The waystation was empty and quiet–although Jors supposed that, given the former, the later went without saying. Hands cupped around a mug, he sat in the doorway and watched Gervais grazing, his coat gleaming silver in the twilight.
Beyond the Companion, in under the trees, it was already night. At the settlement, the gates would be closed, animals and people penned in safely; the youngest and the eldest would be preparing for bed, and everyone else would soon follow. Lamplight might extend the day in Haven, but out here sunrise and sunset still defined people’s lives.
Not so different from where he’d just come. Barring the differences between trees and sheep. And the difference between Herald Jors and Jors with a Companion.
:There is no difference between Herald Jors and Jors with a Companion. They are both you.:
“My grandmother would agree. Although she’d think they both mean Jors with a Companion.”
Gervais lifted his head and turned to stare. Jors wished, not for the first time, he could pick up his Companion’s thoughts as easily as Gervais picked up his. Finally, the young stallion snorted and bent back to the grass. :If you are still annoyed with her about the letter, tomorrow you many tell her it was inappropriate.:
“Yeah.” Jors drained the mug and set it to one side. “Like that’ll happen.”
He didn’t recognize the girl running down the track toward him until she skidded to a stop, bowed elaborately–one plait surrendering, spilling her dark blonde hair down over her face–looked up, and grinned. “Herald Jors. Wonderous One.”
:I like her.:
Jors returned the grin and swung out of the saddle. “Annamarin.”
In the time he’d been gone, she’d crossed from child to girl. She’d be eleven now, almost twelve, the same age Elane had been when she’d spent the summer with flowers in her hair waiting for a Companion. Instead of flowers, Annamarin’s hair held a trio of feathers stuffed into the top of the remaining braid.
“You weren’t waiting out here hoping to be Chosen, were you?” Grandmother’s letter had said Annamarin could benefit from his experience.
“No! No offense,” she added quickly to Gervais, dipping into another elaborate bow. “Companions Choose as Companions will, and Companions will as Companions please.”
:I really like her.: Gervais said as Jors worked that through.
“May I give you greetings, cousin?”
“May you what?”
She sighed, a simple exhalation defining her as the most put-upon creature in these woods. “Can I hug you?”
“Why couldn’t you?”
“You’re a Herald! In Whites! And I’m tragically soiled, though tis naught but good clean dirt.”
“Tis naught?”
Annamarin rolled her eyes. “It means it isn’t. Sort of. Wait . . . my pipes!” She pulled a set of reed pipes out from behind her waistband. “I don’t want them to be tragically crushed! I made them myself,” she continued after an emphatic hug that rocked Jors back onto his heels. “Well, Lyral–she got stuck here for almost a week during fall storms, when the mud was up over her boots–she showed me how. But I made them. Mostly.”
“Lyral?” As they walked toward the settlement, Jors ran through the names of the Bards he knew and came up short.
“She’s a minstrel. She travels. She sings. She’s the best. I wanted to go with her when she left, but Mama said no. Papa said good riddance.” Annamarin blew across the top of the pipes and back. The rise and fall of the twelve notes sounded like a giggle. “He was kidding.”
“What did Lyral say when you said you wanted to go with her?” It wouldn’t be the first time a “minstrel” had discovered a talent in a child and made promises in order to lure that child away. If Lyral was one of those predators–however unsuccessful this time—Jors needed to find her. He’d be in and out of the settlement so quickly his grandmother would no doubt feel herself justified writing another letter to the Dean. Beside him, Gervais had both ears flicked forward.
“Oh, then.” This time, the twelve notes sounded resigned. And a bit annoyed. “She said she didn’t travel with children, but she’d be back this way in a year or two, and if I still wanted to go, we’d talk.”
“About what?”
“About me going with her, I guess. I dunno.” She shrugged a skinny shoulder, then bent back to the pipes and blew out a string of birdsong that drew answers from the surrounding trees.
“Did Lyra teach you to do that?”
The look Annamarin shot him reminded him chillingly of their grandmother. “It’s a calling bird song, Jors. You spend way too much time in the city. It’s tragic.”
“Can’t argue with that.” So, since she couldn’t have known they’d be arriving today . . . “Shirking chores?”
“No.” When he glanced down at her, she grinned. “Maybe a little. Sometimes . . .” She turned in place and walked backward, staring down the track. “I just want to know what’s out there. You know what I mean?”
He’d never given the world beyond the forest and the settlement any thought before he’d been Chosen. On his first trip to Greenhaven and the mill, he’d found himself falling into sapphire eyes and hearing an emphatic :Finally: in his head. Now he thought about it, Gervais had sounded a lot like Annamarin.
:I was tired of waiting for you. Most of those who are to be Chosen find their way to Haven.:
:If I’d known you were out there, I’d have met you halfway.:
“Jors?”
He smiled down at her. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”
As they came out of the trees and into the clearing in front of the palisade, Jors found himself studying the area with a professional eye. The settlement’s grant allowed a certain area cleared for living space, and it looked as though his uncle had recently expanded out as far as he was legally allowed. The edges still looked rough and there were two new buildings inside the palisade.
His mother’s geese saw them first. Heads low, necks extended, the current flock charged out through the open gate, hissing, wings beating at the air. When Gervais lowered his own head and struck the ground with his right hoof, they wheeled neatly to the left, circling the willow fencing around the vegetable garden as though that had been their destination all along. A familiar voice shouted from the garden. As Jors and Annamarin drew even with the opening, their grandmother emerged, threw her cane at the geese, spotted Gervais, and rocked to a stop.
“As I live and breathe! The boy is back!” Less considerate of his Whites than Annamarin, she stumped forward and dragged him up against her generous bosom, leaving a smear of rich black earth across his tunic and down one leg. Given the amount of dirt on her hands, he didn’t want think about the places she’d gripped him.
It was the same possessively affectionate hug he’d always had from her, and it made him feel seven, ten, fourteen . . .
“You’ve filled out,” she clucked as she pushed him back out to arm’s length and looked him up and down. “Well, you couldn’t have stayed all arms and legs forever, I suppose, could you? Never mind,” she cut him off as he opened his mouth. “How long can you stay?”
“Seven days, unless I’m needed.”
“Needed.” Gran rolled her eyes. “I think they can manage without out you for so short a time. Annamarin, get my cane would you, sweetheart. Had her head turned by a minstrel,” she added as the girl cautiously approached the geese. Either his grandmother had gotten a little deaf or she didn’t care if she was overheard. Jors leaned toward the later. “Fool woman put foolish ideas into the girl’s head. I want you to tell her that it’s one thing to have a Companion suddenly appear and declare you special . . .” She nodded to Gervais, who nodded back. “. . . and another thing entirely to declare it yourself. Now, come on.” Hand tucked in the crook of his elbow, she tugged him toward the gate. “It’s bread day. Your mother can’t leave the kneading.”