Changing the World: All-New Tales of Valdemar

Ree felt as if something inside him had frozen. Carefully he removed his clothes, all of them, even the boots with their warm felted lining. Jem belonged here. It was Ree who was in the way, Ree who would be a problem for them all the time. Ree who would make Jem’s life difficult. He touched Jem’s face, where it curved in the moonlight, and felt the close-shaved blond beard. The idea of never touching Jem again, never seeing Jem again made him hurt deep inside. But it was just him. He was a hobgoblin. They had no real feelings. Not like people.

“Ree, get in bed,” Jem said and smiled a little, but he didn’t wake up. Not fully. He didn’t move as Ree left the room.

Ree had forgotten how miserable cold he could get, even through his fur. He ached with it, and his feet hurt with each step on the frozen ground. Instead of going far into the forest, he curled in one of the abandoned burrows near the farm. He shivered and dozed till first light, and then he thought he should hunt.

A rabbit, he thought. They were sort of a fuzzier smell than cats and not musky like foxes. He was starving. But he remembered how nasty raw rabbit was, and it made his stomach clench and bitter bile come to the back of his throat.

Some wild hobgoblin he was. Hobgoblins did not use fire. They were animals. But his stomach refused to believe him, and he knew better than to force it. Later. When he was hungry enough.

He’d managed before, hadn’t he? There wasn’t any reason he couldn’t do it again. Let Garrad and Lenar and Jem be a family, without him in the way. There were enough places to hide and not be seen if anyone came looking for him.

His feet were so cold they hurt, and he felt every stone and fallen branch underfoot. His toe claws kept catching on frozen ground, until he thought he’d wrenched them. And no matter how hard he told himself it was better for everyone this way, and he’d get used to living wild, he couldn’t make himself believe it. He already missed Jem.

It was a relief when the long, lonely day faded to darkness and he could find an empty burrow and try to sleep.

A scream sounded, startling Ree awake.

Someone was in trouble. Ree scrabbled from the burrow and raced toward the scream. He ran blindly through the trees, then stopped.

Lenar was ahead of him fighting something. Something invisible.

A snow bear. Ree approached, carefully. He wouldn’t be able to see it unless he was right up close or it got in front of something dark.

Though Lenar knew how to use his sword, the creature was bigger and stronger than he was and would kill him and eat him. It took two people to kill snow bears. He and Jem hunted together. As he thought this, he had launched himself toward the creature’s back.

Ree scrambled to climb up, digging his finger and toe claws into the snow bear’s fur while it swung wildly, trying to dislodge the annoyance. Blood sprayed over the snow, shockingly red against white.

He wrapped one arm around the creature’s head, going by feel to get his claws into its eyes. It howled in agony, rearing to its full height. Lenar struck. His sword went all the way into the snowbear’s chest and came out the back, nearly skewering Ree as well.

Ree jumped off and rolled to the side while the creature collapsed. In the time it took him to climb to his feet and shake snow off his fur, Lenar had pulled his sword free and was staring at the snow bear with a grimace. He glared up at Ree. “Damn fool old man was out at first light chasing after you,” he said. “If there’s more like this, he’s probably got himself killed, and that damn stubborn young pup with him.”

Lenar wiped his sword on the snow bear. “I came looking for them both.” He gave Ree another sharp look. “That thing was waiting for me.”

“They do that.” Ree looked around, hoping that there would be tracks, something he could use to find Jem and Garrad. “You can’t even smell the damn things.” It was too confused here, with the snowbear’s musk and blood, but a little farther on he saw the rounded hole of Garrad’s walking stick and two sets of footsteps. “This way.”

Lenar didn’t say anything else, but he didn’t argue with Ree leading, only gave him more of those long, searching looks. “You’re like no hobgoblin I’ve seen,” he said.

“No,” Ree said. “You see, Jem thinks I’m human. He . . . I think he made me human, he’s so stubborn.” It sounded dumb, but Ree didn’t really care what Lenar thought. He had to find Jem and Garrad and get them home safe.

When he heard snarls in the distance, he started to run. It didn’t sound like snow bears, more like the wolf things. That was bad.

Lenar kept up with him. Ree couldn’t run too fast over the rough ground. Lenar didn’t answer when Ree told him about the wolf things and how the best way to stop them was to kill the queen bitch, because she ruled the pack and they’d be lost if she died. The queen bitch was always the biggest one, sometimes twice as big as the others, and she was usually all white, where the rest of the pack were gray and white.

Jem and Garrad were back to back, Jem using a pitchfork and Garrad his walking stick to keep the pack off them. The pack was playing still, wearing them down for the kill.

Ree slammed into the pack, throwing one of the smaller wolf creatures aside. The smaller ones were maybe hip high at the shoulder, long and lean with jaws that could crack bones and wicked curved teeth. The queen was almost as tall as Ree and more muscular than her packmates.

That didn’t stop Ree from jumping on her and holding on with his knees and toe claws while he scrambled for her eyes with one hand and her throat with another. He had gotten a good hold when one of the creatures crashed into him, and they all went tumbling. Ree felt flesh tear under his fingers, and at the same time he realized that his back and side hurt. The damn wolf goblin must have clawed him. It wasn’t moving now, though.

The pack ran, fast, deep into the woods. They’d be harmless until they found another queen.

It took him a while to pull himself free, what with his claws tangled in the pack queen’s fur and flesh and trying not to get the other hobgoblin’s claws any deeper into him when he moved.

Ree shuddered. He forced himself to look at Jem and Garrad. They weren’t hurt. Garrad stood and leaned on his walking stick, breathing heavily, while Jem and Lenar made sure that the wolf queen was indeed dead.

Garrad glared at him. “What possessed you to run off like that, Ree?”

Ree swallowed. “I don’t belong.” It was harder than he thought to say that. “I . . . Jem should have children. He doesn’t need me.”

“You’re a stubborn proud young cuss is what you are. Seems to me that kind of stubborn is right at home in my family.” Garrad sounded more like his normal self now. “What about Jem, then? Do you know how much he missed you, just one day? Did you ask him if he needed you?”

“But . . . you’ve got your family now. Why would you want me?” Why would anyone want him, really? He might turn bad, forget being human even though he didn’t want to.

“You’re going to tell me who my family is now, boy?” Garrad asked looking stubborn. “You’re family if I say you are.”

And now Lenar was glaring at him. He still looked furious, but somehow it was all different. “Family’s people who look after each other and fight for each other, too.” He shook his head. “And I guess love each other.” He pushed Jem toward Ree. “Help your young man, son. He needs to get those wounds seen to.”

As Jem’s arm came around him, supporting him, Ree could swear Jem said under his breath, “My damn stubborn young man.”

It was the best thing he’d ever been called.

Nothing Better to Do

by Tanya Huff

Tanya Huff lives and writes in rural Ontario with her partner, Fiona Patton and nine cats. One more and they officially qualify as crazy cat ladies. Her twenty-fifth novel,

The Enchantment Emporium

, a stand-alone urban fantasy, was recently published by DAW Books. In her spare time she practices barre chords instead of painting the bathroom.

Jors stiffened in the saddle, head cocked. He could hear bird song. The wind humming in the upper canopy, leaves and twigs rubbing together as percussion. Small animals moving in the underbrush.

:Chosen?: Gervais turned to stare back over his shoulder with one sapphire eye.

:I thought I heard a baby crying.:

:Out here?:

It was a good question. They were more than a day’s ride from Harbert on a path that would lead, by the end of the day, to a new settlement set up by three foresting families who’d been given a royal charter to harvest this section of the wood. Besides the usual responsibilities of a Herald on circuit, Jors had specific instructions to make sure they weren’t exceeding their charter.

Jors had never met one of the near legendary Hawk-brothers, wouldn’t actually mind meeting a Hawkbrother, and had less than no desire to meet a Hawkbrother because a forester had gotten greedy and begun cutting outside the territory they’d been granted. He’d grown up in such a settlement, his family still lived in one, and he knew exactly how tempting it could be to harvest that perfect tree just on the edge of the grant. And then the tree just beyond that.

Go far enough just beyond in this particular corner of Valdemar, and problems became a lot more serious than reestablishing the boundaries between feuding families.

An infuriated shriek pulled Jors from his reflections and sent a small flock of birds up through the canopy, wings drumming against the air.

:There! Did you hear it?:

:Given that I haven’t gone deaf in the last ten paces, yes, Chosen, I heard it. But that didn’t sound like an infant.:

:No.: Jors had to admit it did not. :Whatever it is, it sounds furious. And if there’s also a baby . . . :

As Gervais picked up his pace, Jors readied his bow. He was reasonably proficient with a sword—he wouldn’t be riding courier if he weren’t—but even the Weapons Master agreed there were few currently in Whites who could match his skills as an archer. It came from wanting to eat while growing up, as foresters depended on the woods for most of their meat. Small game, large; by the time Gervais had appeared outside the palisade with twigs tangled in his mane and an extraordinarily annoyed expression on his face, Jors had learned to place his arrows where they’d do the most good.

But there were predators in the woods as well, and it wasn’t unusual for the hunters to find themselves hunted by something just as interested in a meal.

:I smell smoke.:

Jors flattened against the pommel as Gervais took them off the main track onto what might have been a path, might have been a dry water channel. Either way, branches had not been cleared for a man on horseback.

He could smell the smoke now too, but it wasn’t the heart-stopping scent of leaves and twigs and deadfall going up, it was more pungent. Slower. Familiar . . .

“Charcoal burner!” he said just as they emerged into a clearing.

There, the expected cone of logs over the firepit. There, the expected small . . . well, in all honestly, hut was probably the kindest description. A little unexpected to see three scruffy chickens in a twig corral by the hut, but eggs were always welcome. Completely unexpected to see the half-naked toddler straining to reach the firepit, held back by a leather harness around his plump little body and a rope tied to a cedar stake.

The toddler turned to face the Herald and his Companion; tiny dark brows drew in, muddy fists rose, and he shrieked.

In rage.

:Well?: Gervais said after a long moment.

:It’s a baby. I’m not . . . I don’t . . . : He sighed and swung out of the saddle.

The toddler stared at him in what could only be considered a highly suspicious manner and shrieked again.

“Hey there, little fellow.” Jors kept his voice low and nonthreatening, as he would when approaching a strange dog. And he’d rather be approaching a strange dog. Two strange dogs. A pack of strange dogs. He’d know exactly what he had to do to rescue this child from a pack of dogs; he just wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with a child alone.

:I doubt he’s going to bite.:

Jors realized the fingers on his outstretched hand were curled safely in. :But you don’t know that for sure,: he muttered as he uncurled them. “It’s okay little guy. We’re not going to hurt you. We’re here to help.”

Blue eyes widened as the toddler stared past him. Leaning against the support of the harness, he scrambled around about twenty degrees of the circle the rope allowed him until he faced Jors, hands reaching out and grabbing at the air. “Ossy!”

“Ossy?” Glancing back, Jors thought Gervais looked as confused as he felt. “Ossy . . . horsey! He thinks you’re a horse.” The shrieking picked up a distinctly proprietary sound, interspersed with something that could have been me or could have been random eee noises, Jors wasn’t sure. :Come a little closer and see if he’ll quiet down.:

The noises changed to happy chortling as Gervais moved slowly and carefully close enough for the toddler to throw himself around one of the Companion’s front legs. It wasn’t exactly quiet, but it was definitely quieter.

:He’s sticky.:

:Is that normal?: Jors wondered, heading for the hut.

:How should I know?: The young stallion sounded slightly put out. And then a little panicked. :Chosen? Where are you going?:

:To look for his parents. They can’t be far.: If they were, Jors intended to have a few official words with the sort of people who’d wander off leaving their child tethered to a stake in the deep woods. Might as well tether out a sacrificial goat.

And speaking of goats, as he came up to the hut, he could see a bored- looking nanny staring at him from the back of the chicken corral, jaws moving thoughtfully around a mouthful of greenery. The fodder in the pen, still green and unwilted, suggested the parents were . . .

He froze, one hand on the stretched hide that covered the opening to the hut.

:Chosen?:

:I heard.:

Moaning.

He found the charcoal burner no more than ten feet out from the clearing, pinned to the ground by the jagged end of a branch through his chest. Jors could do a field dressing as well as any Herald, maybe better than a few as he spent so much time out on the road, but not even a full Healer, present when the accident happened, could have changed the outcome. With the branch in the wound, the charcoal burner died slowly. Pulled free, he’d bleed out instantly.

Looking up, Jors could see the new scar where the deadfall had finally separated from the tree. The charcoal burner had probably passed under it a hundred times, forgot it was up there if he’d even noticed it at all. It wasn’t easy to see a branch hung up in the high canopy—Jors had lost an uncle to a similar accident when he was eight. Could remember the tears on his father’s face as he carried his brother’s body back in through the palisade.

The charcoal burner was older than Jors expected, midthirties maybe, allowing for the rough edges of a hard life—although it couldn’t have helped that he’d been slowly dying since the branch had pinned him. When Jors knelt by his side, he opened startlingly blue eyes.

The knowledge of his imminent death was evident in the gaze he locked onto Jors’ face as he fought to drag air into ruined lungs. “Torbin?” he wheezed. “My son?”

“He’s fine.”

“Take . . . to sister. Rab . . . bit Hole.” A callused hand batted weakly at Jors’ knee, leaving smears of red- brown against the white. “Prom . . . ise.”

“My word as a Herald. I will put your son in your sister’s arms.”

He held Jors’ gaze for a long moment, then closed his eyes and sighed.

He didn’t breathe in again.

The only evidence of a woman inside the hut was a faded ribbon curled up on a rough shelf. Jors set it on the pile of the charcoal burner’s possessions, wrapped them in the more worn of the two blankets on the pallet, and tied the bundle off. Without a mule—and mules were more trouble than they were worth in the deep woods—he couldn’t carry much more than his own gear, but Torbin’s inheritance from his dead father and his missing mother was so tiny he didn’t feel right leaving any of it behind.

While Jors buried his father—the soft, deep loam making an unpleasant job significantly easier than it might have been—Torbin had fallen asleep curled up against Gervais’ side, still secured by the rope for safety’s sake. Herald and Companion both had agreed he was too young to get any sort of closure from seeing the body. Although given that their combined experience with small children could be inscribed on a bridle bell with plenty of room left over for the lyrics to Sun and Shadow, Jors could only hope they’d made the right decision.

As he stepped out of the hut, Torbin’s head popped up from under the other blanket. He blinked sleepily and screamed.

:He’s hungry.:

:How can you tell?:

:He sounds hungry.:

He sounded furious as far as Jors could tell. :What do I feed him?:

:The goat needs milking.:

He looked from the goat, who continued to chew on the last few bits of fodder, to his Companion. :How do you know?:

:She’s leaking.:

Jors had never milked a goat, but he’d been around, and he’d seen goats milked, and how hard could it be? After all, goats producing milk wanted to be milked.

Although he couldn’t prove that by this particular goat.

As Torbin’s screams increased in both volume and duration, Jors finally managed to tie the goat to a hook on the side of the hut and get the small pail he’d found hanging from the hook more or less in position under the leaking udder, but it wasn’t until Gervais moved close enough to catch the nanny’s gaze and hold it that he actually managed to get his hand around a teat.

:I’m beginning to think the Collegium needs to add a few more practical courses,: the Companion said thoughtfully as Jors decanted the frothy milk into a mug with a carved wooden spout.

:I’d have been willing to lose an hour of instruction in court etiquette,: Jors admitted, handing the mug to Torbin. He’d found the mug in the hut and had to unpack it from the blanket bundle.

The child clutched it with both hands, sat down on his bare bottom, and began to drink.

With Torbin occupied—and blessedly quiet—Jors dealt with the fire pit and released the livestock.

:Will they be safe?:

:I’d put that chicken up against a Change-lion.: Sucking at a bleeding, triangular wound pecked into his left thumb, Jors dug a travel biscuit from his saddle bags and handed it to Torbin just as the child put down the now empty mug and opened his mouth to scream. :I think I’m getting the hang of this.:

:We need to bring the goat with us.:

:We what?:

:We were a day from the settlement when we rose this morning, and it is now past midday. The child will need to be fed again before you can give him over to his aunt.:

:I was figuring I’d tuck him up in front of me and we’d concentrate on speed rather than . . . :

:Safety?:

Torbin’s possessions having been secured with his behind the high cantle, Jors took a moment to beat his head gently against the saddle. Gervais was right. Alone, he might risk a gallop in poor lighting along a rough track bracketed with branches ready to slam the unwary to the ground, but he couldn’t risk it while holding a child. If it were later in the day, he’d suggest they stay the night, but it was high summer, and he hated the thought of wasting the five, maybe six hours of daylight remaining. :If we move as quickly as possible and make no stops, we should get there before full dark. I really don’t want to camp while responsible for this child.:

:Agreed. Chosen? The child is leaking.:

Still gnawing happily on the travel biscuit, Torbin now sat in a spreading puddle.

There had been two square pieces of cotton spread out on bushes behind the hut. Jors hadn’t realized what they were for until it became obvious that, as practical as it was to allow Torbin to run half naked around the clearing—or more specially around the part of the clearing his lead line gave him access to—it was significantly less practical to have him up on the saddle in that condition. Releasing him from his harness, Jors carried the child over to the half full water barrel and scooped some of the sun-warmed water over his muddy bottom.

Torbin stared at him for a moment in shock, let loose a sound that would have shattered glass, had there been any glass in the immediate neighborhood, and made a run for it. Given the length of his legs, he was surprisingly fast.

Once caught, he objected, loudly, to having his bottom covered.

“This is ridiculous,” Jors muttered, holding the struggling child down with one hand and securing the folded cloth with the other. “I mean it’s not that I have an inflated idea of my own importance but there has got to be someone better qualified to do this than me.”

:You are the only one here.:

Torbin screamed, “Ossy!” again, and with both arms up and reaching for the Companion, he actually lay still long enough for Jors to tie off the last piece of rope.

:Chosen, that looks . . . :

“Yeah, I know. There must be a trick to it.” But as unusual as it looked, it seemed to be holding, so Jors lifted Torbin up into his arms, then tried not to drop him as one flailing foot caught him squarely in a delicate place.

Getting into the saddle while holding a squirming child away from further contact with that delicate—and bruised—place ranked right up there as one of the more difficult things Jors had ever accomplished.

Tucked securely between the Herald and the saddle horn, legs sticking straight out, Torbin bounced once and twisted around to look back behind them as Gervais moved out of the clearing.

Jors barely managed to catch him as he tried to fling himself from the saddle.

“Pa-Ah!”

Your papa is dead, but his last thought was of you, and I promised him I’d take you safely to your aunt, was a bit complex for a child of Torbin’s age. :What do I say to him?: Jors demanded holding the struggling child close, his ears ringing.

:He does not want to leave his father.:

:Yeah, I got that.:

:You cannot explain, you can only comfort.:

One hand rubbing small circles on Torbin’s back, the other hanging on for dear life, Jors murmured a steady stream of nonsense into the soft cap of tangled curls until Torbin reared back and, still screaming, slammed his forehead against Jors’ mouth.

:I don’t think this is working.: Jors admitted, leaning out to spit a mouthful of blood down onto the trail.

:Try a lullaby.:

:He’ll never hear me.:

:Not with his ears; he’ll hear you with his heart.:

After twenty-one repetitions of the only lullaby Jors knew, Torbin finally cried himself to sleep, his eyelashes tiny damp triangles against his flushed cheeks.

Jors sent up a silent prayer to whatever gods might be listening that the exhausted child would sleep until they reached the settlement, and, as he stayed asleep while Gervais’ steady pace ate up the distance, Jors half thought his prayers might actually have been answered.

“What is that smell?” Head up, Jors turned his nose into the breeze which, weirdly, seemed to lessen the impact. “Okay, that’s strange.”

