There is a boy, one who suffers. He is treated poorly by those around him; his father thinks him worthless, his mother thinks him a vanity, a toy to show off to her maidservants and occasional visitors. He finds solace in his music.

He dresses like a princeling, but his soul, the thing she sees inside him, wears rags; it is a faceless dummy, wearing only the paltry scraps of feelings that he knows how to feel.

There is another boy. Perhaps he is a man, though he cannot be much older than the other boy.

Or perhaps he is a monster.

He smiles habitually, and sometimes it distracts from the blood on his hands. He flirts remorselessly, and when he grows tired of his prey he drops them. He throws tantrums, he kills with a word or a thought, and he plots, relentlessly.

He dresses just as well as the other boy, but his soul... it is an ugly thing. Blackened with blood. Malformed. It wears spiderwebs. They look like the feeling-clothes of anyone else, but at a breeze they fall away and replace themselves.

Sufya has no bloody idea what to do about any of this.

When she was young, the dreams felt like the kind of thing that just happened - an imaginary friend in her mind, and a recurring nightmare. She'd read of such things, and it made sense to her. It felt real, but she knew that was the kind of thing children said, that their dreams felt real, and she didn't think herself so exceptional as to be the one child who was right about it.

Then Father died, and she stopped being a child, and the dreams didn't stop coming.

And she started seeing the mannequins in real life. That was the first sign, really, that something was wrong. You weren't supposed to look at people and see things half-in-half-out of them. She thought at first that it was stress driving her mad, and she was ready for her mind to shatter, to start seeing other things, but... it didn't happen. Mannequins. That was all. Mannequins that told her things about who someone was, with clothes that told her how they were feeling.

And the dreams.

A few years after Mr. Milin's death, the boy in the dream is sent away from his home. He isn't happy about it, but he's been having dreams of his own - dreams of ice, that he draws around himself like a cloak. To keep his heart safe and hidden, to freeze away anyone who would hurt him.

He's sent to Haven, to stay with his aunt Savil. He meets a boy.

...oh! How nice for him. Sufya will just be here, in Rethwellan, working in a hat shop and losing her mind.

For reasons unrelated to the hat shop. The shop is fine.

He falls in love.

Deeply in love.

His soul - the mannequin - is different now. It wears the same silks as its master, and when she looks at it she almost-sees another one, embracing it, holding it up. It's beautiful, and sort of alarming at the same time.

You can say that again.

Sufya would feel uncomfortable with the sort of voyeurism of all this, if she really believed on a conscious level that the boy existed. She doesn't. Really, the most parsimonious explanation is still that she's going mad.

But - she wonders, sometimes.

Haven is almost 500 miles away. A different world. One she'll probably never see.

She could send a letter. Pay a merchant caravan, hope it got there in the next six months. To Herald-Mage Savil Ashkevron, if you actually exist. Does your nephew also exist? Is he really in love with your protégé? They make a very nice pair. Are you aware that, if I'm not just insane, there's a terrifying bloodmage north of your border who wants you all dead?

...probably not.

Things go well, for a little while.

A very little while.

Then, Staven Frelennye, the brother of his love, is assassinated, and everything goes to -

"SHIT!"

She wakes up in the middle of the night. She's not imagining the pain in her chest. She's half packed before she knows what's going on, before she even knows she's awake.

What is she doing?

     "What are you doing, Sufya?" asks Faina, her stepmother, who's been nothing but good to her since her father died. Poking her head through the door to the backroom where Sufya sleeps, candle in hand.

"I -"

She looks down at the bag she's been packing in the dark. It's very... efficient. (She's always kept her head in a crisis.) Travel rations - bread, cheese, apples. A sewing kit. All the money she's saved away - mostly coppers, a good handful of silver. She was grabbing a waterskin when she stopped.

"I had. A dream. Something terrible..."

     "It must have been," Faina says, shaking her head. "I heard you shouting when you woke up. I don't think I've ever heard you swear before. Listen, why don't you get back into bed? You can put your things back in place tomorrow."

"...yes, Faina," she says. And she crawls back to her bed, and when Faina's gone back to sleep she gets back to packing. Quieter, this time.

This is insane.

Objectively, it is insane, to have a dream of something terrible, and then uproot your entire life because of it. She should - if not ignore it, then at least be sensible about it.

Instead, she's wearing a heavy traveler's pack and hammering at the doors of the Temple of Astera an hour before sunrise.

     The monk who opens the door does not look happy. "What in the world are you doing here at this hour, miss?"

Sufya is not in the business of caring about if monks are happy. "I need to know if there is a Herald-Mage of Valdemar named Savil Ashkevron. Do you have record-books of that kind of thing? And - and if she's real, I need a map from here to Haven."

