Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar

To my relief, the blade sliced his flesh precisely as I’d intended. His leg gave way beneath him, and he fell. But, barring ill fortune, he’d survive and even walk again.

I heard rushing footsteps as the other youth charged at my back. I spun, parried his thrust, stepped in close, and bashed his jaw with my weapon’s pommel. Bone cracked. He reeled, dropped, and lay motionless, his trance knocked into true insensibility.

It was then that help finally came rushing into the room, in the persons of Baltes, Tregan, and six of their household guards.

“By the Goddess,” Baltes said. He wore a robe, nightshirt, and slippers, but, like my assailants, carried a sword—in his case, the sword with the emeralds. “What’s happened?”

“Milord,” I panted, “I regret this. But I had no choice. Your kinsmen attacked me.”

“No,” said Dremloc, ashen, voice shaky, clutching at this bloody knee. No longer sleepwalking in any obvious way. “Don’t believe him. We found him looking at that jade statuette yonder as if mustering the nerve to pocket it. We told him to leave it alone, and he drew on us.”

The fabrication startled me, and it took me a moment to reply. “That isn’t so. You and your kinsman were sleepwalking. Possessed, or under some sort of spell. You attacked me.”

Despite the pain of his wound, Dremloc managed a laugh. “That’s stupid. Wyler and I were drinking and playing at knucklebones in my room. We got hungry, came downstairs to raid the larder, and found this Blue whoreson looking shifty.”

“If that was the reason you left your quarters,” I said, “would you have brought your swords? The same influence that controlled you before is tampering with your memory.”

Baltes looked to Tregan. “Tell me,” the Keenspur leader said, “if there can possibly be any truth to this.”

“As you wish,” the warlock said. He closed his eyes, murmured under his breath, swept his hands through mystic passes, and swayed from side to side. The darkness flowed and thickened around us, and a bitter taste stung my tongue.

Tregan opened his eyes once more. “There was no magic involved.”

“No!” I said. “Somehow, you’re mistaken.” I pivoted toward Baltes. “Milord, do you truly believe I’d steal from you, when you already offered me gold, and I refused it? Is it likely I’d pick a fight where the odds were against me, in a house full of my adversaries’ kin? Or that I’d be the one to cry for help if I did?”

Baltes scowled. “Perhaps it was simply ill will and folly that made the three of you brawl, and no one has the courage to admit it.”

“No, Uncle,” Dremloc said. “I swear, it happened as I told you.”

Meanwhile, I made the corresponding assertion in different words.

“Master Selden,” Baltes said, “I suspected no good would come of having you here, and you’ve proved me right. In other circumstances, I might be inclined to punish you for it. But Pivar and the other Blues—former Blues, I should say—hold you in esteem, the wedding is only two days hence, and I’m loath to do anything that might stir the old animosities. So just get out.”

“Milord,” I said, “I was about to follow up on an idea when all this happened. Apparently, our unknown enemy somehow discerned my intent, and used Dremloc and Wyler to stop me. That must mean the notion has something to it. I beg you—”

Baltes’ hand clenched on the hilt of his sword. “I’ve had enough of your foolishness! Go now, or I won’t answer for your safety.”

I looked at all the Keenspurs and Keenspur servants glaring back at me, and I went.

Afterward, I resolved to put the affair behind me. Since Baltes had discharged me, it was no longer any of my concern, and I’d been lucky to come out of it with my skin intact. But I’d never had much of a knack for minding my own business, and after a morning of moping and grumbling around my school, I went to see Pivar.

He’d already heard I’d disgraced myself among the Keenspurs, but received me anyway, for the sake of the services I’d rendered him in the past. I told him my side of the story, and couldn’t judge if he credited it or not.

“I’m glad you escaped unharmed,” he said, sitting on a marble bench in the conservatory where he often received callers, if their rank and business was such that formality was unnecessary. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, and the scent of verdure tinged the air. “But you can’t let go of it, can you?”

I grinned. “You understand my foibles, milord.”

“Well enough to realize you’re here because you want something of me. What?”

“Can you tell me about the early years of the feuding? It was already well underway when I first came to Mornedealth, and I never bothered to learn the details.”

“I don’t see the point of your learning them now, but all right. I have time to chat for half a candlemark or so.”

Some of what he told me, I did, in fact, already know. How the factions began as supporters of one or another racing team, silly as that seemed. But eventually the talk turned to a wizard named Yshan Keenspur.

“He was their House mage before Tregan,” Pivar said, “from which you can guess that he was an older man. That, in turn, might lead you to imagine him as a prudent, cool-headed fellow who would try to prevent the rise of the factions, but you’d be wrong. He was one of the instigators, as rabid and bloody-minded a Green as ever was. Perhaps he simply had a choleric temperament, or saw it as a way to increase his family’s power. Or maybe he dabbled in Dark Magic, and it twisted his mind. There were rumors, but then there always are, whenever a sorcerer is disliked.”

“What became of him?” I asked.

“For all his powers, he came to grief in a street brawl, when three Blues set on him at once. He died trying to lay a curse on us. But so what? It happened long ago.”

“Maybe not long enough.” I explained my suspicions, to the extent I understood them myself.

Pivar shook his head. “You realize, the Greens—the Keenspurs, I mean—would find this allegation even more offensive than anything you’ve suggested hitherto.”

“I suppose.”

“On top of that, it doesn’t actually explain the theft of the tiara. According to your postulations, the culprit took it to rekindle the hatred between Green and Blue. But why would anyone anticipate that it would have that result?” He smiled a humorless smile. “Even if, somehow, that’s how it’s working out.”

“I don’t know,” I said, “but I have figured out what we ought to do next.” I told him.

“No,” he said at once. “If I insulted Baltes and his kin with such a proposal, it could shatter the peace for good and all.”

“Something dangerous is lurking in Keenspur House,” I said, “and you’re about to send your daughter to live there.”

“But not immediately. She’ll marry there, but she and Baltes will spend their wedding night, and the following week, at his hunting lodge. Even if your wild hunch is right, that buys us some time. Let’s get the bride and groom wed, our two houses united. Then, perhaps, you and I can broach this matter, if you still deem it necessary.”

It was the best he had to offer, so I tried to rest content with it. I failed.

Every great house employs dozens of servants, but when it hosts a wedding, even they aren’t enough. The steward, cook, and groundskeeper all have to hire extra help, and accordingly, nobody expects to recognize everyone he sees.

Thus, clad as a common laborer, my grizzled brown hair stained black as Marissa’s, with my sword, a pry bar, and a lantern hidden in a sack, I found it easy enough to slip back into Keenspur House. I then skulked to the one quiet precinct of the mansion, a chapel where a few votive candles glowed before icons, and stone stairs descended into the earth.

I lit the lantern, strapped on my sword, and headed down. Before long, I came to a door of vertical iron bars. It was locked, but the fact did little to allay my suspicions. Magic that could turn sleeping men into puppets could likely manipulate a lock as well. I broke it with my lever and continued on.

The steps debouched into dank crypts, festooned with webs the spiders spun to snare the beetles, and smelling faintly of incense, embalmer’s spice, and rot. The lesser Keenspurs lay behind graven plaques in the walls. The principal lords and ladies had their own private vaults, where stone sarcophagi, the lids often sculpted into likenesses of the occupants, reposed on pedestals in the center.

I assumed Yshan had rated one of the latter, and found him quickly. If his marble likeness could be trusted, he’d possessed the sharp features characteristic of his line, honed beyond the point of gauntness. It gave him a look of fanaticism and spite, which the sculptor had accentuated by rendering him with glaring eyes and a scowl instead of the usual expression of serenity.

I inspected the lid of the sarcophagus, trying to discern whether anyone—or anything—had opened it recently. I couldn’t tell. Not unless I opened it myself.

Assuming I could. It looked damnably heavy for a lone man to shift. But I meant to try. I set the lantern down, then, with a dry mouth and sweat starting beneath my arms, tried to work the pry bar into the crack between cover and box. The iron tool scraped the stone.

The lid flew up and to the side, like the cover of a book, straight at me.

It could have shattered my bones, but my reflexes jerked me backward, and perhaps that robbed the impact of some of its force. Even so, the sculpted marble slab slapped me like a giant’s hand, knocking me into the wall. I fell, and the lid fell with me, crashing down on top of my legs.

Meanwhile, Yshan, who had, by dint of either magic or prodigious strength, flung his graven image at me, reared up from the sarcophagus. He was relatively intact. The embalmers had evidently done their work well, and his box had protected him from rats and worms. But his face was shriveled, flaking, and streaked with black leakage. His right eye had gone milky, while the left had crumbled inward. A few slimy strings stretched across the vacant socket.

He held a sword, and the glow of the lantern just sufficed to reveal a thick layer of grease coating the blade. When I saw it, I finally comprehended all that had eluded me before.

But I didn’t have time to dwell on it. Not with the dead thing stepping out of the coffin, and my legs pinned. I struggled to free myself, and managed to drag my feet out from under the lid.

Just in time. Yshan’s sword flashed at my head, and I flung myself out of range. It was the only move that could have saved me, but it put the dead man between me and the doorway. Now, I had no choice but to fight.

I scrambled up and snatched for the sword at my side. Yshan cut at me, and I parried.

The impact jolted my arm, and his weapon nearly smashed through my guard. He was as unnaturally strong as I’d feared.

In other circumstances, wary of his might, I might have fought defensively. But if I hung back, it would give him the chance to cast spells, and I feared that even more than the force of his blows. So I attacked hard whenever I was able.

I drove my point into his chest, but it didn’t balk him even for an instant. Why should it, when he was already dead, his vital organs still and rotting? The only effect was to trap my blade. He whirled a backhand cut at my face. I ducked beneath it and yanked my sword free.

He cut down at my head. Still in a crouch, I just managed to parry, and once again, his stroke nearly hammered through my guard, almost broke my grip on the hilt of my blade.

But not quite, and I discerned that he’d struck with such ferocity as to shift himself off balance. I straightened up, feinted, deceived his awkward attempt at a parry, and slashed his one remaining eye from its socket.

He snarled like a beast, exposing yellow teeth and dark, oozing gums. But he didn’t falter as most any mortal creature would have done. Instead, he struck back immediately, and his aim was as accurate as before.

As I dodged, I thought, a hit to the vitals hadn’t stopped him, nor had blindness. What if nothing could? I struggled to quash the panic welling up in my mind.

I opened my guard a hair, praying that he’d think it an error, not the invitation, the trap, it truly was. That he’d make a particular indirect attack I’d noticed he favored. It seemed likely. It was a combination well suited to exploiting the seeming defect in my defense.

His arm extended, and I immediately stepped forward and to the side, without waiting to see where his blade was actually going. If I’d guessed wrong, it had an excellent chance of winding up in my guts.

But I hadn’t. He made the move I expected, I avoided it, and placed myself on his flank in the process, surprising him. Before he could pivot to threaten me anew, I gripped my hilt with both hands and cut with all my might.

I didn’t quite lop off his sword hand. But I shattered the wrist bones and left it hanging useless.

Yshan reached to shift his weapon to his off hand, but I was faster. I beat the greasy blade and knocked the hilt from his now-feeble grip. The sword clanked on the floor.

Even then, with his terrible strength and resistance to pain and injury, he might have gotten the better of me if he’d simply assailed me like a wrestler. But he hesitated, and I cut at his leg. My sword bit deep, he fell, and I attacked the same spot twice more, until I was certain I’d done enough damage to keep him from getting up.

Then I concentrated on his head, driving stroke after stroke into his skull while avoiding his flailing hand. Finally he collapsed and lay motionless.

I studied the mangled, seemingly inert carcass for a few heartbeats, then turned and strode toward the exit.

At my back, a harsh voice hissed rhyming words.

The patch of floor beneath me turned to soft muck, treacherous as quicksand. I sank to my knees in an instant, and as I floundered, Yshan began a second incantation, no doubt to finish me off while the ooze held me helpless.

I cast about, spied the open sarcophagus, and tossed my broadsword into it. Then I stretched out my arms, and, straining, succeeded in hooking my fingertips over the lip of the stone receptacle. I heaved with all my strength, and dragged myself up and out of the sucking slime. In the process, I noticed the tiara lying inside the coffin, not that I cared anymore.

I grabbed my sword and leaped at Yshan.

Some shapeless phosphorescent thing was rippling into full existence above him, but it vanished when I cut into his chin and silenced his conjuration. I finished removing his jaw, severed his head, cut the tongue out, and hacked off his fingers. Afterward, I still wasn’t certain he was altogether dead, but reasonably confident I’d deprived him of the ability to cast any more spells.

That should have been the end of it. But I hurried back the way I’d come because I feared it wasn’t.

Practitioners of Dark Magic don’t always pass from the world as easily as normal folk, especially if they leave a dying curse behind. While the feud between the Greens and Blues raged, Yshan had apparently rested easy. But the prospect of peace roused him, and he resolved to avert it.

He had the power to observe things at a distance, and so discerned a sword among the wedding gifts, its blade smeared with grease as such fine weapons generally come from the maker. He decided to switch the sword for the costly one his family had interred with him. Baltes and Lukinda had received such an abundance of presents that it seemed unlikely anyone would notice the substitution.

Yshan emerged from the crypts late one night, had the bad luck to encounter Venwell, and killed him to silence them. He then gave his sword a more thorough cleaning than any common housebreaker, eager to flee, would have done. It couldn’t have even a drop of blood on it if it was to pass for a new weapon.

He made the substitution, stole the tiara simply to bolster the impression that an ordinary thief had invaded the mansion, and returned to his vault. In the days that followed, the enchantments he’d laid on the emerald sword began their work. First, a glamour made Baltes yearn to wear the blade without delay. I’d felt the power myself, if only I’d had the wit to realize it. Next, its influence nudged the Keenspurs back toward the rancor of yore.

And through it all, Tregan never sensed supernatural forces at work because Yshan had trained him and held some tricks in reserve. Tricks that allowed him to operate without his successor detecting it.

I doubted he was detecting anything now, either, and that meant I had to get upstairs fast. Because I suspected the warlock’s sword had a final trick to play.

The Keenspurs were holding the wedding in their great hall, before hundreds of guests. Lukinda was plump, freckled, and pretty in her gown of shining white, the priestess, matronly in vestments of green. Baltes wore the emerald sword. From the looks of it, the ceremony was nearing its conclusion.

“Stop!” I bellowed, starting up the aisle. “Lord Baltes, throw away your sword! It’s cursed!”

Everyone turned to gawk at me, and I realized what a peculiar spectacle I must be, clad like a laborer, my legs filthy, a blade in my hand.

Then Dremloc cried, “It’s Selden!” The dye in my hair wasn’t enough to fool him.

Several of the Keenspurs rose to bar my way. “Get out of here, lunatic,” said one, hand on the hilt of his dagger.

“You don’t understand,” I said.

Nor were they disposed to listen. As they advanced on me, and all the other guests gawked at us, Baltes whipped Yshan’s sword from its scabbard and lifted it to threaten his dumbfounded bride.

The priestess grabbed his arm, but he shook her off and shoved her reeling. Nobody else saw, because they were all looking at me, and I could do nothing. The entire length of the hall, and the folk intent on ejecting me or worse, separated me from the altar.

Which meant that despite all my efforts, Baltes would commit the atrocity Yshan had intended. Then the Blues would rise up in fury, the Greens would have no option but to defend themselves, and any nobles who survived this day would prosecute the blood-feud for years to come.

Or so it seemed. But it turned out that someone had heeded my warning after all. Marissa hurled herself at Baltes and grappled with him. She softened him up with a knee to the groin, then twisted his arm. The emerald sword dropped from his fingers.

As soon as it did, he stopped struggling. “Blessed Goddess!” he whimpered, his voice full of horror. “Blessed Goddess!”

By then, people were finally taking note of what was happening before the altar. I cast about and found Tregan. “The evil’s in the blade,” I reiterated. “Surely you can sense it now.”

He peered at the fallen weapon, then growled, “Yes.” He muttered words of power, swept his right hand through a pass, and a ragged darkness swirled up from the sword. People cried out and cringed, but Tregan had the demon, if that was what it was, under control, and it couldn’t hurt us. It wailed as it withered away.

Afterward came explanations, and reassurances to the frightened Lukinda and her understandably agitated kin. During the course of it all, Baltes, still white-faced and shaky, told me, “Master Selden, I owe you a hundred apologies. What can I do to make amends?”

I grinned. “Finish the wedding, invite me to the feast, and give me a purse heavy with gold.”

Marissa said, “I think I’m due a split.”

DAWN OF SORROWS

by Brenda Cooper

Brenda Cooper has published fiction and poetry in

Analog, Oceans of the Mind, Strange Horizons,

and

The Salal Review,

and been included in the anthologies

Sun In Glory

and

Maiden, Matron, Crone

. Brenda’s collaborative fiction with Larry Niven has appeared in

Analog

and

Asimov’s,

and their novel,

Building Harlequin’s Moon,

appeared in 2005. Brenda lives in Bellevue, Washington, with her partner Toni, Toni’s daughter Katie, a border collie, two gerbils, and a hamster. By day, she works as the City of Kirkland’s CIO, applying her interests in science, technology, and the future to day-to-day computer operations and strategic planning. She writes for

Futurist.com

and can sometimes be found speaking about the future, and suggesting that science fiction books make great reading. The rest of the time, she’s writing, reading, exercising, or exploring life with her family.

BARD Jocelyn paused at the crest of the hill and looked down at the peaceful town of Sunny Valley spilling between two sets of lower hills below. The midday sun washed the houses and fields in bright, cheerful warmth, as if the town smiled up at her and Bard Silver. She turned to look back, where Bard Silver trailed behind, one slender white hand against her side, the other wiping sweat from her forehead. Jocelyn wanted to push down to Sunny Valley, buy supplies, and keep right on going. But Silver needed a break, even if she wasn’t complaining.

Standing sideways, Jocelyn watched Silver struggle up the last few steps to stand beside her on the crest of the hill. Soft midsummer wind blew tendrils of ash-blonde hair across the younger woman’s white face, obscuring the light freckles on her nose. Silver was pretty enough to draw a crowd anywhere; between the silver eyes she drew her nickname from, her alabaster skin, and her slender height, she looked more like a fairy-tale princess than a young Bard fresh to her Scarlets.

Might as well be nice to the girl—it wasn’t her fault her beauty was so like Dawn’s, not any more that it was her fault the powers-that-be in Bardic had decided Jocelyn needed a partner. She didn’t, of course. She’d been just fine on her own the last five years. She sighed. “We’ll take a break here.” She gestured toward a convenient tumble of white-and-gray rocks, then dug into her pack and pulled out two red apples, handing one to Silver.

Silver settled on the sheep-cropped grass, took the apple daintily, and bit into it. “Thank you.”

Ashamed of her curtness, Jocelyn stepped into her pleasant performance voice. “No problem.” She picked out a flat rock, sat down, and took a bite of her own apple. “Do you have any questions? Is there anything you’d like to know?” Maybe Silver wanted to know about their trip—they were going to walk a circuit all the way to the border and back, and would be expected to perform, and listen for news, starting in just a few days. This was, after all, Silver’s first long journey away from Haven.

Silver nodded and finished her apple in thoughtful silence. Then she turned toward Jocelyn, a small mischievous gleam in her eye. “I want to hear the story behind Dawn of Sorrows.”

Jocelyn sat back against the sun-warmed granite rock and crossed one long leg over the other. This was why she hadn’t wanted to travel with anyone. “I don’t tell that story.”

Silver laughed nervously. “You’re famous for ‘Dawn of Sorrows.’ But no one knows the real story, just the song. I thought—” she looked away, as if suddenly shy, “—I thought maybe you’d be willing to tell me. I know the song tells the story, but there must be more details. I want to write a song that matters some day.”

