Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar

Something happened, clicking into place in Rury’s mind. The physical act of defending himself combined with the hurried training from Herald Erek and Sergeant Krandal’s words.

“Stay calm. Let the fear and hate turn to something else.”

He didn’t need to stop the feelings, he just had to let them divert as they flowed into and through him. The hammering in his head and the sickness in his gut vanished. He felt the rage and fear of two armies coming to him, and felt it refracting, turning into . . . something else.

He held up the broken spear shaft like a talisman with his left hand and fumbled for his sword. The Tedrel swung again, but stopped short as Sergeant Krandal’s spearhead hit the man’s shoulder. The thrust didn’t bite deep through the Tedrel’s armor, but it hung him up.

The hours of training kicked in. Rury gripped his own sword, fist up and blade-down, and swept it out of the scabbard, slashing across the Tedrel’s face. The cheek and nosepiece of the Tedrel’s helmet turned most of the cut, but Rury’s backhanded return stab took him just below the chin. The Tedrel dropped like a puppet with cut strings. His blood bathed Rury’s sword and spattered his surcoat, filling Rury’s nose with its coppery smell. A tidal flow of primal emotion roared into Rury, the greatest feeling of his young life. The dying Tedrel’s anger, fear and lust surged and churned inside him, turning to something that felt strangely like love. Love of his enemies. Love of battle. Love of killing. At that instant Rury Tellar became an angel of death.

Spears and pikes stabbed from behind and around him as Rury’s comrades fought to fill the gap left by his broken spear. Another Tedrel forced an opening with his shield and rushed at Rury, his war hammer swinging high. Rury calmly stopped the charge cold by thrusting the splintered end of his spear shaft into the warrior’s face, followed with a sword stab over the shield’s rim. Whether the sword struck the Tedrel’s face or throat, Rury couldn’t see. He heard the man cry out and felt him sag, but the Tedrel didn’t go down. Rury tried to draw the sword back, but it was stuck, jammed in bone or armor. He released the sword and wrenched the hammer from the man’s faltering grip, then brought it around to crash on the Tedrel’s helmet. The blow threw the man’s body back into the Tedrel line.

In the moment’s respite, Rury dropped the splintered spear shaft and had his buckler off his belt and up, still gripping the war hammer. The weapon was no nobleman’s decorative piece, just a steel head with a long, narrow hammer face and wicked points on back, sides and front, mounted on an oak haft nearly as long as his arm. Whatever its form, it was a hammer, and Rury had spent four years at the forge using one. Driven by his hard-trained muscle, the hammer rose and fell on the pressing Tedrel host. Armor and bone crushed. With nearly every blow a man went down. The Tedrel fought to get a return blow on Rury, but Sergeant Krandal bellowed orders, and the militia’s spears stabbed and clicked like giant, deadly knitting needles, taking down any Tedrel who gave Rury too much attention. Bodies piled before them, making a barrier that let their spears and pikes reach across to dart and tear.

Every Tedrel who died in pain and fear and rage fed energy into Rury. Every blow was like a lover’s touch, every scream a sweetheart’s whisper. He wanted it to never end. He would kill until no one lived on this bloody field, just to keep the song of love and death singing through him.

The Tedrels fell back a dozen steps, and arrows rained down on the Valdemaran line. Armor and luck proved good enough for the Oakdell militia, and they took little hurt. But the Tedrels had pulled back out of reach of his hammer, and Rury stood with impatient resentment.

The roar of battle eased for a moment, and he heard cries of commanders, getting louder as they relayed orders. Glancing to his left, Rury glimpsed the King’s banner plunging across the stream and deep into the Tedrel host. And then Sergeant Krandal was shouting at his back.

“Advance the line! The king is leading! Advance the line! Move up to support the king! Move it! Move it now! CHARGE!”

Like a hunting dog released from its leash, Rury scrambled up and over the slick line of Tedrel bodies, trailed closely by the rest. There was a shock of wet and cold on feet and shins as they splashed into the shallow stream, now running a muddy crimson. Past the opposite bank stood a locked line of Tedrel shields. This time it was the soldiers of Valdemar who crashed into a line of steel. Rury gave it no thought. He only wanted to regain that wonderful feeling that came with killing.

His hammer crashed down on a Tedrel’s wooden shield, splintering the arm that supported it. Another blow smashed a helm. The rest of the militia were with him now, exploiting gaps made by Rury’s relentless blows. The Tedrel line gave ground before the young demon with the hammer and those terrible, thirsting spears.

“No!” thought Rury. “Stay! Stay and let me love you!” He smashed the shield of a lone Tedrel left in an opening cleared of live enemies. The shield sagged down, but before Rury could strike the killing blow a spear head thrust past him and took the Tedrel cleanly. As the man fell, Rury felt the rage of a child whose toy was taken.

Take my kill, will you? Thwart my love? Rury turned to see Aed pulling back his spear.

Then let you be my love! Rury smiled as he raised his hammer.

Far up the line the King’s banner trembled and fell. Rury drew back his hammer, ready to send it smashing down on Aed’s helmet.

Instead, lightning struck Rury.

A bolt of searing emotion ran through his mind and body, rushing through his veins, so intense he felt his fingers and toes must be sparking and flaring. It was a wave of feeling that screamed of pain, despair, death and the loss of loved ones.

OUR BELOVED! OUR CHOSEN! THEY HAVE KILLED THE COMPANIONS! THEY HAVE SLAIN THE KING!

It was too much! Too much power. Too much pain and raw emotion. Rury’s mind reflexively redirected the bolt, casting it back out across the battlefield. His legs buckled and he sank to his knees, felt the hammer pulled from his grasp. He heard savage screaming as he fell, something about the King’s death. He glimpsed Aed swinging the war hammer wildly, and Sergeant Krandal roaring wordlessly, running into the enemy ranks with his spear gripped high.

And then the dark closed in.

Erek limped as he picked his way across the wreckage of the battlefield, closely followed by Deanara. His uniform and the Companion’s trappings were torn and dirty, here and there stained with blood. Communications and Intelligence people weren’t supposed to be front line troops, but after the Valdemaran reserves had been ordered out to intercept the Tedrel cavalry ravaging the countryside, every Valdemaran who could hold a weapon became a combat soldier. Even with his mental shields up, he’d felt the call of grief and rage that marked the King’s death. He and Dee had thrown themselves into the battle as ferociously as any. Erek wasn’t certain who had channeled that wave of emotion, but he had an idea, and he had to find out.

Around them was what the worst of the nine hells must look like on a sunny day. Nothing in the universe is so horribly, totally messy as the aftermath of a battle. The metallic smell of blood and pungent aroma of feces from the dying and dead hung in the still air. The injured moaned and screamed. Figures on the ground writhed or lay much too still. Others like Erek and Deanara picked their way across ground littered by broken weapons, discarded armor, and awkwardly sprawled bodies. It was difficult getting through some sections without walking on limbs, torsos or faces. The former front lines were marked by raggedly piled rows of dead, like windrows of cut hay ready for harvesting.

He found them twenty paces or so beyond one of the largest piles, to the right of what had been the Valdemaran center. Sergeant Krandal sat sprawled in a small cleared area, bareheaded and with part of his armor stripped off. Rury lay with his head cradled in the sergeant’s arms, sobbing like a child. Both were bloodstained and filthy. Sergeant Krandal looked up at the Herald’s approach.

“How did you fare, Sergeant?” said Erek.

Sergeant Krandal gave a pained, crooked smile. “Better than we might have hoped. We gave far better than we took, but we did take losses. Six dead that I know of. Aed took an ax to the shoulder. Lots of walking wounded. Dortha’s got the rest out with the company, mopping up.” He winced and shifted his seat, and Erek saw the sergeant’s outstretched leg seeping blood through a crude bandage ripped from a surcoat. “I took a scratch on the thigh, enough to make me stay put.” Krandal looked down at Rury, who was quiet now, like a child who had cried itself almost to sleep.

“The boy seemed to master that empathy thing about the time they closed with us. He fought like a Karsite demon after that. That was mostly why we weren’t overrun. Then right after the King died, when we all somehow knew he’d been killed, I was filled with grief and rage like I’d never known. That’s when I saw the boy go down. He wasn’t struck down, just dropped like he was dead. There wasn’t time to check on him then. We were all too busy trying to rip out the Tedrels’ throats with our teeth. At least that’s what it felt like. It was as if the boy’s demons burned him out and jumped to all of us.”

Erek knelt and laid a hand on Rury’s forehead as if checking for a fever. Deanara snorted gently and drew nearer, and Erek reached back and laid his free hand on her velvety nose. He drew breath sharply after a moment, removed his hands from Rury and Dee, and stood up.

“Find something?” said the Sergeant, frowning. Erek sighed.

“Dee thinks he was something like a conduit for what you and I and everyone else felt. I agree. When the King was killed, when he and his bodyguard and their Companions and the other mounts were being cut down, the Companions knew it. Those directly involved felt their Chosen pierced and dying, felt the pain and panic and death of their fellows. They put out a combined mind-scream that must have hit Rury like a thunderbolt. My guess is he threw it back out over the army, probably translated somehow so that even the least sensitive Valdemaran could understand it.” Erek stood stiffly.

“We can’t find any trace now of his Empathic talents. I think you’re righter than you know when you say his demons burned him out. What he did was an instinctive reaction, but that’s how we all felt the King’s death at the same instant. Whether or not he meant to do it, it helped turn the tide of the battle.”

Krandal stroked Rury’s head like a concerned mother. The boy’s breathing evened out.

“Will he recover?”

“We need to get him to the Healers. You, too, for that matter. He’ll certainly be affected, but no youngster goes through a war unchanged. With help and time, I think he’ll be well enough.” Erek paused and frowned. “We’d best keep this to ourselves, at least for now. The Companions will know, and some of the Heralds, but they won’t gossip about it. I’ll pass it on to those in the Guard with a need to know.” Erek stopped abruptly as Rury opened his eyes and raised himself up on an elbow.

“How do you feel, Rury?” said Erek.

“My . . . head hurts.” Rury replied. “But not like before.”

Sergeant Krandal let out a long breath.

“At least you’re alive, lad.”

“I heard what you said,” said Rury to Erek. “I didn’t mean to send those feelings back out to everyone. It was like catching a red-hot iron. You just want to throw it back.”

“I’m sorry you had to bear that, Rury,” said Erek.

“I’m glad it happened, I guess.” replied Rury. “I don’t think I liked what I was feeling before that. Or maybe I liked it too much. When it hit me, it was like a basin of iced water in my face when I was having a nightmare.” He paused and closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. “And you’re right, I can’t sense other people’s feelings now.” Another thoughtful pause. “Is it true the King is dead?”

“It’s true,” said Erek soberly. He raised an arm and pointed to where a small group of riders picked their way down to where King Sendar lay fallen. At their head rode Princess, no, now Queen Selenay. “King Sendar’s dead, but his kingdom still lives, and the Princess; thanks to you and all of us who fought today.”

“I don’t want to fight anymore,” said Rury from where he lay. “And I don’t want to kill. I just want to go home.”

Erek smiled sadly. “That’s all any of us wanted, Rury. Perhaps when you sent out that cry we all truly realized what the Tedrel would take from us. Maybe that’s why we won out in the end.”

“Well,” grunted Sergeant Krandal, “right now none of us look like we won.” He reached up a hand and grimaced as Erek hauled him to his feet. “I’m getting too old for this.” He tried his injured leg, winced, and balanced on his good one while Erek helped Rury up.

In the distance a body wrapped in the King’s banner was borne and carried up the hill by Heralds and officers, followed by a young, new Queen. None noticed three ragged men and a Companion, upon whom the tide of battle may have turned, limping slowly away.

Years passed, and old veterans remembered their own golden valor, a heroic king and a brave, beautiful girl made queen. The memory of a searing cry piercing the thunder of war faded, until it was less than the distant calling of crows on a battlefield far from home.

STRENGTH AND HONOR

by Ben Ohlander

Ben Ohlander was born in South Dakota in 1965 and grew up in Colorado and North Carolina. After completing high school, he did a stretch in the Marines before attending college in Ohio. Upon graduation, he was commissioned as an officer in the Army Reserve, and is now serving on active duty in eastern Iraq. In his civilian interludes he works as a data analyst, part-time writer, and cat owner. He currently lives in southwest Ohio.

COGERN, Warmaster of the Nineteenth Foot, Hero of the Regiment, and Beloved of V’kandis, paced in the blazing desert sun. A distant smudge on the horizon drew his eye. He watched it a while as it spread laterally. The thought of an attacking force crossing the high desert at noon fell into folly, but he looked for it anyway. Folly, served judiciously, could be well employed. He’d employed it himself.

The smudge resolved itself. Not infantry. Dust storm. Typical weather for this time of year, but one of his least favorite things about his home country. He often wondered why they fought so hard to defend the place. The oft-heard comment was that the sun was the gift of V’kandis . . . too bad he’d been so generous. Dust storm looked like it would pass them by.

He wiped the sweat that rolled down his scarred head with his dog rag and checked the sentries. They were all alert and jittery. The village that lay hard by the oasis should have been brimming with life . . . children playing, women coming down for water. The presence of two thousand soldiers in the area should have meant a steady stream of fruit sellers, merchants, and the odd maiden intent on trading favors for silver.

Now, nothing. No bodies, no sign of the haste or force. Just no villagers. The place had been abandoned, as though everyone—man, woman, and brat—had simply walked away. The empty village wasn’t central to their being there, but it felt bad.

Cogern wiped his brow again, tracing a clean streak in the dust that marked his forehead. He hated mysteries, especially when his regiment lay vulnerable . . . sprawled, with armor shed, in the thin shade of the date palms that clustered close to the oasis. He didn’t need to look back to know that most men slept while others diced or talked quietly. All moved as little as possible.

He glanced to his right, seeing movement. A soldier made water, catching the fluid in a small bowl for the chirurgeon, who stood nearby. Cogern shook his head and stepped over. He would have dismissed the Valdemaran as a quack, just another foreigner with strange notions . . . had it not been for the man’s skill with the arrow-spoon and scalpel. Cogern knew little about the chirurgeon, only that Tregaran had taken his service after some vague indiscretion back home. Cogern appreciated the man’s skill and soft hands, but not his motives. That made him bear watching.

Cogern shook his head in polite disbelief as the man swirled the water in his bowl. The chirurgeon believed a good deal in piss.

“See, the dark water here?” the Valdemaran said, his accent mauling Karse’s more sophisticated sibilants. His head and the trooper’s leaned together, peering into the bowl. “These are your humors, growing cloudy. You need to keep them flushed out. Dark-yellow or brown mark a sure sign that your body’s fluids are clogging up. Yellow is liver humor, light-colored, not so bad. Dark yellow, is bad. Brown worse.”

Cogern, interested in spite of the obvious quackery, craned his head a little, to better see. “Then what?”

The quack with the soft hands looked at him and smiled. “Ah, Warmaster. A little interest? If the humors get too thick, aren’t kept flushed out, then they back up and clog the heart. You die.”

The trooper looked worriedly into his bowl. “Ahm I gunna die?” His homespun accent and credulity gave away his country roots.

The chirurgeon glanced sideways and smiled. “A laxative, a quick lancet to the wrist vein to bleed a little, and as much water as could be drunk oft fixes the imbalance.”

The trooper paled. “Ah, lancet?”

The quack smiled. “Maybe not the lancet. Drink as much water as you can hold, and bring your bowl to me tonight. If it’s clear, we’ll hold the lancet for now.”

The trooper nodded once and moved away. Cogern smiled as the lad headed for the Oasis.

The chirurgeon grinned. “The water seems the most needful. The laxative is only if the stools dry out and become too firm. The needle . . .”

Cogern understood. “Soldiers trade in blood, and hate to see their own shed. The trooper will drink to bursting to avoid being bled. Clever.”

Cogern didn’t have any use for chirurgeons, but he did admit this one knew his trade better than most. Most proved no better than butchers, and far too many enjoyed the blood shed. Though, to be honest, he did keep track of the color of his water now. No man but an enemy would bleed him, but drinking a little more water every now and again didn’t seem to hurt. As for the rest. “Feh. Pure quackery.”

The chirurgeon, understanding he’d been dismissed, eased away.

“Quit stalling, man,” Cogern said to himself, as the quack stepped away to check on the next man. “Time to get it over with.”

He crossed to the colonel’s tent, passed between the sweating sentries with a nod, and entered. Inside, he drew himself up into full attention. “Sir, the warmaster requests permission to speak!”

Colonel Tregaran groaned once, then sat up on the low cot. He shook out the drowsiness and pulled the sleeping rug around his shoulders. He felt a twinge in the left shoulder, where the Hardornan’s arrow had pierced the shield. He rubbed it ruefully. Sweat burst out of every pore, even from that small movement. He squinted at the warmaster.

Cogern’s sudden affliction of formality did not bode well. He glanced at the shade outside, and shadows in the distance. Not much into the second watch of the day. Not even noon, and the heat already a blast furnace.

“Wine?” he asked, bending to pour some of the thin, sour stuff into a camp cup. “No?” He pointed toward the village with his chin. “Any sign?”

Cogern shook his head once. “No. Scouts have been out all morning. Solid trail, sir, going back up into the wadis, but no idea of why. Doesn’t look like a threat. It’s just . . . strange.”

“Yes,” Tregaran agreed, “but it’s part of the reason we’re here.”

He felt Cogern relax. The commander’s duty to set the orders, the warmaster’s to keep them. Cogern was used to being aware of his colonel’s thoughts, though, and Tregaran’s refusal to include the warmaster this time had chafed the older man.

Cogern leaped like a stone-lion at Tregaran’s opening, his bottled frustration spilling over. “Sir, what in the nineteen hells are we doing here?” Having started, his carefully rehearsed speech abandoned him, and the rest tumbled out in a heap. “We left our post, followed you across the high desert in summer, and laagered within a night’s march from Sunhame. Why?”

Tregaran took a sip of wine, making a face at the sour bite. He looked down at the cup and the slightly oily surface of the liquid inside. He smiled, and made the decision to give it to the warmaster straight up. “The Black-robes have assembled a force . . . an army really . . . and are preparing to overthrow the hierarchs, and put one of their own on the Sun Seat.”

Cogern prided himself on being unflappable, no matter the provocation. The slight widening of his eyes equaled most others’ dropping jaw. He sat on the camp stool without being bid and reached out blindly. Tregaran smiled and handed him the cup. Cogern drained it, held it out for a refill, and emptied it as well. Tregaran watched Cogern work it out.

“But Laskaris must surely know. Won’t he put a stop to it?” The warmaster shook his head, answering his own question. “No, he’s too busy buggering boys, and the hierarchs are either too drunk to notice or well paid to look the other way.” He chewed his lip, thinking. “The Black-robes will ‘save’ the faith, and our precious god hasn’t put in an appearance so say what he thinks.” He shook his head. “It’s that simple. So, what’s to stop them?”

Cogern played the role of the simple soldier, not too bright really, proof you didn’t need brains to survive in the army. Tregaran knew the act for what it was. Not much got past the warmaster’s washed-out blue eyes. He wouldn’t have made thirty-five years in the line if it did. His blunt face, hare-lipped scar, and lisping gravelly voice all hid a quick and ready mind.

He let his silence answer for him. Tregaran reached for a second battered cup and poured more sour wine.

The warmaster’s eyes tracked him, working it out. “Us?” A pause. “Us. Bugger me.” He looked hard at Tregaran, sensing more to this.

“Why do we care? Laskaris the boy-lover, or some Black-robe. Thinning the herd among the Heirarchs has been a long time coming.”

Tregaran nodded grimly. “It won’t be just Laskaris, or even the Hierarchs who will die. When the Black-robes strike, they will have to take down all of the ministries, decapitate the entire government. They know that the Red-robes will have no choice but to fight. So, the Black shall strike down the Red. ALL of the Red-robes in Sunhame. I can’t allow that.”

Cogern exhaled deeply. There it is. The real reason. “So, then. This is for her.”

Tregaran looked long and hard at him. “Yes. For Solaris.”

Cogern’s jaw firmed. He flashed back to the miracles performed, the regiment’s adoration, Tregaran’s increasing attentiveness during the months she had traveled with them. He had his own suspicions about the colonel’s motives, but they owed her . . . dammit, HE owed her.

Cogern stretched his arms, corded muscle stretching. “Who else knows?”

Tregaran shugged. “Not sure. Delrimmon of the Thirteenth is close, I think a couple others. Hergram of the Thirty-first, probably.”

Cogern’s face grew grim. “So, no orders, then.” It was not a question.

Tregaran’s pursed lips and single head shake made the word unnecessary. “No orders.”

Cogern stood. “Sir, I want to make sure that I understand what we’re for. We commit treason here, just by moving without orders. We strike against V’Kandis’ own priests, and if the army splits, then we start a civil war. A civil war to protect one middle-ranking priest?”

Tregaran met his gaze, long and level. “Yes.”

Cogern shugged and took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m in. Never liked any of those bastards anyway.” He rubbed his hand over his face, touching the harelip. “How d’ya know all this?”

Tregaran smiled, measuring how far Cogern was out of depth by his lack of “Sir’s”. The warmaster, even in the worst battle, the line broken, and enemy in the camp, would never let the honorifics slip. Tregaran nodded over to the firecat, who lay curled up on the camp chest, quietly watching. He had finally gotten used to the ’cats ability to simply . . . be overlooked. He gestured to it, a sort of “Well?” Cogern’s eyes followed his hand.

The cat chose to be noticed.

Cogern took a deep breath, air hissing between his gapped front teeth, as he registered its presence. “Is that a firecat? A real firecat? It told you?”

The ’cat, its tail kinked in annoyance, stretched and hopped down from the chest. “Yes.” The creature’s voice sounded clearly in their heads, irritation clear to them both. “IT told him, and IT is hungry . . . and as you haven’t even a saucer of milk for IT, IT is going to find ITS own damn dinner.” It stalked out of the tent, stiff-legged, tail still bent and flicking, a semaphore for a feline snit. “IT. Peasants.”

Cogern jumped in his seat as the ’cat’s mental voice sounded clearly in their heads, the offended tones fading as the avatar, insulted, stalked away. “What’s got his tail in a kink?” He looked back at Tregaran.

Tregaran shook his head. Cogern was, if nothing else, flexible. In the space of a few moments the warmaster had moved from an empty village, placed himself in opposition to the strongest force in the land, and insulted the avatar of the god himself, without seeming to show the slightest concern.

He smiled, then reached into his pack for the carefully rolled map.

“You’re gonna love this.”

Tregaran, followed by Cogern and the regiment’s officers, jogged hard up the hill. The late afternoon sun lay almost directly behind them throwing long, red shadows. They closed quickly on the ring of scouts who stared down at what Tregaran first took for a pile of laundry. The circle parted for them.

The townsman lay staked out in the sand, naked alongside the trail of the missing villagers. His belly had been opened and the entrails carefully removed, so carefully that none had torn, and there remained astonishingly little blood. The man had most likely died from the exposure of being staked out, rather than the vivisection. The corded muscles and death rictus gave evidence of the man’s agony.

The scout who’d marked the back-trail stood nearby. His hands shook and his face was still pale, even after vomiting into the sand. Tregaran didn’t blame him. He was little more than a boy, a stock thief saved by a stint in the army from Karse’s rough justice. Tregaran looked at his pale face and shaking hands, and wondered if the boy thought keeping his hand now seemed a bargain.

Cogern toed the body with his boot, breaking into Tregaran’s thoughts. “What does this mind you of?”

Tregaran was a few seconds late. Mindalis, a scout leader, piped in first. “The man we found up by the border, Warmaster. The man with the horse.”

“Yeah,” Cogern said, in a troubled voice. “All we need is a horse’s head on a pike, and this’d be a perfect match.” He looked at Tregaran under his brows. “Absolutely perfect. This could be the same guy.”

Tregaran studied the body, comparing it to a body found in the borderland hills where Karse and Valdemar came together in the regiment’s Terilee River sector. The dead Herald, staked and tied out . . . not naked, but with his white leathers still about him to show what he had been. He had similarly been tied, flayed, and left to suffer unto death. Identically tied, once Tregaran saw what to look for.

“The Herald was little more than a boy,” Tregaran said slowly. “Whatever secrets he held would have been given up early in the torment. What had taken place after that had been for fun.”

Yet, the Herald’s surgical pain looked nothing to the outrages visited on the horse. The animal had been torn apart, by a hatred strong enough to shatter equine bones. The animal’s head, blue eyes open, set on a spearstave.

He returned to himself and shivered. Cogern’s marking the spear as Karsite, and the presence high on the border where Karse’s brave defenders protected them from the demon horses of Valdemar. The official version had paled when faced with the reality. They did not protect Karse from the demons . . . they protected the demons. A hard moment, the worst of his life.

Tregaran bent to look at the man’s hands. A laborer’s calluses, not a swordsman’s. He lay near the trail of the missing villagers, so was likely one of them. Whatever caused this man to die, it was even less then the Herald. That, at least, could be laid to spying. This? He could think of no sane reason.

“Officers,” Tregaran said, “file the regiment by. Let them get a good long look at what they are fighting against. We march at dusk. Blood for blood. Strength and honor.”

The lead scout pounded in on a stolen . . . borrowed horse.

“Sir, Thirteenth regiment reports having secured the crossroads. They will drive on to the city’s edge. They expect to ring the Sunlord’s by dawn. No sign of the Thirty-first yet.”

The firecat beside him looked up. “Not to worry. Hergrim’s Thirty-first ran into more than they bargained for. Hardornan mercenaries, of all things, serving the Black. Most of the Black-robes’ mercenaries are dead, the rest scattered. In the name of the Good God, they’ll be at the city by dawn.” It stretched and yawned, its job done.

“All right,” Tregaran replied, to the scout. “Give the Warmaster the same report and tell him to bring up the rest of the regiment. Once we’ve secured the priory, we’ll drive onto the city.” He paused, looking over the scout’s shoulder. “Never mind, the warmaster’s here.”

The older man, also on a “found” horse, halted in a spray of dust. The animal heaved and swayed. Cogern didn’t so much ride horses as wrestle them.

“Sir,” he said, while trying to control his snapping mount, “scouts report a village ahead. The trail goes straight in. Big fires. You’ll see ’em on the horizon once you come up out of the wadi.”

Tregaran shook his head. “No, our line of travel is north against the priory. That’s were they’ve massed their strength.”

Cogern shook his, a broad sweeping “no.” “Sir, looks like the Black-robes are drawn out. Not at the priory. Troops, mebbe a couple hundred. Priests out doing the Fires. Scout says there are mebbe forty to fifty Robes down there, and villagers. Hundreds of them.”

Tregaran puffed out his cheeks, thinking. “Okay, the village. Second Battle for the assault, hold the other two in reserve. It’s going to be too tight in there for one than one Battle at a time.”

Cogern nodded, rapping out orders to the under officers. The regiment shook itself out, moving from traveling order to assault column, then picked up Cogern’s trot.

Tregaran, a little ahead with the scouts, crested the wadi, and saw the firelight glow from over the low hills. Pillars of smoke rose, then spread out forming a black layer like a roof over the burning. The lurid red flames flickered and danced against the smoke and clouds, giving the little valley a hellish cast.

Second Battle came clattering up behind him, shields at the ready.

One scout, momentarily highlighted against the flickering red background, swung a piece of cloth over his head. Any sentries placed were now dead.

Tregaran led his Battle forward, charging up out of the wadi, across the flat ground, and started up the slope to where the scout now lay hidden. He heard the rest of the Battle, some four hundred men, go to ground below them. They sounded like a herd of horses puffing and blowing after the exertion of climbing the hill.

He leaned his head up over the crest of the hill, and peered over. The outer portion of the village glowed eerily in the firelight. Flames from fires leaped high, at thrice the height of a grown man. The firelight threw more red than yellow, the bonfires set in a rough circle around the outer court. The same pillars of smoke all but blocked the view into the inner part of the village. Tregaran could see the impression of more fires but little details. The rising smoke formed a complete veil over the town square.

He shook his head. Karse, wood-poor as it was, lost a treasure in the fires that night. An entire forest had to have gone into creating this much burning.

A knot of troops, several hundred strong, came into view from the village center. They formed a rough line, facing the regiment behind the hill. They obviously meant to defend the village from the Nineteenth Foot.

“They’re onto us, sir,” said the scout.

“No kidding,” replied Tregaran, then waved the horncallers to him. “Pass the word: ‘Rise and Make Ready.’ No Horns.”

The hornsmen scattered, running along the line and preparing the units for the charge. The Battle drawn into three rough lines, stood ready.

Tregaran raised his sword over his head and cut it down sharply.

“First sally. Go!”

The leading line of Second Battle gave the single shout “V’KANDIS!” and charged. They crested the low hill and sprang down the far side. The units’ leading edges lost coherence in the steep slide down the hill, but training, discipline, and momentum carried them into the thin line the Black-robes’ warriors set to defend their chiefs.

The mercenary men fought like lions, but in the eternal fight between soldier and warrior, soldier wins. The warriors, no matter how skilled, fought as singletons. The Men of Karse, trained and blooded brethren, fought as part of a larger unit. No shame in ganging two on one, three on two, five on two. No honor in the line, just the imperative of stab, guard, parry . . . shuffle step right to cover your mate’s exposed side. Thrust into the enemy’s back. His bad luck his mates didn’t cover down.

The leading edge of Second Battle broke into the black-robes’ line, fracturing it. Tregaran sent the second sally at that point, the men sliding down the steep slope. The reinforcements, piling into the first line, shattered the black-robes’ forces. They began to fall back. Warrior after warrior broke and ran as the fight turned south.

Tregaran still on the hilltop with the reserve, watched the enemy line fragment and fail.

He made a “come-here” gesture to the horncallers. “Blow ‘Halt Pursuit. Form Double Line.’ ” He looked at the Battle’s double squad of archers. They stood close by, weapons strung and ready. “Kill them,” he said quietly.

The archers leaped into action. They used the new Rethwellen pattern bows, sinew and wood . . . all backed with horn. The weapons shot fearsome distances on a flat trajectory. The archers brought the weapons into play quickly, standing on the hilltop and taking a savage toll on the firelit men who fled. Tregaran noted that the archers killed as many as the line. The Black-robes’ forces fell back into the village in disarray.

Tregaran’s mind flashed to a place where a regiment used the bow to provide the bulk of the killing power, rather than just skirmishing. He had an image of a line of pikes with Reth’ bows salted in, yard-long arrows in direct, flat-trajectory fire, and two or three more rows of archers behind, shooting overhead. The pikes would hold cavalry at bay, likely enough, and the Reth’ bows would punch through field armor for cert. If a half-company could work this slaughter, a regiment of bows would black the sun, and an arrow-storm that would shatter any unit closing. Valdemar’s slow, heavy foot would never have a chance.

The “Cease Arms” call brought him back to the moment.

The last of the Black-robes’ troops fled within the inner ring of houses surrounding the town square, depriving the archers of clear targets. Plunging fire remained an option, but there still remained at least one more fight tonight. Best to conserve arrows for the later fight.

He left a small detachment to guard the archers, and led the balance of the reserve down the hill. The horse they’d found for him plunged forward eagerly, not needing spur or goad. It nearly fell in the scree, and at one point sat down to avoid plunging tail over head.

The battle-line reformed quickly, the reserve moving to its accustomed place. He passed their lines, his horse bucking a little at the soldiers’ cheers. The troops’ blood was up. Winning did that, especially when the win laid low two of three enemy with no loss on your side.

Tregaran led them into the Fire-lit streets, nearly staggering from the heat and smell. No wood fed these flames. Instead, long bones marked the Fires’ fuel. Each piled between knee and waist high, and all burning with an unholy vitality. He was no stranger to battlefield carnage, enough to estimate a death count, and his gut told him hundreds lay slain just in the outer court. Most of the dead now fueled these fires.

He heard the sounds behind him as the soldiers took in the carnage and what burned in the fires all around. Their morale would soften if he gave them too much time.

“To me,” he bellowed. Then, “Charge!”

The Battle came behind him with a shout, and he led them between the thick, greasy pillars and around the line of buildings. The horse refused the flames, battling and bucking to avoid being driven forward. He felt it slide in the street, and fall heavily on one shoulder. Tregaran had bare moments to kick free to avoid having his leg crushed. He rolled away as the horse got its hooves under it and staggered upright, slipping one more time, before bolting in panic.

The troops, now ahead, rounded the corner. He grabbed what remained of his dignity, picked up his blade and shield from the street and ran to follow. His right leg still hurt, for cert from the fall, and it was more of a limp than a sprint when he cleared the corner.

His men already engaged hard, slamming into the fragments of the enemy battleline that still stood. A long line of families stood behind, calmly lined up by a roaring bonfire. The furnace heat struck him like a hammer, and he inhaled superheated air that brought him up short. Black-robes stood scattered throughout the town’s square.

Tregaran stood mute as more soldiers surged past him and broke into the square, cutting into the remaining mercenaries. Behind the mercenaries’ failing line, a priest calmly tapped a man on his shoulder. Tregaran watched helplessly as the man gathered up his daughter and, together with his wife and son, calmly walked into the center bonfire. The man’s flesh immediately burst into flames, but he stood without expression as the fires consumed him and all he loved.

Something about the smoke and rising sparks drew his eye. Tregaran slowly looked up, seeing the smoke from the fires bending together, blending into a single cloud, a maelstrom that slowly spun and turned, gathering the Fires into itself. He knew he should move, join the fight, but the overwhelming scene froze him. Decades of experience failed him as he took in something literally beyond his capacity. Failure and depression rolled over him. He had brought his men to this, failed them utterly. He tried to think of something to say, something to do, but his experience betrayed him as well. He simply couldn’t move.

The Black-robes’ last troops fell, and the soldiers broke past. They cut down priest after priest, and no few of the villagers as they turned to clumsily fight the veteran infantry. It became apparent to Tregaran than none of the victims moved of their own volition.

He shook himself out of his fugue. Now that he was aware of it, he could feel a heavy weight, like a blanket soaked in water, trying to descend on him. Its message was heavy, soporific. “Listen to me. Do as I bid. Give over. You have failed. You are a failure. Just listen and all will be well.”

Tregaran tried to shrug the weight away, but now that he sensed it, he could feel it working its way into his mind. The depression built. He scanned around, frantically looking for the source of the oppressive weight in his mind. In the very center of the town square, next to the largest Fire, stood a priest working his stave.

A half-dozen soldiers cut their way through his final protection and pressed down on him. He raised his stave, and a something flowed out, moving like smoke. It coalesced in a few heartbeats, becoming a malevolent, envenomed whip, drawn from the end of the stave.

The first soldier swung his sword at the looping whip, his arm cutting smoke. Even in the distance Tregaran heard his high-keening scream. The man fell back, his arm boiling with blisters that ruptured. Maggots spilled from the wounds and chewed into his skin.

The second soldier charged full into the same sick smoke, then the priest whipped the thing on the end of his stave, carrying it through the other four. Each fell, screaming, flesh consumed by boils that burst into parasites that ate at their hosts. The men fell, screaming and writhing, still several feet short of the priest.

Tregaran looked around desperately, wishing he hadn’t left the archers on the hill. His men continued their assault through the open center, slaughtering mercenary, priest, and townsfolk alike. Windrows of dead piled up near the Fires, as the defense failed against his men. The soldiers had cut down most every living thing.

It wasn’t until he saw a tongue of flame bend, reach from the fire and engulf a fallen priest that he truly understood. Its movements were sentient, alive. The priests were making something.

He felt the touch of the firecat’s voice in his head. “Aye. And when they are done, they will bring it through. He thinks he can control it, but it is a master . . . not a slave. He seeks to use it to make miracles, to succeed where Laskaris has failed. Instead, he will be its tool.”

“Do something!” Tregaran cried aloud, as another of his soldiers fell to the smoking stave. Flames now licked around the arch-priest, swirling like a cyclone up above him.

“I cannot. You’re halfway into its world now, where I cannot enter.”

“Then how?” he screamed. He saw his soldiers slowing as the last of the minor priests fell, beginning to look around, and beginning to perceive the center of the holocaust they were now in. Most of the surrounding smoke now limned with flame, darting and dancing like things alive, as they licked and drew on the bodies of the fallen. A soldier dropped his sword in despair and fell to his knees. The weight of the voice, calling on them to despair, built now that blood cooled and panic built.

“Break the key, and break the binding that draws the thing here. Break the stave. That is the center.”

Tregaran looked around wildly, seeing the first of his troops fall as the Fires, strengthened by the bodies of the fallen, lashed out at the living. A soldier frantically defended himself, using his blade to block the fist-shaped tounge of flame that grew out of the bonfire, punched through his armor, and immolated him. He had bare seconds to scream before writhing on the scorched paving stones, his body alight in sickly red flames. Tregaran heard a second scream to his right a moment later, and saw a third soldier fall across the square.

Tregaran knew then what he had to do.

He threw his shield away and gripped his sword tightly in both hands. He shook off the last feelings of despair and gathered his will into a single dart of purpose.

He lifted the blade over his head and charged the swirling pillar of flame.

Cogern with the First Battle just crested the hill and started the running slide down into the fight when the detonation blew him backward onto the scree. The entire center of the village, totally shrouded by flames and rising smoke, blew outward, the pressure wave tossing the smoke aside as it would a curtain. The lurid red glow that marked the horizon faded then, to something more normal.

An under-officer, his armor scorched and one arm hanging free, staggered into him. “Warmaster! Thank V’kandis! The colonel’s down.”

Cogern followed at a run, the bulk of First Battle behind. They passed into the center square, where the bonfires had been snuffed by the blast. A distant part of Cogern’s mind registered there was no wood in those fires, only bones. Second Battle lay scattered around the square, some dead, more hurt, most stunned from the detonation.

In the center lay Tregaran, held by an openly weeping soldier. Nearby lay the blasted body of something with too many arms, and a broken stave lay nearby.

Cogern fell to his knees next to what was left of Tregaran. Shiny skull showed at Tregaran’s forehead and his fingers and armor appeared burned away. Strips of flesh hung from the colonel’s ruined body, and sightless eyes stared up. Cogern wept freely.

The chirurgeon appeared from behind the men, falling to his knees besides them. He took a silvered mirror and held it to where Tregaran’s lips had been.

“By all that’s Holy, he’s alive!”

Cogern looked up, tears pouring down his sooty face.

“Will he live?”

The chirurgeon looked down, then up. “No. He’s too badly hurt. There’s nothing we can do. He’s probably not even aware of us.”

The firecat, unnoticed, sat to one side. It had done what it could to take as much of the man’s pain as he could. He opened the door to the man’s mind and began to ease him away. Better to end this now.

Tregaran slipped into something like a dream. He walked on a wide plain, marked only by the dead Herald and the horse’s head on the pike.

“It’s not your fault, you know.”

She sat on a rock nearby, her squarish jaw not a feature he liked. She stood, her acolyte’s chiton flaring around her and settling back. Her long, lithe legs flashed as she jumped down from the rock and walked toward the Herald.

“You see this as what you fight for,” she said. It was not a question. “You march your regiment from border to border, defending those who pervert the Way.” She gently took his hand between hers. He could feel his scarred fingers rough against her smooth palm, feel the scribe’s callus on the index finger against the back of his hand. “You lead your regiment to battle after battle. You execute traitors condemned by Laskaris’ word, with not a peep in their defense. You start wars you know are wrong, execute orders you know are wrong, and sent many a brave soldier to their deaths for a Son of the Sun you don’t believe in.”

Each sentence, softly spoken, struck him like a physical blow. “Yes,” he could but nod. “Yes.”

Her cool hand brushed his face. “You saved those you could from the Fires, spared the wounded from pointless burning. You did as you were sworn to do, leading your regiment to battle to defend your country, and enforcing those laws placed in your hands to enforce. Your doubt of your orders came often afterward, in the full light of day, and in growing realization of error . . . when duty compelled and honor failed.”

She smiled at him. He inhaled her scent, of honeysuckle and jasmine. “You have guarded your country, obeyed those you swore to obey, and held to duty when faith swayed.” She leaned down to him and kissed his brow. “Your god is pleased with you, Tregaran.”

“I love you, Solaris,” he whispered.

And in Cogern’s arms, he died.

The firecat lay still as the noon sun streamed down overhead. Tregaran’s body had been removed in great honor. Cogern’s men had worked their revenge, rooting out Black-robe sanctuaries all over the outskirts of Sunhame. It would be a miracle if even a few survived who lived within a day’s ride of the capital.

The ’cat felt the surge and heave of the god’s presence, even this far from Sunhame, as He made His own appearance. By now, Laskaris would be dead, and Solaris, ascendant.

A small tendril of that power settled at the place where a man gave his life for a woman, for love.

A second firecat shimmered out of the void and stepped down. It didn’t seem to know exactly what to do with its tail.

“Was that me?” it said, looking at the place where the colonel had died.

“Yes,” said the firecat. “Your task now is to watch over her. She is handmaid to our Lord, and she must survive.”

“I will,” said the new ’cat.

“In the meantime,” said the old, “let me show you the joys of field mice. They go best with toast.”

The chirurgeon deserted the next morning. A month later, he knelt before his own bound liege.

“Arise, Healer, and report,” said Queen Selenay of Valdemar. “What of Karse?”

THE BLUE COAT

by Fiona Patton

Fiona Patton lives in rural Ontario, Canada with her partner, a fierce farm Chihuahua, and inumerable cats. She has four novels out with DAW Books:

The Stone Prince, The Painter Knight, The Granite Shield,

and

The Golden Sword

. Her fifth novel,

The Silver Lake

, was published in hardcover by DAW in 2005. She has twenty-odd short stories published in various DAW/Tekno anthologies including

Sirius the Dog Star, Assassin Fantastic

, and

Apprentice Fantastic

.

SPRING had come late to the Ice Wall Mountains. Although the warm afternoon breezes had brought the first of the tiny purple-and-yellow flowers pushing up through the snow, the passes were still closed and the nights still frosty and cold well into the season. Two figures, each heavily bundled in hides and fleece and wearing thick caps made of the soft, luxurious brown fur that gave the Goshon clan its name, walked single file along a narrow, barely passable mountain path. Each carried a short hunting bow and several brown-fletched arrows in ornate quivers at their backs and long knives, waterskins, and a brace of rabbits at their belts. The older, just past twenty years in age, was tall and thin, with a short length of beard and long, dark hair, plaited in several thick braids and tied with bits of hide. The younger, closer to fourteen or fifteen, was clean-shaven, lighter in coloring and more compact in build, but still bore a striking resemblance to his companion. As the path widened to reveal a small, protected vale, they paused to study the tableau below them with an apprehensive air.

A stout hide tent stood in the lea of a copse of pine trees with four shaggy ponies cropping at the dry grass before a ringed fire pit. Two figures, one old, the other young, were the only people to be seen. For a moment, there was no sound except the piercing call of a hawk high above the trees, and then the sharp, painful birthing cries of their cousin Dierna that had driven the two men from the vale that morning began again. The younger backed up a step, but the older put his arm about his shoulders and drew him forward.

“There’s nothing for it, Kellisin,” he said, keeping his voice firm and even. “Take the hares and prepare them.”

“But Trey . . .”

“I know.” Treyill k’Goshon glanced over to where his brother Bayne stood guard before the tent’s entrance. The other man met his gaze, then shook his head, and Trey nodded in resignation. “Shersi’s doing all she can,” he continued, handing Kellisin his kill. “Maybe a thick rabbit stew will help her and Dierna both, yes?”

Kellisin swallowed hard. “Yes.”

“So go on, then, little cousin.”

As the younger man made for the fire pit, his face clouded with distress, Trey walked the short distance to where Vulshin, the family’s shaman, sat weaving his fingers through a thin trickle of water running down the rocks. As Trey touched him lightly on the shoulder, the old man raised his head, the expression in his rheumy gray eyes making words unnecessary.

Trey crouched beside him. “It’s as you dreamed then,” he said, studying the collection of stones and small bird bones lying on the ground before them.

Vulshin nodded, his seamed face gray and weary. “It’s as we both dreamed,” he corrected. “The baby’s breached; Shersi can’t make it turn, and Dierna’s lost a lot of strength and a lot of blood just getting this far. Now the baby’s in trouble. It can’t breathe and there’s nothing Shersi can do.” He sighed deeply. “It’s only a matter of time.”

Trey picked up the largest of the stones, squeezing it in his fist with a helpless gesture before dropping it once more. “How long?”

“Dusk. No later.”

Both men glanced up at the sun already well into its trek towards the horizon.

“Once there were so many of us,” Vulshin noted sadly. “The voices of our people sang in my dreams like a chorus of sparkling water flowing down the mountains sides. Not like this pitiful little trickle,” he sneered, waving a gnarled hand at the rivulet of water. “But like a torrent. Now sickness and clan-fighting have silenced their voices, one by one, until the Goshon are no more.”

“The people are scattered,” Trey allowed.

“The people are no more,” Vulshin repeated sharply. “Their voices have left my dreams, I tell you. We are the last, and when Dierna and her child pass from this world so will the Goshon pass.” Scooping the stones and bones into a small, hide bag, he fixed Trey with a stern expression. “When this is over, I want you to leave this place; you and Bayne and young Kellisin. There’s nothing left for you here.”

Trey gave the old man a worried glance. “There’s yourself and Shersi, Shaman,” he said.

Vulshin shook his head. “No. Shersi is old,” he said wearily. “Old and sick. The winter was very hard on her. Too hard. And with our grandson Aivar’s death coming before his child could even draw breath, the strength to carry on has left her.”

His expression drew inward. “She used to love the meadow flowers in springtime, you know,” he said, more to himself than to the younger man. “When we were children, so many years ago, we would go out seeking the earliest spring blossoms, even if we had to sweep the snow away to find them. Sometimes our fingers would be red and stiff from searching, but she would never return until she could bring a handful home to plait into our ponies’ manes. Now she couldn’t walk as far as the edge of the camp to find them, and my vision’s so poor I couldn’t see to fetch them for her even if I tried.” He blinked a sudden welling of tears from his eyes. “She only waited this long to help Dierna bring her child into the world, but now . . .” He paused, and the two men glanced unwillingly toward the tent where Dierna’s cries had become noticeably weaker. “Now, my Shersi won’t last the week.”

“Then we’ll wait a week, and afterward you’ll break camp with us.”

“No.”

“Shaman, you must. We need you.” Trey scowled at the desperate sound in his voice but kept his eyes on the older man’s face regardless.

Vulshin patted his arm with slightly more force than necessary. “No, you don’t,” he replied. “I’ve taught you all I can, Trey. Bayne will stand beside you as he always has, and Kellisin would follow you into a fire pit if you told him he could learn its nature. Rely on Bayne’s strength, Kellisin’s mind, and your own gifts, and you’ll be fine.”

“But my dreams aren’t like yours,” Trey insisted, trying to curb the sudden panic he felt at the thought of losing the old man’s guidance. “They’re hazy and unclear. And even when they’re not, they don’t make any sense.”

“They will when you trust that they will. You’re strong, so are your dreams; strong enough to lead the three of you to a new life.” Vulshin passed a hand through the rivulet of water once again. “I have only one dream left now, and I don’t want to see it through without my Shersi. I’ve never been without her, you see; I wouldn’t know how.” He raised his eyes to the sky. “In this dream I saw a storm of unusual fury bury the hills again as if it were the middle of winter. It will be our funeral storm. We’ll wait for it and ride it into death like a mountain pony together, hand in hand.” He returned his attention to the younger man. “By that time, you’ll have reached the pass; it will be open, and you’ll be safe.”

“Pass?”

“The Feral Pass that leads south to the High Hills and the Terilee River.”

Trey blinked. “The Goshon do not travel south, Shaman,” he reminded him gently.

“Teach your grandmother to suck eggs,” Vulshin snapped. “You’ll travel south if I tell you to.” His gaze drew inward again. “South to the river and farther still to a place of stone and timber where music and sunlight stream in equal magnificence, and where creatures of such magic and poetry as would take your breath away run freely over lush, green meadows; far away in the young kingdom of Valdemar.”

Trey mouthed the unfamiliar word with a frown. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“As I said, it’s a young kingdom, and you’re an even younger man.”

“What clan holds its territory?”

“No clan. It lies far beyond their reach, but you will have to travel past clan lands to get there. Stay by the river, heed your dreams, and you’ll pass through safely.”

Trey shook his head stubbornly. “But what kind of life could we make in such a place even if we could get there safely?” he demanded. “What do we have to offer? Poetry and music have no need for trapping and hunting.”

Vulshin’s eyes narrowed. “The land and the people will be strange and foreign to you, that’s true, but a sharp eye and a courageous arm are always welcome if they’re offered honestly. It’s their way. Besides, I dreamed you there.” He closed his eyes. “Last night I saw you standing by bright water wearing a coat dyed the deepest blue of a summer evening sky.” He opened his eyes again without noticing how pale Trey had suddenly become. “So you’re going,” he continued. “Don’t argue with me, or I’ll give you a good smack. When I . . .”

“Shaman?”

The two men turned to see Bayne gesturing to them, and Trey suddenly realized how quiet it had become. The old man nodded sadly. “It’s time,” he said. “Help me up.”

Trey hesitated. “You don’t think . . . ?”

“No, Treyill,” Vulshin said firmly but not unkindly. “And neither do you. Their voices are no more. Come, make your first good-bye. It’s what must be done and you know it.”

With a reluctant frown, Trey helped him stand, then together, the two men made their way across the vale toward the now silent tent.

The next morning, after Dierna and her stillborn child had been wrapped in hides and buried under as many rocks as the three young men could pry from the still-frozen ground, Trey set Bayne to breaking camp. Vulshin and Shersi sat, huddled together before the fire pit without speaking and to Trey’s eyes it looked as if they’d already begun their final trek, pausing only to wait until death could catch up with them.

Mouth set in a grim line, he began to wrap the season’s goshon pelts in oilcloth. They would use them to barter their way south to Vulshin’s dream kingdom of Valdemar. Whatever the old shaman believed, they were still trappers, that’s what they did and that’s all they had to offer a new life, regardless of their eyes or their arms. Beside him, Kellisin hovered about uncertainly until he sent him to help Bayne load Dierna’s pony with their extra supplies. He could find no words to comfort him when he had none to comfort himself. Turning away from the injured look in the younger man’s eyes, Trey picked up another pelt with deliberate care.

By the time the sun had reached its zenith, they were ready. Trey made one last attempt to convince Vulshin and Shersi to come with them, but the two older Goshon were adamant.

“It’s our right as elders to choose whether we break camp or remain behind,” Shersi said, her once strong voice weak and breathy. “It’s the way of our people. You know that.”

“Then choose to break camp with us.”

“Treyill,” Vulshin said sternly. “Come, it is time to make your second good-bye. Do it respectfully.”

Trey would have continued the argument afterward, but finally, Bayne drew him away, setting his reins into his hand. His last sight of the vale was that of the hawk circling high overhead, sending its mournful cry into the wind. For good or ill, the last of the Goshon Clan were passing from its world.

The three kinsmen made their way in somber silence for the better part of a week, alternately walking and riding, following what paths were open, and heading roughly south. When they reached the Feral Pass, a thin, mushy path winding its way through a narrow canyon of high, jagged rocks, they rode cautiously, keeping a close eye on the walls of ice and snow that stretched high above their heads. When they finally emerged on the other side, they glanced back to find the sky above the mountain peaks had turned an ominous dark, slate gray.

“Vulshin’s storm,” Trey said heavily.

Bayne nodded. “We have to quicken our pace.”

They made the shelter of a rocky tor just as the storm hit. Huddled behind their ponies, they waited it out and when they finally struggled free the next morning, the pass behind them glittered with impassible snow. Trey narrowed his eyes against the glare.

“Well, that’s it, then,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion. “There’s no going back now.”

Kellisin glanced over at him. “And Vulshin and Shersi?” he asked quietly.

“Gone. We should never have left them.” Taking hold of his pony’s halter, Trey made his way back to the barely discernable path without looking back.

Bayne shook his head. “We had to respect their wishes,” he said to Kellisin, catching him by the shoulder and pulling him into a rough hug to take the sting away from his brother’s words. “Life is seasonal, and everyone breaks camp for the ride into death eventually, little cousin.”

“I know that,” Kellisin said, his brows drawn down into a tight vee. “Dierna and the baby was hard for us all, but Vulshin and Shersi were old. Trey . . .” He shook his head helplessly. “It wasn’t his choice to make.”

“Trey’s a shaman,” Bayne explained. “They take responsibility for everything; so it’s up to us to remind him not to. But in the meantime . . .” He caught hold of his own pony’s halter, “we have to find a clear patch of fodder and some dry wood for a fire. Unless you want a cold breakfast?”

Kellisin smiled ruefully. “No.”

“All right, then. Let’s catch up to our ray of sunshine, shall we, before he falls off a cliff? Maybe some of your warm rabbit stew will lighten his mood.”

Kellisin nodded and together, they followed Trey down the path.

That night Trey dreamed. He saw Vulshin standing in the midst of a winter storm so violent it blinded him. One hand shielding his eyes, the other stretched out before him, Trey reached out for the old man but, just as their fingertips touched, Vulshin vanished under a sudden avalanche of snow. Trey sprang forward and, falling to his knees, worked frantically to dig his old teacher free, but every time he thought he might have reached him, another deluge of snow buried him again. He cried out in frustration and awoke to find Bayne holding him tightly, rocking him back and forth as their parents had done when he’d been a boy. In the moonlight he looked so much like their father that Trey gaped at him, then the other man pulled back, and Trey was back on the cold ground south of the Feral Pass once again.

The next night he dreamed again, only this time it was Shersi who disappeared under a cascade of falling snow, then Dierna and her baby, then Aivar, then Vulshin again, night after night. He began to avoid sleeping altogether, sitting wrapped in his blanket, staring up at the moon for hours until exhaustion drove him to a few hours of broken rest. He became gray and gaunt, drawing farther and farther into himself and neither Bayne nor Kellisin could bring him out of it.

Finally, as the mountains gave over to rolling hills and valleys, Bayne joined him, sitting staring up and the starcast sky before fixing his brother with a serious expression.

“You have to stop this, Trey,” he said. “We’ll be in foreign lands in a day or two and we’ll need your insight.”

Knees drawn up to his chest, Trey shook his head. “I can’t.”

“You have to. You’re our shaman. We need you.” Bayne frowned. “This isn’t like you, brother. What is it?”

Scrubbing at the growth of beard along his cheeks, Trey took a deep breath. “Do you remember the nightmares I used to have as a boy?” he asked after a long moment.

When Bayne nodded, he continued.

“They were so real, so vivid; sometimes it was hard to tell if I was awake or asleep. I saw storms and floods and fighting and everything I saw came true. I saw our father’s death as clear as if it were happening right before my eyes.”

“I remember. That was when Vulshin began your training and the nightmares stopped.”

“The nightmares stopped,” Trey agreed. “But not because Vulshin began training me.” He closed his eyes. “The dreams always started the same way. I was standing by bright, swiftly flowing water wearing a dark blue coat the like of which I’ve never seen among the Goshon. I looked down into the water and I saw the future of our people.” His face darkened. “But our people had no future,” he grated, “and all I saw were bodies floating below the surface. And just as Vulshin heard them singing in his head; so I saw them dying in mine, and it hurt worse than anything else has ever hurt before or since. One day it was just too much, so I went into my dream and I took the coat off, I buried it in a deep cleft in the rocks, and the dreams stopped hurting. They became hazy and unclear, sometimes happening before and sometimes afterwards. I saw Aivar’s death and Dierna’s and their baby’s, but they didn’t hurt. Not the dreams anyway,” he amended.

“And Vulshin and Shersi?”

Trey nodded wordlessly.

“And the dreams are hurting again?”

“Yes. But there’s more. The day before we left the vale, Vulshin told me that he’d seen me in a dream standing by bright water wearing a coat dyed the deepest blue of a summer evening sky. His very words. Bayne.” He fixed his brother with an intense stare. “I never told Vulshin about the coat. Does that mean it’s back? That even though I buried it, it followed me here?”

His brother gave him a skeptical glance. “It’s not a predator like a mountain cat,” he said.

“How do you know?”

“I suppose I don’t.” Bayne was silent for a moment, then stared up at the stars again. “When I was young, I was afraid of the dark,” he said.

Trey smiled. “I remember.”

“I still am sometimes.”

“What?”

Bayne shrugged. “Why not? The things I thought might attack me in the dark could still be there—now more than ever since we’re heading into foreign lands. But it doesn’t matter if they’re there or not, and it doesn’t matter if I’m still afraid or not; I can’t hide from the darkness anymore, I have to stand against whatever might be hiding behind it for your sake and for Kellisin’s. It’s what I do. I protect. But I’m not that scared little boy anymore either, I’m a man now with a man’s strength, just like you are. And predator or not, you may have to dig that coat up and put it back on; make it a man’s coat instead of a boy’s coat and make it your own.” He squeezed Trey’s shoulder. “And whatever comes of it, brother, we’ll face it together as kinsmen. As clansmen.”

“And what if I see your death?” Trey shot back. “Or Kellisin’s?”

“We’ll face that together, too. That’s what families do. They stand together so that no one has to stand alone, be they hunter, trapper, or shaman. Yes?”

Trey gave a long, resentful sigh. “Yes.”

“Good.” Bayne stood. “Then pull yourself together. You’re scaring Kellisin.”

That night, drawing on the warmth of Bayne’s back pressed against his for courage, Trey reached out, past the avalanche of snow and the deaths of his people, and drew the blue coat from its hiding place. In his dream it was damp and cold and covered in dirt, much as it might have been in the waking world. Shaking it out, he studied the silver trim along its length, something he’d never noticed as a boy, before pulling it over his head. It settled across his shoulders with an all but forgotten familiarity, and once again he stood by the bright, swiftly flowing water of his childhood dreams. Taking a deep breath, he looked down, but instead of bodies floating beneath the surface, he saw a great walled city spiraling outward from a wide river valley. A broad belt of green land lay beside a beautiful structure of stone and timber and he could almost hear Vulshin’s music and poetry in the distance. Fighting back tears of relief, he turned to the hazy figure standing in a meadow of spring flowers.

“Thank you, shaman,” he breathed.

That night he had the first peaceful slumber since before Dierna’s death, and two days later the three men left the hills and looked down upon a vast, open plain covered in tiny purple-and-yellow flowers. Beyond that lay a wide, swiftly flowing river.

Bayne glanced over at Trey. “The Terilee?” he asked.

“That’s what Vulshin called it.”

“Whatever he called it, I call it fresh water for drinking and for bathing,” Kellisin said excitedly. With a shout of joy, he urged his mount into a gallop, the pack pony close behind them.

The two older men followed more sedately, but neither of them could hide the pleasure the sight of the clean, blue water gave them as well.

That evening as they made camp, Trey collected a handful of the tiny blossoms and wove them into his pony’s mane and that night he dreamed again. He saw a wide but shallow quarry where strangely garbed people labored to cut great blocks of stone from the ground which were then loaded onto rollers pulled by great horned beasts and then loaded once again onto three oddly-shaped flat-bottomed boats. The cloudless sky above promised a clear and stormfree day, but the dark forest beyond the southern bank whispered of hidden dangers behind the trees and the water below wavered with the hint of bodies beneath the surface.

He awoke with the familiar twisting fear in the pit of his belly. After a cold breakfast, they broke camp quickly and turned southeast, following the river with their bows near to hand. They saw no signs of settlements or encampments as they rode, but rather than have this allay their disquiet, after the initial excitement of reaching the river had passed, all three men began to feel both uneasy and exposed. The gently rolling countryside was too open and too empty for their passage to remain hidden, the strips of woodland that grew right up to the water’s edge too dark and the underbrush too thick to maneuver in easily. Time and time again they had to leave the riverbank to bypass some soft and crumbling escarpment or boggy patch of ground and strike north.

After three days of this, Bayne’s mood began to darken and Kellisin started to lag behind, his eyes constantly scanning the unfamiliar terrain. Trey was unable to break the tension. His dreams had become as impenetrable as the woodlands themselves, almost as if the blue coat were laughing at him for thinking he could overcome his childhood fears so easily.

However, nineteen days after they’d left the familiar peaks and paths of the Ice Wall Mountains, the river flowed through a series of lightly wooded hills, then opened up to reveal a group of huts built about a wide but shallow quarry. A dozen people labored to cut away great blocks of the exposed stone while a dozen more loaded them onto log rollers pulled by heavy-set horned creatures that looked like a cross between huge ponies and hairless mountain goats. Another dozen figures stood at key locations, obviously guardsmen protecting the settlement, while two women shouted orders from the first of three flat-bottomed boats tied up at a sturdily built wooden and stone pier. Two of the boats were already loaded with the stone blocks, the third half full.

Hidden just beyond the tree line, the three Goshon stopped dead and Kellisin’s mouth fell open.

“Isn’t that . . . ?”

“Yes,” Trey answered.

“And look at the color the guards are wearing,” Bayne added meaningfully.

Trey squinted down at the settlement.

“It’s the wrong shade,” he declared after a moment, trying to mask the sense of foreboding the sight of the bright blue uniforms caused him.

“Does it matter?” the other man asked.

“Yes, it matters,” Trey snapped back with rather more force than necessary and his brother raised his hands in a sarcastic gesture of submission.

“All right, so it matters, but you have to admit, it’s an interesting coincidence. Have you ever seen anyone wear any kind of blue cloth?”

“No I haven’t, but until this moment I’d never seen anyone stand on floating rocks either.”

Beside them, Kellisin stirred restlessly, impatient with the argument. “So, are we going down for a closer look or not?” he demanded. “If you dreamed this place, there must be a reason.”

“True.”

“Then, let’s go down and find out what it is.”

Trey and Bayne rolled their eyes at each other over his head.

“Life is always simpler for the young,” Bayne noted sagely.

“Life is always slower for the old,” Kellisin retorted.

“And life is always a pushy series of inevitable events for the shamans, old or young,” Trey added.

“So we’re going?”

“Yes, we’re going, but cautiously,” he added, grabbing the younger man’s halter before he could go galloping down the hill. “Cautiously, little cousin.”

All work ceased immediately as the three clansman broke from the trees and rode slowly into the open towards the riverbank. One of the guardsmen gave a whistling signal and, by the time they reached the pier, an older woman in a leather apron and a man in the guardsmen’s bright blue uniform were waiting for them, ringed by people. Most held their tools or weapons loosely but resolutely, and Trey gave Bayne a casual, sideways glance.

“Keep your hands away from your own weapons, brother,” he said quietly.

“Believe me, I’m trying to.”

Reining up, Trey dismounted. “I am Treyill of the Goshon,” he said. “This is my brother Bayne and my kinsman Kellisin. “We’re traveling south. We have goods to trade. You understand, trade?”

The woman nodded warily. “I am Kith Arkarus of Waymeet, the Quarry Master here,” she replied, her accent thick and exotic but understandable. “This is Captain Danel of the Valdemar Guard.”

Trey couldn’t help but show his surprise. “Valdemar?”

Captain Danel gave him a measured look. “You came through the Crook Back Pass?” he asked.

“The Feral.”

“Ah, then you’ll have passed through no villages to tell you. You crossed Valdemar’s northwestern border some days ago. We’re the farthest settlement in the area, and the newest.”

“King Restil is expanding the palace,” a new voice said excitedly. The three Goshon glanced up just as a young woman, perhaps a year or two older than Kellisin, appeared on the top of one of the blocks of stone on the halfloaded barge.

“This is Gabrielle Post,” the Quarry Master said dryly. “My niece. Apprenticed to Haven’s Master Builder . . .”

“My father,” Gabrielle supplied.

“Sent north to gain experience in the building trades.”

“Haven?” Trey asked.

“The capital of Valdemar.”

“And you will float this stone there?”

“Tomorrow morning if the weather holds.”

Trey and Bayne exchanged another glance.

“You’ll be passing through a lot of wild country,” Trey noted.

“Wild for the unwary, maybe,” Captain Danel answered. “But we’re not unwary,” he added meaningfully, “and we’re not unprepared.”

Bayne smiled at the unsubtle warning.

“I’m sure of it,” Trey replied smoothly. “I’m told that a sharp eye and a courageous arm are always welcome in Valdemar if they’re offered honestly. For passage to Haven, I offer ours. If any of your people have heard stories of mine, you’ll know that this offer is made honestly.”

The captain and the Quarry Master exchanged a glance while both Bayne and Kellisin tried not to look surprised.

“We know of the Goshon in Waymeet,” the Quarry Master acknowledged. “Though we’ve not seen any of your people in a generation or more.” She tipped her head to one side, her expression speculative. “It’s said that you have an uncanny ability to track and trap the creatures your clan is named for.”

Trey smiled. “What’s said is true, and yes, we have pelts to trade as well.”

“I think we can come to an arrangement then, if the captain is willing.”

“What a strange craft this is.”

An hour later, with the negotiations between the Quarry Master and his kinsman complete, Kellisin lay stretched out on the pier, studying the underside of the barge intently as the setting sun cast long, orange fingers across the water.

Crouched beside him, Gabrielle bobbed her head happily. “It’s a much better mode of transportation than sleds pulled by oxen,” she explained. “The river does all the work, you see.”

“Yes, I do see. But how does it stay on the surface with such a heavy load upon it?”

“Magic.”

“What? Truly?”

Gabrielle’s laughter rang out like the pealing of bells. “No, of course not. The barge is built to distribute the load evenly and since it’s made of wood and wood floats, so does the barge and whatever is placed on it. Evenly. Do you see?”

He smiled up at her, obviously content to simply hear the sound of her voice. “Not really, Gabrielle.”

She grinned down at him. “Call me Gaby.”

“I shall.” He glanced back at the barge. “What if winds or storms redistribute the weight?”

“Oh. Then the barge would sink.”

“But if the barge sinks you’d never be able to get the stone up from the riverbed, would you?”

She shrugged easily. “We’d better hope it doesn’t sink, then. My father said to bring him his stone or don’t come home at all.” She laughed again. “I’m mostly sure he was joking. Mostly.” She cocked her head to one side. “Did you want to see how we load the stone upon rollers?” she asked, suddenly a little shy.

He smiled back at her, suddenly less so. “Yes, I should like that very much,” he answered.

Seated by a small fire on the edge of the settlement, Trey and Bayne watched as Gabrielle tucked their kinsman’s arm into hers and led him off toward the quarry.

“Well, it looks like he, at least, has ridden into our new life smoothly enough,” Bayne chuckled.

Trey nodded wordlessly.

“That’s good, yes?” his brother prodded.

“Yes.”

“But?”

“But he isn’t there yet,” Trey said in a cautious tone. “And neither are we.”

“Hmm.” Staring up at the starlit sky, Bayne rubbed at a small scar on one knuckle. “This new idea of yours will likely see us there that much sooner though. I wasn’t expecting to float our way south. When did you dream that?”

“I didn’t, and it might be a terrible mistake, but . . .”

“But?”

“But as Kellisin said, I dreamed this place and its floating stone boats for a reason. Vulshin told me to that my dreams would make sense when I trusted them to do so.”

“And do you?”

Trey sighed. “Not yet.”

Standing, Bayne swiped at his trousers. “Well, let’s hope you do by the time we need you to. I’m going to check on the ponies.”

Left on his own, Trey scowled at the image of the blue coat which seemed to form and reform in the flickering campfire. “Yes,” he said doubtfully. “Let’s hope I do.”

That night he dreamed of a hail of arrow fire coming from the southern trees and the next morning, warned, the settlement guards mounted an extra vigilant watch while Gabrielle and the Quarry Master oversaw the loading of the final barge.

After giving her a curt hug, the older woman held her out at arm’s length. “I’m sending you three masons and three laborers to help unload at Haven, but I want them back, understood?” she said. “And the captain has steady company to see you safely there, so don’t be afraid.”

Gabrielle laughed at her. “Granite makes an excellent shield, Auntie,” she said in a condescending tone. “And besides, I have my fine northern clansman to protect me.” She shot a dazzling smile in Kellisin’s direction and the Quarry Master scowled at her.

“Yes, well, be safe and come back to us if your father allows it. You’re a good worker. Tell my sister I said so.”

“I will.” Catching Kellisin by the hand, Gabrielle drew him onto the lead boat, then waved jauntily as it cast off while, beside them, Bayne and Trey shared another rolling of their eyes.

“That’s all we need,” Bayne whispered. “Another colt to look after.”

“Shh.” Catching hold of one of the ropes lashed to the stones to steady himself, Trey elbowed his brother in the side as the three barges began to move slowly out into the water.

Once they’d made they way into the current, the barge captain, an old man with a grizzled length of long, braided gray hair, squinted across the river with an egregious expression. “We won’t be able to hug the northern bank for long,” he warned. “Sooner or later we’re going to have to move into deeper water.”

Captain Danel nodded. “Let us know when it’s to be,” he said.

“Shafts!”

At Bayne’s shout, Gabrielle and her workers dove for cover while the six guardsmen and three Goshon answered the hail of arrow fire with a volley of their own.

They’d been traveling for two days down the center of the river and in the last few hours had fought off three attacks from the southern bank. One of the masons had taken an arrow through the arm and another had caught a graze across the cheek before the barge captain had pulled him to safety. Everyone had gotten much faster at reacting but, as Trey made his cautious way to Bayne’s side, he knew it wasn’t going to last. Sooner or later they were going to suffer a real casualty.

His brother shot him a swift glance before rising slightly to send a shaft of his own streaking towards the trees. The answering volley showed plainly that the enemy had not yet broken off the attack. “It’s a good thing they don’t have any boats of their own or we’d be in real trouble,” he declared.

“They likely do. They’re just softening us up first, seeing if they can take out a few of our combatants before they make their primary attack.”

“And thank you for that, my ray of sunshine. Do something, then. Dream us out of this.”

“I have.”

“What?” Bayne’s head snapped around. “When?”

“Last night, but you won’t like it, neither will Captain Danel. There’s going to be a fog. We can either use it to slip past them or . . .”

An enemy arrow cracked the stone block just above Bayne’s head and he turned an exasperated look in Trey’s direction as he ducked instinctively. “Or what?” he demanded.

“Or they’ll use it to mount an attack against us and, warned, we can set an ambush. Either way, we risk injuries and deaths.”

“If it’s either way, I’m all for an ambush myself.”

“As am I, but there’s a problem.”

“What?”

“The fog won’t be for two days.”

“Will they wait that long, do you think?”

Trey gave the southern bank a narrow-eyed glare. “I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.”

That night, huddled beside the ponies tethered in the center of the barge, Trey struggled to sink down into sleep, but the unfamiliar movement of the deck beneath him and the faint sounds of guards maintaining a constant watch all around him kept jerking him back to wakefulness. With a growl of frustration, he pulled the blanket over his head. Everything he’d seen or dreamed and every decision he’d made since leaving the vale seemed to hinge on this one final night and it looked as if he were going to spend it fighting his own restless fears. In his mind’s eyes the blue coat seemed to shimmer with life, hovering just out of reach, its silver trim sparkling in the pale moonlight almost menacingly.

“You may have to dig that coat up and put it back on; make it a man’s coat instead of a boy’s coat and make it your own.”

“Yes, I know Bayne,” he said wearily. “I’m trying.” Using the soft, familiar scents of fleece and hide and ponies, he forced himself to relax. “We’ll face it together like a family just as you said. But what if I see your death, or Kellisin’s? There’s been too many good-byes already. I can’t face another one.” He closed his eyes. “I can’t.”

Two days later in the early hours of the morning, three small boats carrying half a dozen bandits in each pulled up alongside the first barge in the covering fog. They swarmed over the low sides only to be met by total, empty silence. Padding cautiously between the great stone blocks, their leader made to signal that the barge had been deserted when a frightful apparition, dressed in hides and furs, rose up to catch his arm. A piercing whistle filled the air and suddenly the deck was alive with people. The apparition struck the leader down and violence erupted across the barge.

When the fog finally burned off in the wake of the morning sun, the fight was nearly over. Taken completely by surprise, the remaining bandits either surrendered or fled back to their own boats only to be shot down by a hail of arrow fire from the Valdemar guardsmen. Their bodies, floating just above the surface, bobbed against the barge side, and Trey stared down at them for a long time before turning away.

On the deck, the captain was kneeling before the body of one of his younger guardsmen. The boy had taken a knife slash to the neck and had died instantly. He glanced up as Trey approached.

“Your kin are all unharmed?” he asked, his voice thick.

Trey nodded. “Kellisin has a nasty cut in the left shoulder, but Gabrielle’s bound it up. He should be fine.”

“That’s good.” The Valdemar man stared out at the water. “The barge captain tells me that we should make the village of Deedun by late tomorrow,” he said. “We can prepare Marik’s body there and send it home to his family by road.”

“He fought bravely,” Trey offered.

“Yes, that will comfort his father.” The other man sighed. “But not his wife.”

“No.”

“Your people fought bravely as well,” the captain continued. “And your aid as . . . shaman,” he said, hesitating over the unfamiliar word, “was invaluable. My thanks.” He stared out at the water for a long time. “You said you were heading south to Haven?” he asked finally.

“Yes, I dreamed of it, so did the eldest of our people.”

“Haven has a need for . . . what did you call it, sharp eyes and courageous arms?”

“Offered honestly.”

“Yes. I would be honored if you would consider another offer made honestly. If the king agrees, there could be place for all three of you among the palace guard if you were willing.”

“Palace guard? I thought your people were settlement guards.”

“My people are Valdemar guards who go where they’re needed,” the captain replied stiffly. “Not just settlement guards. But I am palace guard, on loan to Gabrielle and her workers to ensure her safe return.” He smiled faintly. “The king values his Master Builder’s peace of mind and the Master Builder values his incautious daughter’s health and well-being.”

Trey frowned uncertainly. “It’s a fine offer,” he began.

“But you need to think about it.”

“And consult my kin.”

“I understand. Take what time you need.”

Later, after the barges had put in to the wharfs of Deedun and the Valdemar guardsmen had carried Marik’s body ashore, Trey told Bayne and Kellisin of Captain Danel’s offer.

Tugging irritably at the edge of the bandage around his shoulder, the younger man fixed his cousins with a firm stare. “We should accept,” he said. “This is good new life. Purpose, arms . . .”

“A girl,” Bayne added.

“Yes, a girl. A home, family, eventually children. It’s everything we came south to find.”

“I agree. We should accept.”

They both looked at Trey stood, staring down at the water with a pensive expression.

“Trey?” Bayne prodded.

“Yes,” he answered. “You’re right, we should accept.”

“But?”

“But I don’t know. There’s something missing.”

“You dreamed of Valdemar and of Haven, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then trust your dreams like Vulshin told you to. If there’s anything missing you’ll dream of that, too, and we’ll find it together, yes?”

Trey took a deep breath. “Yes.”

“Then go and tell Captain Danel that we accept, shaman.”

Deedun was not a large village, but nevertheless it took Trey some time to find his way through the dizzying crowds of people on the docks. Finally he spotted one of the guardsmen he recognized standing at the entrance to a low, wooden building and the man escorted him into the hushed anteroom at once. Captain Danel stood before Marik’s body laid out on a long table and the silver trim on his formal uniform tunic flashed in the afternoon sun as he turned.

Trey gaped at him in shock.

“I thought Valdemar guards wore bright blue,” he said weakly.

“They do,” the Captain answered. “Palace guards wear . . .”

“Coats the blue of a summer evening sky,” Trey finished for him.

“If you like. We call it midnight blue.” He came forward. “You have an answer for me?”

Still staring at his tunic, Trey nodded slowly. “Yes.” He drew himself up. “We accept. If your king agrees, the last of Goshon Clan will join the palace guard and make a new life in the south.”

The Captain smiled. “Welcome to Valdemar.”

As he took his outstretched hand, Trey thought he saw a man and woman mounted on shaggy ponies with purple and yellow flowers in their manes. Vulshin and Shersi smiled down at him, then turned and melted into the distant mountains beyond.

SAFE AND SOUND

by Stephanie D. Shaver

Stephanie D. Shaver lives in Missouri with assorted cats and wooden swords. She desings online games and websites for a living, and has been very active in the development cycle of the upcoming MMORPG

Hero’s Journey

. When she isn’t talking to gamemasters and artists about the lifecycle of dragons, she writes books, and hopes to someday sell one. Or two. Or twenty. You can visit her website at

www.sdshaver.com

.

“DO you think if I swallowed this whole book,” Lelia mused, eyeing the fist-sized volume of songs she had taken off the shelf, “I’d get a bad enough stomach ache that they’d let me postpone the performance?”

“I think the Healers would give you a bottle of preserved plum juice and tell you to cheer up,” Malesa replied, not looking up from where she was scribbling away furiously at her song. “And then the Chronicler would probably flog you for eating one of her books.”

“Mm.” Lelia slumped in her chair, peering about the Collegium Library with a disappointed scowl. “I guess you’re right.” She opened the book to a random page and grimaced when she saw the title.

“Bright Lady,” she muttered.

“What now?”

“Sun and Shadow.” Lelia closed the book with a thump. “Everywhere I look.”

Malesa shrugged. “It’s a good story, made better by good songs.”

“Exactly. Everything that can be sung about Sun and Shadow has been, and by better Bards, and yet every year some damn trainee thinks he or she can top the Masters.”

“Ah, capricious youth,” Malesa said dryly.

“So why compete?” Lelia railed on, ignoring her best friend and year-mate. “There are other story jewels to plunder.” She picked up another volume, this one bound in brown leather. “Like this.”

Malesa finally looked up. She frowned. “That’s a journal.”

“The journal of Herald Daryann, to be exact. It’s fantastic.”

“Sure.” Malesa looked back at her sheath of papers. “Except for the fact that she dies at the end. And while it’s many things, it’s not a story.”

“It is so—”

“No, it’s a journal. A diary. A collection of events without a discernable plot, antagonist, or resolution.” She lifted her head and raised a brow. “Or did you miss that class?”

Lelia scowled and thumped Daryann’s journal with her knuckles. “Story or not, it’s the untold stuff between the lines that matters. Look.” She flipped the book open to a point near the end. “Here. She mentions that her brother, Wil, got Chosen, too. And how proud she was of him. And then two pages later—last entry. Right before the raiders got her and her Companion.”

Malesa leveled a look at her. “So?”

“Can you imagine being him? Wil, that is.” Lelia’s eyes glazed over. “I bet he’s got a story, and I bet it’s no Sun and Shadow.”

“And I bet it’s very sad. Why is it you have this morbid fascination with dead Heralds anyway?” Malesa asked suspiciously. “It’s always Vanyel this, Lavan that . . .”

“Hey—if the Bards were right, Vanyel was quite a catch.”

Malesa sighed and shook her head, glancing back at her parchments. “I’m done.”

“What?” Lelia squeaked.

“I’m done. Eight verses, one bridge, and a melody already in mind.” She looked up coyly. “You?”

Lelia groaned and buried her face in her arms.

“Oh, ’Lia,” Malesa stood and patted her on the shoulder. “Just write the song and get it over with.”

“But I don’t know what to write,” Lelia wailed into the table.

“You’re a Bard—”

“—trainee—”

“—with a brother who’s a Herald—”

“—trainee—”

“—I’d think you could cobble up something if you’re so opposed to borrowing from the classics.”

Lelia moaned inarticulately.

Malesa patted her shoulder again. “It’ll come to you.” She clutched her papers to her chest. “I’m off to practice my masterpiece.”

Alone in the Library, Lelia lifted her head and stared at the scuffed leather cover of Herald Daryann’s journal.

What did you do, Wil? she thought. What did you feel, when you found out she was gone?

She sat with her thoughts and her blank parchments until the Herald-Chronicler came around to put out the lights.

The next day didn’t get any better.

It started with waking up.

Lelia emerged from a fitful slumber to the sound of someone knocking on her door. She sat up, papers sliding off her chest to the floor, and stared blearily forward as the knocking droned on. She knew with a grim, growing certainty that when she did manage to convince her legs to move, it would be to open the door and throttle whoever had chosen to wake her on a rest day.

“One moment,” she moaned, coaxing her weary arms to pull on a lounging robe. She’d spent all night trying to pry a song out of her head, and bits of parchment with half-scribbled lyrics and notations were strewn here and there. They crunched underfoot as she crossed the room.

She knew before her hand dropped to the handle who was on the other side of the door. The warm touch of the bond she shared with her twin easily cut through her stupor.

The door swung open. Her brother stood in the hallway, dressed from head to toe in Whites.

“Is this some sort of joke?” she blurted.

“I did it!” he whooped, crushing her in a hug. “They voted this morning! Me and all my year-mates!”

“Gnhrr,” she replied.

He set her down, grinning from ear to ear. She sat down slowly on her bed, her hands trembling. Whites. He’d finally earned his Whites. He’d be on Circuit soon enough. He’d . . .

Terror struck her, fast and hard. She managed to regain her composure as he shut the door, picked his way across the floor, and took a seat in the only chair in the room.

“You look great,” she said at last. It hurt to smile, but she forced one onto her face. “Really . . . good.”

His grin faded. “What’s wrong?”

Their twin bond wasn’t legendary, but it was strong enough. He knew she was worried about something. And she knew he wouldn’t stop until he found what that something was.

“Enh.” She scrambled for an excuse. It was ironic, really. Her whole training rested on communication, and yet she couldn’t tell him that his becoming a full Herald was the one thing she feared most.

Her eyes lighted on the drifts of discarded paper. She couldn’t talk about her worry. She couldn’t lie to her twin. But she could be creative.

“I’m supposed to write a song,” she said, looking more than passably worried. “And—”

“Can’t write it?” A knowing look lit his face.

“Mm. And I know it’s going to affect the Bardic Council’s voting on whether I should be made a full Bard.”

She shrugged, focusing all her fear and frustrations into this one thing. This song. This damn song.

She said, “You think if I threw myself in the river and caught pneumonia I wouldn’t have to perform?”

His smile changed to a smirk. “I think some Herald would jump in after you, the Healers would stuff you to the gills with foul-tasting potions, and the Bardic Council would ask you to play from your bed.”

“Drat.” She flopped back onto her pillows and closed her eyes, then forced herself to ask the question she least wanted to know the answer to. “So when do you go on circuit?”

She heard him shrug. “Don’t know. There are only a few Heralds ready to head back out into the field. If I had to guess—and if I’m lucky enough to be one of the first picks for my internship—I might get to go with Herald Wil when he heads out again.”

Lelia’s eyes snapped open.

“Go with who?” she asked.

“Herald Wil?”

She sat up and eyed her brother.

“Uh,” he said. “What?”

She smiled. “Wishing you had that Mindtouch Gift, don’t you?”

“Dear sister,” he replied somberly, “I wish for that when I’m around any woman.”

“That’s him,” Lyle said, pointing across the common room and speaking as quietly as he could manage amidst the din.

“Where?” Lelia asked. “The brunette?”

“No, the blond.”

“Oh.” She squinted, and then brightened. “Ooooh. Havens! He’s not much older than us. Bwahaha.”

“You honestly frighten me sometimes.”

“Any idea where his quarters are?”

“You still haven’t told me why you—”

Just then, a knot of Lyle’s year-mates—all dressed in sparkling Whites—came flowing into the common room. One spied Lyle, and instantly he was surrounded and carried off. From the sound of things, they were all intending on heading into Haven to celebrate.

No matter. Lelia had her own work cut out for her. She eyed the exits, took the one closest to Herald Wil’s table, chose a shadowy corner to stand in, and then stood vigil on the door until he strolled out, a book tucked under his arm.

She let him get a little ahead of her, and started to follow.

The sun was setting when she emerged from the Collegium, the humid air heavy with the promise of rain. Her quarry was advancing toward Companion Field, a white shape trotting out to meet him.

Lelia slowed to a stop, gnawing on her lower lip. Vexing. Very vexing. She couldn’t shadow him, not with this much open land between them. He’d see her coming. And then—

What? She blinked, realizing she was being stupid. He’s a Herald. He has to like you. She lifted her chin. Go talk to him, ask him your questions, and write your song!

Yes, that was exactly what she would do.

Herald Wil leaned with his back to the fence, his arms folded over his chest and his eyes half-shut.

“It’s hot,” he confessed.

:Rain’s coming,: Vehs replied.

“Good. This weather is giving me a headache.”

:Bard’s coming.:

“What?” He opened his eyes fully to stare at his Companion.

Just then, he heard the crush and rustle of someone walking through grass. Turning his head, he saw a small form in rust-red walking toward him.

:Worse than a Bard,: he thought at his Companion. :It’s a Bard-trainee.:

“Pardon me, m’lord Herald,” the girl said. She was short and fine-boned, with straight black hair and dusky skin. Her voice was surprisingly low and mellifluous. “Can I ask you about Daryann?”

Wil stared at her for a moment, dumbstruck.

Then he gave her the best answer he could come up with on short notice.

Malesa looked up with a raised brow as Lelia stomped in and sat down.

“No song?” she asked.

Lelia growled inarticulately.

“I had to go back and rework a couple lines on mine,” Malesa admitted, patting the parchments spread out on the Library table. “I found I used ‘light’ no less than five times in the first six verses.”

Lelia mumbled and snarled.

“Silly error, really, but that’s what happens when you write something fast—”

“I found Herald Wil,” Lelia said.

Malesa blinked. “Herald Who?”

“The brother of Herald Daryann.”

“Bright Havens! Where?”

“He’s back from circuit,” Lelia continued through gritted teeth. “I spotted him in Companion’s Field.” She was omitting some truth by phrasing it that way, but she didn’t think Malesa would care that she had been stalking the Herald. “I went up to him and asked a question.”

“And?” Malesa asked, chin in hand.

“He said no.” Lelia looked down at the brown-and-gray quill Malesa had been using. “Do you think if I stabbed myself in the eye with that thing—”

“Plenty of stories about blind Bards playing harp.”

“Maybe if I got ink poisoning.”

Malesa smirked. “So he said no?”

“Emphatically.” Actually, what he’d done was swung up onto his Companion and ridden off. And the look he’d given her!

Fit to freeze hellfires, she thought with a shiver.

“What did you say?” Malesa asked.

“ ‘Can I ask you about Daryann?’ ”

“Did you introduce yourself?”

“Not exactly,” she said slowly.

“You just went up and asked him, ‘Hey, about that dead sister of yours. . . .’ ”

“Well . . . when you put it that way. . . .”

Malesa put her head in her hands. “Oh, ’Lia.”

“What?”

“It’s a wonder sometimes that you’re a Bard. You have the tact of a stud in heat.”

Lelia bristled. “It was an honest question!”

“There’s honesty, and then there’s rude. Did you even stop to consider his feelings?”

Lelia scowled and stared at the table. She’d expected comfort and commiseration from Malesa. Not a tonguelashing on the ethics of questioning a subject.

“I just wanted to know,” Lelia muttered.

“So what are you going to do now?”

Lelia thought about it for a moment. “Seduce him,” she said decisively.

“Please tell me you jest.”

Lelia wiggled her eyebrows.

“Well, you have fun.” Malesa stood up, collecting her scrolls. “I’m off to practice the bridge of my stunning piece of genius.”

“Fine, leave me to my misery.” Lelia waved her off, then leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling.

“This,” she said to no one in particular, “is going to be a challenge.”

Lelia was anxious and fidgety all through class and morning chores, most of which involved restringing harps and lutes. The humidity had broken with a brief rain, but the result had been many out-of-tune instruments and much trainee busywork.

At the lunch bell, Lelia skipped the Bardic common room and instead retrieved a bandolier of knives from her quarters and took herself out to the practice salle. Even the Weaponsmaster had to eat sometime, and there was no one outside to watch her as she threw over and over, the handleless blades landing dead center more often than not.

“Nice grouping,” a voice behind her said as she was pulling her last knife out of the wooden target. “Didn’t know they were teaching Bards these things.”

Lelia spun, startled. Standing behind her, his face half in and out of the salle’s shadow, was Herald Wil.

She regained her composure quickly. “My parents are gleemen.” She pushed damp, sweaty hair out of her eyes. “I learned knife-tricks from my grandmother.”

His brows lifted. “I see.”

She tucked the knives away into their sheaths; anything to keep herself from fidgeting. “Um . . . about yesterday.”

“Yes, about that.” He pushed away from the salle. “I behaved coarsely. I . . . apologize.”

She nearly squealed with glee, and had to resist the urge to fall on her knees and praise the Bright Lady. You do exist! she thought.

“Does that mean I can ask you some questions about Daryann?” she asked.

He smiled warmly, turned around, and started to walk away.

“Herald?” she called, her hopes crashing to the ground once more. “Is that a no?”

“I just wanted you to know that I’m not angry at you, and I’m sorry if I acted like a brute,” he yelled back, waving his hand. “Good day, trainee.”

“Wait—” she called desperately to his departing back.

He stopped, looking over his shoulder at her.

“I—” Her mouth opened and closed. “I really need a song.”

“Do what every Bard-trainee does,” he replied. “Write about Sun and Shadow.”

And then he laughed.

He laughed.

She sat down in the grass, watching him disappear.

“Oh,” she said, her eyes narrowing, “I think not.”

Later, as Wil was taking an early evening stroll through the Field with Vehs, he caught a flash of red out of the corner of his eye.

It was the Bard-trainee girl. She was charging toward him as fast as the tall grass and her own short legs would let her.

“What . . . ?” he said.

“Herald!” she yelled. “I just want to ask you a few questions!”

“Good gods,” Wil blurted.

:That famous Bardic stubbornness.: Vehs actually sounded amused.

“Get me out of here,” Wil mumbled, swinging up onto his Companion’s back.

:At your service, m’lord.:

As Wil was coming out of the library after a satisfactory read, he heard the slap of boots behind him.

“Herald!” a familiar voice called. “Herald, just a moment of your time!”

His legs were longer than hers, and in better shape. He outran her, but only just.

Alone in a hallway and coming back from lunch, Wil was startled when the girl popped out from behind a velvet curtain and flung herself on him.

“I just want to know!” she panted as he wrestled out of her grip. “I just have a few questions to ask!”

He managed to escape to his room again, and threw the latch in case she grew more ambitious.

After that, he was on the lookout for any trace of rust-red or boots peeking out from under curtains and tapestries, and quick to avoid the small, persistent girl the moment she came into view.

“I have to question the ethics of this—”

“Question all you want,” Lelia said, tossing her hair and giving Malesa a glare. “He laughed at me.”

“And you’re inquiring about his dead sister. That’s called tasteless.”

“It’s been ten years, Malesa!” She flailed her arms frantically. “Ten! Years! He has to have found peace with it by now.”

“Would you if it was Lyle?”

Lelia flinched, but ignored the question, muttering, “She deserves a spot in the Bardic repertoire.”

Malesa eyed her. “Are you saying that because you actually believe it, or because it justifies your behavior?”

Lelia snorted derisively.

“Besides, even if you think it,” Malesa continued, “he obviously doesn’t.”

“He laughed at me. A Herald!” She pushed her head out of a window and yelled in the direction of Companion’s Field: “Just what kind of people are you Choosing nowadays?”

A passing page gave her a strange look. She growled back, sending the boy scurrying away with a squeak.

“You worry me,” Malesa said.

“Oh, go get Chosen already. You sound like my brother.” Lelia stopped at a door. “Speaking of which . . .”

She opened it and stepped inside. Lyle never did lock his door; he was just so damn trusting, sometimes. Many of his belongings had already been moved to his new suite, but a few things remained. And yes, there at the foot of his bed was a chest, and inside—

Lelia laughed darkly as she pulled out a gray shirt and pants.

“Astera bless a fool,” Malesa moaned.

Wil sat down at a table apart from the others. There was really no quiet place in the common room, but this was far enough away that he could hear Vehs think if he needed to.

He also had an excellent vantage of all entrances. The moment he saw a rust-red figure walk in, he would walk out.

:Why not sit with the others?: Vehs asked.

:I like being alone.:

Vehs gave a purely mental sigh.

Wil was wiping up a large lump of meat and parsnip with a chunk of crusty bread when someone sat down next to him. A voice purred in his ear, “Heyla, Herald.”

He looked to his left, and into the face of the black-haired Bard-trainee. In Grays.

No. Not uniform Grays. Gray shirt and pants, but not Grays.

“Uh,” he said.

“You can call me Lelia.”

:Did she get Chosen?: he thought at Vehs.

:Suuure. And I sprout gryphon wings in the moonlight.:

“Uh,” Wil repeated.

“Tell me your story, Herald,” she said in a low voice. “That’s all I ask.”

“You’re walking a fine line,” he said, nodding to her gray (but not Gray) clothing.

Her hard eyes remained fixed on him. “One story. Won’t take long. I just want to know what happened to Daryann.”

Wil’s blood boiled at the sound of his sister’s name. He pushed away from the table. “Excuse me.”

She made a grab for his sleeve. “Herald—”

He jerked his head to where Elcarth sat several tables down. “One more word,” Wil growled, “and I tell him what you’re up to. Bardic Immunity or not, I doubt very much the Dean would be pleased to see how you’re behaving.”

Lelia released his sleeve, and Wil slipped out.

Wil sat down on his bed and rubbed his eyes. The effort to calm down after his last encounter with the Bardic Pest had left him exhausted mentally and physically.

That damn girl.

:We might be heading back to circuit sooner than anticipated,: he thought to Vehs.

:Poor Chosen. Poor, poor Chosen.:

:It’s nothing to be amused about.:

:Oh, I disagree. I think it’s hysterical.:

Wil sighed deeply. :She’s defiling Daryann’s memory.:

:By writing a song about her legacy? That’s not really defiling.:

:It’s not her place.:

:But don’t you think it’s time you told someone?:

A cold knot crept up from Wil’s stomach to his throat. Memories welled up, unbidden. The acrid smell of herbs and wine—etched lines around dark eyes—the soft shush of hair sliding over crisp linens as her head turned toward him—the gaunt, pale face, whittled to a wax doll parody by pain—

He shoved the memory rudely aside.

:No,: he replied.

He stretched out on his bed, abstaining the covers. He preferred an old, loose shirt and breeches to smothering layers of bedding. Bit by bit, he drifted toward the borders of dreaming, relaxing gently into sleep’s embrace.

It was strange, just how relaxed he was. And his feet—they were nice and warm and—

His eyes snapped open. Someone was rubbing his feet.

He yanked his legs back and sat up. Belatedly, he realized he’d forgotten to latch the door. There was just enough moon-and starlight coming through his windows that he could see an all-too-familiar fine-boned face at the end of his bed.

“That’s it!” he roared at her, swinging out of bed and bearing down on her. “Get out! Leave me alone! Leave her alone!”

Lelia stared at him, her mouth wide open. “I—” she started to say.

“Out!”

She backed away from the murderous rage in his eyes, turned, and ran.

He heard a faint sob as she fled.

Wil slumped back onto his bed.

“Ah, Lord,” he mumbled, rubbing his forehead. “Ah, hellfires.”

Lelia bolted back to her quarters, half-sobbing the whole way. Wil’s anger had been startling—overwhelming—terrifying. The only thing she could think to do was run from it.

She opened the door to her room, reaching for the laces of the gray shirt—Her twin sat in the chair by her bed, his hands folded in his lap. Lelia froze in place, the heat of embarrassment creeping across her cheeks.

“Heyla,” Lyle said softly.

She shut the door, her hand falling to her side.

“That shirt doesn’t fit, you know,” he said, and then sighed. “What’s wrong, ’Lia?”

She shook her head, sitting down on the bed and not looking at him. “Nothing.”

“I’m worried about you,” he said. “So is Malesa. She and I . . . talked tonight.”

Lelia grimaced at the implications of that.

Lyle sat down next to her, putting his arm around her shoulder. “Thy heart is heavy, little songbird?”

The familiar, comforting sound of her childhood dialect crushed her pitiful attempts to shut him out.

“I think I did a bad thing,” she whispered.

“What could be that bad?”

Her words emerged as halting, half-incoherent sentences. She told him her fear of never finishing the song that would make her a full Bard, her days stalking Wil, and the disastrous consequences of intruding on the Herald in his bedchambers; the frightening display of anger that had sent her scurrying for her room.

When she finished, Lyle sat quietly, mulling over the tale.

“In his bedchambers?” he said at last.

She ducked her head. “I didn’t see anything—”

“You violated his privacy.”

She slumped.

“You should apologize to him,” he said.

“I should apologize to him,” she echoed listlessly.

“And maybe I’ll get him as a circuit mentor, and I can explain to him my crazy Bard-sib.”

The word “circuit” crashed down on her shoulders like a lead church bell. In a fit of recklessness, Lelia blurted the words she’d never dared given breath before, “You’re going to die!”

“What?” He knelt in front of her, taking her hands in his. She Felt his concern and love down the line of their bond so fiercely it startled her. “No, Lelia.”

“You’ll be leaving me, at the very least,” she said, half hysterical, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Gods, Lyle, do you know how many stories I know? Do you know how many times I hear about the Heralds who don’t return from circuit? Do you know what happens to a twin when the other one . . .”

She couldn’t finish it. The growing dread in her heart made her feel like she’d already said too much.

“I’m so selfish,” she said, shaking her head.

“Y . . . eah,” he agreed. When she gave him a startled look, he grinned. “ ’Lia, it’s not a bad thing. I see you as my balance. Given half a chance, I’d beat myself to death to help others. I need you to remind me that, sometimes, it’s okay to help myself.” He touched her shoulder. “I worry about you, too, you know. In a few months you’ll be wandering out there on your own . . . who knows what trouble you’ll run into without me around to balance you out?”

“Why couldn’t you have been a Healer?” she asked, not smiling. “Or a Bard? Why couldn’t you be like me? We’re supposed to be twins!”

He laughed, but there was a brittleness to it.

“Bright Lady. Bright Havens.” She crushed his hand in hers. “How I wish you didn’t have to go.”

They sat together in the darkness, holding hands just as they had during thunderstorms as littles. She couldn’t imagine a world without Lyle in it to give her comfort, to bear her through the storms. She just couldn’t.

Lelia got up early the next morning, dressed once again in rust-red. She’d lain in bed all night, struggling to come up with a plan for dealing with Wil and the damage she’d caused.

Before breakfast, she hiked down to Companion’s Field and went hunting.

It didn’t take her long. The Companion she searched for was wide awake; he even seemed to be waiting for her.

“Heyla,” she said, approaching him. “You’re Wil’s Companion, right?”

The stallion tossed his head.

“Well, I know very well you’re probably smarter than me,” she said. “I also know I owe some things to your Chosen.” She reached up and scratched his neck. “So I need to ask you a favor.” And she told him her plan.

Much to her surprise, he nodded in agreement.

Wil didn’t see Lelia all the next day. Or the next.

As the candlemarks passed, his discomfort outgrew his ability to ignore it. By dinnertime he was wrestling with the twin serpents of guilt and anger. Why should he feel guilty? She was the one intruding on his life! She was the one who refused to leave him alone! She . . .

“Damnit,” he muttered as he sat down to eat by himself in the common room.

It didn’t matter what she had done. He had lost his temper. He had raised his voice. He was better than that.

Or supposed to be. He was the one with a cart-sized otherworldly horse on his side.

Dinner ended quickly, but the self-flagellation remained. He wandered back to his room, lost in the emotional push and pull of anger and shame.

He stopped in front of his door.

A note was pinned to it with one of Lelia’s knives.

He gritted his teeth, took it down, and opened it up.

It read:

If you want to see your Companion again, come to the Grove Chapel in one candlemark.

Signed,

L.

He stared for a moment, dumbstruck.

:Vehs,: he thought, :where are you?:

:Oh, Chosen!: Vehs thought back. :Please save me! The evil Bard-trainee has me and—:

:This is not funny.:

:She refuses to play anything but “My Lady’s Eyes”! It’s awful, Chosen!:

“This is ridiculous,” Wil mumbled.

:Ah, gods! She’s invented a chorus to it! Save me!:

“I’m going to kill you both,” he sighed.

Lelia wasn’t playing “My Lady’s Eyes” when Wil strolled up. She was sitting on a stump and playing, but the song she’d chosen was one from his own sector of Valdemar; a piece by the Bard Faber called “Seven White Horses.”

Vehs lingered nearby, a loose bit of rope around his neck. She’d tied him off to a dead sapling he could have snapped without breaking a sweat.

Her strings grew silent as Wil approached. She put the lute in its case, closed it with a snap, and walked over to Vehs, untying him and tucking the rope into her belt. She stood on tiptoe, whispered something in his ear, and then gave the Companion a kiss on one plump cheek.

Vehs looked away. To Wil, he seemed to be blushing.

Lelia approached Wil and looked up at him.

He steeled himself.

Be calm, he thought. Whatever you do, be calm. Be gentle. You’re a Herald, damnit. Act like one.

“I’m sorry,” she said. She patted him on the arm as she walked away.

Wil blinked stupidly, caught off guard. An ache started in his heart and throat, and grew the longer he stood there.

Damnit.

“Wait,” he said.

Her footsteps continued to fade away.

“Wait,” he said again, turning toward her.

She started to run.

Lelia didn’t want to know anymore.

She ran through the Grove like an arrow aimed at the Collegium. She’d write something—she had to—and it would be terrible—and unoriginal—and it would probably be about Sun and Shadow—and it would probably get her kicked out of the Bardic Collegium—and she would have to go back to juggling knives with her family—but she didn’t care—she didn’t care—she—

A white shape flashed to her right. Vehs leaped in front of her. She flailed to a stop, sliding in the grass and leaves, clutching her precious lutecase to her chest. She fell on her back and stared up at him.

Wil frowned down at her from Companion-back.

“Wait,” he said stubbornly.

She blinked, flinging tiny bits of tears from her lashes.

He dismounted and sat down next to her. “Just—wait.”

Crickets sang, nightingales warbled. Vehs’ white coat shone like moonlight, a silent challenge to the growing darkness.

“She didn’t die immediately,” Wil said at last. “It took a month. Her Companion—he carried her all the way to Haven, and then collapsed. He—died. She should have, too.

“But she didn’t. She held on. The Healers didn’t know why for the longest time. And then one day she woke long enough to Mindspeak something vital—some bit of intelligence she’d been holding on to. I was there. I saw her eyes when she slipped away—to the Havens.”

Somewhere, a frog gulped. Lelia said nothing and made no move except to breathe.

“The whole Heraldic Circle was in a fury,” Wil continued. “Everyone wanted the raiders who did it to her. It was a mess.”

He stared numbly into the darkness. To his surprise, he felt Lelia’s callused fingers close over his hand.

“She fought going,” he said, “because of duty. She had to fulfill it.”

“And to say good-bye.”

He looked at Lelia, startled. “What?”

“To you. To say good-bye.”

“To me? Why?”

She gave him a confused look. “Havens, Wil, she loved you. Why wouldn’t she want to say good-bye?”

Wil blinked stupidly, thunderstruck by the obviousness of her statement. In ten years, the thought so simply expressed to him now by a Bard-trainee had never once occurred to him.

His shoulders tightened and the aura of a headache threatened. He’d avoided it for so long—the memory of that moment when Daryann’s eyes had opened. The clamor of the Healers—the shouts for a Herald—Daryann’s head had turned toward him, like a north-needle gravitating toward its inexorable position—

He pushed past the pain of the loss, and allowed himself to finally, really remember that moment.

She had seen him.

“She winked,” he said slowly. “She winked at me.”

Something inside him broke free. He felt as if an old weight—one he’d forgotten was there—had been lifted away.

Lelia’s hand slid off of his. He heard the lutecase open and the hum of the disturbed strings as she pulled it out. Notes—bittersweet and haunting—rose from the belly of the instrument, hanging in the air.

Lelia sang.

“Bring them home,” she began, directing the lyrics at Vehs. “White guardian . . .”

And it just kept going from there. She knew, as it bubbled out of her, that it wasn’t a six-verse piece of genius. The lyrics weren’t terribly clever. The melody had none of the flash of “My Lady’s Eyes.” But it came straight from her heart, the truest expression of what she felt. It was exactly the song she could write at that moment, it was complete, it was hers, and it was enough.

The Grove had fallen into silence by the time she finished.

“Not really about her,” she said at last. “More for her than about her. I think the bridge needs work. And—”

“It’ll do,” Wil said.

She rubbed her lute’s neck. “You think so?”

“I do.”

She nodded. “Me, too.”

The morning of her performance, Lelia got up at dawn and wandered down to watch as Lyle put the final touches on saddling Rivan.

“Where are you headed?” she asked.

“West,” he replied. “Not quite Evendim, but close. Forst Reach. Don’t know if you’ve heard of it—”

“Ashkevron holdings.” Her eyes flashed. “I’ve always wanted to see the famous manor.”

He smiled. “Ah yes. I forget that I speak with the Kingdom’s greatest authority on dead Heraldic heroes.”

“Only the pretty ones.” She eyed her twin critically. “You’ll say hello to Mother and Father?”

“Oh, hellfires. Are they out that way?”

“Lyle.”

He grinned. “If I can.”

“You’ll stay away from trouble?”

“Of course.”

“And at the first sign of danger, you’ll ride straight back to Haven and let the Army handle it?”

He nodded solemnly. “I promise.”

She smiled and stood up on tiptoe, throwing her arms around him. “Be safe,” she whispered in his ear.

“If we meet not in this Haven,” he whispered back, “we shall meet in another.”

She let him go, and then turned toward Rivan.

“Bring him home,” she sang to him.

The stallion tossed his head in a Companion’s nod.

Wil strode in, decked out in riding leathers.

“Are you two ladies going to stand around clinging to each other all day, or are we going to leave?” he asked, glowering.

“I believe my instructor is not what one might call a ‘morning person’,” Lyle said in a mock whisper to Lelia.

“Surely,” she “whispered” back, “he could take lessons in charm from Alberich.”

“Bright Lady.” Wil rolled his eyes. “I’ll have to ask the Dean what I did to deserve this.” He nailed Lelia with a look. “I need to have a word with your sister, Lyle. Alone.”

“Yes, m’lord Herald,” Lyle said, bowing his head and beckoning to Rivan. The two walked out, leaving Wil and Lelia in the Stable.

“Yes?” she asked.

He took a step forward, extending a fist. His fingers uncurled, revealing a silver necklace with the shield of Valdemar hanging off it.

“For you,” he said. “For luck.”

She blinked, reaching out and taking it gingerly.

His fingers closed over hers.

She looked up at him, startled.

“We’ll come home,” he promised her, then bent down and kissed her on the forehead.

“You’ll come home,” she agreed, her heart thumping in her chest.

He turned and started to walk away.

“You’ll come home!” she yelled, running at him and jumping on his back. He grunted as she threw her arms around his shoulders and hugged him fiercely.

Lelia slid down and stepped away, grinning like a fool. Wil looked back once, a faint smile on his face.

The hooves of the Companions chimed as the two Heralds rode out, heading for Haven proper and the rest of the Kingdom they served.

Malesa leaned over and whispered, “Nervous?”

“Nope.” Lelia grinned, tapping her necklace.

“Did you finish your song?”

“Yes.”

“And who gave you that lovely necklace?”

Lelia’s grin widened.

“I see.” Malesa raised a brow. “What makes you smile so, dear?”

“Because the Council’s going to vote soon,” she said. “And when I’m a journeyman Bard, I know exactly where I’m going.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes.” Lelia smiled. “I’ve always wanted to visit the birthplace of the Last Herald-Mage.”

SONG FOR TWO VOICES

by Janni Lee Simner

Janni Lee Simner has published nearly three dozen short stories, including appearances in

Gothic! Ten Original Dark Tales

, on the labels of Story House’s coffee cans, and in the first Valdemar anthology,

Sword of Ice

. Her next novel,

Tiernay West, Professional Adventurer,

will be published in 2006. Visit her web site at

www.simner.com

.

GAREN’S Voice

This is not some Herald’s ballad. We Holderkin are practical folk, and we know what matters: sun and land, wheat and hay, breaking horses to saddle, protecting those in our care. These are the things you should ask about, if you wish to know our ways.

The story you ask for instead ought to be none of your concern. Yet Holderkin pay their debts, and you say this is the only payment you’ll accept.

Know this, then. I was content, even before Nara came. I care for my Steading, which was my father’s before raiders sent him to the God, ten years past. I care for my first three wives, and my two brothers, and my oldest son, who works beside me in the fields. I care for my littles, even those too small to work.

I’ve seen you Heralds scowl. You think Holderkin men care only for themselves. Yet I know well enough the gifts the God has granted me, and I give thanks for them.

Just as I give thanks for the winter day last year, when I visited my cousin Jeth to trade a sure-footed plow horse for some wool. As I followed Jeth into his hall, I heard a high, sweet song, above the crackle of the fire and the whir of the spinning wheel.

Birdsong, I thought—but the voice was human, a girl’s voice. I looked across the room and saw her, bent over the spinning wheel, dark hair hiding her face. She sang of a time when the Goddess freely wandered the fields, feet bare and hair unbound, before she met the God. A woman’s hymn; men do not sing it. Yet hearing her, something inside me woke, and grew restless, and yearned to answer the song. My fields and hall seemed suddenly small, simply because her voice wasn’t in them.

You say such things are known, in your ballads and your lives. But they are not known here.

The girl looked up, and her hair fell back, revealing dark eyes and pale skin. She looked at me without shame, and I met her over-bold gaze. She fell silent then, her song unfinished, and without warning she smiled.

I smiled back. Her face grew red, and she leaned back over her spinning.

I knew, then, that I could not leave without her. I turned to my cousin.

“Your daughter,” I said, for this had to be one of his daughters. “Do you intend to arrange a marriage for her soon?”

Nara’s Voice

You ask for our story. I do not know how to tell a story. I only know that until I came to Garen’s Steading, I was not content.

I had my work, in my father’s home: endless spinning, and weaving, and cooking, and caring for littles. The work needed doing; I understood that. I understand it still. Is it different in the north? Here, we know that every person is sacred in the eyes of the Goddess, put in the place we are put, given the work we are given, because that work matters, and is meant for us.

Yet knowing this, I still longed to walk the barren ridges, to look out over the narrow valleys, to feel the wind tangling my hair. When I was younger, I’d spent my days outside on sheep watch, and been happy; but that was long ago, before I was replaced by littles too young for other tasks. By the time Garen came, my days were mostly spent indoors, with my mother and my sisters and the other wives of the Steading.

But the Goddess never gives us a task without also giving us what we need to complete it. And what She gave me was song.

I sang as I worked, hymns and teaching songs, songs no one could find improper. The work went better when I sang. The walls and roof felt less near, the wind and sun less far. I was fortunate; my father’s firstwife welcomed my songs, perhaps because the littles also worked better when I sang.

Then a stranger entered my father’s hall and met my improper gaze. And—I do not know how to say this. When I looked into his gray eyes, I saw open fields and the spaces between clouds. For the first time, I thought maybe marriage—the marriage I knew my father must arrange, soon or late—might be more than just another set of walls.

Garen’s Voice

Of course I left without her, that day. There was the dowry to negotiate, and the priest to consult, and the ceremony to arrange. But at last we knelt together, beneath the open sky, the men and the women of our households around us. It was one of those rare spring days, when the sky is so blue you fear it will break in two, exposing the first level of Heaven above.

But I forget—you don’t believe in Heaven, only in endless Havens and countless gods, with none to tell which is true.

The priest chanted the ritual prayers. We gave the ritual responses, and if my attention was more on the curve of Nara’s neck and the sun on her bound hair than on my own words, still I meant those words.

At last the priest asked for our vows. “Do you, Garen Aranson, vow to serve the God and honor the Goddess? To defend your Steading and your fields, your brothers and sons, your daughters and wives?”

“I do so vow.”

“And you, Nara Jethsdaughter. Do you vow to serve the God and honor the Goddess, and to obey your husband and your elder wives in all things?”

Nara smiled. “I do so vow.”

The priest drew us to our feet. I looked into Nara’s dark eyes; they seemed as large as all the sky. I could have gazed at her forever, but then she bowed, as the ceremony demanded, and stepped back to join the women of my household, showing she accepted her place as one underwife among many.

The priest sang a hymn then, recounting the first meeting of God and Goddess—when the Goddess grew restless, and wandered beyond her realm, and could not find her way back. Both households joined him in that song, all but me; the God gave me no gift for singing, and I knew my voice would be no tribute.

Nara stood with my other wives, her shoulders straight, her eyes cast properly down. She sang with my other wives, her voice no louder than theirs. Yet somehow her song rose above the others—and though I knew better, her voice still seemed not one among many to me, but its own, distinct.

Nara’s Voice

I was happy, married. I did not expect that.

Garen’s Firstwife, Latya, had work for me, of course, laundry and cooking, cleaning saddles, grooming horses, mending tack. But often that work took me outside, where I could linger over the blooming of orange paintbrush and purple lupines, where I could watch the shifting gray clouds. I sang beneath those clouds, and I sang in the hall, too. So long as the work was done, and done properly, Latya did not complain.

It is true that proper and improper matter a great deal more to Latya than to my mother, or even to my father’s firstwife. Latya expects hair to always be bound, and collars to always be buttoned, and tunics and leggings to always be ironed beyond creasing. Yet I am dutiful, as much as I am able.

I did not see Garen often, those first months, save for mealtimes and the nights he came to my room; he had his work, just as I had mine. But sometimes, I would turn from grooming horses to see him in the stable doorway, silent, listening to me sing. He would smile, and I would smile back, and the stable walls would seem to fall away, as if we stood together beneath the sky, just as we had on our wedding day. My work somehow always seemed lighter, after one of those meetings.

But I am telling this out of order. Before the stables, there was the first time Garen came to my room, the night we were married. I was shy and afraid; my mother had told me to expect pain. Yet Garen was slow and gentle, as concerned for me as for himself. When we came together, I felt as if we were closer than skin and bone should allow; felt as if we shared a single body, a single space. Afterward, I pressed my body close to his, not wanting to let the feeling go, yet knowing that all things fade, in time.

Garen brushed my loose hair aside, and he whispered in my ear, “I am glad you have joined my Steading.”

“I am glad, too,” I said, and meant it with all my soul. The times after have been like this, too, more often than not. Is it so for everyone, or only for us?

It seems immodest to ask.

Garen’s Voice

Lying with Nara is not like lying with anyone else. My first three wives are dutiful. They give what is required. But they draw away from me when that duty is done, and I from them. I don’t linger in their beds as I do in hers. I could lie with Nara every night, if not for my other wives. I could spend my days watching her, if not for the work of my Steading.

But that is not for you to record, and it is not for sharing with your fellow Heralds.

Say instead that spring turned to summer, summer to fall, the seasons in the order the God set them. Raiders attacked other Steadings and Holdings, but spared mine. Latya bore another son, and my second underwife, Isa, a daughter. Nara showed no signs of bearing children, but she was good with the littles. Like me, they seemed to listen for her song.

One stormy afternoon I entered the common room to hear Nara singing as she twisted dried grasses to rope, while wind pounded the walls and hail pounded the roof. The littles sorted grasses by length around her.

Nara sang of Jania’s ride. You do not know this song; it is a Holderkin song, about a maiden whose brother was killed by raiders while they were on sheep watch. The raiders dishonored the girl, but she escaped, riding alone through darkness and storm to warn her Steading of the attackers. She knew her duty, you see. She delivered the warning first. Only afterward did she take her life, to keep her dishonor from her family.

Yet when Nara sang this song, I heard more than duty and honor. I heard the joy of hooves on stone, of rain on skin, of wind through hair. I longed to sing with my wife—but no, I’d not sully her verses with my rough voice. Instead I smiled as I listened, entranced as the littles.

Nara did not look up, but she smiled as well. Then Latya entered the room, her arms full of laundry. I looked away from my underwife, but not before Latya saw my lingering gaze. Latya’s frown made that clear enough.

I see you don’t understand. You know only that a holder is free to do as he will. And he is; the God made that clear long ago. But the God lives in His Heaven, with only His one Goddess. I have four wives, and Latya is first among them. She oversees the work of hearth and hall, waking before dawn to do much of that work herself. I value my firstwife, and I would not have her think otherwise.

So I decided I would be more careful. But my gaze drifted to Nara again before I left the room.

And again, it was Latya, not Nara, who saw.

Nara’s Voice

One stormy afternoon, Latya changed all the tasks she set before me.

She did it abruptly, without warning or reason. At once my work was entirely indoors: scrubbing rooms, tending the fire (but not gathering the wood), mending clothing (but not mending tack). I saw Latya’s displeasure clearly enough, though I did not know what I had done to earn it and she did not explain.

I did not complain of this. Instead, I turned to my new work and to a song, determined to regain the firstwife’s favor. I sang of how the Goddess urged the sun to rise, in the God’s realm, of how she coaxed golden wheat from the hard soil, to ease her loneliness far from home.

For the first time, Latya frowned at my song. “Dear Nara,” she said, “I know you’ve been lonely, away from your home, and so I’ve not spoken of your singing until now. But in truth, it is not proper, and it disrupts the work. I must ask you to stop.”

I opened my mouth to protest; closed it again. I was a new wife, a young wife. I’d vowed before the Goddess to obey my elder wives, as surely as I’d vowed to obey my husband.

You look troubled by that. Is it true that in the north, a woman has only her one husband to obey, and no other wives?

In truth, I was troubled, too. I had not understood that obeying my other wives—obeying other women—might be harder than obeying my husband.

I told myself there was time enough for things to change. Latya’s displeasure—whatever its cause—would wane, and I would be assigned other duties, performed in places where I could sing unheard, and trouble no one. I told myself I could wait. I reminded myself that the Goddess never gives us tasks we cannot handle.

Yet as the weeks went on, I felt as if my unsung words were choking me. My only comfort came the nights Garen visited my room, but that was a fleeting thing, gone once we parted, leaving me alone in a room that felt smaller every day.

Garen’s Voice

Nara stopped working outside. She stopped singing inside. I didn’t know why; I knew only that the days felt longer, without her voice. And the nights I went to her room, she seemed far away from me, even when I drew her close.

I asked if anything troubled her, more than once, but she just shook her head. Yet I knew something was wrong, knew it in a way that went deeper than reason.

Fall gave way to an early winter, though not before we got the harvest in. Silence and cold settled over my Steading. I had good offers on the geldings I brought to saddle, not only from Holderkin, but also from the villages to our north, who are learning that Holderkin horses bear work and bad weather with less complaint than their own.

I offered you one of those horses, but you wanted this story instead. A holder would have taken the horse and been long gone.

But what you need to know is, my Steading was prospering. Yet my fourth wife was not content, and I did not know why. I knew only that because of this, I was not content either.

It was with these thoughts that I set out with my oldest son, Ari, to fix fences on Midwinter Day. Understand that. I was worried about my wife.

Not about myself.

Nara’s Voice

No one knows when the world will change—when an offer of marriage will come, or a woman grow heavy with child, or an early frost damage the crops and turn an easy year into a hard one.

I was uneasy all Midwinter Day. Once, I stopped at a jabbing pain in my leg, and nearly dropped the mugs I was carrying to the table. Latya asked if I was well, and I assured her I was, but my uneasiness grew even as the pain faded. I knew something was wrong.

So I was the only one not surprised, when the pounding came at the doors. I think I even shouted Garen’s name—before those doors were opened. I don’t remember clearly.

What I do remember is that Ari and a stranger in white carried Garen inside. Garen’s clothes were splattered red; a raider’s arrow jutted from his thigh.

Later I would realize that you were a Herald, and a woman, and that though you came upon the raiders by chance, you fought alongside my husband and his son. You broke three ribs doing it; you were injured, too, and would need time here to heal. Later, it would surprise me that a Herald would fight for Holderkin.

But just then, I knew only that I ran with the others to Garen’s rooms. I kept thinking about the brothers I’d lost to raiders, and of how losing Garen would be so much worse. It would be like—like losing wind and sky.

I know that sounds foolish. I am sorry. I have no better words for such things.

Isa removed the arrow—her mother is a midwife, and taught her some doctoring—whispering thanks to the Goddess that the point was not barbed. She cleaned the wound and bandaged it. Blood soaked through the white linen, far too fast.

I don’t like to remember this. The coppery smell of the room, my husband’s pained breathing, the unsteady beat of his pulse. I knew I could not lose him.

I knew I could not leave him. Latya argued with me; then she set me to watching over him instead. “But you are to call me the moment you see any change,” she said, and I saw her own care and worry clearly enough.

You seem surprised. I don’t see why. Do you think Holderkin women don’t care for their husbands? If what you tell me is true, perhaps what Latya felt was not what I felt. But she would have mourned Garen’s death, just the same.

For a time I sat by Garen’s side. His eyes were closed, and I called his name, as if that would open them. Then I fell silent, chiding myself for thinking he might wake, just because I bid him to. What man had ever done anything because of a woman’s voice? Instead, I took his hand in mine. I wondered how I would survive the long years ahead, alone.

I thought that: alone. In a thriving Steading, among many men and wives, I would be alone, without this one man. The walls of his bedchamber seemed very near. I thought perhaps I would go mad, indoors, alone all my days. I remembered Jania’s ride, and for the first time, I understood its end. I understood the despair that led Jania to take her own life, and I knew that her fate could be my own. In that moment, there was only one thing I could do.

I sang.

Did you expect otherwise? I had not forgotten Latya’s command. But disobedience could be punished and forgiven—later, when I stood safe beneath the light of day. Even if Garen were meant to die, I could not believe the Goddess wanted my life, too.

I sang Jania’s song, softly at first. I lost myself in wind and rain, in the pounding of hooves. I forgot the ceiling and walls around me.

I did not forget Garen, though. When it came time for Jania to take her life, my voice faltered. I heard again my husband’s ragged breath. I felt his clammy hand in mine. I couldn’t sing of death, not with death so near.

But then Garen squeezed my hand, though he shouldn’t have had the strength for it. “Sing,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and fierce.

So I sang. Not of Jania’s death, but of a second escape: of how she knew she could not remain with her family, dishonored; so instead she retreated to the barren ridges and narrow valleys she loved well, and rode there all her days. A foolish ending, I know; it would not happen that way. But I have sung no other ending since.

My voice rose; I barely noticed. Garen’s grip remained tight—remained strong. I sang the song through again, and again, my voice gaining strength with each repetition.

I did not hear the door open. I knew only that when at last my voice fell silent, you and Latya both stood in the doorway, watching me. I looked down, face hot, avoiding your stares, leaning over my husband instead.

His pulse was strong, his breathing even. He still held my hand.

“You—” Latya began.

“I am sorry,” I said swiftly. “I was tired, and the watch was long—”

“You saved him,” Latya said.

Again you are surprised. Yet Latya is not foolish. She understands what needs understanding. She knows, now, that my song was needful, and she will not forbid me song again. Holderkin women are practical. More practical, perhaps, than those who let white horses decide their fate.

That was disrespectful. I am sorry.

At any rate, you know as well as I what you said next. Your words were strange to me, are strange still.

“I did not realize,” you said, “that there were lifebonds among Holderkin.”

You said you wished to know our story.

I do not know how to tell a story.

Garen’s Voice

Her song saved me. There is no other way to tell it.

I was ready to leave this world. No more, for me, the dizzying pain of broken flesh and lost blood. I wanted the God’s peace. I knew I could face His judgment without shame. The raiders were dead, after all, by my hand and Ari’s and yours. I knew we owed you a debt, and that was an uncomfortable thought—but it was also a matter for others. I was done here.

Until I heard Nara’s song, reminding me what it was to live, to ride beneath the sky. I knew, then, that whatever else was finished, there was something between Nara and me that was not yet done, something new and incomplete, something I was not free to leave. You call it a lifebond—call it what you will. What matters is that, though I am a man, I was not—am not—free.

I held to her song. I held to her. As if she were my only wife, the only woman in all the world.

So I lived. Through that night, and through the nights after, to this day when you say you have healed enough to be on your way. I asked how we could repay you, for I know Ari and I could not have killed those raiders alone. You told me what payment you would accept.

Now that payment is delivered, and I need not say more. I walk slowly with this cane, but I can walk, and since I can walk, I can work. I have three geldings ready to sell, and two mares in foal, and the fences still need fixing. There is much to do, and if Nara’s song makes the work go better, that is for the good. It is as the God intended.

A man has many wives—many people—in his care. Nara and I are bound, but not only to each other. The God places many obligations upon us. We are not Heralds. We seek more than simply to be free.

You are not Holderkin. You do not understand.

Nothing has changed.

Everything has changed.

Nara’s Voice

I am bound to Garen, yes. But I also serve the Goddess, and my elder wives. I have not been put in this place by chance; it is the Goddess’ will. It is for a reason, even if I cannot always see that reason for myself.

You say this troubles you. Yet I think maybe Heralds know how to serve, too. I think you know about having your fate decided by powers beyond your understanding.

And I think perhaps the story you asked for ends here.

I can tell you this, though: last night, it was my turn to look after Garen. His wound still troubles him, and will for some time. I gave him medicine to numb that pain, and because it was late, and the day’s work was done, he accepted it. As he grew sleepy he asked me, “Would you ride from this place, if you could?”

His words startled me. I thought he spoke of Heralds. “This is my home,” I said, because it is true, and because it says all else I would have said.

“You wouldn’t ride as Jania rode, then?” Garen’s tone was light, but his gaze was not. If not for the medicine, he wouldn’t have spoken thus.

“Jania rode these ridges,” I said, “and these valleys. She did not ride in some stranger’s land.”

Abruptly, Garen grabbed my hand. “Nara,” he said, “You must not be silent again. I must always hear your voice.”

“Always?” I laughed, trying to make it a joke. “If the God and Goddess grant us years enough together, you might regret that.”

“Always,” he said, and he did not laugh.

Garen will not tell you this. Perhaps I should not tell you either.

But his serious voice made me feel strange, shy as the day we met. “I will not be silent,” I promised. And then, shyer still, I said, “I wish something, too.”

“What do you wish?” Garen asked, even though he need not do anything on account of my wishes.

“I wish to hear your voice. I wish—to hear you sing.” He never had, you see, in all the months I’d been here.

“My voice is no gift from the God,” Garen said.

“I wish to hear it, just the same.”

So he sang the hymn from our wedding day. His voice was rough, and off-key, and perfect. I added my high voice to his low one, and as we sang together, I knew there was in truth a bond between us, and that it was not like other bonds.

You say the gods have put this thing between Garen and me. I do not know your gods. I know only one Goddess, who is lost and seeks a way home; and one God, who has offered her shelter and longs to keep her forever by his side. Yet nothing is forever; one day the Goddess will return home. One day Garen and I will be parted, for a time at least. If Garen leaves first, my only comforts will be my songs and my land, and even they will not be enough. Yet that parting will not be this day, and that matters more than any story can say.

But then, I do not know how to tell a story. I only know how to sing.

Garen does not know how to sing. But he is learning.

FINDING ELVIDA

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

Mickey Zucker Reichert is the author of such masterful DAW fantasy novels as

Beyond Ragnarok, Prince of Demons,

and

The Children of Wrath

(

The Renshai Chronicles

trilogy),

The Last of the Renshai, The Western Wizard,

and

Child of Thunder

(

The Last of the Renshai

trilogy),

The Bifrost Guardians

series,

The Legend of Nightfall, Flightless Falcon,

and

The Unknown Soldier,

her debut science fiction novel for DAW. She is also the coauthor (with

Jennifer Wingert

) of the spellbinding fantasy novel,

Spirit Fox

. Mickey lives in Iowa with her husband and three of their children, and divides her time between her family, her writing, teaching at the local university, and the assorted livestock.

ASWORD crashed against Elvida’s with a force that nearly unseated her from Raynor’s saddle. Trusting the Companion to tend to balance, she put her full concentration into harmlessly redirecting the strike. Her riposte followed naturally, training drummed into habit by Weaponsmaster Altorin. Her blade struck flesh with a sickening tear. Pain thrummed through her hands, her enemy a target more solid than mock combat had prepared her to expect. Blood splashed, throwing red spots and squiggles across Raynor’s snowy neck and her own silvery gray uniform. The man collapsed, and a bitter thread of bile clawed its way up Elvida’s throat.

Cursing the dark curls that obscured her vision, Elvida wasted a motion tossing them from her eyes. She followed the sound of bridle bells to find the other two Companions, Tabnar and Leahleh, together. Surrounded by a mass of unmounted enemies, Herald Sharylle and her partner Anthea flailed wildly through the press. Scarlet splattered their Herald Whites and their faces, and the warriors bayed at them like blood-sick hounds.

Open for the moment, Elvida suffered a moment of terror. Her first mission was supposed to be routine, a leisurely ride through the Holdings, hauling a single cart. They would plant soaproot and blue bells, help organize the restocking of Waystations, and gather information to assure nothing troublesome was brewing just beyond the kingdom. Instead, danger had found them, in the form of a small and, as yet, unidentified army. One that clearly hated Heralds.

Sharylle screamed in clear agony. Her Companion plummeted, and both disappeared beneath the wild mass of warriors.

“No!” Elvida shouted, her cry lost beneath Anthea’s louder one, raw with a pain so desperate and primeval it stopped the assault long enough for her to disengage as well.

“This way!” Anthea called out, and her Companion wheeled suddenly toward Elvida. “The cave.”

Elvida remembered the dark hole they had passed earlier that day. Dank and jagged, it had seemed to radiate a chill that spiraled through her marrow, so unlike the myriad welcoming Waystations that had brought the three women and their Companions through so many warm, safe nights. Elvida had relished the camaraderie, opening up to the Heralds in ways she had never dared to in the past. For the first time in her life, she had felt as if she had real sisters, though she also found herself envying the bond the Heralds shared.

Raynor reared, spun, and galloped toward the cave. The suddenness of the movement added to Elvida’s gastric distress. Mentally, she suffered her own terror, the rage of the enemies, and the deep, hellish agony of Anthea together. The mixture made her desperately ill. Leaning forward, she vomited, trying not to further soil Raynor or herself. It felt silly to concern herself with hygiene at a time when it seemed abundantly clear: They were all going to die.

Raynor’s slender, muscular legs carried them at a speed the unmounted warriors could never hope to match. Apparently reading her terror, her Companion sent waves of encouragement that did not fool Elvida. Without the magical strength to Mindspeak, his Herald-in-training was limited to empathic communication, but she had learned that well. Raynor could try, but he would never wholly hide that his own courage was a thin veneer masking a fear nearly as strong as her own.

Leahleh loosed a frantic whinny, followed by a cry from Anthea. Raynor whirled in time to show Elvida that the Herald had fallen. Leahleh stomped and snorted, her empty stirrups flying, attempting to hold a band of men with waving swords at bay. Elvida saw no sign of Anthea. Where is she? Where is she?

Raynor nickered in question.

Elvida glanced around frantically, knowing every moment wasted meant one less in flight. She knew Sharylle and Tabnar were dead; Anthea would never have abandoned her partner if any hope remained. Now, Elvida searched for some radiating emotion that would assure her the remaining Herald still lived. Nothing came to Elvida’s mental senses, but her wildly leaping gaze did eventually land on Anthea. The woman lay among the stones, blood trickling from one ear. Though clearly unconscious, her chest still rose and fell in obvious, living breaths.

Leahleh whinnied in agony.

“She’s alive!” Elvida jerked Raynor’s left rein. “We have to save her.”

Raynor did not hesitate, speeding back toward the fray while Elvida wrestled her own decision. Magically Giftless, she had honed her weapons and Empathy skills, but she had little hope of standing against even two armed men, let alone several dozen. Nevertheless, while a Herald lived, she had no choice but to attempt a rescue.

“Move! Move! Move!” Elvida encouraged Raynor, leaning over his neck as if to add her speed to his own. Already the men had swarmed over Anthea’s only other hope. Leahleh collapsed, her brilliant white fur indelibly stained, her mortal agony an unignorable screech in Elvida’s mind. Even immersed in terrible pain, the Companion tossed her head toward Anthea’s still form, as if to direct Elvida and Raynor to save her Herald.

Besieged by the physical and mental suffering of Herald and Companion, Elvida felt as if her head might explode. She wished she could comfort the animal, to rescue Leahleh or at least allow her to leave the world in peace. Her death, Elvida wanted to promise, would not be in vain. Instead, she waded through the morass of anguish to bolster the Companion, to entreat her not to give up no matter how awful the pain. If Leahleh died, they would lose Anthea also.

Elvida forced the thought from her already overtaxed brain, focusing solely on her own desperate duty. As Raynor skidded to a stop, Elvida leaped from the saddle and ran to the Herald. Aided by an anxiety beyond extreme, she managed to heft Anthea’s larger still form and lug her toward the saddle. The impatient Companion barely waited until Anthea’s body reached his side before shoving his nose under her and jerking his head upward. The Herald flew toward his saddle. Elvida scrambled to her seat, barely quickly enough to keep Anthea from flying over his opposite side. She steadied the older woman, still noting the shallow breathing, the stream of sticky scarlet trickling from one ear, the total lack of response to any of this frantic movement. She, too, is nearly dead.

Raynor lurched into a run. Still trying to position Anthea on his withers, Elvida slid halfway from the saddle. Panicked, she caught a death grip on Raynor’s mane. A sword cut the left stirrup where her leg should have been, slicing a short gash in Raynor’s side. Another blade slammed against his left hind leg, jolting Raynor with an abruptness that nearly sent both women tumbling to the ground again.

Strings of mane cut painfully into the Elvida’s fingers, but she barely noticed beneath the all-encompassing waves of agony issuing from Raynor. Unable to run, he stumbled forward as Elvida clawed her way back into the saddle and steadied Anthea. She dared not look, trying her hardest to send encouragement to her mount. Raynor needed her to help him continue despite the extra weight on his back, the heavy burden of two lives relying on hooves that were no longer capable. Limping heavily, he rocked toward the cave, step after excruciating step, his pace barely faster than that of a running man. The enemy bayed at his heels, only one misstep from victory.

“You can do it,” Elvida whispered fervently. “I have faith in you, my Beloved.” She kept her attention on the warriors who, miraculously, looked to be losing ground. Raynor seemed all but motionless compared to her wildly racing thoughts and his usual speed, though he obviously moved quickly enough to stay ahead of the howling army, at least for the moment. With each step, the ache radiating from him became more intense, more excruciating, until it usurped all other thought. “You can do it, Heartsib. I know you can.”

And Raynor responded, dragging his left hind leg in a blind haze of pain.

Elvida wished she could do something, anything, to ease his burden. Her instincts screamed at her to dismount, but she conquered them with logic. Doing so assured all three of their deaths. Raynor would not go on without her, and she would never find the strength to carry a full-grown Companion. It felt like an eternity before the cave came clearly into focus, drawing slowly and inexorably toward them. “There it is, Beloved! Only a few more steps.”

Those last few seemed more like a thousand, then Raynor managed a last heave into the darkness before collapsing at the mouth. Anthea’s still form rolled gracelessly from his withers and into the darkness.

We’re safe! The thought was madness, Elvida realized with a sudden jolt of fresh terror. She alone could keep the warriors from simply running into the cave after them.

Seizing Raynor’s bridle, Elvida closed her eyes to a grim focus and pulled. His weight strained every muscle in her arms and back, but she managed to drag him away from the opening and deeper into the cave. She stood poised directly in front of him, sword readied, stance balanced, hoping no more than two men could face her simultaneously through the crack. At least she might manage to hold them off for several hours. Gripping her sword in hands gone numb, she stood bravely at the mouth, waiting for the army to arrive.

The sun sank toward the horizon, leaving the sky awash in broad stripes of vivid, rainbow hues. Though still at the cave opening, Elvida gradually lost her demeanor of crouched expectation. Gripped in arms aching with fatigue, her sword wilted to dangle at her side. The army remained a respectful distance from the cave, their campfires springing up like gloating wraiths dancing in the gathering darkness.

For nearly an hour, Elvida watched the men butcher some large animal for their evening meal, hauling hunks of glistening meat toward the scattered fires. Her own empty stomach rumbled with a desire she could not contain. She imagined the sweet, fatty aroma that would soon drift toward her on the night breeze, and her mouth watered. Then, a group of men in the center triumphantly hefted the skin of the hapless creature: huge and long-legged, white as new-fallen snow. Tabnar. Revulsion struck Elvida in a wave so strong and vile her own saliva soured to poison. Once again, she found herself vomiting, this time with an agonizing savagery. Long after she lost everything inside, she continued to heave dryly until every muscle ached and tears fully stole her vision.

It’s over. The sight of a Companion defiled in this manner destroyed Elvida’s remaining will. Staggering mindlessly deeper into the cave, she dropped her sword and crumpled to the ground. Stone bruised her knees and scraped her palms, but these superficial pains went unacknowledged. She curled into a hopeless ball, weeping so violently she could scarcely breathe. All her shortcomings paraded through her mind: her magical weakness, her gross incompetence at mental communication, her total lack of any Gift. Sharylle and Anthea had clearly picked her as their travel companion from pity alone. And choosing her for his rider would soon prove Raynor’s fatal mistake as well.

Two Heralds and three Companions. Elvida had always known her inability would get herself killed. She had never imagined she would cause the deaths of so many truly special, epically important others with her incompetence. I deserve to die. She did not seem worthy even of the same fate that would surely befall Raynor and Anthea. I deserve to die horribly.

:Stop it!: The words entered Elvida’s head like a whip crack. Shocked senseless, she sat bolt upright, the tears dribbling from her sodden, hazel eyes.

“Who—who said that?”

:I did. Raynor. You quit wallowing in self-pity or, so help me, I’ll struggle over there and stomp you to death.:

Dumbfounded, Elvida could only attempt the Mind-speech that had previously eluded her throughout her years of training. :Can you hear me, too?:

Raynor snorted loudly. :What am I, mind-deaf? Of course I can hear you.:

Elvida gathered her legs beneath her, the flow of tears ending and her vision returning in a blur. :But this is the first time . . . I mean I never . . . how come I . . . ?: She found herself incapable of completing a thought. Clearly, her newfound ability had something to do with the intensity of her current emotions. She had always believed she tried her hardest to communicate. Now, she knew, she had allowed self-doubt to hold her from truly giving it the effort it deserved. :I can Mindspeak?:

No answer followed, only her own bitter disappointment. Apparently, the ability had left as swiftly as it had appeared. Elvida wondered if she had to hit the depths of despair in order to awaken it again.

:Oh, I’m sorry. Was that an actual question?:

Relief flooded Elvida, and she managed a choking laugh. :A damn silly one, obviously. I’m sorry, Raynor.: The apology went far deeper than the ludicrousness of turning the self-evident into a serious inquiry. :I’m sorry I’m worthless. I’m sorry I’m going to get the three of us killed. I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry . . . for being the world’s most useless Herald-in-training.:

:I told you to stop it!: Anger accompanied the sending, louder than the words themselves. :Wallowing in self-pity isn’t going to save anyone’s life. And I resent the suggestion that I’m inept:

The very idea sent Elvida reeling in horror. :But I never said—:

:You did! You said I couldn’t pick a capable Chosen.:

:But I didn’t mean . . .: Elvida paused, finally turning toward her Companion, who clearly had a point. Only then she realized she had been deliberately avoiding looking at him. His pain had faded to dim background in her mind, but it haunted every thought, every action, and every decision. He lay on his side where she had dragged him, his fur clotted with dirt and speckled burgundy with the blood of foe and friend alike. His breaths came in pants, and his left hind leg lay at an awkward, swollen angle. Clearly, it was broken.

Elvida cried out, despising herself for not tending to him and Anthea immediately. Trapped in a web of her own grief and loathing, she had worried more for increasing her own burdens than for helping her friends. The realization only intensified her self-hatred; but, this time, she cast aside the morass of deprecation that held her inert at a time of necessary action.

Clearly riding with her on this journey of internal discovery, Raynor sent a quieter message. :Little Sister, there’s nothing you can do for me. A horse without a leg can accomplish nothing. Anthea is gravely injured.:

:I wish I were a Healer. I wish my Gift—: Realizing she was still stalling, Elvida rose and walked to Anthea. The Herald sprawled in the dirt, her Whites smeared with grime. Dark blood matted her hair, but nothing bright red to indicate a current site of bleeding. Her breaths stirred slowly, oddly peaceful, as she lay in a state beyond sleep. A more thorough examination revealed no other injuries. All the damage remained inside Anthea’s head, where no one other than a Healer could reach them. Injuries to the brain, Elvida knew, were always serious; and every moment that passed significantly decreased the Herald’s chance for survival. Leahleh must still live . . . barely.

:Your Gift is not Healing, Elvida. Do not mourn what was never meant to be.:

Gingerly, Elvida stroked Anthea’s hair. She doubted the Herald could survive the night. She asked hopefully, :But I do have a Gift?:

:You do,: Raynor confirmed, as so many of her teachers had before him. Yet, like them, he refused to elaborate.

Elvida repeated the familiar line, :I have to find it myself.:

:Yes.:

It seemed unfair in so many ways. Others were told as they trained and most had more than one. Now, it seemed, Elvida would die without ever knowing because her Companion was a stickler for rules at a time when such things no longer mattered.

Apparently reading her emotions, Raynor relented. :I will tell you this much. It has something to do with communication.:

Under less extreme circumstances, only that very morning, Elvida would have found the suggestion laughable. She who could not even Mindspeak had little education or talent for communication, magical or otherwise. Yet, now that the suggestion had come from the very one she had waited so long to talk to, it did not seem so absurd. :This is no time for riddles, Beloved. Our lives may depend upon this nameless Gift.:

:I gave you a hint. I won’t say anymore.:

:Why not?:

Raynor turned his head with a snort and a toss of his filthy mane.

Elvida sat back from Anthea, heaving a deep sigh. She knew better than to fight a futile battle long. Repeatedly punching a stone wall accomplished nothing more than broken fists.

:Look.: Raynor spoke with clear caution. :As I’ve mentioned, it’s customary to put a horse without a leg out of its misery, and Anthea can’t make another day without a Healer. Chosen, leave us. Do what you can to save yours—:

Elvida refused to allow the stallion to finish. :People kill horses because the animals don’t understand the necessary treatment and usually wind up hurting themselves worse. You’re not a horse. You’re a sentient being, capable of deep thought and understanding.: She dropped the senseless argument, dismissing Raynor’s words as an attempt at heroism. Though only trying to save her, the Companion’s words were nonsense. Elvida could never leave him to suffer alone; and, if he died, she surely would also. Besides, his value to the Queen far exceeded hers—and he knew it. :I’m going to look for another way out of here. You let me know if anyone—:

:Don’t waste your time.:

Elvida rose, scarcely daring to believe she had heard correctly. :What?:

:It’s the job of Heralds to detail every part of the world. I know of this cave—a Waystation once. It has a stream and a back exit . . .:

Elvida’s hopes soared, only to be dashed by the rest of Raynor’s description.

:Both cut off to anything larger than a mouse by a massive cave-in. Ahead lies our only escape and, unfortunately, our only water.:

Elvida’s lips went suddenly dry, and she licked them thoughtfully. Her crazed bout of crying would only see to it that dehydration overcame her sooner. She swallowed hard, steeling herself against the same fog of hopelessness that had earlier consumed her. Even if she never earned her Whites, she would at least learn to die bravely. She strode away from Anthea to look out over the camp of the waiting army. :So why haven’t our enemies come after us? What are they waiting for?:

Elvida did not expect a reply to her mostly rhetorical question, so Raynor’s surprised her.

:Morning. Daylight. They’re a superstitious lot and worry about monsters or spirits in the darkness.:

Elvida shook her head. :Too bad we’re not monsters.: She shivered, not bothering to add “. . . or spirits.” Soon enough, they might become exactly that. She tried to understand their enemy, as the strategists had taught. If she could get into their minds, perhaps she could find a way to outwit them. Enter the depraved world of men who attack Heralds at peace, who slaughter and cannibalize Companions. The thought stirred an anger Elvida could not quell. She would rather die than see the reason behind heinous and barbarous actions. I don’t ever want to know what stirs inside those creatures in the guise of men.

Elvida sank to her knees. She had never followed a religion, but now she bowed her head, fingers laced tightly against her chest. Gods, Lords and Ladies who sanction goodness, I beg of you now to come to our aid. I will do anything, suffer any trial if you will only rescue my friends, these humble servants of the Queen. She could feel her heart thumping against her fists. Please, anyone who’s listening. I will do whatever bidding you ask, you need only make it clear. Save Raynor and Anthea. And, if it is your will, save me as well.

For several moments Elvida remained in this position, waiting for an answer, some sign to indicate any deity had heard her prayer. Insects hummed a steady chorus. The dull rumble of conversation, occasionally pierced by laughter and shouts, came from the enemies’ camp. No other sounds reached her, not even the light breathing of herself and her injured friends. It seemed the gods took no interest in their plight.

Not that Elvida expected otherwise. She had known many people who extolled some god or goddess in every other sentence. These faithful believed that everything that went right in the lives of humanity was the work of whichever deity they personally worshipped. Any tragedy or mistake, they blamed on human infallibility. This, they felt, justified their beliefs in a mindless circle that defied Elvida’s understanding. It had always seemed to her a certain path to self-deprecation and loathing; yet, she realized, she had felt equally low only moments earlier, without the help of any religious teaching or faith.

It’s up to me and me alone to get us out of this situation. Elvida took a deep breath, unfolding her hands, her determination set. :Raynor, I don’t know much about Mind-speech, but I’m going to try to shout with all the power I can muster. With you being so close and all, I hope it doesn’t hurt you?: It was a question as much as information. Dismissed as incapable, she had never learned the conventions or details of the art.

:It won’t hurt me,: Raynor assured with a mental smile. :And I think it’s a great idea.:

Encouraged, Elvida clambered off her knees to sit firmly on her bottom. She lowered her head and breathed slowly and deeply, eyes closed, mind open and focused. She put every bit of mustered strength into her call, physical as well as thought, sending a message of need to anyone who might hear. It was, at once, a communication of desperation, filled with begging and demand, with need and hope. She called to anyone capable of listening: be they Heralds or Bards, Mages or Healers, apprentice or not-yet-discovered. With every fiber of her being, she prepared them for an army of brutal enemies and drew them toward the cave.

Elvida had no idea how long she sat in her chosen position, her eyes tightly closed and her mind outreaching. It seemed like hours before Raynor intruded with a thought that, in comparison, seemed a breathless whisper, :Little Sister, look.:

Elvida opened her eyes. Moonlight trickled through the cave mouth, and stars studded the sky. Then, from the depths of the gloom, she saw a vast sea of brilliant white horses, Companions, their eyes burning like angry sapphires, their hooves churning the brush into flying bits of torn stems. Astride sat Heralds of every description, their Whites as spectacular as their steeds, their weapons drawn and gleaming. Elvida gasped, staring in wonder as this massive force of Heralds descended upon the suddenly hushed camp of their enemy. She scrambled to her feet to watch in quiet awe.

:You did it, Elvida. You did it!:

:I did it?: Elvida had not known so many Heralds existed in the world, even throughout the entire history of Valdemar. Yet, they marched in formation before her very eyes, in a grim silence, prepared for a confrontation with an enemy no longer dealing only with three girls and their mounts, most already dead or badly hurt.

Screams rose from the enemy camp, filled with unholy terror. She watched them flee like frightened children, not bothering to grab their belongings, some half-naked in the growing chill. They left their fires blazing and their packs unclaimed, even the supply cart they had captured from the Heralds. They abandoned meals partially eaten in the dirt, their tents lopsided and incompletely pitched, racing without clear destination or reason in all-encompassing terror.

Something’s wrong. This can’t be happening.

Raynor’s mind-voice cut through Elvida’s doubt. :Steady, Chosen One. Steady.:

Elvida did not know what her Companion meant, but his interference knocked her thoughts askew. She continued to stare at the mass of Heralds as they streaked doggedly through the camp and chased their enemies far beyond her sight. They did it. We’re saved. Only then, she addressed Raynor directly. :What exactly am I steadying?:

Elvida received no answer. Afraid unconsciousness had claimed Raynor, she whirled toward the Companion to find him staring back at her, his pale eyes moist with a mixture of pain and joy. :You did it!:

:I did it,: Elvida agreed, finally allowing herself to feel a tinge of relief and happiness, despite the trials that still awaited her. :I reached—: Reality finally intruded. :I reached what? How can this be? How could I draw in more Heralds than actually exist? How could they all have arrived so quickly, all at the precise same time. How . . . ?: Elvida shook off the haze of doubts and questions. :It’s impossible.:

:Impossible,: Raynor echoed. :Is precisely what it is.: Elvida jerked her attention back outside the cave. The camp remained as she had last seen it: abandoned in clear haste and wild disarray. She saw no sign of the Herald army, not even a hoof print to prove they had ever existed. :What . . . what happened? I don’t understand.:

:Your Gift.: Raynor raised his head, looking better than he had at any time since their arrival in the cave. Though battered and broken, he radiated hope.

:Communication. The ability to communicate pictures into the minds of others.:

“Illusion?” The word was startled from Elvida. She returned to Mindspeech. :You mean that band of Heralds, that massive army was nothing but—:

:A creation of your mind, yes. A glorious, amazing creation of your great mind, Beloved.:

Elvida continued to survey the ruined camp, knowing exactly what she must do next. She would have to reclaim the cart and drag her friends into it. She would then have to haul it to civilization. A lot of hard work remained, yet it all seemed so simple after the tragic events of that evening. :But why wouldn’t anyone tell me? Why did you risk our dying without my ever knowing?:

:Because, Chosen One, doubt is the enemy of illusion. For it to work, it must be believed.:

Elvida still did not understand.

:Until today, you were ruled by your doubts. They would have foiled any attempt you made to use your Gift, just as they had your Mindspeech.:

Elvida considered, still grasping for comprehension. :You mean, for any illusion to work, I have to believe it, too?:

:Yes.:

Elvida sighed. It seemed her first great use of her Gift would also be her last.

Apparently reading her emotions, Raynor continued. :Your teachers will train you to properly blank your mind. You will learn, but your first illusion had to come spontaneously.:

Elvida shook her head. She still did not wholly get it. :Why?:

:Because, until you performed the first one, you would always doubt your ability. So long as you doubted, you would fail or, at best, succeed only weakly. You would never have learned the amazing power of your Gift.: He shook his mane impatiently. :Little Sister, you are very strongly Gifted.:

Elvida sank back to the stony ground. Her rubbery legs would no longer hold her. :Please tell me last night was also illusion.:

:I wish I could, Beloved. I wish I could.:

As so many times before, Elvida marveled at the wonder that was Raynor. Even through the emotional agony of the battle, even through his own physical pain, he had kept the secret of her power, knowing they all might take it to their graves. To do otherwise would have prevented the great miracle of the ghostly Herald army. :Thank you,: she sent, along with the awe of the universe.

:For what?:

Elvida did not bother to answer. She slid from the mouth of the cave and headed toward the camp. She still had friends to rescue. And no force in the world: no magic, no army, no doubt was going to stop her.

DARKWALL’S LADY

by Judith Tarr

Judith Tarr is the author of a number of historical and fantasy novels and stories. Her most recent novels include

Pride of Kings

and

Tides of Darkness,

as well as the “Epona Sequence”:

Lady of Horses, White Mare’s Daughter,

and

Daughter of Lir

. She was a World Fantasy Award nominee for

Lord of the Two Lands

. She lives near Tucson, Arizona, where she breeds and trains Lipizzan horses.

LONG ago, after the magic went out of Valdemar but long before it came back again, the Lord of Forgotten Keep had a daughter. He was old and his Lady had thought herself past childbearing; his son was a man full grown and his elder daughter had children of her own. They were already eyeing their inheritance and reckoning the days until it came to them.

And yet in the twilight of their years, the Lady Beatrice found herself waking ill in the mornings. The Healer confirmed her wild surmise: she was, indeed, with child. In spite of her age and the Healer’s concern, the pregnancy proceeded as it should, and all was well.

Word of the Lady’s miracle spread through the region. One day, three months before the child was due to be born, a guest came to the Keep.

The Lady of Darkwall Keep had last visited Forgotten Keep when Lord Bertrand’s daughter was married, five years before. She was not a great traveler and visitor of her neighbors; she lived alone in her isolated Keep, high over a dark river that ran through a deep and fertile valley, and ruled a domain of farmers and river traders.

Her hosts were somewhat surprised by the visit, but they were hospitable people and she was a not-too-distant neighbor. They received her with courtesy. She responded in kind, with manners that could not be faulted.

The Lord was charmed. The Lady was not, but her moods had been strange of late. Even she was reluctant to trust them.

Darkwall’s Lady was an easy enough guest. She professed herself content to rest in her rooms until midmorning, take a turn around the Lady’s garden until noon, then join the Lady and her women in their bower until the day’s meal was served. Her conversation was light and pleasant, like the face she presented to her hosts.

On the third day, at last, she came to the point of her visit. She did so in the afternoon while the rest of the ladies plied their needlework and listened to their Lady’s page, who had a sweet voice and a singer’s gift. Her long white hands were folded and her expression was serene. She leaned toward Lady Beatrice and said, “I have a favor to ask—and favors to offer in return.”

Lady Beatrice was tired and uncomfortable and her temper was not at its best. Still, she managed to raise her brows and say reasonably, “Perhaps you should speak to my Lord.”

Her guest smiled with a touch of indulgence. “Oh, I shall, of course. But you and I know, Lady, that though a Lord claims to rule, his Lady holds the reins.”

“In your Keep, that may be true,” Lady Beatrice said coolly. Still, she was curious. “What favor can Forgotten Keep do for Darkwall?”

Darkwall’s Lady bent her head. Her smile had warmed considerably. It was almost enough to allay Lady Beatrice’s misgivings. “You know of course that I have no Lord, and therefore no heir. I have to come ask if you would consider an exchange: gifts and favors in return for your child.”

Lady Beatrice’s hand rose protectively over the swell of her belly. Her face hardened. “My child is not for sale.”

“Oh, no,” Darkwall’s Lady said quickly. “We’re no merchants, to buy and sell our own children. But we are highborn, and our best currency is the inheritance we leave our heirs. Your son will inherit the Keep. Your daughter is Lady of Mourne Fell. What is left for this gift of the gods? A boy may make his fortune as he can. A girl may be traded in marriage. Is either prospect more tempting than the lordship of Darkwall when I am gone?”

It was indeed very tempting. But Lady Beatrice was not a gullible woman, nor was she particularly softhearted. “That’s all very well for the child. What do you offer us in return?”

“A percentage of the river trade,” the Lady answered without hesitation, “to begin as this agreement is concluded and to continue unless or until your child chooses to end it. A promise of military aid for the same term, when and as needed. And, as earnest for the rest, a chest of gold in the amount proper for a Lady’s dowry—for it will be a Lady, my heart tells me, though I would hardly look amiss at a Lord.”

Lady Beatrice knew as mothers might, cherishing the knowledge that she carried a daughter. She eyed the Lady warily. “It’s a most tempting offer,” she said, “but my Lord must decide whether to accept or refuse.”

“Of course,” said the Lady with all apparent willingness. Then she smiled and beckoned to the page and asked for a new song—a joyful one, she said, in honor of the hour.

The Lord’s misgivings were no less than his wife’s, but he was neither as wealthy nor as well defended as he would have liked to be. It was also in his mind that if this last and unexpected child was a daughter, she would serve her family exceedingly well as Lady of Darkwall. And if it was a son, well then, all the better that he should have a Keep of his own and blood ties to Forgotten Keep.

And so they made the bargain. Darkwall’s Lady would have claimed the child when she was born, but Lady Beatrice would not hear of it. “We will raise our own daughter,” she said, “and teach her everything that you would wish her to know. Send tutors if you wish, but she will be fostered here. When she reaches the age of womanhood, then she may go.”

Lord Bertrand opened his mouth to upbraid her, but Darkwall’s Lady astonished him by inclining her head. “As you wish,” she said. “I shall send a nurse for her, and tutors when she reaches a suitable age.”

Lady Beatrice could hardly find fault with that. She bent her head in return.

The alliance was made and the agreement concluded, and it was settled. The Lord’s youngest child, with three months yet to go until she saw the world, was assured of a lordship and a future.

Lady Beatrice kept her misgivings to herself. She only spoke of them once, six years later, as she was dying. She summoned her daughter to her bedside and said, “Don’t ask what this means. Only remember it, word for word. Walk warily. Trust no one. Always keep your counsel, and remember everything that you see. We sold you for gold and soldiers, and we will keep that bargain—but you can make a new one of your own. Remember.” That last word came out as a sigh. “Never forget.”

“I’ll remember,” the child said.

Not long after that, Lady Beatrice died. But the bargain still held. The child, whom Lady Beatrice had named Merris, continued to live in her father’s Keep. Tutors from Darkwall came to teach her, and the Lady herself appeared once each year on Merris’ birthday, to celebrate it with her and to see how she had been growing.