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. Kahlen belongs to me!
Chapter 13 – Echoes of the Future
There were so many. Orwen drifted slowly toward the salle, watching in rapt fascination as people walked blindly through him, as if he wasn't there. A young herald-courier raced over the bridge from Companion 's Field, the arrow emblem flashing silver against her whites – and her Companion startled and flinched away from him, nearly unseating her rider, then sped on. With a shock he realized that the Companion, at least, could see him. And if that were so, all of them probably could, and if they told the Heralds, and they in turn told the healers, they'd likely sedate him too deeply to experiment further with this odd, double vision. A small herd of young trainees darted past – through – him, headed for the salle. The 'rookie' class. A smaller group of slightly older trainees, a rough mix of heralds, bardics and blues, shuffled out just before they reached it.
Orwen tilted his head, grinning, and considered following them. Alberich's Gift was Foresight, however, and the weaponsmaster just might sense him in this strange, half waking state. He closed his vision a trifle and "felt" for his body. He was still lying in his room at Healer's Collegium, but this time his breath remained calm and even and his pulse beat steadily, if a trifle slowly. His time sense, at least, was firmly anchored in the now. Occasionally he could feel the winds of fate pressing against him, but he held firm to this time and place. Not Farsight, not – exactly – Foresight, but some odd combination of both. He felt light-headed, dizzy – almost like being drunk. If this odd waking state hadn't been so fascinating, he'd have been terrified. The sunlight pulsed, then faded into the shadowed confines of the room that held his body. Deep amethyst eyes loomed over him. The dream-like state he floated in abruptly shattered as a deluge of ice cold water struck his face.
"Better." Firesong's voice bore a hint of laughter, overshadowed by relief. Orwen struggled up, dashing the water from his eyes, then stared in profound shock at the mage's changed appearance.
"Lord and Lady, what happened to…" Orwen glanced quickly at Silverfox, who watched them both with intense relief as he set down the empty bucket. The kestra'chern reached out cautiously to brush Firesong's arm, sighed in profound relief, then gravely handed Orwen a towel and a dry tunic. The young noble stared uneasily at the Tayledras mage before shrugging out of his soaked shirt. "Did you…I thought you'd turned into…you looked like a firestorm about to explode…"
"Kahlen … pulled us back together." Firesong shrugged uneasily. "We…were a bit confused, for a while." His face, oddly young and old and entirely unscarred, was profoundly troubled. "But what did you think you were doing just now, Lord Orwen?"
A reckless, bitter grin marred the young lord's face. "I haven't a clue. I kept getting thrown into the future – or possible futures, it seems like. I didn't much like them, so I…left." Firesong and Silverfox looked at each other in dismay. Firesong nodded slowly, encouraging Orwen to continue. "I learned enough to keep breathing while I'm…out." He shrugged. "And to return quickly when the healers come in. I think the Companions could see me. I didn't go very far. Didn't want to try too much on my own." Orwen's eyes took on a vague, distant look. "It felt almost like flying. Almost like I could…" His voice faded out – and his face and body faded as well, glowing oddly, drifting like mist.
Firesong reached out slowly, fingers gently brushing the younger man's face. "Orwen. Stay."
Orwen closed his eyes and shuddered, and abruptly took on substance and solidity. He dropped his head into his hands, rubbing irritably at his temples. "If I can." He said absently. "I keep looking for Kahlen. I needed to tell her…in case I don't get another chance…" His face was a study of regret and misery.
"Orwen, you were outwalking." Firesong said gently. "Your soul…broke free somehow, perhaps when you first sensed the stranger's gate, or Kahlen's need, when she passed through his mage shield. It is a …rare thing." The adept raked slender hands through his own, night dark hair. "Your body almost followed this time. You cannot do that, not without training, not if you want to stay sane and alive."
"Healer Devan said I was dead. Twice" A ghost of a smile passed over the young noble's face. "I wouldn't mind dying so much, not really, but not if it's to no purpose. They're going to come." He said abruptly, staring at them both with renewed intensity. "Kahlen's people. They're afraid, and they're desperate, and they'll destroy us if they can. I couldn't tell when, but the Heralds need to know -" He started to get up, then fell back, disoriented, into the bed.
"You have to rest." Firesong said quietly, deeply troubled. The young man's eyes were oddly shadowed, and he'd lost weight. Burning substance to fuel his excursions, and no idea of how to draw strength from the earth. "I'm going to put you into sleep – without the healer's drugs this time." His voice took on a low, hypnotic quality. "You going to rest, and not dream. You'll wake up hungry and calm and here. No more outwalking. And you're not going to die, I can pledge you that. I will speak to Devan, and tomorrow we'll talk again." The young man nodded, exhausted, closed his eyes, and dropped into an exhausted sleep.
"I will stay with him." Silverfox murmured, as Firesong headed for the door. The adept nodded gratefully. It would be hard enough to explain this to Devan, let alone Elspeth, if Orwen were not watched and kept safe.
"He did what?" Devan stared incredulously at the Tayledras mage. Firesong had found him and two apprentices in Kahlen's room, at the end of yet another a healing session.
"He was outwalking." Firesong explained patiently. "His soul separated from his body, but without dying. Some shamans can do this, as do our Shin'a'in sworn cousins, when they need to walk the moonpaths and seek guidance from the Star-Eyed. But Lord Orwen is outwalking in the physical world – in time and space, without guidance or training. I laid a sleep on him that will make him rest without dreaming, for a time." He hesitated, then looked at the stricken young herald-mage. "Kahlen, he also seemed to – shift, for a moment. He went transparent, and seemed to fade. It reminded me of how you shifted through the outlander's shields. I can send for kindred who know somewhat how to train Outwalkers, but it is usually instinctive, and generally limited to sworn shaman or adepts, and their walking is of the spirit only. This – physical shifting is something new."
Kahlen hid her face in her hands, then rubbed fiercely at her eyes and looked up at the adept. "Did I do this to him?"
An ebony brow raised in mild surprise. "You might have done somewhat to me," he glanced ruefully down at his hands, smooth, unscarred, flawless, "but when could you have done anything to Lord Orwen?" To his surprise, the girl through off her blanket and stalked to the window, staring bleakly out at the gray, overcast sky.
"I have phased through him several times in the salle, Master Firesong. During training." She turned to him, and to his amazement a sheen of tears gleamed in the amethyst eyes. "Could I have done this thing? I never meant – I never thought –"
Devan moved forward and laid a soothing hand on the girl's shoulder. "You did not harm him, child. You would never –"
"It's not what I would do." She said impatiently. "It's what I am. I told the Heralds – and the Mage Sejanes – but I don't think, even now, that they truly understood. We were purpose-made. Empire-bred battle-mages, created by the I'nadazi for one purpose." She drew a deep, painful breath, then folded bonelessly to the floor and wrapped slender arms around her knees. "I've studied the early histories, that led to the Cataclysm. Of the purpose-bred creatures of the Mage of Silence, and the Sorcerer-Adept Ma'ar. Gryphons. Makaar. Cold-drakes. Kyree. Lesser mages today create changechildren, but the I'nadazi are not lesser mages."
She looked solemnly at the healer. "What do you see, when you look at me, Master Devan?"
"A pretty young lady, and a very promising Herald-mage." He answered shortly, unsettled by her odd behavior. Then he tilted his head, and examined her more closely with healing oversight. She'd lost weight, he noted, and there were shadows under the amethyst eyes, but she'd improved immeasurably over the last two days. The narrow, grave face was oddly still and pale. "You're mage-gifted, strongly so. You're not quite healed from that stab wound. Your energy levels are fluctuating at bit, and unusually high…" Kahlen sighed, and dropped all her shields. Devan's face went pale, and he stepped back a pace. "Good Gods…"
Firesong frowned at the man, then turned and studied the girl with his own mage-sight. His own shields flared instinctively, and his first impulse was to shove Devan out the door and into the relative safety of the hall. Instead, he lowered his shields, then reached forward and deliberately took the girl's hands. "Mage-gifted, indeed." He answered softly. Then to Devan, "Say nothing of this."
* * * *
Orwen woke slowly, feeling oddly disoriented. He pushed up, fighting the odd lethargy of the sleep Firesong had placed on him. The bone deep exhaustion was gone, though, and for that he was grateful, but the fire-ridden visions that had driven him to wakefulness still hovered at the edge of his vision. For a moment he closed his eyes, dreading their return. Then the obstinate grit that had made him a favorite among the heralds and one of the Collegium's best sparring partners shoved back at the mind-numbing despair. They hadn't happened yet. And he needed to see them clearly, so that he could tell Selenay, and Herald Alberich.
"Lord Orwen?" The voice was hesitant, and soft with concern. Careful steps, and a warm fragrance that made his stomach cramp with hunger, had him turning toward the door. His eyes went dark at the sight of Kahlen, carefully balancing a heavily laden tray of food as she made her way to the table beside his bed. She'd lost weight, he noted, but the amethyst eyes were clear, if troubled. The pale blond hair was pulled back in a neat braid. Her hands shook as she set the meal down, then settled into the chair normally used by the healers who tended him.
"You are not well." She said unhappily. "And I fear…I fear it is my doing." She offered him watered wine, and bread liberally spread with a soft cheese, then watched anxiously as he drained the mug and bit into the bread. He ate carefully, glanced over at the girl, then placed a piece of buttered bread into her hands. Slowly they finished off the bread, meat and cheese, then started on the bowl of mixed berries. It surprised him that he was suddenly hungry. She must have felt the same, as they reached simultaneously for the last berry. Kahlen drew back her hand, flushing with embarrassment.
Wordlessly he picked up the berry, then held it to her lips. A faint smile ghosted across her face, then the lips parted. He caressed them gently before popping the berry into her mouth, then reached over and took her hands, grinning. "So, you did something to me?" He tugged insistently, urging her closer, then fell back into the bed as a wave of dizziness swamped him. Gods, not now! Again, in the throne room. Again, the strange envoys, but this time from a different point of view, just behind Selenay's throne. The tall, elegant figure of the envoy approached, then graciously bowed before the throne. Dark brown vestments, stiff with red and gold brocade, nearly swept the floor. A gold coronet crusted with green and red gems held back thick black hair, and thin strands of gold glinted in the braids that graced the stranger's temples. The eyes were a deep brown, almost black in their intensity, the face lean and sculpted and arrogant.
"Greetings, Queen of Valdemar." The deep voice, low and musical, carried cleanly to every corner of the court. "I am Soren, first Life Mage of the Iron Throne, and I greet you." The man's piercing eyes swept the room, a faint smile playing about the graceful lips – then the eyes came swiftly back to Orwen's face and widened in astonishment and dismay. The slender hands came up and fire shot from them, striking him hard in the chest. The pain tore a shriek from his throat and sent him into convulsions as he struck the cold, marble floor. His last thought was that he hadn't told – hadn't warned anyone –before the darkness took him.
He woke to the sound of Kahlen's weeping, her hands clasping him with desperate urgency. Hands that glowed, that poured energy into him even as the healers burst into the room. Devan moved her hands gently aside and peeled back the blackened linen tunic, then swore at the burned, blackened marks on his chest. They faded even as he watched. The healer laid his hands over Kahlen's, then stared at the girl in wonder. The light surrounding her hands was gold, but edged with the green energies of the healing gift. The glow faltered, then faded. The girl's eyes glazed as she dropped to her knees, still sobbing. Orwen refused to relinquish her hands, instead he leaned over and, grunting slightly, pulled her into his arms and onto the bed. With a curt nod he bade the healers to withdraw. Devan eyed them both, worried, then stepped back out of the room, herding his apprentices with him. They would not, Orwen knew, go far.
"Hush now." He whispered, stroking her face lightly. "You didn't do anything to me. Promise. I did it to myself, I think." His thoughts flinched away from the old, childhood dream, and the longed-for Companion that had never come. He'd held tight to the dream, until that first night at court after he'd turned fourteen, and had gone to the ruins of the old temple in the Field – not to plead or to rage, but to simply ask – why? He hadn't expected an answer. He'd gotten one anyway.
Your gifts lie elsewhere, child of Valdemar. Your Queen needs you as noble, warrior, Councilor. Companion's gift, in this place and time, would keep you from becoming what you must. It is no easy task I call you to. Will you serve? A profound sorrow had filled that voice – a woman's voice, heavy with regret and longing.
It had struck him then, with devastating clarity, that a Companion and Herald's Whites would never be more than a dream for him. The boy he'd been had wept bitterly for a time, while the Voice waited patiently.
What shall I do, then? He'd finally asked, when there were no more tears for weeping.
A guardian of Valdemar shall you be, child, and a walker of the timepaths. You must train your mind to logic, your hand to the sword, your body to endurance, your spirit to wisdom. All these shall Valdemar have need of. Again, will you serve?
I will serve as I may, then. He'd answered at the last. Then fled the Lady and the Grove, and turned to other dreams and other ways to serve his country, and the silent oath he'd taken that night had been tucked away with the childhood dream. Dream turned nightmare, it seemed now. What were the timepaths? What did the visions mean? He'd thought at first he was going mad, but Firesong had called it outwalking. Not madness, then, but something, that Valdemar had need of. As it had need of the young woman who lay curled against his chest, sobbing quietly. There would never, he mused wryly, be a better time to ask.
"Kahlen, are you afraid of me?"
"What?" She sat up and stared at him, then flushed. "No."
"You spar with me, talk to me easily enough in company – why not alone? Gaytha said you weren't interested. She was quite blunt about it."
"You haven't tried to see me alone." She replied, not quite looking at him.
Orwen began massaging her hands, gently. "My intentions were – are – quite serious. But you had no family here to speak for you. You seem older than your years, but Alberich said you were not for dalliance, and too young. I didn't want – I would have waited."
"I don't know your customs, Lord Orwen." She would not meet his eyes. "And you do not know me, not truly."
"I know enough, Kahlen." He murmured softly. "You like apples. You sneak them down to your Companion every morning, before your classes. Young Josseran thinks you're wonderful. You don't flinch from hard work, or hard choices." He pulled her a bit closer. "I feel happy when you're nearby, and I'm restless and irritable when you're away. You're everything a herald should be." He brushed his lips across her forehead. "It would be hard, I know, but I wanted more with you than just comradeship. A courtship, marriage – I meant to petition the Queen."
"The Queen would have ordered…?" She looked frankly shocked – but curious, rather than horrified. He felt the first whisper of encouragement.
"I would have needed her permission – to court you." He answered, grinning a little madly. "As well as Herald Alberich's, my cousin Jeri, and probably Kero…you have friends here, Kahlen, and family, if you wish it. The Heraldic Circle, for one. Anything beyond simple friendship would have been your choice."
"I didn't know." She murmured, studying him with renewed interest. "We had no choice, in the Empire. Weapons don't choose their users. The I'nadazi chose for us, according to their arts, and to strengthen the bloodlines. My line was eight generations in the making." She studied him judiciously, and her lips quirked. "Soren might well have chosen you for me, had you been of the Empire." She murmured. "But I would not have been permitted the raising of any young." That, bitterly. "No other loyalties were permitted to contend with our service to the Empire, and he was loath to lose my breeding potential even after I killed D'henna."
"A dangerous lady to court, indeed." He answered softly. "Any children you give me would be yours to raise, my Lady Herald. On my oath." Then the name she'd spoken registered. Soren. Oh Gods.
"Heralds have this choice?" Her eyes were wide with surprise, and frankly intrigued.
"Who is Soren? Is he -" Orwen shook his head impatiently, then opened his mind to her, reaching again for the vision that hovered on the edge of clarity.
Greetings, Queen of Valdemar…Kahlen cried out, a high, keening sound that brought the healers swiftly back into the room. Only a memory, this time, but he felt the echoes of the fire that the I'nadazi wizard, startled, had thrown at him.
"Evan'estai, Orwen! Nai' melloran. Denann, Denann…"
"Easy, child." He finally managed to catch her attention, shaken by the fear and wildness in her face. "He's not here yet, this Soren – and we have time yet, to prepare."
"When?" She demanded. "When will he come."
"I don't know." He replied grimly, "but I mean to find out." It took more effort than he'd expected, to pull himself to his feet. He turned to Devan, who stepped forward to take his other arm. "No more delays, Master Devan." He managed one step, then another. "I want a bath. Tell Elspeth if you must, but send word. I have to see Selenay. Now."