood she'd used, but without an axe, that simply wasn't possible. She'd have felt a lot guiltier had it been Midwinter instead of Midsummer, and she'd really used very little of what seemed to be a plentiful supply. Once all was in as good order as she'd found it, she saddled Rolan and they trotted back to the Road.

The morning passed swiftly. Not only was every moment with Rolan a delight and a treasure, but now there was more to see as well. The dense woods began to give way to cultivated fields; in the distance she saw stock grazing, and once or twice a cottage, shaded by trees and cooled by ivy. Then, just after the sun crossed overhead, the Road curved and dove down into a village, set in a small valley.

Talia couldn't help but stare about her with amazed eyes; this village was very different from the one she'd lived near all her life. The Holderfolk wore nothing but somber colors, nothing gayer than a dull saffron; but here it seemed that everyone had a touch of bird-bright color about him. Even the shabbiest had at least a scarf or hair ribbon of scarlet or blue. Some (the look of them showing they were prosperous folk who needn't worry about soiling their clothing with work) were dressed entirely in colors. Even the houses were festive with bright designs on their whitewashed walls, and the shutters were painted to match. Those houses looked extremely odd to Talia—why, they couldn't have held more than one man, his Firstwife, and a few littles! There was obviously no room at all for Underwives and
their
littles. Talia wondered if each Wife had her own house, then giggled at the unseemly (but amusing) notion of the Husband running from house to house in the night, intent on doing his duty with each of his Wives.

The village itself, besides looking prosperous and well-cared-for, was also unenclosed; a startling sight to one who was used to seeing walls and stockades around inhabited places.

She reined in Rolan at the sight of a man standing beside a small hut positioned just at the verge of the Road where it first entered the village proper. He looked as if he must be some sort of guard or official; he was dressed in garments of a bright blue that matched, from boots to hat. He had a quiver of short arrows on his back, and Talia saw a crossbow leaning beside him against the wall of the hut.

The sight of him alarmed her no small amount—in her experience, men (especially men in obvious positions of authority) were creatures to be feared. They held the power of life and death over the members of their families; they decreed the rewards of the obedient and the punishments of the rebellious. How many times had the Elders or her Father deemed it necessary that she be beaten or sent into isolation for far, far less than she'd done in the past two days? Too many times to count easily, for certain sure. There was no indication that this stranger might not order the same punishments for her now; or worse, send her back to the Holding. Yet she was going to have to speak to
someone
; she'd been searching for nearly a day now and hadn't found any clue to where this Companion belonged. He seemed to have a friendly, open face, and she took her courage in hand to address him.

“P-pray excuse me, sir,” she said politely, stuttering a little, “but have you seen a Herald who's lost his Companion?”

Her question seemed to startle him, and he approached the two of them slowly, as if trying not to frighten her (leaving his crossbow behind, Talia noted with relief).

“No indeed, young miss,” he replied, “Why ask you?”

“I found this Companion alone on the Road yesterday,” she answered hesitantly, still not sure she hadn't done wrong despite the fact that it didn't seem he was going to take her into custody or hail her before a Council of Elders just yet, “And it seemed to me I should take him back to whoever he belongs with.”

He measured her with his eyes; she found his scrutiny unnerving. “Where are you from, child?” he asked at last.

“Sensholding, near Cordor. Back that way.” She waved vaguely back down the Road in the direction she'd come.

“Ah, Holderfolk,” he said, as if that explained something to him, “Well, young miss, there's only one thing you can do if you find a lone Companion. You have to return him to the Herald's Collegium yourself.”

“Me?”
her voice broke with alarm. “The Collegium? By myself?”

He nodded, and she gulped. “Is it very far?” she asked in a near-whisper.

“By ordinary horse, three weeks or more, depending on the weather. You're riding a Companion, though, and a little thing like you would be hardly more than a feather to him. You should get there in eight or nine days, perhaps a bit more.”

“Eight—or nine—days?” she faltered, looking self-consciously down at her wrinkled, travel-stained clothing. In eight or nine days, she'd look like a tramp. They'd probably shoot her on sight, for thieving Rolan away!

His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, seeming to read her thoughts. “Now, don't you worry, young miss. The Queen makes provisions for circumstances like these. Just wait right here.”

She didn't have much choice; Rolan seemed to be rooted to the ground. The man returned in short order with a pair of saddlebags, a brown wool cloak draped over one arm, and a small piece of metal in his hand. “Goodwife Hardaxe has a girl a bit older than you; there's a couple of changes of clothing she's outgrown in the lefthand bag.”

