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!
Shyadina, Terryie, Charitymw, Morquemama, PrettyKittyOreo – Thanks so much for the encouragement! Hope you like this one. Will try to get Ch. 15 up next week.
Chapter 14 – Echoes of the Past
Kahlen watched Orwen follow the healers, her own face was frozen with fear and indecision. If Soren was coming, there was very little time. She had promised to learn the Herald's ways, to build a new life here with Rand among these people. To hold true to what Sethren had taught her, when he'd taken her from the I'nadazi and taught her that there was truth, and honor to be had, beyond blind obedience to her I'nadazi makers. To be worthy of Alberich's trust and Jeri's growing confidence in her. To leave her deepest past behind, and never, never look back.
She had not hoped that these people could accept her true nature, and chosen instead to cling to her human heritage. But these people would not survive the coming of her eastern masters – not unscathed, and not without great loss. What the I'nadazi had done to the people of Granite, they could do to Haven, and the lands beyond. And Soren would not come alone, but with more of her kind – those bred and trained to killing unlike anything seen outside the deepest, hidden recesses of the empire. Unlike anything else within the Empire. She struggled to recall what little she'd seen of Orwen's vision. What, she thought carefully, would bring Soren out of the hidden sanctuaries, seeking Sethren – seeking her? She held that question, breathing slowly, deeply, sifting carefully through the memories she'd hoped to leave buried in the past.
Drisae's faltering words came back, slowly, sifting up through the confusion and chaos of the past few days. I came for Sethren – and for you, Firechild, if all else failed. In hopes that your blood could fight this plague, as it fought the one at Granite. And to warn you. We failed, child. My group was captured, the survivors taken. Those who created the blood-plague were much unsettled, that we had not succumbed. They made changes to it, in their haste and fear – made it worse, if such a thing were possible. And I fear – I fear it has spread, beyond the control of those who made it. It may be loose, even now, in the empire. And they will loose it here, against the storm makers. They have little to lose now, and they are desperately afraid."
And well they should be. Kahlen had no true understanding of how she'd beaten the plague, not the first time, and not in the more virulent form that had infected Dris and the healer, Kevren. Frugal comfort, that thought. Something instinctive, perhaps, in the blood that the I'nadazi had bred into her. Patterns. Something that Firesong had glimpsed, reached for, and mastered – intuitively – but without true understanding. Yet enough that he'd been able to follow her through Drisae's shields. Something inside her had triggered changes in Orwen, stirred to life those dormant strands of potential she'd sensed floating in his blood, waking more each time they'd sparred or talked in the camaraderie of the salle. Waking more each time he'd looked at her with admiration and a growing affection she'd dared not return.
He didn't know. None of them knew, not even her teachers. Only Rand, who'd kept her secret, had bought her time to settle and grow in this place. She sighed and rubbed the heels of both hands fretfully across her eyes. First things, Firechild. Firesong would have to learn, now, if it could be done at all. And Natoli. The young artificer had the innate skills and much of the training – the ability to think logically, and in pure mathematical terms, was well-honed.
Kahlen drew a deep, shuddering breath. If she failed in what was coming – someone had to know. Firesong had the ability, and the discipline – but his greatest strengths were in his intuitive understanding of magic – and it would not be enough, not against the I'nadazi. And there was only one way she could think of, to bridge the gap. She washed quickly, her mouth quirking in amusement that the healers had removed the remnants of her clothing and failed to replace it. But they'd left her soft tunics in palest green – and two were of silk. She held the garments in a firm grasp and drew lightly on the ambient energies within the palace complex. The cloth shimmered, thickened, and darkened – and she held a fair semblance of trainee grays. She frowned at the soft slippers tucked neatly under the edge of her bed, then glanced at the shadows on the floor. Near the nooning, and Josseran would soon be free of his classes for lunch. Time enough, if she hurried.
Josseran startled when he felt Kahlen's light touch in his mind, but readily agreed to bring her spare boots to Companion's Field. Reassured, she reached out for Rand, who greeted her with eager relief. :No need to walk, Chosen. Some time in the sun would do you good. I'll meet you at the garden porch – and return you to the healer's care when you tire.: Rand was right, to her surprise. The small magic she'd worked on the cloth, and the short walk to the healer's garden on the south side of the building, left her shaky on her legs. Rand nuzzled her briefly, then knelt carefully so she could mount with ease, and began a slow amble toward the field. She relaxed a bit, taking comfort from Rand's warm, silken presence, and her thoughts returned to Firesong. He'd do what she asked. And all unwitting, he'd brought the means to accomplish it with him.
Orwen paused, dismayed, as he caught sight of the elegantly clad noble who stood by the window of Selenay's office, and of the strained, white face of his daughter. Lady Ista was much subdued in her father's presence, the girl's clever tongue silenced, her bright green eyes dulled with weeping and resignation.
"Lord Orwen." Selenay eyed him carefully over the wide expanse of her desk. Serious, then, if she'd troubled to clear the large, polished surface of the incessant work of the kingdom. "Lord Varrant." She nodded gravely to the older man, then swept her dark blue eyes speculatively over the subdued girl at his side. Her eyes returned to Orwen. "We were just going to inquire if you were well enough to attend us." The Queen's tone was mild, but her eyes caught and held his, the look in them cautious and questioning.
Orwen bowed, then almost fell. Devan caught and steadied him, then looked at the Queen in worried exasperation. Wordlessly, she motioned to a chair. The healer eased the young noble into it, then stepped back. "He should be in bed, resting, your Highness."
"I don't doubt you, Deven." She answered mildly, but her eyes remained troubled, and fixed on Orwen. "Lord Varrant has brought a serious claim before me, Lord Orwen. His daughter, Ista, claims to be with child by you."
Orwen would have laughed if the charge hadn't been so serious. He looked dispassionately at the young woman. Her eyes swept down, unable to meet his gaze, but not in time to hide the fear and resentment that simmered there. Fear of who? Her father? Him? She ventured a step or two away from her sire. The vision he'd had of this moment echoed through him. It would end badly, on the sword of one of his dearest friends. A spasm shook him. All his attention then had been focused on Selenay. Now he forced himself to think – and to grieve for Ian. If the captain challenged him over this chit, he'd have to kill him. Ashton was simply too good, the vision too vivid, to risk his own death. Not with the threat to Selenay hanging on the edge of his vision. No. there has to be another way. Lady, if ever you gave me a charge…
"Lady Ista." He said gently. "Why are you pursuing this course? I've given you no sign that my feelings incline toward you. And you know well that -" He paused. The sudden pallor on the girl's face echoed the panic in her eyes. He gaze shifted briefly to Lord Varrant, whose expression remained fixed, eyes flat with suppressed rage. Orwen turned back to the girl. "You know well I've never touched you. If you are, indeed, with child -"
"You dare question my daughter?" Lord Varrant stepped forward, unable to contain himself. Among the nobility, such a denial was cause for blood feud. Selenay rose to her feet, alarmed, torn between her need to keep peace in her court and the severity of the charge about to burst on her youngest councilor. She'd assumed the young lord astute enough to know his duty better than this. A signed contract, a quiet marriage – he had no blood heir, after all, and the girl was of suitable lineage.
"Lord Varrant, her heart lies elsewhere, after all." Orwen stepped back, and dropped clumsily into a chair. "You sent her to court to acquire me, didn't you? Unwed, no heirs, and the girl well-favored by Lady Maeve. I'm well aware of my value in such an alliance – and of your daughter's." He looked at the Queen, then at the healer standing in quiet attendance against the wall.
"Healer Devan . Is Lady Ista truly with child"
Devan arched a fine, dark brow at the young lord, then studied the young woman with healing sight. "No." He said simply, then looked deeper, studying her more carefully. "She's been highly stressed, however, and that's thrown her cycles off." Ista blushed deeply, then paled as her father came forward and gripped her shoulders.
"Dishonored then. Who."
"I won't." She retorted. The graceful jaw suddenly clenched. "I only named Lord Orwen because he was your choice, and you'd not – and 'twas my choice, not his. I love him – I'll not have you kill him."
"Your choice. You won't." The man's face held an odd mix of fury and amusement. "I could have you cloistered, child." He said softly. "You dare dishonor our name."
"He's a good man, and he loves me." She responding, struggling to rip free. "He'd come for me. He would have come now, but -" Her face flushed with dispair. "I - I told him -"
Orwen pushed up, feeling oddly alarmed. "You told him you were with child? By me?" The girl nodded mutely. Orwen sank back into the chair with a sigh. "Well, you're not." He turned shrewd eyes to the Queen. "Lord Varrant, Your Majesty, what think you of Captain Ashton as spouse for this Lady?"
Varrant looked startled, then glanced swiftly at the Queen. Selenay pursed her lips. She'd play Orwen's game, for now. "He's rising swiftly in the guard." She replied steadily. "The Lord Martial -" a flicker of amusement crossed her face at the thought of her husband and lifebonded "- thinks to name him both field commander and personal aide, with an eye to training him as a replacement."
Orwen smiled bleakly. He dared not trust the future, and thought suddenly of another pressing need. "We're also cousins. I will make him my heir apparent, with a permanent bequest of my eastern estates, it Lord Varrant will accept the match." Even Selenay was shocked at his words. It was a princely gift, too much so. "If," Orwen continued, "Lord Varrant will bestow a like bequest on his daughter."
The Queen set back, her face hopeful but troubled. "Are you sure…"
Lord Varrant was staring at his younger colleague in stunned disbelief. "You're mad, boy."
"No at all, my lord, my Liege." He managed a smile for the Lady Ista. "Only in a tearing hurry. My only stipulation is that you send for Ashton now, and secure his consent. Before I leave this room." Time seemed to blur suddenly around him. Yes. I've changed the vision. If only it is for something better.
Ashton was white-faced when he stepped into the Queen's chambers. Shadows under the captain's eyes betrayed his lack of sleep. He went rigid when he saw Ista, then stared at Lord Orwen with hopeless, ill-concealed hostility.
"Ian." The Queen spoke sharply, forcing the captain's attention. "It seems the young lady believed herself with child – by you." An incredulous expression crossed the captain's face. "Well, she's not, not by you or anyone else. It seems," the Queen's glance brushed across Lord Varrant, then returned to the captain will the faintest touch of amusement, "that the lady inclines toward you, but is afraid her father would oppose the match – in the extreme, as it were."
Ian's face, already pale, went white. "I assure you, Majesty, I am quite capable -"
"You are quite capable of wrecking this court over an affair of the heart when I simply can't afford it." Selenay retorted bluntly. "But Lord Orwen of Ravencroft believes your thick head has some sense in it, and that your sons will eventually be worth something to the crown. I am therefore ordering a marriage, at swordspoint if need be, between yourself and Lady Ista Varrant. You are also named heir apparent to Ravenscroft, and made lord in name of his eastern estates –as well as two of Lord Varrant's." Here she looked hard at the older nobleman. He could not trust himself to speak, only nodded curtly. The ghost of a smile brushed his thin lips.
Ista burst out weeping, and threw herself at Ian, and Orwen felt the odd pressure at the back of his mind abruptly ease. The captain held the girl gingerly, then stroked her hair, pressed her face into his shoulder, and stared at his kinsman, shaken. "How could – how did you know -"
Orwen sighed and leaned back into the chair, exhausted, but couldn't keep a grin off his face. "You don't want to know, Ian. Take your lady someplace quiet, and let her explain things." Ian nodded mutely, his eyes full of questions, then led Ista away.
Orwen closed his eyes, hoping for a moment's respite, but the nausea he was coming to fear swept through him, and a cold sweat beaded his face. The room swam suddenly in his vision – Lord Varrant startled, concern warring with anger on his seamed face – Selenay rose suddenly, coming around her desk toward him. Orwen struggled to focus on his queen. "Selenay, I came to warn you – there's going to be an attack. Soon, in the throne room. A delegation - coming from the east." He struggled to hold to this time, this place. "The eastern envoy – you can't." Deven moved to his side, his face drawn in concern.
The healer knelt beside him, one hand going to his forehead, one to the pulse point at his throat. Concern turned to alarm. "Get Healer Kevren." He snapped out. The queen's page glanced once at his royal mistress then bolted for the door. Deven turned back to his patient, trying not to panic. "Quit fighting it, Orwen. Slow, deep breathes. Your heart – you've got to slow it down."
"Trying – to be – two places." Orwen managed to gasp, his voice rising in panic. "The Field – Kahlen – they're going to -" Abruptly he let go of his hold to this here and now, and felt himself ripping into a different time and place.
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Yes, another cliffhanger. It's what I do! Please RR!