Jocelyn bit back a suggestion that no one should want to write a song like “Dawn of Sorrows.” She finished her apple. She didn’t have to answer Silver, not right away. She was the elder by seven years, after all. She threw her apple core into the woods for the ants, then captured the most unruly bits of her own red hair with her left hand and looked down. From this distance and height, the people working the ripening fields looked like brightly colored moving dots. But she remembered looking down on another town. . . .

Despite the day’s warmth, she shivered.

She’d managed not to talk about Dawn for at least five years, and not to sing the song herself for almost as long. It was impossible, of course, not to hear it. “Dawn of Sorrows” was one of those songs that took on its own life and became part of the repertoire of nearly every minstrel and bard. Some days, she wished she’d never written it. She hadn’t written anything else since.

Maybe she should talk about it, maybe that would teach Silver that adventure wasn’t always easy, that sometimes it tore you right up. Jocelyn sighed. Bard Dennis had assigned her to travel with Silver for a full season. She’d have to talk to the girl eventually.

Jocelyn had pushed Silver by setting a hard pace, and the girl had kept up. She’d asked for silence and Silver had let her have a polite and respectful quiet. She didn’t deserve to have her first question rebuffed.

Jocelyn took a sip of water and settled back. “Sorry. I guess I’m a little touchy. I’ll start by telling you Dawn’s story . . . her story from before I met her.”

Silver sighed, a smile edging her pale pink lips, anticipation brightening her eyes. She pillowed her head on her scarlet cloak and closed her eyes, relaxed and still, as if she listened with her whole body.

Jocelyn nodded in silent approval—the Bardic Gift was akin to empathy, and when Silver focused her energy on listening as hard as Jocelyn focused hers on storytelling, they’d both feel Jocelyn’s emotions. She whispered, almost to herself, “I hope you’re ready to hear the story.”

Silver opened her eyes and regarded Jocelyn gravely. “Try me.”

“Dawn lived in Johnson’s Ford, a border town near Hardorn. I call it a town just because it had a name, but it was really just a handful of houses. Maybe thirty people or forty. Not a bad place, not really, but like other border towns: raiders and bandits swooped down from time to time, bellies grumbled and old people died when the winters were hard, and the granaries never overflowed. Other small towns nearby traded with them, but they didn’t get much news or many minstrels or Bards. So the people of Johnson’s Ford didn’t understand the big things shaping up in Valdemar, like Elspeth becoming the first Herald-Mage since Vanyel.”

Jocelyn paused, watching a lone hawk circle lazily just above her eye level. If only she could fly alone like that today. “No, Johnson’s Ford mostly worried about surviving the storms that plagued Valdemar that year. Oh, the impending war with Hardorn had grazed the town, rattling nerves and stealing young men. But Johnson’s Ford was far from anything strategic except the ford itself. . . .” Jocelyn let her voice trail off. She was taking too long, making the story hard to get into. She closed her eyes and focused her breath deep in her belly, letting her loss and pain creep up so it would fill her, her story, with true emotion. Her breath quickened.

Silver opened her eyes, as if curious about the long pause, but she closed them again, content to wait.

Jocelyn swallowed. “The year before Elspeth’s return, a pack of black wolves that had been twisted by Ancar’s mages came through town, and Dawn’s husband, Drake, and two other men died defending their homes. A nasty death, as quick and as unexpected in Dawn’s life as a lightning strike. She kept living in the little two-room house that Drake died for, alone except for their daughter, eight-year-old Lisle. Oh, Dawn was pretty enough that she did get a few offers from other men, but she turned them all down, for she had been truly in love with Drake.

“Dawn had no other family in Johnson’s Ford. Lisle became her anchor, her ground. They were inseparable. They worked side by side, minding the sheep in the morning and weeding the fields in the afternoon. Neither had the Bardic Gift, but either could have been minstrels, and they sang together when they worked and sometimes they sang for town gatherings.”

Silver’s eyes were bright with curiosity. “So what did Dawn look like?”

Jocelyn cocked her head, studying the other woman. “A little like you.” She arched an eyebrow, shook her head. “But not so light, or so thin. Her eyes weren’t silver, they were dark and warm, like walnut. . . .” She shook her head again.

Silver frowned, puzzled. “So she’d already lost her husband, before you even met her?”

“Yes.” Jocelyn paused. “So the first stanza of her song happened before I met her. That’s the only part of the song I didn’t see.” She took a deep breath and threaded her fingers through her hair.

“I took my journeyman trip alone, and for a purpose. Selenay had given word that Valdemar was her people and not her places. She sent Heralds out to tell the people along Hardorn’s border to leave, but there weren’t enough Heralds available, so some Bards were selected as well. Our goal was to take Selenay’s message to every single person near Hardorn.” She glanced at Silver, caught her pale eyes with her own. “We were to use our Gift to convince them, if we had to. You know, that business about it being okay to use your Gift on the business of the crown.”

Silver nodded, smiling wryly. “I know the rules.” She sat up, picking at the grass beside her in small, nervous motions.

“I’m sorry.” She’d been Silver’s age the year she met Dawn. So why did Silver seem so much younger than she remembered being herself? Jocelyn uncrossed her legs and bunched her red cloak under her knees to serve as cushioning. “That was the year the Companions searched Valdemar high and low for Mage Gift.

“I was walking the last half mile or so to Johnson’s Ford when a lone Companion trotted past, her head up, her nostrils flared as though she smelled something good. I remember how it felt for her to pass me. Just for a moment, I wished she would Choose me. But of course, I already had my scarlets, and though I wouldn’t refuse a Companion, I didn’t really hope for one anymore.

“But I was going down the same road, and I’d never seen a Choosing take place. I quickened my steps, turning a corner just in time to see the Companion stop in front of a little girl and her mother. The girl had dark hair, the mother light. They both had pert noses and wide eyes and slender builds. It was, of course, Dawn and Lisle. Both were beautiful, and the Companion in front of them was beautiful, and all together it called up all every Choosing song and story I’d ever heard.” She could see it in her mind all over again, as if the Companion and her Chosen stood in front of her right then. Even now, years later, it awed her. “There are no words for the grace with which the Companion bowed down to that little girl and lowered her gorgeous head so her bright blue eyes met Lisle’s dark ones. I stopped no more than twelve feet away from them, and I swear I felt something flow between the Companion and the girl, some magic like the magic in a room when a Master Bard weaves his or her Gift into a powerful song.

“The girl held her arm up and she spoke the Companion’s name, ‘Tamay.’ I could hear the love in that one word, even from twelve feet away. Surely Dawn heard it, too.” Jocelyn paused again, for effect.

“Tears began to flow down Dawn’s face.

“Lisle didn’t notice.

“Tamay knelt even farther down, and nuzzled the girl. Lisle climbed up on Tamay’s foam-white back, and clutched Tamay’s bright white mane, her eyes shining with pleasure.

“Tamay stood completely still, unnaturally still, looking at Dawn. Dawn stood her ground, gazing back, brown eyes into blue. They stood that way so long my legs began to shiver from standing. There was a conversation going on between them that I couldn’t hear. And all that time, Lisle sat on Tamay’s back and twisted her hands in her new Companion’s white mane and watched her mom’s face.

“Finally, Dawn nodded. She wiped her eyes and took three steps toward Lisle. She reached up, took Lisle’s small hands, and kissed them, smiling up at her daughter through damp eyes. She whispered, ‘I love you, honey. Take good care,’ just barely loud enough for me to hear, and her little girl whispered back, ‘I love you, Mommy, and I’m sorry.’

“Dawn said, ‘Don’t ever be sorry,’ and let Lisle’s fingers slip from hers.

“The Companion turned and passed me by. She gave me a look that didn’t need Mindspeech to read. She might as well have spoken out loud and said, ‘Take care of this woman for me.’ ”

Jocelyn paused. This was the heart of the song, and she wanted to be sure Silver felt it. Silver had turned her head, but when she turned it back to see why Jocelyn had stopped talking, tears glistened in the corners of her eyes.

Jocelyn noted the tears, smiled, and kept the story moving. “I reached for Dawn, but she had already fallen to her knees in the dirt, head buried in her hands. Sobs shook her whole body. I knelt by her side, my hand on her slender, heaving back. I sang softly, soothing her as best I could.”

Silver’s voice was soft and warm, concerned. “And that’s when the last stanza starts.”

Jocelyn nodded. “Her tears were pure sorrow. I’d never heard such a forlorn sound before, and haven’t since, not from animal or human. I wanted to help her more than I’d ever wanted anything, for her sake, and for Tamay’s and Lisle’s, too. For all of our sakes. Seeing Lisle’s Choosing felt like a symbol of all that Valdemar holds dear, all the love, all the sacrifice, all the magic. It showed me what Ancar wanted to take from us.” She glanced back down at the peaceful summer scene below them, and spread her arm out over the town, encouraging Silver to see the peace.

“When I’d thought about Choosing before, I’d only seen the joy and shock and bewilderment of it, never the price. Companions choose who they choose, of course, and usually it’s not first or only children; usually it’s a blessing to the family left behind. Surely, Lisle must have a special part to play, but that’s not part of this story.”

“Did anyone ever write a song about Lisle?”

Jocelyn shrugged. “I don’t know. Remember, she’ll just barely be getting her Whites by now. I never stayed in Haven long enough to watch for her.” Jocelyn shrugged. “Most Heralds live unsung lives. It’s easy to forget that. There are so many songs about Heralds, but there are many more Heralds than songs about them. Many parents and families of people who come to Haven, whether Herald or Bard or Mage or Healer, well, their pain is unsung as well.” She stared down at her knotted fingers. “That’s why I wrote ‘Dawn of Sorrows,’ for Choosing, and all the love and pain and sacrifice and promise of that moment. Dawn’s pain would have gone unnoticed, a single sacrifice in a flood of things surrendered to save Valdemar from Ancar. Except I gave people her story for remembrance. That’s what Bards do.”

Silver twisted her hands in her lap. “I haven’t yet written anything that many people sing.” The wistful yearning in her voice echoed in her eyes.

Jocelyn stood up. “Your life will surely yield opportunities. Come on, there’s only a few hours until dark. We should get moving.” She bent down to gather up her battered leather pack and fiddle case, and when she stood back up, she saw the disappointment on Silver’s face. She sighed. “Yes, there’s more. I’ll tell you more of the story tonight.”

“Thank you.” Silver’s voice sounded small. She shouldered her own nearly-new black leather pack. A flute case hung below her pack, tied in with purple ribbons, and she carried a gittern case that looked as new as her pack. “Will we stay at an inn tonight?”

Jocelyn shook her head. “Not if you want the rest of Dawn’s story. It doesn’t make me want to sing. They’ll have plenty of minstrels and even Bards in a town this close to Haven—they won’t expect us to sing.”

Silver fell silent, and Jocelyn started down the hill, setting a good, hard pace. Silver’s footsteps behind her reminded her of Dawn following her, and she walked faster, leading them downhill through tall dry grass and yellow mustard flowers. If only she hadn’t tried so hard to help Dawn. She struggled to distract herself by counting the small suncup butterflies flashing white and orange over yellow mustard flowers and tiny blue wild onions. She picked up speed, nearly jogging down the water-rutted path.

After an hour, the footsteps behind her began to fade and Jocelyn stopped, looking back. Silver’s cheeks shone red with exertion and her shoulders drooped. Jocelyn heard her own rattling breath and stopped. She waited for Silver to catch up, then said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to walk so fast.”

Beads of sweat stood out on Silver’s forehead. She breathed in little hard gulps. “I didn’t know how much you’d mind talking about Dawn.” She licked her lips and brushed damp hair from her face, looking at Jocelyn earnestly. “I thought I was asking about a song, but I guess I was asking about more. You don’t have to tell me.”

Hot tears suddenly licked at the edges of Jocelyn’s eyes. She turned her face away a little, hoping Silver wouldn’t see them. “I know.” She took a long drink of water, felt it fall like a welcome river in her mouth. She’d been pushing Silver too hard, but maybe she’d also been pushing herself too hard. “I’ll slow down some. Tell me about the first song you wrote.” She started off again, not looking at Silver, but measuring her pace.

Silver was quiet for a few steps. When she spoke, her soft voice barely carried to Jocelyn. “I always made up songs, as long as I can remember. I’m sure my first songs were about my family. What about you? Did you sing about your family?”

Jocelyn flinched. How come everything Silver said poked at her? Had she really become such a pincushion? No wonder Dennis had looked so concerned when she wandered back to Bardic a month ago for rest. “I sang about the boarding school I was raised in, and about some of my teachers. Maybe we should just walk for a while.”

Behind her, Silver’s answer was to start humming, and then singing, a summer harvest song. If Silver had asked her to join in, Jocelyn would have refused, but the younger woman’s quiet singing acted like a balm, letting Jocelyn enjoy the late afternoon sun warming her face and steady, quiet hum of bees in the flowers. By the third song, Jocelyn began to sing along, and before they even made it all the way off the hill and onto the main road, she realized she was smiling and her pace was naturally slower.

The road to Sunny Valley was wide enough for two carts to pass each other easily. Although the hard-packed road was empty for long stretches, they were greeted by kids on horses going between farms, and carts most likely headed between towns or even to Haven.

Jocelyn remembered to stop a few times under shade trees. Silver would get used to traveling, and they’d make better time in the future. After all, this was only day two of a three-month journey.

They stopped at an inn in Sunny Valley to refill their waterskins and purchase a loaf of fresh bread, a skin of red wine, and a round of deep-yellow cheese. As the skinny, dark-haired innkeeper handed them their packages of food, he said, “There’s room. We have a local minstrel who plays here, but he never minds being joined by Bards, long as they share the takings. Says it helps him learn new songs.”

Jocelyn glanced at Silver, letting her choose.

Silver shook her head. “We’d rather push on tonight.”

The innkeeper grumbled good-naturedly. “You folk from Haven. Always hurrying.” He turned to his next customer, and Jocelyn and Silver headed back for the road.

Two candlemarks later, after setting up a quiet camp by a thin stream, they perched on an old log, a small fire at their feet throwing tiny sparks up into a darkening sky. Jocelyn broke the bread in half while Silver parceled out the cheese and one more apple each.

Jocelyn set her plate on her lap, and took a long sip of the wine. Her stomach fluttered, but at least the hot tears didn’t return. No point in waiting, the words wanted to come out. “So we left the story with me and Dawn in the middle of the road, and Dawn in pain, and me feeling her pain, and on my way to Johnson’s Ford to convince people I’d never met to leave a town they’d struggled to build their whole lives.

“Well, I might as well have promised Tamay I’d take care of Dawn, and besides, who could have left her? So I sat there with her and fed her water and sang to her, and she let me stroke her back even though she’d never seen me before. Finally, she pushed herself away from me and looked deep into my eyes. Her voice trembled as she said, ‘Thank you.’

She glanced at Silver, finding Silver’s pale eyes staring at her, waiting. Silver still looked like Dawn, and still, like Dawn, looked like she needed Jocelyn. Except Silver had her own scarlet cloak, and her need was simple and healthy, unlike Dawn’s naked, scraped-raw tenderness. Jocelyn cleared her throat. “I stood and helped her up. We walked back to town just as the sun was setting. She moved slowly, as if she were an old woman, as if every movement hurt. Perhaps it did. Perhaps her grief was so heavy it weighed on her bones.

“Johnson’s Ford didn’t have an inn, so Dawn led me home with her for the night. I really should have called a town meeting right then, maybe stayed one night, and gone on, but I didn’t. I stayed a week.

“Dawn’s house had two beds, hers and another that must have been Lisle’s, but Dawn didn’t offer it and I couldn’t make myself ask. Besides, I’d been traveling a few months anyway, and the floor wasn’t as hard for me as Dawn’s sadness.”

Jocelyn stopped and took another pull of wine, leaving her plate untouched.

Silver spoke softly, compellingly, a voice full of promise. “You loved her, didn’t you? The first time I heard ‘Dawn of Sorrows,’ I thought it must have been written by a man.”

Had she? They’d never been lovers. But she knew every line of Dawn’s face, every curve of her slender arms. She knew the shape of her fingers (long, slender, with one pinky shorter than the other). Even after all this time, she remembered how warm Dawn’s hand had felt in hers. Even though she’d only had weeks with Dawn, she still stopped by streams and pretty trees in bloom, and wished Dawn were there to point them out to.

She swallowed hard. “I loved her beauty and her loss, and her story was so romantic and so tragic, and I’d seen the most recent part of it. So maybe I was star-eyed about her. But there’s nothing romantic about helping someone with such deep grief. So . . . even if maybe you’ve found a grain of truth, it didn’t feel that way the days we spent in Johnson’s Ford.

“I talked to the mayor that next morning. I told him about the Choosing, and he helped me get news out that Selenay had sent me to talk to the town.

“I met with about twenty townspeople that night. Farmers and hunters; strong and tough, sure of themselves. The women held their little ones like they were gold, especially the older boys, watching me carefully. Their faces were stoic and still as I told them Selenay wanted them to abandon Johnson’s Ford.

“When you’ve worked your whole life to keep a town together, when you’ve built the buildings with your own hands, you don’t much want to just pick up and leave. After the first amazement at having the Queen’s words sent to them, the meaning of the words sank in. Some of the parents understood right away, but most people’s faces stayed stones to me, and I knew I hadn’t convinced them. So I told them I’d sing to them, every night, and that they could find me at Dawn’s house most of the day if they had questions. I only sang a few songs that first night. Even though I put as much of my Gift into those songs as I could, the town didn’t just jump up and start packing.

“Another mage-born storm slammed into town that night, and by morning the streets ran with water and the river had risen noticeably, but still no one agreed to leave. Between me and the storm, it took four days before anyone started to pack. Those four days are their own story that I’ll share some other time.

“Each night, I sat with Dawn after I came back in, wet from walking home from the Mayor’s house in the storms. We kept a fire going, talking a little and singing a little and staying quiet a lot.” Jocelyn started to reach for the wine again, but changed her mind and picked up the bread. She chewed slowly, watching the little fire. “So it took four days for the town to start packing. It began with three women who had little kids, and their husbands, and then a grandfather and then a young couple that had just gotten married. By the sixth day I was there, everyone finally decided they didn’t want to be the last one in Johnson’s Ford, and they all started making plans to leave. Some had family in other towns, but most were just going to walk away from the border, walk farther into Valdemar and hope.

“Except Dawn.

“Dawn came up to me, her eyes big and dark and suddenly full of fire instead of sadness. She said, ‘I don’t want to go with them. I want to help you keep other people safe. I want to go with you.’

“She took me aback, completely. She looked so brave, and so damned lonely. I reminded her I was traveling toward danger, and wouldn’t be going back to Haven until winter. I thought maybe that was it, maybe she wanted to get to Haven and saw me as the easiest way to get near Lisle. But she stood in front of me, looking like she’d looked when she stared into Tamay’s eyes, rooted, curious, and full of dread.

“She said, ‘I want to do something that matters. All my life I’ve just lived, and loved the people I loved, and I’ve been lucky. I had the best husband and the best little girl in the world. They’re all gone now. Even Lisle, even if I get to live near her, well, she’ll have her own life. Tamay told me all about the Collegium and about how Lisle would have important jobs for Valdemar, how she was special. Tamay convinced me my little baby was special for more than me, that it was time for her to grow up. Now it’s time for me to do something that matters, and the only thing I can think of is to go help you.’ She took my hand, the first time she voluntarily touched me. ‘You can use someone familiar with living near the woods and hills of the border, I know you could. I can’t just run away with everyone else, and I can’t start over, not yet, not until the war is over. Lisle’s gone off to help in her way, and I want to help in mine. I need to.’