She attempted to voice a protest but he interrupted her. “No argument, young miss. I told you the Queen herself makes provisions for this sort of thing. We help you, and we get half taxes next year, the whole village. The right hand bag's got some odds 'n ends in it; firestarter, comb and brush, things you'll need if your Companion can't find a Waystation. Don't be afraid to use what's in the Waystations either; that's what they're there for.”

He tossed the bags over Rolan's back, fastening them securely to the back of the saddle. “This cloak's good oiled wool; it should keep the rain off you, and this time of year it ought to be enough to keep you warm if the weather turns nasty. It's more than a bit big, but that's all to the good. Means less of you will hang outside it. Ah, here comes the Innmaster.”

A pleasant-faced, plump man came puffing up. He had a waterskin, a small pouch, and a dun-colored frieze bag with him. The wonderful meaty odors rising from the bag made Talia's mouth water, and her stomach reminded her forcibly that it had been a long time since breakfast.

“I saw you didn't have a belt-pouch, so I left word with Daro that you might be needing one,” the first man said, “People are always leaving things behind at the Inn.”

“I just filled this bag with good spring water,” the plump Innmaster said, slinging it on one of the many snaffles adorning the saddle before she could say anything, “And there's an eating knife and a spoon in the pouch. Put it on now, there's a good girl; I've got more left-behind eating tools than you could ever imagine! And these pasties ought to stay sound for longer than it'll take you to eat 'em, if I know the appetite of a growing child!” He handed her the bag, and wiped his hands on his apron, smiling. “Now you make sure you tell people how good our baking is! I have to get back to my custom.” And he puffed off before she could thank him.

“See this?” the first man said, holding up a little scrap of engraved brass. “When you get to the Collegium, give this chit to the person who asks you for it. This tells them that we helped you along the way.” He handed it to her, and she placed it carefully in her new belt pouch. “If you need anything, just ask people dressed the way I am, and they'll be sure to help you. We're part of the Army, the Roadguards.”

Talia was all but incoherent with surprise at her good fortune. Not only had she not been punished or even scolded for her actions, not only had she not been sent back home, but it seemed that she was actually being rewarded with the opportunity to go where she'd never dared to dream she'd be allowed! “Th-th-ank you! B-b-right Lady, it just doesn't seem like enough just to
say
thank you—”

The guard chuckled, his eyes disappearing in the smile-crinkles. “Young miss, it's
us
who'll remember you with thanks, come tax-time! Anything else you need?”

Rolan seemed to think it was time they were on their way again, and began moving impatiently off. “No, nothing,” she called over her shoulder as he waved a casual farewell.

Rolan quickly resumed his normal pace and the village fell rapidly behind them, so quickly that Talia had only just realized that she didn't even know the name of the place or her benefactor when it was gone from view.

“Oh, well,” she said to Rolan as she bit hungrily into a lightly spiced meat pie, “I'm not likely to forget the baking of Darowife. Even Isrel never made anything that tasted like
this
, not even for feastdays!”

She looked with curiousity at the brass “chit.” It bore a number, and the word “Sweetsprings.”

“Sweetsprings?” she mused. “That must be the town. I wish I knew what was going on! I've never read or heard anything about Companions running away before, but he acted like it happens all the time.”

She passed through another village near to suppertime. This one was much smaller than Sweetsprings had been; mostly a collection of houses and huts around a blacksmith's forge. It was apparently too small to warrant one of the blue-clad Guards, but the people seemed just as friendly. They waved at her as she cantered past, bridle bells ringing, and didn't seem to find anything at all disturbing in the sight of a slightly grubby girl atop a Herald's Companion. Talia could not help contrasting their friendliness with the reaction she'd have gotten from Holderfolk. At best, her own people would have stared, then coldly turned their backs on such unseemly behavior from a girl-child. At worst, they'd have tried to stop her; tried to pull her from Rolan's back to incarcerate as a thief.

Once again, as night was about to fall, Rolan found a Waystation. The Road and the River had parted company not long since, but this shelter boasted a well, so they didn't lack water. Talia discovered among the odds and ends the guard had assembled for her a little box of soft, homemade soap and a washcloth, as well as a currycomb and brush for Rolan. When the moon rose, both of them were much cleaner.

She decided (somewhat reluctantly) to save the pies for her midday meals and manage with porridge for the rest. Once again she fed the two of them, and fell soundly asleep in spite of the relative discomfort of the primitive Waystation.