“But—King Valdemar is a great mage!” Doladan sputtered, nearly skipping in his agitation and his need to keep up with Navar’s long strides.
“There is no mage so great that he may not meet a greater one,” Navar said grimly.
The barracks had been half built even before they’d left, as dormitory buildings were the quickest and most efficient way of getting Haven’s population out of tents and under roofs, but they weren’t the cheeriest lodgings to be had. Navar was spared that this night, for on his way back there—Doladan at his heels—he spied proof that Haven had become a city in truth: a tavern.
There was not yet a royal mint established, or any coin circulated, but the tavernkeeper was willing to take Navar’s signed chit in payment. The “Journey’s End” had all they might have found elsewhere, and one thing more.
Gossip.
This was not the only tavern in Haven—Navar was surprised to discover there were four—but it was the oldest by three moonturns, and the largest, and the nearest to the new palace. Men and women came here to drink beer and cider, to get a hot meal, and to exchange the news of the day.
That news was as grim as the news that Lord Beltran had relayed. Word of these “Companions” were on everyone’s lips, from those who wished to be Chosen themselves to those who simply wished to give thanks that King Valdemar’s prayers had been answered. None had anything less than full praise to deliver for these Companions’ supposed wisdom and goodness, which merely raised Navar’s suspicions further. One hallmark of life, learned through painful lessons: There was naught so good that someone would not despise it. For none to speak ill of these Companions spoke less of the quality of Valdemar’s prayers and more to Navar’s worst fears.
Doladan sought to discuss what they had learned, but Navar bade him hold his tongue, for he had already decided. This Haven had turned to nightmare, and Navar would not remain to be overshadowed in turn. They would leave at first light, he and Doladan, and make their way up the river Terilee until they could find a suitable place to winter, where they would be sheltered from forest’s dangers. Come spring, they would continue pressing west, or perhaps south, until they found another settlement—one that bent knee to neither Iron Throne nor white spirit-horses.
He outlined his plans to Doladan in a quiet voice, masked by the sound of revelry in the tavern as drunken men grew more drunken, and Doladan looked as though he held back protest. Navar kept his eyes moving around them, looking for any signs that someone was paying more attention to them than he should. “I’ll slip out after we’ve retired and find a storehouse to provision us,” Navar said, while trying to decide if the barmaid was showing too much interest in their bowed-head conference.
:I do so wish you wouldn’t.:
“It’s the only way we can be sure to have sufficient supplies for a winter,” Navar said, trying to bite back his anger that Doladan would question him. Hadn’t he proven his ability to plan and execute a long journey already? “We don’t know how harsh the winters of this land will be.”
Doladan ducked his head. “Can’t we stay here and see what will happen? What if these—these Companions aren’t a sign of something bad? What if they’re exactly what people say they are?”
“You never suffered beneath the boot of the Iron Throne.” Navar dropped his voice even further. “I have seen what power drives men to do, and I tell you: Freedom is sweet. I will not fall beneath a madman’s subjugation a second time.”
Navar brought Doladan back to their room and impressed upon him the urgency of remaining where he was, then dressed himself in his darkest clothes and smeared ash from the firepit across his cheeks and forehead as though he had simply failed to bathe after a day’s long labor. It was well past midnight when all in the tavern’s front room had finally retired for the evening and he could slide noiselessly through the tavern’s doors.
The night was clear and cold, and the moon was barely a sliver. After years of scouting, it was second nature for Navar to remain in the shadows where an onlooker’s eyes might pass him by. He wished he had had more time to learn the lay of the city, for the only storehouse whose location he could be sure of was the one that served Valdemar’s army, and that was perilously close to the palace grounds. But every instinct was telling him to be gone by sun’s rising, and that meant he could spare no time creeping from door to door until he found somewhere with sufficient wealth to serve their needs.
And besides, he had served Baron Valdemar for thirty loyal years. True, he had been well- paid for them all, but he did not think Valdemar would begrudge him the cost of what he would take as a parting gift, while his conscience would not let him steal from another.
The army’s storehouse was locked, of course, and Navar spent a moment praying to all the good gods that it was not locked by magecraft, for he no longer had the tools King Valdemar had betimes equipped him with for defeating the mage-lock of an enemy. His luck was with him, though, and so he knelt before the lock to work at it with two scraps of wire he had brought with him for that very purpose.
:You are the stubbornest man I have ever encountered.:
Navar’s nerves were well- hardened against shock, and so he did not leap in fright to hear someone speak to him, merely turned his head to see whether he was at swordspoint or whether he had a chance of winning free. It was no man who spoke to him, though. At least, not in his ears. As he rose slowly to his feet, he saw one of the spirit-horses staring at him, near to the turning that would lead to the palace, and he would have sworn it beckoned him to come near.
And was that not proof of sorcery or mind- magic being applied? For Navar found himself following, without thought to his own safety: through the streets, across the grounds of the palace, over the bridge to the fields beyond, without struggling against the witchery—
Another voice sounded, different than the first. :He thinks we’re bewitching him. He doesn’t realize his heart truly wants him to follow.:
:Is he still being stubborn?: Yet another voice this time, and Navar realized that they were sounding not in his ears, but in his mind. The realization made panic rise in his throat, for to hear voices in the mind meant sorcery, and sorcery meant that he was far too late—
:Silence, all of you. You’re frightening him. Navar, this is no sorcery. You have the ability to hear us all; it is a skill, nothing more.:
:Tell him—:
The spirit-horse that had led him stamped its foot as yet another voice interjected, and all of a sudden Navar’s mind was silence again. He looked around, startled to find that he had crossed the bridge across the River Terilee, into the field beyond, into the copse of trees that waited there.
:This is Companion’s Field,: the voice that had bade the others to silence said. Looking at the spirit- horse that had led him, Navar realized it must belong to the voice, or the voice belong to it. He was certain enough of it that when the voice continued, it seemed in response to that new understanding. :And yes, I am Ardatha, King Valdemar’s Companion. And I have led you here because we can’t let you go running off until you’re satisfied that we are no demons, nor pawns of some great sorcerer, and Valdemar is not overshadowed by some other mage. We need you. Valdemar needs you. King and kingdom alike.:
“And I am to believe that?” Navar said, his voice rough. Well he knew that a man’s anger was a blade set at his own throat, yet he could not keep himself from feeling it. He thought of Doladan, awaiting him in their bed at the tavern—Doladan, who trusted too quickly and too easily. He thought of the hope that he might live in freedom and under law, a hope that had kindled from a fragile spark to a great blaze over so many moonturns—