She wanted to pick him up and shake him, but he was standing up and she was sitting on the floor, and he was a fair bit bigger than she was. She let her glare do it for her. “Suppose there’s something I haven’t been told, and a reason why. Tell me.”
“I told you, it’s just rumors. That the Lady is a socreress. That she keeps herself young with the blood of children, and rules a domain of magical creatures as well as humans.”
“I’ve heard those rumors,” Merris said. “I’ve also met the Lady. She’s not particularly young, and she’s been aging as she should.”
“Do you like her?”
That was a most peculiar question. It was also peculiarly perceptive. Merris answered it honestly. “No. No, I don’t. I don’t like any of the tutors she’s sent either. They’re all so cold. All duty, no humanity.”
“That’s not like you at all,” he said. Then he flushed again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—well, I did. But I shouldn’t have. I have serious deficiencies in tact and diplomacy.”
He sounded as if he was quoting someone—probably one of his teachers. Merris reflected that unlike her tutors, he was very likable indeed. She was thinking she could trust him.
Thoughts she had not been daring to think, and realizations she had not wanted to come to, were coming together in Merris’ head. She pulled herself up, staggering on knees that were suddenly weak.
The Companion’s shoulder was there, offering support. Over the broad back and arched neck, she met the Herald’s eyes.
“I’m nothing like the place I’m supposed to take charge of,” she said. “So tell me, why did she choose me? Why not someone who fits her better?”
Coryn shook his head. He did not know. Or—did not want to?
The Companion’s neck bent around. The blue eye was very keen. It saw everything she wanted it to see, and everything else, too.
“There are no accidents,” Merris said. “Please tell me you didn’t half-kill a Herald just to provide an excuse.”
The white head shook from side to side. Some things, the Companion seemed to be saying, were beyond even her powers—even if she had wanted any such thing.
“I have to go,” Merris said. She was running away, of course, but it was all too much. She needed to be alone.
She did not pause to see if Coryn tried to stop her. The Companion did not, and that was what mattered.
Merris lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling. Her maids snored in ragged harmony. The moon was setting. Its light reminded her of the shimmer of a Companion’s coat.
One reason why Darkwall’s Lady might have gone so far afield in search of an heir was because the farther from her Keep she went, the less likely it would be that people would have heard the stories. The Keeps kept to themselves. When they made alliances, they did so circumspectly. People in this country were not given to idle gossip.
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?
Blood of children.
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.”