Torbin squirmed and giggled, nearly pitching forward as he reached out to grab a double handful of Gervais’ mane. The odor got distinctly stronger.

The Companion stopped walking. :I think,: he began but Jors cut him off.

“Yeah, I know.” The smear of yellow brown on the thigh of his Whites was a definite clue. “I bet that’s going to stain.”

It was amazing how much poop one small body had managed to produce. Jors distracted Torbin through the extensive clean up—involving most of their water, half a dozen handfuls of leaves, saddle soap, and his only other shirt—by feeding him slices of dried apple every time he opened his mouth. He buried the soiled cloth by the side of the trail.

:You know, if we carried this with us, we could probably use it to keep predators away from the camp at night.:

Gervais snorted. :It would keep predators away from this whole part of the country, but I’m not carrying it.:

Smiling, in spite of everything at the tone of his Companion’s mental voice, Jors patted down the final shovel of dirt and turned to see . . .

“Where’s Torbin?” He’d left the child tucked between Gervais front feet, chewing on a biscuit.

:He’s right . . . : Gervais turned in place, his hooves stirring up little puffs of dirt. :He was right here!:

:You were supposed to be watching him!:

:I was watching him!:

Jors swore and dove for his sword as a patch of dog willow by the side of the trail shook and cracked and Torbin shrieked. Gervais used his weight to force the thin branches apart, then Jors charged past him and nearly skewered the goat who had followed them from the clearing and was currently being fed the remains of a slobbery biscuit by a shrieking toddler.

Apparently, sometimes the shrieking was happy shrieking.

It became distinctly less happy when Jors attempted to remove Torbin’s arms from around the goat’s neck. Only Gervais’ intervention kept him from being bitten—by the goat, although Torbin had teeth he wasn’t afraid to use.

:Are you hurting him?:

:No, I’m not hurting him.: He managed to pry one handful of goat hair out of the grubby fingers, but it was almost impossible to hold that hand and pry open the other.

“Ossy!”

“That’s right, Torbin. Horsey.”

:Is is wise to lie to the child, Chosen?:

:It’s not a lie, it’s a simplification.: “Torbin, do you want to ride on the horsey?”

“Ide ossy!”

“Then you have to let go of the goat.” The goat aimed a cloven hoof at Jors’ ankle as he bounced the toddler and made clucking noises that didn’t sound remotely like a Companion’s hooves against hard packed dirt, but the combination was enough to convince Torbin.

“Ossy!” Releasing the goat, he squirmed out of Jors’ grip and wrapped himself around Gervais’ front leg.

:He’s still sticky.:

Practice made getting up into the saddle this second time a little easier.

:Fast as you can, Heartbrother. We’re down to half a canteen of water, one cloth, and . . . : “Ow!” :Why does he keep hitting me there?:

:Perhaps he wants to make certain you never have children of your own,: Gervais sighed as he lengthened his stride.

They reached the settlement just as dusk was deepening into dark. Like all family compounds in the deep woods, it was surrounded by a strong palisade designed to protect against both wild animals and bandits who might consider that isolation meant easy pickings. The gate was already closed, but Jors wasn’t too concerned.

He was not only a Herald, he was a Herald holding a small child.

Followed by a goat.

Steadying Torbin with one hand, he rose in the stirrups and hailed the settlement. He caught a quick glimpse of a blond head over the wall by the gate, then his entire attention was taken up by the sudden need to stop Torbin from crawling up Gervais’ neck to chew on his ears. At least he assumed that was the intended destination as “Ears!” seemed to be one of the words being shrieked during the struggle.

By the time he managed to pay a little more attention to his surroundings, Gervais had entered through the palisade, the gate was swinging shut behind them, and a middle-aged woman was plucking Torbin from the saddle saying, “Oh, the poor wee mite! No wonder he’s unhappy, he’s wet.”

“Usually,” Jors muttered, dismounting.

Besides the dried blood left on his knee by Torbin’s father, he had yellow-brown smears on one thigh, various fluids drying on his shoulder, vomited-up apple on one boot, and his lap was distinctly damp and unpleasant smelling.

He felt weirdly smug when Torbin, still shrieking and now clearly furious, tried to launch himself out of the woman’s arms and back to his. He felt understandably relieved when the woman competently prevented the launch and said, “I’ll just get him straightened out and quiet, and you can explain what’s happening when you’re all clean and fed.”

There was, apparently, a trick to making oneself heard over a screaming child.

“I assume,” she continued, “that there’s no emergency requiring more immediate attention?”

When Jors assured her that there was not—mostly with a combination of sign language and facial expressions—she left him to the care of her brothers, who just as competently showed him where he could tend to Gervais, wash, and change into his other, distinctly cleaner uniform. He had to borrow a shirt.

The deep woods settlements didn’t have Waystations, as sleeping outside the palisades ranged from being a bad to a suicidal idea depending on how long the settlement had been in place. Since most were single-family dwellings spread over a number of buildings, it was difficult for anyone to claim favor if Heralds bunked down with their Companions either in the communal barn if the weather was bad or outside it if not. Some of the older settlements had built a Herald’s Corner that offered a little privacy, but this one, young enough that some of the logs in the palisade were still leaking sap, was still concentrating on getting a secure roof over everyone’s head before the cold weather came.

With Gervais unsaddled, brushed down, and settled with water, food, and three little girls who stared at him in adoration, Jors headed off to the male side of the communal showers, dumped a hide bag of sunwarmed water over his head, scrubbed himself down with a bar of soap and a soft brush, and felt a lot better. His ears had almost stopped ringing.

“Ah, Dylan, he got broke a bit when he lost Tiria.” Allin, the older of the brothers, leaned back against the wall and scratched at the edge of his beard. “Was a fine fellow before, ’s why we agreed to let him set up on the edge of our grant. Got to say, I’m not surprised he ended like you found him though, Herald, all alone out there like he was, heartbroken, no one to watch his back.”

“Loved his boy, though,” Helena added, glancing over to the pallet where Torbin lay asleep with a child close to his own age and a large orange cat. “I expect he’d have come back to people when the boy got a bit older. It’s one thing to mourn while rocking a baby, it’s another thing entirely when that baby’s running you ragged.”

“Then he should’ve been heading for people a couple of months ago,” Jors sighed.

“I’m sure you did your best, Herald.” Helena smiled as she refilled his mug. “But what do you know about babies, a young man like you. And your Companion’s a stallion too, isn’t he? Never mind, my grandson’s near enough to Torbin’s age as to make no difference, and we’d be happy to take him in.”

All his instincts said these were good people, and Jors knew Torbin would be happy here. He could get on with doing what he’d been trained to do.

Except . . .

“I promised his father that I’d take Torbin to his aunt in Rabbit Hole.”

“Dylan wanted him sent to Mirril, did he? Makes sense, she was as near broke up when Tiria passed as he was. Girls grew up together.”

It occurred to Jors as he finished his bowl of stew that it was good thing these foresters knew Torbin’s aunt. Had they not, he could have spent days trying to find her, wandering around Rabbit Hole looking for a woman related to a dead charcoal burner with very blue eyes. Well, maybe not days, Rabbit Hole wasn’t that big, but it was still going to be a lot easier going in with a name. And facing another two days on the trail with Torbin, Jors was looking for all the easier he could get.

“There’s a spring where you’ll be stopping, so chill any milk you have left in it overnight, and it should be good until he drinks it all. There’s six hard boiled eggs in the pack; as long as the shells don’t crack, they’ll be fine for two days, but it probably wouldn’t hurt to chill them in the spring as well. Let’s see, what else . . .” Helena frowned, bouncing Torbin on one hip. “Oh, yes. I’ve put six cloths in the pack, but let him spend as much time without anything on his bottom as possible. It’s just baby poop,” she snickered, as Jors failed to prevent a reaction. “After he goes, take the cloth off him and pay attention. If he starts to pee, dismount.”

“Or point him out over the trail,” Allin added.

That got a laugh from most of the gathered adults and a delighted shriek from Torbin, although he couldn’t have understood he was the subject of the discussion.

After checking the girth one last time—any further checking of his tack would start to look like a deliberate delay—Jors swung up into the saddle. “I’ll return when I’ve placed him safely with his aunt.”

“There’s no hurry, Herald. Do what you have to.”

:Ready?:

Gervais shook his head. He’d had his mane braided the night before, and the early morning sunlight painted ripples into some of the strands. :As ready as I am capable of being.:

“Ossy!”

“All right.” Deep breath. “Hand him up.

Jors spread the sixth cloths out over the bushes and hoped at least one of them would be dry by morning. He’d done his best, but there was a limit to how much he could get out with spring water and a stick.

“Point him over the trail,” he muttered heading back to the camp—he’d moved downhill to do Torbin’s laundry in the hope of avoiding contamination. It might be, as Helena had said, just baby poop, but as far as he was concerned, there was no just about it. :How is it possible for him to expel more than he’s taken in?:

:Are you counting vomiting?:

During one of their stops, Torbin had eaten a handful of leaves he’d ripped from a bush by the trail. And some dirt. And a bug. A little further down the trail, he’d brought them all back up again. Jors had been happy—by certain specific definitions of the word happy—that he’d changed back into his stained uniform. Gervais had insisted they stop immediately and clean his mane.

:Chosen!:

He’d have never heard an actual verbal call over the shrieking.

Arriving at the campsite at a dead run, Jors found Torbin straining against Gervais’ hold on the back of his smock, the Companion’s teeth gripping a fold of the fabric as the child fought to get to the spring.

:He ate another bug.:

“Ossy!”

Jors scratched at a welt across his bare chest and sighed. :At least he’s not a fussy eater.:

Wrapped up in the fluffier of the two blankets Jors had taken from the charcoal burner’s hut, thumb tucked deep in his mouth, eyelashes a dark smudge against the upper curve of chubby cheeks, Torbin looked as though he would never consider trying to throw himself off a Companion’s back causing that Companion’s Herald to temporarily stop breathing. As though he’d never try to poke his own eye out with a stick. As though he’d never drop a half-dead cricket into someone else’s supper.

Jors settled another log on the fire and leaned back against Gervais’ shoulder to watch Torbin sleep. :Why are we doing this again?: he sighed.

:You gave your word to his father.:

:I know but... : He dug another bit of mashed egg out of his ear. :This isn’t exactly what Heralds do, is it?:

:Yes.:

:Yes?: Jors repeated, wondering if he’d heard correctly. Given the egg, he might not have.

:Yes, it is exactly what Heralds do.:

:How do you figure?: he asked, stroking one hand along the Companion’s silky side.

:The Heralds not only protect Valdemar as it is but, by their actions, Valdemar as it will be. This child is the future of Valdemar. It doesn’t matter if he is Chosen or he becomes a charcoal burner like his father; here and now, he is not only himself, he is the potential for everything he could be. Without him there will be no future in Valdemar, so yes, you are doing exactly what it is Heralds do. There is nothing more important you could be doing.:

:That helps.:

:I thought it might.:

:You have to admit ,though, he certainly puts something like a diplomatic mission to Karse into perspective.:

:It is unlikely that you and I would be sent to Karse.:

:Not diplomatic enough?:

:Not even close. Still, a mission to Karse would likely involve less vomiting.:

:There is that.:

Rabbit Hole was not exactly a bustling metropolis, and the second person Jors asked was able to direct him to Mirril. The charcoal burner’s younger sister had married the son of a wheelwright, and they lived in the family complex surrounding the work yard. She had her brother’s bright blue eyes.

Torbin tried to stick a finger into one of them, but he didn’t shriek when she cuddled him, her tears falling to gleam against his curls, so maybe, Jors thought, maybe he knew this was home.

“At least Dylan didn’t die alone, there’s that. He had a Herald with him.” Mirril blinked away tears and managed a watery smile. “He used to tell me stories about Heralds when we were growing up.” She frowned suddenly at the long white hairs Torbin was clutching in one hand. “Oh, no . . .”

:Tell her he may keep them, Chosen.:

When Jors passed on Gervais’ remark, she blushed and tucked the hair into her apron pocket. “I could braid them into a bracelet for him. He wouldn’t eat them then.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Jors told her. “He likes to eat. He likes travel biscuits and egg and goat’s milk. Oh, and Helena at the settlement said that the next time they bring a load of lumber out, she’ll pay you for Torbin’s goat. She followed us to the settlement.” Torbin reached out a hand, and Jors pretended to grab it and eat the fingers, making him shriek with laughter. “He likes to run, and he seems to have no idea of self preservation, but he’s a tough little guy and a big believer in picking himself up and getting on with things when he falls. He doesn’t talk a lot. I don’t know if that’s usual for his age, but he says no and ride horsey.” And Papa, but Jors didn’t add that out loud. “He’s pretty good at making his wants known.”

“Ossy!”

She was smiling now and shaking her head.

“We need to get back on the trail so . . . uh . . .” It was harder to say goodbye than he’d expected. He planted a kiss on the dimpled knuckles and released Torbin’s hand. “Be a good boy for your auntie.”

“Ossy!”

“Thank you for everything you’ve done.”

Jors thought of Torbin’s father. “I wish I could have done more.” He turned, then turned again. “Do you think, I mean, would you mind if I stopped by to visit him if I’m in the area? I wouldn’t be checking up or anything; I just . . .”

. . . had stains all over his uniform, and the smell might never leave his saddle bags, and it was entirely possible he still had egg in his ear.

“Would I mind if a Herald came by to visit my brother’s son? Why would I ever mind that? Why would anyone. But why would you?” Mirril’s cheeks were flushed, and she ducked her head in embarrassment. “I mean, you have so much more important things to do.”

“Ossy!”

With an ease that came from three days of intensive training, Jors caught the future of Valdemar as he threw himself out of his auntie’s arms shrieking, “Ossy!”

“Actually,” he said, letting Torbin slide to the ground and wrap himself around one of the Companion’s legs, “I don’t. Not really.”

:He’s still sticky,: Gervais sighed.

The Thief of Anvil’s Close

By Fiona Patton

Fiona Patton was born in Calgary, Alberta, Canada, and grew up in the United States. In 1975 she returned to Canada and now lives in rural Ontario with her partner and nine cats. She has six books out from DAW, including her latest,

The Golden Tower

, the second in the Warriors of Estavia series and is currently working on the third and final book, tentatively entitled

The Shining City

. She has over thirty short stories with Tekno Books and DAW. “The Thief of Anvil’s Close” is the second Valdemar story featuring Haven’s Dann family.

It was a beautiful, autumn afternoon in Haven, the kind you remembered long afterward: warm and brightly sunny, with just enough breeze to sweeten the air with the heady aromas of baking bread and . . .

Standing on the crowded threshold of the Iron Street Watch House, Sergeant Hektor Dann took a deep breath, his eye tightly closed . . .

And . . . meat pies.

He smiled. Every year, from the very first day his mother had allowed him to bring his father and grandfather their dinners at age six to the day he was named, first watchhouse sweeper, then runner, then finally constable, the autumn breeze had carried the same scents on the breeze. He could almost feel the cloth-wrapped pot of warm stew against his chest, the worn, wooden broom handle in his hands, the cold cobblestones against his bare feet, the scratch of the brand new uniform tunic against his wrists.

“Hek! Hektor! I mean, Sergeant!”

Almost, but not quite. He opened his eyes.

His youngest brother, eleven-year-old Padreic, newly made watchhouse runner, rocked to a halt in front of him, breathing like a forge bellows. His face was red with exertion, but his eyes shone with importance and just a hint of mischief that Hektor instantly mistrusted.

“Runner.”

“You’re wanted on . . . Anvil’s Close,” his brother panted, ignoring his older brother’s attempt at a stern expression. “At Edzel’s shop,” he added in a meaningful voice.

“Who’s wantin’ me, Edzel or one of his neighbors?”

“Edzel.”

“Well that’s somethin’ anyway. Leastways, there won’t be a public nuisance complaint or an assault charge.” Last month, Master Blacksmith Edzel Smith had thrown an andiron at a farrier who’d though his concerns were “funny.” Edzel was a lot of things, but he was never funny.

“There might still be,” Padreic disagreed, his breath back and the look of importance growing on his face as he savored the information he possessed that his older brother didn’t. “He’s throwin’ a right barny this time,” he embellished. “Rantin’ and ravin’ like a fit’s on him. Says someone’s been thievin’ his goods.”

“Edzel always thinks someone’s been thievin’ his goods.”

Hektor turned to see their oldest brother, Corporal Aiden Dann, standing behind him, an unimpressed expression on his face.

“This time he’s worse, Aiden,” Padreic assured him. “ ’Cause this time he might be right.”

“Hm.” Aiden glanced at Hektor. “Well, Sergeant,” he said, giving the brand new stripes on Hektor’s sleeve a sharp prod. “You goin’, or you gonna stand there actin’ like you’re still afraid of a crazy old blacksmith?”

“I’m goin’ . . .”

“Only?”

“Only . . .” Hektor gave his older brother a helpless look, and Aiden shook his head in disgust.

“Fine, I’ll go with you.”

“Thanks, Aiden.”

“Thanks, Corporal,” his brother prompted.

“Yeah, thanks Corporal.”

Anvil’s Close lay just off the Iron Market entrance gates. A narrow, neatly cobblestoned street, it was made up of small forges and iron shops where the city’s blacksmiths and their families sold everything from wrought iron railings and window grills to surgical tools and musical instruments: anything that could be fashioned out of metal. An older woman, dressed in a stout leather apron, leaned out the door of the first shop as they passed by.

“Well, well, Sergeant Dann,” she said with a wicked smile. “Haven’t you just gotten all grown up an’ promoted. Ismy wouldn’t know you to look at you now.”

Hektor kept his expression as neutral as possible although he could feel his neck turning red above the collar of his blue and gray watchman’s uniform. “Hello, Judee,” he replied.

“Crazy old fool’ll bring on a fit if he’s not careful,” she noted, jerking her head down the Close. “Best get yourself over there double quick afore he does his heart a mischief.”

Hektor nodded and carried on at once, but Aiden paused for a moment.

“I’ve a buckle that needs mendin’, Judee. You got time?”

She nodded. “Send it over with Paddy. I’ll have it done by your shift’s end.”

“Thanks.”

As he made to follow his younger brother, her expression turned serious. “Really, Aiden, get that old fool sorted out, will you? His rantin’s bad for business, an’ not just for him; for the whole Close.”

“We will.”

“You tell him he’s scarin’ his grandbaby. That might do it.”

He nodded, catching up with Hektor as he made—with some reluctance—for the small iron shop across the street and three doors down. Like most businesses in this part of Haven, it was little more than eight feet wide, with two horizontal shutters at the front. The top was supported on tall posts to provide an awning for the bottom, which, supported on two shorter posts, acted as a display counter for tools, nails, hinges, handles, and whatever other bits of ironwork the proprietor thought might lure a customer inside. The brightly painted sign depicting a bell flanked by two ornate candlesticks above a decorative anvil declared the owner to be a master smith capable of crafting more refined objects than mere horseshoes and hammers. But what had always set Edzel’s shop apart from the others and what had kept Hektor, Aiden, and many of the boys their age coming in and braving the smith’s legendary temper was that in his prime, Edzel Smith had made toys of extraordinary skill: tops and jacks, metal whistles, tin flutes, and polished iron marbles, lead guardsmen with arms and legs that actually moved, and tiny, beautifully crafted Heralds and their Companions, painted a heavy, enameled white. Hektor remembered saving his pennybits for months just to be able to afford a single articulated watchman no bigger than his forefinger when he’d been nine years old. Edzel’s daughter, Ismy, had given him another when he was twelve.

He glanced down to the end of the Close where it opened up onto Saddler’s Street before loud shouting issuing from Edzel’s shop jerked him forcibly from the memory.

“I tell you, I’m bein’ thieved from!”

