Intrigues: Book Two of the Collegium Chronicles (a Valdemar Novel) by Mercedes Lackey

were abundant and easy to trap, a sable coat could be the possession of almost anyone, but here in Valdemar, it would be an item only the wealthiest of highborn could afford.
    So in a sense he was back at the beginning again. He knew only now that he was “foreign,” and not a bandit brat.
    :I don’t see that it matters,: Dallen observed. :You are still the same person you were before you learned all this.:
    Logically it shouldn’t matter to him. But it did. He wanted to know.
    Well, he had come to a dead end at this point. Anyone who might have known anything about him was either dead or had long ago forgotten about the nameless child. He wasn’t about to try and find the cave and unearth what might have been left of the bodies just to see if there was a shred of a clue in their garments. Even assuming there was anything left but bones, which was not likely.
    He put the report back in the box, and the box back on the shelf. On his way out, he turned over to the Archivist all of the little ribbons that he’d been given to mark where he was doing research.
    “Hmm,” the man said, one eyebrow raised. “Find what you needed then?”
    “Nossir,” Mags replied with resignation. “But I found all I’m goin’ to.”
    Both eyebrows rose. “That has all the sound of a tragic ballad in the making. I’m sorry your excavations into the archives were not as fruitful as you would have liked.”
    Mags managed a wan smile. “Well, at least I know I ain’t some bandit brat. Trouble is, that’s ’bout all I know.”
    “Perhaps you can elaborate on that,” the Archivist prompted, looking interested.
    Mags shrugged. “M’parents musta been caught by bandits. They was dressed good, guess they was bein’ held fer ransom. But nobody understood ’em, and they was dressed foreign, and they was killed when the Guard came after the bandits. An’ that’s what I know.”
    “Actually, I can tell you a little more than that,” the Archivist responded. “They cannot have been Rethewellan, Hardornen, nor Karsite. Guard Captains have a smattering of all three languages, and the fashions of those places are either distinct, or very like Valdmaran. I would also suspect they were not Hawkbrothers, nor Shin’a’in, since the Clans are not inclined to leave their own in captivity, and they have ways of knowing where their kinfolk are. Vanyel more or less closed the passage to the North. So that leaves you with beyond Rethwellan as the likeliest.”
    Mags blinked. “That’s—far.”
    “And it begs the question of why your parents, who must have been traveling alone, came this far. What could possibly have driven them to come to a country where they didn’t even know the language and evidently had neither friends nor contacts? Because you may rest assured, if foreigners who did have friends or contacts went missing in Valdemar, the Heralds, the Guard, and ultimately the Crown would know about it and be looking for them.”
    Mags felt that dread creeping back over him. The only reason he could think of was that they were running from something. “So mebbe I still am some kinda bad blood . . .” he said slowly.
    But the Archivist only snorted. “Actually, I can think of a much better reason for running into a strange land, if one was young and foolish, as I presume both of them were.”
    “What’ d that be, sir?” He held his breath, hoping for a sort of reprieve.
    The old man shook his head. “One of the oldest stories there is, of course. They were in love, and their parents disapproved. And their parents were wealthy or powerful enough that only by fleeing far past the borders of their own land could they escape the long reach of parental authority.”
    Mags blinked. “You think?” he ventured.
    The old man shrugged. “I have known many young lovers, and most were fools,” he replied with more than a touch of cynicism. “Make of that what you will. I am sorry that you did not find all that you were looking for,