Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

“You would,” the Queen said. “I’m sorry; I don’t mean to torment you. I need a Herald with knowledge of both horses and riding.”

“All Heralds can ride,” Egil said. “Some are extraordinarily good at it.”

“I am told,” said the Queen, “that none is as good as you.”

Egil flushed. “I would hardly say that. I have some talent and a fair amount of training, but there are others who—”

“Not your particular kind of training,” the Queen said.

“I don’t understand,” Egil said.

“It’s little more than a rumor,” she said, “some odd stories and the occasional magical anomaly off the South Trade Road toward the Goldgrass Valley. What’s strange is that they seem to revolve around a riding academy.”

Egil’s brows rose. “A school of riding? In the middle of nowhere?”

“Not exactly nowhere,” the Queen said with the hint of a smile. “It’s horse country all around there, and certain elements of the court have taken a fancy to it: they’ve been buying land and building summer houses and stocking them with the finest in fashionable horseflesh.”

“And of course,” said Egil, “they’ll need trainers for the horses and instructors for their offspring, and if those should gather in one convenient place, so much the better.”

“Exactly,” said the Queen. “Your family has done much the same, I’m told, and done extremely well, training horse trainers and sending them where they’re needed.”

“You don’t think they’re involved with—”

“Probably not,” she said, “but now I’m sure you understand why I would like you to ride along the South Trade Road and see what there is to see.”

Egil did understand, but as sharp as his curiosity had grown, his love of the quiet life was stronger. There was also one inescapable fact. “Madam, I haven’t been in the field since I was an intern. Whatever skills I had in that direction are long since rusted shut.”

The Queen smiled in a way that told him she had heard every word, but not one had changed her mind. “It’s an easy distance, with inns at every reasonable stop, and the weather at this time of year is usually lovely. If it does happen that you have to camp for a night, you’ll have company who can do whatever is needed to make you comfortable. I’m sending an intern with you. She has some knowledge of horses as well and some interest in the art of riding. It should be a pleasant journey.”

There was not much Egil could say to that. The Queen had thought of everything, as she should. She was the Queen.

Egil had successfully avoided official notice for much longer than he had any right to. He was a Herald, and Heralds, as everyone knew, were the Arrows of the Queen. They flew wherever she sent them.

Egil heaved a deep sigh. “As you wish,” he said.

When Egil came out into the yard at first light, packed and ready to ride, and saw the intern he would be expected to advise and serve as an example for, his sigh was even deeper. Herald Bronwen had been Chosen at ten years old—younger than anyone in memory—but that had come as no surprise: she was Ashkevron, as Vanyel had been, and her family had been producing Heralds in remarkable numbers since the first Companion came into the world. Now at sixteen she had received her Whites and her first assignment, and it was clear she was as dismayed to see Egil as he was to see her.

Egil had no objection to Trainees who wanted to make something of themselves. He had helped more than a few to excel in the classes he taught. Some were arrogant; some had too much faith in their own talents and not enough consideration for anyone else’s. But he had always seen through the façade to the nervous child beneath.

Bronwen seemed to have no façade. The arrogance, as far as he had ever been able to see, went straight through to the core. She was born to greatness, she was destined for it, and she would achieve it. She had no doubts of that whatsoever. Any instructor in the Collegium who did not give her the highest marks for as little effort as she could be bothered to spare was clearly both benighted and deluded.

Egil had ranked her as she deserved. She had not thought so. Clearly, from her expression, she never had changed her mind.

He thought she might turn on her heel and stalk back into the Collegium. If she had, he would have done nothing to stop her. That made him a coward and a disgrace to his Whites, but if he acknowledged the truth, he was both already.

The one thing a Herald could not do was hide what he was. That was the reason for the Whites. No one and nothing could miss a Herald in the performance of his duty.

Egil had done his best to try. Now he had no choice but to ride out, for the first time in fourteen years. And he had to do it with the one student in fourteen years for whom he felt something close to animosity.

:For your sins,: his Companion said.