Identity Crisis
Chapter Two
In which Tatya and Herald Rhys refrain from killing each other, for the good of the Kingdom.
* * *
*Child, you must wake up. This is not a good time to faint.* Tatya woke to find Faniel dribbling bits of half-melted snow on her nose.
"Is there ever a good time to faint?" Tatya asked with an involuntary giggle, as she sat up and tried to rub feeling back into her face. Thankfully, the numbness had retreated from her mind. Unfortunately, it had decided to take up residence in her body, instead. "I think I'm going to get frostbite."
*You will if you don't stand up. It's *cold* in this snow.* That was the voice of the dead Herald. Tatya shuddered, and refused to think about it. She stood, instead, and began to shiver in earnest as the winter breeze tugged at her wet clothing. *Good girl. Now, you've got to get something from...from the body.*
"My name is Tatya," she snapped, "and you can't want me to touch him...he's dead!"
*Believe me,* Rhys said wryly, *I'm not looking forward to it, either. You just need to get the satchel I'm...he's...carrying. You can use my knife to cut it free. It's in his belt.*
Tatya looked imploringly at Faniel, but the Companion just pawed the snow, and looked into the distance behind them. *You must hurry, Tatya,* he said.
"I didn't ask for this," she muttered, as she reached out with a reluctant foot to turn Rhys' body over. It was still warm, and when she turned it over, it flopped. Somewhere within her, Tatya could feel Rhys swallow and close whatever passed for his eyes in there. She wished that she could do the same.
She found the knife, and began to hack through the strap holding the satchel, emblazoned with the seal of Valdemar, to Rhys' body. As she worked through the sturdy leather, she couldn't help but sneak looks up at the Herald's face.
He had been, or was, a man of middle years, with tanned skin and light brown hair. His face was square, and would have been handsome except for the nose, which looked like it had been broken several times. He'd had a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. His eyes were as blue as his Companion's, and as she studied them, she realized that the moisture that covered them was beginning to freeze. *Please,* Rhys said, his mental voice hoarse, *look somewhere else, Tatya.*
She swallowed, and dropped her eyes back to her work. She didn't look up again until she'd sawed through the strap and pulled it away from the corpse. Task accomplished, she stood and staggered away to be quietly sick in a spot of undisturbed snow. Afterwards, she took Rhys' advice, and washed her mouth out with snow. If nothing else, it made her tongue so numb that tasting _anything_ was pretty much impossible.
*I'm sorry to hurry you,* Faniel said, and to her amazement he really did sound sorry, *but we must be going. I believe I've found your things.*
"Going? Where are we going?" She looked over at the Companion, and saw him standing next to a sad little huddle of fabric that was nevertheless larger than she remembered. "That Damned Pack broke again, didn't it?"
*It would appear so. And we must go to Haven, to deliver the message that Rhys and you carry.*
The pack had split clean through the bottom sometime during her repeated tumbles into the snow. Her clothes were unfolded, and Faniel had placed them in a rough pile. With both Rhys and Faniel urging her to speed, she abandoned any thought of trying to salvage the pack, and instead just scooped up the wet clothes and shoved them into Faniel's saddlebag. When her hands found the hard edges of her secret bundle, however, she paused. Nodding to herself, she flipped open the top of the satchel that was now wrapped around her waist, and dropped the bundle inside. *Hey!* Rhys cried, *That's very important, you can't just use it as a purse.*
She ignored him, and put her sketchbook in the other saddlebag. At least some of the pages would be badly stained by the snow, she thought sadly. It was about this time that the 'obey authority' reflex she'd been following, carefully trained into her since birth, stopped functioning. And so did she. *Tatya,* Rhys said with obvious impatience, *we need to get going.* Then, as if the thought had just occurred to him, *Can you ride?*
"Of course I can ride," she snapped. "I've been riding since I was three. But I'm not going." She crossed her arms over her chest, and glared at the Companion, since his Herald was beyond her reach.
Faniel snorted, and tossed his head in disbelief. Rhys' reaction was a great deal more satisfying. *What do you mean you're not going? You _must_ go! We have a duty to deliver this message!*
"It's not my duty," she pointed out. "I never asked for you to..to invade my mind, and I don't see why I should upset my plans just because you say so."
*This is lunacy,* Rhys snarled. His fury was a palpable thing beating at the edges of her mind. *I'm a _Herald_. I have a duty to fulfill. You can't just say 'no, I'm not going'!*
"But that's the point. I'm not a Herald. So," her eyes narrowed, "what's in it for me?"
*What's...what's...* His voice dissolved into stunned silence.
*She has a point, Chosen.* Faniel sounded mildly amused, but a darker edge lurked just beneath the surface. *Would we expect a Guard or regular courier to go out of their way to help us, without compensation?*
*But, I'm stuck inside of her! It's not like I can just find someone else.*
*Which means she's got an excellent bargaining position.*
*Fine.* Rhys turned his attention back to Tatya. *What is it that you want? Keep in mind that, as a dead man, my resources are rather limited.*
"Right now, I just want information. I want to know what's going on, and why you're inside of my head. _Especially_ why you're inside my head."
