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Inherit the Wind	By : Ash_Gray_Kitsune Category: S through Z > Valdemar Series Views: 1128 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Valdemar Series. It's rather obvious that I make no money.

Chapter List
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It was nearly a full month later, and with spring coming fast upon Valdemar, when Stormyr and Catrea made their limping, tired way into Haven, mud-drenched, exhausted, and both of them a great deal thinner than when they'd left the kyree dens. It had been a bad winter in terms of flooding, and the mud that had remained caked on them through the countryside wasn't budging now. Stormyr's sigh was lost in the crowd heading through the southern Gate; he was too tired to even contemplate the sheer size of the city, nor did he care about the heady murmur of noise that floated over the already noisy farmers. He was limping worse than his Companion now; her ankle had healed perfectly, due to Kyrrl's expertise, but she'd taken a bad stone to the hoof about halfway up, and even now, her feet were sore and inflamed. He hated having to push her, but...

:I pushed myself too hard, dearheart. I'm more worried about you...that leg's not doing well.: He winced, but hugged her neck close; in spite of her demands, he'd walked from Kettlesmith on up, determined not to put any more pressure on her. The downside had been navigating the Snake Bends of the Terilee, for a caravan had forced the pair off into the marshlands, where the young Herald-Trainee had slipped, fallen...and promptly stabbed himself in the leg with a stick. Now, the wound was slowly going septic; he'd cleaned it as best he could, but all that he could do was make for Haven, and pray he made it to the House of Healing in time. He settled with the crowds and eased into the quiet pace...when Catrea grunted, and strong teeth caught the back of his leather gambeson. Stormyr was lifted up off his feet and swung around, landing half in the saddle as he scrambled to find purchase before the mare took off at a brisk canter. :I've had enough of this! I'll not see my Chosen come down with fever and flux simply because he's too damned stubborn to listen to me!:

With the ease of a veteran campaigner, she slid through the crowds like a silver-white eel, zigging and zagging through trade markets, busy shop stalls, and finally, the avenues and lush gardens of the rich, winding up to the final wall that separated the teeming masses from the Palace proper. Of course, Stormyr only knew all of this from the Companion's memories, and so the view his eyes were telling his mind was quite a bit different from the flat, distorted sideways view his memories were saying was true. Nevertheless, the wall was quite impressive, standing a spectacular four stories, and the dark blue-clad guard at the gate came forward warily, eyeing the tall, muddy stranger dressed in dark brown leathers, comfortably astride the equally tall Companion.

"Name and occupation, sir?" Stormyr coughed, a rusty grin touching his face before he sobered, deep green eyes fatiqued as he met the guard's.

"Herald Stormyr, sir. Special Messenger."

King's Own Herald Nikolas pounded down the stairs, pushing highborn and low out of his way as he tore through the Great Hall, completely ignoring his King and Prince to hasten to the summons from the guard at the gate. Thanks be to all the gods, their lost Herald had finally made his way home, caked in blood and mud, wounded and clearly exhausted. Someone from Healer's had already taken over the scene; as Nikolas burst through the doors, he was thankful to see that it was Mag's friend Bear, who was seeing to the Herald's injured leg himself, tearing at the armor carefully as he grilled the young man as to how he got his wound.

:A nasty stab from a stick in the Snake Bends, Chosen.: His Companion, Rolan, stepped close, nudging his arm with his nose and sighing.

:Damn. Poor kid. At least he'll have the best that the Palace has for Healing and herblore. His Companion?:

:Mildly lamed, but she will be fine as well. They need rest, Chosen; if you send them out on that errand before they've healed, I will personally invade your suite and kick you to the Havens.: Nikolas winced and bowed his head to the stallion, one hand reaching up to ruffle that silken mane as he leaned into his best advisor's neck.

:Aye, aye, old friend. I suspect the Healers would stage a coup and topple my ego with a particularly nasty little bug of theirs. As for the errand, Mags, Dallen, and the rest of the Kirball team are running it to Master Soren's estate as we speak.:

:Good, because I'd have done it myself it you hadn't sent them.: The stallion heaved a second sigh, and nuzzled his Chosen's hair, his Mind-voice rueful. :So young...and so soon to be out on the road again. The first of a kind...:

:We need them, Rolan. Without the Special Messengers, how on earth will we manage all the new kingdoms and lands joining us? Without a reliable means of communication, we've nothing! And Mindspeech cannot reach to such lengths, not the sort we all have. Not even Mags and Kiril's is strong enough to span the country. I hate it as much as you do, but at least this way, the younglings who've never spent months asaddle aren't thrown into the fray without training, and this one has the experience he needs to survive...:

:And after this, there is little he will fear. I see your point, Chosen...just...let them rest. Let them heal, else we're in the same predicament as before.: Niko's blood chilled further, and he bit back an expletive, closing his eyes to the old pain. Viena had been young, but brilliant asaddle, and positively a genius at the messenger work; her Companion, Harli, had shared her Chosen's passions wholly, and the two had made the expansion of Valdemar so much smoother that Niko had taken her reports for granted...until they suddenly stopped. The day after they were due a report, the Death Bell had tolled...and grief had overwhelmed the Herald's Wing for months afterwards, guilt and anger at the bandits who'd desecrated both Herald and Companion leading to a swift, brutal attack, led by her own mentor.

Jakyr had never been the same after that, and it had shown when he'd brought Mags in almost three years ago. Thankfully, the young Trainee had healed some of that wound unconsciously, giving Jakyr a friend and comrade, rather than another tie to strain the Herald's already battered heart and mind. The King had felt it too, and after Niko's suggestion to prepare Mags for the job he'd taken up, had made it clear to the elder Heralds that the boy, and every other Trainee, Heraldic or no, was not to be treated to the abuses given him when he'd first come to the Collegium. It'd been heartening to see Jakyr's blatant approval, and that alone had helped turn several others to their side.

Now, though...he didn't know what to make of this new Trainee...Herald. He was a full Herald now, if his Companion's assertions were correct, and in spite of the testing that would have to be done, Nikolas believed it as he watched the litter carry the young man away.

He was certainly exotic to the Northern Kingdom; that much, he could never hide, but his dusky skin, a natural tan, long, raven-black hair, and startling green eyes would attract quite a few attentions. He was muscular and willowy, and standing up, he would clearly be taller than most everyone, including Bear. Calloused hands, a long scar down the side of his face, almost bisecting his eyelid, and the calm, if quiet way he was speaking through what had to have been immense pain all added up to one conclusion, and that was that this young man, for whatever else his faults, was no stranger to the dangers of life on the road.

He'd been a little worried that 'caravan guard' in the South meant 'cushion job'; if this was what one freshly out of boyhood looked like, then he paled to think of what his elders might have for scars. But maybe there weren't many old men in this job; most mercs and guards left by the time they were twenty-five, maybe thirty; from Olli, they'd learned that he'd been such a guard for five years, and had traveled all but about three months in all that time. He looked it, too; there were deep, near permanent bags under his eyes, and a lean look to him that suggested he hadn't had quite all the meals a growing boy needs. Too much like Mags, now that he thought about it...

But not as bad as Mags, and in spite of his accent, he had mentioned knowing at least three languages outside of the Tradespeech, and Valdemaren made four. That alone was invaluable; there were precious few multilingual Heralds, the most of which only knew Hardornen and a smattering of Rethwellen. While he was Healing, Niko wondered if he could teach those languages to a few others...

:That would be no bad thing; his Companion says he is a man who dislikes a great deal of free time. It seems he lost his mother at an early age, and never knew his father. She was nobly-born, however, and he does have the credentials to prove it.:

:Even if the family did disown her, he's so far north now that they'll never look for...what were the names again?:

:Sienna Gria'tehven, and Dain. His father was a dyer for the Wool Guild in Altveri; they eloped, were married by a priest, and she took on the name Dyer once her parents disowned her. They moved to the village of Shimmer, and lived in the forest just around it, both making and selling dyes. They passed everything on to their son, and when she was taken, he was adopted by the village and apprenticed to a guard leader. After that...he's fought bandits alone and in a group, he's fought ahorse and on the ground, and he's acted as a messenger between the cities down south before during the lean months.:

:And he's an old soul; he knows he's mortal, and that Death can come as swift as an eagle when it chooses. You say he's not much of a Mindspeaker?:

:His Companion's about the only one capable of speaking to him, other than a nearby, strongly Gifted Herald. Catrea thinks that he might have a touch of Foresight, but it hasn't developed yet. A touch of Empathy too, but not as much as the Healer's. Mostly, he's a normal Herald...until you look at his physical gifts.:

:Long, lean body, endurance, strength, strategic skill...bonded to a Companion who can cross the first half of our country in three days. Your speed is reknowned, old friend...her's is going to be legendary.:

:Oh, there's no doubt of that, Chosen. You wonder why she didn't use it to make her way up here, correct?:

:Well, they wouldn't have ended up in the Pelagiris Forest otherwise...but yes.:

:You know why we don't use those speeds to bring Chosen to Haven very often, correct?:

:Something about how need displaces necessity...oh. I understand.:

:If she'd done so, yes, they would have made it here with quite a little time to spare. And she would be months, if not years, in recovering. He would be too; just as you can draw from us, we do the same to you. She, and I agree with her, refuses to use that speed unless the Kingdom is truly, well and truly in need. And no order, not from even I, will ever dissuade her of that.: He shrugged and shook his mane, turning to face Nikolas with calm, sober eyes.

:And I will never order her to do so, unless we have no other option. You are my Chosen, my beloved brother...but in this, we as a herd will stand as one. Now, enough of this talk; you've dinner with the younglings, and I've a young mare to take care of. Stormyr will be fine, so long as he can remain in contact with his Chosen.: Rolan trotted off under Niko's arm just like that, leaving the King's Own to grin a little, then sigh.

This lad was different than any other youngster they'd taught; nobly born, but raised in poverty as an orphan, intelligent and very learned, and yet also a warrior of no little skill. That it had taken almost two years to find him was an oddity in and of itself, and all that had happened in the time since his Choosing had left everyone in the Collegium and the Palace shaken to the core, unprepared for his arrival. But he'd already made a friend of the Healers, so it seemed, and Niko already had plans to set his young apprentice on the new Herald, for Mags could see a great many of the things even he missed...

And besides that, perhaps this Stormyr could fill in the blanks of Mags' own history, if he'd traveled anywhere where Mags might be the norm, not the unusual. If nothing else...then at least the boys had the kinship of being Heralds, and if some of the comments dropped by Genn were any judge, they'd share weaponswork and life asaddle as well. But until then...he had a hearty meal and a mountain of new paperwork to go over, though he did delegate quite a bit to Mags these days, and knowing his young apprentice, there wouldn't even be crumbs left for him to scrape off the plates.

:Chosen, you're about to have a small group of visitors.: Stormyr settled the book he'd been reading on his chest and blinked his weary, fogged green eyes up at the window, outside of which his Companion was leaning, her familiar presence more soothing than even the strongest sleeping potions that young man Bear had come up with. In fact, he'd made great strides metaphorically towards healing, and regaining his lost weight, in the fortnight he'd been here. His wound had been...bad. Worse than he'd thought, and it had taken roughly two weeks of constant potions, Healing, and a leech or two to get all of the infection out.

It was stitched now, and last he'd heard, was nearly healed, leaving him to build up his strength and weight, though he was still as lean as a young birch tree. His hair had grown as well, reaching now past his hips, and in spite of the 'feminine' length, he chose to keep it. In his country, men and women both wore their hair long, braided and plaited, and in spite of being so neatly abducted to a brand new country, he refused to cut it.

Besides, it was a little vain of him, but he did look good with long hair. :You always look good, Chosen. Now, about those visitors?: He smiled, and chuckled lightly, his eyes going to the doorway.

"Send 'em in, Catrea." His Valdemaren was still a little rough, but he was quite happy with its development over the time he'd been here. The Healers were kind enough to explain things he didn't understand, when they had the time, and Catrea herself was acting as a fine tutor to both a gaggle of Companion foals and her erstwhile Herald. For he was a full Herald now; once he'd been conscious for more than an hour, he was grilled, tested, and given his Whites by no less than the King and his Herald, Nikolas, as well as the Senechal's Herald, the Lord Marshal's Herald, and a dour-looking older man they called the Dean of the Herald's Collegium. He'd had a rough time with the initial grammar of the questions, but his mathematics, geometry, history, and languages were perfectly sound, and they claimed that his Companion's examples of his weaponswork and navigational skills were beyond sufficient.

"In fact, youngling, other than a little practice needed in writing, you've gained the record of the shortest transition from Trainee to Whites in the last fifty years. King Valdemar, his Heir, and Herald Beltran not withstanding, of course." That had been King's Own Herald Nikolas, and this remarkably unremarkable man had left him with three sets of pure white clothing, one set of traveling leathers in the same hue, and a comfortable cloak with soft blue silk on the underside. These were his spring and summer clothes, or so the man had said; he would get his winter gear when he was healthy enough to go on Special Circuit. They'd spent almost three days explaining his duties over this, how while he was exempt from making judgments and settling conflicts with the exception of special circumstances, he still had to collect reports, make reports, deliver post, and generally act as a courier amongst both the Heralds and the citizens of Valdemar. There was so much he had to do when he was out of this bed...but his first duties walked in the door, and he welcomed the odd crew of younglings with a tentative smile.

The first one was the young Healer Trainee Bear; sleepy-looking and forever pushing his lenses up, Stormyr had warmed to him, reminded deeply of Mikka, minus the energy. The second held hands with him, and from her description, he knew her to be Lena Marchand, Bardic Trainee, and though this was the first time he'd seen her, he had heard her out in the gardens singing and playing her harp for the few elderly Heralds who acted as proctors for the Herald's Wing. The third was another girl, and limped badly, though her warm eyes and deep brown hair resembled Nikolas so completely that they had to be related. He blinked for a moment, then remembered the Herald saying something about his daughter...The fourth however, made his jaw drop, and judging from the young man's expression, he must have felt the same. This boy...he looked so much like the boys and girls in his home village that it took him a moment to realize that he was certainly not in Shimmer, but in Haven...and as he surveyed the lad, he realized that he was much thinner, and much smaller than those children. But those eyes...they matched his own, though their green was a little lighter, with flecks of hazel brightening. They were so old, though...

"Herald Stormyr, this is Lena, Amily, an' Mags, the folks I was tellin' you about." He blinked again, a smile warming his face as he held out his hand for each to shake.

"I apologize fer my starin', younglings. I'm afraid I've been isolated fer so long tha' I'm not used ta younger folk. You, though, Mags; ya look like all the childer in me own home village. Thought fer a moment there you was young Jemmie." Silence fell over the room, and he realized that both young women and Bear were staring at their friend, while Mags' eyes were locked on him. He reached out for the boy, motioning for him to come closer. "Y'don' know who yer parents were, do ya?" His voice was soft now, as everything Nikolas had said came back to him, and he pulled the boy into the chair next to his bed, and motioned for the others to draw close, pulling up the bench against the wall. "Nikolas told me about ya...has he toldja anythin' about me?"

"Nah...'e said nothin', 'Erald..." His accent was thick, but hell, so was Stormyr's, and so emerald eyes caught Mags', smiling faintly.

"Then lemme start askin' 'round. Mebbe nobly born, but twas raised a lot like ya...well, I weren't no mine slavey, but I'm an orphan, same as. So, tell me, younglings, an' mebbe I can help."
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Inherit the Wind