Mercedes Lackey - Heralds of Valdemar 1 - Arrows Of The Quee

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Cover art by Jody Lee.

DAW Book Collectors No. 702.

Dedicated to Marion Zimmer Bradley

and Lisa Waters

who kept telling me I

could do this . . .

First Printing, March 1987 5 6 7 8 9 10 II 12

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the tree, but the young girl seated

beneath it did not seem to notice. An adolescent of thirteen or thereabouts, she

was, by her plain costume, a member of one of the solemn and straight-laced Hold

families that lived in this Borderland of Valdemar—come there to settle a bare

two generations ago. She was dressed (as any young Holdgirl would be) in plain

brown breeches and a long, sleeved tunic. Her unruly brown curls had been cut

short in an unsuccessful attempt to tame them to conform to Hold standards. She

would have presented a strange sight to anyone familiar with Holderfolk; for

while she sat and carded the undyed wool she had earlier cleaned, she was

reading. Few Hold girls could read, and none did so for pleasure. That was a

privilege normally reserved, by longstanding tradition, for the men and boys of

the Holdings. A female's place was not to be learned; a girl reading—even if she

was doing a womanly task at the same time—was as out of place as a scarlet jay

among crows.

If anyone could have seen her thoughts at that moment, they would have known her

to be even more of a misfit than her reading implied.

Mercedes Lackey

Vanyel was a dim shape in the darkness beside her; there was no moon, and only

the dim light of the stars penetrated the boughs of the hemlock bushes they hid

beneath. She only knew he was there by the faint sound of his breathing, though

they lay so closely together that had she moved her hand a fraction of an inch,

she'd have touched him. Training and discipline held her quiet, though under

other circumstances she'd have been shivering so hard her teeth would have

rattled. The starlight reflected on the snow beneath them was enough to see by—-

enough to see the deadly danger to Valdemar that moved below them.

Beneath their ledge, in the narrow pass between Dettcrag and Mount Thurfos, the

army of the Dark Servants was passing. They were nearly as silent as the two who

watched them; only a creak of snow, the occasional crack of a broken branch, or

the faint jingling of armor or harness betrayed them. She marveled at the

discipline their silent passage revealed; marveled, and feared. How could the

tiny outpost of the Border Guard that lay to the south of them ever hope to make

a stand against these warriors who were also magicians? Bad enough that they

were outnumbered a hundred to one—these were no simple barbarians coming against

the forces of Valdemar this time, who could be defeated by their own refusal to

acknowledge any one of their own as overall leader. No, these fighters bowed to

an iron-willed leader the equal of any in Valdemar, and their ranks held only

the trained and seasoned.

She started as Vanyel's hand lightly touched the back of her neck, and came out

of her half-trance. He tugged slightly at her sleeve; she backed carefully out

of the thicket, obedient to his signal.

"Now what?" she whispered, when they were safely

ARROWS OF THE QUEEN 7

around the ledge with the bulk of a stone outcropping between them and the Dark

Servants.

"One of us has to alert the King, while the other holds them off at the other

end of the pass—"

"With what army?" she asked, fear making her voice sharp with sarcasm.

"You forget, little sister—I need no army—" the sudden flare of light from

Vanyel's outstretched hand illuminated his ironic smile, and bathed his white

uniform in an eerie blue wash for one moment. She shuddered; his saturnine

features had always looked faintly sinister to her, and in the blue light his

face had looked demonic. Vanyel held a morbid fascination for her—dangerous, the

man was; not like his gentle lifemate, Bard Stefen. Possibly the last—and some

said the best—of the Herald-mages. The Servants of Darkness had destroyed the

others, one by one. Only Vanyel had been strong enough to withstand their united

powers. She who had little magic in her soul could almost feel the strength of

his even when he wasn't exerting it.

"Between us, my Companion and I are a match for any thousand of their witch-

masters," he continued arrogantly. "Besides—at the far end of the pass there

isn't room for more than three to walk side by side. We can hold them there

easily. And I want Stefen well out of this; Yfandes couldn't carry us double,

but you're light enough that Evalie could easily manage both of you."