Sufya waits, tapping her foot, until the monk gets back holding a map and says that yes, Savil Ashkevron is the First Mage of Valdemar, born to minor nobility, it's actually rather interesting how she came to her position -

"Thanks." She hands over a silver coin for the map, then turns and runs through the sleepy streets of Marinsvalley, her pack slamming against her hip with every step, until she gets to the staging post, where she exchanges a few coppers for an ugly nag, one the postman says "'ll get you to Tinbraga in two days, if'n ye treat her right."

She promises to treat her right. It seems like the thing to do.

And then she's on her way to Tinbraga. From Tinbraga, she'll get a good horse, one that can take her past Cervinbrad - when she gets to the mountains, swap again, for something that can take her through Menmellith to Lisle in a week or so. Once she's in Lisle she'll be on Karse's end of the South Trade Road, and she's heard it's a good steady road with plenty of posts. Maybe she'll get to Haven before Sovvan.

She doesn't know why, but she wants to get there before Sovvan.

Sufya has ridden a horse before. Faina even took her to Petras once. A week's journey, going at a moderate clip. It took them eight days, because Faina always preferred stopping in a town to a staging post, even if the post was only a few miles farther along.

Sufya is under no such limitation. She travels at a pace that the horses can maintain, because it will help no one if one of the poor beasts drops dead. It is, technically, a pace she can also maintain.

This is because, short of dying in her sleep, there is nothing that will keep her from getting back in the saddle.

She doesn't look very healthy, when she bothers to look in the mirror at the staging-post or inn that she's stopped in latest. She eats, somewhat mechanically. Drinks, water and wine and occasionally ale if the taverns don't have water or wine she can trust. Sleeps.

Dreams.

Vanyel helps his lover as best he can. They're both tired. Tylendel is furious - Vanyel is just miserable. But he swears vengeance anyway. For Tylendel's sake.

Can this fucking horse go any faster.

Fortunately, the half-baked plot of vengeance goes nowhere. Vanyel tells Savil, who tells Felicity, the Queen's Own, and it's nipped in the bud - and plans are made to Gate to the Frelennye Holdings.

Tylendel isn't ready. Vanyel isn't ready. But what else are they going to do?

THEY COULD WAIT FOR HER

(Sufya has just hit the mountain range which inconveniently decided to place itself in the middle of her route. Riding a horse through the mountains is not fun. At least it's early Autumn rather than late.)

For a few days, it goes well.

She rides - she's in Karse - taking the Trade Road, burning through her savings like it couldn't matter less, which it couldn't, not compared to the horseflesh she can rent with those coins - she's actually never been in so much pain, her ass feels like it's been flayed and her thighs are screaming -

She reaches Horn on the day of the Harvest fest. Rents an inn room, collapses into bed, ignoring the songs she can hear out the window. She's crossed the border. Just has to get to Haven before - before -

And, well, we know how this part of the story goes.

Vanyel, kidnapped. Tylendel, riding to the rescue.

Gala slaughtered. The Gate.

Fire, from horizon to horizon.

PAIN.

no

She jolts awake. She's still fully dressed. She stumbles out into the hall - down the stairs - where is she going? It's too late.

It's too late for her to do anything.

She can't see the flames on the horizon; for one thing they're hundreds of miles away, for another thing it must have happened hours ago. The Final Strike.

It's a beautiful night. Sovvan often is. Cool - not icy, just crisp. There's a mist in the air, and she can smell candle-smoke.

...she hears something. Hoofbeats. At first she thinks it's just echoing from her weeks of travel, but - no. No, there's a horse riding in - at full gallop, at this time of night?

She wonders how she could possibly care.

The hoofbeats don't slow down as they approach.

When they reach her, the creature skids to a halt, his ribs heaving, his hide soaking wet. His eyes, pinprick-focused but - wrong - human - widen.

Sufya has never experienced Mindspeech before. The voice of a young man penetrates her mind, calm only because Mindspeech doesn't allow you to pant between words, or to stammer with nerves. :Sufya Milin, I Choose you:

"I..."

She stares into the Companion's eyes. Because that's what he must be, of course. A Companion.

"How could I be... I'm not Valdemaran."

:That doesn't actually matter very much. Or - it doesn't matter to you, at least. You - I Saw a bit of you, on the way over - you don't care where you are, if you're doing good. You won't go back to Rethwellan if you can help more people here. Which you can:

His breath is slowing down a bit from where it was. He noses her hand, gently.

