Mercedes Lackey - Fiddler Fair (anthology)

I almost didn’t believe you, Daivie, his sister said into his mind, wonderingly.

His mare snorted; so did he. Huh. Thanks a lot, sis. You catch any broad-beaming?

She shook her head, almost imperceptibly, as her mount shifted a little. Not so much as a stray thought— her own thought faded for a moment, and she bit her lip. Now that I think of it, that’s damned odd. These people are buttoned up as tight as a yurt in a windstorm.

Which means what? He signaled Windstorm to move up beside Snowdancer.

Either they’re naturally shielded as well as the best mindspeaker I ever met, yet they do have the gift. And the first is about as likely as Brighttooth sitting down to dinner with an Ehleenee priest.

Only if the priest was my dinner, sister, came the mischievous reply from the grassland behind them. With the reply came the mock disgust and nausea from Stubtail that his littermate would even contemplate such a notion as eating vile-tasting Ehleenee flesh.

So where does that leave us? Daiv asked.

We go in, do a little dickering, and see if we can eavesdrop. And I’ll see if I can get any more out of the horses that you did.

Fat chance! he replied scornfully, but followed in the wake of her mare as she urged her into the camp itself.

The fire on the hearth that was the only source of light in Howard’s room crackled. Howard lounged in his throne-like chair in the room’s center. His back was to the fire, which made him little more than a dark blot to a petitioner, and cast all the available light on a petitioner’s face.

Howard eyed the lanky tavern-keeper who was now kneeling before him with intense speculation. “You say the smith’s been consorting with the heathen traders?”

“More than traders, m’lord,” Willum replied humbly. “For the past two days there’s been a brace of horse barbarians with the traders as well. I fear this means no good for the town.”

“I knew about the barbarians,” Howard replied, leaning back in his padded chair and staring at the flickering shadows on the wall behind Willum thoughtfully. Indeed he did know about the barbarians—twins they were, with hair like a summer sun; he’d spotted the girl riding her beast with careless grace, and his loins had ached ever since.

“I fear he grows far too friendly with them, m’lord. His wife and child spend much of the day at the trader’s camp. I think that, unlike those of us who are loyal, he has forgotten where his duties lie.”

“And you haven’t, I take it?” Howard almost smiled.

“M’lord knows I am but an honest tavernkeeper—”

“And has the honest tavernkeeper informed my father of this possibly treacherous behavior?”

“I tried,” Willum replied, his eyes not quite concealing his bitterness. “I have been trying for some time now. King Robert will not hear a word against the man.”

“King Robert is a senile old fool!” Howard snapped viciously, jerking upright where he sat so that the chair rocked and Willum sat back on his heels in startlement. “King Robert is far too readily distracted by pretty toys and pliant wenches.” His own mouth turned down with a bitterness to equal Willum’s—for the talented flame-haired local lovely that had been gracing his bed had deserted it last night for his father’s. Willum’s eyes narrowed, and he crept forward on his knees until he almost touched Howard’s leg. “Perhaps,” he whispered, so softly that Howard could barely hear him, “it is time for a change of rulers—”

Chali had been banished to the forest as soon as the bright golden heads of the Horseclan twins had been spotted in the grasslands beyond the camp. She was not altogether unhappy with her banishment—she had caught an unwary thought from one of them, and had shivered at the strength of it. Now she did not doubt the rom baro’s wisdom in hiding her. Dook that strong would surely ferret out her own, and had rather not betray the secret gifts of her people ­until they knew more about the intent of these two. So into the forest she had gone, with cloak and firestarter and sack of food and necessaries.

Nor was she alone in her exile; Petro had deemed it wiser not to leave temptation within Howard’s reach, and sent Bakro, the king stallion, with her. They had decided to explore the woods—and had wandered far from the encampment. To their delight and surprise, they had discovered the remains of an apple orchard deep in the heart of the forest—the place had gone wild and reseeded itself several times over, and the apples themselves were far smaller than those from a cultivated orchard, hardly larger than crabapples. But they were still sweet—and most of them were ripe. They both gorged themselves as much as they dared on the crisp, succulent fruits, until night had fallen. Now both were drowsing beneath a tree in Chali’s camp, sharing the warmth of her fire, and thinking of nothing in particular—

—when the attack on the Rom tsera came.

Chali was awake on the instant, her head ringing with the mental anguish of the injured—and God, oh God, the dying! Bakro wasn’t much behind her in picking up the waves of torment. He screamed, a trumpeting of defiance and rage. She grabbed a handful of mane and pulled herself up onto his back without being consciously aware she had done so, and they crashed off into the darkness to the source of that agony.

But the underbrush they had threaded by day was a series of maddening tangles by night; Bakro’s headlong dash ended ignominiously in a tangle of vine, and when they extricated themselves from the clawing branches, they found their pace slowed to a fumbling crawl. The slower they went, the more frantic they felt, for it was obvious from what they were being bombarded with that the Rom were fighting a losing battle. And one by one the voices in their heads lost strength. Then faded.

Until finally there was nothing.

They stopped fighting their way through the brush, then, and stood, lost in shock, in the blackness of the midnight forest—utterly, completely alone.

Dawn found Chali on her knees, exhausted, face tear-streaked, hands bruised from where she’d been pounding them on the ground, over and over. Bakro stood over her, trembling; trembling not from fear or sorrow, but from raw, red hatred. His herd had survived, though most had been captured by the enemy two-legs. But his two-leg herd—Chali was all he had left.

He wanted vengeance— and he wanted it now.

Slowly the hot rage of the stallion penetrated Chali’s grief.

I hear you, prala, I do hear you, she sent slowly, fumbling her way out of the haze of loss that had fogged her mind. Kill! the stallion trumpeted with mind and voice. Kill them all!

She clutched her hands at her throat, and encountered the thong that held the little iron cross. She pulled it over her head, and stared at it, dully. What good was a God of forgiveness in the light of this slaughter? She cast the cross—and all it implied—from her, violently.

She rose slowly to her feet, and put a restraining hand on the stallion’s neck. He ceased his fidgeting and stood absolutely still, a great bay statue.

We will have revenge, prala, I swear it, she told him, her own hatred burning as high as his, but we shall have it wisely.

Kevin was shoved and kicked down the darkened corridor of the King’s manorhouse with brutal indifference, smashing up against the hard stone of the walls only to be shoved onward again. His head was near to splitting, and he’d had at least one tooth knocked out, the flat, sweet taste of blood in his mouth seemed somehow unreal.