Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar (44 page)

Maybe Darkwall fostered that. If sorcery existed, and if the Lady practiced it, what better way to protect herself than by creating a buffer all around her of domains that asked no questions and shared no tales? Even Heralds seldom came here, as if something kept them from noticing this country existed.

Merris drew into a knot. Her stomach felt sick. This was the wildest speculation, based on practically nothing at all. She was afraid, that was all, because in less than a month she would have to leave everything she had ever known. She was inventing stories and imagining horrors.

But the pit of her stomach did not believe that. Deep down, where her instincts were, she believed the stories.

Then why did the Lady want her? What did Merris have that Darkwall could use?

Youth, of course. Fertility, maybe. Maybe her innocence was meant to lighten a dark place and make a cold heart warm again.

Somehow Merris found it hard to believe that. What did sorcery want with innocence?

Merris sat up so fast her head spun. The moon was almost down. Its last glimmer caught the box on her bedside table: a small wooden box, very plain, such as jewels were stored in.

She had not put it there.

One of the servants must have found it and, ever helpful, put it where she could see it. It was only a box, simply made and fit for use. It must be empty. She had dropped its contents down the garderobe.

Something was in it. Something that made her skin creep.

She got up suddenly, picked up the box in a fold of her nightgown and flung it out the window. It was a profoundly childish and possibly dangerous thing to do, but she did not care. Let the garden keep it. She did not want it anywhere near her.

 

In the morning the heir of Darkwall announced that she would retreat for a while to the shrine of Astera. She had a great task ahead of her, and considerable responsibility. She felt a need to invoke the Goddess’ guidance.

“I’ll be back before my birthday,” she promised her father.

Lord Bertrand was quite old now and growing frail, but his mind was as clear as ever. He nodded. “Of course,” he said. “Of course you need a little time to reflect. These are great changes which you face, and you are young.”

He did not make her promise to honor the bargain. That would have insulted them both. He met her eyes and nodded, understanding more than maybe she herself did.

With his blessing on her head, she left within the hour. One of her maids rode with her, and a pair of guards. She was gone before either of her tutors could have missed her.

It was not terribly far to the shrine—half a day’s easy ride in late-spring sunlight—and the road was well maintained if not much traveled. Merris found her fears receding as she left the bulk of the Keep behind. In their place was a growing conviction. This was the right thing to do.

 

Tonight the moon was almost full, riding high over the guesthouse of the shrine. Astera’s priestesses had finished their night office some time before. The purity of their voices still shivered in Merris’ skin.

Merris’ maid Gerda was a sound sleeper. Merris had chosen her for it. The guards had not been allowed within the walls of the shrine; they had had to camp outside in a place reserved for their kind. It overlooked the main road but not, she had taken care to observe, a track that wound away through the woods.

She had to go on foot—there was no discreet way to liberate her horse from the stable. She regretted that, but some things could not be helped. Dressed in the plainest clothes and the most sensible shoes she had been able to find, with a small pack and a full water bottle, she slipped out into the moonlight.

Her heart was beating faster than her brisk pace might have called for, and her hands were cold. She had put fear aside, but that did not mean she was calm. No one in the world knew what she was doing. This was a very dangerous thing to do—but she had to do it. There was no choice.

Past the first turn in the track, out of sight of the shrine, the moonlight grew suddenly, blindingly bright. Merris stopped, shading her eyes against the dazzle.

It faded as suddenly as it had swelled, distilling into a white horse-body and the dark shape of a rider. Merris looked at them in a kind of despair. “I’m not trying to run out on the bargain,” she said.

“It looks as if you’re running toward it,” said Coryn.

He was not wearing Whites. His Companion’s gear was dark and plain—an ordinary saddle and a leather halter with reins buckled to the side rings. The Herald must have raided the tack room in the Keep.

There was still no mistaking what his mount was, but Merris had to give him credit for trying. “I won’t let you take me back,” she said. “This is something I have to do.”

“I know,” Coryn said. “Selena knows, too. We won’t stop you—but we won’t let you go alone either.”

Merris was ashamed to admit how deep her relief was. It made her voice sharper and her words more cutting. “What, you can’t wait out your Internship before you get yourself killed in the line of duty?”

“Maybe you’re right,” Coryn said. “Maybe you’re not. Either way, you should have someone at your back.”

“Why? Have you Gifts that can help? Can you transport me there instantly? Read the Lady’s mind? Blast the Keep into rubble?”

His cheeks were bright red. “I’m nothing either special or spectacular as Heralds go, and the gods know I’m not highborn. But I am a Herald. The King’s authority rides with me. If this bargain is unholy or unsanctioned, there are things I can do to put a stop to it.”

“Yes,” she said nastily. “You can die for being too stupidly brave to stay away.”

He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “Maybe so. And maybe my death will count for something. We’re going with you.”

She hissed in frustration. If she pushed past, he only had to follow. He had a mount and she had none. He could gallop ahead and be there hours before her.

She stared him down until he stepped aside. When she went on down the road, so did he, with his Companion clopping behind like a common horse.

She wished they would go away—but she was glad they were there. If nothing else, and if they survived, they were witnesses. They could tell the world what Darkwall’s Lady was.

 

It was strange to be walking roads that Merris had only known on maps, and to see the country come alive around her. For a while she walked, then she rode because the Companion insisted—saying through the Herald that she was flagging and the day was not getting any younger, and she had to have some strength left when she came to her destination. On that broad back she rode through a wilderness of trees, over stony streams and across sudden outcroppings of rock and scree.

She had chosen Astera’s shrine because it was closer to Darkwall than Forbidden Keep, but it was still a long way. They were most of three days on the road, in rain and sun, camping by moonlight and starlight. Coryn had a useful Gift after all: he could start a fire out of anything, though when she challenged him to do it with a cup of rainwater, he responded with a flat stare. He had a sense of humor, but it had limits.

Late on the third day after Merris slipped out of the shrine, they came around a curve in the road—which by then was little more than a goat track—and looked down on a valley she had never seen before in her life. And yet she knew it as if she had grown up there.

Its walls were steep and wooded. A river ran through the bottom, deep and wide enough for traders’ boats. Villages clustered along it. High above it on a black rock sat the Keep, crouching like a raven over a rich store of carrion.

Merris had expected to find the valley sinister. She could apply that word to the Keep, but the rest was beautiful. The fields cut from the woods and the hillsides were rich with ripening crops. Vineyards clung to the slopes higher up, thickly clustered with grapes.

Darkwall wine was famous hereabouts. It was a dark vintage, strong and sweet. It was wonderful in winter, heated with spices, or diluted and chilled with spring water in the summer.

The memory was so vivid that Merris could taste it. She swallowed and made her eyes lift past the vineyards to the Keep.

It was black, built of the same stone as the rock it stood on. A round tower stood at each corner. The flag that flew from it was black, with the blood-red outline of a raven flying on it.

The Companion moved without her riders’ asking, picking her way down the steep track. On the road she had found a mud-wallow, then a patch of brown dust to roll in until she was covered from ears to tail. She was still white, but she had managed to dull the brilliance of her coat.

It was a long way down to the river. The track brought them into the village at the foot of the crag, in among a cluster of houses. Fishing nets hung on walls, and boats were drawn up in alleyways and along the riverbank.

There were people out and about. They looked much like the villagers of Forgotten Keep, or like Coryn for that matter. The strangers attracted glances, mildly curious but neither greatly interested nor hostile. There must be enough trade on the river, and enough traders coming through, that unfamiliar faces were not unheard of.

Merris had meant to find either an inn where questions could be answered in travelers’ tales, or a temple where the priests might be welcoming to strangers. But there was no inn. One or two places looked like taverns, but they had a peculiarly deserted look. And there was no temple.

Every village that Merris knew had a temple, if not two or more. There was none here. “So where do travelers rest?” she wondered aloud. “And where does anyone worship?”

“On their boats, I suppose,” Coryn said, “or they go elsewhere.” He frowned. “It is odd. Maybe there’s a market town downstream?”

“I don’t know of any,” said Merris. “This is the chief town that answers to the Keep. Look, there’s the marketplace.” She pointed with her chin to an open space visible down the alley.

“Except there’s no market,” Coryn pointed out.

“It’s not market day, then,” Merris said, but her voice lacked conviction. “I could swear the books talk about the market. And there should be an inn—the Raven’s Nest.”

“I gather we’re not encouraged to spend the night here,” Coryn said.

He touched his heels to Selena’s sides. She went forward obligingly, playing the role of ordinary horse with perceptible relish. Merris thought she overdid the floppy ears and plodding step, but these fishermen were unlikely to know the difference.

Their lack of curiosity was beginning to bother her. No inn, no market, no temple—did traders really stop here? Or did they unload their cargo and get out as fast as they could? There were no other horses in the streets, not even a donkey, and no dogs or cats. Selena was the only fourfooted creature that Merris could see.

“No birds either,” Coryn said under his breath. “Does the air feel dead to you?”

Merris started to ask him what he meant, but she changed her mind. She suspected she knew.

The sun was bright and the breeze was warm, with a smell of water and fish and baking bread, all very pleasant. And yet it felt hollow—false. As if it were a painted backdrop, concealing . . . what? A fane of monsters?

She almost laughed. Her imagination was running away with her. There were fish in the river: she saw one leap well out toward the middle, a silver flash. And yes, there were birds. Black wings circled overhead: a pair of ravens, flying high above the Keep.

She had to get up there. If there was nowhere to stay in town, travelers must be expected to stay in the Keep. She slipped down off the Companion’s back, too quick for Coryn to stop her.

In a town with narrow alleys and people coming and going at inconvenient intervals, a man on a horse, or a creature like one, was at a distinct disadvantage. Merris gambled that the Herald would not leave his Companion. It seemed she was right.

Her back felt cold without Coryn and Selena to watch it. She clamped down the urge to run back to them. This was too dangerous to share with anyone else.

She was beginning to think she had miscalculated. There was nothing to put her finger on, but what she felt here was the wrong kind of wrongness. People were too quiet—too complaisant.

There were no children. No young adults, either. Everyone was older than she was—but not very much older. There were no old people, either. No white heads or wrinkled faces. Everyone seemed to be between the ages of twenty and fifty.

Young people could be in school, except there was no temple for them to be educated in. Old people should be sunning themselves in doorways or manning stalls in the market.

She hesitated at the bottom of the ascent to the Keep. It was supposed to be hers, but it felt completely alien.

Coryn was gaining on her. The Companion was faster than Merris had thought, and more agile at sidestepping people and obstacles. Merris bit her lip and started up the slope.

Part of the way was straight ascent, and part was a series of steps carved in the rock. There were no guards at the gate above, but Merris did not make the mistake of thinking it was not watched. What at first she took for carved ravens perched on the summit of the arch moved suddenly.

One spread its wings. The other let out a single sharp caw.

It seemed she had rung the bell. With clammy hands and thudding heart, she passed through the open gate.

 

The Keep was deserted. The passages were empty and the rooms untenanted. Cobwebs barred windows and flung sticky barriers across doorways.

Merris searched from dungeon to tower with growing desperation. The only inhabitants were ravens roosting on the battlements. From the thickness of dust in the rooms, no human being had lived there for years.

She dropped in a heap on the top of the tower. The wind blew cool on her sweating face, even while the sun shone strong enough to burn. “I don’t understand,” she said.