Ilea squirmed around and looked into his face, her own features a mask of incredulity. "You aren't joking!" she exclaimed, stunned, and even a little shocked. "Oh, no! Poor Elenor!"
"And poor Lan, and poor Kalira—that's his Companion—" he replied. "Herald-bond and lifebond? They're never out of each other's heads, and if anything happens to Kalira, Lan just goes—crazy—" He shook his head. "When she was hurt, he couldn't think of anything else, and it was no use attempting to get him to try. No one his age should have to cope with a full lifebond. It's not healthy. He doesn't even know who he is, yet, but now he's inextricably bound up with someone who isn't his age, his sex, or even human."
"But apparently in his case, it's necessary," she brooded, putting her head back on his shoulder with a sigh of her own. "If what I've heard is true. She's the controlling force on his Gift?"
"Exactly, and I'm not sure she could do that if they weren't lifebonded. But he's never going to be himself, whole and entire, and he's never going to be independent. Is he?" he asked her doubtfully, leaning back against the pillows and making them both more comfortable.
"Ask Elenor. I'm not the Mind-Healer. Or, rather," she corrected hastily, "don't ask Elenor. I'd rather she didn't take him on as a Cause; there's nothing more certain of cementing misplaced infatuation into permanency than being Needed."
Pol heard the inflection that turned the word into an icon, and he agreed with her. "I talked with her back when I first saw this happening," he said, hastening to let her know that he hadn't shirked his parental duties. "I tried—I really tried to make her understand that she—she couldn't hope to compete—I tried—"
Ilea wrapped her arms around him, and he relaxed into her embrace. Gods, it's so good to be with her again—
"I know you did, and I know you didn't try anything as stupid as flatly opposing her," she said into his ear. "Nothing feeds romance like opposition, and you know it."
Thank you for that, my love, and for your confidence in my good sense.
"She'll talk to me about it, sooner rather than later, I think," Ilea continued, as her hair tickled his nose and he tucked it under his chin. "I don't know what else I can do, but at least I can keep track of how she's feeling."
"Satiran reminds me fairly often that parents can't cushion the blows our children set themselves up for," he murmured into her ear, breathing in the warm scent of herbs that always clung to her.
"I'm not going to think any more about it until tomorrow," she said firmly.
He was perfectly willing to go along with her on that score.
*
MIDMORNING, and they were less than half a day from the Southern Border and the war, and yet there was no sign of the conflict here other than the wear on the roads. They were no longer on the main roads; this was the way that Ilea had passed coming up here, and they were all returning to report to the main quarters of the Lord Marshal. This was a pine forest, a very old one; the scent was fantastic in here, but the boughs all overhung the road, completely blocking the sun and leaving them in half-light no brighter than twilight.
Pol led the way, unburdened for once. Ilea was up behind Lan, and Elenor behind Tuck. Ilea was a perfect passenger, actually; she was friendly and made intelligent conversation; Lan much preferred her to Elenor.
"We moved the Headquarters to White Foal Pass just before I left," Ilea told him. "That's why this little road hasn't been trampled to bare dirt yet. It looked to the Lord Marshal as if the Karsites were going to make a big push there. It would be the logical place to go with as large a force as they have. White Foal is the only pass where they get big numbers of men through quickly."
"Not to mention the value of pushing us back at White Foal Pass," Lan replied grimly. "There's an awful lot of symbolic significance there if even I can see that...."
Ilea nodded. He felt her hair move against his shoulder. Then, before he could continue his thought—
—something dropped down out of the tree head of them.
Frozen between shock and total terror, Lan jerked on the reins, and Kalira shied sideways.
It—no, he—landed on the pillion behind Pol, knocking Satiran sideways with the unexpected weight. Hooves skidding on the icy road, Satiran shrieked as his hind feet slid out from underneath him, but the black-hooded man grabbed Pol around the chest and shoulders and pulled him sideways. They tumbled to the ground together, Pol fighting to get his arms free and shouting, Satiran scrambling to get his feet under him again.
Elenor screamed, and kept screaming, a high, thin, terror-filled wail; Ilea didn't make a sound, but her hands clutched Lan's upper arms so tightly it hurt. Lan's stomach flipped, but it was the only part of him that could move. He couldn't even breathe—
The man had a knife, a black-bladed knife that didn't reflect light at all; it drew Lan's eyes and filled his gaze as the man brandished it.
He'd wrapped his legs around Pol's body, trapping Pol's arms so the Herald couldn't get to his weapons. He shouted something as he and Pol struggled on the ground—it was Karsite, something about demons—
:Lan!: Kalira shouted at him, but he couldn't shake off his paralysis—
The attacker grabbed Pol's hair, pulling his head back. Satiran, still shrieking a battle cry, whirled. His hooves pounded the ground a hair away from Pol, but he couldn't trample the man and not get Pol, too.
Tuck fought with Elenor to keep her from leaping into the fray. Ilea frozen and rigid, only whimpered.
The dragon within Lan flamed into life with a roar, ready to kill.
Taste of metal, of blood—the taste of anger—
The dragon uncoiled in a rush, craving death, fire, destruction. It lunged at the restraints that held it, raged against the bindings, filling Lan's mind and soul with a dreadful lust.
No! He couldn't. That was a man, not a bundle of straw!
:Lan: Kalira shouted at him. :Now!:
This was all happening too fast, he couldn't think!
Flames washing through him, straining his control—
Only fire would save his friend. He had to let the dragon kill!
No! Pol was—Pol was a fighter! He could—surely he would free himself—Lan couldn't kill a man—
As the man struck at Pol's throat, Pol wrenched his head down and to the side and his hands grabbed the man's feet, twisting in a move Lan had seen Odo demonstrate a dozen times. Lan's heart pounded, his head felt full to bursting—
Blood fountained, as the man slashed his knife across Pol's eyes instead of his throat, blood gushing everywhere, staining the snow, dyeing the Whites a terrible crimson.
And something inside Lan parted with a snap.
Yesyesyesyesyes!
Pol screamed. Ilea and Tuck screamed. Elenor was still screaming.
Lan's throat closed, his hands clenched on the reins, and his vision tunneled—but the Karsite exploded into flame.