Jocelyn shifted uncomfortably, and stirred the fire. Dawn’s eyes had drilled into her so hard, needed her to say yes so badly. “I didn’t have an argument for her; I understood her. We were allowed to accept local help. I could probably even bring her back to Haven and find her work somewhere, maybe even at the Collegium. But first there was a war on. I wish I’d told her no, every day I wish I’d told her no.”

“I took her.

“The next town was about the same size as Johnson’s Ford, and we stayed outside of it in my tent, stormdrenched and shivering, for the first night. The second night, an older couple made room for us in their barn. That town took five days to convince to leave. Then we went to Killdeer, which was big enough for an inn. A Herald came through there the day after we got there, reinforcing my message, so we were off again.” Jocelyn paused, reaching for water.

Silver shivered. “I was only thirteen that year and mostly I heard about everything—I wasn’t involved, except I did get to see the gryphons come into Haven. I remember that. So you must have only been twenty.”

Jocelyn closed her eyes. “I felt older.”

“And Dawn, how old was Dawn?”

“I don’t know. I suppose she was in her late twenties. Lisle couldn’t have been more than ten when she was Chosen, and women marry young out in the hill country like that. I bet she wasn’t ten years older than I was.”

Silver took a bite of cheese and reached for the wine. The last light had faded; Silver’s white face and light hair looked almost ghostly in the firelight. “But she listened to you, followed you, right?” She sipped the wine. “Because you were a full Bard?”

Jocelyn shook her head. “Not everyone follows you because you’re a Bard. Not in Haven, and not out here. You’ll learn that eventually.” She steepled her hands under her chin, musing on Silver’s question. “I think she needed someone, and maybe it mattered that I was a Bard, but maybe it mattered more that I had seen Dawn’s loss, and been there for her. I was young, and any other year, I probably wouldn’t have been a full Bard yet. I think a few of us were tested into full Scarlets because Valdemar needed us. That was a scary year with new-found Mages and Ancar’s army and the storms. Very little was done the way you’d do it in peacetime.” Jocelyn took her own sip of wine. Silver was right—she really had been young. Younger even than Silver, if just by a year or two.

Silver said, “You’ve traveled alone ever since. Didn’t you like having someone to travel with?”

The fire snapped and popped, holding Jocelyn’s gaze. The presence of the other woman did feel good. And Jocelyn wasn’t responsible for her. Even though Silver was younger, she was a full Bard. While Dennis was correct and Silver could learn from Jocelyn, they were more equal than Jocelyn and Dawn had ever been. Silver had education as well as enthusiasm, even if she had lived in the city her whole life. Maybe . . . maybe Silver could be a friend. Or more. Dawn could have been more, but there hadn’t been time. . . .

Jocelyn threw two new logs on the fire and watched it lick up their edges in bright tendrils, then bloom. The new light played on her feet. She didn’t have to decide whether or not to trust Silver, not yet. But she did have a story to tell. She finished eating and then slid down so her back rested against the log. Next to her, Silver took out her metal flute and started polishing it with a clean cloth until firelight glittered back from its bright surface. Jocelyn cleared her throat. “We had fires like this at night, small and cozy, and we talked. After a while, Dawn began to talk about Lisle and Drake. She told me doing something, even just helping me find my way from place to place, helped her to feel less lonely. Oh, I still heard her crying sometimes at night, especially when it was cold and wet and we shared a tent and lay close, each of us swaddled in blankets, but still near enough to share body heat. The coldest, scariest nights, we even held hands.”

She’d never told anyone that. But then, she hadn’t told the story at all for years. Oh, she’d told plenty of stories and sung plenty of songs to countless people she didn’t know. But this was different. It was like . . . like talking to Dawn had been.

“After we’d been traveling two weeks, we had two more towns to go, and then I was due to head back. I still planned to take Dawn with me. We came to the first of the last two towns, up over a hill, kind of like where you and I sat today when I started this story. The sky hung low and oppressive over us, a gray at midday that was almost black. Lightning flashed in the far hills. It wasn’t raining, but it had, and would, and the air itself felt full of water, as if drops might materialize all on their own. In the damp darkness, smoke filled the bottom on the valley, persistent and thick and ugly. Bright embers showed where the largest houses had once been. We walked down into it. We had to. Whoever, whatever, had burned the town did not seem to be there, and maybe there was someone we could help.

“Dawn clutched my hand when we saw the first two bodies. Children. Two children. They had been running, and fire had somehow caught them. Dawn’s eyes were huge, her face pale, and at first she stopped and her fingernails dug into my palm and her body shook. I had seen the dead before, but something seemed unnatural. The nearest burned building was quite a distance away. It looked like the children had just burst into flame running, not like they ran, flaming, from a fire. It sounds like a small difference when I say it, but it was a big difference to see. It struck us both silent. Part of me didn’t want to go any farther into the town, no matter what, didn’t want to take another step.” The memory hurt, the moment she should have, could have, changed her mind. Jocelyn stood and stretched and paced once around the fire and sat back down, keenly aware of her own restlessness. “But you know, when you’re out there, and there might be someone you can help, you remember you’re a Bard, that you’re more than just a court singer. You just are.”

Jocelyn looked up into Silver’s eyes. Did Silver understand this, in her bones? Did she know what life she’d chosen? Silver nodded, as if answering Jocelyn’s unspoken question.

“So we walked forward. We didn’t talk about it. We dropped each other’s hands, but we kept going, looking around. The stench—all the things that had burned but were never meant to burn—stuck to us, covering us, and I wanted the sky to rain and clean us off. It didn’t. The sky just glowered above us instead. We saw more burned bodies, crisped, dark. Some houses still smoldered, others stood untouched.

“A fat brown dog ran between two houses. It looked lost, but healthy. It stopped and stared at us, then it barked plaintively. And then . . . then it burned. Fire flashed alive on it and in it, a blanket of blue fire. It went from standing to burning.”

She swallowed. “Dawn screamed.” She paused, swallowed again. The words clawed their way out of her throat, dry and hot as flame. “And burned.” Tears ran down her cheeks. “And burned.” She gestured toward the fire. “Not like if that campfire caught my clothes, but completely. In seconds, I could see her bones. She didn’t . . .” Jocelyn choked. “She didn’t even scream for long. I ran. I didn’t scream. I . . . I just ran.”

Dawn’s arms—no, Silver’s arms—Bard Silver’s long slender strong arms, circled Jocelyn’s shoulders and Jocelyn turned her face into the other woman’s chest and burrowed, holding on. She should never have let Dawn go in there. She should never have let Dawn travel with her in the first place. She should have gone alone. She should have died instead, or at least died, too. Magic. She lifted her head, looked away, talking in broken words. “It was . . . she was killed by . . . a spell triggered by sound. That killed them all—the whole town—” Jocelyn wiped at her eyes and nose and reached for a waterskin. Her hands shook so hard Silver had to help her pull the stopper out. She drank deeply. “I learned that when I got back to Haven—learned sound started the spell, and learned that it faded quickly. If we’d come into town the next day, all the gruesome sights would still be there. But we could have talked or laughed or screamed. The Palace sent one of the White Winds mages to read the spell as soon as I got back to Haven and told my story. He said . . . he said it he thought it was Ancar’s mages testing a potential trap. They killed that whole town just to test a spell.”

“You know it wasn’t your fault she died,” Silver whispered awkwardly, earnestly.

Jocelyn pushed a little away from Silver, reached down to touch the dirt, to ground herself. She drew in the smell of the fire, of the night. “I know. My head knows. But I could have been more careful.”

Silver sounded confused as she said, “But wasn’t magic new to Valdemar? Weren’t you still inside the borders, where magic hadn’t even worked just months before? How were you supposed to know?”

Jocelyn didn’t answer. Her head said the same thing, all the time. But . . . but Silver was so young. And she was saying the same thing. Silver was a year older than Jocelyn. So . . . so Jocelyn really had been young that year. She hadn’t felt young. She’d forgive Silver if she made a mistake—she was on her first trip and couldn’t even walk a good day’s pace yet, even though by the end of their trip, today’s walk might seem short. If she could forgive Silver almost any mistake, why couldn’t she forgive her own younger self?

“Look,” Silver said, “I’m sure it doesn’t help to tell you Dawn died doing something she wanted to do. You must have heard that before. But you did the very best you could. And then you wrote her a song, and your song made a difference.”

“How? Dawn’s dead.”

“Right.” Silver’s voice was soft, musical. A Bard’s voice. Surer than Dawn’s had ever been. “But now, when kids are Chosen, now a lot of towns do something extra for the parents, or for the other family left behind.”

Jocelyn looked up. Was it true? Why hadn’t she noticed? “Really?”

Silver returned the smile. “Really.” Silver picked up her gittern, unwrapped it, and started the refrain for “Dawn of Sorrows:”

“Dawn of sorrows, sacrifice

Yield up all you love in life”

Jocelyn’s took a breath and opened her throat. She took up the first stanza, focusing on the notes, on her voice, on singing as strong as she could. By the end of the song, her voice sounded clear and steady.

This, she suddenly understood, was why Dennis wanted her to travel with someone. Maybe she’d write another song. It was too early to tell what that song might be, of course, but . . . maybe even a song about something that wasn’t quite so painful. There were, after all, happy moments in Valdemar.

She looked over at Silver. Tears glittered like gems on the younger woman’s smooth, pale cheeks but she sang through a wide smile, and her eyes were warm behind the wetness.

Warmth bloomed inside Jocelyn. It took her a moment to recognize it as happiness, to notice that she, too, smiled as she sang, even though tear tracks still stained her own cheeks.

HORSE OF AIR

by Rosemary Edghill

Rosemary Edghill’s first professional sales were to the black & white comics of the late 1970s, so she can truthfully state on her resume that she once killed vampires for a living. She is also the author of over thirty novels and several dozen short stories in genres ranging from Regency Romance to Space Opera, making all local stops in between. In addition to her work with Mercedes Lackey, she has collaborated with authors such as the late Marion Zimmer Bradley and the late SF Grand Master Andre Norton, worked as an SF editor for a major New York publisher, as a freelance book designer, and as a professional book reviewer. Her hobbies include sleep, research for forthcoming projects, and her Cavalier King Charles Spaniels. Her website can be found at

http://www.sff.net/people/eluki

THERE are places in Valdemar where the Heralds can’t go.

Well, actually, this isn’t true. Heralds and their Companions are welcome everywhere from Keyold to the Crook-back Pass. Heralds are the voice and hands of King Sendar—it’s Queen Selenay now, but it was Sendar who reigned when I put on my white leathers for the first time, and old habits are hard to break. Heralds bring news and gossip, defend the weak, embody the Crown’s justice.

Do good in the world.

It is a sacred trust to be a Herald, and it is a public thing. You are always on display whenever you are in public. People tend to think of Heralds as being more than human—as far removed from them and ordinary concerns as our Companions. Above pettiness, injustice, fear, and weakness.

The first lesson you learn from your Companion—and at the Collegium—is that you must never disappoint them.

Sometimes it is—was very hard. To be always watched, and always judged by a standard no human could possibly meet.

And because they believe such things of Heralds, the people behave differently when Heralds are among them. Some try to act as they believe a Herald would, and that can be a good thing. Some hide—both their bodies and their words—out of fear, out of awe, out of guilt.

Some lie. Some tell too much truth.

Even in Haven, where they see Heralds and their Companions daily, it is the same. The people turn a different face to the Heralds than they do to one another. They talk of different things.

And so, when I say that there are places in Valdemar that a Herald cannot go, this is why. If the Crown would know what the people speak of when the Crown’s greatest mystery is not before them in a glory of blue leather and silver bells, it must send other eyes.

I must go.

It has been twenty years since Shavanne and I rode over these roads on circuit. The bells that ring out my journey now are copper and brass, twined about my walking staff.

I walk everywhere now. I could not bear to ride.

When I returned to the Collegium after Shavanne was killed, everyone said I would be Chosen again—it was only to be expected. It was the last thing I wanted; for months after I was well in body I wandered the halls of the Collegium, soul-sick and, perhaps, half-mad at the death of my Lady Heart. Everyone said that, too, would pass; in time my soul would heal.

Even my fellow Heralds, those few who knew what it was to survive the death of that which should survive both death and age, said I would love and be loved again.

I had no desire for that. Shavanne had been life and joy to me. I could see no purpose in accepting anything less, and I could imagine nothing more.

Perhaps it would have been different if I had possessed one of the Great Gifts, or even a powerful one, but I had no more than minor Mindspeech and perhaps—no one was every quite sure—a trace of Empathy, enough to hear Shavanne’s voice, and with her death, even that was gone. I did not miss it.

I knew that she, of all beings, would not wish me to squander my life in vain regrets and hopeless yearnings, and I tried to honor what I knew were her wishes. The anger at my loss—Valdemar’s loss—faded, and even the bitterness, in time.

But no one Chose me, and it was a relief.

When a year had passed, I knew it was time to take up my service to the Crown once more in whatever fashion I could. The King’s Own had shown me the way.

There are places in Valdemar that a Herald cannot go. I had all a Herald’s training, and loyalties, but I was not, precisely, a Herald. I put off my white leathers for a coat of motley, and took up my belled staff.

Paynim the tinker was welcome everywhere in Valdemar. My father had been a tinsmith; we both thought, when I was Chosen, that my apprenticeship in his shop had been for nothing. How wrong we both had been. A tinker can find work anywhere, and stay as long or as short a time as he pleases. He need carry with him no more than the tools of his trade, and no one is surprised when he wanders on. I wandered where I was sent—even into Hardorn and Karse—and in twenty years I had crossed and recrossed Valdemar a dozen times.

Where there was need of a Herald, all white leather and silver bells, I sent for one. Where merely sending a report back to Haven was wanted, I did that, too. I quickly learned the circuit of every Herald; it was easy to pass messages and receive orders.

My friends kept my secrets, as I wished, and as the years accumulated, fewer and fewer that I met knew that I once wore the White. It is more comfortable that way. If they wonder who I am, and why they bring me messages and take my reports away, they do not ask.

Herald Niniyel and Companion Teroshan had brought me a message; there are many fairs and market days throughout the warm dry months, and Heralds and tinkers both attend many of them. The message was an odd and improbable one, but it is my task to turn the unlikeliest of rumors into hard truth, and until I have seen—or not seen—what I have been sent to see, I do not waste my time wondering about it in advance. A wise man never needs to borrow trouble since fools give it away free, as my father always told me.

Yet this time I did wonder out of season, for the message Herald Niniyel had brought me said there was a witch in the Armor Hills.

That alone was reason enough for me to go.

Since Vanyel’s time, there has been no magic in Valdemar. The Mind-Gifts of Herald and Healer are not sorcery, as they use the term beyond our borders. But lately that has changed. There is even a Mage College in Haven now, though it is new and I have never seen a Brown Robe on my wanderings. But the world is filled with wonders that I have not seen with my own eyes—a Karsite Captain with a Companion, for example.

But it is a byword of the Bards that the memory of the common folk is longer than any History, and so the country folk have never ceased to speak of witches when they encounter anything uncanny.

A fortnight and more of steady walking lay between me and my destination, but it was summer, a good time to walk the roads. The Armor Hills are north of the East Trade Road. They are not so distant from Haven as many other places, but Sumpost and Boarsden are the nearest villages, and they are not large. To the north, Iftel is their border; on the east, Hardorn.

I had been told that the witch of the Armor Hills was said to be a woman grown—that in itself was odd, for notable Gifts generally appear first in childhood. Further, it was said that all the Armor Hills paid her tribute, for she had the power to call a man’s soul out of his body, which is a power that could not be explained by a misunderstanding of any of the Mind-Gifts I knew—so perhaps the tales I chased were true, and what I sought was indeed a witch.

At first, there was nothing for me to see. It was difficult enough to find the people themselves, for the Armor Hills is a wild and unforgiving place, and the houses of its folk are scattered and hidden. The people there subsist by hunting and trapping, and gathering the bounty of the wild, for though I saw many small gardens—once I had found the people—I had also quickly discovered that everything that is not up is down; it is impossible to find a level tract of land to plow or plant. It is an article of faith with those who dwell there that the land is too poor to take a crop, but I saw no sign of that. The small gardens flourished, and the woods and sharp-cut narrow valleys that I trudged through were lush with growth.

I mended pots, gossiped idly, and listened more than I talked.

A moonturn passed as I wandered from house to house. I had visited such remote places before, and knew better than to ask questions, lest I give offense, but soon I was accepted so far that one night’s host would give me good directions to the next place that might have need of my services, and I no longer had to search out each house by myself.

People began to talk freely in my hearing, giving little thought to me as I sat over my fire in the dooryard, wrestling a cracked pot into working order or repairing an old skillet that must have lost its handle in King Roald’s reign. That was when I first heard folk speak of the Moonwoman. Who else but she could be the creature I sought?

They said she was the offspring of a Companion and a Herald. I took no offense at hearing that; the common folk say odder things of us. They said her hair was as white as a Companion’s tail—that, at least, was a thing nearly possible.

They said she could see the inmost thoughts of man, woman, or child, and could send their spirit from their body into light or darkness, calling it back at her whim. To placate her, they gave her anything she asked for when she walked among them.

These things did not sound at all encouraging, but what mattered most to me was that they said she would be at Midsummer Meeting. There I could see her—if she was, in fact, a flesh-and-blood woman and not simply a tale of the hills—and judge for myself for myself whether she had all—or any—of the powers claimed for her.

It took more work than I had imagined to gain an invitation to Midsummer Meeting. I had imagined, hearing the hill folk speak of it, that it was simply their version of one of the Season Fairs so common elsewhere, in Valdemar, and so a tinker would surely be welcome.

In fact, it bore more in common with a religious gathering, or a mustering of clans. Midsummer Meeting was where marriages were celebrated, babies acknowledged, and those who had died in the previous twelvemonth named. Trading went on as well, and music, dancing, and fine eating, but the true purpose of Midsummer Meeting was the exchange of information among the hill households, and a chance for a young hill son or hill daughter to meet someone from several valleys away.

But outsiders were not forbidden to attend.

Meramay was a young widow, plump and blonde, who had taken a shine (as the saying there went) to me. I had stayed with her ten days together, walking out each day in search of work, and returning at nightfall, adding my day’s payment, in eggs or honeycomb or fresh-killed rabbit, to Meramay’s larder. In truth, she could use all that I brought, for she lived entirely alone, and to take a living from the hills was a constant round of hard work, best shared by many strong backs.

I dealt with her honestly, telling her that I was lowland bred and born and would be moving on before the seasons turned. Still, there was comfort to be given and taken. She told me flatly the first night I stayed with her that she hoped to get a child with me, as she was seeking a new husband at Midsummer Meeting, and, as in many places, a woman’s fertility was a far more attractive quality than her chastity.

It was she who invited me to accompany her to Midsummer Meeting; she wished to show off her current bedmate to her prospective suitors, much as a farmer would show the bull when selling the calf. I had long since outlived false pride, and so I was happy to say I would go with her.

“I only hope Moonwoman doesn’t take against me,” Meramay told me matter-of-factly. “She doesn’t like a light-haired girl, and no man’s going to cross her.”

“You might darken your hair,” I said casually, though my heart was beating fast; this was the first time anyone had spoken of Moonwoman directly to me. “The herbs are easy to find, after all.”

Meramay shook her head decisively. “That’d be the same as lying, and they say she hates a liar worse than death and poison. She can see right into a body’s heart, too.”

There was no changing Meramay’s mind, though I did wonder why, if she feared Moonwoman so much, why she was taking the risk of bringing an outsider to Midsummer Meeting. She did take the precaution of tying up her hair in a brightly colored scarf before we set out; apparently simply hiding her hair didn’t count as lying.

And so we began.

Meramay carried a pack heavier than my own, and traveled, besides, with a cart drawn by one of the enormous brown-and-black dogs which are the usual beasts of burden in these hills, pulling carts and sometimes carrying packs themselves.

It took us three days to reach the place where Midsummer Meeting was to be held, but I had long since decided for myself that everything in the Armor Hills was three days’ walk from everything else, most of it spent climbing one side of a hill and falling down the other. As we walked, I did my best to gain more information from Meramay about the mysterious Moonwoman.

Meramay said she had been here “for always,” but Moonwoman had not been at last year’s Midsummer Meeting, nor had word reached Haven of her before the spring, so I did not think that could be so. I was growing increasingly uneasy with what I heard of her; Meramay had never seen her, but she certainly feared her.

On the third day, just as we reached the meeting grounds, I found out why.

“Was her took my man,” Meramay said, as simply as if she were remarking on the fine summer weather, or the flowers growing by the side of the trace. “Saw him out walking of an evening and followed him home. Then she Sang him out of my bed, will-he, nill-he, and that was that.”

This was the first time anyone had mentioned music in connection wit the witch I was seeking. Did Moonwoman have Bardic Gifts? No proper Bard would use his or her powers so; I was not even certain that Bardic Empathy could so thoroughly compel someone against their will, certainly not the Gift of an untrained Bard.

I would have questioned Meramay further, though it was a chancy thing to do, save for the fact that we had arrived at Meeting Home.

It was the closest thing to a proper town that I had yet seen in the Armor Hills, though it must lie deserted most of the year. There were dance floors, open to the air; platforms of raised wood planks, where even now groups of dancers whirled, stamped, and spun to the sounds of drums and dulcimers, and even a few roofs without walls, where groups of hill women clustered together, talking and sewing and keeping a weather eye on the youngest children. Meeting Home filled an entire valley, and its floor was surely the largest flat space I’d seen since I’d arrived here. At one end of the valley there were a row of hearths, a great openair kitchen flanked by tables enough to fill the dining hall at the Herald’s Collegium.

I wondered, then, why I should think of that, for memories of the Collegium belonged to a life I had long since left behind me. They had nothing to do with the life Paynim the Tinker led.

Though the Meeting did not properly begin until the following night, the whole of the valley was already filled with bright clothes and bright colors, the sounds of music, and the smells of good cooking. There were more people here than I had seen so far in my entire visit to the Hills, and Meramay assured me that more would arrive before the Meeting Days began tomorrow night with the acknowledgment of the new children born in the past year. As I followed Meramay across the meadow to help her unload her cart, I saw unharnessed cart dogs lying everywhere, basking in the sunlight.

With Meramay to make my introductions, I was welcomed without trouble, and set myself up near those who had brought things to trade. I soon had as much work as I could fairly handle. Not much of my payment was in coin; there was little way I would be able to carry the bulkiest of the goods away with me, but I might well be able to trade them for smaller and more portable items—or for more costly things that I could fairly use, such as a new shirt, a hat, or a pair of breeches.

More people arrived as the day waned, and that night there was a feast the like of which I had rarely experienced, followed by dancing that would go on, I was assured, until dawn.

The dances of the Armor Hills are complicated ones, and after stumbling through a few sets, I excused myself and sat with those who were—to hear them tell it—older and wiser. When the ale jugs began to pass, I began to hear more of the Moonwoman.

Half of what I heard I discounted immediately, for not even the sorcerers of Karse and Iftel could do such things as were claimed for Moonwoman—or if they could do one, they surely could not do the whole.

Thus, I did not think she could truly turn men into wolves and women into deer, nor ride the wind invisibly, nor strike people dead with a touch. If she could do even a tenth of what was claimed of her, she would have been a greater Mage than Vanyel the Good, and I thought that unlikely.

What was plain to hear, however, was that the people of the Armor Hills feared her greatly, and would not cross her, though she took not only goods from their houses, but young men as well, none of whom had ever been seen again. I heard, further, that she was never seen beneath the light of the sun, which only increased the awe in which she was held.

The awe . . . and the fear.

It was fear, perhaps, that had kept them from petitioning for a Herald’s services before now. In truth, I did not know. I heard as much admiration of Moonwoman as I did anything else, though only a fool would think he would hear honest and open criticism of one whom they felt wielded such power. Such reticence was, in fact, one of the very reasons I walked the roads, for awe and fear are close cousins, and neither is the sister of truth. It was plain that I had much to report to Alberich, but I could not leave just yet. I would have no good reason to give for my sudden departure.

Besides, I had not yet seen the woman, and there is a saying in the taverns along the Exile’s Road that truth is to tale as the worm to the fish: one may easily be swallowed up by the other.

On the first day of the Meeting, disaster struck, though at first Meramay and I both thought it to be a blessing. Several of the families that arrived brought strangers with them. In each case, the story was the same: they had been found wandering nearby, with no memory of who they were or how they had come to be where they were. The families that had found them led them around to those who cooked and those who traded, for these were usually the elder men and women of their households, and might have the best chance of naming them.

Of course I could be no help in identifying them; perhaps if Shavanne had still been with me, but not now. That they all came from the Armor Hills was plain; the folk there, whether blond or dark, have a strong look of one another. And all were within a few summers of the same age.

I returned to my work, turning over in my mind what could have caused this. A few moments later I heard Meramay scream, loud enough to be heard over the sound of my own hammering. I dropped my tools at once, and ran for her side.

“Garan! Paynim, it’s Garan! Ceile, Joard, Magan—it’s Garan!” She was laughing and crying, and hugging the neck of one of the men. He looked bewildered but polite. Elsewhere, I heard similar glad outcries as lovers and kin claimed those without memory.

“Moonwoman Sang him away, and now he’s back!” she added.

When I had been a Herald, I could sense the tenor of emotion in the towns and villages I passed through. It required no Mind Gift to do so, Shavanne had assured me, only experience and plain common sense. As a tinker, I had not noticed such things any longer, and came to the conclusion that I had felt it before because everyone had been focused upon one thing: me. And I did not feel it later, since no one pays any attention to a wandering craftsman, or if they do, it is in ones and twos, and not everyone in the town at once.

But now once more I felt it, and as if I still wore Whites, I could read the ripples of emotion as easily as a fisherman can read the ripples in a stream.

For Meramay to speak Moonwoman’s name aloud was bad enough. To say what she had done—in fact, to accuse Moonwoman of doing something—was far worse. Even though no one moved from where they stood, I felt their displeasure, and I was not surprised when they began to drift away and move their goods away, until soon Meramay was standing alone.

Even Garan felt it. He made graceful apologies to Meramay, saying he had to get his family settled in, but still he left; he had been Sung away nearly five moonturns ago, after all, and the people who had taken him in were all the family he knew.

She gazed at me, eyes wide and hurt and frightened, just beginning to be afraid.

I knew then that we must leave at once, for the sort of sullen anger she had roused was the sort I had seen flare to violence more times than I could count. But she swore she would not leave without Garan; that he would not be taken from her twice.

I mustered every good argument I could think of in vain—that she knew now where he was and that he was safe; that she did not wish to kindle one of the stubborn grudges that might smolder for generations in a small enclave, beginning for a cause as trivial as a misheard greeting; that Garan would return to her when he had gotten a chance to think—but she would not go. Whether because it was impossible for her to leave Midsummer Meeting or because it was impossible for her to leave Garan, I did not know. I dared not press her too hard lest she turn against me and order me from the Meeting; I would not go in any event, and I thought she would need my help soon.

I was more right than I suspected.

The shunning of Meramay that had begun when she had spoken those fatal words grew like the lake ripples from a thrown stone, until her face was as grim as my own. No one wished her assistance at their cookstove, nor to add the dishes she had prepared to their communal table. But she was proud and stubborn, and still she would not leave. We sat alone together, I making my whole meal of the eggs and vegetable pies that were to have been her contribution to the feast, and Meramay too miserable to eat at all.

I had expected the dancing to resume after supper, though the trading and bargaining over knives and axheads, cloth and livestock, was over for the day. But instead of pipes and drums and fiddles, as the sun set over the valley and twilight filled it, the only sound I heard was that of a lone and distant gittern.

In my home village we play the twelve-string gittern only, though the six-string is the more common instrument in most of the kingdom, for it is easier to learn, and to play well. I recognized the faint silvery ringing of the doublestringed gittern long before I saw the singer.

She came walking down the valley, glowing like the full moon itself in the twilight, and if you had never seen a Companion, you would surely think that the hair that fell loose and rippling to her waist was as white as its coat.

And I thought I must know what she was, or half of it.

When I was a student at Haven, a child was brought to the Healer’s College for treatment. Young Jaxon’s skin and hair were as white as Moonwoman’s, and the bright light hurt his eyes terribly. I had seen the boy arrive, and asked the Healers what might be wrong with him. Master Tiedor told me that like some animals, the boy had been born without color in his skin or hair, and none of the healing arts could cure that, or lend strength to his eyes. In animals, Healer Tiedor told me, the uncolored state does not cause weak eyes, but humans who are so afflicted cannot see in bright sunlight at all.

The Healers were able to help, with tinted lenses for Jaxon’s eyes, lotion for his skin to heal the effects of the sun, and calm matter-of-fact advice to his parents. Though his parents had been hoping for a cure when they came to Haven, this was no disease, just a different way of being born, and to change it was beyond a Healer’s skill.

So must it be with Moonwoman.

The people all turned toward her like flowers to the sun, and I felt a strong prickle of warning, though as yet she had done nothing but pick out a tune upon the gittern, a lullay I had heard many of the women sing here. It is written in a minor key, filled with sadness and longing, like so many of the old songs.

But now the sweet tune seemed to contain anger as well; I felt it prickle across my skin and I wished, longingly, for some weapon. But I had nothing more than an eating knife, and my belled staff.

Many of the men with whom I had shared ale last night had fallen into step behind her, and from all around, men and women drifted toward her in little groups, following as she paced slowly down the length of the valley. Some carried torches plucked up from around the dancing floors to light their way.

And then Moonwoman opened her mouth and sang.

To this day the experience seems unreal to me. Her words were of a father who has gone away hunting to feed his family and will never return; but the meaning had nothing to do with the words.

In Haven I had once been privileged to listen to a Master Bard enchant a whole hall of folk in just this way, standing upon a stage with a harp in his arms—but it was his audience that was his instrument. But the emotions Bard Ronton had conjured in audience were mild and peaceful, compared to the killing rage I sensed building in the people around me.

In a minute—or two, at most—it would crescendo into violence, and I could already guess its target. If we dared to run, we would only conjure the inevitable up faster. Meramay stood beside me, too terrified by what she, too, knew was about to happen to fall beneath the music’s spell.

The music—and the musician.

By now the mob was close enough that I could see the singer’s face clearly. Tears glittered in her pale eyes, and her face was set in a white mask.

She was as terrified as Meramay.

I could not let this happen, though I died trying to prevent it.

As Shavanne had died, swept downstream by floodwaters, her body battered against the rocks along the way, until she was impaled on a submerged tree branch that ended her glorious life as surely as a Tedrel spear.

We had nearly been safely across the river, risking the crossing because villagers downstream had to be warned about the flood. But the bridge ropes had been rotted through with age, and it had collapsed under our weight. Shavanne had nearly gotten us both to safety even so, but the far bank was water-sodden earth and it had collapsed beneath her hooves when she tried to climb it. She had spent the last of her strength throwing me to safety, but doing so had pitched her back into the water.

I had felt each moment of her struggle to live.

I had heard her dying scream.

I would not again fail to save a life.

Not here, and not tonight.

I willed Moonwoman to hear me, as I stepped into her path and shouted with all my might, both in Mindspeech and with my voice. To stop what she was doing was our only chance; the people she had englamoured could not be reasoned with, nor would they feel they were acting in anything but self-defense.

Someone threw a rock.

It struck me in the shoulder, too small and flung from too far off to do more than sting, but in that moment I knew despair and felt Death step near.

Yet I would not surrender nor flee, for I was a Herald still, in my heart, even though no one could see.

I had never ceased to be a Herald.

“Stop!” I shouted again, and this time I felt Shavanne add her strength to mine.

Power roared through my veins like the waters of that long-ago flooded river. This was the Mindspeech such as I had never wielded it, strong enough to match Moonwoman’s own gift, enough for all about me to hear.

She flung back her head as if I had struck her with a hand of flesh. The gittern fell from her hands, and she swayed, falling at last to her knees and burying her face in her hands, weeping.

All around me the hill folk roused, coming out of the trance into which she had Sung them. They gazed from Moonwoman to me with looks of awe, though I knew how quickly that would change to both fear and anger. The “sorceress’s” power over them was broken at last—and they would quickly hate what they had lately feared—but they had no idea how.

I did.

The night wind brought me the sound of phantom silver bells.

:Now at last I leave you, Beloved. Be well.:

I knew now how I had lived through my terrible bereavement, and why I had never been Chosen again. Why should a Herald with one Companion have another? In all the years I had walked the roads of Valdemar, Shavanne had never left my side, and in the one moment when I truly needed her, she was there.

Perhaps it is not possible. Perhaps her presence in my mind was no more than an illusion, nurtured by longdelayed grief. Perhaps my Mindspeech was so powerful for lying dormant all those years.

But I know what I believe.

I did not wait for the folk of the Armor Hills to know their own minds, but took Moonwoman away with me while they still wondered and argued among themselves. I stayed only to gather up my pack and to borrow Meramay’s hooded cloak from her. The goods I had gotten in trade here would be a fair bargain for it, and I knew that Moonwoman would not be able to stand the light of the sun upon her skin. And we would be traveling many days beneath the light of the sun.

I would be returning to Haven for the first time in many years, for I needed to give my charge personally into the hands of Healers and Bards—and there was certainly no safety for her in the Armor Hills now, even if she had wished to stay.

Along the way, she learned to trust me, and told me her story.

Her true name was Liah. She had been born in these hills nineteen summers ago, in a remote cabin similar to many I had stopped at during my visit here. Her parents, Andren and Colmye, were simple folk who knew little of the world beyond their hills and believed less. They had thought their daughter’s milk-white skin and hair must be some sort of judgment upon them, and when the sickly child was painfully burned by the sun, they became certain she was a curse, for what else would take injury from the sun, source of all good?

Andren blamed his wife, of course, denying that the child was his.

I well knew the madness of grief. Even though his fear and anger had led to suffering for so many others, I could understand why Andren had acted as he had done, even though I could not excuse it.

Andren put it about at the next Midsummer Meeting that Colmye’s child had died; no one doubted his tale. Colmye never attended another Meeting—whether she would have endorsed his story to her own mother, even Liah does not know. Andren never ceased to reproach his wife for giving birth to a Moon-child, though he never raised a hand to her or to Liah.

Liah grew toward maturity seeing no one but her parents. Her father hated and feared her, her mother, shattered in spirit, retreated into a world of music. It was her mother’s gittern Liah had been playing that night.

Her Gift manifested violently, as the Great Gifts often do. One night the smoldering anger she felt against Andren boiled over. She Sang him all her hatred and despair with the life she led until he fled the cabin into the night; in the morning her mother’s screams awoke her.

She helped her mother cut her father down from the branch on which he’d hanged himself.

After that, I think Liah lost all hope. She knew she had caused her father’s death; therefore all that he said of her must be true. She knew that she had the power to impose her will upon those around her with a song, and she had used her power to kill.

Her mother followed her father into death a scant few years later, wasted away with madness and grief. Though I do not think Liah caused that death, save indirectly, she blamed herself for it as well—and she blamed the hill people who had not come to her mother’s aid, though by the time Liah had eighteen summers behind her, I do not know if many of them remembered Andren and Colmye at all, and none knew that there was a child.

In loss, in fear, in rage, Liah tried to become all that her father had thought she was. She found that people would believe anything that she Sang to them, and had used that single power to create a fantastic monster of herself. The men that she lured from their wives she compelled to forget their families, and even their own names, and sent them wandering through the hills; even she was not sure why.

Perhaps Garin and the others could be Healed, and their memories restored. Healers would have to go to the hills to try to undo the damage Liah had done. Healers, and Heralds, and teachers as well. Life in the Armor Hills would change, perhaps for the better.

Liah would need Healing as well, and Training.

She must accept what she had done, and move beyond it.

Sometimes Healing takes a very long time. I am not too proud to say that I am proof of that, for anger and grief take strange forms, and can be stubborn enough to defeat the strongest Healer.

Yet if the heart is strong, Time heals all, in the end.

In Trevale, I will buy a horse for us to ride, now that Shavanne is gone.

A Change Of Heart

by Sarah A. Hoyt and Kate Paulk

Kate Paulk was born in Australia where, unable to decide what she’d be when she grew up, she took no less than three degrees. When bored with that, she married an American. She’s now residing in Texas with her husband and two bossy felines. One of her stories will come out soon in an Illuminated Manuscripts anthology and she’s working on a novel.

Sarah A. Hoyt was born in Portugal, a mishap she hastened to correct as soon as she came of age. She lives in Colorado with her husband, her two sons and a varying horde of cats. She has published a Shakespearean fantasy trilogy, as well as any number of short stories in magazines ranging from

Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine

to

Dreams of Decadence

. She’s currently working on an adventure/ time travel novel with Eric Flint. Her Three Musketeer Mysteries are upcoming under the name Sarah D’Almeida.

JACONA stank in the heat of a summer night. The stenches melded, mingled, and rolled onto Ree’s senses like a physical assault—a cloying staleness of dinners, the acrid bite of wood smoke, the offensive punch of middens and animals and offal, of human sweat and too many bodies living too close together.

Ree remembered when the smell didn’t bother him. He remembered—and shook his head and tried to forget. The new talents had their uses. Right now he could smell a collection of unfamiliar scents: leather, sweat, and steel. A patrol. Approaching.

Silently, he slipped back into the shadows of his refuge, the abandoned warehouse behind him. It had been deserted since last winter, when the magic failed. All that remained now was a maze of rotting timber and fallen stone, unfit for human life. Which did not bother Ree. He had not been human since the magic storms.

One of the disturbances had caught him, a few days after the magic went bad. He had been stalking a sleek rat that would have given him meat for a day. The rat had found an old cat waiting to die. Ree had pounced on the rat as it gave the cat an experimental nip.

Lurking in the shadows, he shivered, despite the heat of the night, as he remembered the blurriness and the queasy feeling—as he remembered opening his eyes to a different world. A different self. To a self equipped with cat claws and rat’s tail, with cat eyes, too sensitive to movement and keen in the darkness—to a short coat of fur over his whole body. The fur had helped him survive the winter. His keener senses helped him avoid the patrols and the soldiers who killed hobgoblins like him.

At least he’d been lucky so far. But it was getting harder. Ever since the snow began to melt, there had been more and more patrols. Ree was the last of the street rats who sheltered in the ruined warehouse. The humans had been caught and taken off to orphanages or work gangs, and the hobgoblins had been killed. For all he knew, he was the only hobgoblin left in Jacona.

How long could he go on surviving?

Voices drifted to his ears. They had a strange accent, not like the regular patrol. And yet, they still smelled military. Ree tensed and breathed shallowly. The area around his refuge had been empty at night ever since Emperor Melles had declared a curfew so the hobgoblin patrols would not accidentally kill anyone’s registered Changechildren.

Ree scrambled up through the debris until he could peer out from one of the many holes in the roof.

Outside, in the dark night, his changed eyes could see strangers. Soldiers. Real soldiers. At least no city patrol Ree had ever seen would dress in gray. City patrols believed in bright colors as a way of showing how important they were. The army believed in efficiency. Gray clothes and actually doing their jobs.

Ree held his breath. Soldiers were bad news. He ducked back into the dark before he reminded himself that only his changed sight allowed him to see them. And to hear them, as they drew nearer.

“. . . can’t believe no one’s torn this dump down, even for firewood.”

One of the soldiers laughed. Ree could not see which one. There were five, all burly and looking well-fed.

“Ever’thing round here’s Army property now, anyhow. Ain’t no one was gonna go through all that crap last winter just to steal a bit of firewood off of Army land.”

An icy fist clenched around Ree’s gut. He bit his lip, to avoid calling out. The army was efficient. Efficient . . . at killing hobgoblins and undesirables. At rounding up street rats for the work gangs. “More like they didn’t want to meet the rats,” said another man. “Every brat that’s been picked up in this sector knows the rat hole.”

They moved in close enough to be hidden by the walls of the building. Only the sound of their breathing, the sound of their movements told Ree they were still there and coming closer. And closer.

Ree stayed where he was, frozen. His hands reached back, to find support against a wall that was mostly crumbling rubble. He felt the dryness of plaster against his palms. Surely they would not enter his refuge. This place wasn’t safe. For humans.

For him, and for the rest of the city’s discards, it was home.

“Gah! Filthy vermin!” Squeaks and skittering joined the soldier’s curse as rats fled the noise. A boot scraped in the rubble.

They had come in. Ree’s chest hurt. His mind became a blank space filled with fear. Part of him—the part of him at the back of the mind, the part of him that was not fully human, not fully himself, wanted to run, to hide. But his working mind, his memories, knew better. To run meant to call attention to himself. It meant death.

The soldiers came closer. A spot of light danced erratically on the skewed beams near Ree’s head. One of the soldiers had unshielded a night lantern. Though Ree knew he could not be seen from the ground, he had to fight the urge to run, to escape. To hide in a hole and be safe.

Heart pounding, he waited until the lantern was lowered and its light aimed away from his hiding place. Slowly, he crept out of his hiding place. Balancing his feet on crossed beams, he shifted quickly, feeling the slight shift of the wood beneath him, and leaping before the minimal movement turned to a rolling fall. He skipped and tiptoed and leaped till he reached a hole, barely big enough to let a slim rat-boy through.

Stretching his arms up to the hole, he balanced on one foot. As he lifted himself by the strength of his arms, the log rolled beneath him, and a shower of rubble trickled beneath.

“Up there!” The light of the lantern hit Ree.

Ree pulled himself up, pushing his head through the hole. He had to escape, to get away from the light, away from discovery.

“Outside, quick! It can’t get far!”

Ree squirmed through the gap, pulling himself on his aching arms, feeling the jagged edges of the hole scrape his fur-covered body.

“Quick,” a soldier shouted beneath.

Ree skidded down the sloping roof, twisting around to get his feet under him. A second from a precipitous fall, he managed to jump onto the next building. For a heart-stopping moment, he hung in the air, then his fingers latched onto the wooden eaves of the building across the lane.

His claws extended, instinctively, and dug into the wood. His feet scrabbled for a hold.

He heard shouts behind him. Strength he didn’t know he possessed infused him. He pulled himself onto the steepsloped roof. Scrabbling up it, he panted. His heart hammered in his chest. His throat ached with dryness.

At the top, he held on, his claws fully extended, biting into the age-softened wood. He eased himself down the shingled roof. His chest hurt. He swallowed. Once. Twice, trying to summon moisture onto his panic-parched tongue.

He’d survived. He was alive. But he was alone and unprotected. Where would he go now? The abandoned warehouse had been the closest thing he had ever had to a home. Well, the closest thing since his mother’s home.. . . .

Ree banished memories of a beautiful woman dressed in silks—of perfumed rooms—of her laughing. Her laughter had never been for him. Nor had there been any true joy in it. It had been a sham deployed in the service of the men who paid her. And more often than not Ree was locked out of her rooms while she entertained clients. Until . . .

Ree blinked to clear his burning eyes. His mother’s home had never been home. His mother had never been a true mother. And besides, that was all done and over with. That was the other Ree, the human—the boy. The clawless, furless creature who was as nothing to this Ree. . . .

He swallowed hard, wishing moisture away from his cheeks. He was no weak human. Not anymore. He would not cry. He would think. The warehouse could not be the only available shelter in this town. He had to lose the soldiers, and then he could think about what to do next. At least climbing down to the ground was easy.

Streets here were swept at least once each day by one of the work gangs. With his night vision, Ree could scamper through them as if it were full daylight. He hardly thought about where he was going. And perhaps that was for the best. If he had nothing in mind and just turned on whim, the soldiers would find it harder to follow him. It would be harder to anticipate random movements.

Their voices grew fainter till even his enhanced hearing could hardly pick them at all. Ree breathed deeply. It was working.

As he came to a narrow lane between overarching buildings, he slowed down and looked around. His mad turnings had brought him to one of the tenement districts, where the shabby buildings leaned so close to each other they almost touched above the lane. Black alleys barely wide enough for a hand cart separated the buildings. The sun never reached the mud beneath.

He lifted his feet off the dismal muck and sighed. He needed to pick his way more carefully now. He had already trodden in more than enough to leave a scent trail even a human could follow.

Lifting his foot, he shook off the worst of the filth. These lanes had never been paved. They went from ice in winter to mud in summer, and since the magic died they had more than just mud and ice in them. He had been born somewhere like this. He’d played in these streets—or walked forlornly along them—when his mother locked him out of her rooms.

Ree crept slowly through the darkness, listening, listening. His enhanced hearing picked up the sounds of people in their houses—whispers, conversations, a sleeper turning in bed, a child crying forlornly.

Smells seeped over the ever-present stink of waste. A hint of stew that made his stomach growl, reminding him that he had not eaten since last night. Old beer, rancid as it mingled with older straw in the closed alehouses. Unwashed humans, ripe with sweat from days of work in the summer heat. Acrid smoke from cooking fires. The smells were signs of life in the darkness.

But the streets themselves were almost deserted. This area had once bustled day and night. But since the curfew, no one wanted to risk a crossbow. A shadowed figure in darkness could be mistaken for a hobgoblin, and who was going to say the soldier who fired the crossbow hadn’t thought he was killing a monster? Certainly not the dead person.

The quiet felt wrong to Ree. Ominous. Even though he could never go out among humans again, Ree wanted to know people were still out there on the streets—feasting, fighting, flirting. People on the streets meant things were normal again, and normal meant that people would fear hobgoblins less. And not hunt a young street rat, constantly making his life a living hell.

He walked down the street, listening, listening for the sounds that told him at least people were still living in their houses, still safe. He felt a nostalgia for that life he’d never had, for that life that would never be his—for a family and a quiet snug home, where he could turn in his bed, pull the covers over his head, and be safe.

His ears, reaching for the sounds of normalcy picked up marching. Marching feet. His fur rose in hackles on his neck. Marching footsteps came from farther up the lane. He stopped. Then darted into the nearest alley.

“What the—” someone said, near him.

Panicked, Ree spun to the unexpected voice. A hulking shape loomed out of the blackness as the marching feet grew closer.

A hand closed around his neck. Ree’s claws came out. He squirmed, scratching out with hands and feet to make the human in the army uniform let go. He had to. He had to defend himself, to force the human to leave him be. He somehow wrapped his body around an arm that seemed thicker than his chest, his feet kicking at the man’s neck.

The hand let go. Ree tumbled to the ground, gasping. The dead weight of his attacker fell on him. Almost flattened him. Was the man dead? Had Ree killed him? There was a trickle of something warm-soft onto his neck, some liquid.

Oh, he could smell well enough the sharp, metallic tang of blood. But he didn’t want it to be blood. He didn’t want to have killed someone.

Oh, not the first time. Never the first time. But Ree didn’t want to kill. He didn’t want . . . Every time he killed someone, every time his instincts—no, the rat’s instincts, or the cat’s, took over and killed a human, Ree felt that he’d become a little less human. Eventually, his humanity would be all gone. Drained away.

He had lost too much humanity already.

Blood trickled onto his neck, draining away the man’s life, and Ree wanted to stand, to squirm, to flee. But the marching steps approached and he held his breath and hoped, hoped they would pass without pausing.

Closer, he could hear their breaths, and smell the individual men. Not moving, Ree felt blood fall on him, felt the man shudder, stop breathing.

Along the main alley, the marching steps passed away. Slowly, slowly. Ree remained still. Holding his breath.

When the silence had lasted long enough, Ree dug his claws into the mud of the alley and pulled himself from beneath his attacker. His muscles seemed to have gone to water. His movement was too slow. Too slow.

I’m just tired. That’s all. Tired. Give it a little while.

Pulling away from beneath the dead weight, he took deep breaths. His nostrils filled with the smell of blood and filth. He stared at the man he had killed, shaking as he realized what it meant.

Dangerous hobgoblin. They’ll hunt me down and kill me. There could be no doubt the dead man had been killed by a hobgoblin. Human murderers did not leave claw marks clear across their victims’ throats.

He heard a sound. A breath. It came from behind him.

He paused, shocked. He was not alone.

Ree froze, terror rising to choke him. Someone had seen him kill the man. He felt as if his lungs filled with freezing air.

Someone. There was someone. The person would call for help, and he would be killed like an animal. Like the animal he was. He’d killed someone with his claws, with his . . . He’d killed out of sheer panic.

The soft, muffled sound came from deeper in the alley.

For a moment, Ree trembled on the edge of fleeing, then he recognized the smell that lurked beneath the blood and worse. Aw, crap. Not that. He turned slowly, half dreading what he would see, half expecting it.

He stumbled in the direction of the breathing, in the direction of the smell.

The boy lay in the muck. It was hard to say how old he would be: younger than Ree, but not by much. He was all human, but he had the hollow, young-old look all the street rats got sooner or later.

Seen too much, Ree thought. Felt too much.

It was the gag and the way he had been tied up with his ragged pants that made Ree’s gut churn. Aw, crap. You poor thing.

He fell to his knees besides the boy. He saw the momentary panic in the youth’s eyes, and then an odd sort of relaxation, resignation, as if he’d given up the fight and consigned himself to anything fate wished to throw at him. As if the worst possible thing the boy could imagine had happened—and now something worse loomed.

Ree could well imagine what he looked like to this stranger, this shocked stranger. How would he have felt, in the old days, if a monstrosity with rat fur and broad, green cat’s eyes knelt by him . . . touched him.

Gently, Ree reached for the knots. Just the knots, every movement deliberate and slow. Still, the boy closed his eyes and tensed.

The knots were so tight it hurt Ree’s hands to work them free. He would not use his claws to tear through the thin fabric: likely these were the only pants the boy owned. The gag was a little easier, although when Ree’s eyes adjusted and he saw the bloody marks from a beating—probably administered with a rough-edged belt—etched on the boy’s shoulders and face his claws nearly came out anyway. He stifled a hiss.

The boy opened his eyes. They were very large and sky blue, and looked at Ree with startled surprise. Slowly, the boy reached down and gingerly touched his wrist with his other hand.

He blinked at Ree. “What—” he started and swallowed and his expression changed to one of gratitude.

Ree felt queasy. He hadn’t killed the man to rescue the boy. He had killed in an animal panic.

Gently, Ree held out the boy’s clothes. But the boy was swaying on his feet and looked dazed, and Ree sighed. He dressed the boy as if he were a small child. And the boy let him.

By the time the boy was dressed, Ree realized he couldn’t leave him here. Not like this. Not alone and dazed and hurt. But Ree had nowhere to go. And if anyone saw him . . . Especially with the dead man in the alley. The dead man killed by a hobgoblin.

If the boy refused to turn Ree in, they would hurt him. They would hurt him more.

Ree swallowed. “You know this part of town?” he asked.

The boy nodded. “I squat three blocks down—” He hesitated, as though he wanted to give Ree some kind of title.

“Call me Ree. And let’s go. You gotta rest up, and we don’t want no one finding us.”

As they approached a rickety tenement building, the boy looked over his shoulder at Ree. “I live there,” he said. “In the attic.”

Ree nodded, not knowing what else to say.

The boy looked longer, as if waiting for an answer. “My name is Jem,” he said.

“Jem,” Ree repeated.

And Jem smiled, a brief, startling smile that made him look, of a sudden, much younger and much too old.

He turned away and walked fast, ahead of Ree, a new spring in his step. He took Ree up a steep, crooked staircase that climbed partway outside the building. Then he climbed up to the attic, a space made usable by some enterprising street rat. Jem’s meager belongings sat in a neat pile by the hole in the roof Jem had used as an entry.

Despite his injuries, despite being human, he climbed nearly as well as Ree. Ree bit his lip. No point feeling jealous.

Jem was all human. He could do odd jobs for a copper coin, or get himself ration chits. Ree had no such advantages. But it was Ree who was unhurt and Jem who was ready to pass out.

“Get yourself down, so’s I can clean you up,” he said.

Jem nodded. His eyes, too big for his thin face, never once left Ree’s face as he lay down. But there was no mistrust in that look. No fear.

How can you look at something like me, and not fear?

“I ain’t going to hurt you any more’n I can help,” Ree said roughly. “That big bastard cut you up good, and it’s gotta get cleaned up or you’ll get sick.” He had seen what happened to wounds that were not cleaned. He knew the putrid wounds, the fever. No one deserved to die like that.

Jem swallowed, but he still watched as Ree dipped a rag into the water bucket. When Ree touched the rag to one of Jem’s bloody welts, the boy gasped, and clenched his fists into his hair.

Ree supposed that hurt less. He tried to be gentle, but he had never tried to mend anyone’s hurts before. He was better at killing.

He flinched from the thought, but looking at Jem’s wounds, he could not summon up as much regret as he wished. He just hoped the big bastard had not torn Jem up too bad inside.

But Jem still got sick. His fever rose till he burned to the touch, and he twisted and talked in his sleep.

Ree stayed with him. The rat part—the animal part—wanted to go away. There was a horror of disease. Of death. Death and disease both attracted predators.

The human part of Ree was scared, too. How could it not be? He held onto Jem’s hand through the day, and tried to quiet his screams, his mumbles. Tried to still his panics. And hoped no one heard. No one came.

What would people think if they found a hobgoblin and a human youth?

Ree talked to him through the day. Told him silly things. Sang to him, ballads he barely remembered hearing—in his mother’s house, long ago. And Jem looked at him with wondering, blue eyes.

And never showed fear. Never fear. A twinge of fear from Jem, a twinge of horror at Ree’s strangeness, and Ree would have been free to leave, free to go in search of a new hideout. Free to become a wild creature again. To forget he’d ever been human.

But Jem looked at him with confidence and trust and, in his brief moments of lucidity, grinned at Ree’s jokes, smiled at them. Or reached for Ree’s hand for reassurance.

So Ree stayed. And when he went out at night to refill the water bucket and steal food for them both, he always came back. Perhaps he was fooling himself. Perhaps he was using Jem to make himself feel human.

But he could not possibly live knowing how Jem would feel if he didn’t come back. The idea of Jem’s betrayal and disappointment was more than Ree could bear. It would have stripped Ree’s soul bare of what humanity remained.

So he went and he came back. Sometimes, he caught rats. One good, fat rat made a meal when he skinned it and cooked it over a tiny fire.

In the past, Ree had eaten it raw. But Jem would have been shocked, scared. For the sake of Jem, Ree had to be human and eat with human manners, as he hadn’t since the night the magic had changed him.

And each time, each time out, Ree feared he would be caught. Not just for his death, but because Jem might think he’d been abandoned.

There were more patrols now, and searches. Patrols that came too close for his liking talked about the killer hobgoblin, the one who’d killed the soldier, and how Emperor Melles himself was offering a whole gold piece for the hobgoblin’s hide.

The thought made his stomach go all queasy. Not all those soldiers would make sure he was dead before they started skinning him. And there were worse things . . .

Jacona had become a rat trap. Holding Jem’s hand, as Jem slowly became stronger and more confident, Ree realized he could not stay in the city. Like his warehouse, it had become a trap.

The problem was, he did not know how he was to escape. The work gangs had not just hauled water to cisterns and replaced all the work that used to be done with magic. They had built a new wall around the city, to keep the hobgoblins out. The wall went all the way to Crag Castle, Ree had heard, and soldiers guarded it all the time. Jacona was a fortified rat trap.

No matter how busy the roads were, everyone who went through one of the gates was inspected. Ree had seen the frozen dangling corpse of a merchant who had tried to smuggle his son-turned-hobgoblin out of the city. He did not know if the man had died of the hanging or if he had frozen to death. Ree shuddered at the thought of what the patrols would do to Jem if they found them together.

He did not want to think about it. But he had to escape. It would be safer for Jem if he was just another human, with no rat boy to make him a criminal. Safer for Jem to be alone again. And safer for Ree, even though he had no idea what lay beyond the walls of Jacona.

Oh, he knew there were farms, and farmers, and roads that went to other cities. And he had heard there were wild places where a rat boy might be able to live without humans always hunting him. But he had never seen anything outside Jacona, never been beyond the tenements and warehouses of the poorest districts.

How could he escape?

The aqueducts had been broken by the winter storms after the magic began to die. The sections near the city walls had been knocked down by the work gangs who built the wall.

Ree had heard that no one knew when—or even if—magic was going to come back, so there had been no reason to keep something that would not be useful without magic. He had wondered sometimes if he would eventually change back without magic, but that did not seem likely.

As for the drains . . . Ree shuddered. The patrols would not go there. That was where the Changerats and the even weirder hobgoblins had gone. The ones that were all teeth, claws, and poison. Like the patrols, Ree did not want to know what had become of them. And yet, it might be his only chance. A slim chance at life, as opposed to the sure death that would come to him if they found him in Jacona. And to Jem if they found him sheltering Ree.

But first he had to wait for Jem to be well, for Jem to be well enough to survive on his own.

“You’re leaving?” Jem asked. He managed to look about two years old and very confused.

Ree nodded. Jem had stood up two days ago and he looked strong enough to survive, strong enough to do whatever he had done before meeting Ree. Why was it that Ree could not meet his eyes, and found himself looking at the floor as he said, “Stay away from the soldiers, Jem. You are—” He stopped short of saying that Jem was too pretty to be safe. He had not thought it, not thought it at all the whole time they had been together. Not consciously. Not with his rational mind. He had not. Jem was just . . . Jem. Ree looked up and caught a disturbing glimpse of broad blue eyes, like a summer sky. Threatening rain. “They are not . . . They do not have the restraints of the local patrols. They answer to no one.

“Jacona will be safer for you without me. You could stay here, get work, that sort of thing.”

Jem made a sound. It wasn’t quite a sigh or quite a sob, but it had a bit of both and more of frantic urgency. Ree looked up.

Don’t let Jem cry, he thought. Don’t let Jem cry. He is just young and hurt and recovering from a lingering illness. His crying meant nothing. And yet, I don’t know if I can bear to watch him cry.

Jem looked like he was trying very bravely not to cry. He was biting his lower lip, hard.

Don’t let him ask me to stay, Ree thought. I can’t stay. I can’t.

But instead of asking, Jem whispered, “My mother left me, on the street, when I was four. She gave me a sweet and said she would come back. She never—” He shook his head.

Ree started to say “Better than—” meaning to say better than have your mother sell you to a customer when you’re barely thirteen. He remembered the fear, the frantic humiliation. He remembered being told about it, being sent to the room. He remembered running away.

For months, before, he’d noticed his mother’s customers casting looks at him. There were men who didn’t seem to care if you were male or female, provided you were a young thing, whose services could be bought. Who could not complain. There were men who didn’t care what they did. Like that soldier, with Jem.

But as he was about to tell Jem this, Ree stopped. Because all through it, he’d been afraid Jem would follow him, Jem would come with him—that Jem would get caught by the patrols and hung outside the city walls to freeze to death. Or worse, now summer had come. And suddenly he wondered if his mother had been afraid of what would happen to Ree, if one of her customers found him. If one of her customers treated him as the soldier had treated Jem.

For the first time, he remembered his mother’s face that day, without flinching. And it seemed to him there was concern in her eyes, overlaid with a harshness she had put there, a false harshness. He remembered she hadn’t told him who the customer was. Or anything about him. Or how much he paid.

She’d told him just enough to make Ree run away and be safe.

Ree bit back tears, and forced harshness upon his features. He stepped close to Jem and did his best to growl, in his most threatening hobgoblin voice, “I’m tired of you. You’re human and slight and weak. I don’t want you with me. I can travel quicker alone, with my fangs and my hobgoblin senses, and my claws.” He saw Jem look startled, scared, and he felt as though his heart were bleeding, but he pressed on. “If you come with me, I’ll kill you. Like I killed the soldier.”

Without waiting to see Jem’s expression, to see the further devastation his words had brought to it, he turned around, he jumped out the window—he skittered and ran his way to the ground.

Running through the shadows to the abandoned washhouse, whose drains fed to the sewers and drains beneath the city, he wished he could remember how to cry. And he half-hoped a patrol would find him and kill him.

The washhouse was quiet, in shadows. No patrols in it, more was the pity.

Ree remembered it pretty well, from when his mother had come there with him, when he was very small. He didn’t want to think of his mother. It hurt even more now.

He bent to the manhole and prized it open, his claws making short work of it. He had told Jem the truth. He would travel faster alone. And besides, if he got caught, he would die alone. He was a hobgoblin. A . . . thing. Part animal. He had no right to the company of a true human.

Jem would be safer without him.

Ree wondered if there was anywhere he could be safe. If a thing like him deserved safety.

The drains beyond the manhole smelled acridly of old waste. Ree stared dubiously into the shadows. Nothing came racing out to eat him.

Ree climbed gingerly down into it. Rusting steel rungs had been set into the shaft, so people had once come down into the sewers. That helped. He wasn’t the first. And there would be some way to get around down there. It couldn’t be all vertical tunnels and precipitously small shafts.

He hoped there were no guards on the outlets.

Ree listened for anything that might mean an attack. All he heard was water, dripping, trickling, and gurgling. He smelled more than water, even though last night’s rain would have washed a lot of the worst away.

Once there had been spells on these drains, cleaning them so that only water flowed out at the end of them, spells to turn everything else into heavy dark mulch the farmers bought for their fields. Ree remembered watching them trade for the mulch at last summer’s fair. Now everything went out to the river, although work gangs had built weirs to catch the worst of the solid stuff.

The rungs ended, leaving Ree’s feet dangling. He used his hands to lower himself to the bottom rung, and stretched. His feet touched solid ground.

He sighed and let go. “Bit of a drop at the bottom,” he said. And realized Jem wasn’t there. He had got in the habit of talking to Jem. Of relating his actions to him. Even when he went out alone to hunt, he would come home and tell Jem everything.

Home . . . when had Jem’s crash pad become home?

But it wasn’t the place. It was because Jem was there. But Jem wasn’t here. Jem would never be here again. And that was as it should be. Ree had no right to risk Jem, no right to—

He cut the thought off, and listened and peered into the darkness.

This part of the drain was quiet. Ree saw and smelled nothing animal. If there were Changefish in the water, he had no way to tell.

With no real idea which way to go, Ree decided to follow the flow of the water. There was a walkway along the side of the drain that must have been built so workmen could get in without having to walk in the water.

He walked in silence, senses straining for a hint of danger. There was none. Once, he heard animal squabbling far off. Whatever made it, it was too far distant to be a danger to him.

When drains joined the one he was in, narrow bridges crossed the channels.

He crossed them, following his drain and the water, hoping that it would lead to an outlet that would take him out of the city, away from Jacona. If he had not been always listening, sniffing for danger, it would have been an easy walk.

He did not know how long he walked, or how far. Darkness and the constant sounds of water played tricks on his senses, making it seem that he had been walking forever, and sometimes like no time at all had passed. Apart from the bridges where new drains joined his, everything was all the same.

Finally, the darkness began to lift. Ree hurried toward gray, eager to be out of the never-ending blackness. Soon, light glinted off the water, the chilly white light of moonlight. Ree hurried toward the light. Then stopped.

There was something there, at the grate waiting for him. Something big. As he drew closer, his heart started pounding. A hobgoblin had been tethered to the iron grate that sealed the drains. It looked looked partly like a snake and mostly like too many teeth. Its head swung back and forth at the end of its tether as it tried to reach him.

Ree gulped. He jumped back. His claws all came out. But he thought of himself—of how the soldiers would kill him on sight. And he did not want to do that to another hobgoblin. Whose fault was it, if he had chanced to be near a snake, when the changes came? It had not asked to become a hobgoblin, any more than Ree had.

“You don’t have to hurt me,” he said, and his voice came out small and frightened. “You’re like me. I’m like you. I mean you no harm.”

Slowly, he stepped toward the thing, toward the grate. The eyes, amid the teeth, glinted, he thought, with a hint of understanding.

He thought he was safe and then the creature launched. Ree just managed to jump out of reach, flatten himself against the wall, while the thing’s too-sharp, too-many teeth closed near his bare arm.

“Why—” Ree yelled.

“You are nothing like me, kitten-rat boy. Snakes eat the likes of you,” the creature spoke, hissingly, through its many teeth. “And my life is spared because I’m important and I can kill the likes of you . . . vermin.”

Ree was pinned against the dank wall. Moving either way would bring him within reach of the thing’s teeth. He could not go out. He could not go back. He could rush toward death or stay here till he starved.

He would never see Jem again. Ree flinched from the thought, because it was stupid. He would never see Jem again anyway.

Just then he heard a scream. He turned, at the same time the snake creature did.

Jem stood in the tunnel, away from the snake’s reach. He had a crossbow. And he was screaming, a scream of rage through clenched teeth, as he pulled the string back on the bow.

The snake thing tried to jump, but it was tethered. And it moved a little too late. The bolt entered the mouth between the rows of teeth.

There was a roar and the thing jumped in the air. Then fell, and was still. And the smell came.

Ree didn’t remember falling on his knees. And he didn’t remember Jem approaching him. He had put the bow on his back, and he had a quiver with bolts. His hands were free. He held onto Ree’s upper arms and pulled Ree up onto his feet.

“I know you told me to keep away from soldiers, but I saw the crossbow right at the entrance to a bar as I was following you,” he said. “It was on the floor, near a table full of soldiers. I only had to go in a couple of steps. They never saw me.”

He spoke very quickly, as if Ree would reproach him for disobeying his orders. But Ree’s mind could only hold onto the central fact, the central surprise of the last few minutes. He looked up into Jem’s big blue eyes. The eyes that were looking anxiously at Ree.

“You followed me?” he said.

Jem nodded.

“Through the streets and the tunnels you followed me? All alone, you followed me?”

“Wherever you go, I go,” Jem said.

Ree blinked, wondering what he had done to deserve that kind of attention, that kind of devotion from someone like Jem. From someone brave enough to follow a hobgoblin through tunnels infested with worse creatures.

From someone brave enough to steal from soldiers after what had happened.

“I’m a hobgoblin,” he said. “Not . . . human.” A coward, who ran from everything. Who killed when he was scared. When the animal took over.

“Nonsense,” Jem said. He managed to look sterner, more adult. “You’re human, Ree. You’re good. You saved me. Without you, I would have died.”

“I killed the soldier by accident,” Ree said. “Because the rat in me got scared. I didn’t even know—” He shook his head. He did not want to remember lying under the soldier as he died. Did not want to remember the blood dripping onto him.

Jem shrugged. “Maybe. But no one forced you to free me. No one forced you to stay with me, to take care of me.”

Ree swallowed hard. “What else could I have done?” Too many memories, too many things he wanted to forget. The bloody welts on Jem’s body, the way he had just . . . given up. . . .

“You could have killed me,” Jem said. “You could have done what the soldier did.”

Despite the years of being hard, of showing nothing, Ree flinched. He could never . . . not with anyone who did not want him as much as he wanted them. Even though weakness was dangerous, he could not be angry at himself for flinching, for showing emotion. Jem was safe. He could show his true self to Jem.

If Jem saw Ree’s weakness, he did not show it. He pointed at the snake. “You could have done what he would have done. You’re human, Ree. And I will follow wherever you go.”

Ree shook himself. It seemed to him he’d been living in a long nightmare and just awakened.

He edged past the body of the snake thing, trying not to look at it. He took a deep breath, and extended his claws. “Let’s get out of here.” The bars in the grate were set wide, to let debris through. They should be far enough apart.

Jem nodded.

To Ree’s relief, the grate was wide enough for him to slip through, even if he did lose some fur on his shoulders and hips on the way.

He and Jem stumbled out of the river, into the moonlight, looking at a strange new world that held nothing they knew. Low, rolling hills stretched to the darkness of mountains, and the silver moonlight gave it all the look of a ghost land.

Ree sought Jem’s hand at the same time as the boy sought his. Their hands met, warm and moist. They stood there a moment, rat boy and street rat, facing a world of dangers they could not begin to anticipate.

“Well,” Ree said finally. “Guess we’d better get going. Got a ways to go and a lot to learn.”

“Yah.” Jem squeezed his hand. “Got a whole world to find, out here.”

They walked into the moonlight.

ALL THE AGES OF MAN

by Tanya Huff

Tanya Huff lives and writes in rural Ontario with her partner, four cats, and an unintentional Chihuahua. After sixteen fantasies, she’s written two space operas,

Valor’s Choice

and

The Better Part of Valor,

and is currently working on a series of novels spun off from her Henry Fitzroy vampire series. In her spare time she gardens and complains about the weather.

“I’M too young for this.”

Although Jors had spoken the words aloud, thrown them, as it were, out onto the wind without expecting an answer, he received one anyway.

:So you keep saying.:

“Doesn’t make it any less true.”

:You are experienced in riding circuit,: his Companion reminded him. :All you must do is teach what you know.:

Jors snorted and shifted in the saddle. “So you keep saying.”

Gervais snorted in turn. :Then perhaps you should listen.

“I’m not a teacher.”

:You are a Herald. More importantly, you are needed.:

And that was why they were heading northeast, out to the edge of their sector to meet with Herald Jennet and her greenie. To accept said greenie from the older Herald and finish out the last eleven months of her year and a half of Internship. The courier who’d brought the news of Jennet’s mother’s sickness had also brought the news that the Herald able to replace her was already in the Sector but way over on the other side of a whole lot of nothing. It was decided he’d start his circuit from there and Jennet would backtrack the much shorter distance to meet up with Jors.

The girl’s name was Alyise, her companion’s name was Donnel, and that was pretty much all Jors knew. He couldn’t remember ever seeing anyone of that name amidst the Grays during the rare times he’d been at the Collegium over the last few years and he only remembered her Companion as a long-legged colt.

The thing was, he liked being on the road and he much preferred the open spaces of the Borders to any city, so he went back on Circuit as fast as he could be reassigned. That didn’t give him much time to learn about the latest Chosen and when he did meet up with other Heralds, he was much more interested in finding out what his year-mates had been doing.

“Jennet has got to be ten years older than I am. At least. And she’s a woman.”

Strands of the Companion’s mane slid across Jors’ fingers like white silk as Gervais tossed his head. :What does her being a woman have to do with this?:

“Women are better at teaching girls. They understand girls. Me . . .” He rubbed a dribble of sweat off the back of his neck. “. . . I don’t get girls at all.”

:You seemed to understand Herald Erica. I remember her continuously agreeing with you.:

“Continuously agreeing? What are you talking about?”

:Raya and I could hear her quite clearly outside the Waystation. She kept yelling yes. Yes! Yes! Yes!:

“Oh, ha ha. Very funny. “ Jors could feel Gervais’ amusement—the young stallion did indeed think it was very funny. “As I recall, Erica and I weren’t the only two keeping company that night.”

:We were quiet.:

“Well, I’m sorry we kept you from your beauty sleep and you needn’t worry about it happening again for, oh, about eleven months.”

:You do not know that the new Herald will find you distasteful. Raya told me that her Herald found you pleasant.:

Jors sighed. Pleasant. Well, he supposed it was preferable to the alternative. “Thank you. But that’s not the point. I’ll be Alyise’s teacher, her mentor; I can’t take advantage of my position of power.”

:You will be Heralds together.:

“Yes, but . . .” He felt a subtle shift of smooth muscles below him echoed by a definite shift of attention and fell silent.

:Inar says we will meet in time for us to return to the Waystation outside of Applebay before full dark.:

If that was true, and Jors had no reason to doubt Jennet’s Companion, they were a lot closer to the crossroad than he’d thought. He glanced over his shoulder to check on Bucky and found the pack mule tucked up close where Gervais’ tail could keep the late summer insects off his face. And that was another possible problem. Mules were mules regardless of who they worked for and mules that worked for Heralds could be just as obstinate and hard to get along with as any other. They’d be adding a new mule to the mix.

It was a good thing Companions always got along.

And speaking of . . .

“Why didn’t Donnel contact you? Can’t he reach this far?”

:Inar is senior to Donnel as you will be senior to his Chosen.:

“You’ll be senior to Donnel as well, then.”

:Yes.: Sleek white sides rose and fell as Gervais sighed.

Jors grinned. “Wishing Alyise’s Companion was a mare?”

His grin broadened as it became quite clear that Gervais had no intention of answering.

“She’s a good kid,” Jennet said, glancing over at where the youngest of the three Heralds was carefully packing away the remains of the meal they’d shared. “Eager, enthusiastic . . .”

“Exhausting?” Jors suggested as her voice trailed off.

“A little,” the older Herald admitted with a smile. “But you’re a lot younger than I am, you should be able to keep up.”

“That’s just it. I’m too young to be doing this. I’m no teacher.”

“You have doubts.”

He only just managed not to roll his eyes. “Well, yes.”

“Does your Companion doubt you?”

“Gervais?” Jors turned in time to see Gervais rising to his feet after what had clearly been a vigorous roll, his gleaming white coat flecked with bits of grass. “Gervais has never doubted me.”

“Then, if you can’t believe in yourself, believe in your Companion. And now that I’ve gifted you with my aged wisdom . . .” Grinning, she bent and lifted her saddle. “. . . we’d best get back on the road.”

Lifting his own saddle, Jors fell into step beside her. “I’m sorry to hear about your mother.”

“Yes, well, she wasn’t young when I was born, and she’s never been what you could call strong, so I can’t say that I’m surprised. I’m just glad that the Borders are so quiet right now and that there was someone close enough . . .” She smiled so gratefully at him that Jors felt himself flush. “Two someones close enough.”

Inar, given his head, had disappeared southward almost too fast for the eye to follow. One moment he, and his Herald, were a white blur against the gold of summer-dried gasses and the next, they were gone.

Gone. Leaving Jors alone with Alyise.

Alone with an attractive eighteen-year-old girl.

No. Alone with another Herald.

One he just happened to be responsible for.

Oh, Havens.

:She is a Herald. That makes her responsible for herself.:

:I was broadcasting?:

Gervais snorted. :Donnel probably heard you.:

Jors doubted that since Donnel—with a fair bit of that long-legged colt in him still—was dancing sideways away from a bobbing yellow wildflower. Alyise was laughing, probably at something Donnel had said. Their mule, right out at the end of its lead rope, turned his head just far enough for Jors to see that he looked resigned about the whole thing.

Which reminded Jors of something he’d meant to ask Jennet and forgotten. No matter, Alyise would know what had happened to their second mule.

“Spike?” She giggled. “Oh Jennet left him back at the Waystation supply post saying you’d have enough on your plate without having to deal with Spike, too. He’s not a pleasant fellow although honestly, I think most of it’s an act and he’s really much nicer than he pretends. You know?”

Jors had no time to answer. He suspected she hadn’t intended him to as she rattled on without pausing.

“She left a lot of her gear there except for the bits she gave to me. I seem to go through soap really, really quickly, I can’t think why, I mean, we’re all in Whites but if there’s something to smudge on, I’ll smudge. I may be the only Herald ever who really appreciated her grays. So Jennet gave me her extra soap and a tunic that was getting too tight for her—across the shoulders, of course, not in front because I’m well, a little better endowed there—but no worry about her being caught short because she didn’t leave behind or give me anything she’ll need because she’s heading home. But you knew that, didn’t you, because you were there when she left?”

The punctuating smile was dazzling.

The Waystation outside Appleby was much like every other Waystation; there was a corral for the mules, a snug lean-to for the Companions, a good sized, well-stocked storeroom, and a single room for the Heralds. The biggest difference was that the fireplace had been filled in with a small box stove, flat-topped for cooking and considerably more efficient at heating the space.

“Not to mention there’ll be a lot less warm air sucked up the chimney,” Jors observed, examining the stovepipes. This was new since this the last time he’d been by.

“I think it’s less romantic, though.”

“What?”

Alyise smiled as he turned. “I think a stove is less romantic than an open fire. Don’t you think there’s just something so sensual about the dancing flames and the flicking golden light?”

“Light.” Jors cleared his throat and tried again. “We’d better light the lanterns.”

She pushed russet curls back off her face with one hand, gray eyes gleaming in the dusk. “Or instead of lighting the lanterns, we could just leave the doors of the stove open and sit together close to the fire.”

“Fire.”

“Pardon?”

“You light the fire.” His palms were sweaty. “In the stove,” he expanded as she stared at him, head cocked. “So we can cook. I have to go check on Gervais.”

:I’m fine.:

:Good.: He got outside to find his Companion standing by the door and gazing at him with some concern. :She’s . . . I mean, I’m supposed to be teaching her.:

:Donnel says his Chosen is glad you are a young man. She has been with Jennet for seven months.:

:Hey, I’ve been on my own for eight and that’s . . . : He paused as Gervais snorted. :Yeah. Sorry. Way too much information. The point is, it wouldn’t be right.:

:If that’s how you feel.:

:It is.:

:Good luck.:

:Oh, that’s very helpful.:

:Thank you.:

Never let anyone tell you that Companions can’t be as sarcastic as cats, Jors muttered to himself as he turned and went back inside. The curve of Alyise’s back stopped him cold. Her pants hung low on the flare of her hips, low enough to expose the dimples on the small of her back just under her waist.

She smiled at him over her shoulder as she pulled a sleeveless tunic out of her pack. “I just had to get into something that wasn’t all sweaty. I don’t know what it is about spending the day in the saddle that makes me so damp, since Donnel’s doing most of the work, but from my breast bands right on out everything is just soaked through. I guess the good news is that, at this time of the year, I can rinse them out tonight and they’ll be dry by morning unless it rains, of course, but I don’t think it’s going to. There’s really no point in having the village laundry deal with them.” Her brow wrinkled as she pushed her head through the tunic’s wide neck. “Does this village even have a laundry?”

“Laundry?” He tried not to stare at the pale swell of her breasts as she pulled the tunic down and turned to light one of the lamps with shaking hands. He was not ready for this kind of responsibility.

“Men.”

Was she allowed to laugh at him? There was too much about this mentoring that he didn’t know.

“I don’t suppose you even noticed,” she continued, slipping out of her pants. “Ah, that’s better. Shall you cook or shall I?”

“Me!” Cooking would be a welcome distraction. “You can tell me about your time with Jennet. So I know what you’ve covered . . . done.”

“Okay; how much of . . .”

“Everything!”

Everything took them through dinner and into bed. Separate beds. Alyise seemed fine with that, Jors noticed thankfully, since he wasn’t certain his resolve would stand up against a determined assault. Long after her breathing had evened out into the long rhythms of sleep, he lay staring up at the rough wood of the ceiling and wondered just how authoritarian he was supposed to be. All Heralds were equals, that was a given. Except when they weren’t, and that was tacitly understood. I’m just not ready for this yet.

:Sleep now, Heartbrother.: Gervais’s mental touch was gentle. :Many tasks seem less daunting in the morning.:

Jors woke just after sunrise to discover that Alyise had already gone out to feed and water the mules.

“I can never stay in bed after I wake up,” she explained with a sunny smile. “My mother used to say it’s because I was afraid I’d miss something, but I think it’s because I didn’t want to get bounced on by my younger sisters and I’ll tell you, that habit stood me in good stead when I was a Gray because you know how hard it is to get going some mornings and the first up has the first shot at the hot water and there were mostly girls in my year; six of us and one boy. What about yours?”

“My?” When did she breathe?

“Your year; how many boys and girls in your year?”

“Oh. Three boys, two girls.”

“How . . . nice.”

He heard Donnel snort, realized she was staring at him, and a moment later realized why. He’d gotten a little panicked when he’d seen her bed was empty and raced outside wearing only the light cotton drawstring pants he’d slept in. With the early morning sun behind him, he might as well be naked. Oh, yeah. This is going to help me maintain some kind of authority.

:Authority does not come from your clothing.:

And that would have been more reassuring had his Companion not sounded like he found the entire situation entirely too funny. :Maybe not, but it sure doesn’t come from . . . : It occurred to him that while he was standing talking to Gervais, Alyise was still staring. Appreciatively. “I’ll just go and get dressed. We’ll be heading into Appleby right after we eat.”

And thank any Gods who may be listening for that, he thought as he made as dignified a retreat as possible into the Waystation.

Appleby wasn’t so much a village as it was a market and clearing center for the surrounding orchards that gave it its name. Jors told the younger Herald all he knew about both the area and the inhabitants as they rode in from the Waystation, but since his available information ran out some distance before they arrived, Alyise took over the conversation.

Her mother made a terrific apple dumpling but wouldn’t give out the recipe no matter how much Alyise or her sisters begged.

Donnel was very fond of apples, especially the small, sweet pink ones that grew farther north.

She loved apples sliced and dried and hoped she’d be able to buy some of last year’s if they had a moment before they left town.

Her grandfather used to carve apples and dry them whole and they turned into the most cunning old men and women dolls’ heads.

Just when Jors was about to suggest she stop talking, she finished her story about how an apple peel taken off in one unbroken spiral would give the initial of true love when tossed over a shoulder and fell silent, straightening in the saddle and transforming from girl to Herald.

:Neat trick.:

:Why does she need to be anything but what she is when she is with you?: Gervais asked reasonably.

:She doesn’t.:

:And why do you . . . :

:Because I’m her teacher!:

:Herald Jennet was also her teacher. Do you think Herald Jennet behaved differently than herself?:

:Herald Jennet has had more time to be herself!: Jors pointed out.

Gervais tossed his head, setting his bridle bells ringing as they passed the first of the buildings. :You are not Herald Jennet,: he said as the first wave of laughing children broke around them.

:That’s what I keep saying!:

The Companion carefully sidestepped an overly adventurous and remarkably grubby little boy. :Maybe you should try listening.:

And that was all he was willing to say.

Go not to your Companion for advice, Jors sighed. For they will tell you to figure it out for yourself.

Judgments in Appleby were, not surprisingly, mostly about apples. More surprisingly, Jors found Alyise to be an attentive listener—both to the petitioners and to him. Although she deferred to Jors as the senior Herald, she expressed her opinions clearly and concisely when asked for them and in turn asked intelligent questions when she needed more information. Having been more than a little afraid of what the day would bring, Jors was impressed and grateful that he could set aside personal doubts and concentrate on the job at hand.

Late that afternoon, when they’d finished with official business and had moved on to the more social aspects of being a Herald—trading the gossip that kept the far-flung corners of the kingdom telling the same stories—Jors glanced over at Alyise within a circle of teenage girls and wondered if it counted as a conversation when everyone seemed to be talking at once.

“Herald Jors.”

He turned to see the eldest of the village councillors holding out a cup of cider.

“Don’t worry, it’s one of this year’s first pressings. Windfall from the early apples. It has absolute no trade value, so you needn’t fear you’re being bribed.”

A tentative sip curled his tongue. “Tart,” he gasped.

“A little young,” the councillor admitted, grinning. “And if you don’t mind my saying, you seem a little young yourself to be teaching the ray of sunshine there.”

“I’ve been doing this for a while, Councillor.” On the outside, Jors remained calm and confident. Inside, a little voice was saying, Oh that’s just great. It’s obvious to everyone. “And Alyise is a trained Herald. I’m only here to help guide her through her first Circuit.”

“Oh, I’m not criticizing, lad. And given that one’s energy, it’s probably best you’re no graybeard. I imagine she’d be the death of an older man.”

The councillor obviously believed he was sleeping with Alyise. That was a belief he’d have to nip in the bud. “Heralds aren’t in the habit of taking advantage of their Interns.”

“Advantage?” The elderly councillor glanced over at Alyise and began to laugh so hard he passed a mouthful of cider out his nose. “Oh, lad,” he gasped when he had breath enough to speak again. “You are young.”

There wasn’t a lot Jors could say to that.

:You seem fine in the villages,: Gervais pointed out as they headed toward the Border.

:It’s different in the villages.: Jors told him. :We have well-defined roles and I know what I’m supposed to do.:

:You’ve always known what to do in a Waystation before. You’ve always know what to do with another Herald before.:

He glanced over at Alyise who’d turned to check on the mules. :I’ve never been responsible for another Herald before.:

His Companion sighed and raised his head so Jors could get at an elusive itch under the edge of his mane. :You’re beginning to worry me.:

There wasn’t a lot Jors could say to that either.

Six days later Alyise handed him a mug of tea and said, “Is it because you like boys? It’s just that I’ve been as obvious as I know how without coming right out and saying we should bed down together,” she explained a few moments later, after they cleaned up the mess. “I mean, I was with Jennet for seven whole months and you’re cute and well, it’s been a while, you know.”

He knew.

“Your ears are very red,” she added.

Jors attempted to explain about being responsible and not taking advantage of her while he was in at least a nominal position of power. Alyise didn’t seem to quite understand his point.

“You’re a little young to take such a grandfatherly attitude, don’t you think?”

“That’s it, exactly.”

She wrinkled her nose, confused. “What’s it?”

She was adorable when she wrinkled her nose and some of the tea had splashed on her tunic drawing his eye right to . . .

“Maybe you should talk to Donnel about it,” he choked out. “I need to check the um . . . mules.”

“I just checked them.”

“I meant the . . . um, stores!”

“Gervais explained to Donnel who explained to me and I think I understand the problem.” Alyise smiled at Jors reassuringly when he came back inside. “I was kind of dumped on you unexpectedly, wasn’t I? I mean, there you were, out riding your circuit, just the two of you hearing petitions and riding to the rescue and being guys together and all of a sudden Jennet finds out her mother is sick and you’ve got me. I know Heralds are supposed to be adaptable and all, but this is a situation that could take some getting used to for you, so I expect it’s all a matter of timing.”

“Good. So we’re um . . .” He tried, not entirely successfully, to pull her actual meaning from the cheerful flow of words.

Her smile broadened. “We’re good.”

“Okay.” Still, something felt not quite right. :Gervais?:

He could almost see his Companion roll sapphire eyes. :I dealt with it, Chosen.”

:But . . . :

:Let it go.:

Not so much advice as an unarguable instruction.

“So . . .” Jors brought his attention back to the younger Herald. “. . . there were some tax problems in the area we’re heading for next. We should go over them in case they come up again.”

“Jennet and I ran into a few problems just like this back last month. Well, not just like this, because that’s one thing I’ve learned since I’ve been out is that no two problems are exactly the same no matter how much they seem to be and . . .”

He let her words wash over him as he pulled the papers from his pack. So they were good. That was . . .

. . . good.

Why did he feel like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop?

Last year’s tax problems didn’t reoccur, but new problems arose, and Jors did his best to guide Alyise through them. She was better with people than he was and as summer passed into fall, he allowed her to hear those petitions that dealt with social problems and tried to learn from her natural charm as she learned from his experience.

Given her unflagging energy and exuberance, he felt as though he was running full out to stay ahead of her and he never felt younger or more unsuited for his position as her teacher as when he saw her in the midst of a crowd of admiring young men.

Not that she ever forgot she was a Herald on duty, it was just . . .

:Just what, Chosen?:

:You’re laughing at me again, aren’t you?:

No answer in words, just a strong feeling of amusement. Which was, of course, all the answer Jors needed.

Frost had touched the grass by the time they reached the tiny village of Halfrest, grown up not quite a generation before around a campsite that marked the halfway point on a shortcut between two larger towns. A shortcut only because the actual trade road followed the kind of ground sensible people built roads on rather than taking the direct route more suitable to goats.

Jors had a feeling that without the mule tied to her saddle, Alyise and Donnel would have been bounding like those goats from rock to rock, Alyise chattering cheerfully the entire time as they skirted the edges of crumbling cliffs.

The Waystation was brand-new, the wood still pale and raw looking. No corral had been built for the mules but a rope strung between two trees would take the lead lines, giving them plenty of room to graze. While there was no well, the pond looked crystal clear and cold.

“If you have a Waystation,” Jors said as they carried their packs inside, “you’re more than just a group of people trying to carve out an uncertain life. You’re a real village.”

“And that’s important to them, to be seen as a real village?”

“This was wilderness when the elders of this village came here with their parents. They’re proud of what they’ve accomplished.”

He reminded her of that again as they rode into Halfrest which was, in point of fact, nothing much more than a group of people trying to carve out an uncertain life. Livestock still shared many of the same buildings as their owners and function ruled over form. Only the Meeting Hall bore any decoration—graceful, joyful carvings tucked up under the gabled eaves gave some promise of what could be when they finally got a bit ahead.

“Because a real village has a Meeting Hall?” Alyise asked quietly as they dismounted.

He nodded and turned to greet the approaching men and women.

They had not had an easy year of it. There had been sickness and raiders and heavy rains, then sickness again.

“We had no Harvest Festival this year,” a weary woman told them, pushing graying hair off her face with a thin hand. “With so many sick, there were few to bring the harvest in so when the fields were finally clear the time was past. We had little heart for it besides. But there are two pigs fattening, pledged for the festival last spring. One came from my good black sow, and I feel I should be able to slaughter him for my own use.”

“He was pledged to the village,” an equally weary looking man interrupted.

“He was pledged to the festival!”

As there had been no festival it would seem sensible to give the pig back to the woman who had pledged it, perhaps requiring her to give some of the meat to those in need. But this was Alyise’s judgment and Jors sat quietly behind her, allowing her to make up her own mind with no interference from him. He glanced around the Hall, from the work-roughened and exhausted villagers to the sullen knot of teenagers clumped together by the door. No one looked hungry or ill used, just tired. They’d been working nonstop for weeks. It was no wonder they’d skipped their festival, all they probably wanted was a chance to rest.

“I have heard all sides of the argument,” Alyise said at last. “And this is my judgment.” She paused, just for a moment, and Jors had the strangest feeling the other shoe was finally dropping. “The pig was pledged to the Harvest Festival. Have the festival.”

“But the harvest has been in long since and . . .”

“The harvest is in,” Alyise interrupted, her smile lighting all the dark corners of the room. “I think that’s worth celebrating.” Before anyone could protest, she locked eyes with the woman who owned the pig. “Don’t you?”

“Well, yes, but . . .”

“The sickness is past. The raiders have been defeated. And that’s worth celebrating, too.” The man who had protested the reclaiming of the pig seemed stunned by her smile. “Don’t you think so?”

“I guess . . .”

“And the rains have stopped.” She spread her arms and turned to the teenagers by the door. “The sun is shining. Why not celebrate that?”

Shoulders straightened. Tentative smiles answered her question.

No one stood against Alyise’s enthusiasm for long. Soon, to Jors’ surprise, no one wanted to. The pigs were slaughtered and dressed and put in pits to roast. Tables were set up in the hall. Food and drink began to appear. Musicians brought out their instruments.

“I’d have thought they were too tired to party,” Jors murmured as half a dozen girls ran giggling by with armloads of the last bright leaves of fall.

“My mother has a saying; if you don’t celebrate your victories, all you remember are your defeats. The food they’re eating now won’t be enough to make a real difference if the winter is especially hard, but the memories they make, good memories of laughter and fellowship, that could be enough to see them through.” Alyise gestured toward the carvings. “They know joy. I just helped them remember they knew. You know?”

He did actually.

:Careful, Chosen.: Gervais adjusted his gait as Jors listed slightly to the left.

“You lied to me.” Alyise’s Whites were a beacon in the darkness. Which was good because he didn’t think he could find her otherwise. Except that she was on Donnel and that made it pretty obvious where she was now he considered it.

“What did I lie about?”

“You said that was apple . . . apple jush. Juice.”

She giggled. “It was once.”

“Jack. That wash apples jack.” He wasn’t drunk. Heralds did not get drunk on duty even at impromptu Harvest Festivals where the apple juice wasn’t. Which he wouldn’t have had any of had Alyise not handed him a huge mug just before they left to toast the celebration and the celebrants.

Now the night was spinning gently around him and he suspected that getting the Companions settled for the night was going to be interesting.

Fortunately, it seemed that Alyise was less affected.

“Hey.” He set his saddle down with exaggerated care. “You had some of that, too!”

“Some,” she agreed, the dimples appearing. “Come on inside.”

Her hand was warm on his arm. Then it was warm under his tunic. And her mouth tasted warm and sweet. And . . . Wait a minute. He pulled back although his hands, seemingly with a mind of their own, continued working on her laces.

“I don’t think . . .”

Her eyes gleamed. “What?”

He couldn’t remember. :Gervais?:

:She got you drunk and now she’s taking advantage of you.:

:What?:

:It was Donnel’s suggestion, but it seemed sound.:

The bunk hit the back of his legs and he was suddenly lying down holding a soft, willing body.

:Help.:

His Companion’s mental voice held layers of laughter. :Say that like you mean it, Heart-brother.:

Actually, for a while, he wasn’t able to say anything much at all.

Jors stood staring down at the pond watching the early morning sun tease tendrils of fog off the icy-looking water, trying to work the kinks out of muscles he hadn’t used for far too long. Alyise was as enthusiastic in bed as she was about everything else and he’d been hard-pressed to keep up.

He guessed he had been a bit of an ass about that whole position of power thing. Still . . .

:What is it, Chosen?: Gervais’ velvet nose prodded him in the back.

:I’m still her mentor for another seven months. What if this changes things between us?:

:You think she will no longer trust your judgment because you have shared her bed?:

Put that way it sounded a bit insulting. :Well, no.:

:Then what is the problem?:

There didn’t seem to be one. Jors leaned against his Companion’s comforting bulk and thought about it.

He wasn’t Jennet.

Alyise was a Herald. That made her responsible for herself.

Donnel said his Chosen was glad he was a young man.

They had well-defined roles in the villages.

There was no reason for them not to continue sharing a bed as long as they both remained willing. No reason at all for it to detract from his ability to teach what he knew or learn what she offered.

Jors grinned. He had other nights like last night to look forward to and days of cheerful conversations combined with an enthusiastic welcome to whatever the road ahead might bring, and a high-energy approach to life that definitely got results since a village-wide party turned out to solve a petition about a disputed pig.

His grin faded as a muscle twinged in his back.

“Havens,” he sighed, as he realized what the next few months would bring, “I’m too old for this.”

Gervais’ weight was suddenly no longer a comforting presence at his back but rather a short, sharp shove.

The water in the pond was as cold as it looked.

WAR CRY

by Michael Longcor

Michael Longcor is a writer and singer-songwriter from Indiana who wrote a dozen songs for the Mercedes Lackey album,

Owlflight,

released by Firebird Arts & Music. He’s also had stories appear in the Mercedes Lackey anthologies

Sun In Glory

and

Bedlam’s Edge

. Here, he tells the tale of a young Valdemaran soldier with a dangerous problem facing his first big battle and the bloody, final clash of the Tedrel Wars.

RURY Tellar pulled the blanket closer around his shoulders and stared into the yellow heart of the campfire. The blanket and the Valdemaran Guard surcoat were enough to keep off the night’s cool, but still he shivered. His throbbing head didn’t dim the whispering feelings crowding in; feelings of doubt, fear, hope, despair, cheer, loneliness and sadness—the massed feelings of an army camped close on the eve of battle.

It had started three weeks ago, soon after his seventeenth birthday and the call for the Oakdell village militia to march off and join the main army. The intruding feelings were very faint at first, like the not-quite-words heard late at night in the settling of an old house. They’d grown steadily stronger and now they constantly jostled his thoughts. His head ached with the pressure of other people cramming in. Sometimes he felt like his brain was the anvil from the blacksmith shop where he’d apprenticed, with strangers’ feelings hammering and ringing on it like the smith’s sledge.

Around him were the night sounds of an army encamped. Thousands of soldiers shifted in sleep, muttered in dreams, coughed, or whispered curses. The air smelled strongly of campfire smoke and more faintly of horse dung. Ten paces away, Aed snored in the tent alongside Milo and Snipe. Rury would likely have to nudge space to lie down between them when he finally turned in.

They’d been in the big camp for two days, waiting for the Tedrel army to come over the border. Somehow the brass hats knew the Tedrels would cross near here, and there would be plenty of them. Camp gossip said this would be the last battle of the Tedrel Wars, one way or another.

Rury was tired, but trying to sleep made it easier for the feelings of others to crowd in. It was better, a little, to sit and stare at the dying fire until his eyelids drooped and his head nodded.

At first he’d mentioned the headaches to the others, but stopped because his comrades might think he was shirking, or crazy, or worse, scared. He was scared. He’d do his best, though, no matter how afraid he felt. But he could feel when people around him were afraid, and their feelings ran through him, adding to his own fears.

It didn’t help to know the rest of the unit was scared, too, except for maybe Sergeant Krandal. They were all young and scared and afraid to let it show, afraid of looking like cowards. Last night Princess Selenay herself had briefly visited the company campfire, shadowed by her bodyguard. She was young and lovely, and seemed brave and genuinely interested in them. Rury knew, even if the others didn’t, that she was afraid of what was coming, too, no matter how brave her words.

“Trouble sleeping again, Tellar?” Rury jumped as Sergeant Krandal stepped into the firelight. It glinted on the silver-gray in his close-trimmed beard and the white horse of the Valdemaran arms on his blue surcoat. He was no taller than Rury, but built square and solid, where Rury was lean young muscle.

“Uh, just thought I’d get a little quiet time, Sarge.” Rury shrugged. “Aed’s snoring shakes the tent, and Snipe talks in his sleep.”

Krandal smiled and shook his head. “Still having trouble with the headaches?”

“Ah, they come and go,” said Rury. “Uh, maybe I better turn in anyway.” He got up and walked to the tent. “G’night, Sarge.”

“Good night, soldier.” Sergeant Krandal said softly. He was concerned, and not for the boy’s health. Mit Krandal had seen twenty-eight years of Guard service and thousands of young soldiers before his retirement to Oakdell two years ago. Rury Tellar was a good kid; well-liked, big and strong, with good fighting moves and the makings of a fine soldier. Krandal knew all the symptoms of a youngster facing his first fight, but Tellar’s problem seemed more complicated and serious than that. He banked the fire and started walking. Instead of heading for his own tent, he steered toward the fires of the command tents a hilltop away. It was time to call in some help.

Even this late, the tents of the Communications and Intelligence sections bustled with candle-lit activity. Couriers came and went with the less pressing reports and orders. Urgent dispatches were sent off by the few Heralds who could make objects disappear, then reappear elsewhere. Others pored over big maps, keeping track of units, supplies, and numbers. They waded through seas of unrelated information, assembling tiny bits into bigger bits, and fitting it all into a hazy, incomplete picture of how things were.

Herald Erek Ranwellen pushed aside the reports scattered about his folding camp table, brushed away a stray lock of light-brown hair, and rubbed his eyes. It had been a long day. He felt ages older than his twenty-six years. His white leathers were mostly clean, but he longed for a bath and change of clothes. He should have turned in an hour ago like his Companion, Deanara.

He looked up at the sound of nervous throat-clearing to see a door sentry at attention before him.

“Yes, what is it?”

“Beggin’ your pardon, Herald,” said the soldier. “But there’s a sergeant from the Pikes outside wantin’ to see you.”

“Did he say why?”

“No, sir. He just said to say you still owe him for turning a whiny little rich boy into a passable good soldier.” The sentry’s mouth barely twitched. “His words, sir, not mine.”

Erek’s eyes widened. He smiled broadly, to the sentry’s wonder.

“Sergeant Krandal?” said Erek. “ ‘Iron Mit’ Krandal’s outside? Send him in, man, send him in!”

Sergeant Krandal’s snap to attention and salute were parade-ground perfect, as was Erek’s response. The grins and strong handshake that followed were less than regulation.

“Sergeant Krandal! I’ll never get used to you saluting me.”

“Aye, Erek . . . er, Herald.” Sergeant Krandal’s eyes twinkled. “Who’d have thought the company’s biggest slacker would be chosen as a Herald. You even turned out a good soldier.”

“Thanks to you, Sergeant.”

“Maybe,” said Krandal with a crooked grin. “A few hundred laps around the parade ground in full kit didn’t hurt either.”

“How is your lady wife?” asked Erek.

A shadow of pain crossed Sergeant Krandal’s face.

“There was a fever, two winters past. She . . .” He looked away and waved weakly.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“No way you would have. Anyway, I’m not here socially.”

“What is it?”

“I need a favor.”

“Thrust! Recover! Advance! Thrust!” Sergeant Krandal’s voice cracked out the commands, and the Oakdell militia sweated through pike drill. Rury’s tunic was damp under his armor, his hands sweaty on the spear shaft. They drilled two hours a day with the larger company, then Sergeant Krandal had them on the field for an extra hour after that. They needed it. The spears were half again as long as Rury, and the pikes even longer. They had to work together as a unit or people got hurt, even in drill.

They’d learned the basics of spear and pike back home, but there the militia’s main job was fighting bandits and peacekeeping. The weapons were more likely to be sword, bow, or staff. The Guard, however, had decreed they were pike soldiers, so Pikes they had to become. For Rury, one good thing about drill was getting some small respite from the massed feelings pressing in. Those around him mostly suspended thought and feeling as they concentrated on the barked commands and responses.

“Rest in ranks,” ordered Sergeant Krandal. The four rows of militia grounded the butts of their weapons gratefully and leaned on the shafts. The sergeant walked around the formation to face them. He upended the spear he carried and thrust it upright into the trampled sod.

“It took some doing to get these toys.” He patted the short sword hanging off his right side, and the buckler, a small round shield two hand-spans in diameter, clipped at his left. All the militia members carried the same. “So you will oblige me by being proficient with them.”

He had them lay down spears and walked them through various drills, drawing the sword with either hand and getting the buckler off the belt and up. They’d had months of training back home using larger shields and longer swords, and they were improving rapidly.

Aed Karlan, the group’s self-appointed jester, muttered sidewise to Rury, “It’s not enough we have to slog around with armor and pigstickers. We get to haul extra gear, too.”

“You have questions, Karlan, or just gas?” said Sergeant Krandal. Aed flushed and stammered.

“Uh, just wondering, Sergeant. Why the extra weapons if the army thinks we’re pike soldiers? Not that I mind ’em, but it’d be nice having a full-size sword and shield.”

“That’s simple enough,” Sergeant Krandal replied. “Two lines of spears backed with two of pikes are a bit thin against a massed rush. Put a big force of heavies against you, or even an equal force whose front line cares more about running over you than staying alive, and you people will be playing kissy-face with the Tedrel. If that happens,” he pointed at Aed’s weapons, “those will give you a fighting chance. And there’s no way to carry full-size weapons and still fight a spear in close order without getting hung up on your comrades.” The sergeant smiled thinly. “I approve of soldiers asking questions.” Aed looked relieved as Krandal continued, “but not soldiers talking in ranks. Karlan, you get wood and water duty tonight.” Aed’s look of relief melted.

“Dortha, front and center!” A dark-haired young woman broke ranks and came on the double. “Run them through reverse-draw drills.” Dortha was no-nonsense and as good a fighter as the men. After joining up she’d silenced snickers from the boys with a ready kick to the knee if they were lucky, somewhat higher if they weren’t. She quickly got them into the rhythm of the drill, drawing the sword with blade reversed and pointing down, slashing up and across an enemy’s face, then immediately sweeping back to stab face or throat.

Sergeant Krandal noticed the unit sneaking looks off behind him. He glanced back to see a small group of horsemen, most on brilliantly white mounts, turn off the camp road at the end of the drill field and trot toward them. The sunlight glinted off the armor and crown worn by the group’s leader, and off the coat of the Companion he rode. Behind him a horseman bore the blue-and-silver standard of the King of Valdemar.

“Hold! Dress your ranks!” Sergeant Krandal snapped back to the militia. “I don’t know why, but that’s King Sendar coming to call. You lot follow my lead and show some respect, or you’ll all spend the next week wishing you had!”

Sergeant Krandal turned back just as the group pulled up. He saluted and dropped to one knee. Clinking and rustling indicated the militia was following his example.

Now if they can just keep quiet.

Rury dropped to a knee with the rest. With the mindless rote of drill paused, he immediately felt the feelings of those around pressing on his mind. The militia were awed and a little apprehensive. Sergeant Krandal was mostly curious. From the king, Rury sensed an almost overwhelming weight of worry and sadness, but in front of it, like an army’s standard in the charge, rode a spark of hope and pleasure.

King Sendar sat his Companion, leaned forward on the saddle, and smiled warmly.

“It’s good to see you back in the field, Sergeant Krandal,” the King said. The militia’s eyes widened.

“It’s good to be back, Your Majesty,” replied Sergeant Krandal. “I may be getting old for this game, but I’m your man and Valdemar’s to the end of it.”

“I know that,” said the king, “and I’m grateful.” He raised his eyes to take in the rest of the militia. “I’m grateful also, to every man and woman standing for our kingdom against the Tedrel. You may guess that I know your sergeant of old. I know, then, you are well trained. I see you are well-armed. This battle’s outcome will depend on each of you. I depend on you. I know you will not fail me or Valdemar.”

Rury felt his heart swell with pride, and sensed the same from his comrades. This was a king to follow, a king to fight for!

King Sendar sketched a salute to Sergeant Krandal, wheeled his Companion, and he and his entourage cantered back to the road.

All save one. One Herald, with the insignia of the Communications branch on his surcoat, remained behind. His Companion shifted with a delicate grace as he dismounted.

Sergeant Krandal walked over and saluted the Herald, then bowed deeply to his Companion, and it seemed to the gawking militia that the shining Companion returned the bow.

“My greetings to you, Lady Deanara.” said Krandal. “You look even lovelier than usual.” The Herald’s companion dipped her head gravely and snorted.

“Dee says it’s always a pleasure to meet the legendary Sergeant Krandal,” said Erek, “and when’s lunch?”

“We break in fifteen minutes or so,” said Krandal with a grin. He turned back to the ranked militia.

“Back to work, people! You heard His Majesty. He’s depending on you to save the kingdom. But don’t get big heads about it!”

They sat on the grass in the common area between the company cook fires and the drill field. Lunch was cracked grain boiled with bits of sausage and what vegetables might be available, a staple of the Guard in the field. The troops had a dozen nicknames for it. The commonest and least profane was “Thunder Mud.”

“The cooks are trying to kill us with this stuff,” said Aed. “They sure cooked this until it’s dead.”

Sergeant Krandal snorted. He pulled a tiny bottle from his belt pouch, undid the stopper, and sprinkled a bit of reddish-orange powder on his food.

“Never let the cooks hear you gripe about the food,” he said. “If you do, don’t eat camp soup after that. Besides, any dish loses a lot when it’s made for five hundred at a time. Perking it up’s your problem.”

“What’s that stuff, Sarge?”

“Ground Karsite peppers. Guaranteed to put a little zip into anything the Guard dishes out.” He restoppered the bottle, tasted his food, and nodded.

“Sarge,” said Aed, looking to where Rury and Erek sat apart, with the Herald’s white Companion standing behind, “is Rury in trouble?”

“We’re all in trouble,” muttered Sergeant Krandal. “It’s just that we might be able to help Tellar with some of his.”

Herald Erek seemed likable enough, but Rury had never met a Herald before, let alone had the personal attention of one. He was nervous.

“Guardsman Tellar,” said Herald Erek after they got settled, “can I call you Rury?”

“Uh, sure,” said Rury. “Am I in trouble or something?”

Erek smiled slightly. “Not with me, you’re not. I’m just here to help with a problem you may have.”

Rury felt the Herald’s sincere concern, but he still didn’t like where this was going. “I’m, uh, not sure what you mean.”

“Let me make a guess,” said Erek. “You think everyone around you is trying to climb into your head, or that maybe you’re just going crazy.” Erek’s voice stayed calm, but it took control not to laugh aloud at Rury’s open-mouthed, goggle-eyed response.

“What . . . how . . . ?”

“It’s all right,” said Erek. “May I touch your arm for a moment? It should help me help you.” Rury held out his left arm in reply. Erek grasped Rury’s wrist. His Companion, whom he’d introduced as Deanara, left off nibbling grain from a canvas bucket and swung her head to where Erek could place his free hand on her nose. Rury felt a gentle coolness brush his mind. A few moments passed and Erek released Rury’s wrist.

“I was almost certain, but Dee confirms it.” Said Erek. “you have a strong Gift of Empathy. I have a touch of it myself, though my major Gift is Mindspeech.”

“It doesn’t feel like a Gift,” said Rury, “More like a curse.”

“That’s because you haven’t learned how to keep other peoples’ feelings out. It can go both ways, too. If you have strong emotions of your own, you can influence others around you.”

“You mean like the rest of the militia?”

“Yes, especially with feelings like fear. They could feel afraid for no reason other than you’re afraid.”

Rury didn’t want to think about what that might mean in a fight; the entire militia panicking because of him.

“Is there a cure?”

Erek chuckled, but cut it off. “Sorry. It’s not a disease, so there’s really no ‘cure’. You can make it easier for yourself, though, and safer for your comrades. You need to learn ways to shield your feelings from others, and keep the emotions of others out.”

“I could do that?” Rury looked like he’d been reprieved from a death sentence, which was just what Erek was trying to do.

They spent the rest of lunch break running over simple techniques. Rury seemed more relaxed at the end of it. Erek hoped it would be enough. Keeping out the random jitters of his comrades was one thing. Shielding against the raging emotions of two armies locked in mortal combat would be an entirely different beast.

The night was clear and cool, with stars twinkling in a black sky. No one looked at the stars. Soldiers glanced away from their fires toward the Karsite border, where an orange glow marked the encamped Tedrel horde. Tension and suppressed fear, thick and heavy, pushed through Rury’s best attempts to shield his mind. His own fear kept intruding on his efforts to block out emotions of those around him.

Sergeant Krandal stood and stretched, wincing.

“Better hit the bag, people,” he said. “We don’t want to oversleep the party tomorrow.”

“Sarge,” said Snipe, “I heard the next company over is sleeping in their armor. Should we?”

The sergeant shook his head. “No, not unless you’re sure you can actually sleep that way. If you have any clean, dry clothes with you, especially underclothes, change into those. Wouldn’t hurt to keep your boots on either.” He looked around. “Tellar and I will take first watch. The rest of you turn in.”

They shuffled and muttered back to their tents. Sergeant Krandal had Rury take a position on the company’s tent line, facing away from the banked fire. After noise from the tents settled down, he appeared at Rury’s side.

“You might not feel like talking, Tellar,” he said, “but tell me true, how’s that empathy thing going?”

“It’s better, Sarge. Really, it is.” He paused, wondering if he should go on.

“But you still feel afraid,” Sergeant Krandal said.

“Well . . . yeah, kind of.”

“You’ll be fine, lad.” The sergeant smiled. “Every sane soldier is afraid at some time or another. It’s what separates the good soldiers from the dead ones. A little fear is Nature’s way of making you pay attention. If you feel afraid, use it. Stay calm and let it turn to something else, something you can use.”

“What if I freeze up?”

“I doubt that’ll happen. Let your training and reflexes take care of things while you deal with it. Herald Erek taught you ways to handle the Empathy, right?”

“Yeah, Sarge, but I’m not sure if I can make them work.”

“Then turn in and practice until you sleep. I can handle the rest of the watch, and I want you fresh tomorrow.”

“Sarge, I don’t . . .”

“That’s an order, Tellar,” Sergeant Krandal said gruffly. “Go.” His tone softened. “It’ll be all right.”

Krandal watched Rury trudge off, then muttered under his breath, “I hope.”

Half a candlemark later, Erek and Deanara appeared at the edge of the firelight. Sergeant Krandal waved them in silently.

“Well?” he said, barely above a whisper.

Erek swung off Deanara, sighed heavily, and sat down. He replied in equally soft tones.

“I didn’t get much farther than you did, Sergeant. The brass isn’t about to pull one young pike soldier off the line this late in the game. I’m sorry.” Behind him, Deanara gave a snort of disgust.

“I’m not surprised,” Sergeant Krandal replied. “Guard policy is like Guard cooking. What’s best for the army is usually hard on the individual soldier.”

Erek nodded. “I did point out that an untrained Empath probably wouldn’t survive the coming battle, and that the intensity and volume of emotion he’d face would leave him dead or insane.” He sighed heavily. “They said there are hundreds, maybe thousands of young soldiers in this army who won’t survive the battle, Empaths or not.”

“They’re right. So, what’s to be done?”

“I spent what time I could teaching him shielding techniques. It wasn’t much, but we have to hope it will do. We’ve simply run out of time. Can you shift him in the unit?”

“I could, but he’s one of my best. And if he’s capable of what you say, and he panics, he could take the whole unit with him. If he breaks, I’d just as soon it be where I can see him. I’ll shift things so I’m behind him in the second line.”

“So you can help if there’s trouble?”

Sergeant Krandal stared into the fire a moment.

“So I can help him. And if it’s the only way, so I can stop him.”

Rury kept running the shielding exercises through his head as they donned armor in the dim light of predawn. Armor in the Guard was never completely uniform, even within units, except for what it had to protect. Leather and metal leggings covered Rury from crotch to foot. He pulled on a padded vest with separate, quilted sleeves, and over that a leather jerkin with small, overlapping iron plates stitched inside. More leather and metal covered arms and elbows, and an armored cowl covered throat, shoulders, upper back and chest. He looped the baldric suppporting his short sword over his left shoulder and secured it with a wide belt that also supported his water bottle, rations pouch, buckler and dagger. Reinforced leather gauntlets and a plain, well-made helmet finished the outfit. Rury bent and picked up his spear. He consciously felt the armor’s weight only for a moment. Sergeant Krandal had been drilling them in full kit since before they’d marched out from Oakdell.

The sergeant appeared, wearing his armor as naturally as if it were his skin. Stepping close to Rury he spoke barely above a whisper.

“Remember, relax and let the training do the job. If you feel fear, let it go to something else.”

The sergeant stepped back and looked around at the militia, then smiled grimly.

“Boys and girls,” he said, “it’s time to go be soldiers. Marching order, column of fours!”

They marched to the company’s muster point, then trudged to the valley in the dim red light of pre-dawn. The upright rows of their shouldered weapons rippled as they moved, like a field of grain waving deadly in the breeze. A crow cawed harshly at their passing.

They reached the shallow stream marking Valdemar’s border with Karse and arrayed themselves there. Rury stood on the front line with Aed and Snipe to either side. Behind him were Sergeant Krandal and the others, their presence reassuring. Perhaps five-score paces to his left Rury could make out the King’s standard fluttering bravely in the breeze. To either side stretched the armored ranks of Valdemar.

Muttering rippled through the Valdemaran ranks, as the Tedrel Army crested the opposing hilltop. They came, and came, and kept coming, armor glittering in the morning sun. The measured tread of their march was like muffled drums.

“That may be the scariest thing I’ve ever seen,” muttered Aed.

“That’s because you aren’t them, looking at us.” replied the sergeant. “Look close. The front ranks aren’t squared off and hard lined like the ones behind. See how the officers are riding close on them. The Tedrel are running their mongrel hounds out ahead. Those boys in front are nervous.” He raised his voice. “I’ve seen more than my share of fighters, and you people are better than that lot.” He grinned wryly. “Though it looks like it will be a while before we run out of Tedrels.”

Rury knew the sergeant was trying to buck them up. Still, he was glad of the confidence in Krandal’s voice. As the Tedrels filled the far slopes, the mutterings in his head grew to a low roar, even through the shields he tried to raise. The voices were back, and this time every voice was shouting hate and rage and desire for his death. For the first time in his young life, Rury seriously thought about the possibility of death, and that today he might die.

“Nice to see somebody remembered to invite the Tedrels,” joked Aed. “So what do we do now?”

“We stop jabbering like a bunch of first-fight rookies, for starters,” growled Sergeant Krandal, “then we settle in and wait. Stand easy.”

The morning crawled on. The sun was well up now, glinting off the dew on the grass. Soldiers in the line held their positions, occasionally shifting their feet or drinking sparingly from water bottles.

Suddenly there was a cry as the Tedrel lines started moving. Their front ranks left the main body and advanced toward the little stream just ahead of Rury. They moved at a trot that sped up as they came down the slope.

“Dress your ranks!” shouted Sergeant Krandal. “Hold in place.”

The Tedrels were up to a run, now, a wordless roar coming from their throats. Thousands on thousands charged down the hill, shaking the ground. Rury felt the vibration through his boot soles.

“Level weapons!” The front line of Tedrels reached the stream, lurching and splashing across.

“Hold steady!” Sergeant Krandal could barely be heard over the noise. “Hold the . . .” The rest was lost in crash, screams and drumming thunder as the lines slammed together and two armies each leaped for the other’s throat. On either side of Rury, Tedrel fighters, unheeding of danger or unable to check their rush, impaled themselves on spear and pike points. For every Tedrel who did, two more fought to get past the spears and close with the fighters of Valdemar. The roar of clashing arms and screaming soldiers was deafening.

Rury nearly blacked out from the waves of emotion. He tasted bile in his throat. His head felt as if it would explode. A big Tedrel in bronze and leather armor knocked Rury’s spear point aside with a shield rim and charged in. He hacked down and his sword bit into Rury’s spear shaft with a crack. The shaft buckled. Rury saw death in the warrior’s eyes, felt hate pouring from him as the Tedrel’s sword came up again. The noise seemed to mute and time slowed to a crawl as Rury brought up the splintered remnant of his spear shaft and blocked the sword coming at his head.