:I'm Astirian. By the way:

Absently, she strokes his muzzle. "...I've heard that Companions are... fast. That you could get me to Haven - not tomorrow..." (not yesterday, not a week ago) "...but soon."

She feels him sort of - telepathically wince. :I could. I can. I will. But - first, you need a Healer:

"I don't think I've got enough money to pay for a good Healer. And a bad one will just give me a poultice I can't ride on and tell me to rest."

That's what the last one did, at least.

:...Chosen, I think we may have missed a step - you don't pay military Healers:

"I'm not in the -"

She blinks sharply.

"Gods. I've been conscripted."

:By a talking horse, yes. Would you like me to show you the way?:

"Um. Yes, please."

He leads the way to a small cottage, and she knocks on the door. A woman in green creaks it open and says... something in Valdemaran.

"Do you speak the trade-tongue?" Sufya asks, in same.

     "Yes," the woman says dubiously. "...where'd you come by a Companion, not speaking Valdemaran?"

"I'm still not quite sure. I'm... new to the trade."

     The Healer does something that could be described as "cackling", but probably shouldn't be. "New to the trade! Well. You do see everything, in Horn. What brings you here?"

"I've been riding - an assortment of normal horses, not my Companion - for two weeks. Thirty to fifty miles per day. Hadn't really been riding regularly before then."

     A sharp intake of breath. "Don't know how you're walking. Well, stop walking, and sit - no, lie down, frontwise, on the bed. We'll see what we can do."

She tries to stay awake. The Healer rubs her with something, tells her she's channeling Healing-energy through her "and it's badly needed, Kernos save me from Heralds and their self-destructive" mumble mumble mumble -

she's so tired. And it feels nice. The poultice on her skin, the magic flowing through her body. Just being in slightly less pain feels incredible.

She sleeps.

Oh, what a day.

Tylendel Frelennye was, obviously, a priority target - not just a Mage-trainee but potentially stronger than Savil, eventually. (Jostumal takes the long view of such things - how could he not?) And Krebain had done wonderfully, drawing him out by killing his brother.

And then Krebain had caught Vanyel.

Vanyel was a delight. He was nothing, really, except in relation to Tylendel - or so they'd thought - but he was lovely. And Krebain was stupid, and he played with him because he was stupid, no matter how pretty he could make himself -

and then Tylendel, avenging hero Tylendel, rode in on his white horse to ruin everyone's day.

But Tylendel was stupid, too! Everyone was so stupid these days, it made him miss Urtho. As if he wasn't stupid too.

he wasn't stupid he was afraid he thought he knew what i'd become but i showed him i made myself worse

shut up Tylendel was stupid because he thought he could win, thought he could win without losing, thought he could be a hero. Fried Krebain - poor stupid Krebain, who Mindtouched Jostumal even as he burned, and hadn't that been a delight - and tried to Gate out.

But Gating took time. Time that he didn't have. And his stupid horse paid for it.

And then he'd done the most delightful thing it was possible for a human being to do, he'd surprised Jostumal.

He'd shoved Vanyel through the gate, and then - poof! He glassed Leshara Holding.

As if the Lesharas had anything to do with it! As if he could - what - avenge himself on the wyrsa who killed his Companion? As if anything he did mattered to anyone.

Jostumal flings himself back onto dove's-down bedding and he laughs and laughs and somewhere inside himself there is someone screaming someone who can't breathe someone who isn't him and so it doesn't matter, does it.

He's winning.

:Chosen!:

Sufya wakes up, and somehow, the first thing she notices isn't the pain in her backside, it's that she's got a sore throat. How ridiculous. But really, it's as if she's been screaming.

...she looks up into the eyes of the Healer, who's been shaking her by the shoulders, and she thinks, oh.

"Sss. Sorry," she says.

     The Healer shakes her head, straightening back up. "Thought you was too new to have the terrors."

"Unrelated," she says. "Completely unrelated terrors. Sorry."

Astirian whickers and tosses his mane a bit, peering through the window. :...do you do that often, then?:

"Um. Not as such. I've only woken up screaming... three times. Twice in the past night, though. Bad night for it, I suppose." She turns her head to the Healer. "Have you done what you can, then? Can I ride again?"

     The Healer looks a bit sour. "Wish you'd give me a follow-up tomorrow eve, but I can't stop you, and getting back in the saddle won't hurt you long-term. Especially if your Companion gets you to a Healer on the other end of your circuit to do a check on my work."

"Thank you very much," Sufya says sincerely, swinging herself gingerly off the bed. She tenses, just before her feet hit the floor, but there's no pain at all. She gasps, just a little. "Gods, it's like I never rode through those bloody mountains."

     "Yes, but don't rely on it," the Healer chides her. "Besides wasting my time and energy, if you ride 'til you need Healing every time you won't build the muscle to ride properly. Ride on those muscles and you'll be as sore tomorrow as you were two weeks ago, first time you got on that horse."

"I don't have a choice," Sufya says. "I need to get to Haven as soon as possible. ...but thank you."

     Sigh. "If they need you in Haven, they need you in Haven. You're welcome, my girl."

Soon, they're riding out of Horn. It's still dark, though the sun is beginning to lighten the horizon.

:So - for the record - I knew where you were going to be, and I know... who you are as a person? But I don't know you, really. Apparently you have nightmares? I think everyone starts having nightmares eventually, but not necessarily when they're... sixteen?:

"Seventeen," she says on reflex, then blushes faintly. It doesn't exactly sound mature. "...I've always had the dreams. One set about a boy, Vanyel, and one about a blood-mage, Jostumal. I grew up with Vanyel, really, he was like a brother I never had. ...though he doesn't know me at all. But Jostumal... he's a monster. I can't imagine a worse person. He was the one I dreamed about this morning. He'd... just found out Vanyel's lover had died. And he was laughing."

:Ugh. Vanyel - he's about your age? What could a teenager have possibly done to make someone hate him that much?:

"Stood in his way."

A full-body shiver, just enough to be distinct without unbalancing Sufya from the saddle. :...and you've been having the dreams since you were little? I'm sorry:

"I always liked the Vanyel-dreams. ...until Staven died, at least. Then things got a bit stressful."

:That's when you set out for Valdemar?:

"Yes. I couldn't stand the idea of - well - Tylendel had Vanyel and Savil and his co-prentices, but Vanyel didn't really have anyone who wanted to help him for his own sake."

She grits her teeth, for a second. "And now he's got them. Tylendel called Final Strike last night - I'd bet everyone's got Vanyel practically under lock and key to make sure he doesn't throw himself off a cliff. Which - I suppose it's what you have to do, if you have to do it, but - I want someone there who wants to help him. Not just keep him alive."

Astirian canters in mental silence for a bit. :You realize,: he says in an odd tone of voice, :that this kind of - vision - is uncommon:

She snorts somewhat violently. "Believe me, I know. I looked into the texts the Asterans have on Gifts. It isn't Foresight, because I have the dreams after the events have happened. It isn't Farsight, or I don't think so, because you're supposed to use that consciously. I don't know what else it could be - until Staven's death I really did think I was going mad."

:What changed?:

"I felt - a pain I couldn't have imagined."

:I suppose that'd do it:

Astirian sighs mentally. :I suppose I can be glad I wasn't so close with Tylendel's Gala. This is going to be hard enough for everyone without me having feelings all over it too:

"...I suppose there are a lot of feelings involved already. You might well be a stabilizing influence."

:I didn't mean to say that - feelings are bad, or anything - just. It'd make it harder to do my job:

"...you know, I've heard the ballads, but they're never too straightforward - what is your job?"

:Well. I'm your Companion. I'm here to take you where you need to go - to stay with you in the darkest times, to ensure you do what's right - and, on a more day-to-day level, drag you to the Healers when you say you're barely scratched, or meddle with your love life via the herd if you get dazzled by a fellow Herald:

That shocks a giggle out of her. "You're more frank than the ballads say, too. They paint you all very cagey."

:Most of us are. I've been called a bit of an outlier... among other things:

"Oh. Are there... companion-cliques?"

:Nothing quite so human. But I was never Taver's favorite - he's the Groveborn, the leader of the herd. He thinks I'm impulsive, and that I don't have the proper respect for tradition:

"Tradition!" Sufya grimaces. "Tradition would have me still selling my damned hats."

:...you made hats?:

"Yes, and I was quite good at it. But I don't think it's my path, not anymore."

Snort. :Sorry, bit of a tangent. Yes, tradition has its place, but...: He shakes his head. :Mmph. He didn't even really want me Choosing so soon - I'm barely out of my last growth:

"...how old are you?"

:Five summers:

"Kernos' horns, you're a foal!"

:I am not! Companions grow quickly, and - I'm not a foal, I'm fully-grown:

"Oh, I'm just sniping because you called me a teenager earlier."

Out of curiosity, she shuts her eyes and opens the little third-eye in her head, the one that lets her see (what might very well be) people's souls as mannequins. She's curious, now, what she'll find.

...he's a bit irritated. It shows in the amount of red he's wearing - though it's mostly embellishment over apple-yellow amusement, he's not really mad.