She bowed her head, yielding to his reasoning. "I can't like il<—"

"I know, little sister—but you have precious little magic, while Evalie does

have speed. The sooner you go, the sooner you'll have help here for me."

"Vanyel—" she touched his gloved hand with one fur mitten. "Be—be safe—" She

suddenly feared more for him than for herself. He had looked so fey when the

Mercedes Lackey

King hod placed this mission in their hands—tike a man who has seen his awn

death.

"As safe as may be, little sister. I swear to you, I will risk nothing I am not

forced to."

A heartbeat latter she was firmly in the saddle, Evalie galloping beneath her

like a blizzard wind in horse-shape. Behind her she could feel Bard Stefen

clinging to her waist, and was conscious of a moment of pity for him—to him,

Evalie was strange, he could not move with her, only cling awkwardly; while she

felt almost as one with the Companion, touched with a magic only another Herald

could share.

Their speed was reckless; breakneck. Skeletal tree-limbs reached hungrily for

them, trying to seize them as they passed and pull them from Evalie's back.

Always the Companion avoided them, writhing away from the claw-like branches

like a ferret.

"The Dark Servants—" Stefen shouted in her ear "—they must know someone's gone

for help. They're animating the trees against us!"

She realized, as Evalie escaped yet another trap set for them, that Stefen was

right—-the trees were indeed moving with a will of their own, and not just

random waving in the wind. They reached out, hungrily, angrily; she felt the hot

breath of dark magic on the back of her neck, like the noisome breath of a

carrion-eater. Evalie's eyes were wide with more than fear; she knew the

Companion felt the dark power, too.

She urged Evalie on; the Companion responded with new speed, sweat breaking out

on her neck and flanks to freeze almost immediately. The trees seemed to thrash

with anger and frustration as they eluded the last of them and broke out on the

bank above the road.

The road to the capital lay straight and open before them now, and Evalie leaped

over a fallen forest giant to gain the surface of it with a neigh of triumph. .

. .

ARROWS OF THE QUEEN

Talia blinked, emerging abruptly from the spell her book had laid on her. She

had been lost in the daydream her tale had conjured for her, but the dream was

now lost beyond recall. Someone was calling her name in the distance. She looked

up quickly, with a toss of her head that threw her unmanageable hair out of her

eyes. Near the door of the family house she could make out the angular figure of

Keldar Firstwife, dark-clad and rigid, like a stiff fire iron propped against

the building. Keldar's fists were on her hips; her stern carriage suggested that

she was waiting Talia's response with very little patience.

Talia sighed regretfully, put up her wool and the wire brushes, and closed the

worn little cloth-bound volume, laying aside the rocks she'd used to hold down

the pages as she'd worked. Though she'd carefully marked the place, she knew

that even without the precious scrap of ribbon she used to mark it she'd have no

trouble finding it again. Keldar couldn't have picked a worse time; Herald

Vanyel was alone, surrounded by the Servants of Darkness, and no one knew his

peril but his Companion and Bard Stefen. Knowing Keldar, it would be hours

before she could return to the tale—perhaps not even until tomorrow. Keldar was

adept at finding ways to keep Talia from even the little reading she was

grudgingly allowed.

Nevertheless, Keldar was Firstwife; her voice ruled the Steading, to be obeyed

in all things, or suffer punishment for disobedience. Talia responded to the

summons as dutifully as she could. She put the little book carefully away in the

covered basket that held carded and uncarded wool

Mercedes Lackey

and her spindle. The peddler who had given it to her last week had assured her

many times that it was worthless to him, but it was still precious to her as one

of the three books she owned and (more importandy) the only one she'd never read

before. For an hour this afternoon she'd been transported to the outside world

of Heralds and Companions, of high adventure and magic. Returning to the

ordinary world of chores and Keldar's sour face was a distinct letdown. She

schooled her expression with care, hoping none of her discontent showed, and

trudged dully up the path that led to the Steading, carrying her basket in one

hand.

But she had the sinking feeling as she watched the Firstwife's hardening

expression that her best efforts were not enough to mislead Keldar.

Keldar noted the signs of rebellion Talia displayed despite her obvious effort

to hide them. The signs were plain enough for anyone with the Firstwife's

experience in dealing with littles; the slightly dragging feet, the sullen eyes.

Her mouth tightened imperceptibly. Thirteen years old, and still fighting the

yoke the gods had decreed for her shoulders! Well, that would change—and soon.

Soon enough there would be no more time for foolish tales and wasted time.

"Stop scowling, child!" Keldar snapped, her thin lips taut with scorn, "You're

not being summoned for a beating!"

Not that she hadn't warranted a beating to correct her attitude in the past.

Those beatings had done precious little good, and had drawn the feeble protests

of her Husband's Mother—but it was the will of the gods that children obey, and

if it took beating to drive them into obedience, then

ARROWS OF THE QCJEEtt

one would beat them with as heavy a hand as required, and pray that this time

the lesson was learned.

It was possible that she, Keldar, had not possessed a hand heavy enough. Well,

if that were indeed the case, that situation would be corrected soon as well.

She watched the child trudge unwillingly up the path, her feet kicking up little

puffs of dust. Keldar was well aware that her attitude where Talia was concerned

was of a harshness that bordered on the unfair. Still, the child drove her out

of all patience. Who would ever have imagined that so placid and bovine a

creature as Bessa could have produced a little scrap of mischief like this? The

child was like a wild thing sometimes, intractable, and untamable—how could

Bessa have dared to birth such a misfit? And who would have thought that she'd

have had the poor taste to die of the birthing and leave the rearing of her

litde to the rest of the Wives?

Talia was so unlike her birth-mother that Keldar was per force reminded of the

stories of changelings. And the child had been born on Midsummer's Eve, a time

long noted for arcane connections—she as little resembled the strong, tall,

blond man who was her father as her plump, fair, deceased mother—

But no. That was superstition, and superstition had no place in the lives of

Holderkin. It was only that she had double the usual share of stubbornness. Even

the most stubborn of saplings could be bent Or broken.

And if Keldar lacked the necessary tools to accomplish the breaking and bending,

there were

Mercedes Lackey

others among the Holderkin who suffered no such lack.

"Get along, child!" she added, when Talia didn't respond immediately, "Or do you

think I need hurry your steps with a switch?"

"Yes ma'am. I mean, no ma'am!" Talia replied in as neutral a voice as she could

manage. She tried to smooth her expression into one more pleasing to her elder,

even as she smoothed the front of her tunic with a sweaty, nervous palm.

What am I being summoned for? she wondered apprehensively. In her experience

summonings had rarely meant anything good.

"Well, go in, go in! Don't keep me standing here in the doorway all afternoon!"

Keldar's cold face gave no clue as to what was in store. Everything about

Keldar, from her tightly wrapped and braided hair to the exact set of her apron,

gave an impression of one in total control. She was everything a Firstwife

should be—and frequently pointed this out. Talia was always intimidated by her

presence, and always felt she looked hoydenish and disheveled, no matter how

carefully she'd prepared herself for confrontations.

In her haste to edge past the authoritative figure of the Firstwife in the

doorway, Talia stumbled a little on the Untel. Keldar made a derogatory noise in

the back of her throat, and Talia felt herself flush. Somehow there was that

about Keldar that never failed to put her at her faultiest and clumsiest. She

regathered what little composure she had and slipped inside and into the hall.

The windowless entryway was very dark; she would have paused to let her eyes

adjust except for the forbidding presence of Keldar hard on her heels.

ARROWS OF THE QUEEN

She felt her way down the worn, wooden floor hoping not to trip again. Then, as

she entered the commonroom and she could see again in the light that came from

its three windows, her mouth suddenly dried with fear; for all of her Father's

Wives were waiting there, assembled around the rough-hewn wooden table that

served them all at meals. And all of them were staring at her. Eight pairs of

blue and brown eyes held her transfixed like a bird surrounded by hungry cats.

Eight flat, expressionless faces had turned to point in her direction.

She thought at once of all her failings of the last month or so, from her

failure to remember her kitchen duties yesterday to the disaster with the little

she was supposed to have been watching who'd gotten into the goat pen. There

were half a hundred things they might call her to account for, but none of them

were bad enough to call for an assemblage of all the Wives; at least, she didn't

think they were!

Unless—she started guiltily at the thought— unless they'd somehow found out

she'd been sneaking into Father's library to read when there was a full moon—

light enough to read without a betraying candle. Father's books were mostly

religious, but she'd found an old history or two that proved to be almost as

good as her tales, and the temptation had been too much to resist. If they'd

found that out—

It might mean a beating every day for a week and a month of "exile"—being locked

in a closet at night, and isolated by day, with no one allowed to speak to her

or acknowledge her presence in any way, except Keldar, who would assign her

chores.

74 Mercedes Lackey

That had happened twice already this year. Talia began to tremble. She wasn't

sure she could bear a third time.

Keldar took her place at the head of the table, and her next words drove all

thought of that out of Talia's head. "Well, child," she said, scowling, "You're

thirteen today."

Talia felt almost giddy with relief. Just her Birthing Day? Was that all it was?

She took an easier breath, and stood before the assemblage of nine Wives, much

calmer mow. She kept her hands clasped properly before her, eyes cast down. She

studied the basket at her sturdily-shod feet, prepared to listen with all due

respect to the lecture about her growing responsibilities that they'd delivered

to her every Birthing Day she could remember. After they were sure that she'd

absorbed all their collective wisdom on the subject, they'd let her get back to

her wool (and not so incidentally, her tale).

But what Keldar had to say next scattered every speck of calm she'd regained to

the four winds.

"Yes, thirteen," Keldar repeated significantly, "And that is time to think of

Marriage."

Talia blanched, feeling as if her heart had stopped. Marriage? Oh, sweet Goddess

no!

Keldar seemingly paid no heed to Talia's reaction; a flicker of her eyes

betrayed that she'd seen it, but she went callously on with her planned speech.

"You're not ready for it, of course, but no girl is. Your courses have been

regular for more than a year now, you're healthy amd strong. There's no reason

why you couldn't be a mother before the year is out It's more than time you were

in a Household as a Wife. Your Honored Father is

ARROWS OF THE QUEEN

dowering you with three whole fields, so your ponion is quite respectable."

Keldar's faintly sour expression seemed to indicate that she felt Talia's dower

to be excessive. The hands clasping the edge of the table before her tightened

as the other Wives murmured appreciation of their Husband's generosity.

"Several Elders have already bespoken your Father about you, either as a

Firstwife for one of their sons or as an Underwife for themselves. In spite of

your unwomanly habits of reading and writing, we've trained you well. You can

cook and clean, sew, weave and spin, and you're trustworthy with the littlest

littles. You're not up to managing a Household yet, but you won't be called to

do that for several years. Even if you go to a young man as his Firstwife,

you'll be living in your Husband's Father's Household. So you're prepared enough

to do your duty."

Ketdar seemed to feel that she'd said all she needed to, and sat down, hands

folded beneath her apron, back ramrod straight. Underwife Isrel waited for her

nod of delegation, then took up the thread of the lecture on a daughter's

options.

Isrel was easily dominated by Keldar, and Talia had always considered her to be

more than a little silly. The Underwife looked to Keldar with calf-like brown

eyes for approval of everything she said—nor did she fail to do so now. She

glanced at Keldar after every other word she spoke.

"There's advantages to both, you know; being a Firstwife and being an Underwife,

I mean. If you're Firstwife, eventually your Husband will start his own Steading

and Household, and you'll be First in it But if you're an Underwife, you won't

have

Mercedes Lackey

to ever make any decisions. And you'll be in an established Household and

Steading—you won't have to scrimp and scant, there won't be any hardships. You

won't have to worry about anything except the tasks you're set and bearing your

littles. We don't want you to be unhappy, Talia. We want to give you the choice

of the life you think you're best suited for. Not the man of course," she

giggled nervously, "That would be unseemly, and besides you probably don't know

any of them anyway."

"Isrel!" Keldar snapped, and isrel shrank into herself a little. "That last

remark was unseemly, and not suited to a girl's ears! Now, child, which shall it

be?"

Goddess! Talia wanted to die, to turn into a bird, to sink into the floor—

anything but this! Trapped; she was trapped. They'd Marry her off and she'd end

up like Nada, beaten every night so that she had to wear high-necked tunics to

hide the bruises. Or she'd die like her own mother, worn out with too many

babies too quickly. Or even if the impossible happened, and her Husband was kind

or too stupid to be a danger, her real life, the tales that were all that made

living worthwhile, would all but disappear, for there would be no time for them

in the never-ending round of pregnancy and a Wife's duties—

Before she could stop herself, Talia blurted out, "I don't want to be Married at

all!"

The little rustlings and stirrings of a group of bored women suddenly ceased,

and they became as still as a row of fenceposts, all with disbelief on their

faces. Nine identical expressions of shock and dismay stared at Talia from the

sides of the

ARROWS OF THE QUEEN

table. The silence closed down around her like the hand of doom.

"Talia, dear," a soft voice spoke behind her, breaking the terrible silence, and

Talia turned with relief to face Father's Mother, who had been sitting unnoticed

in the corner. She was one of the few people in Talia's life who never seemed to

think that everything she did was wrong. Her kind, faded blue eyes were the only

ones in the room not full of accusation. The old woman smoothed one braid of

cloud-white hair with age-spotted hands in unconscious habit, as she continued.

"May the Mother forgive us, but we never thought to ask you. Have you a

vocation? Has the Goddess Called you to her service?1'

Talia had been hoping for a reprieve, but that, if anything, was worse. Talia

thought with horror of the one glimpse she'd had of the Temple Cloisters, of the

women there who spent their lives in prayer for the souls of the Holderkin. The

utterly silent women, who went muffled from head to toe, forbidden to leave,

forbidden to speak, forbidden—life!—had horrified her. It was a worse trap than

Marriage; the very memory of the Cloisters made her feel as if she was being

smothered.

She shook her head frantically, unable to talk around the lump in her throat.

Keldar rose from her place with the scrape of a stool on the rough wooden floor

and advanced on the terrified child, who was as unable to move as a mouse

between the paws of a cat. Keldar took her shoulders with a grip that bruised as

it made escape impossible and shook her till her teeth rattled. "What's wrong

with you, girl?" she said angrily, "You don't want an Honorable Marriage, you

don't want the Peace of the Goddess, what do you want?"

Mercedes Lackey

All I want is to be left alone, Talia thought with quiet desperation, I don't

want anything to change— but her traitorous mouth opened again and let the dream

spill.

"I want to be a Herald," she heard herself say.

Keidar released her shoulders quickly, with a look of near-horror as if she'd

discovered she'd been holding something vile, something that had crawled out of

the midden.

"You—you—" For once, the controlled Keidar was at a loss for words. Then— "Now

you see what comes of coddling a brat!" she said, turning on Father's Mother in

default of anyone else to use as a scapegoat, "This is what happens when you let

a girl rise above her place. Reading! Figuring! No girl needs to know more than

she requires to label her preserves and count her stores or keep the peddlers

from cheating her! I told you this would happen, you and your precious Andrean,

letting her fill her head with foolish tales!" She turned back to face Talia.

"Now, girl—when I finish with you—"

But Talia was gone.

She had taken advantage of the distraction of Keldar's momentary tirade to

escape. Scampering quickly out the door before any of the Wives realized she was

missing, she fled the Steading as fast as she could run. Sobbing hysterically,

she had no thought except to get away. With the wind in her face, and sweating

with fear, she ran past the barns and the stockade, pure terror giving her feet

extra speed. She fled through the fields as the waist-high hay and grain beat

against her, and up into the woodlot and through it, following a tangled path

through the uncut underbrush. She was

ARROWS OF THE QUEEN

seeking the shelter of the hiding place she'd found, the place that no one else

knew of.

There was a steep bluff where the woodlot ended high above the Road. Two years

ago, Talia had found a place where something had carved out a kind of shallow

cave beneath the protruding roots of a tree that grew at the very edge of the

bluff. She'd lined it with filched straw and old rugs meant for the rag-bag; she

kept her other two books hidden there. She had spent many hours stolen from her

chores there, daydreaming, invisible from above or below so long as she stayed

quiet and still. She sought this sanctuary now, and scrambling over the edge of

the bluff, crept into it. She buried herself in the rugs, crying hysterically,

limp with exhaustion, nerves practically afire, ears stretched for the tiniest

sound above her.

For no matter how deep her misery, she knew she must keep alert for the sounds

of searchers. Before very long, she heard the sound of some of the servants

calling her name. When they drew too near, she stifled her sobs in the rugs

while her tears fell silently, listening in fear for some sign telling her she'd

been discovered. She thought a dozen times that they'd found some sign of her

passage, but they seemed to have lost her track. Eventually they went away, and

she was free to cry as she would.

Wrapped in pure misery, she hugged her knees to her chest and rocked back and

forth, weeping until her eyes were too dry and sore to shed another tear. She

felt numb all over, too numb to think properly. Any choice she made seemed worse

than the one before it. Should she return and apologize, any punishment she'd

ever had before

Mercedes Lackey

would seem a pleasure to the penance Keldar was likely to devise for her

unseemly and insubordinate behavior. It would be Keldar's choice, and her

Father's, what would befall her then. Any Husband Keldar would choose now would

be— horrid. She'd either be shackled to some drooling old dotard, to be pawed

over by night and to be a nursemaid by day—or she'd be given to some brutal,

younger man, a cruel one, with instructions to break her to seemly behavior.

Keldar would likely pick one as sadistic as Justus, her older brother— she

shuddered, as the unbidden memory came to her, of him standing over her with the

hot poker in his hand and the look on his face of fierce pleasure—

She forced the memory away, quickly.

But even that fate would be a pleasurable experience compared to what would

happen if they decided to offer her as a Temple Servant. The Goddess's Servants

had even less freedom and more duties than Her Handmaidens. They lived and died

never going beyond the cloister corridor to which they were assigned. And in any

case, no matter what future they picked for her, her reading, her escape, would

be over. Keldar would see to it that she never saw another book again.

For one moment, she contemplated running away, truly fleeing the Steading and

the Holderkin. Then she recalled the faces of the wandering laborers she'd seen

at Hiring Fairs; pinched, hungry, desperate for anyone to take them into a

Holding. And she'd never seen a woman among them. The "foolish tales" she'd read

made one thing very clear, the life of a wanderer was dangerous and sometimes

fatal for the unprepared,

ARROWS OF THE QUEEN

the defenseless. What preparation had she? She had the clothing she stood up in,

the ragged rugs, and nothing else. How could she defend herself? She'd never

even been taught how to use a knife. She'd be ready prey.

If only this were a tale—

An unfamiliar voice called her name—a voice full of calm authority, and she

found herself answering it, climbing out of her hiding place almost against her

will. And there before her, waiting at the top of the bluff-—

A Herald; resplendent and proud in her Whites, her Companion a snowy apparition

beside her, mane and fail lifting in the gentle breeze like the finest silk.

Sunlight haloed and hallowed both of them, making them seem more than mortal.

She looked to Talia like the statue of the Lady come to life—only proud, strong

and proud, not meek and submissive. Behind the Herald, looking cowed and

ashamed, were Keldar and her Father.

"You are Talia ?" the Herald asked, and she nodded affirmatively.

She broke out in a smile that dazzled her—it was like a sudden appearance of the

sun after rain.

"Blessed is the Lady who led us here!" she exclaimed. "Many the weary months we

have searched for you, and always in vain. We had nothing to go on except your

name—"

"Led you to me?" she asked, exalted, "But, why?"

"To make you one of us, little sister," she replied, as Keldar shrank into

herself and her Father seemed bent on studying the tops of his shoes. "You are

to be a Herald, Talia—the gods themselves have decreed it. Look—yonder comes

your Companion— "

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Version1.1Copyright©1987byMercedesR.Lackey.AllRightsReserved.CoverartbyJodyLee.DAWBookCollectorsNo.702.DedicatedtoMarionZimmerBradleyandLisaWaterswhokepttellingmeIcoulddothis...FirstPrinting,March19875678910II12PRINTEDINTHEUNITEDSTATESOFAMERICAAgentlebreezerustledtheleavesofthetree,buttheyounggirlse...

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