Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar

Merris had never seen one. Forgotten Keep was small and out of the way, and her father involved himself only rarely with affairs of the royal court far away in Haven. Except for the occasional Bard wandering through to sing his songs, Forgotten Keep was as forgotten as its name.

Now not one Herald had appeared in the Keep, but two. She found that her mouth was hanging open. She shut it with a snap.

Everyone else seemed as taken aback as she was. Just as it dawned on Merris that someone ought to at least offer the Heralds a greeting, one of them swayed and sagged against the other.

The dazzle of what they were vanished abruptly. The one who had fainted was old, she realized, and the one who held him up was young. Inside their shining Whites, they were human—and the old one did not look well at all.

She ran forward without even stopping to think, calling to people who stood around with their mouths open. “Rolf! Gerent! Take the Companions to the stable. Remember they’re not horses, no matter what they look like. Danil—find the Healer. Move!”

People moved. Merris planted herself on the other side of the old Herald and took part of his weight, thinking distantly that one of the servants should do this. But she wanted to do something, however unsuitable, and that seemed like the most useful thing.

She met the young Herald’s brown eyes over the bowed white head. They were deeply worried. There was nothing she could do to soothe that worry, but she could say, “Come with me.”

The Herald nodded. He looked fairly done in himself, but he could walk. Between them, he and Merris carried the old Herald into the Keep and up to one of the guest rooms.

The bed was freshly made and the room was aired. The shutters were open to the late spring sunlight. Merris and the young Herald laid the old one carefully on the bed.

His breathing was rapid and shallow. His skin was clammy and his lips were blue. Merris opened her mouth to ask what had happened to him, but the young Herald staggered and sat down abruptly on the stool beside the bed.

The water jar was empty, but there was wine in the cupboard. Merris poured a few sips into one of the cups and made the Herald drink it. He choked and spluttered, but a little color came back into his cheeks.

“Good,” said Merris, reclaiming the cup. “We don’t need you passing out, too.”

He drew himself up. Apart from the glamour of the Whites, he looked perfectly ordinary: not too tall, not too short, well built and sturdy, with a pleasant, blunt-featured face and curly brown hair. There was nothing noble or heroic about that face, and she doubted he was highborn. He looked like half the villagers around Forgotten Keep.

“I’m Herald-Intern Coryn,” he said, “and this is Herald Isak.” His accent bore out her suspicions. It had a hint of a drawl in it, a countryman’s twang. “And you are . . . ?”

“Merris,” she said.

“Thank you, Merris,” he said. “We’ve lost our way, I think. Are we very far from the road to Nottaway?”

“It’s a day or two west of here,” she said.

He sighed, then sagged. She jumped toward him, but he had not fainted. It was relief, that was all.

He might have spoken or she might have asked questions, but the Healer arrived just then. She took in the scene with an all too sharp eye, shooed Merris out, and took both Heralds in hand.

Merris would have argued, but she had tutors waiting—and an extra hour’s worth of exercises in correct etiquette at banquets for being so drastically late. The exercises were deadly dull, but there was no getting out of them. There was a bargain, as she never failed to remember. This was her part of it.

It was two wildly frustrating days before Merris could escape the stranglehold of duty and discipline. The Heralds were still in the Keep—she was able to determine that much.

The old one, Isak, was very ill. Something to do with his heart, she gathered. The Healer was doing her best. The young Herald never left his elder’s side except for a daily visit to the Companions.

All this, Merris learned from obliging servants. Even with the flurry around her birthday, Heralds were a great excitement.

Merris’ tutors seemed determined to keep her from ever going near them again. Mistress Patrizia insisted that she be fitted for a trunkful of entirely new and to her mind completely unnecessary gowns, which took untold hours. When she was not strangling in folds of silk and brocade, Master Thellen had her memorizing endless lists of names and dates and places from one of his beloved and deadly dull chronicles, none of which had anything perceptible to do with either Darkwall or Forgotten Keep.