Edzel Smith stood in the middle of the shop shaking his fists in rage. A squat, heavyset man in his late sixties, his gray hair thinning on top and gray beard covering a jutting and belligerent chin; years of forge work had bent his back and twisted his hands, but his arms and shoulders were still covered with thick, corded muscle, and his temper was as volatile as ever.

“Don’t you try an’ shush me, boy!” he continued, his face turning a dangerous purple. “I know when I’m being thieved from, don’t you try an’ tell me otherwise! I had thirteen thimbles, thirteen, on that there back worktable and not a one less! I had a full box of lath nails, that’s twenty-four exactly, an’ now there be naught but nineteen!”

The boy he was shouting at, his son Tay, a tall, broad man of almost thirty-five and a full smith in his own right, did his best to look if not believing then at least respectful as Edzel stomped about, shaking his fists in near apoplectic rage. Usually at work at the forge behind the shop, Tay entered this world of crammed shelving and angry fathers as seldom as possible, but with the rage on him, Edzel was more than Tay’s long suffering wife, Trisha, who helped him run the shop, could handle.

“Boggles maybe?” Tay suggested, trying, without success, to lighten his father’s mood.

“Bollocks it’s boggles!” Edzel shouted back. “I know boggles! I seen a boggle when I was a little, walkin’ home from the forge at twilight one summer, an’ it ain’t them. It’s her, I tell you!” He spun about to shake one fist out the open doorway. “That’s who it is, that heartless, thievin’ stepmother of yourn! An’ I’ll have the Watch on her! See if I don’t!”

“Now, Da,” Tay said, trying to keep his voice reasonable. “You know Judee h’aint been near the shop since she moved out two years ago.”

His father’s face darkened still further. “You mean since she took half my hard-earned brass an’ opened that spiteful rat-infested trap she dares call an iron shop with your ungrateful half-wit of a brother, you mean, is that what you mean!?” Edzel demanded, his voice turning even more shrill.

Tay sighed. In the nearly twenty years since his mother’s death, his father’d had three other women in his . . . in their . . . lives, and each one had finally been driven away by Edzel’s unpredictable temper, made worse now since age and arthritis had driven him from the forge and into the shop full time. Judee’d lasted longer than most, long enough to give Tay and his younger sister, Ismy, a half-brother before she too had left them. But this time she’d gone no farther than along Anvil’s Close to open up a rival iron shop of her own with their brother Ben, who’d just gotten his blacksmith’s papers.

And whose business was doing much better than theirs, if truth be told, Tay admitted.

He glanced around the shop. It wasn’t that it was small or cramped or dirty. It was roughly the same size as any other shop in the Close with a tiny back room for small repair jobs and a front room laid out neatly with a long sandalwood table in the center and sturdy iron shelving on three of four walls, with the larger goods on the bottom and the smaller on the upper. The more valuable were locked in an actual glass and iron-barred case behind a wide, golden oak counter that Edzel polished every morning with ferris oil until it shone.

And it wasn’t that their goods were particularly expensive; their prices were comparable to any other shop in Haven. No, Tay told himself for the hundredth time as he watched a customer step just inside the door, listen for a few moments to his father’s language, then carefully back out again. It was the shop owner himself. They had to do something about Edzel before the business failed entirely, and a few misplaced thimbles were the least of their worries. But he had no idea what the something should be.

Tay turned as Trisha came in from the tiny back kitchen alcove, her expression exasperated.

“I tried to get him to go in for some tea,” she said in a strained voice. “But he won’t have it.”

Tay nodded. “We need to fetch Zo-zo,” he said, trying to hide the strain in his own voice. “She’s the only one that can calm him down now.”

She frowned. “Meegan brought her by first thing this mornin’,” she said doubtfully. “She’ll be at Judee’s for the rest of the day now.”

“I know, but he’ll rant himself into a fever if he keeps on like this. Ask Judee, will you, just for a few minutes, for me, please? Ask her?”

“I’ve sent for the Watch!” his father continued to no one in particular. “An’ don’t you think I won’t call the Guard too if that shiftless lot up at the Iron Street Station House don’t get here soon. I told that Dann boy to fetch Sergeant Thomar, he’ll get her sorted out in a hurry!”

Tay turned. “Thomar Dann’s retired, Da,” he said gently.

“Then he’ll fetch Egan instead.”

“Egan’s dead. He died in the Iron Market fire last month, remember? He’ll probably get Egan’s son, Hektor. He just made sergeant. You remember Hektor, Da?”

Edzel glared at his son with a malevolent expression. “Course I remember him,” he shouted. “I chased him away from Ismy when he were thirteen, an’ gave him a damn good thrashin’ to boot. I don’t care if that boy fetches Hektor Dann or the Monarch’s Own Herald. I want someone here, and I want ’em here now!”

“Mornin’, Edzel.”

As one, both smiths whirled about to see Hektor and Aiden standing in the shop doorway. Edzel’s expression never changed. “Bout time you two showed up,” he snarled as Trisha made her way past them with a sympathetic expression. “Get in here an’ do your job! I could be missin’ half my shop for all the protection I get! I’ll call the actual Guard an’ have them do your job for you if you don’t give me satisfaction right this very minute!” He fixed Hektor with a rheumy-eyed glare. “See if I don’t!”

Hektor nodded, struggling to remember that he was twenty-one and not thirteen and trying to keep as neutral an expression on his face as possible. “So, what exactly are you missing . . . sir,” he said, using the noncommittal but respectful tone he’d learned from generations of Danns in the Iron Street Watch.

It did not mollify Edzel. “I told that brother of yourn when I sent him!” he snarled back. “I had twelve silver spoons in that there locked cabinet,” he said, thrusting a gnarled thumb behind him. “I was giving ’em a good cleanin’ last night. Now there’s naught but eleven! You just go look and see!”

Hektor squeezed behind the counter to peer into the cabinet in question. Three shelves contained a collection of delicate metalwork, including eleven silver spoons. About to ask if Edzel was sure he’d put all twelve away last night—a question that would certainly have caused another round of shouting—he was interrupted by Aiden.

“Didn’t know you worked in silver, Edzel,” his older brother said absently, studying a long- handled toasting fork with a discerning eye.

“I don’t,” Edzel snapped, snatching it away from him. “Tay’s makin’ ’em a locked case to protect ’em against fire. But there’s more what’s gone walkin’ too: thimbles, nails, one stylus, two boat hooks,” he said, counting each one off on his fingers, “a diagonal, a rounded bill, an anvil swage, two hot punches, a driver, an adze blade, an awl, an edge shave, three whole palm irons, a seat wheel, a cleave, an’ nine pair of arms and legs!”

The long list of unfamiliar words, ending in arms and legs, caused both Hektor and Aiden to stare at him, and Edzel spat at the floor in disgust. “For lead soldiers, you idiots, what else would they be for? An’ don’t you go lookin’ at me like I lost my wits neither, I done a full inventory just last week, an’ I know my stock! All them things is missin’!”

At that moment, Trisha returned with a small girl of around three years old in her arms. The child caught sight of Edzel and threw her own arms out, nearly hurling herself from Trisha’s in the process.

“Ganther!”

The smith’s entire demeanor changed. His wrinkled face split into a huge grin, and he snatched her up at once, twisting her around until she sat precariously perched upon one bent shoulder. “Here, now, what’s all this then, my little Zo- zo bird?” he chortled, his recent ill temper completely forgotten. “Thort you was at your granny’s for your afternoon nap?

“My grandbaby, Zoe,” he explained almost pleasantly in answer to the watchmen’s questioning expressions. “Now, where was I? Oh, yeah.” He waved a warning finger at Hektor. “You do sommat about this thievin’, or I’ll be up to your own granther’s myself. Retired or no, he’ll light a fire under your . . .” he paused as the child began to bounce up and down on his shoulder. “Well, you just mind you do,” he finished.

He glanced over at Aiden with a withering expression. “An’ you’ve got a buckle there what needs mendin’. What’s the Watch comin’ to? It wouldn’t a been allowed in Thomar’s day.” He turned, the child still on his shoulder. “Tay, you’ve a moment to fix yon buckle?”

“Sure, Da.”

As his son came forward, Aiden shook his head. “It’s nothin’. It can wait.”

“No need to wait,” Edzel said, waving a dismissive hand at him. “The boy can manage that kinda work at least. It’s not like it’s fine work. You have that off an’ he’ll fix it up a twinklin’.”

“But . . .”

Tay just gave him a strained smile. “S’all right Aiden, just come on in the back. I’ll be naught but a moment.”

They all made for the workroom. As Aiden struggled to remove the buckle, Zoe threw her hands out toward an ornate iron cage on a shelf beside the worktable.

“Lillbit!”

Edzel chuckled. “Lillbit’s right there, all safe an’ sound, jus’ like you left him earlier,” he assured her. Reaching over, he unlocked the door, and a small, gray creature dove from the cage and clambered up the old man’s arm towards her.

Aiden started in surprise. “That’s a rat!”

Both Edzel and Zoe turned equally indignant expressions on him as the child caught the creature up, cupping it protectively in her hands.

“My Lillbit!” she shouted.

“Lillbit’s her pet!” Edzel snarled. “Zo-zo tamed him up her own self just this summer, an’ he’s still a little himself, so don’t you dare think about doin’ him any mischief, Aiden Dann!”

“A rat? You let your granddaughter play with a rat?” Aiden looked so horrified that Zoe immediately began to cry.

“Yes, a rat!” Edzel shouted. “Not that it’s any of your business!” As Zoe continued to cry, he caught up a leaf hammer, brandishing it at Aiden with one hand while he frantically patted Zoe’s hair with the other. “Now get out, you’re upsettin’ my grandbaby. Get out, get out, get out!”

“Out, out, out!” Zoe echoed.

As Aiden retreated, shaking his head, Edzel whirled on Hektor. “An’ you find that thief, you hear me!” he shouted, his earlier rage returning. “I pay my guild fees, an’ I have the right to protection. If I don’t get it, I’ll call the Guard! I’ll call the Heralds! They’ve a proper court, an’ that truth spell of theirs’ll sort you all out good an’ proper!”

He almost slammed the shop door on them both as they left.

Across the Close, Judee gave them an ironic salute with a ceramic tea cup before disappearing into her own shop as well.

“You want us to guard Edzel Smith’s iron shop all night?”

Hektor’s two middle brothers, Jakon, nineteen, and Raik, seventeen, had served as night watchmen since being taken on as full constables. It worked well for the Danns since they could use the smallest of the family’s bedrooms during the day, and Hektor and Padreic could use it at night. But it also meant that neither of them were used to taking orders from their new sergeant. Now, they both just stared at him.

“You’re joking,” Jakon protested.

“No, I’m not.”

“What does the captain say about it?”

Hektor’s expression hardened. “The captain’s left it up to me. I’m the Sergeant.”

“You’re the Day Sergeant, Hek,” Raik replied.

“Yeah, an’ the Day Sergeant posts the shifts,” Hektor reminded him. “So here’s your shifts: one at the entrance to Anvil’s Close, one at Edzel’s shop door. Take it in turns if you like, but you’re takin’ it.”

“For how long?”

“A few nights likely.”

“How many’s a few?”

“As many as I say it is. Get seen, let any possible thieves know we’re on the job. There’ll be a couple posted durin’ the day too.”

Jakon shook his head in disgust. “You don’t really think someone’s been thievin’ off Edzel, do you, Hek? I mean, he’s always been a suspicious old bugger, glarin’ at everyone who comes near his place. It’s a wonder he has any customers at all.”

“He’s off his head,” Raik agreed.

“Maybe, but it makes no matter. He’s paid his guild fees like he said, so you’re for Edzel’s shop until I say different. Get used to it, Constables.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

Hektor chose to ignore both the tone of voice and the sarcastic salutes of his younger brothers, merely turning and stalking away.

The next morning, they made their report with equally sour expressions. It had rained all night, and they’d spent a cold, wet, and uneventful shift guarding nothing. No one had come near the Close, never mind the shop. As far as they were concerned no one was going to.

Padreic, however, had a different report to make.

“An’ you’re sure the settin’s were right here, moonstones an’ all?”

“No, the moonstones weren’t here; moonstones are rare,” Edzel said angrily, thumping his fist on his work table behind the main shop. “The moonstones got locked up good and proper when I was finished with ’em. The iron settin’s were fine work twenty year ago, but they ain’t so rare they have to be locked up too. They was right here on this very table, and now two of ’em’s gone!”

Hektor peered down at the three clawed bits of metal, used, Edzel had told him stiffly, to affix gems to sword and dagger hilts, then turned to Trisha, standing just inside the door. “Did you see ’em?” he asked hopefully.

She shook her head. “Sorry, Hek. Edzel was bent over ’em till long past when Tay an’ me went to bed,” she answered. “I didn’t see how many he had then nor later.”

“I had five,” Edzel sputtered. “I already told you, five!” Only the presence of Zoe, playing happily in the corner with Lillbit, kept his voice down to a dull roar, but Hektor could see a vein in his forehead throbbing dangerously.

“Could someone have come in the back way, through the forge,” he asked. “Or through one of the windows above, maybe?”

“The forge is closed up tighter’n a drum at night, an’ my window locks are the best in Haven; I cast ’em myself!”

“The roof?”

“Paw! My granther build that roof, an’ it’s a sound as the day it went up! ’Sides, this one’s a right light sleeper,” Edzel said, jerking a thumb at Trisha, “She’s up half the night. She’d have heard if anyone was creepin’ about up there.”

Trisha nodded. “Tay snores,” she explained.

“I tell you who it t’was; it was that woman!” Edzel continued. “She had that ungrateful son of ours make a shop key afore she left, that’s what she did, an’ she snuck over here in the dead of night. Your lot must have fallen asleep on duty!”

Hektor felt his face flush angrily, but he refused to rise to the accusation. “I’ll talk to Judee,” he said stiffly.

“So, lemme get this straight . . .” Crossing her arms over her amble bosom, Judee looked more amused than indignant. “Your askin’ me if I have a key to Edzel’s shop?”

Hektor just nodded.

She chuckled. “No, boy, I don’t. An’ even if I did, do you really think I could sneak about at night, at my age, with my girth, in the rain, so as to hide from two grown constables what spent the entire night moanin’ an’ complainin’ about the weather till the wee hours?”

Hands on hips, she almost dared Hektor to say something, then turned as Trisha crossed the street with Zoe in her arms. “C’mere, darlin’,” she crooned. “Come’n see your Granny.” Catching the child up in her arms, she chucked her under the chin. “Now, you left Lillbit behind, yeah? To keep your granther company? Cause you know your granny’s not fond of rats in her shop, an’ Ginger’d just as likely eat him as look at him.”

Zoe nodded happily, bouncing up and down in her grandmother’s arms much as she’d done in her grandfather’s. “Ganther’ll keep him safe,” she said happily.

“That’s good.” Judee turned back to Hektor. “Edzel’s losing what’s left of his wits,” she pronounced. “Nobody’s thievin’ from him at all. He’s either imaginin’ he’s got more stock’n he has, or he’s misplacin’ it all himself. It’s a waste of a constable’s time, if you ask me, but you go right ahead an’ post your brothers on my very own door if that make you happy, Sergeant Dann. But I should warn you,” she said with a snicker, “it’s gonna rain again.”

“I don’t think we need to do that,” he replied gravely, refusing to rise to the bait. “But one on Edzel’s door an’ one inside his shop might calm him down some.”

Neither Jakon nor Raik took the order at all well. Aiden finally had to step in and threaten to knock their heads together, and it was with some acrimony that the two of them headed off for their shift after supper that evening. As the rest of the family settled into the small sitting room, Hektor threw himself down next to his sister and grandfather. Tucked up next to the flat’s small coal stove, he glanced down at the pigeon cupped in thirteen-year-old Kasiath’s hands with a questioning look.

“Peachwing’s ailin’ again?” he asked, struggling to keep his tone of voice light.

“Some,” she admitted.

“Mites again,” his grandfather sniffed.

“And she’s sad ’cause the autumn’s endin’,” Kasiath added solemnly, listening to the sound of rain pelting against the sitting room window. “There won’t be such nice flyin’ when the snow comes.”

“That won’t be for a while yet, though, will it?”

“Peachwing figures it’ll be afore the end of the month.”

Hektor peered down at the bird, who peered myopically back up at him from the protection of his sister’s fingers. “Don’t know how you can know what she’s thinkin’,” he said with a touch of admiration in his voice.

“The girl’s always been right smart when it comes to feathered creatures,” their grandfather agreed. “But I think she a bit batty, myself.”

“Thomar,” their mother admonished, looking up from where she and Aiden’s wife, Sulia, were stitching a piece of embroidered cloth together.

Kasiath just shrugged. “S’all right, Ma. Granther’s just teasin’.” She stroked the bird’s head with one fingertip. “Don’t know that she is thinkin’ exactly,” she admitted to Hektor, ignoring their grandfather’s wink. “It’s more like a feelin’, really. She gets all pouty, layin’ down in her feathers, an’ I just know it’s cause she can feel the snow comin’, an’ she hates it on her wings. But I just sit with her a while, and then she feels better.”

“Kassie’s always known how to do that ever since she were a little,” their grandfather added proudly as Kasiath gently tucked Peachwing into a small wooden box at their feet. “Best birder I ever knew, my granddaughter. It’s a gift, she has with ’em. They takes to her right outta the egg. Tamed up her first one when she were no more’n three years old. You remember, Jemmee?”

Their mother nodded. “I remember bird droppings all over my table,” she said with a smile that belied the sour tone in her voice. “And I remember tellin’ you both that my kitchen was no place to tame up a wild creature.”

“Huh. Sounds like Zoe and her pet rat,” Aiden said from the other side of the room where he was playing with his own children, three-year-old Egan and six-month-old Leila, before they went to bed.

“I’m amazed Meegan lets her keep such an animal at all,” Sulia noted with a frown.

“Zoe keeps it at Edzel’s,” Hektor replied. “But that’s even stranger, what with him dotin’ on her so much. You’d think he’d be scared it would bite her.”

“Age’s addled his wits,” Aiden pronounced.

“Just ’cause a man’s gettin’ on in years don’t mean any such a thing,” their grandfather said sternly, pulling the ends of a well-patched shawl more tightly about his shoulders.

“He thinks Judee’s creepin’ in an’ stealin’ his goods, Granther,” Padreic said, looking up from the pig’s bladder ball he was perpetually mending.

“An’ I asked along the whole Close,” Hektor added. “No one’s seen anyone suspicious about or lost anythin’ themselves.”

“ ’Sides, who steals one silver spoon from a set of twelve, or five iron lath nails?” Aiden added. Rising, he scooped up both children under his arms and headed out the sitting room door amidst shrieks of laughter.

“He’s right, Granther,” Hektor said. “I think Edzel’s’ losin’ his wits. His temper’s gettin’ worse an’ worse. The whole Close’s gettin’ sick of it.”

Thomar just sniffed. “Edzel was a fine craftsman in his day,” he answered. “One of the best for small, delicate goods as I ever saw. He might a made a fine jeweler or even an artist if he’d come from a different family. The arthritis is what made him so sour. It robbed him of his craft, that’s enough to turn anyone ugly.”

He fell silent, staring at the stove until Jemmee glanced up. “You’d best be off to bed now, Paddy,” she said. “You too, Kassie. Take Peachwing back to the coop now.”

“Yes, Ma. G’night, Granther.”

“Night, darlin’s.” Thomar accepted a kiss each from his youngest grandchildren. A few moments later, Jemmee and Sulia headed off as well with a warning to Thomas and Hektor not to sit up too late.

“Mornin’ shift comes early, Hektor Dann,” his mother admonished as she snuffed out the room’s few candles. “An’ you need your sleep.”

“I’ll be along soon, Ma,” he promised. But once they were alone, he glanced speculatively at his grandfather. “Do you miss watchhouse duty, Granther?” he asked.

Thomar just shrugged. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But I’ve got my birds, and young Kassie to pass my knowledge on to. You lot as well if it comes to that,” he added. “As long as I can pass on what I learned from my watchhouse days I’m happy enough. Problem with Edzel’s that he ain’t got that. The shop’s not for him. He never were too good with folk, just iron. When his own littles were young, he could teach ‘em what he knew, but they haven’t exactly followed in his footsteps.”

“Two of his boys are blacksmiths, Granther,” Hektor reminded him gently.

“Sure, but neither one of ’em has the same skill with small things, an’ that was what he was always the most proud of. Dunno, maybe when Zoe gets older, he can teach her to make toy soldiers an’ whistles or somethin’.”

The two of them sat in silence for a long time until Thomar gave his grandson a speculative look of his own. “Asked along the whole Close, did you?” he asked.

Hektor nodded.

“All the way to the end?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“No reason.” Thomar stretched his hands towards the fire. “Little Leila’ll be walkin’ soon, Sulia says. An’ you know what that means, don’t you?”

“Um, no.”

“It mean your Ma’ll be anglin’ for another grandbaby, soon.”

“From who?”

His grandfather just shrugged. “Weren’t you sweet on young Ismy Smith once?”

Hektor raised an eyebrow. “You sure, it ain’t you anglin’ for another great-grandbaby, Granther?”

“Maybe. But you was sweet on Ismy once, yeah?”

Hektor nodded cautiously.

“And?” Thomas prodded.

“And . . . she married a saddle maker two years ago.”

“And?”

“And . . . he died,” Hektor admitted reluctantly. “Last winter.”

“And?”

“And nothin’.”

“Nothin’?”

“Nothin’.”

“Hm.” Thomar hunkered down into his shawl. “Pity that. She were a nice girl.” He glanced about the flat with an innocent expression. “I hear Lorin Potter an’ his family from downstairs are movin’ in with his wife’s Da next spring.”

“Oh?”

“Yep. That leaves a flat empty. Sulia says she an’ Aiden might think about takin’ it. There’s even an extra room for Jakon an’ Raik to help ’em out with the rent. We figure that’d give us plenty of room here should someone else maybe get interested in havin’ a family, now that he’s bringin’ in a sergeant’s pay an’ all.”

“Who’s we?” Hektor asked, both amused and a bit annoyed at the same time.

“Me an’ your Ma,” his grandfather answered easily. “An’ Sulia. An’ Paddy.”

“Paddy?”

“Sure, he’s bringin’ in a proper wage as runner. He figures he can put in some to help out now.”

“I s’pose he can.” Hektor stared at the tiny flickering flames behind the stove door. “Not sure I’ll be bringin’ in a sergeant’s pay for long, though,” he said after a moment. “Don’t think I’m suited to it. Aiden woulda made a better choice. I never shoulda been promoted above him. I’m no good at tellin’ folk what to do, whatever the captain says.”

“Bollocks,” his grandfather scoffed. “Aiden’s too bad tempered, just like your Uncle Reed. Your da got promoted above him, an’ they worked it out just fine.”

“It ain’t me an’ Aiden, Granther, it’s me an’ Jakon and Raik.”

His grandfather snorted unsympathetically. “They’ll come around. Keep doin’ what you’re doin’; stick ’em out in the rain until they mind you.” He pulled his shawl more tightly about his shoulders again. “Now, you best be off to bed afore Paddy gets too comfortable with all them covers. Go on now, I’ll head off myself in a bit.”

Hektor nodded. “G’night, Granther.”

“G’night, boy.”

His brothers’ report the next morning was much the same as the day before. They’d taken it in turn to guard the shop inside and out, and, once again, no one had come near. Jakon made it clear that as far as he was concerned, any more time spent on Anvil’s Close was a waste of time.

As the day wore on and there was no word from Edzel, Hektor began to believe they were right.

Just before his shift’s end, he pushed aside the mountain of reports that being a sergeant seemed to involve and headed out to see for himself.

The shop seemed strangely quiet when he arrived. Trisha was wrapping a piece of string around a set of fire tongs for a customer, and Zoe was playing happily with Lillbit behind the counter when he stepped inside.

“Where is everyone?” he asked.

Trisha shrugged. “Tay an’ Edzel are at a guild meetin’,” she said in a resigned tone of voice. “Edzel wants ’em to hire a force of private guards for the Close since he says he got thieved from again last night.”

Hektor blinked. “You’re joking?”

She shook her head. “Apparently one of his moonstones is missin’ now. Edzel just about went off his head this morning when he found out. But at least he ain’t blamin’ Judee no more. She an’ Ben are at the meetin’ too, so it’s just me an’ Zoe here all by our lonesome today, ain’t we, Zo- zo?”

Zoe nodded happily.

“I’ll just go an’ check on our tea,” Trisha continued. “You an’ Lillbit watch the shop for me, all right?”

“We will.” Zoe glanced up at Hektor with a sunny smile. “Lillbit’s glad it’s tea time,” she pronounced, “Cause ’e say’s ’e real hungry.”

He grinned down at her. “Is he now?”

She nodded vigorously. “ ’E wants biscuits an’ jam wif ’is tea. I tol’ Auntie Trisa.”

“Biscuits an’ jam? Really?”

“An’ butter. It’s inna cupboard inna kitchen.” She pointed towards the back. “Lillbit can get inside if I ask ’im too, but Auntie Trisa don’t like ’im in there ’cause ’e gets ’is feet inna butter ’cause ’e knocks the lid off.”

“He’s that smart, is he?”

She nodded. “Lillbit can get inta all sorts a cupboards an’ cases.”

“You talk to him, then?”

“Yeah, an’ ’e talks back.”

A chuckle made Hektor glance up to see Trisha standing in the kitchen doorway holding a tray. “Lillbit’s Zo-zo’s special friend,” she said emphasizing the word special. “Isn’t he, Zo-zo?”

“Yeah.”

“I kinda had one of ’em too,” Hektor admitted. “When I was a little, only no one else could see him except me.”

“No one else can hear Lillbit except Zoe,” Trisha agreed. “Will you stay for tea, Hek? We’re havin’ biscuits an’ jam.”

“An’ butter,” Zoe prompted.

“An’ butter, a course.”

Hektor shook his head. “I should be gettin’ back. I got reports to file,” he said woefully, watching as Zoe set Lillbit carefully onto her shoulder before lifting a loose floorboard up with practiced ease and depositing something shiny beneath it. He frowned.

“Zoe, whatcha doin’ there?” he asked lightly.

“Tidyin’ up shop,” she answered. “Granther say’s ye should always tidy up shop when ye close. Even for tea.”

“Is that your shop, then?”

She nodded. “Lillbit’s an’ mine. When we get big, we’re gonna run Granther’s shop; maybe Granny’s too.”

“Can I see your shop?”

She nodded. Setting the floorboard to one side, she pointed into the cavity below. “We gots goods an’ tools jus’ like Granther,” she explained. “But we don’t gots a sign yet. We will though, real soon. The tools’re um . . .” she screwed her face up in concentration “ . . . hundred pennybits, an’ the good’re . . . four hundred.”

Hektor leaned over the counter to see a number of small, unfamiliar tools lined up neatly beside two boat hooks, one thimble, a silver spoon, two iron settings, five nails, a handful of lead arms and legs, and a moonstone cradled in a piece of cloth. Beside him, Trisha’s eyes widened in exasperated surprise.

“So it was his own grandbaby thievin’ his goods?”

Back at the watchhouse, Jakon gave a loud guffaw. “Bet Edzel felt like a right fool when he found that out.”

Hektor just shrugged. “Seemed to make him happy, actually,” he replied. “When I left ’em, they were talkin’ about what kind a sign her shop should have.”

“A rat an’ a anvil, maybe?”

“Maybe. Seems like Zoe’s got the same talent with animals as Kassie has with birds. Don’t know how that’ll help her run her own iron shop, but it should help Edzel come to terms with runnin’ his.”

Raik leaned against Hektor’s desk, threatening to send the pile of reports to the floor. “So that’s the end of rain-soaked shifts on Anvil’s Close then, yeah?” he said, with a triumphant grin.

Hektor nodded. “An’ the start of rain-soaked shifts on Tannery Row, so get your waterproof cloaks out.”

“What?” Both younger brothers stared at him, and he turned a frown worthy of Aiden back at them.

“That’s what I said, Constables.”

“Aw, c’mon, Hek.”

“C’mon, Sergeant.”

“For how long?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On how long I figure it needs doin’, so get home to your suppers. An’ tell Ma I’ll be home later.”

“Where’re you goin’?” Raik asked sullenly.

“Saddler’s Street.”

His younger brothers’ expressions immediately changed from aggrieved to interested, but when he simply jerked his chin toward the door, they obeyed him with minimal grumbling.

Once they were gone, he carefully straightened the pile of reports, then his uniform tunic, then the reports again, then, finally left the tiny sergeant’s office. As he headed down Iron Street, he took in a deep breath of the crisp autumn air, tasting the familiar aromas of baking bread and meat pies, before heading down Anvil’s Close. At the door to Edzel’s shop, both Zoe and her grandfather totally ignored him, but both Judee and Lillbit gave him equally knowing expressions before Trisha called them all inside to their own supper.

Twice Blessed

by Judith Tarr

Judith Tarr has written many novels and several Friends of Valdemar stories under her own name. As Caitlin Brennan she writes novels about horses, especially the Lipizzan horses she breeds and trains on her farm in Arizona.

Nerys and Kelyn were born on the same day, in the same town, to mothers who were cousins as well as the best and closest of friends. Their fathers were partners; Nerys’ father bred and raised sheep that were famous for the softness and richness of their wool, and Kelyn’s father turned the fleeces to a fine and subtly dyed fabric that had even clothed the queen in Haven.

Everyone had hoped one of the children would be a boy so that the two families could unite in marriage as well as in business and friendship. When both turned out to be girls, they were universally expected to be companions in childhood and friends and allies when they grew to womanhood.

That was a lovely dream. The reality manifested when they were barely old enough to sit up: Nerys challenged Kelyn for a doll that happened to be identical to the one she herself had, and Kelyn fought back with single-minded ferocity. They had to be separated by force and carried off to their respective nurseries.

“Ah, well,” Nerys’ mother said. “They’re only babies. They’ll grow out of it.”

Kelyn’s mother wondered about that, but then she chided herself. All these children had ever known was love. What could either of them know of its opposite?

However they had learned it, Nerys and Kelyn disliked each other on sight. Age and maturity did nothing to improve their mutual antipathy. It was one of the very few things they ever agreed on: that they could not stand one another.

Everything, with them, was rivalry. They vied with each other for friends, for prizes in contests, even for marks in school. If Nerys wore the latest fashion, Kelyn had to set a completely new one; if one entered a race at the fair, the other had to enter it too, and fight for every stride.

It was like a curse, but no one in Emmerdale could imagine what or who might have laid it. Their families had enemies, of course; prosperity always attracted envy. But none of those had the resources or the knowledge to cast a spell of perpetual discord on a pair of children. Some tried to blame it on the Wizard’s Wood that touched the western edge of the town, but nothing had come out of that in time out of mind, except truffles and the occasional wild boar.

For Nerys and Kelyn, it was simply the way things were. Their families tried everything from gentle remonstrance to outright whipping with complete lack of success. They never stopped trying, and Nerys and Kelyn never stopped detesting one another. It was an epic battle in its way, as much a part of life in Emmerdale as the sheepfolds and the woolen mill.

Nerys and Kelyn shared one other thing besides mutual loathing: a lifelong fascination with the Queen’s Heralds and their magical Companions. From the time they were old enough to understand, they never tired of hearing about Companions.

“When I am grown,” Nerys said, “I shall be Chosen.”

“Oh, no, you won’t,” said Kelyn. “I will. And you will see me riding my Companion, all bright and shining in my Whites, and tear out your hair in rage.”

Nerys laughed at her, but with an edge of unease. Nerys had beautiful hair, long and shining, so black it shone blue, and she was very vain of it. Kelyn, whose hair was slightly less straight but otherwise exactly like it, had no reason for envy, but it made a useful weapon in their endless war.

When Nerys was old enough to ride, her father gave her a beautiful white pony with a long silken mane. Naturally Kelyn had to have one, too, but hers had blue eyes. Though they were not the deep clear blue of a Companion’s, they were close enough to keep a child happy—until Nerys mocked them. “Glass eyes! How ugly. She looks as if she’s been dead in the water for days.”

Kelyn reared back, knotted her fist, and knocked Nerys flat. It was the one and only time in all their enmity that either struck a blow against the other.

Kelyn stood over Nerys where she lay sprawling and said perfectly calmly, “Leave my horse alone.”

To everyone’s amazement, Nerys did. Their war went on, but people and animals were exempt. It was entirely and exclusively personal.

One splendid summer morning, a few days after her thirteenth birthday, Nerys galloped her pony up the steep track to the highest sheep pasture. It was not a track to be galloping on, and her errand was only mildly urgent, but Nerys was out of patience with the world.

In honor of their unfortunately mutual birthday, Kelyn had received her first silk gown and had been allowed to put her hair up. Nerys’ mother had given her a necklace of amber beads, a fine wool cloak, and a new saddlecloth for her pony.

Those were excellent gifts, and under any other circumstances Nerys would have been delighted. But Kelyn had outdone her, and Nerys’ parents would not hear a word about it. “There’s time enough for you to play at being a woman,” her mother said.

It was small consolation that Kelyn spilled barley beer on her dress before she had been in it an hour, and it was not even Nerys’ fault. The dress was still silk, and fit for a woman grown. Nerys was still being treated like a baby.

In the back of her mind, Nerys knew she was being unreasonable. That was hardly enough to stop her. So she pushed her pony hard up the steep and rocky track, and trusted him not break either of their necks.

The pony might be small, and growing smaller for Nerys by the year, but he was surefooted and quick. He brought them both safely to the high pasture.

The sheep were grazing peacefully in the clear morning sunlight. The shepherd’s big white dogs stood guard, looking like sheep themselves unless they moved. The shepherd was not in her hut or anywhere on the mountaintop.

She could not have gone far. Nerys had brought fresh bread and honey sweets and the first small hard apples of the season as gifts from her mother; she left them in the hut where the shepherd could see them. The message she had to deliver, that some of the ewes had been sold and should come down off the mountain within the tenday, could wait all day if it had to—and so could Nerys.

A whole day to herself was a rare and wonderful thing, now she was almost a woman. The almost barely stung up here, where the air was thin and clear and the world seemed far away.

Nerys pulled the saddle and bridle off the pony, rubbed him down and turned him loose among the sheep. He paused to drink long and deeply from the stream that ran through the pasture and then set to grazing on the rough, scrubby grass.

Nerys thought briefly about swimming in the stream, but it was as cold as snow even in the dead of summer. She walked along it instead, hunting for the sweet scarlet berries that hid in the grass and eating those that she found.

The stream wound into a grove of wind-stunted trees. They stood in a circle, almost as if planted; the space inside had always seemed to Nerys to be larger than the space without.

When she was younger, she had played games in and around the grove, pretending that it was the Companions’ Grove and that magic grew there by moonlight or starlight. Once when a ewe give birth to a late lamb in the shelter of the trees, Nerys called the little ram “Grove-Born” until Willa the shepherd boxed her ears to teach her respect.

Nerys had kept her dreams to herself after that, but to her the grove had always had a certain sacredness about it. When she could, she visited it just to sit and be, to listen to the wind in the leaves and breathe the sweetness of the flowers that bloomed in the grass.

Today she had grievances to nurse. She was not sure she wanted the calm the grove could give. Still, the day had grown warm, and the shade under the trees would be blessedly cool.

She wandered in, nibbling a handful of sweet berries. The cool green smell and the soft shade wrapped around her. She yawned, suddenly and powerfully sleepy.

Under her drooping eyelids, in sight blurred by warmth and sleepiness, she saw that some of the sheep had taken refuge in the grove: a moving cloud of whiteness. It drifted toward her; she braced for the jostle of woolly bodies around her knees.

Warm breath blew in her face, sweet with the scents of grass and flowers. She looked down at silver hooves—single, not cloven—and up into the deepest, bluest, most breathtakingly beautiful eyes that had ever been.

:Hello,: the shimmering white creature said.

The voice Nerys heard in her head was warm and deep, with a faint, musical lilt. It was the most beautiful voice she had ever heard, with her ears or otherwise.

“Hello,” she answered politely, as her mother had taught her. “My name is Nerys.”

:Mine is Coryn,: the Companion said. Of course that was what he was. He could not possibly have been anything else.

Part of Nerys was dancing wildly, and part was telling itself to calm down, stop being an idiot, she was only dreaming. But it felt as real as it could possibly be.

She stretched out a hand. She was prepared for the vision to vanish, or for her fingers to tangle in sheep’s wool.

His neck was as smooth as water. His mane was long and waving and as fine and soft as the fringe of her mother’s prized silk shawl. He was warm and solid and very much alive. He had a smell, sweet like his breath, but with a hint underneath of the horse smell she loved.

He was real. He was talking to her. She was Chosen. She looked at him, asking permission. He dipped his beautiful white head.

He was much taller than her pony, but he lowered himself to his knees for her. She gripped that silken mane and swung her leg over his broad back.

When she was settled and comfortable, he rose smoothly erect, tossed his mane and pawed. Her heart fluttered a little. Companion or no, Chosen or no, he was a tall and powerful stallion, and she was used to riding an opinionated but thoroughly safe pony gelding.

She felt as much as heard his snort of amusement. :At least you can ride,: he said, :more or less.:

That stung her pride. She forgot her fear and dug her heels into his sides—remembering just a fraction too late that a Companion was not, all appearances to the contrary, a horse.

He was kind. He bucked her into a bush instead of hard ground or stony creek or the thicket of brambles that was covered with green fruit.

The second time she mounted, she was moving stiffly, but she was not about to back off. “Please,” she said. “Will you walk?”

:Simple intention will do,: he replied, :and a little encouragement from your seat.:

He had not moved while he spoke to her. It dawned on her that she was supposed to follow instructions.

“Companions, nothing,” she muttered. “They ought to call you Tyrants.”

His amusement was all the answer she got. She glowered at him. Then she willed him to walk and bumped with her backside.

:Not exactly,: he said, :but just this once, I’ll accept it.:

His walk was huge. It was as big and swooping as her pony’s best canter. It made her clutch his mane and try her best not to clutch his sides. It was alarming, and exhilarating, and more than she could ever have imagined.

She would never have dared to ask him to trot. He gave it to her of his own will, and that was even bigger and almost as smooth. When he flowed into a canter, in spite of all her fear and fret, she was grinning like a fool. It was glassy smooth, yet deeply and subtly powerful.

He circled the whole of the high pasture, catching her pony on the way and sweeping him in their wake. It was better than any dream she had ever had.

When he stopped, she burst into tears. He waited out the storm and offered no commentary as she wiped her eyes in fierce embarrassment. When she was as composed as she was going to be, he said, :I have to go now, for a while. Be patient; go on about your tasks. Tell no one that I came to you. I promise I will come back.:

All her high joy collapsed into bafflement and something like grief. “You’re going away? How can you do that? I thought—”

:Just for a while,: he said. :That is a promise.:

She tried to argue, but he deposited her neatly on the grass beside her pony, ruffled her hair with his breath, turned and vanished into the dazzle of sunlight and sudden tears.

Kelyn had won this round of her long battle with Nerys, and she was proud of it. But her hair felt odd and tight in its pins and braids, and her long skirts were heavy and made it difficult to stride out. As for riding her blue-eyed pony, that was hardly a womanly thing to do.

A woman had more than enough to occupy her, between keeping the house, overseeing the servants, and making sure that the menfolk were fed, clothed, clean, and content. And, now that she was a woman, Kelyn had to consider her duty to the family and the business: to find a husband who would help them both to prosper.

“It is a pity Margit’s child was a girl,” her mother sighed—as she did almost every day. She never added the other thing, the thing that mattered so much to so many people in the town: that Margit’s child and Alis’ daughter hated each other with such single-minded intensity.

Kelyn felt guilty about it as often as not. But she simply could not stand the girl. Just being near her made Kelyn want to hit something—preferably Nerys.

On that particular day of summer, while her womanhood was still fresh and uncomfortable, like a new pair of shoes, Kelyn finished all her tasks early and won an hour to herself.

In this new life, she was expected to fill it with needle-work or study, or else with dreaming about her future husband—if she had had any candidates, which she did not. The face that came to her when she closed her eyes was long and white, with glassy pale eyes, and it was buried in the grass of its paddock.

Her pony was growing fat already with lack of exercise. He needed to get out—and so did she.

Her old, childish clothes were still in the press, tucked under the stiff new skirts and petticoats. She put them on with a kind of shamed relief. They were so much more familiar than the gowns she wore now, so much softer and more comfortable.

They were freer, too. She could move in them: raid the kitchen for provisions, groom and saddle a pony, mount and slip out through the gate in the back garden and ride up the hill toward Wizard’s Wood.

No one in Emmerdale remembered why the forest of pine and fir was called that. It had the magic that all forests have, of sweet scents and dappled shade and green silences. But no wizard had ever come out of it, and while the Mage Storms raged, none had touched either Emmerdale or the Wood.

Kelyn’s mother, who sometimes startled people with the things she said, had observed once that maybe the Storms passed the town by because of the Wood. No one had paid any mind. Emmerdale was a perfectly ordinary, perfectly unmagical place.

Sometimes Kelyn regretted that. No one from Emmerdale had ever been Chosen, and no Mage had ever come from there. Her dreams of magic and of Companions were only dreams.

As she rode under the trees, following a path that led to the heart of the Wood, she rejected that thought—fiercely, almost angrily. Even if she was a woman now, she was not done with dreams. There was magic in the world. She would see it, feel it, even touch it—someday.

The Wood’s heart was a low hill with a ring of stones on the summit. Whatever or whoever had put them there was long gone, and whatever power the builders had had or meant to raise was gone with them. Grass grew there now, and flowers that the children of Emmerdale plaited into chains and strung from stone to stone.

Why they did it or what purpose it might serve, none of them could have said. It was just what one did if one was in the circle.

No one else was there on this warm, bright afternoon, though there must have been at least one visitor earlier: a string of daisies fluttered in the breeze, wound around and around the tallest stone. The flowers were barely wilted, their yellow centers bright against the pitted grey rock.

Kelyn’s pony snorted, then did the most embarrassing thing she knew how to do: she flipped her tail over her back and squatted. Kelyn slapped her neck hard. “You idiot! There’s no stallion here.”

Kelyn was wrong. As it happened, there was.

He had not been there an instant ago, standing between two of the tall gray stones. He was as white as snow, and his eyes were pure and luminous blue. His long mane rippled in the breeze that played around the hilltop.

His nostrils flared at the sharp scent of the mare’s longing, but he was a great deal more than a stallion. He dipped his head to her, respectfully, yet made no move to claim what she offered. There was a hint of regret and apology that he must disappoint her—all in the glint of an eye and the turn of an ear.

Kelyn loved him for that, suddenly and completely. “Thank you,” she said.

:You are welcome,: he answered.

“Everyone thinks she’s just a pony,” Kelyn said, “but she’s a person. I suppose you get a lot of that, too?”

:Occasionally,: he said. His voice in her head was dryly amused.

“Your Herald must get tired of setting people straight,” she said.

:I can see that you do,: said the Companion.

Kelyn started to answer, but then she stopped. It had dawned on her, belatedly, that there was no one in Whites standing near him. Then she realized what exactly he had said.

She went perfectly still, inside and out. The world around her was supernaturally clear. She could hear every rustle of the wind in the grass, and see every glint of sunlight on the stones, and count each flower that sprang around the Companion’s silver hooves.

She wanted to remember everything, every breath, every fraction of this moment.

:You are Kelyn,: he said, :and I am Coryn, and I’ve come for you. Will you sit on my back?:

The pony offered no objection when Kelyn slid out of the familiar saddle and tied up the reins so that she could graze if she chose. For all the stallion’s attractions, the grass to her mind was sweeter.

Kelyn patted her neck a little sadly, because a woman’s clothes had changed little after all, but this changed everything. The pony tilted an ear, otherwise ignoring her. The grass was delicious, and she was hungry.

Ponies were as unsentimental as living creatures could be. Kelyn turned away from her toward the being she had dreamed of since she was small.

He was waiting for her. For her, and no one else.

She sprang onto his back. It was a long way up, but she was agile and strong. Her only regret was that there was no human there to see it.

Nerys would die of jealousy. That brightened Kelyn’s mood beyond measure.

Coryn carried her from one end of the Wood to the other, striding long and smooth, with power that made her heart sing. He was wide through the back and barrel, too, which she would have to get used to. But she would. She had the rest of her life to do it.

She had expected to gallop into Emmerdale in a blaze of glory, but his circle took him back to the ring of stones and her pony dozing peacefully in the light of the westering sun. There he halted and made it clear that she should dismount. “But,” she said, “I thought—”

:I know,: Coryn said. :And you will, I promise. Go home now; keep this as our secret. In a little while the world will know that I have Chosen you; and then you’ll have your dream.:

“That’s not what any of the stories say,” Kelyn said. She should not have been so stubborn, but she could not help herself.

:Every story is different,: the Companion said. :This is yours, and it is wonderful.:

“Not if I have to go home without you,” she said.

:It’s not for very long,: he said, gentle but firm. :Now hurry. Your mother is looking for you.:

That was a shrewd blow. Kelyn glared, but she gave way. “You’d better come back soon,” she said. “Tomorrow. Promise.”

:Soon,: the Companion said. Her Companion, who had Chosen her.

That would keep her warm inside, even if she could not tell anyone. Except maybe—

:Not even your mother,: said Coryn.

“You’re worse than she is,” Kelyn muttered. “She doesn’t read my mind.”

His laughter filled the circle and melted into sunlight. When the dazzle faded from her eyes, he was gone. She was alone with her pony and her temper and the best secret she had ever had or hoped to have.

The next day was market day in Emmerdale. Kelyn and Nerys had duties there: Kelyn in her father’s shop among the bolts of wool, and Nerys in the livestock market, where she kept the records of the sheep as they were bought and sold. It was pure coincidence that the sheepfolds and the cloth market were at opposite ends of the square, but it had served their families well over the years.

The white horse came trotting down the middle of the market at the stroke of noon. His coat was dazzling in the sun. His mane and tail streamed in the wind of his passage.

More than one young and not so young person reached out to catch hold of his bridle or tried to bar his way. He never seemed to veer from his path, nor did he slow or stop. He simply was not there for those who hoped to make him Choose them.

The center of the market was a fountain that had not run in living memory. The well that fed it was dry.

As the Companion came to a halt in front of it, water bubbled up in the bowl, filled it and spilled over into the basin below. He lowered his chiseled white head and drank, while the market watched in spreading silence.

Two voices at once broke that silence, from opposite ends of the square: “Coryn!”

Nerys and Kelyn ran toward him. Neither saw anything or anyone but the Companion, until they reached to embrace him in front of everyone and found themselves face to face instead.

The shock was as sharp as a slap. It struck the words out of them and left them staring, too shocked even for hate.

That came next, so strong and so perfectly matched that no one who watched could have said who sprang first. There would have been blood or worse if the Companion had not set himself quietly and immovably between them.

They climbed up and over him, yowling like forest cats. His head snaked around and plucked first Nerys and then Kelyn off his back, dropping them to the ground and looming over them until their yowling stopped.

It was Kelyn’s mother, Alis, who spoke for them both, and for the whole town, too. “They can’t both be Chosen.”

“We aren’t!” Nerys cried. “I was Chosen. He came to me in the high pasture, and he told me—”

“He came to me!” Kelyn shouted over her. “I was in the stone circle in the Wood, and he—”

The Companion lifted his head and let out a ringing peal. It sounded like laughter—and from the girls’ expressions, that was exactly what it was. “You can’t do that!” they sang in chorus.

Except, it seemed, he had.

“The trouble with success,” Herald Egil said, “is that everyone expects you to succeed all over again.”

His Companion ignored him. She had found an unusually succulent patch of grass and was savoring each leisurely mouthful.

She was all too obvious about it. Egil sighed and leaned back against a tree. It had been an easy ride out from Haven, but there were still, according to his map and Herald Bronwen, another two days of it.

Bronwen had ridden ahead. She had little patience with what she called Egil’s elderly ways—though he was hardly more than twice her age—and her Companion fussed if he had to walk or trot all day.

They would be back by the time Egil was ready to go. Meanwhile, he was glad of the time to himself.

Egil was a quiet person and a solitary one. He had managed to evade the better- known duties of a Herald for years, until an emergency and a dearth of available Heralds had forced him out at the queen’s command.

He had done well on that errand, put an end to a dangerous if inadvertent working of magic and saved a valley from spelling itself into nothingness. Unfortunately, he had done so well that people had noticed. Now he had to go on another and equally peculiar errand, just when he was getting comfortable again in his familiar place and space.

In Egil’s perfect world, he would never ride outside the Collegium at all. He would live his life between the classroom and the library and leave the Heralding to those with more of a taste for it.

Bronwen, for example. She came galloping back down the road, mounted on her fiery Companion, like every child’s dream of the Queen’s Own. She was tall and slim and elegant, her wheat-gold hair plaited down her back, and her sea-blue eyes flashing as Rohanan reared to a halt directly in front of Egil.

Plain brown Egil looked calmly up at the tall Companion and the equally tall Herald. “Already?” he said.

“The message was urgent,” Bronwen said. “Also, odd. Aren’t you curious?”

“No worlds will end if we arrive an hour later than we planned,” Egil said.

“Maybe not,” she said, “but a pair of Chosen may have killed each other before we get there.”

“So we’re led to believe,” Egil said. He rose reluctantly and stretched, and brushed at his Whites. There was a grass stain, of course. Or two or three.

Bronwen, who was always immaculate, visibly refrained from commentary. “The message must have been garbled. It can’t be one Companion and two Chosen. Somehow two Companions showed up in the same town and Chose a pair of enemies. Now they’re at each other’s throats, and their families are at wits’ end.”

“That would be the logical conclusion, wouldn’t it?” said Egil.

Bronwen’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t think—”

“We’ll see soon enough,” he said.

“It’s impossible,” she said. “How would it work? Would they ride double? Would they bring a remount? Is one supposed to kill the other, and the survivor gets the Companion? It’s preposterous.”

Egil let her babble on while he mounted Cynara and set out on the road to Emmerdale. Bronwen was as different from Egil as a human creature could be. He did not particularly like her, nor did she like him. Left to themselves, they would have crossed paths seldom if at all; certainly they would never be friends. And yet somehow, when they worked together, it worked.

:Friction,: Cynara said. :Like flint and steel. Alone, they’re nothing alike, and they have little in common. Together, they spark fire.:

There was truth in that. Egil was dull gray flint. Bronwen was sharp and shining steel.

:Do you think . . . ?: he asked Cynara.

He had no need to finish the thought. She snorted softly. :You’ll see,: she said.

For the first day or two after Coryn showed himself in the market, Kelyn could hardly see or think or even breathe, she was so furious. She alternated between storms of tears and fits of icy rage.

She so alarmed her family that they locked her in her room and put her under guard. When she could shape a coherent thought, which was not often, she saw the wisdom in it. If she got out, if she had even the slightest chance, she would hunt Nerys down and kill her.

Shut inside familiar walls, under the unrelenting stare of her mother or her father or one of her many burly cousins, she calmed slowly. Her anger was no less strong, but her thoughts were clear again. She began to feel other things besides rage. Shock. Disappointment. And, as the hours stretched into days, a sensation that she could only recognize as grief.

He was always there. She was too angry to speak to him, but she felt him, white and shining in the back of her mind. She looked, when she could stand to, for the taint of Nerys that must be on him, but there was nothing. Only the whiteness and the warmth and the sense of rightness that stung like salt in an open wound.

By the fifth day, Kelyn knew what she had to do. Her watchdogs were as vigilant as ever, but she saw a way around that. She only had to wait a little longer, and then she could act.

A Herald was coming from Haven to sort the confusion. Nerys was not supposed to know, but her ears were keen and people were talking.

She knew that Kelyn was locked in her house. Nerys could not go anywhere without a pair of her father’s apprentices in tow, but she was allowed out. She reckoned she had won this contest, for what good it did either of them.

She could even have visited the Companion if she had wanted to. He was stabled in the best inn in Emmerdale, in the best stall, and by all accounts was getting the very best of care.

She wished him well of it. It hurt inside to keep her mind and body closed off from him, but it hurt worse to think of sharing him with Kelyn. Better for everybody if she pretended he had never come, let alone pretended to Choose her.

:It’s not a pretense,: he said.

She shut him out so ferociously that she gave herself a crashing headache. The pain was worth it, she told herself. He was gone. She hoped his head was pounding as badly as hers.

The Herald was due to arrive tomorrow, people said. They were all expecting him to decide which of the Chosen was the real one, then take her off to the Collegium to earn her Whites.

In her calmer moments, Nerys was sure she would be the one. Kelyn had put her hair up and submitted to the tyranny of skirts. She could find herself a husband and get to work making heirs for both families.

It was logical and elegant and perfectly practical. It also meant that Nerys need never set eyes on Kelyn again. It should have felt wonderful, and yet it did no such thing. It felt like a blow to the gut.

“This is wrong,” Nerys said. She was alone for once, shut in her room like Kelyn, only she had locked herself in and could go out if she chose.

She had left dinner early, pleading an indisposition that was only half feigned. A Choosing should have been a wonderful and joyous occasion. Not this stomach-wrenching confusion.

The Herald would resolve it. But what if he did not? What if he decided that Kelyn was his Chosen? What then?

Nerys would have to live with it. Except that she was not sure she could. Never to see Coryn again, never to hear his warm deep voice in her head or feel his warmth in her heart—she would die. She would not want to live.

Maybe that was the answer. It was a terrible thing, but she had never shrunk from anything that frightened her.

She had to think about it. The Herald was coming tomorrow. Whatever she did, she should do it before he came. That left her with little time—but it ought to be enough.

Egil and Bronwen rode into Emmerdale in good time, in spite of her fretting. It was a little after noon on a beautiful summer day, neither too hot nor too cold. A few clouds drifted in the sky, but none of them carried a burden of rain.

Emmerdale was an unexpectedly pretty town. It nestled amid green fields at the foot of a mountain range so small it barely rated a name. To the west of it was a stretch of forest; it reminded Egil somehow of the Pelagirs, and yet it seemed as peaceful and empty of fear as a forest could be.

Egil’s senses came to the alert. The last such place had turned out to be under a dangerous and deadly spell. But this one lacked a certain something. Foreboding, maybe. The deep hum of magic running underneath it all. There was no ill magic in Emmerdale: Egil would have laid a wager on it if he had been a wagering man.

The only strangeness here was basking in the sun in the field that belonged to the best inn. The Companion was a stallion, and while he was not as tall as Rohanan, he was more substantially built.

His Chosen should have been hanging on him, unable to let him out of her sight. Or their sight, if the message from Emmerdale told the truth. He was alone, and he seemed content.

“Maybe he hasn’t Chosen anyone yet?” Egil wondered aloud.

:Oh, he has,: Cynara said. Egil could not tell what she thought of it, or of the stallion, either. Her tone was unusually bland, as if she had no opinion at all.

That Egil could not believe. Cynara always had an opinion.

He glanced at Bronwen. She stood with her Companion in a crowd of townspeople, basking in their admiration. They seemed to have forgotten that Egil was there, in spite of his Whites and the shining coat of his Companion.

That suited him admirably, but Bronwen was too hemmed in with people to either catch his glance or hear him if he asked the question that was in his mind. He asked Cynara instead. :And Rohanan? Is he as noncommittal as you?:

Cynara did not trouble to answer. Egil had known she would do that. He drew his breath in sharply, as close to a fit of pique as he ever came.

Fortunately for his peace of mind, Bronwen asked the other question, the one that had brought them here. “Pardon my impatience, but your message was urgent. There is a problem with the Companion’s Chosen?”

The man who answered was no older than Egil, but he carried himself with an air of easy authority. “There is,” he said. “It seems he’s been unable to make up his mind. He’s Chosen two of our young women: my daughter and Hanse’s daughter.”

“I gather they’re not friends,” Bronwen said.

Both fathers rolled their eyes. That they were friends was unmistakable, which made it odder that their daughters were not. “They hate each other,” Hanse said.

The other nodded. “There’s no sense or reason to it. It just is.”

“Nothing ever just is,” Bronwen said.

“Then maybe you can find out why they were born like that,” said Hanse. He sounded more tired than skeptical.

Egil was in full sympathy with the man. When Bronwen did not ask the next and essential question, Egil did it for her. “Where are they, then, sirs?”

They started a little at the voice that to them must seem to come from nowhere. Hanse recovered first, enough to answer. “Secure under lock and key,” he said grimly.

“Well,” said the other, “more or less.”

“Pitar,” Hanse said. “By the Powers. You trust her?”

“I trust my daughter,” said Pitar somewhat stiffly, “to do nothing foolish while under the watchful eyes of my apprentices.”

“So you hope,” said Hanse.

People started to rumble around them. Some spoke for one, some for the other: a low growl of division that made Egil’s nape prickle. He had felt something like it before, long ago, while he was still a Trainee. Within the hour there had been a riot.

Egil interjected politely but firmly. “I think we’d best begin our inquiry. Which of them would be closer?”

“That would be Kelyn,” said Hanse. His voice and face were tight.

With a last glance at the Companion who had done this baffling thing, Egil followed both Pitar and Hanse down through the town.

Kelyn was not in her room. The cousin who had been guarding her was almost in tears, which was disconcerting: He was head and shoulders taller than Egil’s middle height and as broad as a barn door. The tiny woman who had reduced him to a quivering wreck whirled on Hanse in such a fire of fury that even Egil fell back a step.

“She went to the privy,” the woman said, biting off each word. “Two hours ago. Rickard only began to worry, he tells me, after an hour. Because every girl takes forever to do what she will do. And then,” she said, “he was afraid to tell anyone.”

“I can hardly blame him for that,” said Egil mildly.

The woman bridled, then transparently remembered what his white uniform meant. “Herald,” she said with prickly respect. “Thank the Powers you’ve come. The girl has bolted. If she’s not with the Companion, someone had better make sure Nerys is still home and safe.”

Pitar muttered something that sounded like a curse, spun in the doorway and ran.

Nerys was nowhere to be found either. The apprentices who should have been shadowing her had fallen for the same ruse as Kelyn’s cousin.

Egil was not quite ready yet to find a pattern there, but from what he was seeing and hearing, he was inching toward a conclusion.

:Cynara: he said in his mind, since she was still out by the fields, taking the opportunity to dine on sweet grass and be adored by a gaggle of children. :Their Companion must know where they are:

Her reply was somewhat delayed and redolent of grass. :He says they’re not choosing to enlighten him. He also says they’re not together.:

:How can he not—: Egil broke off. Companions had a notorious habit of not telling their Chosen everything they knew. It could drive a Herald mad.

Egil did not intend to lose his sanity. Nor was he about to lose these two children—not, at least, until he knew why one Companion had Chosen them both.

“Bronwen,” he said in the middle of the milling and expostulating that had taken over this part of the town. He spoke softly, but his Herald-intern heard him. “They won’t have gone far. Enlist some of the locals and go after Nerys. I’ll find Kelyn.”

Time was when Bronwen would have argued simply for the sake of arguing. In this long, warm summer afternoon, she nodded and set about doing the sensible thing.

Mind you, Egil thought, if she decided my orders weren’t sensible, she’d perfectly well disobey them.

:We are surrounded by obstreperous youth,: Cynara said.

It was all Egil could do not to break out in painful laughter. As it was, one or two townspeople looked at him oddly.

He pressed them into service. “Tell me where Kelyn would most likely go.”

There were many opinions as to that, but Kelyn’s mother glared them all down. “There is one place where she goes when she needs to think. She doesn’t know anyone knows about it.”

“I won’t betray your secret,” Egil assured her.

The woman nodded brusquely, called over one of the boys who had been hanging about, staring at the Herald’s Whites, and said, “Take him to the Wizard’s Wood, to the stone circle.”

“Maybe it would be best if you simply told me where to go,” Egil said, “since she’s likely to run if she sees anyone she knows.”

“She might,” her mother conceded. “Well enough, then. Galtier will take you to the edge of the Wood. Stay on the track and don’t let yourself be tempted to wander off it. It will lead you to the circle.”

“That’s clear enough,” Egil said, “and I thank you.” He added a brief bow, because she was worthy of respect.

That flustered her into a scowl. “Go on,” she said. “Before she gets all her thinking done and runs off the Powers know where.”

Escape was almost too easy. Kelyn kept looking for pursuit, but she had made it as far as the Wizard’s Wood without anyone seeing her. They were all off gawping at the Heralds—for there were two of them; Coryn made sure she knew.

Two Heralds, two Companions. Kelyn hoped he felt the full force of her bitterness over that.

It seemed to trouble him not at all. She shut him out once more, diving into the solitude of her own mind.

That was not the most pleasant place to be. Such plan as she had was to ride her pony through the Wood, then keep on riding as far and fast as she could, until Coryn was no more than a memory.

A large part of her would rather stay and fight for him. But Kelyn had been raised to be practical. It simply did not make sense for a Companion to Choose two Heralds-to-be.

She should be that one. Not Nerys. By the Powers, never Nerys.

And yet as she endured the days of waiting for the Herald to come, Kelyn had seen and felt what this unprecedented Choosing was doing to Emmerdale. All her life she had done her best to outrun and outride and outsmart her rival. This was the greatest contest of all—and she was running away from it.

She hated Nerys, but she loved Emmerdale more. At last, after so many years, people were choosing between them. Lines were being drawn. Emmerdale was splitting down the middle, half of its people convinced that Nerys should be the Chosen, and half contending that Kelyn deserved it more.

Kelyn had never wanted that. Watching it happen tore at her heart.

Coryn was a dream. Emmerdale was real. Whatever grief or pain it cost to her to rip herself away from the Companion, the thought of Emmerdale splitting apart over it was worse.

It was the hardest thing she had ever done, and the most necessary. She kicked her pony into a canter down the familiar track, in the whisper of pine boughs and the dusk-and-dazzle light of the Wood.

Nerys had no time for anything but to throw a bridle on her pony and turn his head toward the mountain. The pony had been pent up for days; he was more than glad to burst out of the gate at a flat run.

Nerys was not running away exactly. She needed to think. There was no chance of doing it in town, with everyone in such an uproar and not just one but two Heralds come to muddle what little sense anyone had left.

The last people she ever wanted to see were Heralds who were truly Chosen, who had not been mocked with a false and bitter Choosing.

:It’s not false,: Coryn said.

She refused to hear him. He might be lurking in the hidden corners of her heart, but she did not want him there or anywhere. If a Companion wanted her, let him choose her—not force her to share with her worst enemy.

She more than half expected him to take issue with that, but he seemed to have gone. She refused to be disappointed, let alone sad. Good, she thought. Good riddance.

The track up to the high pasture seemed unusually long and arduous today. Nerys realized as she rode that she never had given Willa her mother’s message when she was there last. Coryn’s appearance had driven it straight out of her head.

That gave her an excuse. “At least I’ll get some use out of the whole sorry mess,” she said. Her pony slanted an ear at her, bunched his hindquarters and sprang up the last and steepest part of the trail.

He paused on the pasture’s edge, blowing hard. Nerys was breathing a little fast herself. She slid off his sweaty back and led him the rest of the way, taking her time, until his breathing slowed and his body cooled.

She took her time rubbing him down, too, then washed him off and rubbed him again until he was respectably cool. By that time Willa should have come out of the hut, or else come toward her from the edge of the pasture where the sheep were grazing.

But there was no sign of the shepherd. That might not have meant anything—Willa did like to wander on occasion—but she had been gone half a tenday ago, too, and it felt odd.

The hut was cold inside, with an air about its emptiness that said it had been abandoned for days. The hearth was swept clean, and Willa’s few belongings were neatly stowed, except for a half-filled water jar on the table and the last quarter of a loaf of bread gone rock-hard and stale beside it.

Willa never wasted food. If she had left the bread there, she had meant to eat it while it was fresh.

Nerys started off running toward the sheep, but she remembered just in time that neither the sheep nor their guardian dogs would respond well to human panic. She made herself take a deep breath, relax her body as much as she could, and walk slowly and easily toward the cluster of woolly white bodies.

They were all well, and all accounted for as far as Nerys could tell. The dogs did their own hunting; they could survive a whole season on their own if they had to.

But Willa was gone. Nerys told herself it had to be nothing, the shepherd was out hunting or visiting her daughter over the mountain. Except she would never leave the sheep for more than a day, and she would have taken the bread with her to eat.

Nerys knew a little bit about tracking, much of which she had learned from Willa. It was not much good on grass and after half a tenday.

She did not want to think about what that meant. If Willa had had a fall or been attacked or taken ill, she would have been alone and abandoned for days. It was all too likely she had not survived it.

“No,” Nerys said. “I’m not going to think like that. She’s somewhere she can’t get out of, but she’s alive. I’ll find her. I’ll bring her back.”

The sheep ignored her. One of the dogs pricked its ears at the sound of her voice, but she was neither a sheep nor a predator. She did not matter in its world.

She stood still, taking long, calming breaths. Willa could be anywhere on the mountain. But there were hunting runs she favored, and Nerys knew the way to Willa’s daughter’s village; she had gone there with the shepherd more than once.

That might be the easy and therefore the wrong way, but it was a start. If something had happened, with luck Willa’s daughter had been expecting her mother, and when she did not appear, had gone searching herself—and Willa was safe in Highrock, maybe with an ague, or a sprain, or at worst a broken leg.

Nerys paused to fill a waterskin and carve off a wedge of strong sheep’s cheese from the wheel that hung in the hut. She found a net bag of fruit, too, that were soft but still good.

With water and provisions and a firm refusal to panic, Nerys set out on the path to the village. She left her pony behind. He was tired, and the path was narrow and steep. She could search it better and faster on foot.

Under the best conditions, it took most of a morning to climb and scramble and occasionally stroll to Highrock. Usually Willa stayed the day and the night and came back the next morning, though when Nerys had been with her, she had gone both ways in a day.

Nerys concentrated on finding the path and then keeping her feet on it. With no little guilt, she realized she was glad to do this. It was a distraction. It kept her from having to think about what waited for her in Emmerdale.

Maybe she should spend the rest of her life hunting down the missing. The world must be full of them. It was like being a Herald, in a way.

She could still be a Herald. Somehow. If she wanted.

“I don’t want it,” she said.

She had come to the summit of the first of three ridges. The track was narrow here and slippery with gravel and scree. A little ahead, the cliff dropped away sheer, plunging down to a narrow valley and a ribbon of river.

There was no sign of Willa here—not on the track and not broken on the rocks below. Nerys did not know whether to be relieved. The rest of the way was less perilous, but it was steep and stony, and parts of it tended to wash away in storms.

A little way past the cliff, Nerys paused to rest and breathe and sip from the waterskin. The leathery taste of the water made her think of other times she had traveled this way; somehow, without quite understanding why, she felt tears running down her cheeks.

Willa would say she had filled her cup of troubles, and now it was running over. If she closed her eyes, she could hear the warm rough voice and feel the shepherd’s presence close by her, just a little warmer on her skin than the sun.

Nerys had always been able to feel things and people when they were nearby or when they were thinking about her. She had never thought of it as magic, especially since Kelyn had it, too. It was just a thing they could do.

Up on top of the world she knew, all torn with confusion over Coryn and Kelyn and Willa’s disappearance, Nerys felt as if she had walked right out of her skin. She knew where Willa was. She could feel it, smell it, taste it. It was stone and running water and the whisper of wind in leaves.

There was nowhere like that on this track, and yet it felt as close as the next turn. When Nerys tried to focus on it, the thought that came to her was like a fold in fabric, but the fabric was the world.

Maybe the Mage Storms had touched her part of the world after all. If they had, and if Willa had fallen into the strangeness that they left, Nerys was no mage. She knew nothing of magic.

She would panic when she knew for certain. She needed her eyes for the path, but she focused her mind as much as she could, following the sense and the memory of Willa.

It could be a trap. Her gut insisted it was not. It was hard to travel in two worlds, to keep from tripping and falling on her face, even while she held fast to the thread of sensation that was all she had to guide her.

Another presence slid beneath her, lifted her up and held her steady. It was Coryn, and he neither asked nor expected permission.

The simple arrogance of it made her breath catch. But she was not a complete idiot—she needed all the help she could get.

Then something else came into focus in and through him, something clear and bright and clean that sharpened all her senses and made her immeasurably stronger. It was as if she had lived in a fog all her life and now, suddenly, she could see the sun.

She could not afford to go all giddy—or to realize what and who must be doing this. Willa was trapped in a slant of sunlight, in a bend of the path that did not exist in the world she had thought she knew. The key was in Nerys’ hand and heart, but the way was only open while the sun was in the sky.

Among these tumbled ridges and sudden cliffs, night came fast and early. It had been after noon when Nerys left the pasture; the sun had sunk visibly since. She had to hurry, which on that track was no easy thing.

She found the place where the trap had closed. It looked like nothing: a sharp bend among many on the steep path and a sudden drop where the track had washed away. A trickle of water seemed to run there, out of nowhere and into nowhere. The sun sparkled on it.

:Steady,: Coryn said, with that echo behind him. :Hold fast to me. Don’t let go.:

She knew he was not physically there, but he was present in every way that mattered. The other beyond him made a chain, and that chain bound her to the world.

She stepped through the sun’s door into madness.

Egil’s guide left him as instructed, with a clear track ahead of him and Alis’ admonitions still ringing in his ears. A small needling voice kept insisting that he had followed the wrong one, but Bronwen was well capable of handling whatever she found in the sheep pasture. Egil needed to be here.

The path was well traveled. Egil occupied himself and entertained Cynara by inviting her to dance down it. She did love the dance of horse and rider, and under the trees, in and out of sun and dappled shade, it was a wonderfully pleasant way to spend an afternoon.

It cleared his head splendidly. When the sunlight spread wide over the hill with its crown of stones, he was calm and focused and ready for whatever he might find.

It seemed at first to be nothing remarkable. A slim, dark-haired girl sat on a white pony inside the circle. The pony grazed peacefully. The girl’s eyes were closed, and her face was turned to the sky.

She looked like her mother. Even at rest she had a hint of Alis’ fierce edge.

As Cynara halted in front of the pony, Kelyn’s eyes snapped open. Her Companion—for he was that, Egil could not mistake it—stepped delicately past Egil and presented himself for mounting.

“No,” she said. “I don’t want you.”

He tossed his splendid white head and stamped. Kelyn’s face set in adamant refusal.

The pony bucked her off. On that thick turf, the damage must have been more to her pride than her backside. She stared up at the traitor in utter disbelief.

“They always side with Companions,” Egil said in wry sympathy. “Get up now and do as he tells you.”

“Do you know what he’s asking?” she demanded.

“Not specifically,” he said. “Will you enlighten me?”

“Ask her,” the girl snapped, jutting her chin at Cynara.

Egil had to admit that her complete lack of awe was refreshing. It was also not unheard of in the newly Chosen. In those first heady days, it was hard to see or hear or think about anyone but the magical white being who had come only and purely for them.

In this case, of course, that was not true. Egil did not need to ask Cynara; it was in every line of the girl’s body. “Nerys is in trouble. He wants you to help.”

“Worse,” said Kelyn. She looked ready to spit. “He wants me to stop hating her and start facing the reason why.”

“Because you’re exactly alike,” Egil said. “Everything you hate in her is everything you hate in yourself. Everything you love about yourself—in someone else, it grates horribly. That makes you wonder, and then it makes you twitch. It’s enough to drive a person out of her mind. Is that where she is? Gone mad?”

“Not yet,” she said. “He says there’s a rift in the fabric of the world, another of those plague-begotten Storm remnants, and she’s gone through it to save a life. Or maybe a mind. He’s not exactly clear.”

Egil’s lightness of mood, such as it was, evaporated. He held on to his calm, because he was going to need it. “Ah,” he said. “I see.” He bent his gaze on the girl’s Companion.

:Coryn,: Cynara said.

“Coryn,” said Egil with an inclination of the head, which the Companion returned. “If you will, take us to her.”

“No time,” said Kelyn. “It’s leagues away and the sun is going down. The sun keeps it open. Once it’s gone . . .”

Egil eyed her narrowly. “Cynara,” he said aloud with the courtesy of Heralds, “is that true?”

:It is true,: Cynara said.

Egil nodded, oblivious to Kelyn’s glare. “I did wonder. If my worst enemy were about to wink into nothingness, I might not be terribly inclined to do something about it.”

“She is not my enemy!” Kelyn burst out. “I just can’t stand her. I don’t want her dead, either.” She turned on Coryn. “I get your point—all of you. I’ll help get her out of there. But I’m not your Chosen. I won’t be anybody’s second best.”

:She is not,: Cynara said. From Kelyn’s expression, Coryn had said the same.

Kelyn did not look ready to believe it. But she pulled herself from her pony’s back to Coryn’s, and for all her resistance, she could not keep herself from running her hand down his neck.

She drew herself up with a visible effort. “He needs you to help,” she said to Egil. “She’s on the other side of the—wall, I think he means. Rift. Something. He can guide her out, but he wants to open the rift here in order to do it. It’s a stronger place, he says, and safer to stand on. With you and the other Herald and your Companions, he thinks he’ll almost have enough strength.”

Egil opened his mouth to point out that Bronwen and Rohanan had gone the other way, but before he could speak, they cantered into the circle. Bronwen looked ruffled and out of sorts, the way she always did after she had lost an argument. “Rohanan says we need to be here,” she said.

“You do,” said Egil. “He’s told you what happened?”

She nodded. “Are we doing another dance?”

They had helped a quadrille of riders to close a much larger rift, not so long ago, by performing a spell that was framed in the movements of the equestrian art. But this was different. “We’ll follow his lead,” Egil said, tilting his head toward Coryn.

Bronwen sighed faintly, as if she would have preferred the quadrille. Egil most certainly would. Her Companion came to stand on the other side of Coryn, gently nudging the pony out of the way.

Coryn raised his head. On his back, Kelyn had closed her eyes again. She held out her hands.

Bronwen took one. Egil took the other. It was thin but strong, and it trembled slightly.

The child was either furious or terrified. Egil would have wagered on both. “We’re ready,” he said.

:They’re ready,: said Coryn in the midst of howling nothingness.

The only solid thing in all that incomprehensible place was an honest miracle. Nerys had fallen on top of a warm and yielding object that protested in Willa’s voice.

The shepherd was alive, apparently sane, and profanely glad to be found. Nerys wrapped her arms around the tall and substantial body. Willa stiffened, then closed the embrace.

If Nerys closed her eyes, she could almost stand to be here. The screaming that was not wind and not voices— at least, not human or animal or anything of earth—still battered at her, but she could focus on the soft voice in her mind and almost, after a fashion, shut out the ungodly clamor.

Coryn’s voice led to something else. It was like an image in a mirror, or another part of herself.

She and Kelyn were cousins. People said they could be sisters—twins, even, what with having been born on the same day.

What if they were more than that?

They could not be the same person. That was impossible. If each had half a soul, she certainly did not feel the lack. Maybe it was that they were meant to be something new, something larger than either of them: something that fit perfectly through a Companion.

Washed in the white light that was Coryn, Kelyn did not grate on her nearly as badly. He softened the raw edges. He muted the dissonance that had always clanged between them.

The fragment of it that was left gave her a foothold in this hideous not-place. The stabbing of irritation helped her focus. Coryn’s presence was a light and a guide. Through it she saw the world she belonged in, and the person she belonged with—kicking, screaming, protesting, but in the end, neither of them could escape it.

There was a wrenching, a tearing, a rending of mind and soul and substance, all the way down to the core of her. She had never felt such pain—nor had the Companion, nor Kelyn whose will and strength were all that kept Nerys’ mind and body from shattering.

The nothingness tore asunder. Nerys fell forever, down and down into endless light.

The rays of the setting sun slanted through the standing stones. Out of one fell a large and amorphous shape that resolved into a slim girl with a glossy black braid and a broad-shouldered, massive woman who levered herself to her feet, looked about her, and said, “Thank the Powers. I was afraid we’d end up in a sorcerer’s lair.”

“Would I lead you that far astray?” Nerys demanded, but there was no mistaking the affection in her tone. She faced the Heralds and the Companions, and last but never least, her rival. “Thank you,” she said, “for both of us.”

Egil moved to respond, but Kelyn was already speaking. “You’re welcome,” she said stiffly. “You’re not hurt? Either of you?”

“We’re well, now we’re out of that place,” Nerys said. She shuddered. “What was it?”

:Gone,: Coryn answered.

“You really do think like a horse,” said Kelyn.

“He does,” Nerys agreed.

That felt strange. Kelyn was not sure she liked it. “Listen,” she said. “I’ve made up my mind. You can have him. Go. Be a Herald. I don’t need the glory, and my family needs me here.”

“And mine doesn’t?” said Nerys. “Go ahead, keep him. You know that’s all you’ve ever wanted.”

“What we think we want isn’t always what we ought to get,” Kelyn said. She had always thought her mother was a sour and cynical woman for saying so, but in that moment, in that place, she understood perfectly.

She slid down off Coryn’s back, though it was brutally hard, even harder than closing a rift in the fabric of the world. “Goodbye,” she said. “I don’t know why you did this, but we’re done now. It’s one Chosen to one Companion. We all know that.”

:Not here,: Coryn said.

“Think!” said Nerys. “What will we do? Ride double? We’ll kill each other. Take turns on patrol? What’s the point in that? Just Choose one of us and be done with it. I won’t die if it’s not me. I might want to, but I won’t.”

:No,: Coryn said.

“Why?” Kelyn demanded. “Why are you so stubborn?”

:Why do you hate her so much?:

“I just do,” Kelyn said.

That was not exactly true. It used to be, but now, instead of the itching and crawling that had always beset her when she was near Nerys, she felt nothing. She looked at her old enemy and through habit wanted to hate her, but it was as if the rift had swallowed up all the hate.

“No,” said Nerys, following her thoughts through Coryn—arguing as always; that was still the same. “It’s him,: Coryn. He’s doing it.”

“I still don’t like you,” Kelyn said. “But I can stand to look at you.”

“Heralds don’t have to like each other,” Herald Bronwen said. Her eyes were on Egil; their expression made perfect sense to Kelyn. “They just have to be able to work together.”

“With the same Companion?” asked Kelyn. “How are we supposed to do that?”

It was Nerys who answered. “I don’t know, but I think we’re supposed to try.”

“I think so, too,” Egil said. “Look at what you did, the three of you. You saved a life and disposed of a powerful threat. That’s what Heralds do. You did it as it’s never been done before: two together with the Companion between. It wouldn’t have been possible if there had been just one of you.”

He was right. Kelyn had to admit it. “It’s allowed, then? If we can stand it?”

“I’m not riding double,” Nerys said. “I’d rather walk.”

“We can take turns,” said Kelyn, “and take our ponies for the rest of the time. At least I will. I’m not leaving Brighteyes behind.”

“You think I’d abandon Cloud?”

“No,” Kelyn said. “I don’t think you would.”

“It’s settled, then,” said Egil. He shook his head. “Gods and Powers help us all.”

:That they will,: said Coryn.

The other Companions nodded, dipping their beautiful white heads. It was a blessing and a promise—with a spark of mirth. Whatever the humans might think of it all, the Companions were inordinately pleased with it.

Kelyn would not go that far. Her heart was beating hard, and she was dizzy, caught between joy and terror. But mostly what she felt, in spite of everything, was joy.

Be Careful What You Wish For

by Nancy Asire

Nancy Asire is the author of four novels,

Twilight’s Kingdoms, Tears of Time, To Fall Like Stars,

and

Wizard Spawn. Wizard Spawn

was edited by C.J. Cherryh and became part of the

Sword of Knowledge

series. She has also written short stories for the series anthologies

Heroes in Hell

and

Merovingen Nights

; a short story for Mercedes Lackey’s

Flights of Fantasy

; as well as tales for the Valdemar anthologies

Sun in Glory

and

Crossroads

. She has lived in Africa and traveled the world, but she now resides in Missouri with her cats and two vintage Corvairs.

“They still followin’ us?”

Doron rose in his stirrups and looked. “Don’t see nobody,” he said, settling down into his saddle and letting his winded horse rest. “Maybe they gave up, Ferrin.”

Ferrin snorted. “Likely.”

He was a big man, was Ferrin. Tough as they come. As leader of this small band, he radiated authority . . . an authority accompanied by a big right fist if necessary.

Doron turned to the man at his left and grimaced. Jergen was pretty much the opposite in all ways from Ferrin. Slender, sandy hair always falling in his eyes, he never had much to say, but when he did, the rest of them tended to listen.

“Damn pack horses slow us down,” Jergen grumbled, letting their lead ropes go slack. “Only got two, and we’d be farther away if’n we didn’t have ’em.”

“Ain’t no cure for that.” Chardo, another big man, rode to Doron’s right.

Doron nodded. No cure for that, for sure. Behind them they’d left a merchant’s caravan in disarray, two of its guards dead or wounded enough they’d hardly pose a problem. The other three were the danger. The chase hadn’t lasted long, Vomehl’s skill with the bow keeping their pursuers at bay.

Maybe we bit us off a little bit more’n we could chew, Doron thought. Gerran lay dead behind them, taken in the neck by a lucky swordstroke. He offered a brief prayer to Vkandis Sunlord that Gerran might find a better life in the hereafter. So now they were only five: Ferrin, Jergen, Chardo, Vomehl, and himself. With the element of surprise on their side, it had seemed a fairly sure thing: five of the merchant’s guards and six of them. Didn’t turn out that way. Truth be told, the caravan guards were obviously better fighters.

And now that the Son of the Sun (a female Son of the Sun!) had repealed many of the laws that had governed Karse for generations and had reined in the worst of the offending priests, things were changing here on the border between Valdemar and Karse. They’d even heard rumors Solaris had hired mercenaries from the Guild to hunt down bandit bands, and had plans to arm villagers. If that was true, their future could turn out to be a very bleak one.

“So,” Chardo asked, “what d’we do next?”

Ferrin was silent. Doron watched his leader from the corners of his eyes. This raid hadn’t gone well, and Ferrin was smarting over it. The bandit chief shrugged.

“Guess we ain’t got no choice,” he responded, lifting his reins. “Make for yonder grove, and we can see what these packhorses carry.” He glanced at Doron. “Don’t think those caravan guards will keep after us now. Only three of ’em, and we outnumber ’em, and we know the land ’round here. They don’t.”

Doron relaxed somewhat. Now that Ferrin was making decisions again, things were righting themselves. The grove was a resting place for the band, somewhere they could make camp before returning to their stronghold in the hills. If fortune smiled, the contents of the packs they’d snatched from the caravan would prove enough to keep them in food, clothing and supplies for some time to come. Unless, of course, the rumors were true and the Guild came looking for them.

Tomar had been this way before, only going in the opposite direction.

Yet the land he rode through looked the same, smelled the same. Brought back memories in a rush. The setting sun seemed right to him; it had always seemed a bit out of place in Haven . . . too far to the south. It had taken some getting used to after he and his family had fled Karse years back for the safety of Valdemar. And all because of his “witch powers,” which would have doomed him to the Fires.

Yet his Gift was slight, and he knew it. A small power of Empathy, the ability to put folk at ease, to lower mental barriers and encourage them talk to him when otherwise they would have been reticent to say much of anything.

:A Gift nonetheless, Chosen,: Mindspoke Keesha. :One cannot change what one is born with. And your Gift has proven itself numerous times. Don’t sell yourself short.:

Tomar leaned forward and stroked his Companion’s neck, warmth filling him as always when sharing thoughts with her.

:I’m not dismissing it, Keesha. It’s just that—:

He let the thought die. Sometimes it was hard to watch those other Heralds who had Gifts far more powerful than his. Yet, he knew he would not have been Chosen unless he had something of value to offer the world. Companions did not make mistakes in their Choosing.

:And lest you think yourself all that unimportant,: Keesha continued, :a Herald who was born in Karse, who knows the land, the language and the customs, can be invaluable in the coming days.:

Truth. If what had recently happened in Karse with the election of a new Son of the Sun, whose very existence as a woman ruler was earthshaking, and if the potential alliance between Valdemar and Karse solidified, there would be need of Heralds who spoke fluent Karsite. Even more valuable, those who had been born in Karse.

Keesha snorted softly, not needing Mindspeech to tell him he was thinking straight.

:Well, I suppose you’re right, as usual,: Tomar admitted. He glanced to the west, at the sun sinking closer to the horizon. :We’re going to have to find a place to camp for the night. If I remember, there’s a sheltered grove with a clearing in it not all that far ahead. Has a stream for water, and the trees offer some protection. Let’s make for it, Keesha, and let tomorrow take care of itself.:

Once they’d reached the grove, Doron and Jergen had hobbled the horses and now stood watching Ferrin sift through the packs they’d stolen from the merchant’s caravan. Doron hunched his shoulders, feeling unease in the group rising. What they’d hoped would be goods they could barter in return for food and clothing turned out to be books. Books! As if any one in this area of Karse cared for books, even if they could read. He could read and cipher some; his parents had sent him to what passed for a village school in these parts. Not that he was all that interested in sitting down and plowing his way through a thicket of words or numbers. His parents had held lofty expectations for their only son: perhaps he could become a scribe who traveled from village to village, writing down various agreements between villagers, to be sanctioned later by local priests.

So much for that wish. His parents had died of a winter flux, and he, at the awkward age of twelve, became an orphan. All that schooling and he didn’t know a damned thing about farming. His aunt and uncle had taken over the little farm with the intent of keeping it in the family. Their attitude toward Doron had been much the same as if they’d been caught out in a violent storm with no cover handy. For several years, they’d tried their best to make a go of it but, having little experience farming, they’d finally sold the land to a neighbor. Now sixteen and finding himself cast adrift, he’d tried to live on what little money his aunt and uncle had granted him from the sale. He’d done odd jobs here and there, but when his money ran out and no one seemed likely to hire him, he’d joined Ferrin’s band of outlaws, choosing that life over starving to death.

They had become his family. Been so for nigh on five years.

Books.

“Damn it to all the hells!” Ferrin exploded. “Who be interested in books?”

“We could always use ’em for fuel,” Chardo ventured. “Burn right nice, I think.”

Ferrin growled something. “Won’t get us no food, Chardo, or d’you think you can eat words?”

Chardo subsided. Doron shifted uneasily as Ferrin opened the packs from the second horse.

“Well, now. What we got here?” Ferrin lifted something and held it up for inspection. His big hands tore open the bindings. “By all the demons below!” he bellowed. “Paper! Books and paper!”

Doron cringed. And for this Gerran lay dead behind them?

“Could be worse,” Jergen said, “village priests always need paper. They might even find somethin’ to use in them books there.”

Ferrin angrily jammed the paper in the pack. “You best hope that be so,” he snapped, “or we may go hungry real soon!”

“Least we got waybread to eat tonight,” Chardo said.

“Gettin’ sick of that stuff myself,” Doron offered in a conversational tone. “Glad we got some supplies waitin’ for us when we get home.”

Ferrin muttered something vile under his breath. At least he hadn’t lashed out at Doron’s comment. It was just bad luck. Real bad luck. How was anyone to guess the merchant would be carrying items that weren’t in demand out here on the border? Nothing anyone could do about bad luck.

“Wish things been different,” Chardo said. “Wish we could’ve got somethin’ worth while.”

Sudden noise made them all turn. They’d left Vomehl at the edge of the grove, bow in hand, to serve as sentry in case the caravan guards had followed. Or, Vkandis forbid, some of the Guild had turned up. Vomehl rode into the clearing by the stream, his face hard to read in the dusk.

“Someone comin’,” he said, tethering his horse to a tree. “Seen ’im a ways off.”

Doron stiffened, his hand automatically going to his sword.

“Recognize ’im?” Ferrin asked.

“No. Light not the best, but I could see enough. White horse and white rider.”

A chill ran down Doron’s spine. White horse? White rider? That could only be a Herald. A Herald from Valdemar! What in Vkandis’ name was a Herald doing out in this part of the borderlands?

“A demon-rider on a hell-horse?” Chardo shuddered in an automatic response to fear. “You sure?”

“Trust my own eyes,” Vomehl said. “Be headed our way.”

Ferrin straightened, a look of anticipation crossing his face. “Our luck’s turned. Comin’ in from behind you?”

Vomehl nodded.

“Then we be less’n charitable not to welcome ’im to our fire,” Ferrin said with a nasty grin. “Doron, you and Jergen hide left of the trail. Chardo, me and you wait to the right. Vomehl, you and that bow of yours make this demon-rider and his hell-horse wish they’d never come this way. Now, move!”

Tomar rode toward the grove, deep in thought. Though fairly new to his Whites, he had asked for, and been granted, leave of absence to seek out kin in Karse. As far as he knew, he still had aunts, uncles, and cousins living near the edge of the border between Valdemar and Karse, and for years he had wanted to seek them out. Tomar always wondered what had happened to the relatives they had left behind when he and his family fled.

His father, mother, and sister had settled into a fairly normal existence in Valdemar, made all the more secure because of Tomar’s Gift. Now, after attaining a position none of them had ever dreamed of, his heart had turned to the rest of his family. With the possible normalization between Karse and Valdemar, it seemed a good time to make the journey.

:You don’t think this is a stupid idea, do you, Keesha?: he asked.

:Why should I think that, Chosen? Family is always important. And this gives you a chance to see your home-land again.:

Tomar smiled. He looked ahead at the large stand of trees, just about where he remembered it from his earlier days in Karse. The light was fading fast, and the sooner he and Keesha found a place to camp, the better he would feel. He had seen no one on his journey through the borderlands thus far, only a remote farm or two. Aside from that, he imagined they would encounter few people. He still felt it a bit risky to be riding as a Herald into a country that had been an enemy for so long, despite all the reforms of the Son of the Sun.

And yet, given the choice of venturing into his native land disguised and riding a horse of no distinction, he had been unwilling to leave Keesha behind. Oh, Keesha could ghost after him, but the physical closeness of Companion and rider was one thing Tomar did not want to lose.

:Nor do I,: Keesha said. :It would have been lonely without you on my back.:

The warmth of their bond filled Tomar’s heart with joy. How could anyone be more fortunate than to have been Chosen by such a being as Keesha? Wise—so very, very wise—elder partner in all he did, she filled an inner space he had not realized lay empty.

Reaching the edge of the trees, he rode a bit to his left, then cautiously urged Keesha forward down the trail he found. The light was getting chancy enough that he did not want to risk a fall on uneven ground. It grew darker under the trees, and he radiated his concern to his Companion.

:Do you think—:

:Chosen!: Keesha’s Mindspeech was suddenly urgent. :Horses ahead. We need to get out of this place. This could be very bad for us!:

Tomar came alert in an instant. He reined Keesha around. :Where?:

Keesha screamed.

It was a scream of both a horse and the mental cry of a Companion. Tomar grabbed for the saddle as Keesha reared. A heavy weight tore him from her back. He landed hard on the ground, partially smothered by two large men who pinned him down. His last view of Keesha was of his Companion racing off toward the edge of the grove. He heard the thrum of an arrow being released as a searing blow of pain ripped across his consciousness.

Blackness filled his mind.

Doron stared at the bound Herald who lay unconscious by the fire. Vomehl had returned, his head hanging and a sour look on his face. He’d loosed several arrows, but he knew he’d hit the hell-horse only once.

Hell-horse. Doron grimaced. The Son of the Sun had said there were no hell-horses, no demon-riders. Most everyone in Karse would be slow to change long-standing beliefs about the Heralds of Valdemar and their unnatural mounts. But change they must, because it was the will of Vkandis, spoken through the Son of the Sun.

Ferrin sat next to the Herald, a calculating expression in his dark eyes. Chardo and Jergen had passed out waybread, and everyone had settled down to eat. Doron kept glancing at the Herald. There was something familiar about the man, but Doron couldn’t place it. Chewing the last bit of waybread, he washed it down with a cup of water from the stream. Damn! What was it? Why was this Herald so familiar?

“What you goin’ t’do with ‘im?” Vomehl asked.

“What d’you think?” Ferrin answered. “Ransom ’im. ’Magine his folk will pay a pretty price to get ’im back again.”

Doron wiped his nose to keep his expression hidden. Oh, yes. A pretty price. And just who could they find who’d negotiate that?

The Herald groaned slightly and stirred as best he could, bound as he was with stout ropes. Ferrin leaned over, grasped the man by his hair, and lifted his face to the firelight.

“What you be doin’ here?” he demanded.

“Think he understands you?” asked Jergen.

“Don’t know,” Ferrin growled, throwing an icy look in Jergen’s direction. “Maybe.”

“And maybe not.”

Ferrin hissed something under his breath and let the Herald’s head fall back. But in that short time, Doron suddenly realized why the Herald seemed so familiar. It was his face, the set of his eyes, his chin, his cheek bones. Take away the passage of time that changed the features of anyone who survived childhood and what was left? He could swear he’d seen this man before, years back, when both of them were young.

When he’d escaped the Fires himself because his own witch-powers hadn’t grown strong enough for the priests to notice.

The small birthmark over the Herald’s right eye convinced him.

Vkandis protect! This man was his cousin!

Tomar opened his eyes and winced in pain from the blow to the back of his head. Firelight flickered across the features of those who had ambushed him. Sitting directly next to him was a big man whose face was unforgiving as a slab of rock. The other men were of all sorts: tall, short, light-haired and dark. One and all, they went clad in rough-spun clothes, their boots scuffed and worn, but their weapons were clean and appeared well cared for.

He closed his eyes again, tried to ignore his headache and the anxiety twisting his heart.

:Keesha! You’re hurt! Did they—:

The response he received from his Companion melted the ice in his soul.

:I’ll be fine, Chosen. I’m in a little pain, but all right. The arrow grazed the top of my neck. I was very lucky that the archer’s aim was a little off. And you?:

:Bound. Head hurts. There are five of them, but you know that. Bandits, I suppose. Where are you?:

Wry amusement filled Keesha’s reply. :Close. Sneaking around in the trees. Unfortunately, there are too many of them for me to be of much help getting you out of there. The man who wounded me is no mean shot. We’ll have to think of something else.:

The big man sitting next to Tomar said something in Karsite.

:Don’t let them know you speak the language,: Keesha said. :Play ignorant. That could aid us in the long run.:

Tomar nodded inwardly. Easy enough. Maybe, just maybe, he could change their attitude toward one they had always considered an enemy. Perhaps they had yet to hear the words of the Son of the Sun that Heralds were not demons. Or they had, and their ingrained superstitions still held them fast. Yet he might be able to use his Gift to ease them from their hatred and fear, to make them comfortable in his presence.

:I’m going to try it, Keesha. I’m going to project what Gift I have. It could turn things around enough for them to let me go.:

:I’ll be watching, Dear Heart. And I’ll never be far away. That’s not a bad idea. I wish you luck with it.:

Ferrin gave up trying to get a response from the Herald. Doron frowned. Ferrin’s reaction wasn’t what he was used to seeing. In the past, he would have tried to beat his victim into talking, sometimes merely to take out his frustrations. But Ferrin only sat staring at the Herald, a somewhat puzzled expression on his face.

“Now what we goin’ to do?” asked Jergen. “He don’t speak our language.”

“I’ll think of somethin’,” Ferrin said.

Doron sat frozen, shaken by the knowledge his cousin lay tightly bound by the campfire. When he’d seen the birthmark, that was all he needed to be convinced the Herald was Tomar. It had been a sad day for Doron when he’d learned Tomar and his family had fled Karse all those years ago. Not that they were all that close, though they had become friends. Farms hereabouts lay far enough apart that folk seldom got together unless it was to help each other during harvest. But those days still remained fresh in his memory. He and Tomar had played together, had wound up in the trouble young boys could so easily find. When Tomar began to exhibit his witch-powers, Doron had first reacted in fear. He wasn’t afraid of Tomar—well, not exactly. No, he was more fearful Tomar would be given up to the Fires if any priest recognized what he might become.

And now Doron faced a terrible conflict. He couldn’t let his long-lost cousin be harmed, yet his loyalty to his companions was all he had left in the world. They were what passed for family, had been for years.

An odd feeling of ease stole through his mind. He glanced at Jergen and Chardo and saw they’d relaxed some, weren’t as edgy as before. Even Vomehl had set his bow aside, no longer keeping it trained on the Herald. Doron’s own inner power reacted to something he couldn’t place a name to. He felt certain, however, Tomar was its source.

“You said our luck’s changed,” Vomehl said. “How be that, Ferrin? We got ourselves a demon-rider with nowhere to take ’im.”

“I said I’d think of somethin’,” Ferrin said, rubbing his stubbled chin.

“Who we goin’ to take ’im to?” Chardo asked.

“Maybe one of the priests could arrange for ransom,” Jergen suggested.

“Don’t think so, Jergen,” Vomehl said. “Likely his fellow demon-riders will come lookin’ for ’im, and then where will we be?”

“I said I’d think of somethin’,” Ferrin repeated.

Doron blinked in amazement. Not even a moon-turn before, Ferrin would have backhanded the man foolish enough to question him. Now, all Ferrin could say was he’d think of something.

“It been your idea,” Chardo complained. “We could’ve just brought ’im down and left. He wouldn’t have knowed what hit ’im.”

“My idea?” Now some heat entered Ferrin’s voice. “Damned right, Chardo. Ain’t none of the rest of you had any bright ideas lately.”

Doron shook his head. No group of men living close as they did could go day after day, week after week, without some minor quarrels. But this reminded him of times when he’d seen strong drink lower inhibitions, when men would say things they’d normally keep locked behind their teeth.

“Our luck’s turned, you said.” Vomehl stared into the fire. “So what we got ourselves now? Got us a demon-rider and nowhere to take ’im. Since you be the one with all the ideas, Ferrin, come up with one for this situation.”

Doron cleared his throat. “Calm down, everyone. We ain’t got no choice. We got ’im, and we got to figure out what to do with ’im. Vomehl, you think maybe you killed the Herald’s horse?”

“No, dammit. And I be a better shot than that! Cursed hell-horse must’ve dodged at the last moment.”

Doron tried to sound utterly reasonable. “Then how ’bout we leave ’im bound here and ride out at first light.”

“Why d’you say that?” Ferrin demanded, growing more belligerent than ever.

“Because,” Doron said, keeping his voice level, “if his horse ran off, hard tellin’ where it went to. Perhaps to get help. You want to face down a group of angry Heralds?”

“Doron’s right.” Jergen sat up straighter. “Been a mistake to capture ’im to begin with.”

“Whole damned bunch of you gettin’ weak-willed,” Ferrin snapped. “We got ’im and I’m goin’ to make somethin’ of it. We got nothin’ but books and paper, and it ain’t sure we can barter that. Least we can try to get a ransom out of ’im!”

Doron looked away. So much for his attempt to help his cousin. Now Ferrin would be calling all the shots.

At least that was normal.

It was not easy, projecting his Gift while suffering from a splitting headache. What was nearly second nature now became an effort. Tomar tried to concentrate harder, but that only made his head hurt worse. However, from what he could tell, the bandits were responding, their mental defenses lowered enough for them to start arguing among themselves. He could only hope this was not normal behavior. If he could just keep trying, he might be able to convince them nothing would be served by keeping him captive.

He looked at each man in an attempt to see who his Gift had affected the most. Certainly not Ferrin, obviously chief of this band. The bowman who had wounded Keesha had grown peevish, as had the two men named Chardo and Jergen. Tomar thought he had the best chance of influencing the fifth man, who had suggested leaving him behind.

The fifth man. The one who seemed oddly familiar, but whose name was quite common in Karse.

He listened to the bandits snipe at each other, aware he had loosened control over their tongues. They probably never confronted their leader this way. Even outlaws needed discipline, especially when away from their stronghold.

:It’s hard, Keesha,: he Mindspoke, aware without looking that his Companion lurked unseen somewhere in the trees and brush. :My head feels like it’s splitting open.:

:I know, Chosen. I can feel it. Keep trying.:

:They’ll have to sleep sometime. Maybe then you—:

:I doubt it. They’ll take turns watching through the night. They’re away from their base, and they won’t rest easy until they get home.:

Tomar sighed. Even if all of them slept, Keesha would be hard pressed to take down the entire group. And he was bound tightly, of no help whatsoever. He glanced around the fire at the outlaws who still argued among themselves. The fifth man kept silent, eyes glinting in the firelight. Who was he? Nothing about him stood out to Tomar. He could have been any number of men from this area of Karse. But, aside from being familiar, it was as if he had power of his own, though it lay banked, hidden from all but the most intrusive probes.

:Keesha, I think I’ve got an idea. These outlaws possess a lot of buried animosity. Instead of making them trust me, as I’ve been able to do with people in the past, I’ve lessened their inhibitions to the stage they’re quarreling. What would happen if my Gift was stronger? If I could lay bare the injustices they feel, their anger at each other over slights in the past?:

:Then what, Chosen? You’re hoping they’d come to blows and possibly wound each other?:

:If I could do it, that’s a possibility. And if I succeeded, there might be fewer of them for you to immobilize.: He swallowed heavily. :But my Gift isn’t that strong, and I can’t stand to see you hurt again.:

:Then let’s try this,: Keesha responded. :I’ll add power to yours and, between us, we could be more than one alone.:

Tomar inwardly nodded in assent. He felt the touch of Keesha’s mind intensify on his own, added to the familiar warmth that came with the connection. And then, as if he had taken some stimulant, strength poured into him from Keesha, augmenting his Gift.

:Let’s see how they deal with this,: he said to Keesha. :It’s worth a try and it could work.:

Doron felt tension mounting again, only this time on the verge of explosion. His own thoughts clamored in a jumble. He remembered times when he’d been pushed aside, when his opinions had been overlooked. Just because he was the youngest didn’t mean he should be—

He shoved his anger aside. Not that what he remembered was untrue, but he’d always had better control over himself than this. He glanced at Tomar, at the odd expression on the Herald’s face. Maybe that came from the blow to his head, or something else entirely.

“And why’d you decide to attack that particular caravan?” Jergen asked, staring at Ferrin. “Five men guarded it. You be the one who always said we only go after forces much smaller’n us. Six ain’t all that much of an advantage.”

“Greedy,” Chardo muttered. “Always wantin’ more and more and more.”

Ferrin’s eyes nearly popped from his head. “Shut your mouth, you useless piece of—”

“Call me a useless piece—”

“Hey, Ferrin, ’member the time you left me behind in our last raid?” Vomehl’s chin jutted out. “Oh, you’ll be all right, you said. Got that damned bow of yours.”

“And what ’bout you, Chardo?” Jergen growled. “Always runnin’ your mouth. Nearly got us in trouble last village we stopped in.”

“Who elected you captain?” Chardo’s hand drifted to the hilt of his dagger. “You be more insultin’ than Ferrin betimes.”

“Insultin’?” Ferrin stood. “I’ll show you insultin’, Chardo.” He glared at the men around the fire. “Only reason I put up with you is we be stronger together than alone. I be better’n the whole lot of you. Smarter, faster, and—”

Chardo jumped to his feet. “Think you be so tough, Ferrin? I could take you down and not breathe hard after. You treat me like I be stupid or somethin’!”

“Stupid? You be more’n that! Twice stupid, most like!”

Doron buried his head in his hands. Everyone seemed to be losing control. He glanced up in time to see Ferrin and Chardo stalking each other, knees slightly bent, circling the fire. The dagger in Chardo’s hand glittered in the firelight.

Jergen turned to Vomehl. “And keep your hands off that bow. Don’t want to end up with an arrow in my gut.”

“S’pose I ain’t thought of that many a time?” Vomehl snapped. “You act like you be the only voice of reason in the whole wide world. Like none of us got sense the God gave a goat to figure things out.”

Doron felt sweat start on his forehead. A fight between Ferrin and Chardo could leave one of them wounded or dead. The anger he sensed between Jergen and Vomehl could also spark into violence in no time at all. He needed to do something, but he was afraid of what he could do. His witch-powers gave him a solution, but he was half afraid of using them.

Chardo struck out, nearly knifing Ferrin in the side. That settled it. Doron stood, backed off into the darkness, clamped his jaw tight, and concentrated.

The grove suddenly filled with the sound of neighing horses—many horses. Their own mounts snorted and shifted nervously. Vomehl and Jergen glanced around, their faces gone tight in fear. Distant shapes appeared off in the gloom, eyes gleaming in the darkness.

“Hell-horses!” Jergen shouted. “They be comin’ for us!”

Ferrin’s hand snaked out and grabbed Chardo’s knife hand. “Stop, you idiot! That damned horse gone and got himself friends!”

Jergen and Vomehl scrambled to their feet.

“I ain’t waitin’ around to find out!” Jergen yelled. “Stay here if’n you want!”

“Too many to shoot! Run for it!”

Chardo looked off into the night. “Oh, crap!” He sheathed his dagger and crashed off into the brush and trees, following Jergen and Vomehl.

For a long moment, Ferrin stood rooted by the fire. The sound of the approaching horses grew even louder. He aimed a kick at the bound Herald, missed, and sprinted off after Chardo.

Hidden in the brush, Doron sought to keep the illusion as real as he could possibly make it. When he could no longer hear his outlaw companions, he crept forward, circling around so he approached Tomar from behind. He drew his dagger and began sawing at the ropes binding Tomar fast.

“Your horse be waiting for you somewhere close,” he said. “You ain’t got much time. Now get out of here, Tomar. They’ll be back soon as I lower the illusion.”

The Herald’s eyes grew round as an owl’s.

“Go, dammit! I can’t keep this up forever!”

Tomar struggled to a kneeling position, sensation flooding back into his arms as the ropes fell away. The face of the man before him settled at last into recognizable features. He blinked in the firelight, not trusting what he was seeing.

“Doron?” he said, his voice cracking. “Cousin? Is that really you?”

“It be me.”

:Keesha!:

:I’m here, Chosen.:

Tomar glanced over his shoulder as his Companion edged into the clearing. Dried blood stained the utter whiteness of her neck, but aside from that she appeared untouched. He looked at Doron, who slowly backed away, unease in every move he made.

“Keesha won’t hurt you,” Tomar said. “In fact, she’s fallen in love with you.”

“What?”

“You saved me, and she thinks you’re wonderful.”

“I won’t be if’n you don’t get on that horse and leave! Ferrin and the rest of ’em won’t stay off in the woods ’til morning. And I can’t maintain my illusion forever.”

Sure enough, the sound of uncanny creatures shrilling their anger still filled the grove, only now seeming to follow the fleeing outlaws.

“But how did you escape the Fires?” Tomar asked, scrambling to his feet. He rubbed his stiff arms and ankles to get the circulation flowing again.

“Came late to my witch- powers. And managed to avoid the priests.”

Tomar threw both arms around Keesha’s neck in a brief hug, then gently traced the bloody track the arrow had left behind. “Come back to Valdemar with me, Doron. You’ll be safe there.”

Doron shook his head.

“Can’t.”

:Don’t force what cannot be,: Keesha said, her Mind-speech tinged with regret. :It’s his decision, Chosen. Maybe in the future . . . .:

Tomar retrieved his sword and dagger from where Ferrin had dropped them. He met and held Doron’s eyes.

“Aunt Chalva? Uncle Lomis? Where are they?”

His parents? Doron winced slightly. “Dead. Winter flux. Nearly died myself. Uncle Branno and Aunt Savia took me in. Tried to keep the farm goin’. Couldn’t, so they sold it. Left me with next to nothin’. Joined Ferrin and the rest when I was starvin’.” He spread his hands. “Don’t you see, Tomar? They be all I got. They be my family now. Can’t leave ’em.” He licked his lips. “Not yet, least wise.”

“But—”

“Tomar . . . please! Get out of here. I be losing my hold on the illusion. Can’t keep it going much longer!”

:He’s right,: Keesha interposed. :I’m amazed he can divide his attention like this, but his strength is weakening. You don’t want to throw away the help he’s given you, do you?:

A flood of sorrow washed over Tomar. He reached out and clasped hands with the cousin he had set off to visit in a world he had erected in his own mind, a world that could never be save in memory.

“All right. But remember this, Doron. There’s a place in Valdemar waiting for you. And for what you did . . . I can’t find enough words to thank you.” He set foot in stirrup and mounted Keesha. “If you ever tire of life as a bandit, come to Valdemar. When you get there, ask for me. They’ll find me, and I’ll do anything to get you settled in a new home.”

“Go, Tomar!”

“Promise me!” He watched Doron closely. “By the God!”

“By Vkandis Sunlord, I promise. Now get out of here!”

Tomar touched hand to forehead in a salute, reined Keesha around, and rode out of the grove. Looking back over his shoulder one last time, he saw his cousin standing by the fire, his own hand lifted in farewell.

Totally drained, Doron fell to his knees, his body feeling as though he’d been badly beaten, his mind stretched to a thinness he’d never experienced before. It had been a long time since he’d used his powers, and he was amazed he still knew how to cast and hold an illusion that strong.

The grove lay silent now. No neighing horses, no crashing in the brush and trees. Ferrin and the rest of the band would be returning before long. He stood, knees shaking, and slipped off into the darkness. Wouldn’t be good if they found him sitting by the fire as if nothing had happened.

He sat down beneath a tree, crossed arms on knees, and stared into the darkness. Tomar. The cousin he thought he’d lost all those years ago. Could be, if life proved different from what it was now, he just might take a journey north. He’d heard about Valdemar . . . how couldn’t he, living so close to the border.

Life was change.

And Tomar had given him good reason to think about a different existence. His bandit companions . . . well, they’d survive somehow. Right now, so would he, with them in place of the mother and father he’d lost.

But he had family in Valdemar. Real family.

Life was not only change, it was choices to be made.

He heard rustling in the brush and stood. Ferrin and the three others were cautiously returning to the clearing now that the “danger” had passed. He drew a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and slipped back into the clearing to wait for them.

Interview with a Companion

by Benjamin Ohlander

Ben Ohlander was born in South Dakota and grew up in Colorado and North Carolina. After completing high school, he enlisted in the Marines before attending college in Ohio. Upon graduation, he was commissioned as an officer in the Army Reserve. He has been mobilized three times and is currently serving in Afghanistan. In the intervals between deployments he works as a software consultant for IBM and writes as time permits. He lives in southwest Ohio with his wife, three stepsons, two cats, and a mechanical parrot named Max. The cats are generally tolerant of his writing and encourage all of their “staff” to have outside interests.

Dave Matthews (no relation) pulled his aging Chrysler off the two-lane road to consult his map. Kentucky was full of twisty roads anyway, and Lexington more so. Horse farms predated roads here, and cutting up perfectly good bluegrass to put in a straight right-of-way was not only pedestrian, it was downright tacky.

The Google map was pretty clear, five miles north on 88^th, across four miles, left turn at Mountebank, one and half miles past the bridge, near the old barn. Come alone. Okay, he was there.

He dug into the aging knapsack that combined computer bag and lunch sack and pulled out the digital recorder. It took him a few seconds to figure out where the batteries went and another several minutes to read the instructions. That, of course, was only after trial and error failed.

“June 12^th. Here at Tri-Bridge to meet a source with inside information on purging techniques used by jockey to make weight.” He played it back and listened to himself. Not newsy enough.. He turned the recorder back on. “Here at Tri-Bridge to get the skinny on the jockey-purging scandal.” Snap. Much better.

The meeting out here in the middle of nowhere seemed perfectly rational for a source with inside information . . . even if “middle of nowhere” was maybe twenty-five minutes from downtown Lexington. The scene fit . . . but no one who looked like a source. No one at all, in fact.

He looked back toward the old barn, some fifty yards away, and on the far side of the white rail fences that were required in horse country. There was a girl working in the barn, but no sign of anyone who fit the profile of a source.

He checked her out. She looked slim enough, with the youngish-colt look of so many of the women in this part of Kentucky. He tried to guess how many millihelens she was, but from the distance he could tell little other than she was slim and lithe. Given his last date had been sometime last year, that was enough to launch a navy of six or seven hundred ships right there.

Still no source.

He checked his watch. He was still a minute or so early, but he thought there ought to be some sign. This was his first source, but he was pretty sure they were supposed to be on time.

He looked back the way he’d come. Nothing there and nothing on the opposite side of the road except a shiny white horse. The horse was heavier than the whippetlike thoroughbreds they were breeding up these days, not a racer at all . . . maybe a show-horse done all in white.

A show horse standing on the far side beside a split rail fence in central Kentucky. Not odd. A show horse standing next to a golf bag in central Kentucky. Very odd.

The horse stared at him, ears perked forward, brown eyes on his. Their eyes met through the streaky windshield.

He took a second look at the golf bag. Okay, definitely odd. A horse and a golf bag standing by the side of the road. Sounded like the lead in for a joke.

He opened the car door and looked down. The driver’s side swung over a small drainage ditch that ran alongside the road. He stepped across the ditch and walked around to the front of the car to peer up and down the road. He glanced at his watch, then tipped his baseball cap back on his head.

In the distance, a crop duster puttered, biplane momentarily silhouetted against the sky.

The horse stood calmly looking at him, then dipped his head into the golf bag, and nosed his way between the woods sticking out, each with its own embossed horseshoe cover. When his head came up Dave saw a golden apple between solid, shiny white teeth. Dave blinked. Horses with big yellow choppers, he had seen. These were the sort of teeth usually bought on credit.

The horse crunched the apple thoughtfully, still looking at Dave. It was, he thought, an uncommonly odd feeling, being stared at by a horse.

He looked back at the barn. The girl, obviously mucking out, had a large wheelbarrow full of fun that she pushed around the side of the barn and out of sight. He glanced back at the road, then stared at the horse as it dipped its head into the bag again, rooted between some irons, then came up with a carrot, which it chewed like a cigar. The green stalk flopped back and forth.

A cricket chirped. He flexed his feet, listening to his tennis shoes squeak.

He stared at the horse.

The horse stared at him.

The biplane puttered just on the horizon, dropping a long cloud of pesticide.

“Hot day,” he said to the horse.

:Middlin’ hot,: said a voice.

“What the f . . .”, Dave spun around. “Who said that?”

:Over here, by the golf bag,: said the voice.

Dave whipped his head around. The horse stared at him . . . then slowly and deliberately winked. The eyes, the ones he had thought were brown, now shone a bright, sapphire blue.

Dave took two shuffle steps backward, startled beyond thought. The second ended in profanity as he stepped into the little ditch alongside the road and went down knee deep. His new recorder, bought for the occasion, went “glunk” in the only water for thirty feet in any direction.

“What the f . . .” he repeated, stepping out of the ditch and into the road. Had there been any traffic, he would have been in someone’s on-coming lane.

:You came here to get inside information from a source,: said the voice. :You don’t get more inside than this.:

“What the . . .”

:Gotta say it . . . straight from the horse’s mouth.: The horse did something with its hooves, and the sound was a mix of rim-shot and silver bells.

Dave shook his head and began looking for a portable loudspeaker, feeling now that he’d been badly put on. Some jerk out there with a camera, filming him for a sucker, and conning him into talking to a horse.

“So, you’re a talking horse? Like the one on TV. Name’s Ed? Or that mule?” Dave milked it as best he could, playing along until he could find the speaker system. He zeroed in on the golf bag. He was such a putz. So obvious.

:Don’t be an ass, Dave,: said the voice. :Are my lips moving? In fact, are you really hearing it?:

That stopped him cold. The horselips not moving, no sound issuing. It was the voice in his head that disturbed him. It wasn’t his inner monologue . . . the sort that slipped up when he’d been drinking and checking out pretty girls, and got him into trouble. It was a deeper, masculine voice, the sort that sounded as though it ought to be coming from outside his head. Except it wasn’t outside.

“Maybe it’s cancer,” he said. “Maybe I’m just hearing things.”

:Did you read the books I sent?: The horse replied, changing the subject.

“My sister used to read those as a kid. I tried a couple. Chick fic.”

The horse rolled his eyes, really rolled them, the whole head tossing.

:Okay, Mr. Pulitzer, just how many stories have you published?:

“Umm, well, I’m working this angle . . .”

:Jockey drinking milk with ipecac chasers ain’t exactly news, monkey boy. Next you’ll be doing an expose that models are anorexic.:

“Umm . . .”

:How about a real story?:

“Okay, I may be losing it, but I’m talking to a horse.”

:Telepathy.:

“What?”

:Telepathy. You are speaking to me, and I am answering you telepathically:.

“Oh, I thought it was called something else.”

:So, you have read the books?:

“Okay, one or two. When I was in college. I was broke.”

:I won’t tell the other guys you were reading pastel pony stories.: The horse actually grinned. :I know it would get you thrown out of the club. It’s called Mindspeaking by the way.:

“Why not telepathy?”

:Well, we talked to our publicist about it and agreed that calling it telepathy . . . was too science-fictiony. Miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiind-speeeeeach conveys the same idea, and keeps it in the fantasy canon.:

Dave grasped the only part that made sense. “Horses have a publicist?”

:Yes. A woman in Oklahoma takes our history, dresses it up a bit, and resells it. Makes an okay living at it.: The horse looked long and hard at him. : What you call chick fic pays pretty well. Not as well as romance, of course, but better than puking jockeys or space guns. Look. We need to get down to business, here. Got your notebook?:

Dave looked back at his voice recorder, continuing to do its U-boat impression. No way Best Buy was going to take that back. He dug out his analog recorder—a notepad and pen. Somewhere in the back of his mind he realized he had accepted that he was talking to a real live horse. Talking to, maybe not totally unusual . . . but one talking back in slightly accented English was way, way out there.

“Okay, lessee where to start. You are a Companion from Valdemar.”

:Yes. And you’ve misspelled it. It’s not Comapnian.:

“Sorry, I’m a little out of my league here. And you are here in Kentucky?”

:Obviously.

“But, why?

:Vacation. Don’t they call this ‘horse heaven’? Maybe this is where we rest up between gigs.: The Companion shifted a Number 1 wood a little to take another apple from the golf bag.

Dave stepped closer. “Is that a . . . a Nicorette patch?”

:Don’t worry about it:. The horse . . . the Companion sounded genuinely peeved. :What goes to Kentucky stays in Kentucky, okay?:

“Okay, okay. Sorry, I’m a reporter.”

:Then, do you want a story or not?: