“If only you could what?” Skif asked, looking up from the book he’d been studying. Talia was perched in his open window, staring out at the moonlit trees, her own mind plainly not on study.

“I said, ‘if only I could go back in time,’ ” she repeated. “I’d give half an arm to know if there was anyone besides Elspeth’s father involved in bringing Hulda here—especially since she arrived after he was dead. But the only way I could find that out is to go back in time.”

“Not—quite—”

Skif’s expression was speculative, and Talia waited for him to finish the thought.

“There’s the immigration records—everything about anyone who comes in from outKingdom is in them. If Hulda had any other sponsors, they’d be in there. And it seems to me there’s something in the laws about immigrants having to have three sponsors to live here permanently. One would have been the Prince, and one Selenay—but the third might prove very interesting....”

“Where are these records kept? Can anybody get at them?” Talia’s voice was full of eagerness.

“They’re kept right here at the palace, in the Provost-Marshal’s office. Keeping those records is one of his duties. But as for getting at them—” Skif made a face “—we can’t, not openly. Well, you could, but you’d have to invoke authority as Queen’s Own, and Hulda would be sure to hear of it.”

“Not a good idea,” Talia agreed. “So we can’t get at them openly—but?”

“But I could get at them. It’s no big deal, just—”

“Just that The Book is there, too,” Talia finished for him. “Well, you haven’t had any misdemeanors down in The Book for nearly a year, have you?”

“Hell, no! You’ve been keeping me too busy!” he grinned, then the grin faded. “Still, if I got caught, they’d figure I was in there to alter The Book. Orthallen doesn’t like me at all; I’m like a burr under his saddle. I don’t grant him proper respect, I don’t act like a sober Heraldic Trainee. He’d love the chance to really slap me down.” He looked at Talia’s troubled face, then his grin revived. “Oh, hell, what can he do to me, anyway? Confine me to the Collegium grounds? I haven’t been off ’em since I met you, almost! I’ll do it, by the gods!”

There was something wrong—there was something very wrong. Skif wasn’t late—not yet—but Talia suddenly had the feeling that he was in a lot of trouble, and more than he could handle. And tonight was the night he was supposed to be getting into those immigration records....

Although she had no clear idea of what she was going to do, Talia found herself running through the halls of the Collegium—then the halls of the Palace itself. It was only when she neared Selenay’s quarters that she paused her headlong flight, waited until she had her breath back, and then approached the door of the Queen’s private chambers shyly. The guard there knew her well; he winked at her, and entered the door to announce her. She could hear the vague murmur of voices, then he opened the door again and waved her inside.

She drew in a trembling breath and prayed that something would guide her, and went in. The door closed quietly behind her.

Selenay was sitting at the worktable, flushed and disturbed-looking. Elcarth, Keren, and the Seneschal’s Herald, Kyril, were standing like a screen between Talia and something behind them. Standing between Selenay and the Heralds was Lord Orthallen. Talia’s heart sank. It was Skif, then. She had to save him. He’d been caught, and it must have been much worse than he thought. But how was she going to be able to get him off?

“Majesty—” she heard herself saying, “—I—I’ve got something to confess.”

Selenay looked confused, and Talia continued, “I—I asked Skif to do something for me. It wasn’t—quite—legal.”

As Selenay waited, Talia continued in a rush, “I wanted him to get the Holderkin records for me.”

“The Holderkin records?” Selenay repeated, puzzled. “But why?”

Talia had no notion where these ideas were coming from, but apparently they were good ones. She hated the notion of lying, but she daren’t tell the truth, either. “I—I wanted to make sure I wasn’t in them anymore.” To her own surprise, she felt hot, angry tears starting to make her eyes smart. “They didn’t want me—well, I don’t want them, not any of them, not ever! Skif told me Sensholding could claim Privilege Tax when I earn my Whites, and I don’t want them to have it!”

Now she was really crying with anger, flushed, and believing every word she’d told them herself. Selenay was smiling a smile bright with relief; Elcarth looked bemused, Keren vindicated, Kyril slightly amused, and Orthallen—Talia was startled by his expression. Orthallen looked for one brief instant like a man who has been cheated out of something he thought surely in his grasp. Then he resumed his normal expression—a cool, impassive mask, and try as she might, Talia couldn’t get past it.

“You see, Orthallen, I told you there’d be a simple explanation,” Elcarth was saying then, as the Heralds moved apart, and Talia could see who it was that they had been screening from her view. She wasn’t surprised to see Skif, white and tense, sitting in a chair as if he’d been glued there.

“Then why wouldn’t the boy tell us himself?” Orthallen asked coldly.

“Because I didn’t want Talia in trouble, too!” Skif said in a surly tone of voice. “I told you I wasn’t after The Book, so what business was it of yours what I did want? You aren’t the Provost-Marshal!”

“Skif,” Kyril said mildly, “He may not be the Provost-Marshal, but Lord Orthallen is entitled to a certain amount of respect from you.”

“Yes, sir,” Skif mumbled and looked steadfastly at his feet.

“Well, now that this matter seems to have cleared itself up, shall we let the miscreants go?” Selenay smiled slightly. “Talia, the next time you want something in the records, just ask Kyril or myself. And we’ll make sure you aren’t listed in the Census as Holderkin anymore, if that’s what you want. But—well, I still don’t quite understand why you didn’t come to me in the first place.”

Talia knew from the tightness of the skin of her face that she had gone from red to white. “I—it was selfish. UnHeraldlike. I didn’t want anybody else to know. . . .”

Elcarth had crossed the space between them and placed an arm around her shoulders. “You’re only human, little one—and your kin don’t deserve any kindness from you after the way they’ve disowned you. Skif—” he held out his hand to the boy, who stood slowly, and came to stand beside Talia, taking one of her hands and staring at Orthallen defiantly. “—you and Tarlia go back to your rooms, why don’t you? You’ve had a long night. Don’t do this again, younglings, but—well, we understand. Now get along.”

Skif all but dragged Talia from the room.

“Good gods—how the hell did you think of that? You were great! I started to believe you! And how did you know I was up to my ears in trouble?”

“I don’t know—it just sort of came,” Talia replied, “And I just knew you were in for it. What happened? How did you get caught?”

“Sheer bad luck,” Skif said ruefully, slowing their headlong rush down the hall. “Selenay needed some of the Census reports and Orthallen came after them. He saw my light in the Provost-Marshal’s office, and caught me red-handed. Gods, gods, was I stupid! It wouldn’t have happened if I’d been paying any attention at all to the sounds from the corridor.”

“What was he going to do to you?”

“He was trying to get me suspended. He couldn’t get me expelled unless Cymry repudiated me, but—well, he was trying to get me sent off to clean stables for the Army for the next four years—‘until I learned what honest work means,’ he said.”

“Could—could he have done that?”

“Unfortunately, he could. I’ve got one too many marks in The Book. There’s an obscure Collegium rule covering that, and he found out about it, somehow. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s been looking for a way to get me.”

“You’d better stop helping me, then. . . .”

By now they were outside Talia’s door.

“Be damned if I will! This is so frustrating—I’d just found Hulda’s records, too! Well, we’ll just have to give up on those, and stick with what we’ve been doing. But there’s no way I’m going to let this stop me!”

He stopped, and gave her a quick hug, then pushed her toward her door. “Go on, get some sleep. You look like you could use it, and I feel like somebody’s been using me for pells!”

Talia was studying alone in her room one night, when there was a light tapping on her door. She opened it—to find a black, demonic looking creature on the other side.

A hand clamped over her mouth before she could shriek, and the thing dragged her back inside, kicking the door closed behind it.

“Ssh! Don’t yell—it’s me, Skif!” the thing admonished her in a hoarse whisper.

He took his hand away from her mouth gingerly, ready to clamp it down again if she screamed.

She didn’t; just stared at him with huge, round eyes. “Skif—what are you trying to do to me?” she said finally.“I nearly died of fright! Why are you rigged out like that?”

“Why do you think? You don’t go climbing around in the restricted parts of the Palace dressed in Grays—and I’m a bit too young to look convincing in Whites. Get your breath back and calm yourself down because tonight you’re coming with me.”

“Me? But—”

“Don’t argue, just get into these.” He handed her a tight-fitting shirt and breeches of dusty black. “Good thing you’re my size, or nearly. And don’t ask me where I got them, or why, ’cause I can’t tell you.” He waited patiently while she laced herself into the garments, then handed her a box of greasy black soot. “Rub this anywhere there’s skin showing, and don’t miss anything—not even the back of your neck.”

He went to her window, opened it to its widest extent, and looked down. “Good. We won’t even have to go down to the ground from here.”

He produced a rope and tied it around Talia’s waist. “Now follow me—and do exactly what I do.”

The scramble that followed was something Talia preferred not to remember in later years. Skif had them climbing from window to window across the entire length of the Collegium wing, and from there along the face of the Palace itself. Talia was profoundly grateful for the narrow ledge that ran most of the way, for she doubted she could have managed without it. At length he brought them to a halt just outside a darkened window. Talia clung with all her might to the wall, trying not to think of the drop behind her, as he peered cautiously in through the cracks in the shutter.

He seemed satisfied with what he found, for he took something out of a pouch at his belt and began working away at the chink between the two halves of the shutter. Before too long, they swung open. Skif climbed inside, and Talia followed him.

The room disclosed was bare of furniture and seemingly unused. Skif led her to the closet set into one wall, opened it, and felt along the back wall. Talia heard the scrape of wood on wood, and a pair of peepholes was revealed.

Light shone through them from the other side. Talia quickly put her eye to one, and as she did so, Skif handed her a common drinking glass. He pantomimed placing it to the wall and putting her ear against it. She did, and realized she could hear every word spoken in the other room, faintly, but clearly.

“—so at this rate, the child is unlikely ever to be Chosen, much less made Heir. You’re dong quite well, quite well indeed,” an unctuous baritone said with satisfaction. “Needless to say, we’re quite well pleased with you.”

“My lord is most gracious,” Talia could see the second speaker, Hulda, but was unable to see the first, and his voice was too distorted by the glass for her to recognize it. “Shall I continue as I have gone?”

“Has the child-Herald made any further attempts at Elspeth?”

“No, my lord. She seems to have become discouraged.”

“Still,” the first speaker paused in thought, “we cannot take the chance. I suggest you continue your practice of telling ‘bedtime tales’—you know the ones I mean.”

“If my lord refers to those featuring Companions who carry off unwary children to a terrible fate, my lord can rest assured that I will do so.”

“Excellent. Here is another supply of the drug for the nurse and your usual stipened.”

Talia heard the chink of coins in one of the two pouches Hulda accepted.

“You will come out of this a wealthy woman, Hulda,” the first speaker said as footsteps marked his retreat.

“Oh, I intend it so, my lord,” Hulda said with venom to the closed door. Then she, too, turned and left the room by a second door.

Talia was too busy thinking about what she’d witnessed to worry about the return trip.

When they reached her room, Talia seized a towel and began ruthlessly scrubbing the soot away. “Is that the first time you’ve watched that?” she asked as she scrubbed.

“The third. The first time was by accident; I’d been following the witch and had to duck into that other room to hide from her; I found the cracks behind a patch in the closet. The second time I took a guess that the first was a regular meeting. I was right. You know something else—no, that’s too far-fetched.”

“What is?”

“Well, a couple of times Melidy started to refuse that drug the witch has been feeding her, and—well, she did something, I dunno what, but it made her drink it anyway. If I didn’t know better, I’d have sworn she was using real magic, you know, old magic, like in the legends, to hold power over Melidy’s mind.”

“She’s probably got some touch of a Gift.”

“Yeah—yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“Here, get into these. They’re too big for me, so they might fit you.” Talia handed Skif a set of clothing.

“Why?” he asked, astonished.

“Because as soon as you’re dressed, we’re going to Jadus.”

Jadus was asleep when they reached his room. Under ordinary circumstances Talia would never have dared disturb him, but she felt the occasion warranted her waking him. Skif opened his door silently, and both of them slipped inside.

He roused before Talia and Skif could reach his side, staring at them with a dagger suddenly in his hand.

The elderly Herald had been sleeping uneasily for several nights running and had taken to sleeping as he had in his younger days; with a knife beneath his pillow. He woke with wary immediacy and sat up with the knife in one hand before they were halfway across his bedroom. He blinked in surprise to see the two soot-streaked trainees frozen in midstep.

“Talia!” He was shocked at her presence—Skif, with his penchant for pranks, he might have expected. “Why—”

“Please, sir, I’m sorry, but it’s an emergency.”

Jadus shook the last sleep from his head, sat up, and gathered a blanket around his shoulders. “Very well, then—I know you better than to think you’d be exaggerating. Blow up the fire, light some candles, and tell me about it.”

He heard them out, Talia prompting Skif to tell his part. Before they’d told him more than a quarter of their tale, he knew that it definitely warranted the classification of “emergency.” By the time they’d finished it, he was chilled.

“If I didn’t know you both, I’d have sworn you were making up tales,” he said finally. “And I almost wish you were.”

“Sir?” Talia asked after a lengthy silence, her face drawn with exhaustion. “What should I do?”

“You, youngling? Nothing,” he reached out to both of them, gathering one in each arm and hugging them, grateful for their intelligence and courage. “Talia, Skif, both of you have done far more than any of your elders have managed; I’m pleased and proud of both of you. But now you’ll have to trust me to take care of the rest. There are those who need to be told who will listen to an adult, but not to the same words from the mouth of a child. I hope you’ll let me speak for you?”

Skif sighed explosively. “Let you? Holy stars, I was afraid you were going to make me tell all this to Kyril or Selenay myself! And after getting caught going after those records, I’m afraid my credit isn’t any too high with them right now. Oh, no, Herald, I’d much rather that I was not the bearer of the bad news. If you don’t mind, I’d rather go find my bath and my bed.”

“And you, Talia?”

“Please—if you would,” she looked up at him with eyes full of exhaustion and entreaty. “I wouldn’t know what to say. There’s too many questions we can’t answer. We don’t know who ‘my lord’ is, for one thing, and if Lord Orthallen starts shouting at me, I—I—think I might cry.”

“Then go, both of you. You can leave everything to me.”

The two rose and padded out, and he sat in deep thought for a moment before ringing for his servant.

“Medren, I need you to have Selenay wakened; ask her to come to my room and tell her that it’s quite urgent that she do so. Then do the same for the Seneschal, Herald Kyril, and Herald Elcarth. Build the fire up, and bring wine and food,” he stared thoughtfully into the distance for a moment. “I have the feeling that it is going to be a very long night.”

Talia heard no more about Hulda the next day—nor, in fact, did she really care to. She was content to leave the matter in the hands of the adults. The sweet smell of spring blossoms tempted her out into the garden that evening at dusk; since the banishment of the troublemakers there was no danger in roaming the grounds at any hour anymore. She was breathing in the heady scent of hicanth flowers, when she heard strangled sobs emanating from one of the garden grottoes that were so popular with couples after dark.

At first Talia thought that it must be a jilted lover or some other poor unfortunate of the same ilk that was weeping, but the sobs sounded child-like as they increased in strength. She began to feel the same compulsion to investigate them that had prompted her to the Queen’s side the winter before.

She remembered what she’d been told about trusting her instincts, and acted on the impulse. She approached the grotto as noiselessly as she could, and peered inside. Lying face-down on the moss, weeping as if her heart were broken, was the Heir.

She entered and sat down beside the child. “You don’t look much like a fish anymore,” she said lightly, but putting as much sympathy as she could muster into her words. “You look more like a waterfall. What’s wrong?”

“Th-th-they s-s-sent Hulda aw-w-way,” the child wept.

“Who are ‘they,’ and why did they send her away?” Talia asked, not yet knowing the results of Jadus’ conference.

“M-m-my mother, and that nasty Kyril, and I don’t know why—she was my only, only friend, and nobody else likes me!”

“I’m sorry for you—it’s awful to be lonely and alone. I know; when I was your age, they sent my best friend away to be married to a ghastly old man, and I never saw her again.”

The tears stopped. “Did you cry?” the child asked with artless interest.

“I did when I was alone, but I didn’t dare around other people. My elders told me that it was sinful to cry over something so unimportant. I think that that was very wrong of them because sometimes crying can make you feel better. Are you feeling a little better now?”

“Some,” the child admitted. “What’s your name?”

“Talia. What’s yours?”

The girl’s chin lifted arrogantly. “You should call me Highness.”

“Not yet, I shouldn’t. You’re not really the Heir until you have a Companion and prove you can be a Herald first.”

“I’m not? But—that’s not what Hulda said!”

“It’s true though, ask anybody. Perhaps she didn’t know—or perhaps she lied to you.”

“Why would she lie to me?” the child was bewildered.

“Well, I can think of at least one reason. Because she didn’t want you to make friends with other children, so that she could be the only friend you had. So she made you think that you were more important than you are—and you’ve made other people so annoyed with you that they’ve left you all alone.”

“How do I know that you aren’t lying?” the girl asked belligerently.

“I’m a Herald—or I will be in a few years, and Heralds aren’t allowed to lie.”

The child digested this—and looked as if she found it very unpalatable indeed. “She—probably lied to me all the time then. She probably even lied to me about being my friend!” Her lip quivered, and it looked as if the weeping were about to break out anew. “Then—that means I don’t have any friends!”

The threatened tears came, and Talia instinctively gathered the unresisting child to her. She stroked her soothingly while she cried herself to exhaustion again and produced a handkerchief to dry the sore eyes and nose when the weeping bout was over.

“You haven’t any friends now, but that doesn’t mean that you can’t make friends,” Talia told her. I’ll be your friend, if you’d like, but you have to make me one promise.”

“Tell me what I have to promise first,” the child said with a hint of suspicion—which told Talia more about “nurse Hulda’s” treatment of the girl than a thousand reports could have.

“The promise is very simple, but it’s going to be awfully hard to keep. I’m not sure you’ll be able to....” Talia allowed doubt to creep into her voice.

“I can do it! I know I can! Just tell me!”

“It’s in two parts. The first part is—no matter what I say to you, you won’t get mad at me until you’ve gone away and thought about what I said. The second part is—you still won’t get mad at me unless what I said wasn’t true, and you can prove it.”

“I promise! I promise!” she said recklessly.

“Since you’re my friend now, won’t you tell me your name?”

The child flushed with embarrassment. “Promise you won’t laugh?”

“I promise—but I wouldn’t laugh anyway.”

“Hulda laughed. She said it was a stupid name,” the child stared at her lap. “It’s Elspeth.”

“There was no reason for Hulda to laugh; you have a very nice name. It’s nicer than Talia.”

“Hulda said only peasants are named Elspeth.”

Talia had a suspicion that she was going to grow very weary of the words “Hulda said” before too long. “That’s not true; I know that for sure. There were three Queens of this Kingdom named Elspeth; Elspeth the Peacemaker, Elspeth the Wise, and Elspeth Clever-handed. You’ll have a hard time living up to the name of Elspeth. Especially if you want to become the kind of person that could win a Companion and be the Heir.”

Elspeth looked frightened and worried. “I—I don’t know how—” she said in small voice. “And Companions—they—I’m afraid of them. Can you—help me? Please?” The last was spoken in a whisper.

“Well, first you could start by treating people nicer than you do now—and I mean everybody, highborn or low. If you do that, you’ll start having more friends, too, and they’ll be real friends who like being with you, not people who only act friendly because they think you can get them something.”

“I treat people nicely!” Elspeth objected.

“Oh, really?” Talia screwed her face into an ugly scowl, and proceeded to do an imitation of the Brat at her worst. “If that’s treating people nicely, I’d hate to have you mad at me! Do you really think that anyone would want to be a friend of someone like that?”

“N-no,” Elspeth said in a shamed voice.

“If you want to change, you have to start by thinking about everything you say or do before you say or do it. Think about how you’d feel if someone acted like that to you,” Talia reached out impulsively and hugged the forlorn child. “I can see that there’s a very nice person named Elspeth sitting here, but there’s an awful lot of people who can’t see past the Brat. That’s what they call you, you know.”

“Can’t my mother make me the Heir? Hulda said she could.”

“The law is that the Heir must also be a Herald, and not even the Queen is above the law. If you’re not careful, Jeri may get the title. She’s got blood as good as yours, and she’s already been Chosen.”

The vulnerable child that looked out of Elspeth’s eyes won Talia’s heart completely. “You really will help me?”

“I already promised I would. I’m your friend, remember? That’s what friends are for—to help each other.”

Lord of Lights, what have I gotten myself in for? Talia frequently asked herself throughout the next few weeks. She found herself running from classes or chores to the Royal Nursery and back again on at least a thrice-daily basis. She had breakfast with Elspeth now, rather than with the Collegium. After supper (which was served at the Collegium at a much earlier hour than at Court) she would return. Then in the evening after supper she would spend the time until Elspeth returned to her rooms with Jadus; when Elspeth got back, they would walk in the gardens before the child’s bedtime.

Hulda had vanished from her rooms before Selenay could have her taken into custody for questioning. Someone—presumably someone on the Council—had warned her in time for her to flee. Talia had little time to spare to wonder what had happened to the woman; she was too busy trying to unmake the Brat.

It was an uphill battle all the way.

Elspeth pulled temper tantrums over the smallest of things; her milk was too cold, her bath was too hot, her pillow was too soft, she didn’t like the color of the clothing chosen for her. Talia put up with the first two of these displays of temper, hoping if she ignored them, Elspeth would stop. Unfortunately, this trick didn’t work.

The third of Elspeth’s tantrums brought Talia’s first attempt at correcting her; it began when one of her maids pulled her hair while brushing it out. The child grabbed the brush and slapped the woman with it without thinking.

Talia took the brush away and handed it to the startled maid. “Hit her back,” she ordered.

“But—miss, I can’t—” the maid stuttered.

“I’ll take the responsibility. Hit her back. As hard as she hit you.”

To Elspeth’s open amazement, the maid gave her a sturdy smack on the rear with the offending brush.

Elspeth opened her mouth to shriek, indulging in a full-scale fit, the kind that had always cowed others into doing things her way before.

Talia calmly picked up a glass of water and threw it in her face.

“Now,” Talia said, as the child sputtered. “These are the new rules around here; anything you do to someone else, you’ll get right back. If you can’t learn to think before you act, you’ll have to take what’s coming to you. She didn’t pull your hair on purpose, after all.” She turned to the maid, “I’m sure you have other things to do than wait on an unruly little beast.”

The maid recognized a dismissal when she heard one; her eyes gleamed with amusement. She could hardly wait to spread the word about the new ordering of things! “Yes, milady,” she said and vanished.

“Now, since you can’t be trusted not to abuse the privilege of having a servant do it, you’ll just have to brush your own hair—and tend to everything else as well,” Talia handed the brush back to Elspeth, who gaped in astonishment as she left.

So Elspeth struggled along without the aid of servants.

She looked like a rag-bag and knew it and hated it. The servants, on the Queen’s orders, were not bothering to conceal their own enjoyment of the new state of things, nor were they backward in making it obvious that they thought Elspeth was only getting what was due her. The courtiers were worse; they smiled and acted as if nothing were wrong, but Elspeth could tell that they were inwardly laughing at her. Talia continued to spend time with her and would help her with hair or clothing—but only if she asked politely. It was an altogether unexpected and unsatisfactory state of affairs.

Elspeth’s reaction was to prove she didn’t care, by wrecking her nursery. She spent one very satisfying morning overturning furniture, tearing the bedclothes off the bed and heaping them in the middle of the room, breaking toys and flinging the bits about. She was sitting in the middle of the wreckage, slightly out of breath and quite satisfied, when Talia arrived.

Talia surveyed the ruins with a calm eye. “Well, she said, ”I suppose you realize the nursery is going to stay this way until you clean it up.”

Elspeth gaped at her; she’d expected Talia to be angry. Then the implications began to dawn on her. “B-b-but where am I going to sleep?”

“Either in the middle of the floor or on the bare mattress, it’s up to you. Either one is a better bed than Skif ever had in the street or I had on sheep-watch. For that matter, it’s a better bed than I get now when I’ve got foal-watch.”

Elspeth began to cry; Talia watched her impassively. When the tears didn’t bring capitulation, Elspeth picked up a wooden block and threw it angrily at Talia’s head.

That brought a response all right—but it wasn’t the one Elspeth wanted. Talia dodged the missile with ease and advanced on the child with compressed lips. Before Elspeth realized what was happening, Talia had picked her up and administered three good, stinging swats to the girl’s rear, then set her down again.

“Next time,” Talia warned, before the real howls of outrage could begin and drown her out, “it’ll be six swats.”

Then she left the room (although, unknown to Elspeth, she stayed close by the door) and shut the door behind her. Elspeth cried herself nearly sick, missed dinner, and fell asleep in the tangle of blankets in the middle of the room.

Talia knew very well that one missed meal was hardly going to hurt the child, but made a point of appearing the next day with a very hearty breakfast on a tray, acting as if nothing was wrong. She helped the much-subdued youngster to bathe and dress, and got her hair untangled for the first time in three days. All was well until lunch—when Elspeth demanded to know when someone was going to clean up her room.

“It will get cleaned when you do it—not before,” was Talia’s adamant reply.

This elicited another tantrum, another hurled toy, and the promised six swats. And Talia left for afternoon classes, with Elspeth still crying in a corner.

After three days of this, Talia arrived at the nursery after dinner to find Elspeth struggling to untangle the heavy blankets. She had already gotten what furniture she could lift back in the upright position, and more-or-less back in place. Wordlessly Talia helped her with the rest, gathered the broken toys with her, and put them back on the shelves. That night Elspeth slept in her bed for the first time in a week, falling asleep with Talia holding her hand and singing to her.

The next battles were over the broken toys.

When the toys she’d smashed weren’t “magically” replaced as they’d always been in the past, Elspeth wanted to know why.

“You obviously didn’t care about them, so you won’t get any more,” Talia told her. “If you want toys to play with, you’ll have to fix the broken ones yourself.”

This occasioned a near-repeat of the previous week—though this time Elspeth had more sense than to throw anything at Talia. She cried herself sick again, though; and by the end of the fifth day Talia was heartily tired of this tactic. She figured it was about time to put a stop to it—so she picked the girl up, dumped her in the tub in her bathing-room, and doused her with cold water.

“You were making yourself sick,” she said as gently as she could while Elspeth sputtered. “Since you wouldn’t stop, I figured I’d better stop you.”

Elspeth took care never to cry herself sick again, though this time she held out for a full two weeks more. At the end of that time, Talia found her with a glue-brush in one hand and a broken wagon in the other. She had bits of paper sticking to her hair and face and arms and glue all over her, and was wearing a totally pathetic expression.

One slow, genuine tear crept down her cheek as she looked up at Talia. “I-I don’t know how to fix it,” she said quietly. “I tried—I really, really tried—but it just stays broken!”

Talia took the toy and the brush from her hands, and hugged and kissed her, oblivious to the glue. “Then I’ll help you. All you ever had to do was ask.”

It took the better part of a month to fix all the broken toys, and some were smashed beyond redemption. Talia did not offer to have these replaced; Elspeth had a tantrum or two over this, but compared to her earlier performances, they were half-hearted at worst. She was beginning to get the notion that Talia was a much better companion when Elspeth wasn’t making fur fly. Then Talia judged that it was about time for the girl’s schooling to start.

After the first day of screaming fits—only screaming, no attacks and no destruction, Elspeth had learned that much at least—Talia arranged to miss a week of her own morning classes. By the end of that week she felt as if she’d been breaking horses, but Elspeth had bowed beneath the yoke of learning, and was even (grudgingly) beginning to like it.

Gradually, Elspeth’s good days began to outnumber her bad ones; as they did so, more and more amenities came back into her life. Her servants returned (she treated them like glass—apparently afraid they’d vanish again if she so much as raised her voice); first the toys that had been totally destroyed were replaced, one by one, and without a word being said, then the ones that had been broken and inexpertly mended. All except for one doll—one that had been torn limb-from-limb, and which Talia had repaired. When Elspeth saw that the broken toys were being replaced, she took to keeping that one with her and sleeping with it at night. Talia smiled to herself, touched—and the doll remained.

Progress was being made.

Now there was a second problem to deal with. The child really had a horror of Companions; she had nightmares about them and couldn’t be persuaded to go anywhere near the Field.

Talia began trying to undo the effects of Hulda’s horror stories with Collegium gossip, which included as many tales about Companions as about the trainees. As soon as she thought it feasible, she started taking Elspeth on walks before bedtime, and those walks took them closer and closer to Companion’s Field. Finally she took Elspeth right inside, having Rolan follow at a discreet distance. As days passed and the child became accustomed to his presence, Talia had him move in closer. Then came the triumphant day when she placed Elspeth on his back. The quick ride they shared cured the child of the last of her nightmares and hysterics and gave Talia a handy reward to offer for good behavior, for Elspeth had become as infatuated with Companions as she had been terrified before.

There were wonderful days after that—days when Elspeth was sweet and even-tempered, when being around her was a pleasure. And then there were the occasional miserable days, when she back-slid into the Brat again.

On the bad days she had temper-tantrums, insulted the servants (though she never again laid a hand on one), called Talia names, and wrecked her nursery just for the sheer pleasure of destroying things. Talia would bear with this up to a point, then give her three warnings. If the third wasn’t heeded, the Royal Brat got a Royal spanking and was left to her own devices for a time until she sought Talia out herself to apologize.

Gradually the good days came to outnumber the bad by a marked percentage, and it soon became possible to get the child to toe the line simply by reminding her of the fact that she was approaching “Bratly” behavior.

Talia was exhausted, but feeling well-rewarded. As a concession to the incredible amounts of time she was putting in on the girl, she was first excused from her chores for a time, then from foal-watch duty. As the Brat became more and more Elspeth, she began to take those tasks up again. As Elspeth became more interested in Companions and less afraid of them, she became enthralled with the notion of foal-watch (which, in summer, was a far from onerous duty, though it could be—and often was—pure misery in the winter).

Companion mares did not foal with the ease of horses; those who had Chosen, of course, had their Heralds or trainees to stay by them when the time came, but those who had not Chosen had no one. If there were complications, minutes could often mean the life of mare or foal. Keren did what she could, of course, but she couldn’t be everywhere, and she needed a certain amount of sleep herself. So one of the duties of the trainees was to spend the nights when an unpartnered Companion mare was nearly ready to foal constantly by her side. Talia had one such stint just after Midsummer, and Elspeth begged so hard to share it with her that Talia relented and gave in.

She hadn’t expected anything to come of it—nor, from what she could pick up from Rolan, was the mare herself expecting to drop for at least a week. But much to everyone’s surprise, just before midnight the mare awakened Talia and her charge with urgent nudges, labor well under way.

It was Elspeth who ran to fetch Keren when it was evident to Talia’s experienced eye that the foal was breech; Elspeth petted the mare’s head and cooed to her (the creature a few months ago from which she would have fled in terror) while Keren and Talia got the foal turned. And it was Elspeth who helped the shaking little colt to his feet afterward and helped rub him down with coarse toweling. The mare imparted a message to Keren as the little one first began to suckle; Keren grinned, and carefully pulled a few hairs from her tail, and a sleepy but overjoyed Elspeth was presented with a ring and bracelet braided on the spot, as a “thank-you present from his mum.” She put them on immediately and refused to take them off—and thereafter, when Talia was sometimes expecting a temperamental outburst, she would often see the child stroke the bracelet, gulp hard, and exert control over herself. That night signaled the real turning-point.

At last, well past Midsummer, Elspeth approached her mother, and asked permission (so politely that Selenay’s mouth fell open) to watch Talia at her afternoon classes.

“Have you asked Talia if she minds an audience?” the Queen asked her transformed offspring.

“Yes, lady-mother. She said it was all right to come to the morning ones, too, but I’ve got different lessons from her then, so I didn’t think that would be a very good idea. I’m supposed to be watching the fighters training in the afternoon though, and riding, so that’s the same if I’m doing it with the Collegium students, isn’t it? And—I’m tired of doing it alone. Please?”

The Queen gave her permission, and turned to Talia (who had accompanied Elspeth but had not spoken during the interview) as the child left the room.

“I can’t believe my eyes and ears!” she exclaimed. “Is that the same child who terrorized her servants this winter? You’ve worked miracles!”

“Elspeth’s worked miracles,” Talia corrected. “I just had to give her reasons to change. I think we’re all fortunate that this Hulda creature only had a really free hand with her for less than two years. If she’d had Elspeth at any earlier age, I don’t think there would have been much anyone could have done to change her back.”

“Then I thank all the gods that you discovered it was Hulda that was behind the change. All I knew for certain was that Elspeth gradually began to become a problem. I couldn’t even take her on rides with me anymore; she had hysterics when Caryo came near—hysterics only Hulda could calm,” Selenay said thoughtfully. “I can’t believe how clever Hulda was about all this. The worst we thought she was doing was giving the child some inflated notions about her own importance. She claimed it was only a phase Elspeth was going through. And I was having some problems of my own in dealing with her. She was growing to look more and more like her father every day, and it was sometimes very hard for me to deal with her because of that. I could never be sure if I were making a rational judgment about her behavior or one based on dislike of the man she resembled. Talamir proposed fostering her; it’s common enough to cause no comment. Poor old man, he simply didn’t feel that he was capable of handling so young a child. Then, when we thought we had a solution, he was murdered.”

Talia bit her lip. “So you know it for a fact now?”

“We found a vial of a rather strong heart medicine among the things she left behind. A little of it is beneficial—but too much, and the heart gives out in strain—exactly as Talamir’s did. poor Talamir we always seemed to be stretching out to each other across a vast gulf of years—and never quite meeting. I know he did his very best for me, but he was too embarrassed by the situation to ever feel comfortable about being my confidant. And he was too much of a gentleman to give me a good set-down when I obviously needed it; not even verbally.”

“Well, I certainly can’t spank you!” Talia retorted, with a touch of exasperation at the self-pitying mood the Queen had fallen into.

“Oh, no?” Selenay laughed. “That sounded like a well-placed verbal spank to me!”

Talia reddened. “I-I apologize. I have no right to speak to you like that.”

“Quite the contrary. You have every right to do so; the same right that Talamir had and didn’t exercise.” Selenay regarded the girl with her head cocked slightly to one side. “You know, the tales all claim that the wisdom of the Queen’s Own knows no age barrier, and I’m beginning to believe the tales don’t say everything. You’re just as much my Herald as if you had twice your years, as well as being Elspeth’s. And believe me, little one, I intend never to have to do without you!”