*Done,* Rhys said flatly. *Although I don't have the answer to the latter, I'm as eager to find out as you are. What's going on besides that, I can explain. But please,* his voice rose, *can we talk about it on the way?*
"All right," she said. Having established her independence--such as it was--she felt that she could be magnanimous. She mounted Faniel, who snorted with relief, and said, "I was planning on going to Haven, anyway."
Faniel sprang into a gallop, and as she bent low over his neck, Tatya reflected with no little amazement on just how realistic Rhys' grinding teeth sounded, despite the fact that they had nothing to do with any physical jaws.
* * *
The four horses, their breath billowing outwards in damp clouds in the frost air, approached the clearing with caution. Three of the riders dismounted at the curt nod of the fourth, and crept towards the body, sprawled on its back in a pile of snow. When no enraged Companion leapt forward to trample them into red smears, they breathed a sigh of relief, and two men began to search the body with brutal and impersonal efficiency, while the third kept watch.
They found nothing of interest. The third man turned to his master, still cloaked and hooded on his horse, and licked his chapped lips. "My lord, it isn't here."
The figure nodded. "Kill the Herald, and the message goes on. I suppose the horse is carrying it." His voice was deep and rich, and bore the unmistakable stamp of the nobility.
"Should we go on?"
"No," the figure shook his head, "there isn't a horse born that can catch a Companion. I'd hoped that concern for its rider would make it stop, but now?" His hands tightened on the reins until the nearest of the servants could hear the leather creak. "Now all we can do is return to the estate, and prepare."
"Prepare for what, my Lord?"
"Visitors, of course." Beneath the hood, there was the suggestion of a cold smile. "We wouldn't want to be inhospitable." He turned his horse sharply, and began to ride back the way he came. The other three men scrambled to mount and catch up.
None of them noticed the torn remains of a leather pack, half-buried beneath a mixture of snow and dirt.
* * *
The next few days passed in a blur. Tatya knew that Companions were not horses, of course. But she'd never realized just how unlike horses they really were. Especially in speed and endurance. The landscape passed them by in a white blur, and when Faniel was in full run--which was most of the time--Tatya could do nothing but hold on and close her eyes against the stinging assault of the wind. Stops were infrequent, just long enough to answer calls of nature, catch a few hours' sleep in a Waystation, or choke down some of the hard journeybread Rhys had in the saddlebags. In between stops, with the wind singing its bitter song in her ears, the Herald told her how he'd come to die.
Chapter Two
In which Tatya and Herald Rhys refrain from killing each other, for the good of the Kingdom.
* * *
*Child, you must wake up. This is not a good time to faint.* Tatya woke to find Faniel dribbling bits of half-melted snow on her nose.
"Is there ever a good time to faint?" Tatya asked with an involuntary giggle, as she sat up and tried to rub feeling back into her face. Thankfully, the numbness had retreated from her mind. Unfortunately, it had decided to take up residence in her body, instead. "I think I'm going to get frostbite."
*You will if you don't stand up. It's *cold* in this snow.* That was the voice of the dead Herald. Tatya shuddered, and refused to think about it. She stood, instead, and began to shiver in earnest as the winter breeze tugged at her wet clothing. *Good girl. Now, you've got to get something from...from the body.*
"My name is Tatya," she snapped, "and you can't want me to touch him...he's dead!"
*Believe me,* Rhys said wryly, *I'm not looking forward to it, either. You just need to get the satchel I'm...he's...carrying. You can use my knife to cut it free. It's in his belt.*
Tatya looked imploringly at Faniel, but the Companion just pawed the snow, and looked into the distance behind them. *You must hurry, Tatya,* he said.
"I didn't ask for this," she muttered, as she reached out with a reluctant foot to turn Rhys' body over. It was still warm, and when she turned it over, it flopped. Somewhere within her, Tatya could feel Rhys swallow and close whatever passed for his eyes in there. She wished that she could do the same.
She found the knife, and began to hack through the strap holding the satchel, emblazoned with the seal of Valdemar, to Rhys' body. As she worked through the sturdy leather, she couldn't help but sneak looks up at the Herald's face.
He had been, or was, a man of middle years, with tanned skin and light brown hair. His face was square, and would have been handsome except for the nose, which looked like it had been broken several times. He'd had a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. His eyes were as blue as his Companion's, and as she studied them, she realized that the moisture that covered them was beginning to freeze. *Please,* Rhys said, his mental voice hoarse, *look somewhere else, Tatya.*
She swallowed, and dropped her eyes back to her work. She didn't look up again until she'd sawed through the strap and pulled it away from the corpse. Task accomplished, she stood and staggered away to be quietly sick in a spot of undisturbed snow. Afterwards, she took Rhys' advice, and washed her mouth out with snow. If nothing else, it made her tongue so numb that tasting _anything_ was pretty much impossible.
*I'm sorry to hurry you,* Faniel said, and to her amazement he really did sound sorry, *but we must be going. I believe I've found your things.*
"Going? Where are we going?" She looked over at the Companion, and saw him standing next to a sad little huddle of fabric that was nevertheless larger than she remembered. "That Damned Pack broke again, didn't it?"
*It would appear so. And we must go to Haven, to deliver the message that Rhys and you carry.*
The pack had split clean through the bottom sometime during her repeated tumbles into the snow. Her clothes were unfolded, and Faniel had placed them in a rough pile. With both Rhys and Faniel urging her to speed, she abandoned any thought of trying to salvage the pack, and instead just scooped up the wet clothes and shoved them into Faniel's saddlebag. When her hands found the hard edges of her secret bundle, however, she paused. Nodding to herself, she flipped open the top of the satchel that was now wrapped around her waist, and dropped the bundle inside. *Hey!* Rhys cried, *That's very important, you can't just use it as a purse.*
She ignored him, and put her sketchbook in the other saddlebag. At least some of the pages would be badly stained by the snow, she thought sadly. It was about this time that the 'obey authority' reflex she'd been following, carefully trained into her since birth, stopped functioning. And so did she. *Tatya,* Rhys said with obvious impatience, *we need to get going.* Then, as if the thought had just occurred to him, *Can you ride?*
"Of course I can ride," she snapped. "I've been riding since I was three. But I'm not going." She crossed her arms over her chest, and glared at the Companion, since his Herald was beyond her reach.
Faniel snorted, and tossed his head in disbelief. Rhys' reaction was a great deal more satisfying. *What do you mean you're not going? You _must_ go! We have a duty to deliver this message!*
"It's not my duty," she pointed out. "I never asked for you to..to invade my mind, and I don't see why I should upset my plans just because you say so."
*This is lunacy,* Rhys snarled. His fury was a palpable thing beating at the edges of her mind. *I'm a _Herald_. I have a duty to fulfill. You can't just say 'no, I'm not going'!*
"But that's the point. I'm not a Herald. So," her eyes narrowed, "what's in it for me?"
*What's...what's...* His voice dissolved into stunned silence.
*She has a point, Chosen.* Faniel sounded mildly amused, but a darker edge lurked just beneath the surface. *Would we expect a Guard or regular courier to go out of their way to help us, without compensation?*
*But, I'm stuck inside of her! It's not like I can just find someone else.*
*Which means she's got an excellent bargaining position.*
*Fine.* Rhys turned his attention back to Tatya. *What is it that you want? Keep in mind that, as a dead man, my resources are rather limited.*
"Right now, I just want information. I want to know what's going on, and why you're inside of my head. _Especially_ why you're inside my head."
*Done,* Rhys said flatly. *Although I don't have the answer to the latter, I'm as eager to find out as you are. What's going on besides that, I can explain. But please,* his voice rose, *can we talk about it on the way?*
"All right," she said. Having established her independence--such as it was--she felt that she could be magnanimous. She mounted Faniel, who snorted with relief, and said, "I was planning on going to Haven, anyway."
Faniel sprang into a gallop, and as she bent low over his neck, Tatya reflected with no little amazement on just how realistic Rhys' grinding teeth sounded, despite the fact that they had nothing to do with any physical jaws.
* * *
The four horses, their breath billowing outwards in damp clouds in the frost air, approached the clearing with caution. Three of the riders dismounted at the curt nod of the fourth, and crept towards the body, sprawled on its back in a pile of snow. When no enraged Companion leapt forward to trample them into red smears, they breathed a sigh of relief, and two men began to search the body with brutal and impersonal efficiency, while the third kept watch.
They found nothing of interest. The third man turned to his master, still cloaked and hooded on his horse, and licked his chapped lips. "My lord, it isn't here."
The figure nodded. "Kill the Herald, and the message goes on. I suppose the horse is carrying it." His voice was deep and rich, and bore the unmistakable stamp of the nobility.
"Should we go on?"
"No," the figure shook his head, "there isn't a horse born that can catch a Companion. I'd hoped that concern for its rider would make it stop, but now?" His hands tightened on the reins until the nearest of the servants could hear the leather creak. "Now all we can do is return to the estate, and prepare."
"Prepare for what, my Lord?"
"Visitors, of course." Beneath the hood, there was the suggestion of a cold smile. "We wouldn't want to be inhospitable." He turned his horse sharply, and began to ride back the way he came. The other three men scrambled to mount and catch up.
None of them noticed the torn remains of a leather pack, half-buried beneath a mixture of snow and dirt.
* * *
The next few days passed in a blur. Tatya knew that Companions were not horses, of course. But she'd never realized just how unlike horses they really were. Especially in speed and endurance. The landscape passed them by in a white blur, and when Faniel was in full run--which was most of the time--Tatya could do nothing but hold on and close her eyes against the stinging assault of the wind. Stops were infrequent, just long enough to answer calls of nature, catch a few hours' sleep in a Waystation, or choke down some of the hard journeybread Rhys had in the saddlebags. In between stops, with the wind singing its bitter song in her ears, the Herald told her how he'd come to die.