Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

Cynara’s eyes were a very deep blue, the color of some horse foals’ before they turned honest equine brown. In most lights, in fact, they did look brown, so that people had been known to mistake her for an unusually pretty gray horse. Cynara, like Egil, liked to escape notice.

“You’re not blaming me for this,” he said.

:Not at all,: she said. He could detect no irony in the words, but he eyed her warily even so, before he gathered the reins and set his foot in the stirrup and swung lightly onto her back.

Bronwen was already mounted. Her Companion could not have been more visibly what he was: he was taller than any riding horse should rightly be, and his eyes were the color of the summer sky, a clear bright blue that no horse had ever had. He was as showy as his rider, with her long legs and her long braid of wheat-gold hair and her eyes as blue as her Companion’s.

They were every village child’s dream of the Herald and her Companion, and they knew it. Rohanan was as full of his own importance as Bronwen, until he ventured too close to Cynara. She put him in his place with a snap of teeth and a well-placed kick.

Egil was determined to be the mature and disciplined Herald that he had been trained to be. To that end, he resolved to remain neutral toward his intern unless or until she did something to incite judgment. So far she had not said a word. Her expression said a great deal, none of it in his favor, but he could choose to ignore that.

The weather was as beautiful as the Queen had promised. The gardens of the city were in full and fragrant bloom, but even sweeter was the scent of wild roses along the roadside as they rode southward. Traffic was light at this hour, and what there was gave way before the Heralds, bowing their heads and often smiling.

Egil would gladly have put a stop to that. Bronwen accepted it as her due.

Her Companion recovered quickly from Cynara’s strict discipline. While Cynara kept a steady and sensible pace, Rohanan crackled with restless energy, cantering ahead and then back, dancing in circles, sprinting off across the fields, leaping fences for the joy of it, snorting and blowing and tossing his mane.

Bronwen was an exceptionally good rider. Whatever her Companion did, she never moved. That took talent as well as skill.

That evening in the inn to which Cynara’s unhurried pace had brought them, while Rohanan snored in his stall and the locals dozed over their beer, Egil ordered dinner in the common room. Bronwen would have had a tray sent up to her room; she was in no way pleased when he instructed that her dinner be served with his.

“I thought you didn’t like to be noticed,” she said: the first words she had spoken to him since she stalked out of his class in formal logic three years ago.

“Some things are expected of us,” Egil said. He had his back to the wall, and the table he had chosen sat in the corner with the best view of both the outer and inner doors.

His training was coming back: how to carry himself, how to speak and act in front of strangers, where to sit and what to watch out for. It was a refuge of sorts, a set of ingrained habits that he could fall back on with no need to stop or think.

Bronwen sat across the table from him, frowning. Her back was to the room. Anyone or anything could creep up behind her and sink a knife in her back.

Egil pointed that out, gently. She made no move to change her position.

“There’s no threat here,” she said. “Everyone’s either in awe of us or so happy to see us he can hardly speak.”

“Not every threat will announce itself with a scream before it leaps,” Egil said.

She sniffed audibly. “This place is safe,” she said.

“You’re sure of that? Are you a Mage, then?”

Her eyes blazed on him. “No,” she said through clenched teeth. “I have eyes in my head. It’s as simple as that.”

Her vehemence told him a great deal about this girl who seemed so sure of her own destiny. Of course an Ashkevron of her character and talents would expect to be a Mage as well as a Herald. It must be a great disappointment not only to her but to her family that she had not inherited that particular combination of Gifts. “Come around and sit where you know you should sit,” he said mildly.

Their dinner came while he waited, and he began to eat, relieving her of the burden of his stare. After a moment in which he managed to take a bite of roast lamb, chew and swallow it, she dropped into the chair beside him, with her back against the corner’s other wall. He said nothing, only slid her dinner toward her and held up the cider jug in mute inquiry.

“No,” she snapped. Then, even more crossly, “Yes. Damn it, yes.”

He gave her time to cool her resentment and start thinking again, and also to eat as much of her soup and bread as it seemed she was going to, before he said, “We’ll be riding for another three days if the weather holds, but I think it’s time now to explain where we’re going and why.”