Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar

He was not wearing Whites. His Companion’s gear was dark and plain—an ordinary saddle and a leather halter with reins buckled to the side rings. The Herald must have raided the tack room in the Keep.

There was still no mistaking what his mount was, but Merris had to give him credit for trying. “I won’t let you take me back,” she said. “This is something I have to do.”

“I know,” Coryn said. “Selena knows, too. We won’t stop you—but we won’t let you go alone either.”

Merris was ashamed to admit how deep her relief was. It made her voice sharper and her words more cutting. “What, you can’t wait out your Internship before you get yourself killed in the line of duty?”

“Maybe you’re right,” Coryn said. “Maybe you’re not. Either way, you should have someone at your back.”

“Why? Have you Gifts that can help? Can you transport me there instantly? Read the Lady’s mind? Blast the Keep into rubble?”

His cheeks were bright red. “I’m nothing either special or spectacular as Heralds go, and the gods know I’m not highborn. But I am a Herald. The King’s authority rides with me. If this bargain is unholy or unsanctioned, there are things I can do to put a stop to it.”

“Yes,” she said nastily. “You can die for being too stupidly brave to stay away.”

He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “Maybe so. And maybe my death will count for something. We’re going with you.”

She hissed in frustration. If she pushed past, he only had to follow. He had a mount and she had none. He could gallop ahead and be there hours before her.

She stared him down until he stepped aside. When she went on down the road, so did he, with his Companion clopping behind like a common horse.

She wished they would go away—but she was glad they were there. If nothing else, and if they survived, they were witnesses. They could tell the world what Darkwall’s Lady was.

It was strange to be walking roads that Merris had only known on maps, and to see the country come alive around her. For a while she walked, then she rode because the Companion insisted—saying through the Herald that she was flagging and the day was not getting any younger, and she had to have some strength left when she came to her destination. On that broad back she rode through a wilderness of trees, over stony streams and across sudden outcroppings of rock and scree.

She had chosen Astera’s shrine because it was closer to Darkwall than Forbidden Keep, but it was still a long way. They were most of three days on the road, in rain and sun, camping by moonlight and starlight. Coryn had a useful Gift after all: he could start a fire out of anything, though when she challenged him to do it with a cup of rainwater, he responded with a flat stare. He had a sense of humor, but it had limits.

Late on the third day after Merris slipped out of the shrine, they came around a curve in the road—which by then was little more than a goat track—and looked down on a valley she had never seen before in her life. And yet she knew it as if she had grown up there.

Its walls were steep and wooded. A river ran through the bottom, deep and wide enough for traders’ boats. Villages clustered along it. High above it on a black rock sat the Keep, crouching like a raven over a rich store of carrion.

Merris had expected to find the valley sinister. She could apply that word to the Keep, but the rest was beautiful. The fields cut from the woods and the hillsides were rich with ripening crops. Vineyards clung to the slopes higher up, thickly clustered with grapes.

Darkwall wine was famous hereabouts. It was a dark vintage, strong and sweet. It was wonderful in winter, heated with spices, or diluted and chilled with spring water in the summer.

The memory was so vivid that Merris could taste it. She swallowed and made her eyes lift past the vineyards to the Keep.

It was black, built of the same stone as the rock it stood on. A round tower stood at each corner. The flag that flew from it was black, with the blood-red outline of a raven flying on it.

The Companion moved without her riders’ asking, picking her way down the steep track. On the road she had found a mud-wallow, then a patch of brown dust to roll in until she was covered from ears to tail. She was still white, but she had managed to dull the brilliance of her coat.

It was a long way down to the river. The track brought them into the village at the foot of the crag, in among a cluster of houses. Fishing nets hung on walls, and boats were drawn up in alleyways and along the riverbank.

There were people out and about. They looked much like the villagers of Forgotten Keep, or like Coryn for that matter. The strangers attracted glances, mildly curious but neither greatly interested nor hostile. There must be enough trade on the river, and enough traders coming through, that unfamiliar faces were not unheard of.