Author's Notes: For the purposes of this narrative, the events and characters of the Winds, Storms, and Owl books never happened or existed. Thus, all characters are original. However, historical figures (Vanyel, Sunsinger, Lavan, and others) do exist in exactly the same way as the books.
Also, I could use a beta-reader/nagger/human sounding board for this fic and others. If you're interested, please contact me at [email protected]. Finally, if you like this story, *please* leave feedback. No fanfic author likes to write in a vacuum. *grin*
Identity Crisis
Chapter One
**
It wasn't that she didn't love her parents, Tatya reflected as she carefully rolled up the last of her skirts and shoved them into the bulging pack, because she did. And she knew that they loved her. Which was pretty much the problem, really. With an effort, she pulled the pack closed, and tied the cords securely. "There," she said with satisfaction.
With an unladylike grunt, she swung the pack over her shoulders. It was heavier than she'd expected, and wondered for a moment if she should try repacking it. But what else could she leave? She only had a few of her best winter outfits, her sketchpad, and, sandwiched deep within layers of protective cloth, her small and most precious bundle. Her future. No, Tatya decided, there was nothing more that she could leave behind.
But it certainly wasn't going to be any fun lugging the blasted thing all over the countryside. "Never mind that," she told the reflection in the mirror, "just remember that you're doing what you always said you would. Finally." The fair haired girl who looked back at her appeared dubious. Tatya flashed herself a bright, confident smile, and turned away.
On her bed lay two objects. The first was a heavy, forest-green cloak. Tatya picked it up, caressing the tightly woven wool before putting it on. The second was a folded sheet of yellow parchment. Her parents' names were written on the side that was facing up in her own elegant hand. She stared at it for a moment, then raised two fingers to her mouth, kissed them, and transferred the kiss to the rough paper. "I'm sorry," she whispered. Her eyes stung, and she realized that it was time to go.
Getting out of the manor was more difficult than she'd planned. Tatya had used the route before, regularly, in fact. Out the eastern bedroom window, across the ledge to the angled roofs, then leap to the closest branch of the old oak tree, and she was done. She could have done it in her sleep. Unfortunately, she was learning that there was a world of difference between sleepwalking, and trying to keep your balance while wearing what seemed like a hundred pounds of extra weight, all of which seemed to be deliberately pulling you in the wrong direction.
She found herself making her way across the roofs with aching slowness, slipping twice along the way. Both times, she fell spread-eagle and face down against the cold, ice-slick tiles. The second time, she slid down the roof for a few terrifying seconds, until her grasping hand caught and clung to the edge of a gutter. She stayed there, panting, until the roar of fear in her ears diminished.
Finally, she reached the oak, and leapt for her usual, sturdy limb. Her hands caught, slipped, and then held again...until the weight of the pack once again interfered. Tatya couldn't help the stifled shriek that escaped as she fell. Fifteen feet (and three branches worth of bruises) later, she lay curled in a small ball of agony in a pile of snow at the foot of the tree.
"This," she mumbled when she could breath again, "is not going as well as I could hope." At least it didn't appear that anyone had heard her strangled cry; the house was as dark and silent as ever, for which she breathed a sigh of relief. On arms and legs that shook with cold, Tatya climbed weakly to her feet. The Damned Pack, as she'd mentally christened it, lay a few feet away. One of its straps had snapped, and she thought she saw a tear along the bottom seam. She groaned.
With a little fumbling, the broken strap was tied back together, but it wasn't likely to stand up to any more abuse. There was nothing she could do about the tear, however. I'll just have to hope it lasts until I get to Tannersfield.
The town was a five hour walk at a brisk pace under good conditions. With the way things were going so far, Tatya decided that she probably wouldn't reach it until a little after sunrise. Suddenly, though, as she looked over the snow-blanketed fields and the clear night sky, it didn't matter. She was free!
* * *
Rhys was trapped. Somewhere behind him were the hunters, but it was impossible to tell how close over the drumbeat of Faniel's hooves and his own ragged breath. His back was a burning agony--ironically the only part of his body that felt the least bit warm--and with every movement, he could feel the three arrows embedded there working themselves deeper into his flesh. Worst of all was the deepening certainty that desperate flight was to be for nothing. He was going to fail.
*Faniel...*
*Don't speak,* his Companion's mind voice was harsh, *save your strength.*
*Faniel, you'll have to get the package to Tomas. He has to know.*
*He will know, because you'll be there to tell him.*
Rhys smiled wearily. *Old friend, I just want you to know...I wouldn't have changed a thing.*
*Rhys!* Faniel's voice was an anguished wail, *Hang on!* The Companion put on an extra burst of supernatural speed, while the dying Herald on his back tried to concentrate on drawing just one more breath.
* * *
At first, Tatya believed that the snowbank itself had come alive to attack her. Except, she thought as she threw herself to one side, no snowbank had ever screamed like a heartbroken falcon, or had hooves and hair that gleamed in the light of the setting moon like pure silver.
The horse, as startled by her as she had been by it, reared wildly and screamed another challenge. She screamed back, in fear, and scrambled away on her butt from the striking hooves. It was then that the man who'd been clinging weakly to his hold on the reins finally gave up, and slid off to land bonelessly on the snow.
Tatya's eyes widened as she took in the rider's uniform, as white as the snow around them except for a dark patch on the back, and its significance. "A Herald," she breathed. Then she saw the arrows, and heard the frantic noises of the horse, no, the Companion as he sought to rouse his Chosen.
She crawled forward on her hands and knees. She didn't know if she could help--strongly suspected that there *was* no help for the wounded Herald--but found that she could not turn away. The Herald groaned, and she let out a breath she hadn't realized that she'd been holding. He's still alive. He held his hand out to her. "Help...me," he whispered, and Tatya grasped his cold wrist.
The world exploded with white fire, and then there was only darkness.
*Rhys, you must get up!* The first disturbing thing Tatya noticed about the deep, male voice was that she wasn't hearing it with her ears. The second, and far more disturbing, thing was that it wasn't speaking to her.
*Fainel,* a second male voice invaded her aching skull, *what in the Havens is going on?*
"Am I dead?" she asked, and was relieved to discover that her voice, at least, still used the normal channels.
*No,* replied the first voice. It sounded unaccountably relieved about something. *I don't know what's going on, but you both appear to be alive. In a manner of speaking.*
*A manner of speaking? What the hell does that mean, Faniel? Why can't I see anything?* There was an edge to this voice that suggested that, while the speaker was not hysterical at the moment, hysteria was being considered as an option.
*Child, open your eyes.* Without really thinking about it, Tatya pried her eyelids apart and blinked owlishly at the equine muzzle an inch from her face.
"I'm not a child," she muttered, "and my head hurts." And it was cold, but she thought that went without saying. She pushed the Companion's nose aside, and got to her feet.
The scene was much as she remembered it, except that the Herald now lay face down in the snow, and he wasn't moving at all. From just behind her eyes, she felt something, someone, survey the corpse with stunned horror. And it wasn't her. *T-that's my body!*
"What's going on, here?" She meant it to be a demand; but for some reason she just couldn't summon up the energy. In fact, she was finding it difficult to think or feel anything at all. It was as if her mind was adrift in some remote, fog-enshrouded place where nothing much mattered at all.
*It would appear,* she heard the voice called Faniel say from a long way away, *that you have somehow transferred your essential self from one body to another at the moment of...death.*
*Good gods,* the disembodied Herald swore softly.
Tatya probably would have echoed the sentiment, except that the fog in her mind chose that moment to close in on her, and drag her down into darkness once again.
Also, I could use a beta-reader/nagger/human sounding board for this fic and others. If you're interested, please contact me at [email protected]. Finally, if you like this story, *please* leave feedback. No fanfic author likes to write in a vacuum. *grin*
Identity Crisis
Chapter One
**
It wasn't that she didn't love her parents, Tatya reflected as she carefully rolled up the last of her skirts and shoved them into the bulging pack, because she did. And she knew that they loved her. Which was pretty much the problem, really. With an effort, she pulled the pack closed, and tied the cords securely. "There," she said with satisfaction.
With an unladylike grunt, she swung the pack over her shoulders. It was heavier than she'd expected, and wondered for a moment if she should try repacking it. But what else could she leave? She only had a few of her best winter outfits, her sketchpad, and, sandwiched deep within layers of protective cloth, her small and most precious bundle. Her future. No, Tatya decided, there was nothing more that she could leave behind.
But it certainly wasn't going to be any fun lugging the blasted thing all over the countryside. "Never mind that," she told the reflection in the mirror, "just remember that you're doing what you always said you would. Finally." The fair haired girl who looked back at her appeared dubious. Tatya flashed herself a bright, confident smile, and turned away.
On her bed lay two objects. The first was a heavy, forest-green cloak. Tatya picked it up, caressing the tightly woven wool before putting it on. The second was a folded sheet of yellow parchment. Her parents' names were written on the side that was facing up in her own elegant hand. She stared at it for a moment, then raised two fingers to her mouth, kissed them, and transferred the kiss to the rough paper. "I'm sorry," she whispered. Her eyes stung, and she realized that it was time to go.
Getting out of the manor was more difficult than she'd planned. Tatya had used the route before, regularly, in fact. Out the eastern bedroom window, across the ledge to the angled roofs, then leap to the closest branch of the old oak tree, and she was done. She could have done it in her sleep. Unfortunately, she was learning that there was a world of difference between sleepwalking, and trying to keep your balance while wearing what seemed like a hundred pounds of extra weight, all of which seemed to be deliberately pulling you in the wrong direction.
She found herself making her way across the roofs with aching slowness, slipping twice along the way. Both times, she fell spread-eagle and face down against the cold, ice-slick tiles. The second time, she slid down the roof for a few terrifying seconds, until her grasping hand caught and clung to the edge of a gutter. She stayed there, panting, until the roar of fear in her ears diminished.
Finally, she reached the oak, and leapt for her usual, sturdy limb. Her hands caught, slipped, and then held again...until the weight of the pack once again interfered. Tatya couldn't help the stifled shriek that escaped as she fell. Fifteen feet (and three branches worth of bruises) later, she lay curled in a small ball of agony in a pile of snow at the foot of the tree.
"This," she mumbled when she could breath again, "is not going as well as I could hope." At least it didn't appear that anyone had heard her strangled cry; the house was as dark and silent as ever, for which she breathed a sigh of relief. On arms and legs that shook with cold, Tatya climbed weakly to her feet. The Damned Pack, as she'd mentally christened it, lay a few feet away. One of its straps had snapped, and she thought she saw a tear along the bottom seam. She groaned.
With a little fumbling, the broken strap was tied back together, but it wasn't likely to stand up to any more abuse. There was nothing she could do about the tear, however. I'll just have to hope it lasts until I get to Tannersfield.
The town was a five hour walk at a brisk pace under good conditions. With the way things were going so far, Tatya decided that she probably wouldn't reach it until a little after sunrise. Suddenly, though, as she looked over the snow-blanketed fields and the clear night sky, it didn't matter. She was free!
* * *
Rhys was trapped. Somewhere behind him were the hunters, but it was impossible to tell how close over the drumbeat of Faniel's hooves and his own ragged breath. His back was a burning agony--ironically the only part of his body that felt the least bit warm--and with every movement, he could feel the three arrows embedded there working themselves deeper into his flesh. Worst of all was the deepening certainty that desperate flight was to be for nothing. He was going to fail.
*Faniel...*
*Don't speak,* his Companion's mind voice was harsh, *save your strength.*
*Faniel, you'll have to get the package to Tomas. He has to know.*
*He will know, because you'll be there to tell him.*
Rhys smiled wearily. *Old friend, I just want you to know...I wouldn't have changed a thing.*
*Rhys!* Faniel's voice was an anguished wail, *Hang on!* The Companion put on an extra burst of supernatural speed, while the dying Herald on his back tried to concentrate on drawing just one more breath.
* * *
At first, Tatya believed that the snowbank itself had come alive to attack her. Except, she thought as she threw herself to one side, no snowbank had ever screamed like a heartbroken falcon, or had hooves and hair that gleamed in the light of the setting moon like pure silver.
The horse, as startled by her as she had been by it, reared wildly and screamed another challenge. She screamed back, in fear, and scrambled away on her butt from the striking hooves. It was then that the man who'd been clinging weakly to his hold on the reins finally gave up, and slid off to land bonelessly on the snow.
Tatya's eyes widened as she took in the rider's uniform, as white as the snow around them except for a dark patch on the back, and its significance. "A Herald," she breathed. Then she saw the arrows, and heard the frantic noises of the horse, no, the Companion as he sought to rouse his Chosen.
She crawled forward on her hands and knees. She didn't know if she could help--strongly suspected that there *was* no help for the wounded Herald--but found that she could not turn away. The Herald groaned, and she let out a breath she hadn't realized that she'd been holding. He's still alive. He held his hand out to her. "Help...me," he whispered, and Tatya grasped his cold wrist.
The world exploded with white fire, and then there was only darkness.
*Rhys, you must get up!* The first disturbing thing Tatya noticed about the deep, male voice was that she wasn't hearing it with her ears. The second, and far more disturbing, thing was that it wasn't speaking to her.
*Fainel,* a second male voice invaded her aching skull, *what in the Havens is going on?*
"Am I dead?" she asked, and was relieved to discover that her voice, at least, still used the normal channels.
*No,* replied the first voice. It sounded unaccountably relieved about something. *I don't know what's going on, but you both appear to be alive. In a manner of speaking.*
*A manner of speaking? What the hell does that mean, Faniel? Why can't I see anything?* There was an edge to this voice that suggested that, while the speaker was not hysterical at the moment, hysteria was being considered as an option.
*Child, open your eyes.* Without really thinking about it, Tatya pried her eyelids apart and blinked owlishly at the equine muzzle an inch from her face.
"I'm not a child," she muttered, "and my head hurts." And it was cold, but she thought that went without saying. She pushed the Companion's nose aside, and got to her feet.
The scene was much as she remembered it, except that the Herald now lay face down in the snow, and he wasn't moving at all. From just behind her eyes, she felt something, someone, survey the corpse with stunned horror. And it wasn't her. *T-that's my body!*
"What's going on, here?" She meant it to be a demand; but for some reason she just couldn't summon up the energy. In fact, she was finding it difficult to think or feel anything at all. It was as if her mind was adrift in some remote, fog-enshrouded place where nothing much mattered at all.
*It would appear,* she heard the voice called Faniel say from a long way away, *that you have somehow transferred your essential self from one body to another at the moment of...death.*
*Good gods,* the disembodied Herald swore softly.
Tatya probably would have echoed the sentiment, except that the fog in her mind chose that moment to close in on her, and drag her down into darkness once again.