Changing the World: All-New Tales of Valdemar

As a trainee, he’d been taught that ForeSight wasn’t all flashes of the future—that his uncanny “gut instinct” stemmed from it. And that doubt proved particularly toxic to someone with his Gift, because it muddled its messages.

He tried to listen to his gut now as he passed oaken doors with brass knobs and double doors with inlaid glass leading out to the atrium. He navigated twisty corridors, noted alcoves with busts of former Tindale lords in them, and passed a door with gryphons carved on it. He saw cozy windowseats with curtains both drawn and down, flower petals strewn across the cushions.

He tried, but eventually he had to admit defeat and return to the Bard, empty-handed.

Midwinter Vigil wasn’t for four more nights, but you couldn’t tell that by the press of revelers at the mansion. Lelia thought her sets were well received, although they sounded contrived to her ears. No one listened to her, anyway. She was little more than a musical bauble at parties like this.

Maresa had worked out an excellent contract, not just in payment, but also in the number of breaks Lelia got. It gave her ample time to lurk and mingle while Wil went on endless “errands” to fetch her water and tidbits. The countess’s entourage avoided her, but the servers were happy to talk.

The characteristics of a Bard were curiosity as deep as the sky and enough charm to coax secrets from a stone. By the end of the night Lelia had a pretty good idea why Wil was here.

“So,” she said, once they were back at the Bell and could safely shed their coats and personas, “I talked to some servants tonight.”

Wil’s eyes narrowed.

“Andris is the countess’ fourth husband. Did you know that?”

His face went blank, and she thought, Ah ha!

“The count’s awfully young,” she continued. “Seemed impressionable to me. Vulnerable, too.”

“Lelia.”

“I hear her last three husbands all died under questionable—”

“Stop.”

She held the sentence’s ending hostage, meeting and holding his gaze.

“It’s not a game, Lelia,” he said quietly.

“And I told you I know that and you act like I don’t!” She shook her head at him, hoisting her heavy pack of books and notes. “Good night,” she muttered, and stomped off to trudge through the cold.

Wil rubbed his forehead.

“I can’t do this,” he said at last.

:You can!: Vehs protested.

:No. I can’t.: Wil unbuckled his belt and slipped his weapon loop off. :The stories are right. Talamir’s halfway to the Havens. Only a simpleton would have assigned me to do this with—her.:

:Chosen.: Vehs’s mind-voice was flat serious. :That isn’t it at all.:

:Vehs, I can’t—:

:Shut up!:

Wil rocked on his heels, feeling as if he’d been slapped.

:Ever since you spoiled that brigand’s ambush, this is all I’ve heard! Endless whining about how you can’t and this isn’t your forte. You’re a Herald. It’s all your job!:

Wil sat, stunned into silence. He’d never known Vehs to be this—direct.

:You are the one Herald with ForeSight having these visions. You are the one who stopped the brigand, interrogated him under Truth Spell, and learned of the danger to Andris. And yes, you are the one who will uncover enough evidence to take to the queen so we can keep Chantil from murdering her fourth husband! And do you know why?:

:Why?: Wil asked meekly.

:Because you are my Chosen, dammit, and I didn’t Choose an idiot!:

A long silence followed, and then, :And neither did Rolan.:

Wil slumped. :I’m sorry. I just—I don’t—: He carefully rephrased the thought. :I feel like a fish out of water.:

:Talamir gave you gills. Use them.:

Wil touched his neck, confused.

:The Bard, Chosen.:

:What? No. No no no—:

:She learned a lot in one night. She is far more social than you. She fits in where you do not. If you haven’t completely offended her, she might even help you.:

Vehs retreated then, leaving Wil alone with his thoughts.

He crawled into bed, but it didn’t want him. He tossed and turned, thoughts churning. Ages later, he gave a resigned sigh.