Chapter 1 of 4 Posted April 23


"I can't find my boots!" Anur panted, bursting into the sacristy where Kir and Henri were checking over supply stocks.

Henri raised an eyebrow and looked pointedly at the black riding boots currently on Anur's feet, and Kir hid a grin when Anur looked even more flustered and said, "Not those! These I mean! My white ones!"

Kir's humor vanished at the reminder of why Anur alone was frantically packing his gear. Herald Griffon, Captain Naomi and the majority of her soldiers had headed out the day after Lenora had been rescued, but Joss and Janner had wanted to keep Lenora bedbound a few more days. A squad of Valdemarans had been left behind, Corinth left in charge of them, but Anur was going with them – it was the only way they could keep their stories believable, and Lenora needed the familiar and friendly face beside.

But Lenora was stable enough now, and with a litter hung between Glenn and Aelius' saddles she could be brought back to Valdemar, to more and better healers than Joss and Janner. They'd known for a while that Anur would have to head north, reinforce the idea that he was just on patrols a lot, not absent from Valdemar as a whole. Lenora's rescue just gave the perfect and most necessary time.

It didn't mean either of them liked or were even comfortable with the idea.

"Did you check behind the wardrobe? On top of the shelves?" Anur lit up and bolted from the room, presumably to check one of those spots.

"How would a boot even get up there?" Henri asked, eyeing him incredulously and Kir snorted, waving a hand as he said, "Fetching practice – boredom happens. Frequently. And at least his practicing doesn't involve burning things constantly."

"Just throwing boots on top of bookshelves," the younger priest said dryly, "Well, whatever works, I suppose. So glad I never ended up in those classes – much more stressful. Now, how are we on sandalwood? None are in these cupboards."

"Looks like two boxes of cones, standard size," Kir reported, "Sufficient even if we run across bishra up here, and with the supplement purification patrols we've been able to incorporate with scouting runs, unlikely."

"Agreed. I have…fourteen bushels of dried sage – what could you possibly need all that for?"

"Well now that you've commented on it, we'll be finding out."

"I take it back!"

By the time they'd finished the inventory, Anur had managed to find his white boots in some obscure corner of their quarters. He wasn't actually wearing his Heraldic uniform – that would wait until after they were out of Karse – but Kir could see the white fabric stuffed into the saddlebags tossed on their bed, and Anur wasn't wearing his rank markings or his Enforcer sash. It was absurd, they had days where they wore plainclothes, it wasn't like Anur only ever wore his uniform – hells, on Lenora's rescue last week he'd been wearing his whites – but seeing him like this was disorienting and strange and Kir didn't like it.

"I don't like this," Anur echoed, muttering it under his breath as he crossed his arms, hunching in on himself.

"I don't particularly like it either," Kir admitted, hugging Anur fiercely and burying his face in his shoulder, "You're going to do something stupidly reckless and I'm going to have to single-handedly invade Valdemar and then where are we going to run?"

"Jkatha," Anur muttered, "There's always Jkatha. Also, I am not the one to be worried about here – what are you going to get up to? With my luck I'll get a call from Kari in the middle of meeting with the Queen and need to handwave excuses and then get Fetched out of there in a ball of fire."

"I found a Jkathan-Karsite dictionary in the archives. It's on our shelves. Just say the word and we can run for it," Kir offered, never more serious about their half-joking plan than he was in this moment. It was absurd, it was ridiculous, but compared to everything else they'd faced in these messy, revolutionary years it was the thought of separating from Anur for weeks, of not seeing him, maybe not even being able to mindspeak with him (and when had that cursed gift become a reassurance, become a gift in truth) – it was that which had him ready to drop everything and run.

"We're committed Kir, we're not running now," Anur huffed a laugh and continued, "Unless the Lord Marshal's found out about this and is waiting to grill me as we speak. Then I'll be delivering Lenora and making tracks for Jkatha. You can catch up with me."

:He hasn't,: Aelius spoke up at last, :I've been feeling out Rolan and Caryo for the past few days – just barely in range for us, worst come I can boost Anur to speak with you Kir, though I wouldn't recommend it outside of dire need – and they're not hinting at anything odd. And I know them, I'd be able to tell if they were hiding something about Anur.:

:That does help. Thank you, witch-horse.:

:You're welcome, sunpriest.:

"Well, best get this over with," Anur took a deep breath to steady himself and stepped back, Kir reluctantly letting him. Shouldering his bags, he headed for the door and Kir followed. He'd follow as far as he could.

And then he'd pay very careful attention to Anur's mind against his own. If anything went wrong, he wasn't going to rely on Aelius' dire straights relay to alert him. He wanted to be halfway to Valdemar by the time he got that call.

***===***pagebreak***===***

Lenora could have cried when they finally reached Valdemaran barracks a few days later, but she managed to hold back tears and just grinned up at Anur when the other Herald walked alongside her litter, new soldiers carrying it after unstrapping Aelius and Glenn's rigs. "Seems we're switching roles," she said, a startled look crossing Anur's face before he laughed, resting his hand on her shoulder.

"Seems we are," he agreed, "Though maybe Griff would be more appropriate, since he's the one waiting here for us?"

"But it's not nearly so symmetric," she sighed, her fellow Herald snorting and she counted the lightened mood as a win. She hadn't been aware of much those first days in Karse, but the day and a half she'd been fully conscious in the 62nd's barracks had been an eye-opener, and Anur's distant gaze and tense shoulders as they rode north had been something of a kick in the teeth.

People of Karse had tortured him. One loyal Sunsguard unit and a quietly devoted Sunpriest aside, the rest of the country wouldn't bother to spit on him if he were on fire, and Anur was at home there. He was counting the days until he could return.

What did we do to lose you, brother? she wondered, smiling and nodding when Anur offered to take care of Glenn for her, giving her hand a squeeze before heading off with the Companions.

She had been a circuit rider specializing in the southern reaches for a couple of years when word had come of a new Herald being assigned to the bandit hunting units by Karse. Meeting Bellamy – a man she faintly remembered coming in freshly Chosen right before her internship began – had set her teeth on edge. He was running from something, and as much as Lenora had tried to anchor him, to offer genuine affection and regard, he'd never stopped looking around as though someone was going to snatch everything from him and leave a knife in his back.

By the time the war with Hardorn had started, she'd mostly resigned herself to occasional romps in the hay, but nothing deeper, not with Bellamy. Man made friends with anyone, but ask for anything more and he gave a guileless laugh and pretended to misunderstand.

After he'd come back from Karse that first, disastrous time, she'd seen something new in his eyes, recognized something more solid in his core and had been quietly pleased. At least something good had come from his wretched experiences, at least he'd been able to find something to cling to. In her weaker, vainer moments, she'd fancied that something had been her, but that delusion hadn't lasted long.

It had burnt to ash when he ran out to find a Firestarter he'd known all of a year, shaking off her reminders of duty and obligation and Valdemar with a snarl. But even with all that, she'd have never thought that he considered Karse his home, and if she hadn't seen it with her own eyes she'd have never believed it.

Lenora let the healers fuss, answered questions when prompted but mostly let Joss do the talking. When the Lord Marshal arrived to question her, Captain Mecal a grim shadow in his wake, she gave every scrap of information and supposition she had on the Hardornens, all the guess work, all the mind-torn pieces and scraps, anything that could be useful and a lot that probably wasn't. Once questions were turned to Karse, she gave all sorts of information on the layout of the barracks, on the skill of their medic, on the respect the soldiers had offered her, on the way they'd skirted around Glenn but treated him well nonetheless, on the priest that had come to speak with her at Anur's side – and she kept firmly behind her teeth the uniform Anur had worn like a second skin, red sash a beacon to her eyes, she kept tight lipped on the salutes, the respectful 'Lieutenant-Enforcers' that fell from soldier's lips with ease, like a habit. She forcibly ignored the conclusions she'd drawn on the way home, the pregnant, anxious silence that their departure had left behind, and the hushed conversations amongst her escort when they thought she was asleep.

Anur's home was Karse, and she would not take that from him.

***===***pagebreak***===***

Bellamy's debriefing had been full of intriguing tidbits, potential avenues of investigation into whatever the hell was going on in Karse, but nothing truly groundbreaking. To be expected, his priest friend apparently spat on Sunhame regularly, with the unit left in the cold by political maneuvering most of the time they'd hardly know details of Sunhame politics – but Lord Randon knew there was something more and not being able to figure it out was so very frustrating.

Even more frustrating, he could admit to himself, was the fact that very few others seemed to care. Herald Dirk occasionally came to him asking after Bellamy and they would exchange knowledge, exchange ideas, but the Queen and Queen's Own and even the Herald-Consort would reassure him that if there was something wrong, their Companions would have let them know, and couldn't they focus on Hardorn for a bit and oh, there were fresh surges of pirate activity near Evendim, any word on that?

Worse yet, at every turn he was stonewalled by those he had thought trustworthy. Those he knew still were trustworthy, when it came to Valdemar's safety, their kingdom's security, but apparently held the privacy of this one Herald as paramount to answering his entirely reasonable questions!

What he wouldn't give to have Coroc back and willing to relay Heraldic gossip to his father. Not a day went by that he didn't curse ever trusting that swine Orthallen and whispering even a hint of his son's duties in that man's vassal territories.

It had only taken Coroc's death for him to see something off in that smooth-talking, oh so genuinely concerned bastard and he kicked himself near daily for not following up on it, for letting himself think that it was carelessness that had gotten his son killed, not malicious intent.

Pinching the bridge of his nose and pouring himself a glass of the horrifically strong alcohol Naomi had stashed in her office, he toasted his dead son and let himself mourn his permitted moment a day before choking it down and pouring another as he focused once again on the matter at hand. There was no matter at hand, which was half the problem he ruefully admitted to himself, not only that but whatever questions he might have had answered in this mess had only spawned more. And since their ridiculous story – and yes, it was a story, the grand scope was true but if Naomi hadn't planned on penetrating the Hardornen border from the very start then he'd pour this whole bottle into his boot and drink it – had them saving a Herald thought lost, a woman thought tortured and gone, no one would support him in investigating the matter more thoroughly.

A knock on the door drew him out of his brooding and he looked up, raising an eyebrow when the door opened and Captain Naomi Mecal herself looked in, a wry gleam in her eye as she noticed his glass of whatever-this-was. "Strong stuff, isn't it?" she said, shutting the door behind her and pouring herself a glass – double the amount he'd given himself, she'd apparently gotten used to it. "Sunpriest Dinesh sent it to me via Bellamy. Called prodka, made out of potatoes. Apparently he drinks the stuff like water some days."

"Living in Karse as what I'd call a reasonably moral person?" Randon snorted, "I'm surprised he hasn't drowned himself in it by now. What new story are you going to spin me, Mecal?"

"No story," she said firmly, "You know exactly what details we skewed beyond recognition in that report, and you know damn well you'd have done the same thing in my place. The rest – it was real, my Lord."

"And how many details did you just fail to mention entirely?" Jon snapped back, feeling that frustration start to boil over and unwilling to bury it again, not with Mecal, not with the woman who'd taught his children Sarjan curses and brought strange sweets whenever she reported, "Maybe everyone else is willing to take it on faith that all your little details on cooperation with that Karsite unit don't need to be reported, aren't worth hearing but I know you and your reports were ridden with details and needless specifics and now here I am hearing sweeping generalizations and watching you dangle shiny distractions in front of people while you sweep broken glass under a rug!"

"You're right," she said solemnly and he felt himself deflate. She hadn't denied it, hadn't tried to say there was nothing for him to worry about and he'd half hoped she would because then at least there would be something to chase.

"You're right, my Lord. We're holding something back. But I need you to trust us for a little longer. Joss, Bellamy, me – my men even know some of it. We've been working these angles a long time, sir, and I'm asking you to let me see this through."

"Like that, is it?" he hissed between his teeth, "I may understand deniability, Mecal, but if this gets out and is as big as you seem to be implying – I can't shield you three from the Council, not entirely. Bellamy will be all right, the Circle judges their own and he still has his Companion, but you and Joss? Vouching can only do so much."

"We know," she said quietly, "We've always known that. But this is worth it."

She honestly believed it, he could see that clearly. They'd finished their debriefing, given out privately public reprimands for disobeying orders and giving truly private congratulations and thanks for doing exactly what he would have done in her place, and she was still here. The most reasonable thing for her to do would be to wander around, do her job, and keep her head down until the Haven-bound group left.

Instead, she'd walked into her office, the office he'd taken over, and sat down to tell him that she was pulling the wool over his eyes, they were pulling the wool over everyone's eyes, and they needed his help to keep it there a while longer.

He'd always had a soft spot for bravely honest agents.

"How much longer do I need to look the other way?"

"Everything should be solid by next Midsummer – and we just need you to not ask us questions, not investigate our units – none of us expect you to avoid sending agents into Karse entirely, the rumors coming out of there are utterly bizarre."

"Oh I know," he snorted, leaning back in his seat and taking another sip of this utterly terrible prodka. Drinking it without any mixers was awful, he could practically feel his stomach getting a hole burned in it as he swallowed, but damn if he couldn't already feel that pleasant buzz of verging on tipsy.

His judgment wasn't yet impaired though, so he sighed and nodded, raising his glass to his captain, "Very well, Mecal. You've won yourself a year. But I expect this story – the real one – to be damn well worth waiting for."

Her grin was a sly thing full of teeth, "Oh trust me, my lord. It'd be worth waiting a decade for."

***===***pagebreak***===***

Anur scanned for observers and, finding none, slumped against the wall and let his head drop back, taking a few deep breaths. He hadn't thought being back in Valdemar would be so hard, but every time he looked up and saw blue and silver instead of red and black and orange, he felt it like ice water across his face. When he looked down at his sleeve and spotted his whites he had to suppress the immediate check for observers get out of sight get out of that blasted uniform reaction.

He'd woken up four times in the six days they'd been out of range, near panic because Kir wasn't there and he couldn't hear him. Aelius talked him down, but it took longer, took more convincing, because lurking in his mind was the fear that Kir was gone.

:Griffon incoming,: Aelius murmured and Anur nodded, pulling himself back together and straightening, looking up as Griff rounded the corner and letting a smile quirk at his lips, "Hey Griff. How're you doing?"

"Well, I've heard more variations of 'you idiot how could you risk yourself like that never again but thanks' than I thought existed," the redhead said wryly, looking around at the empty alley and settled against the wall next to Anur. "Heard you were in this direction, hope you don't mind company."

"No, no," Anur grinned, waving a hand idly, "Just hiding from the questions myself. Don't know how many ways to say I happened to be with Kir when Lenora's screams came in, relayed what happened after I dropped and then everything just started moving – with Kir there to keep the blood-mages at bay, they weren't risking more than other military engagements – well, besides Sunhame finding out."

"I think relaying the explanations I got from Kir really helped mitigate things," Griff said, "Pass on my thanks to him, will you?"

"Course," Anur smirked, "He's always happy to spread the word on killing blood-mages."

"I don't blame him," Griffon's expression was blank and grim in a way that Anur knew very well, from the mirror, from Kir – from their Firestarters. "I'm sure somehow, somewhere, someone uses that magic for good – voluntary donors, willing consent, self-sacrifice – power is power, it's how you use it, how you get it. But Ancar's blood-mages, most people who'd go that far – evil is the only word for it."

"Yeah," Anur agreed, deciding that he'd raise the matter of possibly morally acceptable blood-magic with Kir possibly never, but noting the idea nonetheless as a good potential distraction to toss Kir's way.

Things to keep Kir's mind busy without setting fires in the vicinity or purchasing even more string were always handy. Kir didn't think he'd noticed, or at the least had been careful to place the pendants when Anur wasn't around, but Lenora had a knotwork Sun in Glory in browns and golds under her pillow and Griffon had a red and orange one tucked into his saddlebags.

That made four Heralds holding sigils of the Sunlord, though Herald Alberich's was a wall hanging and probably didn't travel with him.

He'd have to work on Companion-hair projects. They could facilitate a knotwork exchange!

:That's a terrible idea Chosen.:

:It's adorable!:

:I'd be bald within a week! Not doing it! Besides, your knotwork is terrible! Stick to carving.: