Disclaimer - Valdemar, Heralds and Companions are the works of Mercedes Lackey, and remain her sole and personal property. Firechild Legacy is a derivative fanfiction work not intended for publication or profit.

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Chapter 5 – Death on Black Silk

"Well, Master Sejanes?" The Lady Elspeth nodded impatiently to the older mage, then looked searchingly at the others gathered in the gryphon's spacious quarters. The gryphon Trevyan, k'Lesha envoy and a master mage in his own right, reclined comfortably near one side of the table, brought hastily to his quarters as Lady Elspeth's request in deference to Sejanes advanced years. His mate, Hydona, was currently teaching, and their children, Lytha and Jerven, were both in classes. For once the public room of their ambassadorial suite could be put to its original use – a safe haven for highly sensitive meetings. Darkwind lounged against the bronze, winged creature that had taken him as "featherless son," years ago in k'Sheyna Vale. Elspeth, Weaponsmaster Jeri, Herald Alberich and Herald Evan sat the table, the better to examine the artifacts taken from Herald-trainee Kahlen.

It took Elspeth back, for a moment, to that first, heady conference after her triumphant return from Sorrows, when they had plotted Ancar's downfall in this very room. They'd known then, who their enemy was – and Valdemar had paid for that knowledge in lives and blood. They did not know who their enemy was this time –or if there truly was an enemy, or merely some horrible twist of fate.

The old mage fingered the black, silken material on the desk before him, and met Elspeth's eyes reluctantly. "Doesn't cut. Doesn't burn. Doesn't tear. Seems to be made of a heavy silk." He folded the fabric, bringing the emblem face up. A red wolf's head. Seven, no, nine golden disks, in three neat rows below the stylized red emblem. Four, then three, then two. He fingered them again, but their meaning did not change. "Empire mages who build and maintain the permanent gates wear such fabric." He said at last. "The energies are dangerous, and can be hard to control. The fabric is crafted to withstand those energies, within limits, and so provide a measure of protection to its wearer. It is spell cast, and difficult to make. But this is not the gate builder symbol." Sejanes paused, measuring his words carefully. These Valdemaran allies had saved Hardon and the Imperial army who'd come to conquer that war-torn, ravaged country, and stayed instead to rebuild it. He owed them accurate information. Even an educated guess could be misleading – and possibly disastrous.

"I don't know what these emblems mean." He said at last, and raised a gnarled hand to forestall interruption "At least, not in this context. Let me give you some imperial history. Imperial soldiers are trained in cohorts of ten men each – battle squadrons are composed of ten squadrons. To command a cohort a solder must demonstrate mastery of four field weapons – sword, dueling dagger, pike and mace. For this, he received four bars, marked in red enamel."

"Close combat weapons." Jeri murmured, eyeing the first row of golden discs on the black cloak.

"Just so." The old mage nodded. "When circumstances permit, he must also demonstrate his competence in the field. If he fails, he is demoted back to the ranks. If he succeeds, the bars are replaced with gold disks, such as these." Elspeth nodded for Sejanes to continue.

"To advance from cohort to squadron commander, he must attain the gold, and add mastery of crossbow, spear, and throwing hammer. Distance weapons, if you will. Again, the rank is conditional. Demonstrated ability is required to achieve the gold of permanent rank." The uniform markings for conditional rank are blue for squadron commanders, black for a legion commander. Sejanes' fingers traced the second row, his expression grave. "To command a legion, a commander must demonstrate an in-depth knowledge of tactics and strategy – and he must have defeated at least two rivals in personal combat." Elspeth leaned forward, her eyes intent. Jeri glanced curiously at Kerowyn. The Herald-Captain was known for promoting only seasoned veterans, regardless of rank or family connections.

These competitions are intense," the old mage continued, "but not usually fatal. As before, once proven in combat, the bars are replaced with gold disks." He signed heavily. "These combats are between professional soldiers, and the chance to seek such advancement is elective. While under orders, they remain citizens of the empire." Sejanes raised troubled eyes. "It was not always so. In the early days of the empire, a skilled warrior, taken in combat from conquered lands, might be given a chance to earn a place in the imperial army through trial by combat against his former comrades. These were death trials. For each such trial, a gold disk was awarded to the victor." The others stared at Sejanes, shocked. "Such combat ensured the candidates loyalty and interests were committed to the empire. There could be no divided loyalties, no going back, you see. Herald Alberich."

The Herald nodded curtly. "You reported that young Kahlen claims to have been a mage-bred slave from the far side of the Empire. Each of these disks, then, may represent a successive number of death trials. Such trials have been used to bind young mages into servitude to their masters. Ancar…was known for using bloodpath magic in that way. It is not unknown, within the empire."

"Kahlen said she survived nine such trials." Jeri said tonelessly. "Nine dead…"

"You mistake my meaning, Lady." The former empire mage looked ill, and older than his considerable years. "These disks may well represent over two hundred and fifty deaths. And if those deaths were spell-bound…:

"She fought it." Jeri said abruptly, her eyes flashing to Elspeth. "In the eighth trial – she and her opponent – a boy, I think – broke the enclosing shield, rather than fight each other. In the ninth trial her opponent broke the shield, and she – she killed the mage who'd trapped them there." The woman rose, and began to pace agitatedly about the room. "If there was blood magic involved, Kahlen was its victim, not its user."

"We don't know that, Jeri. You didn't invoke truthspell -" Elspeth hesitated, glancing beseechingly at Darkwind. Darkwind shook his head slightly, but his eyes narrowed and held hers.

"I sensed something in the salle, bright feather, but not tainted, I think, with blood magic."

"Companions don't make that kind of mistake!" Jeri stated flatly.

"Through your weapon passed this girl, unharmed." Alberich replied tersely. "And Lord Orwen's sword. Him, killed she could have. And two weapons you have, embedded to the hilts in the salle floor, still. That is magery. And still we have not tested her for such. Mage-gift she has. Trained? Under compulsion, perhaps? Too lax, we have been." He pushed back his chair and stood, his face grim, his eyes on Elspeth. Elspeth, too, understood duty. She caught and held Jeri's arm as the former weaponsmaster gathered up the silken black cloak and strode out of the suite.

"Alberich taught us, twenty years before you, Jeri." Her voice firm. "He is not going to hurt that girl." But he might, Elspeth thought, a cold lump of misery forming under her heart. If Kahlen posed a threat to Valdemar, Alberich could indeed do just that. Had done harder things, to protect Queen and the Circle.

"I know that!" Jeri hissed. "Elspeth, think! She's mage-gifted. She went into shock today, aborting that attack on Orwen. If Alberich panics her, drives her into defending herself -"

"I understand the risk." Elspeth said quietly. "I learned it from that man who just walked out of here." The weaponsmaster stared at her in growing dismay. "It's why he went alone -"

"But he is no mage, bright feather." Darkwind interjected. "Jeri is right in this, I think. He should not have gone alone."

Trevyan nodded grim agreement. "Best to follow, featherless son." He said cautiously.

* * * *

Kahlen's late night ride through Companion's Field ended back to the bridge near the palace grounds. She slipped down and leaned against Rand for a moment, breathing in his warm scent, then sighed and headed back to the herald-trainee quarters. A wordless whisper of subdued affection followed her as they parted company. Her muscles ached and she wanted a hot soak, but her mind was oddly rested. The light shining through the open doors of the salle caught her eye, though, and after a moment she sighed and turned that way and approached the building. She had unfinished business there, after all.

I should wait – at least to eat something. Josseran had shown her the pantry, just of the kitchen, where Mero left an assortment of bread, cheese, sausages and fruits for any herald or trainee who was hungry after hours, and her stomach felt hollow. She'd developed a liking for Valdemaran bread rolls over the past few weeks. But the younglings had weapons practice first, most mornings. They didn't need to stumble over what she'd left embedded in the wooden training floor. Kahlen sighed again, thinking of bread and cheese, and walked into the structure. Several bracketed torches were still lit against the far wall.

She walked over to the center of the practice floor and stared uneasily at the sword and dagger hilts, rigid against the wood planks. Almost, she'd put them both through Lord Orwen's throat, the arrogant fool. Yet a spasm of guilt shot through her. He'd done no more than his duty. And she'd done nothing to explain why she'd refused to – dared not – spar. She'd beaten the conditioning, but next time – she held Rand's promise to her heart, like a talisman. Kneeling, she grasped the dagger, focused her mind, called the na'dia flows, and pulled. The dagger came free, releasing its grip on the wood. It took three tries to persuade the sword to do the same, and the places they'd gone in pulsed a dull red for a few moments, before fading to dark, charred scars. She released the flows, then dropped to her knees, gasping, and waited for the backlash to ease. Too drained, I should have eaten. Bile rose in her throat, and for one desperate moment Kahlen thought she'd disgrace herself. Slowly, the nausea subsided. She used the sword to lever herself to her feet, then turned to put the weapons back on the rack.

"Keep them, perhaps, you should." The tall, grey-clad man who'd first questioned her stepped out of the shadows. "But tonight test you I will not." Herald Alberich, she recalled numbly. The former weaponsmaster, who still taught select older trainees. Who'd questioned her, mind to mind, when Sethren had – Sethren. The quiet grieving that never truly left her swelled suddenly, until she feared she'd choke on it. The herald came closer, eyes glittering in the dim torchlight, and ran a callused finger gently across her cheek. "Sleeping, you are not. And should be. Too dark are the shadows here. The healer's you should not have left. Searching for you they were, until your Companion bade them halt."

Kahlen watched him uncertainly. "Of hidden things we need to speak. Again, of why your comrade brought you here, and to what purpose." He raised a hand to forestall her outburst. "The truth you told me, I do not doubt. But truths did you withhold, that perhaps you dare not trust a stranger with, or importance did not know. Companion have you now." He stated quietly, as if she'd passed a threshold of honor, or some kind of test. "And no dishonor, nor ill intent, have I seen in you nor heard of since your coming. Yet danger do you represent, and this I must know, and render safe. And this, also, you must explain." He held out a neatly folded cloth bundle, black save where nine gold circlets glinted in the torchlight, and a red wolf's head stared implacably out of the dark.