He loves her. She's never been to the sea, she can't compare it to anything she's seen - maybe the sky, if instead of clouds and blue it were full to bursting with boundless love, unconditional and immediate and all for her. It's not in what he's wearing, it's in his heart and in his head and everywhere else.

And there's - two mannequins of him. One is in the shape of a stallion, like the rest of him, wearing a simple leather-and-steel bridle against some rather elaborate emotional barding. The other is a slender little man, his spiky hair a dull strawberry-blonde, in Herald's Whites. (Alongside his emotion-clothes. People can wear rather a lot of outfits at once, she's found, in her Sight.)

Huh. She opens her eyes again.

"Sorry," she says, petting his short mane. "I suppose it might wear on me too, being called a child."

:Oh, you don't need to be sorry:

"I'd rather not get into the habit of sniping at you just because you'll always love me."

:But Chosen, it's what we're for. Like those bean-bags you give to children so they can throw them at trees until they explode:

(He's teasing. Companions are for a different thing than that. [In theory.])

"Now you're just being horrible on purpose."

:I'm obeying the inscrutable exhortations of my soul,: Astirin says piously.

"Your soul is admirably committed to the bit."

:Comes of being a horse:

Sufya cackles. "Awful," she says, trying to keep her position in the saddle.

Further down the road - :Chosen, do you hear that?:

She focuses.

A few hundred yards ahead. A smooth voice, demanding - something - someone else, clearly frightened, stammering -

bandits.

"I hear it," she whispers.

Astirian breaks into a canter.

"What are you doing?!" Sufya squeaks.

:Our duty:

Sufya has exactly enough time, between processing that statement and arriving on the scene, to school her face into something that looks less like a frightened girl and more like a Herald of Valdemar.

There are three bandits, and one merchant leading a horse-drawn cart with a tarpaulin over its contents. One of them is better-dressed than the others, and he's the one who turns to look at her first. He says something in Valdemaran.

:He says to move along,: Astirian sends privately. :If it comes to a fight, just let me handle it - I can take three bandits:

A broad-band projection. :Leave that man alone: His voice rings with steel.

Sufya can recognize the bandit's response: it's predictably obscene, and not particularly cooperative.

Astirian's next projection is limited in scope, less so in power. Sufya can almost see an iron spike of thought punching into the man's mind. He crumples to the ground. His compatriots raise their weapons and run forwards.

Sufya's first thought is - not really a thought. It's just a sickening rush of gods, is he dead? She opens the eye-in-her-mind, terrified of what she might see.

He's not dead; his mannequin is still there, it's just stripped nearly bare, as if by an impossible wind. The other two men are swathed in the red of fury, over the sick green of fear.

Astirian isn't angry. He's just - resigned.

He rears up and kicks, lashing out full-force with his steel-shod hooves.

And one of the bandits -

Sufya can't see it, not in the real world, not and keep herself on Astirian's back. But she can See it. The man's mannequin goes from red fury to green fear - he tries to back away - Astirian's hoof -

it's almost slower than life, as the mind collapses and wisps away, out of his body and into nothingness.

The third bandit tries to stab Astirian. He gets him a shallow cut along his flank, and then Astirian hits him with a mental shout like the one that took out the leader, and he goes down, his mind scrambled but intact.

:Chosen, it's over:

:Chosen?:

:Chosen, close your Sight:

Sufya wrenches the eye-in-her-mind closed. Her real eyes have been clenched shut for at least a minute, by now. She can't see anything. Not the bare mannequins, not the nothing where there should be a man.

There's someone speaking in rapid Valdemaran. The merchant.

:It's fine, really,: Astirian sends. :We'll be fine. We need to reach Haven as soon as possible. If you want to thank us, just - pay your taxes. We really need to go:

Meanwhile she can feel him moving under her. Dragging one unconscious man off the road, then the other, then the dead one.

Slowly, she returns to herself. Once there's a tiny fragment of her back in her body, she starts the work of dragging the rest back in.

She just watched a man die.

She will watch other men die. Men die every day. She will, eventually, be called upon to cause men to die. To raise her sword and slay someone. This man was, if anything, a gentle introduction; he had a knife, aimed at the heart of her Companion. If he had not died, Astirian would be gravely wounded, maybe dead himself.

:Astirian, are you alright?: she sends. (She saw how it felt in his mind, to shape and direct and project thought - he did it to hurt and stun, but she can see the principle, the underlying logic that she can use to send a simple message.) :You were hurt:

:Um. I'm really fine, I think I'm the one who should be asking you - you seemed to take it rather hard, seeing - that:

:I will be fine. You are bleeding:

:...it's really just a scratch:

Despite herself, Sufya snorts.

:I have some wound-ointment in the pack, I'm going to step out of the saddle and apply it:

She does so. Halfway through the process, the merchant (who has not yet left the crime scene despite Astirian's exhortations) lets out some excited Valdemaran babbling and begins rummaging through his cart. He comes up with a jar of thick salve and presses it into her hands.

Sufya gazes at the salve, then stares at the merchant. :I really don't want any,: she tries to send to him.

He shakes his head vigorously, apparently unperturbed by another voice inserting itself into his mind. :I must insist,: he thinks loudly back. :If not for you, then for your noble Companion, without whom I would surely be ruined:

Sufya has absolutely no response to this. Eventually, she just - nods, and continues treating Astirian's wound. (He wasn't wrong that it's mostly just a scratch, but it's bled more than a bit, and she doesn't want his hide blood-crusted all the way to Haven.)

Eventually they're back on the road. The merchant fades into the distance behind them. The mental silence is palpable.

:...would you like to talk about it?: Astirian offers.

:There's really not very much to talk about. We - well, you - saved a merchant, and I have seen my first taste of battle. Hurrah:

:Chosen, you just Saw a man die. I know it can be traumatic:

:I'm not so sheltered I don't know what death is. It was ugly. I'm over it:

Trauma, she doesn't send, is for people who have time.

:...alright. If you need anything, though, just tell me. It's what I'm here for:

:...I know. And thank you, for asking:

That night -

pain

never ebbing only surging flaring growing every moment worse than the last

a burning river pouring through him into the void, ripping him apart and searing in his veins

nothing will ever be good again it will always be like this

She feels her mind trying to wake up and she rivets it in place. She will not turn her eyes away from this.

She wants to reach out, to soothe him, to tell him you are not alone i am here i should have stopped it i am so so sorry, even though she knows she can't, that this has happened already, she is too late to help, she will always be too late -

instead, she will do what she can do. She will bear witness.

The nights are thus. In the days, they ride. No more bandits make themselves apparent. It takes her seven days, in all, to get to Haven; three weeks since she left Marinsvalley.

One week after Sovvan, a young woman on Companionback rides through the palace gates.

She's greeted by a much older woman, also on Companionback, who inclines her head in greeting.

"Heya, girl. I'm Felicity, Queen's Own to Elspeth. Newly Chosen? I'm sorry to say we're having a hell of a time just at the moment. Ordinarily we'd try to have more of a welcoming party."

"Hello," Sufya says awkwardly. "I... am learning Valdemaran. May I - speak - Mindspeak, you."

:Oh, sorry. You didn't exactly look local but, well, assumptions. I was saying, I'm Felicity, Queen's Own, and we're fucked running twelve ways at the moment or else we'd try to pretend we weren't. - sorry, Mindspeech can be a bit more honest than I'm supposed to be:

Sufya giggles a little nervously. :I won't be precious about it. My name's Sufya, Sufya Milin, and - I guess I'm a Herald now, but - before I was a Herald I was headed this way already because I think I can help Vanyel:

:...where'd you hear that name?:

:In my dreams every night for the last sixteen years. - well, eleven that I can verify, I suppose:

:Huh. Foresight?:

:Not that I could tell. It comes after things happen. But - listen, I know he's here and he's hurting, and I think I can help him, please let me see him?:

Felicity squints at her.

:...it's not like you can realistically make him worse, not under supervision,: she allows. :Fine. But we'll stable your Companion first, he looks like he's been through the wars:

Her Companion (who must be Taver - his eyes are even stranger than Astirian's) turns and begins trotting towards the stables.

Astirian trots after. :He can wait a few minutes, Chosen: he reminds her. :More haste, less speed:

:I know. I'm just - so close. You know?:

As they approach the stables, Felicity's face loses the distant look of Mindspeech, and she sends to Sufya, :...I'm sorry if I seem... cautious. It's been a bad week for trusting people:

:...after Tylendel?:

:Yes. After Tylendel. We thought... fuck, if he couldn't keep it together he could at least refrain from turning half Leshara Holding to cinders. I'd have handed him the knife myself, if I knew the alternative:

Pause. :Sorry:

:I'm not... in the middle of it. It's fine:

:Astirian, do you need me to wash you, or can I leave it to the stableboy?:

:Leave it. I don't need affection more than Vanyel, right now:

Sufya dismounts and hands the reins to the boy, who leads Astirian into the stables cautiously. :I'm ready,: she tells Felicity.

Felicity settles her weight onto her feet and an intricately carved folding cane. :Follow me, then. Do you know how to shield yet?:

Sufya follows. :...no. Must I? I don't really want to be keeping secrets from him:

:It's not really a secret that he looks like death. It's still politer not to bring it to his attention:

:I know what he looks like. ...if you think it'll help, teach me to shield:

Felicity outlines the technique. It's a state of mind, more than anything, a mental posture. It helps that she can Mindtouch Sufya; words are generally inadequate for this kind of work.

By the time they're done, they're approaching the Workroom that has become Vanyel's cell.

Savil pokes her head out.

"Who's this?" she asks dully.

"Sufya. New Herald-Trainee, I know, what timing. Says she's been having some kind of not-Foresight dream about your nephew since she can remember, and more recently she got on a horse and headed over because she knew he was hurting."

"What?"

"Said what I said - speaking of which, she doesn't speak much Valdemaran, not sure where she's from but she's no local. Anyway, you know how I feel about gods, but they don't send potential Heralds dreams for no reason, and she's pretty insistent, so I thought we might as well see what she can do for the lad."

"...you talk too damned fast, Felicity."

Savil turns to Sufya. :Sufya, is it? What exactly do you intend to do here? Van's... important to me, and I don't want to take any chances he'll be hurt:

:I won't properly know, not until I see him. But I've got something, a Gift that can help - I think it can help. I haven't, um, practiced with it, I just See with it, it feels too dangerous to just practice... but Vanyel's suffering. Letting him suffer isn't taking a chance that he'll be hurt, it's a guarantee:

"I -"

Savil pauses to collect herself. :There is not actually a dichotomy between letting my nephew suffer and allowing you to practice your untested Mind-Gift on him, no matter how dire the situation may seem:

:I don't mean to undercut you, but I'm going to undercut you; isn't there? Has anything else we've tried worked? Do we have any other bright ideas?:

:...I can't... hurt him again:

:If I hurt him, I swear I'll find a way to fix it. But - I can't leave him as he is:

:I really do think she's got a chance. And... I don't think we have a shot without her:

:Fine. I'll... hold his hand, while you work:

:Thank you. I think that'll help:

Sufya hurries into the room. Vanyel is on a bare mattress on the floor, and she tries not to judge them for it. She wrenches open her Sight, and -

- it doesn't look good.

Before, when she Saw him, she Saw the impressions of another mannequin, holding his together, holding it up. She still Sees something, but - it's an absence. Like the dead man, a void where she knows something should be. Every place where it should be touching Vanyel, his covering has been flayed away, leaving cotton batting and sawdust drizzling into nothingness.

Parts of the absence have been - patched - by the addition of something else. A Companion-bond, like her own. It's not quite right, though; the shining white is too fine, too bright, and right now its presence against the open wound is less of a patch and more of a constant reminder that what should be there is gone forever.

That's not touching the physical pain coloring the mindscape like a bloodred sunrise, or the longer-term damage of isolation that she can just barely perceive around the edge of the wrongness, or for that matter the fog of drugs keeping him unconscious.

Felicity said he looks like death. He doesn't, really, not to her Sight. When you're dead, the pain is over.

:Astirian, have you ever... been extremely confident that you could do something... and then realized, after staking a great deal on the assumption that you could do that thing, that you had absolutely no idea where to start?:

:Not that I can recall, but I'm familiar with the principle. Stay calm? Do what you can?:

She reaches out and takes Vanyel's hand.

His eyes don't open. There's a pulse of dull, exhausted pain through his mindscape.

She sees the pain pulsing through him, and it makes her... angry?

He shouldn't be hurting. He shouldn't have to suffer mind and body, soul and flesh - the least he deserves is to be able to focus on the pain that matters. She squints her mind's eye - where's the pain coming from?

...if she looks very closely, and remembers how it's her mind and she can see through whatever she likes... there are hollow channels running through his mannequin like the veins of his true body. But they're scorched. Not even - they're charred, not licked by flame but consumed by it. The wood is black and crumbling.

Uh.

She's... not sure what to do there.

:Miss Felicity?:

:Gods, girl, just call me Felicity, you sound like a child - what is it?:

Sufya flushes. :Sorry. Um. Felicity, I see - something - do you think you can help me interpret -:

:I can try. Toss over the image?:

She does so. :I just - don't know what to do here, really?:

Felicity goes very quiet for a moment.

:Are you Mage-gifted?:

:No. They tested me when I was young, and I didn't have even the potential. My - my father said it all went to my fingers. For sewing:

:I ask because those are clearly his Gift-channels, and... I've never heard of those being visible to anything except Mage-Sight before... Not important. Is there anything you can do within your Sight that seems like it might help?:

She dives back in and... looks, for a while.

Is there something she can do? She's never done... well, anything. She just sees things.

But. If she were going to do something, she could try... gently, gently wrapping him in a blanket. The softest blanket she can imagine, and the warmest. (She thinks for a moment, absurdly, of a ghost-song she heard as a child - wouldn't you get chilly with no skin on?)

Vanyel stiffens in bed. Then, slowly, he relaxes back into sleep. (It looks deeper, to her Sight.)

He's also crying in his sleep, but that's hopefully alright?

She emerges. The sun is noticeably lower in the sky, which gives her a bit of a shock. :- how long was I in there?:

:A candlemark, give or take:

:And he's in a good deal less pain, now that you've done whatever you did. Keep that up and we might actually be able to make some progress:

Sufya almost lets herself smile. Then she realizes how hungry she is.

:...I don't suppose it's time for supper?:

Felicity cackles. "Come along, then," she says aloud. "Savil, give us a shout if something goes wrong?"

"I'll hope not to have to."

"So shall we all."

Felicity leads Sufya out of the shielded room. :...you did us some good, there. Savil won't thank you until he's back to normal, and he won't ever be. So - thanks, from me:

:...I came back to myself. After losing my father. It might take years, but -:

:You weren't lifebonded to the man. I don't mean to dismiss your pain, I know losing someone always hurts - but a lifebond... Whatever god thought them up, I'd like to spit in their face. Keeping the boy alive at all will be a miracle. Aim for that:

:You said something, before. That Savil - knows how you feel about gods:

:I hate them. People say they act in mysterious ways - I say they're toying with us. People say they know what's best - I say, best for who? If I die and meet the Shadow-Lover, she'll get my boot up her ass. I've no reason to pretend otherwise:

:Is that... a popular attitude, here?:

Snort. :By no means. I'm not exactly an apostate, for all my heresy - religious freedom, and all - but the rest of the Heralds try not to talk to me about religion. It gets their Companions skittish:

:And what about your Companion?:

:Taver knows better than to try me:

:...whatever works?:

:He's a dear. But if it came to a fight we'd neither of us come out happy, and he doesn't want that, so it doesn't come to a fight:

They come to the kitchens. Felicity hails a servant, and he brings them stew and bread and a small honey-cake each, apologizing that dinner proper won't be ready for another hour.

:That's fine - I could've waited -:

"No she couldn't," Felicity says, waving the servant off on his way. :Eat the stew. This is the first time you've pulled from your reserves, isn't it?:

:Well - yes, but - I don't want to make everyone rush for me:

Sufya eats her stew.

:That's a demon in your head, girl. Fetching food is that boy's job. If he's not fetching it for you he's fetching it for somebody else. Free yourself of your shame for existing!:

:I'm not ashamed for existing! I just don't like putting people to trouble!:

:Do you know how many times you have apologized to me personally in the candlemark or so you've known me?:

:No?:

:Neither do I, I wasn't counting. Too many, though:

"Heya Felicity," says a girl who Sufya might happen to know. "How's Van - who's this - can I have your honeycake, I know you don't like sweets -"

"Lissa! He's doing much better, actually, thanks to Sufya here -" :- and I'm being terribly rude talking in Valdemaran, which she doesn't speak,: she sends to both of them. She hands over the honeycake. :She's got the Mindhealing gift, and she used it to make him feel a bit less rotten. Which is really saying something. Sufya, this is Lissa Ashkevron, Vanyel's older sister:

Lissa shoves half the cake in her mouth at once. "Doesn't speak Valdemaran?" she asks around a mouthful of crumbs. "Do I have to point my thoughts at her somehow or can she just listen in, don't much care what she hears honestly -"

:Sufya, she says you can listen to her thoughts if you want help understanding what she's saying. She just says anything that pops into her head anyway, I can't blame her:

(This is still sent to both girls.)

"Hey!"

Sufya giggles, and thinks about how she's been picking up the thoughts people are specifically directing towards her, and sort of - aims that receptacle in Lissa's direction.

She's curious about Sufya, mostly - there's an undercurrent of worry for her little brother, there, but Sufya gets the impression that doesn't really go away, or at least hasn't for the past week or so.

"Can you hear enough to get what I'm saying?" she asks, and it's a very strange way to understand the words, sort of backwards, but she does feel what was said.

:Yes! It's good to meet you. I'm from Rethwellan so I just speak Rethwellani and the tradetongue, but I've been, well, conscripted, so hopefully I'll pick up Valdemaran soon enough:

"There's worse forces to be conscripted by!"

:So far you've all been very kind! At any rate, I'm still getting used to... all of this, is what I'm saying: