Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

When he arrived, Corry threw his arms around Rexla and began plastering the Companion with kisses. The stallion stomped his feet and tossed back his head, mane flying.

“Ooops, sorry,” Corry said in mock apology. “Wrong one.” With dexterous ease, he switched from his mount to Mola, hugging her with the same warmth and exuberance.

It was all Mola could do to keep her balance as Corry planted a welcoming kiss directly on her lips.

Mola found herself incapable of breathing. Though chapped, his lips felt spongy, delightful. She wanted nothing more than to suck his tongue into her mouth, to wind herself around him, to become lost in his embrace. But she was only a servant, and he was so much more.

“Sleep with me,” Corry said.

Mola disengaged and slapped him. “Stop teasing me, you lizard. I’m in no mood for games.”

Corry rubbed his face, becoming appropriately somber. “I understand. I shouldn’t joke around while Charlin . . .”

Reminded of the cause of her anxiety, Mola felt tears forming in eyes too sore to hold any more.

Cursing himself under his breath, Corry took Mola into his arms again, this time more gently. “I’m sorry, Mo. So sorry. But Charlin is so very old, and the Healers can’t do anything more.”

Alerted by the change in mood, or by some mind-magic from Corry, Rexla returned to grazing. Corry led Mola to a grassy hill, where he pushed her down, then sat beside her. “Mola, life goes on. They’re not going to send you away just because your—”

Mola stiffened. She had not even considered that possibility. “You mean they might send me away?”

Corry cringed, obviously realizing he had worsened, rather than soothed, her distress. Again. “No, no. Of course not. There are plenty of jobs, and no one would consider such a thing.”

You just did. Mola did not speak the words aloud. Corry felt bad enough without her aggravating his guilt and discomfort. “Corry, do you think it’s possible that the healers missed something? That there’s an herb or plant or magic out there somewhere that might save Herald Charlin?”

Corry studied her in silence for a moment.

Mola stared back. “Corry, don’t try to figure out what I want to hear. Just speak the truth.”

Corry cleared his throat. “Well. Mola.” So far, he had done nothing but delay. “I’m an open-minded man. I’m taught to believe anything is possible. Such a thing might exist.”

Mola hung on every word.

Corry stopped talking.

Mola dodged his gaze. “Would you be willing to look?”

“Mola ...” Corry started.

Mola could tell by his tone that he was going to say something she did not want to hear. “I mean, if you had reason to believe such a thing existed. And someone told you where to find it.”

Corry squeezed his eyes shut. “Mola, our Healers are some of the best and as well-trained as Healers come. I trust them.”

“But if you had reason to believe,” Mola insisted.

Corry turned and took both of her hands in his. “Mola, if a trusted, magical source told me where to find a cure for Charlin, I’d ride to the ends of the world for it. But, Mola, there is no cure for old age. Some few mages have managed to greatly extend their lives; but, ultimately, time catches up even to them.”

Mola could deal in hypotheticals no longer. “I’ve been having this dream. Every night for four nights now. There’s a healing clover growing on the mountainside. That one there.” She pointed southward toward the nearest of the few scattered peaks in the distance. “It’s barely a few hours’ travel by Companion. Couldn’t you, at least, check for me?”

Corry’s lids glided shut again, and he gritted his teeth. “I’m sorry, Mola. I have a mission that starts just after midday meal, and I’m not sure how long it will take.”

The tears dripped from Mola’s eyes, down her cheeks.

“Mola, please. If it’s that important, I can get a horse for you.” Corry opened his eyes, saw the tears, and cringed.

Mola freed her hand to wipe them away fiercely. “I can’t climb mountains. I’m not Gifted. I’m not even trained to use a simple weapon. How could I possibly go on such a trip alone?”

A light flashed through Corry’s eyes, then disappeared. “Mola, there’s a reason these dreams are coming to you, not to me. Whether that reason is only your concern for your mistress, or if it is something more, it’s still your challenge and you must face it however you choose.” He unfastened a knife and its sheath, from his belt. “Keep this for me while I’m gone, and use it as you see fit. If you wish, I’ll have a horse ready for you at the stable, as well as a pouch of provisions.” Glancing toward the rising sun, he sighed. “I have to go now. What you do is up to you, and no one could fault you for dismissing a dream ... or for following it.”

Corry leapt to his feet, saluted a good-bye, and headed to ready Rexla.

A damp breeze stirred Mola’s hair, and she reveled in the motion of the sturdy little chestnut mare Corry had chosen for her. She patted the knife at her belt, then the sack of provisions tied securely behind the saddle. Her mission should not take long. With any luck, she would return by bedtime.

As the few scattered mountains drew tantalizingly near, the footing became less certain. The mare snorted frequently, and its pace slowed to a crawl. It lifted its hooves unnaturally high to clear the mud that sucked at its fetlocks. Finally, it stopped completely, twisting its head toward home and nickering uneasily at the swampy ground.

Mola dismounted. “It’s all right, girl. You don’t have to go any farther.” She untied her pack from the saddle, rolling up the twine and placing it in her pocket. Barely a cloud marred the sky, and the afternoon sun warmed the air pleasantly. It would take less than half an hour to reach the cliffs on foot, even slogging through the swamp at its base. “Wait here for me.” She did not know if the horse would understand or obey. The Heralds did not have to worry about such things; their Companions grasped everything they said, whether aloud or in Mindspeech.

Mola considered tying the reins to a branch of one of the scraggly trees at the edge of the swamp, but discarded the thought. If something happened to her, the horse would starve. And, if it spooked, it might break its neck or leg. It seemed better to risk the hike home than the horse’s life. Sighing, she removed the headstall and tied it to the saddle. To her relief, the horse did not run but settled into quiet grazing.

Mola took a forward step, the muck sucking noisily at her boots. She frowned, studying the trees again until she found a suitable, sturdy branch. Using a combination of the knife’s blade and her own strength, she broke free a thick limb a bit longer than a tall man. Using that, she poked ahead of herself, gauging the thickness of water and mud before plunging forward.

The stick did its job, warning Mola of sinkholes and helping maintain balance as she wandered deeper into the swamp. The water rose above her feet, then her calves, and, finally, above the top of her boots. Brackish water soaked her feet, reeking of plant material and dead things. Mola crinkled her nose and continued walking, her attention fixed always ahead, always on the mountain.

Mola ran the details of the dream through her mind as she walked. It always started the same, a strange and masculine voice narrating the scenes: “Come, Mola, come. You can find it.” It guided her through the swamp to the foot of the mountain, then up a craggy path to a ledge, where a five-leafed variety of pink clover grew. “Pick them, as much as you can carry. They will make the Herald strong.”

The tone never changed, nor the words. The scene that unraveled in the dream looked eerily similar to what lay precisely before her now: the sunlit swamp, the close gray stone of the mountain. Mola could not help smiling. Filled with sudden excitement, she took a few skipping steps through the muck.

They saved her. The surprise attack meant to end her life became a missed strike. An enormous shape hurtled past Mola, slamming her with a broad shoulder and knocking her into the filth. Huge, reptilian jaws closed on a rock instead of a woman.

Swamp drake. Mola screamed and tried to run. But the water hampered her movements, and the mud slowed her to an awkward stumble. Don’t panic. Mola tried to avert her eyes. She knew from the tales of the Heralds that drakes had hypnotic abilities, that catching its glance directly would result in her death. I need a weapon. Survival instinct and common sense would not allow her to leap bodily upon the thing. A long weapon.

Mola dared not stare at the drake, but she kept the edge of her vision and her ears upon it. For the moment, it was more worried about shoving the stone from its mouth than catching her, but she had no illusions. The moment it freed its jaws, it would come after her again.

Mola juggled the twine from her pocket, and Corry’s knife. As quickly as she could, she tied the hilt onto the branch, creating a crude spear.

By the time Mola finished, the swamp drake charged her again. Though lumbering and slow, it had the great advantage of bulk. Massive and deadly, it opened its jaws wide, displaying rows of dagger-like teeth. It had lost the ambush but had not yet given up on its prey.

Mola screamed again. Shutting her eyes tightly, she shoved the spear toward the creature’s wide-open mouth. The impact of its attack hurled her to the ground, still clutching the branch in desperate, white-knuckled fingers. The drake’s massive body flopped on top of her, grinding her into the muck and water. She managed to choke down a breath of mostly air before becoming pinned, underwater, beneath it.

No! No! For the second time in a matter of moments, Mola fought panic. The swamp drake had gone still, apparently dead; its own momentum driving the spear deep. Smashed into the muck beneath the water, Mola struggled to wriggle loose. The drake’s body did not budge.

Mola opened her eyes, only to have them stung closed by silt and blood. The world around her had turned scarlet, soft, and utterly wet. Her head started to ache, and her lungs spasmed in her chest. She had only one last chance to free herself before she drowned, murdered by the very corpse she had created. Charlin needs me. I’m not going to die here!

Driven by new purpose, Mola writhed and shoved, braced and pushed to no avail. She felt her muscles weakening, the agony in her lungs growing unbearable. Seeking bearings, she buried her hand into the muck. Soft. She tossed aside a handful, churning up the water into wild bubbles. Heading down when air was up defied survival instinct, but Mola forced herself to dig. Seizing and kneading, grinding down the muck beneath her, she created just enough extra space to squeeze out.

Mola could not wait until she fully reached the surface before gasping in a lungful of air and mud, blood and water. The combination choked her. She coughed violently, wheezing in air at the end of each paroxysm. She vomited forcefully, repeatedly. Gotta move. Might be more of these things. Eyes watering, lashes filled with silt, she grabbed the end of the branch, trying to wrench it free of the sunken corpse. It resisted.

Mola’s head felt ready to explode, and she continued to cough as she worked, twisting and pulling until blood boiled into the water and the branch finally slid free. The knife remained attached, to her relief. As she ran as quickly as the swamp allowed, she realized the provision bag still thumped against her shoulder. She had forgotten about it in the struggle and could not help wondering if slipping it off might have allowed her to free herself faster and easier. A Herald would have thought of that.

Mola had never seen a mountain up close before, and it surprised her. She had expected a tower of pure rock. The Heralds’ tales always involved vertical crags with dodgy handholds and boulders crashing down upon them. Instead, she found a gentle, upward slope as grassy as a pasture and interspersed with trees. Mola climbed mindlessly, swiftly, her only thought to leave the swamp far behind. At length, exhaustion seized her; and she dropped to the ground to rest.

The grass felt warm and comforting beneath her, cushioning the many aches that descended upon her as fear and excitement ebbed. Mola felt bruised and achy in every part, but no one pain stood out from the others. Overtaxed muscles, pulls, and tears seemed the worst of it. Though covered in sticky drake blood, she did not appear to have shed any of her own. She stank of drying innards and swamp slime.

Mola opened the supplies Corry had had packed for her, thrilled to find clean, dry clothing as well as food. It seemed foolish to change now, when she had to wallow back through the swamp, but she needed the comfort. Quickly, she stripped down and replaced her grimy clothes. The soft, clean fabric felt wonderful, buoying her mood as well, and confidence swelled through her like second wind. I survived a swamp drake! The thought filled her with pride. I survived an attack—and it didn’t. That same morning, she would not have considered herself capable of such a feat. Charlin will be so proud.

Thoughts of her mistress brought Mola crashing back to reality. Charlin would never know about her success if she did not hurry and find those healing clovers. Maybe it’s not a fool’s mission. Maybe my dream meant something. Maybe I really can make my Herald strong again.

Grinning, Mola balled up the ruined clothes and shoved them into the pack. She would have rather burned them; but, without their corroborating filth and stench, she doubted anyone would believe her. With a lot of effort, she had managed to clean equally disgusting stains from the effects of her mistress in the past.

Mola looked up. The sun no longer glared down at her, partially blocked by the rocky peaks. The way had grown steeper, stonier; and she could see the crags not far above her, the ones from her dream. If she squinted, she believed she could even see greenery dotted with bits of pink. Using the makeshift spear as a walking stick, tossing the pack back over her shoulder, Mola started up the more sharply rising slope.

Mola had only taken a few steps when she noticed a dark figure towering above her on the path ahead. For a moment, she mistook it for an enormous man in a fur coat. Then, it opened its mouth in a growling roar, and she realized she faced a large and angry-looking bear.

Mola went completely still, afraid to move. A scream bubbled up in her throat, but she forced herself to swallow it. Loud noises infuriate bears. She could not remember where she had heard that, but it did not seem worth challenging. Unable to move, she dredged up other lore: Playing dead doesn’t work, bears can climb trees, they won’t bother you if you don’t bother them, bears can’t run downhill.

That last bit of advice seemed useful in a way the others did not. Spinning on her heels, Mola broke into a terrified run, back the way she had come.

Behind her, Mola heard the creature roar again, then the slam and rattle of heavy paws behind her. It can’t run. It can’t run downhill. The advice cycled through her head in a desperate chant. Yet, to her ears, the bear was moving. And swiftly. She dared a look behind her. Not only was the bear running downhill, but it was clearly gaining on her. In a moment, it would have her.

The scream Mola had suppressed tumbled out, unbidden. Another followed. And another. Not knowing what else to do, she ducked her head and came to an abrupt stop.

The bear launched itself, landing where Mola would have been if she had still been running. Thrown off-balance, the bear lost its footing, stumbled, slid partially down the hill, then tumbled a few steps further. Mola tensed to run back up, cursing whoever had assured her that bears could not run downhill. If she survived this, she would do whatever it took to counteract that myth. And punch that person in the lying face.

Before Mola could take a step, the bear gathered its paws back under it. Running now, Mola realized, only made her a target. Gathering her courage, she jabbed the makeshift spear toward the animal.

The bear reared back up. As the spear rushed toward it, it slammed a massive forepaw against the pole. The branch shattered. The biggest pieces flew in opposite directions, rattling down toward the mountain’s base. Bits of wood showered Mola.

“Demons!” Disarmed, Mola stood, rooted in panic, as the bear ambled toward her. She could read murder in its dark eyes, smell the fetid odor of its breath, see the teeth and claws that would maul her from existence.

:Move!: The voice in Mola’s head was not her own, but it mobilized her just the same. Shrugging the pack from her shoulder, she grasped it by the strap and swung it at the bear.

The pack slammed the beast in the face.

Roaring, the bear caught the pack in its teeth. Its nose twitched. The pack crashed to the ground, and the deadly claws ripped into it instead of Mola.

Move! This time, Mola chastised herself. Her supplies would not distract it long. Whirling, she tore back up the mountainside, desperately seeking the rockiest cliffs. Grass turned to stone beneath her feet, and she staggered up onto a crag.

Not as far away as she had hoped, the bear ripped through the remains of her pack, then raised its head. Nostrils twitching, head swiveling, it finally found her and loped effortlessly toward her.

Mola leapt from her perch to a higher crag, then another. She hunkered down, gaze never leaving the animal, hands mindlessly raking stones and small boulders into a pile around her.

Shuffling directly beneath Mola, the bear rose on its hind legs to stare at her.

Heart pounding, Mola found herself now more angry than frightened. How dare it want to kill me. I’m no helpless rabbit to be eaten on a whim. Grabbing a large stone, she hurled it at the bear.

The rock hit the bear squarely on the cheek. Enraged, it rose taller, roared louder. Took a menacing step toward her.

Mola threw another rock, and another, pelting it with anything she could get her hands around. “Go away!” she yelled. “Leave me alone, you stupid, smelly beast!”

The pain only infuriated it more. Its roars echoed. Its ears pinned tightly to its head. It roiled the air with maddened swipes of its massive paws.

Struggling with a boulder, Mola drew together all the strength she could muster and, with the help of her higher position, sent the rock crashing into the bear’s chest. It hit with a loud thud, driving the creature backward and to its haunches.

That proved enough. The bear whirled and fled, seeking less dangerous prey.

Mola sank to the crag, out of both ammunition and energy. She did not know how long she lay there, but the sky had greatly darkened by the time she opened her eyes, as the sun slipped behind the mountain. Weeds tickled her nose, green and leafy, filled with pink flowers. Pink flowers. Mola sat up. Pink flowers? She started to laugh. She lay in a patch of five-leafed clovers. I found them! Thank the gods, I found them.

Mola seized the clovers by the handful and shoved them into her pockets until they bulged. Only then she rose, and nearly tumbled from the crag. Her legs had gone as shaky as slender twigs in a wind storm. It took her inordinately long to clamber down from the rocky ledge. But, once there, she dropped to the ground and rolled like a child down the grassy mountainside.

My dream was real! I found the clover! None of the pains in Mola’s body, nothing she had suffered, could take away the joy of that moment. She still had a slog back through a swamp that might contain another drake. She might not find her mount waiting when she returned, and she would have to drag her weary, painful bones all the way home. Yet, none of that mattered. She had survived a drake and a bear. She would make it home. She would save Charlin and prove that she had some worth, even without the Gifts of the Heralds and Healers.

Mola slammed into something hard and stable that brought her to an abrupt halt. She lay for a moment in utter uncertainty, hoping for a rock, worried for another bear. Dizzily, she focused on the unwavering thing that had blocked her path. Two blurry white pillars stood in front of her.

Pillars? I’m inside. Tears welled in Mola’s eyes. It was all a dream? Just a big, fat, stupid dream? Disappointment flooded through her, erasing the happiness that nothing else had managed to dispel. Yet, the grass remained green beneath her. The terrible odor of swamp still filled her nostrils. Her pockets protruded. She looked up the long, white pillars to a sweet pink nose and two blue eyes studying her curiously. Mola was still on the mountain, at the feet of a Companion.

“Rexla?” Mola tried, hoping Corry had changed his mind and come to rescue her.

The horse-like creature lowered its head to whuffle into Mola’s face.

Though the Companions all resembled one another, with their white coats, silvery hooves, and enormous blue eyes, years of helping in the stable allowed Mola to notice their differences as easily as a mother distinguishes her identical twins. She sat up, waiting for the vertigo to disperse. Now, she recognized the creature in front of her. It was Melahar, Elborik’s colt, who had not yet Chosen.

“I’m sorry, Melahar. Forgive me, I was dizzy from rolling. And I just fought a—” Mola crinkled her eyes in confusion. “What are you doing here, Melahar?” She did not expect an answer. Companions could not directly communicate with those not Gifted.

:I’ve come to Choose.:

“Oh.” Mola looked around, trying to find the Herald lucky enough to bond with Elborik’s son. She had not seen another human on the cliffs.

:Don’t be stupid, Mola. I Choose you.:

:Me? You Choose me?: Only then it occurred to Mola that she had used Mind-hearing, Mindspeech.

:The clover made the Herald stronger!:

Mola pulled a handful from her pocket and looked at the drooping plants. “But I haven’t even delivered it yet.” The significance of the words penetrated deeper. “Charlin is better? She’s better?”

Melahar reached down and gently ate the clover off of Mola’s palm: :No, Mola. I’m afraid Charlin’s dead.:

A boulder hurled at Mola’s chest could not have hit her harder. :But ... how can that be? You said the clover made the Herald stronger.:

:And it did, my Herald. It made you stronger.: Melahar nosed through Mola’s pocket for more clover. :Your mind channels were just open enough for me to send you the dreams. It took this journey to fully activate them.:

Absently, Mola pulled out a huge batch of clover for her Companion and reveled in the soft touch of Melahar’s nose against her hand. My Companion. I have a Companion. She threw her arms around the delicately arched white neck, spilling the clover to the ground. Joy beyond what she had ever known surged through Mola and, with it, an incredible sense of responsibility. :Melahar, can you help me find Corry’s knife? I need to return it.:

Melahar whinnied. :He said not to worry about it.:

:He said ... You mean he was ... in on it?:

:They all were. I had to spread the word. Otherwise, you might have talked one of them into going instead of you.:

Mola flushed scarlet. She had tried to do exactly that.

:Corry would have done it. He’s sweet on you, you know.:

The warmth spread from Mola’s cheeks to the roots of her hair. Now that she had her own Companion, a relationship with him became a real possibility.

:And then the journey would not have made the right Herald stronger.:

:Me.:

:Yes.:

:I’m a Herald.: To Mola, the words seemed more like random sounds. Such a thing could not be true.

:You will be once you finish your training. I had to take a bit of poetic license.:

:And the clover. Does it really have healing properties?:

A wicked sense of excitement wafted from Melahar. :It heals my cravings. I love that clover.: He lowered his head to pick up the bits Mola had dropped. :Hop on, soon-to-be Herald Mola. I sent your other mount home.:

Mola did not need a second invitation. She scrambled onto Melahar’s back, feeling like the tallest person in the world. “Home, trusty mount!”

Melahar raised his head proudly. :There’s not a bear, nor a swamp drake, that could stop us.:

The Cheat

by Richard Lee Byers

Richard Lee Byers is the author of over thirty fantasy and horror novels, including

Unclean

,

Undead

,

Unholy

,

The Rage

,

The Rite

,

The Ruin

, and

Dissolution

. A resident of the Tampa Bay area, the setting for much of his horror fiction, he spends a good deal of his leisure time fencing and playing poker. Visit his Web site at

richardleebyers.com

.

Falnac was nervous. I could tell by the way he kept swallowing.

I put my hand on the lad’s shoulder. “Use what we practiced,” I said. “Leap into the distance, feint to the groin, and finish on the outside.”

“Yes, Master Selden,” he whispered.

“And if the two of you wind up close together, stay there and stab like a madman. Alsagad’s taller than you. Close quarters will make him awkward.”

I could have said more, but a swordsman about to fight for his life can only retain so much advice. Indeed, given that this was Falnac’s first duel, it was an open question whether he’d remember anything I’d just told him, or anything from his six years of lessons, either.

When they deemed the light sufficient, the seconds called the duelists to a patch of ground where there were no tombstones to trip them up. As they advanced, Dromis caught my eye. He was Alsagad’s fencing master as I was Falnac’s, and the protocol of dueling required that we treat one another with stately courtesy. Instead, the big man with the curling mustachios, pointed beard, and hair all dyed a brassy, unnatural yellow gave me a sneer, as if to assert that my teaching and my student were so inferior to his that Alsagad’s victory was assured.

For a heartbeat, it made me want to see Alsagad stretched out dead on the dewy grass, and then I felt ashamed of myself. Like many quarrels, this one had materialized over a trifle, and any decent man would hope to see it settled by, at worst, a trifling wound.

The seconds gave the principals the chance to speak words of reconciliation, and of course, being proud young blades of Mornedealth, they didn’t. So Alsagad’s second whipped a white kerchief through the air. That was the signal to begin.

The duelists circled one another while waking birds chirped, a cool breeze blew, and dawn stained the river on the far side of the graveyard red. Then Falnac sprang forward.

His blade leaped at Alsagad’s crotch in as convincing a feint as I’d ever seen. But the move didn’t draw the parry it was meant to elicit. Instead, Alsagad simply cut into Falnac’s wrist. My student’s blade fell from his hand.

The seconds opened their mouths to shout for a halt, but they were too slow. Alsagad slashed Falnac’s neck.

Falnac collapsed with blood spurting from the new and fatal wound. Dromis crowed and shook his fist in the air. “Yes!” he bellowed. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

“That murdering little whoreson,” I said. I reached to refill my cup and knocked the wine bottle over.

Marissa’s scarred, long-fingered hand caught it before it could spill. The close-cropped hair framing her heart-shaped face was inky black in the dim candle-light of the tavern. “You’re drunk,” she said.

“It was murder!” I insisted.

“If no one had called the halt, then Alsagad was within his rights to keep fighting. And he was a boy, too, wasn’t he, no doubt as frightened and frantic as Falnac.”

“Don’t bet on it. All of Dromis’ pupils are arrogant and vicious.”

“And yours aren’t? Mine are, and thank the gods for it. Otherwise, they wouldn’t pay good coin to learn to kill.”

I shook my head. “There’s a difference, and you know it.”

“I suppose. By all accounts, Dromis himself is a ruffian, and brutish fencing masters turn out brutish swordsmen. There’s no great mystery in it.”

“The mystery lies in how they win duel after duel. If you’d seen that feint—”

“Yes, you said it was very pretty.”

“Better than pretty. Perfect. Even you would have gone for the parry. But Alsagad didn’t.”

Marissa sighed. “I admit, I’d love to find out exactly what Dromis teaches that makes his disciples so formidable. Hell, I may need to find out to go earning a living. Students have started leaving me to study with him. I imagine it’s happened to you, too.”

“Now that you mention it.” I took another swig of the tart white wine. “And maybe my students are wise to desert me, if I can’t prepare them to defend themselves.”

Marissa rested her callused fingertips on the back of my hand. “People die in duels for all sorts of reasons, including sheer bad luck. Falnac’s death is sad, but it’s no reflection on you.”

“It is if Alsagad cheated and I didn’t catch him. I’m supposed to be an expert on every aspect of dueling, including treachery and sleights.”

“Is that what you think? Dromis is helping his pupils cheat?”

“They win and win and win, don’t they, even when facing swordsmen with more experience. How else can you account for it?”

Marissa took a drink, then wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “I don’t know. It’s hard to believe that Dromis’ system is really so much better than everybody else’s. Maestros may claim to know secret invincible techniques—I’ve done it myself to drum up trade—but you and I know that’s mostly rubbish. There are only so many ways to stick a blade in another man’s carcass.

“But if Alsagad did cheat,” she continued, “I don’t see how he could have managed it except by magic, and I assume you were on guard against that.”

“Yes.” For a moment, reminded of its presence, I felt the round shape of the talisman beneath my shirt. It should have grown hot if Alsagad were carrying a beneficial enchantment on his person or sword, and cold if anyone had cast a curse on Falnac. “Still, I’m not a wizard. It’s possible someone slipped something past me.” I suddenly wanted to be sober, and took a deep breath in a futile attempt to become so. “I’m going to find out.”

“Stick your nose into Dromis’ business, you mean.”

“Yes. If he and Alsagad conspired to deny Falnac a fair fight, then they truly are murderers according to city law, and I’ll see them hang for it.”

“Thus mending our tattered reputations and drawing our strayed students back to us. I like the idea in principle, and you do have a knack for solving puzzles.”

Or at least I’d had some luck at it. Enough that, when people sought my services as a hiresword, a trade I still practiced from time to time to supplement the money I earned teaching, it was often as much for the sharpness of my eyes and wits as the keenness of my blade. “Why do you say you like it in principle?”

“Because I’m sure Dromis is at least as jealous of his secrets as any other maestro. And if his methods empower his students to kill yours, then it’s possible they would also enable him to do the same to you. So watch your back.”

I tracked down Olissimal where I should have expected to find him: in the mansion of Falnac’s kin. I had no doubt that, supported by his ivory crutches, he’d hovered over the boy’s corpse for a long time, ogling the wounds. Now, gray eyes bright, twisted, stunted leg propped on a leather footstool, he sat in a corner savoring the more rarefied nectar of everyone else’s grief.

My mouth and stomach sour from last night’s overindulgence, I felt an urge to grab him and drag him out of the room, but of course that wouldn’t do. Instead, I paid my respects to Falnac’s parents. Who didn’t reproach me, unless it was with their eyes.

Afterward, I approached Olissimal with at least a semblance of the courtesy due a scion of one of the Fifty Noble Houses. “Master Selden,” he said, the corners of his crooked mouth quirking upward, “I didn’t expect to see you here today. Come to collect for the boy’s lessons?”

I took a breath. “I came to express my sympathy and talk to you.”

“Truly?”

“If you’ll favor me with a moment of your time.”

“I suppose. It’s just that you surprise me. You are, after all, the same fellow who called me a degenerate, forbade me to observe the classes at your academy even when I offered to pay, and threatened to whip me if I ever dared watch one of your pupils fighting a duel.”

So I had. Many men who are not themselves warriors are interested in the martial disciplines, and generally that’s all right. But it had always been plain to me that Olissimal’s fascination rose from an underlying thirst to witness killing and mutilation, and while such passive cruelty was relatively harmless, it repulsed me nonetheless.

But now Dromis and his students concerned me more. “Help me,” I said, “and I’ll lift the ban. You can watch everything but the private lessons.” Those were where I passed along my own “secret” techniques, inadequate as they had begun to seem.

“How generous. What sort of help do you require?”

“Nothing difficult. I’m sure you’ve watched many of the duels Dromis’s students have fought. I want you to describe them.”

He laughed, startling the mourners and offending against the solemnity of the occasion. “Trying to figure out what makes Dromis’ protégés so deadly? Maybe you should have done that before you sent poor little Falnac out to fight one of them.”

Once again, I clamped down on my anger. “Will you do it?”

“Oh, why not? After all, there isn’t much I enjoy more than chatting about swordplay.”

To give him his due, the descriptions were clear and detailed. He was observant and understood dueling as well as a man born with a useless leg ever could. After he finished, I said, “So it’s mostly dodging, stop thrusts, and counterattacks. Aggressive responses to the other man’s attempt to score. They seldom take the initiative, give ground, or parry.”

“Exactly.”

“Damn it!” I said. “Only a truly accomplished swordsman can hope to fight that way and get away with it, and even he, only when facing an inferior opponent.”

“Yet Dromis’ pupils invariably win. Even the novices typically fell their opponents at the end of the first exchange.” He smirked as though enjoying my mystification.

“Their success aside,” I asked, “do they look like prodigies?”

“No. They display the same defects of stance, balance, guard, and what have you as other students.”

“Then ...” I groped for a sensible follow-up question. “What about when they brawl in the cockpits and brothels?” Olissimal frequented such places for the same reason he haunted the dueling grounds: he hoped to see men who could walk unaided cut one another to pieces. “Are they similarly successful?”

Olissimal frowned, his pale eyes narrowing. “Now that you mention it, it’s a strange thing. Unlike many other young blades, they rarely brawl, even though they’re as pugnacious a lot as you’ll find in the city. Whenever they give or take offense, they try to steer the dispute in the direction of a formal challenge.”

“And what happens when the other fellow insists on drawing on the spot?”

“They don’t display their accustomed superiority. Not consistently, at any rate.” He cocked his head. “Curious. What do you suppose it means?”

“I don’t know yet.” I turned and left him to play the vulture.

Clad in the nondescript garments he’d borrowed from a servant, the brim of his hat pulled down to shadow his sharp-nosed face, Tregan Keenspur smiled and looked with interest at the bustling life of the street. I realized he was enjoying walking incognito among the common herd like some eccentric prince in a ballad.

That was just as well since I needed him disguised. Dressed in his normal rich attire with lackeys in attendance, a prominent noble and wizard of House Keenspur couldn’t go anywhere and do anything without attracting attention. And I didn’t want Dromis to learn I was making a study of him.

“That’s the school up ahead,” I said. “The dark green building with the rust-colored door and shutters.”

Tregan cast about. “I need a place to work. I can’t cast spells in the middle of the lane without somebody noticing.”

“How about there?” I indicated the narrow, shaded gap between two houses. The space was a stride or two removed from the traffic, yet still afforded a view of the fencing academy.

“That should do,” the sorcerer said, so that was where we went.

I kept watch and did my best to shield Tregan’s activities from view as he whispered incantations and crooked his fingers into arcane signs. The mystical force accumulating in the air made me feel feverish and sick to my stomach. Then it discharged itself with a soft sound like the pattering of rain.

Tregan put his hand on my shoulder and shifted me aside to get a little closer to Dromis’ establishment. The wizard’s eyes now glowed with their own inner radiance, but the effect was subtle. No one could have seen it from any distance, not in the daylight, anyway.

He peered for a time, and then said, “The top floor.”

“There’s something magical there?”

“Yes.”

“Is it Dark Magic?” If so, then Dromis’ possession of it was a crime in and of itself, and my aristocratic companion was just the man to call him to account for it.

“No. I sense that the enchantment may have served a violent purpose, but it isn’t Dark as the law defines the term.”

I sighed. “Of course not. When were my problems ever solved as easily as that? What is it, then, exactly?”

“I can’t say. Not at such a distance, with at least one wall in the way. I’m sorry, Selden. We Keenspurs owe you a considerable debt, and I fear I haven’t done all that much to repay it.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” Not out loud, anyway. “At least I know more than I did before.”

“But is our discovery relevant? I still don’t see how. Dromis may possess some form of magic, but if there were no mystical energies in play when Alsagad killed Falnac, how can the one thing pertain to the other?”

“That’s what I have to find out. Now tell me: when was the last time you had a drink in an utterly sordid and disreputable tavern?”

Tregan grinned. “Not since I was a wild young troublemaker myself.”

“Then I’ll stand you one before we go back to Keenspur House.”

Later, it was my turn to don a disguise. Clad in homespun with dirt beneath my nails, I became a prosperous but unsophisticated farmer from Ruvan, dazzled by his first look at Mornedealth and eager for tales of her notorious fencing academies, duels, and blood feuds. Excited enough to buy wine, spirits, and supper for any knowledgeable local willing to regale me.

As I expected, many of Dromis’ students were willing; they were as given to spendthrift habits as the other young rakes of my acquaintance, and thus often out of funds even when their families were wealthy. And once I had them talking and—I hoped—drunk enough to be indiscreet, I steered the conversation to their maestro.

It turned out that before coming to Mornedealth, he’d been a soldier in Brendan, forced to flee after he killed a noble in a duel over a courtesan. Or a slaver in Ceejay, a bandit in Karse, or a zealot who wound up on the losing side in a religious war fought somewhere far to the south. It depended on who was telling the story, or, for all I knew, they could all have been true. It didn’t matter. There was nothing in any of them to account for his students’ extraordinary string of victories.

Nor was their description of their training any more illuminating. Dromis seemed to teach pretty much the same techniques and principles as his rivals. When a student was about to fight a duel, he worked with him intensively, but the rest of us did that, too. If he used magic to enhance the efficacy of his instruction, his pupils didn’t appear to know about it.

In the end, I decided I’d wasted both my money and my time, but I told myself it didn’t matter. I’d find a way to unmask Dromis’ perfidy eventually.

I didn’t realize I was running out of time.

The Silver Trumpet was just downstairs from my own fencing academy, and it served the best trout, perch, and crawfish dishes in Mornedealth. I ate there often, so I don’t suppose it was difficult for Dromis to find me there.

I didn’t know he’d come in until the room fell silent, and Marissa, my companion at my corner table, turned in the direction of the door. “Damn it!” she snarled.

I looked where she was looking. Sneering, Dromis was stalking toward me with half a dozen of his students and Olissimal following after. The cripple smirked.

I realized I’d made an error consulting him; I’d underestimated his capacity for holding a grudge. I’d hoped that by allowing him into my school, I could win back what passed for his good will, and in fact, he had answered my questions. But then he’d plainly hurried to Dromis to tell him I was making inquiries into his affairs.

“Get up and draw!” Marissa said. I’d explained to her how Dromis’ protégés preferred a formal duel to an impromptu fight. Accordingly, she surmised that I’d be better off in the latter, and I suspected the same.

Still, I didn’t move.

“Do it!” she urged. “Lords Pivar and Baltes are your friends! They’ll keep you out of trouble with the law!”

Possibly they would. But several of my pupils were in the room. If I drew, so would they, so too would Dromis’ followers, and the gods only knew who or how many would die in the melee that would follow.

And even if I could prevent such a fracas by commanding my students to keep their seats, I’d labored to teach them that combat was serious business, best avoided whenever possible. If I jumped up and hurled myself at Dromis like a starving wolf, seemingly without provocation, it would make a mockery of all my homilies and admonitions.

So I simply ate another bite of batter-fried perch and waited for the yellow-beard and his companions to reach my table.

Once he arrived, he didn’t waste any time. Glowering down at me, he said, “Olissimal tells me you claim I teach my duelists to cheat.”

I hadn’t, not to the cripple, not in so many words. Olissimal had figured out what I suspected for himself. Still, I saw no reason to deny it. It wouldn’t change what was about to happen. “That’s right,” I said.

Dromis’ students glared and muttered.

“Then I say you’re a liar.” Dromis pulled a daffodil-colored leather gauntlet from his belt and slapped it down on the tabletop. I picked it up and that was that.

“Marissa will act for me,” I said.

“And Olissimal for me,” Dromis replied.

Olissimal’s leer stretched wider. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Later on, it occurred to me that perhaps I should be glad Dromis had challenged me. It gave me what I wanted: a chance to avenge Falnac’s death.

For after all, I was reasonably confident of my own prowess. I’d survived three decades of warfare and duels. I’d destroyed a fire elemental and the undead warlock in the vaults under Keenspur House. It was conceivable that I could defeat Dromis, too, no matter what tricks he had in store.

But I didn’t really believe it. My instincts warned me I was in desperate trouble, and the only honorable way out was to uncover Dromis’ secret.

Of course, not everyone would agree that house-breaking was “honorable,” but given the circumstances, I was willing to make allowances.

Skulking in the same dark, narrow space where Tregan had performed his divination, I watched Dromis’ school until all the lights went out and for a candlemark thereafter. Then I tied on my mask and, hooded lantern in hand, scurried across the benighted street and around to the back of the building, where there was a secondary entrance.

I didn’t know how to pick a lock—I kept meaning to learn—but I did know how to break open a door with a crowbar. I waited until I was certain no one had heard the crunching noise it made, then crept into what proved to be a kitchen.

Shining my light only when absolutely necessary and only for an instant at a time, seeking the way to the top floor, I groped through darkness. In time, I passed bedchambers and heard the snoring buzzing from within, and I’ll admit, it crossed my mind that I could settle this whole affair by killing Dromis in his sleep. But that would have made me just as vile as he was, especially considering that, my suspicions notwithstanding, I didn’t yet have any proof that he and his pupils were cheats.

I pulled a folding staircase down from a ceiling to reach the garret. Once there, I risked letting my lantern shine continuously. As I played the beam about, it illuminated cobwebs, dusty trunks and crates, and then something more interesting.

It was a block of dark, silver-flecked stone, about the size of a horse’s head, sitting on a little table with a chair in front of it. Though I’d traveled far before settling in Mornedealth, I didn’t recognize the type of mineral, nor the style of the glyphs carved into it, either. I certainly couldn’t hazard a guess as to their meaning.

What I could tell was that the block was broken, some of the sigils marred or defaced. Either the artifact had fallen from a height, or someone had taken a hammer to it. And I could sense the power emanating from it, like a hum so faint that a man didn’t quite realize he was hearing it.

Plainly, it was the talisman whose presence Tregan had discerned, and if he were here, playing burglar along with me, perhaps he could have told me what the magic did. In his absence, I’d have to try to discover on my own.

I sat down in the chair and inspected the block at close range. It didn’t look appreciably different, nor did it react to my proximity. Warily, like a man testing the edge of a blade, I touched a fingertip to the front of it.

That one light contact was all it took. Suddenly everything vanished, including my sense of my own body. In its place there suddenly rushed a torrent of darkness that tumbled me along like a raging river. Except not exactly. But that’s as close as I can come to describing the sensation.

Terrified, I reached out—not with the hands I could no longer feel, but with sheer willpower, I think—for something other than the black rapids. It worked; abruptly, the nature of my experience changed. I could still feel the current sweeping me along, but now I was more like a man floating precariously on the surface than one drowning in the depths.

As a result, I could see. Mornedealth lay far below me, as if I were a hawk floating on the wind, while the sky arched overhead.

But the sky wasn’t behaving properly. It flickered from dark to light and back again in an instant, quick as the beat of a hummingbird’s wing.

Then the trees dropped their leaves almost as quickly. Snow blanketed the earth, then melted away. Several new houses sprang up, the frames clothing themselves in solid walls like a man pulling up his breeches.

Frightened and befuddled though I was, I had a vague idea what was happening. The dark stone had drawn my spirit from my body. That trick was common enough that even nonmagical folk like me had heard of it. What was unusual was that in the process, it had also yanked me loose from my proper position in time. Now something—perhaps simply the inexorable momentum of time—was whisking me into the future.

I was afraid that if it carried me too far, it would prove impossible to get back. I started swimming against the current, though my struggles had nothing to do with stroking arms or kicking legs. As before, it was a matter of pure resolve.

For a while, I couldn’t tell if I was making any headway. Then, for just an instant, I caught a glimpse of the room and moment from which I’d come.

Unfortunately, my body wasn’t alone anymore. Dromis was creeping up behind me with a dagger in his hand.

I struggled even harder, if that was possible, and fought the pressure until I was certain the effort had taken too long. If I managed to return to my body at all, it would be to find my life gushing from a slit throat.

But evidently a man’s sense of time doesn’t count for much when he’s already come unstuck from it as it’s commonly experienced. For suddenly I had a solid form again, and it seemed unwounded. I sensed Dromis looming just behind me.

I threw myself sideways out of the chair before he could cut me. He came after me, and, sprawled on my back, I kicked at him. I connected with his knee and knocked him staggering off balance.

That gave me time to roll to my feet and draw my sword. The trouble was that when I did, the floor seemed to pitch and I nearly fell down again. My forced jaunt into tomorrow had left me weak and dizzy. I couldn’t win a fight with a fellow fencing master in this condition.

I bolted down the folding stairs. Dromis took a moment to unsheathe his own sword, then gave chase.

Given a chance, he’d catch me, too. He wasn’t suffering from vertigo, and he was thoroughly familiar with the layout of the lightless house.

I spied a square of lesser darkness: a window on the far side of a doorway. I charged it and crashed through the laths and oiled paper.

I fell two stories and landed hard, but when I tried to stand up again, I could. I hadn’t broken anything. Apparently unwilling to trust to fool’s luck as I had, Dromis didn’t jump after me. I staggered away into the night as fast as I was able.

Luckily, the feebleness and dizziness didn’t last long. They were gone by the time Dromis came to call at my school the next morning.

As before, he appeared with several of his students tagging along, serving as bodyguards whether they realized it or not. But he consented to leave them loitering in the main training hall while he and I sat at a table in one of the alcoves along the wall. His disciples would still see it if I attempted any violence, and he likely realized I wouldn’t talk honestly about breaking into his house if anyone else was close enough to overhear.

“How’s your leg?” I asked him.

“Fine. You didn’t kick me that hard.” He took a breath. “I moved the stone. The City Guards can search my academy from top to bottom. They won’t find a thing.”

I shrugged. “Even if they did, I couldn’t prove that the thing can be used to cheat at dueling, let alone that you actually have used it that way. Even though I’m sure of it.”

He frowned. “What exactly is it that you think you know?”

“The talisman carries a man’s spirit—and his perceptions—into the future. I couldn’t control exactly where I went or what I saw. But you can, either because you know the words of command or just because you’ve practiced. Prior to a duel, you observe exactly how a student’s opponent will behave, and precisely what the pupil does to overcome those tactics. Then you drill your fencer in the proper moves, and everything works out just as you foresaw. Magic gives him an unfair advantage even though no enchantments are active on the field of honor.

“The only limitation,” I continued, “is that to guarantee victory, you have to seek revelation and provide special instruction for each individual combat. But you’ve minimized that problem by stressing to your charges that formal duels are always to be preferred over spontaneous bloodshed.”

Dromis scowled. “I truly am a fine swordsman, and a fine teacher, too.”

“If you say so.”

“But since I had an edge, why not use it? How else could I achieve preeminence quickly in a city already famous for its fencing masters? You’d have done the same thing in my place.”

I shook my head. “I’d use your stone or any other trick in war, but never in dueling. The code of the duel is an attempt to bring order and restraint to that which would otherwise be chaotic and bestial, and for that reason, decent men value it.”

He sneered. “I’ve always heard that Selden is a strong man, but you think like a weak one.”

“Let’s not debate moral philosophy. We’re not likely to reach an accord. I’m much rather hear how you came by the stone.”

“All right, why not, if you’re curious. When I was as young as those lads—” he nodded toward his students, “—a new creed arose in my homeland. Given the chance to flourish, it could have changed the world. But corrupt lords and false priests declared our prophet a demon in disguise, and hundreds of idiots believed them. An army marched on us when we were still too few to defend ourselves.”

I remembered the stories his pupils told. “Then you really did fight on the losing side in a religious war.”

He glared as if my matter-of-fact way of speaking was an insult to the exaltation and tragedy enshrined in his memory. “I survived the final battle, then returned to the temple of the prophet. The unbelievers had defaced the black stone along with everything else, but it was still a holy relic, and something about it called to me. I decided to carry it with me into exile, and when I touched it, it revealed its power to me.”

“And you’ve no doubted cheated your way through life ever since.”

“I’m tired of hearing you use that word. It’s good to know that after we meet two mornings hence, I won’t have to hear it anymore.”

“Indeed not. You won’t hear anything ever again.”

Dromis laughed. “I thought you understood, Selden. You can’t win. I’ve already watched our duel. I already know the tactics you’ll employ even if you haven’t yet decided on them yourself, and I know how I’ll defeat them and cut you down. In a very real sense, you’re already lying dead at my feet.”

I found Marissa in her armory repairing a leather-and-wire-mesh fencing helmet. As she got caught up in my story, she abandoned her task and left the protective mask to lie in pieces on the cluttered worktable before her.

“I told you we should kill Dromis before the duel,” she said. “Luckily, it’s not too late.”

“Actually, it is,” I replied. “He’s hiding behind a wall of his students, and he’ll stay there until he comes to keep our appointment.”

“In that case, go to Lords Baltes and Pivar.”

“Without proof?”

“You shouldn’t need it. They owe you. They’re your friends.”

“They’re also committed to governing Mornedealth in a less arbitrary manner than their predecessors, and that’s a good thing. I won’t ask them to set aside their own rules of law just to save my arse.”

“Then what? You can’t simply refuse to fight, or people will think you a coward. No maestro or hiresword can afford that.”

I felt a jab of anger. “Don’t worry about that. Despite everything, I want to duel. I want to beat Dromis at his own rotten game and pay him back for Falnac’s death.” I took a breath. “And even if I didn’t, the dastard has evidently seen that I show up, so perhaps I don’t have a choice. Maybe, somehow, I’d wind up at the designated place and time no matter what.”

Marissa made a sour face. “That’s so contrary to common sense, it makes my head hurt just to think about it.”

“Mine too. So why don’t we try thinking like warriors?”

A dank mist blurred the mausoleums and grave markers, and the dawn was just a luminous smear on a wall of gray cloud. The birds hadn’t yet begun to sing.

I’d done my best to keep Dromis’ prophecy of doom from affecting my morale. But perhaps the dismal morning helped to dampen my spirits, for as we approached one another, I did indeed have the fey sense that my fate was sealed. That all that was about to happen had, in some ultimate sense, happened already.

I couldn’t afford to feel like a helpless sleepwalker, so I focused on Dromis’ sneer and Olissimal’s gloating smirk, stoking my hatred for them both. It wasn’t something I would have done ordinarily; I prefer to fight with a cool head. But in this instance, it steadied me.

We took our places, and then Olissimal said, “We, your friends, urge you to seek a peaceful resolution to your dispute.” I doubted that anyone in the history of swordplay had ever made that traditional plea with such a transparent lack of sincerity.

“I do not apologize,” Dromis said, “and I know for a fact that my opponent won’t, either. Isn’t that right, Selden?” He grinned at me as though sharing a secret jest.

“Yes,” I said.

“I’ll always wonder: Could you simply not accept the truth of your situation, or did your notions of honor oblige you to show up even so? Either way, you die a fool.”

I looked to Marissa. “Let’s get on with it.”

“As you wish,” she said, backing away to give Dromis and me room to fight. Shifting his crutches, Olissimal likewise hobbled clear.

Marissa then lifted a white cloth and whipped it through the air. Dromis and I started to circle one another.

Fear welled up inside me, and of course, given the life I’d led, it was scarcely the first time. But it was the first time it balked me. For a heartbeat, I couldn’t attack because the craven part of me knew that whatever technique I attempted, Dromis would offer a perfect—and perfectly lethal—response.

I screamed a battle cry to jolt myself into motion.

I sprang into the distance, feinted to the chest, and cut to the head. Dromis ducked under the stroke and thrust at my torso as he’d surely watched himself do while using the power of the stone.

It was a nasty counterattack, but fortunately, I was ready for it. I deflected it with a heavy beat-parry that weakened his grip on his hilt, then slashed at his face.

Dromis had boasted he was a good swordsman, and it was so. He didn’t drop his weapon, and he managed to jump back and evade my cut. But his eyes were wide with shock. Whereas I wanted to laugh, because from this moment forward, nothing about our encounter was predestined. Now it was just another sword fight.

Having experienced the turbulent power of the stone, I’d conjectured that, while Dromis had learned to use it, the process wasn’t easy for him. For after all, he was a warrior, not a mystic, and, moreover, the artifact was damaged.

And if Dromis had to struggle mightily to swim through the time currents in the same way I had, then it stood to reason that he couldn’t navigate to a scene he wanted to witness with any extraordinary precision. He had to flounder about until he happened across it, then fight to hold his position long enough to obtain a serviceable glimpse.

So I’d called in the favor owed me by the players of the Azure Swan Theater. On the previous morning, they, Marissa, and I had thrice staged a mock duel, with actors made up to resemble Dromis, a band of his students, and Olissimal. Each time I attacked with a feint to the chest and a cut to the head, and each time my adversary dispatched me with a stab to the body. His sword was blunt, but still capable of bursting the bladder of pig’s blood concealed inside my doublet.

The idea was for Dromis’s spirit, adrift in time, to observe one of the fraudulent duels and mistake it for the real one, and I admit, I’ve hatched schemes that inspired greater confidence. Even if all my unsubstantiated guesses were correct, there was still one chance in four that my foe had watched the actual combat. But now I knew the trick had worked.

We traded attacks, neither scoring as of yet. But as the moments passed, I felt more and more in control of the action, and he had to give ground repeatedly.

I judged that if I could stop him retreating, I could finish him, and there was a marble tomb, crowned with a statue of a dove lighting on the hand of a goddess, several paces behind him. I started the process of backing him up against it.

Then Dromis used the thumb of his off hand to rotate the gold ring on his middle finger, perhaps another keepsake he’d carried away from his cult’s desecrated temple. The medallion I wore next to my skin turned icy cold, warning me of hostile magic. Unfortunately, the warning was redundant. I was able to guess that my opponent had cast a curse stored in a talisman from the way the world suddenly went black.

Acting by reflex, I parried, and steel rang as I stopped Dromis’ sword. I riposted, and felt my blade cleave flesh and stick there. When Dromis fell, his weight dragged it toward the ground.

My feat was lucky, but not, I think, pure luck. Throughout the duel, I’d studied Dromis’ fighting style and learned his favorite attack. Thus, even blind, I was able to defend. And when our blades met, it gave me a sense of his position. That made it possible to land a cut.

Much to my relief, my eyesight returned a moment after Dromis dropped. Blinking away a certain residual cloudiness, I checked to make sure he was dead, then pivoted to find Olissimal. I wanted to witness his dismay at his champion’s demise.

But in that regard, I was disappointed. Supported by his crutches, Olissimal stood shivering with his lips parted and his eyes half closed, a picture of perverse delight. He didn’t really care who’d died a bloody death, only that someone had.

I suppose no moment is perfect. But, Olissimal’s bliss notwithstanding, this one came close, and tasted sweeter still when Marissa strode up to me, a rare smile of genuine admiration on her face. “Nicely done,” she said.

“You have no idea,” I answered.

“So what happens now? We find the black stone and try to use it to prove Dromis’ duelists cheated?”

“No, because they didn’t. Not knowingly. They didn’t understand Dromis used sorcery to determine how they should fight. They just thought he was a brilliant teacher.”

“Then I guess we’re done. We can get down to the serious business of using the stone to pick winning horses.”

I was reasonably certain she was joking. But since coming to Mornedealth, I’d lost a ridiculous amount of coin wagering in the hippodrome, and I confess that, just for an instant, I was tempted.

A Dream Deferred

by Kristin M. Schwengel

Kristin Schwengel’s work has appeared in the anthologies

Sword of Ice and Other Tales of Valdemar

,

Legends: Tales from the Eternal Archives

, and

Knight Fantastic

, among others. She and her husband live near Milwaukee, Wisconsin, where she has a full-time job that, as she puts it, “pays the bills” and allows her to pursue other interests part-time, including massage therapy, gourmet cooking, and, of course, writing.

On silent feet, Laeka padded through the darkened house. Her steps wove from one side of the entrance hall to the other, her feet remembering from years of habit where each squeaky board was even when her mind had not yet fully awakened. She held her oldest boots in her hand, and her well-worn clothing barely rustled with her movements. A few hushed words with the guard at the front door, and she was outside, sitting on the front stair to pull on her boots before she stepped into the dew-damp grass.

As always, her first stop of the morning was the private corral, where the mares that were the foundation of her breeding line moved at their choice between the open outdoors and the large loose-box in the stable. Tonight the mares had slept outdoors, and soft whickers greeted her approach. She slipped the latch and walked into the corral, and the mares crowded around her, lipping at her hair and clothing, bumping their heads affectionately against her. Laeka spent a moment with each mare, cupping the wide heads in her hands and whispering to them in the Shin’a’in language that she had learned for them.

These mares were her pride, the culmination of breeding that had started with the few mares sold to her so many years ago by the Clan Liha’irden at the Shin’a’in Horse-fairs. Though she had been young, she had taken the advice of the hawk-faced Clanswoman Tarma shena Tale’sedrin, and Liha’irden had made good on the Clanswoman’s promise to her. Each year, they had made sure she had the pick of what they were selling, and even a few that they would never sell to any but her, once they had seen that she valued their horses as highly as they deserved.

False dawn was starting its approach when Laeka left the corral. Taking a deep breath of the crisp autumn air, she turned toward the woods with anticipation. Her step lightened as she walked among the trees, letting the mood of the quiet forest settle into her. Her family would doubtless not approve of these early walks, but then she had never feared the woods as others did. After all, her corner of the Pelagiris was far from the wild and strange places where unknown creatures made their homes. A smile lifted one corner of her mouth, softening the deep creases formed by wind and wear. At my age, she thought, I think I’ve earned the right to walk where I will.

A scratching, dragging noise in the brush caught her attention, and she held herself in midstride, turning her head by slow degrees to locate the sound. As she listened, her mind sorted out the pieces of noise. An animal, large and probably injured. Laeka moved forward, keeping her own steps as silent as she could, ignoring the twinge in her right leg as she placed her feet with care.

The dragging steps ceased, and Laeka heard the soft thud of a body falling to the earth, followed by rasping, panting breaths. Shifting her direction to the right, she crept forward until she stood concealed by a great tree on the edge of a clearing. Taking shallow, quiet breaths, she prepared to crane her head behind one of the branches to see what lay in the clearing.

:I am no threat to you. I need your help.: Laeka froze, her eyes darting around her, but she saw nothing.

:Please.: The voice was fainter now, and Laeka realized that she had only heard it inside her head. She peered around the tree into the clearing. The shaggy animal slumped on the bracken, pain-shadowed eyes focused on hers, was larger than any wolf she had ever seen, despite the similar shape of its head. She guessed that it would stand as tall as her waist, if not more.

:Please.: The head sagged down, resting on two great paws. Laeka read the pain and exhaustion in both the voice and the body as it lay, its limbs crumpled beneath it. Though the structure of the body looked more feline than canine, there was no grace or ease in its movements now.

“I did not realize that kyree dwelled so close to this edge of the forest,” she said, keeping her voice quiet and stepping into the clearing.

:Not so very close,: the kyree responded. :But you were still closer than the nearest Vale.:

“What brings you to me instead, and in such a state?” She moved over to the wounded creature, kneeling down in the dead leaves beside it.

:My cubs.: Laeka nodded. The voice had somehow felt female. :Bandits found our cave, stole them, and left me for dead. They plan to sell my cubs, to make a handsome profit.: Despite the kyree’s exhaustion, her helpless fury rang in her mind-voice.

“They would need to travel far, I think, to find someone fool enough to buy them.” Although it would bring great prestige to have a kyree for a pet, to do so would surely incur the anger of the Tayledras, who looked on themselves as guardians and protectors of the creatures of the Pelagiris. And the Hawkbrothers were not known for kindness to abusers of those they protected, most especially the sentient races like the kyree.

:Not so far as you might think. The Blood Mages are always wandering, seeking power to steal.:

Laeka’s hand closed into a fist on her thigh. Yes, there were always those who would seek to take advantage of the weak, innocent, or powerless. Long, long ago, she had dreamed of taking up the sword to battle in defense of the weaker kind. She had still been young when she had learned from the Tale’sedrin Clanswoman what the reality of that life would have been and had realized that she had not the temperament for the task. It seemed that the dream, however, had slumbered on in her heart. “So, what can a half-dead kyree and an old horse trainer do against a troop of bandits?”

The kyree tilted her head at Laeka, a half-question in her eyes, for her voice had rung with determination.

:I think they mean to take them east.:

“Ruvan. Huh. There might be buyers there who do not fear the Tayledras. How far are they?”

:Not even a day to my cave. After they stole my cubs, they settled for the night only a short distance away. They’ll be coming in this direction, I think, but more north.:

Laeka sat back on her heels, turning her head up to the canopy above her while she thought. With her daughter Jeatha gone to the trade fairs in Mornedealth, the stables were as lightly guarded as possible, so more outriders could travel with the string and protect the valuable animals. To take away any more guards, even for a day or two, would mean risking the entire breeding line, should the bandits come further south, and it would be foolish to send anyone but the trained guards. Foolish to send any of her people.

She stood, brushing leaves and fir needles from her leggings. “I will be back in a little while. I promise you, we will free your younglings.”

Laeka trotted back down the path, her mind making plans and as soon discarding them. In the few minutes it took her to reach the stables, she had the essence of her plan clear in her head.

“Who goes?” Meros’ voice rang out as she approached, and she sighed in relief. Meros, she thought, she could talk around to her side. They had been friends for a long time, ever since the guard’s ornery gray gelding (not one of her breeding) had bashed in her right leg. Her knee, never properly healed, throbbed at the memory. With quick words, she explained the situation and outlined her plan.

“You’re a fool, Laeka. How in Agnira’s name do you expect this to work?”

“Do you have a better idea? We can’t just let those cubs be used by a Blood Mage.”

“Send the kyree to the Tayledras.”

“And how long do you think that will take? Why do you think she came to me, traveling ahead of the bandits instead of going in the opposite direction to the Tayledras?”

“Well, shouldn’t someone else go instead of you? Or at least take someone with you.”

“Who else should go? The kyree will recognize me, at least. Who else could be spared? Certainly not any of the guards. Duty roster’s thin enough already, with Jeatha gone with the outriders. Unlike the other trainers and horsefolk, I at least have a little bit more than the rudiments of training with the sword. It’s not so far-fetched as you think.”

Meros looked at her long and hard in the growing light, then finally nodded. “I’ll help you gather what you’ll need.”

The sun was not even fully risen when Laeka returned to the forest, this time mounted on the intelligent coppery mare that was her favorite, the lead lines of another mare and a gelding tied to the pommel of her saddle. She wore a leather jerkin and breeches now, and a sword hung at her side. It was an unfamiliar weight, a reminder of the reality of what she was attempting. When she practiced with the horses that would be sold to fighters, she never actually bore the weapons for very long.

The kyree had not moved from the clearing, although she sat half up on her side when Laeka approached. Dismounting, Laeka dug a small jar and a larger, wrapped package from one of her saddlebags and came forward to the kyree. In the stronger light, she could see the matted blood in the animal’s fur and was glad she had made sure to bring the jar.

“I brought food and some of our strongest healing ointment for you,” she said, unwrapping the raw meat and laying it on the ground before opening the jar. “It will only take a few minutes to apply, and you will be much the better for it.” While the kyree ate, Laeka used swift, gentle strokes to spread the sharp, clean-smelling salve over the barely healed cuts and gashes, kneading it into the muscles where she noticed swelling. Even as she worked, she could see the kyree lifting her head, becoming more alert as the pains eased.

“Now, can you stand and walk, even just a few steps?”

:Thank you, yes. The rest has been good.: The kyree shifted her legs beneath her, then pushed to her feet, swaying only slightly.

Laeka stood and walked over to the horses, pulling at the lead line on the chestnut gelding to bring him to where the kyree stood. He shied at first from the strange scent, then quieted, and Laeka noticed a look of concentration in the kyree’s eyes.

:It is only to get past their first fear.:

Laeka nodded her understanding of the kyree’s manipulation of her animals’ minds. “Speed is more important.” She gestured, and the gelding bent his knees and folded halfway to the ground. With Laeka’s guidance, the kyree walked over and climbed onto the gelding’s lowered back, settling herself on the pad that Meros and Laeka had rigged onto the gelding’s saddle. One hand on the kyree to steady her, Laeka tugged at the gelding’s bridle, and he rose back up.

Remounting her mare, Laeka turned to look into the kyree’s eyes. “Where?”

:West, and north after a bit. I will recognize the path I took.:

Laeka nodded and tightened her knees. The mare headed out at an easy jog, and the other two horses followed into the deeper forest.

For a long time, they rode in silence through the twisting deer paths, alternating periods of walking with a loping run. It would never match the ground-eating pace of purebred Shin’a’in horses, but she had bred the best of the mares she had acquired from Liha’irden to the strongest stallions she could find to replicate that trait. She noted landmarks as the horses moved deeper into the Pelagiris Forest, marking them in her mind just in case.

Each time the kyree Mindspoke to her to change their direction, her Mind-voice seemed stronger, but still tinged with anger and pain. Laeka ate waybread in the saddle, bringing the gelding up next to her mare to place some on the saddlepad for the kyree, who gulped it down whole.

Early in the afternoon, they came upon a small clearing where traces of recent occupation remained. New scorch marks blackened a long-disused fire-circle, and the grass was freshly cropped. Laeka dismounted to examine the area more closely, stretching her leg as her knee protested the long candlemarks in the saddle.

:The smell is still fresh.: The kyree’s nose wrinkled as she sifted the air. :My cubs were here, and not long since.:

“Perhaps they stopped for nooning.” She walked the perimeter of the clearing, her eyes following the patterns of crushed grass. Bending, she pushed some branches aside and found several clear hoofprints. “They’re heading almost due east, now. Definitely going toward Ruvan.”

She swung into the saddle on the other mare, a dark gray, absently rubbing her knee as she settled herself and turned the horses east. The kyree kept her head up, her nostrils flared in the breeze, seeking the scent of her cubs or the men who had taken them. As the afternoon wore on, traces of both became more frequent, and Laeka kept the pace slow, not wanting to either lose the trail or alert the bandits.

:Stop.: Laeka pulled up the gray and turned to her companion. :They are very close. I smell smoke, too.:

“They must be making camp for the night. We will wait until they are settled, then move in. We could not take them all, so we must be sure to act when few of them are able to respond. We need only a few moments to get to the cubs and then flee.” The kyree bared her teeth in a silent snarl, clearly unwilling to be so cautious, but Laeka held up her hand. “My abilities with the sword will not stand a true test, and you are still injured. Full revenge will gain us nothing, and could lose us much.”

She dismounted and flipped the reins of the gray mare over her ears, so they hung down to the ground. The mare stood for a moment, then bent her head and cropped at the rich grass. Leaving her, Laeka moved over to the gelding, gesturing for him to kneel as he had before. This time, the kyree required no aid to jump off the saddlepad, only holding up her left foreleg as she landed. Again, Laeka pulled out some meat for the kyree, who settled to feed while she tended to the horses. She loosened the saddle girths, reaching underneath the tack to test for swelling or heat, running her hands down each of the horses’ legs, checking their hooves. When the horses were as comfortable as she could make them, Laeka retrieved the jar of salve, returning to the kyree and reapplying the ointment. The wounds seemed to have improved after the day of travel, not worsened as she would have guessed. Laeka raised her eyebrows but kept her silence. The kyree had Healers of their own, after all.

:I will scout their camp,: the kyree said. :Even wounded, I can move more quietly and in smaller places than you. And I will know their thoughts.: Laeka nodded, and the kyree stood, shaking herself and stretching, then trotting into the underbrush with only a little stiffness in her stride.

Dusk was beginning to settle when the kyree slipped back into the clearing, sitting on her haunches in the bracken.

:They are confident. Only one guard sits to the south edge, looking toward where they will meet their buyer at the main road tomorrow. There is a tent, where most of them sleep. My cubs are in a woven cage to the east, just on the other side of the fire. One bandit sleeps on each side of the cage.: The kyree paused, then bared her teeth in a fiercely lupine grin. :They are mine.:

“Their horses?”

:Loosely hobbled in a separate clearing. Unguarded.:

Laeka smiled. “We’ll take care of them first.”

Laeka went back to her horses, tightening the saddle girths and fastening the stirrups securely up underneath the saddles. She untied the lead lines from the two mares, flipping their reins back and tying them to the pommels so that they would neither constrict the horses’ movements nor drag and catch in the brush. She pulled the rigged saddlepad off the gelding’s saddle, stowing it in one of the saddlebags that she had filled with meat for the kyree, and mounted. She held out her hand, and the two mares followed the gelding into the trees as surely as if she still held lead lines.

She kept the pace slow, letting the horses choose their way carefully, guiding them where the grass was still soft and avoiding brush and deadfall that would give away their approach. The kyree moved noiseless through the trees, a shadow in the twilight.

:Over the crest of this hill. The horses are in the clearing on this side.:

Laeka dismounted, ground-tying the gelding with his reins as she had earlier, then slipped into the trees behind the kyree, moving toward the bandits’ horses with steps as quiet as she could make them. While the kyree stayed downwind in the trees, she walked into the clearing, speaking to the horses in the soft whistling words she had learned from the Shin’a’in. A few of the animals chuffed nervously, but she soothed them with gentle hands on their necks. Working quickly, always keeping the bodies of the animals between herself and the camp, she used her boot knife to slit the hobbles. When all the horses were untied, she backed out of the clearing.

Mounting the gelding again, Laeka loosened the sword in its scabbard and looked down at her strange partner.

“Well,” she whispered, “we’ll never have a better chance, hai?” She shook out the reins and gestured to the two mares, then kneed the gelding into a run, over the crest and straight through the center of the bandit camp. With an eerie howl, the kyree followed her.

As she passed the lone guard, Laeka lashed out with her sword, catching him on the side of his head and neck. He slumped to the ground, and she tried not to notice the spray of blood that spattered her arm and the side of the horse. Somehow it was very different from the cow’s-blood-filled bags she and her trainers used when sword practicing with the horses that, like the gelding, would be sold to fighters.

While she moved through the bandit camp from south to north, followed by the galloping mares, the kyree darted off to the side. Laeka heard a cry of alarm cut off with a gurgle and knew that the kyree had dispatched one of the guards by the cubs.

She kept the horses moving through into the darkening trees on the other side of the camp, then turned to the west, repositioning herself for another pass through the bandits’ midst. Her angle brought her to the clearing where the thieves’ horses had been hobbled, but the startled horses fled at the noise of her charge. She smiled grimly to herself. If there were pursuit, it would be slow. She tightened her knees, and the gelding and mares headed back into the camp.

This time, two of the bandits, who had been sleeping on the ground near the fire, were standing and searching the trees surrounding the camp, swords drawn; but with most of their armor set to the side, she simply ran them down, using the horses’ bodies and hooves as weapons. On the other side of the fire, the kyree had set her back to the cubs’ cage, defending them with all the fury Laeka had heard in her Mind-voice. She could see a body on each side of the cage, but two more of the bandits approached the kyree, and she would not be able to account for both of them. Laeka guided the gelding to leap over the fire, pulling up behind one of the men with a swing of her sword at his exposed back. His companion glanced over at him, startled, as he fell, and that moment was all the kyree needed.

Laeka dismounted and ran to the cage. The men her horses had run down were struggling to their feet, one leaning over to aid the second. The noise had also roused the sleepers in the tent, and she heard shouts and thrashing inside the canvas. With surprise no longer on her side, she had no desire to test her rudimentary skills against more foes. Grabbing the cage, she hoisted it onto the copper mare’s saddle, using the lead line to lash it into place. Pulling herself back into the gelding’s saddle, she gestured to the mares. The kyree snarled at the men, but when Laeka and the horses moved out of the clearing, she followed.

“Are you able to skirt back, to see if they mount a pursuit?” Laeka tried to pitch her voice so only the kyree would hear.

For answer, the kyree melted into the underbrush.

Thankful for the near-full moon, Laeka pushed the horses in the darkening forest, putting distance between them, the remaining bandits, and the buyer. Finally, she pulled up in one of the clearings where they had rested late in the afternoon. A small creek ran along one edge, and she led the horses to drink while she cleaned her sword and refilled her waterskins.

:One stays with the injured. They found several of their horses, but we have a good lead,: the kyree Mindspoke, coming into the clearing behind her. :One is a passable tracker, so I took some time to muddle the trail. If we walk in the stream for a while, that should throw him enough that we can get a little rest tonight.:

Laeka swallowed her sigh, rubbing her knee a little bit before swinging up into the gray mare’s saddle. “Then we ride, as long as we have the moon to guide us. The creekbed does not seem too full of stones, so the horses should be safe enough if I let them choose their own pace.”

:I will go ahead a bit, to find a place to spend a night.: The kyree stepped into the water and started to wade downstream, and Laeka nudged the horses to follow. She allowed the horses to pick their way carefully, to find the best footing, and it wasn’t long before the kyree had vanished ahead of them. Try though she might, Laeka could hear no sign of pursuit. Not that I could hear much over our splashing in the stream, anyway, she thought.

The moon’s light was waning when the kyree returned, pacing them along the farther bank of the creekbed. :I have found a shelter. Follow me.:

The horses were clearly relieved to be out of the creek; the chestnut gelding almost seemed to shake the water from his hooves as he stepped onto the bank. Not too far into the forest, there was a thickening of undergrowth, but the kyree led her down a twisting path that avoided the worst thorns. They broke through into a tiny clearing, just large enough for the three horses. One edge was marked by a giant treefall, and the lower half of the tree had rotted away to form a natural half-cave.

Immediately after dismounting, she pulled the cage from the copper mare’s saddle, using her knife to work at the knots that held the cage together until the top came off. Silent until now, the cubs spilled out, swarming over their mother with excited yips and Mindspeech so enthusiastic they even broadcast it to Laeka.

Laeka smiled as she stripped the horses’ tack, then poured water from her waterskins into the clever folding leather trough she had acquired from the Shin’a’in and held it up to each thirsty muzzle. When they had drunk their fill, she readied them for the night, wiping them down, rubbing salve into cuts and scrapes, lavishly praising them in Shin’a’in while the ebullient cubs’ Mindspeech washed over her.

:Where did you find the lady? Why is it only her? Wasn’t she brave? Will we go back to the cave? Will they come after us? Will you make this into a tale, just like the stories of our famous cousin Warrl? Will you tell us everything so we can tell it to everyone?:

Most of the Mindspeech was in one bright voice, and Laeka looked to identify the speaker in time to see his mother put her paw over his small body, gently pinning him to the ground.

:Rris, that is enough. Now is not the time.:

:There’s always time for stories. Please?:

Still holding the pup down, the kyree raised her head and gave Laeka a long-suffering look, one so elementally maternal that the woman had to hide her laughter in the copper mare’s shoulder. When she had regained sobriety, she turned back to them.

“We should be ready to ride with the first light of dawn, little one, so you must rest. As must I, and your mother, and the horses.” The pup stared up at her with fascination.

:I heard you speaking Shin’a’in. How do you know it? Are you a fighter? How far to your home?:

Laeka resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “I will tell you tomorrow, and I will even tell you how I once met your famous cousin Warrl, but I will only tell you if you sleep now.” If a creature with the face of a wolf could look awed, this one managed. He stared deep into her eyes, as though trying to either read her intent or impose his own, and she folded her arms and stared back at him. I am a mother with a daughter long grown, Laeka thought. You, little one, don’t stand a chance.

Whether the pup heard her thoughts or not, he curled up with his littermates in blessed silence.

Laeka took the saddlepad that the kyree had ridden on, unfolding it on the ground to make a sort of bed-roll and lay down, willing herself to wake before dawn. She did not see the measuring gaze that the kyree gave her before she, too, lowered her head to rest.

Morning seemed to come mere moments after they had made their camp, and Laeka woke to the first birdcalls before dawn. She stretched experimentally, biting back groans as her every muscle protested the treatment it had received in the last day. It took several moments before she felt sufficiently limber to stand and begin to ready herself to travel again.

She opened the last saddlebag, pulling out the last of the meat that she had packed the day before and placing it before the kyree and her cubs. The kyree pushed several of the smaller pieces to the little ones before bolting the rest. The cubs, too, ate quickly, and it seemed that the cold predawn light had diminished their spirits, as well.

Laeka could well share their mood. An adventure is only grand while it is exciting, with swordplay and horses and firelight, she thought. After a cold, damp night on the hard ground, it is difficult to be enthusiastic .

While Laeka tended to the horses, saddling them and rigging the extra pad on the chestnut gelding’s saddle, the kyree slipped out of the clearing. :I will see if we are pursued. Travel west, and I will find you. The cubs will cooperate with you.: The little ones ducked their heads a little at that last, especially the garrulous Rris, so Laeka knew that she was not the only one to hear it.

She watched until the kyree was out of sight in the underbrush, then finished preparing the horses before turning back to the cubs.

“I do not wish to force you to this,” she said to them, “but I think that for speed you must be in the cage.”

Rris, however, nodded. :We thought we would have to. But you, we trust.: They clambered into the cage, and Laeka again secured it tightly to the saddlepad. This time she arranged it with the door-lashing to the top and left it uncovered so the cubs could lift their heads over the edge.

Loosely fastening the lead line of the gelding to the gray mare’s saddle, and the gray’s line to the copper mare’s saddle, she mounted the copper mare, stifling a grunt as she forced her leg to stretch over the horse’s back. Settling herself, she shook out the reins.

They had barely found a game trail to the west when the kyree came down the path behind them in a leaping gait. A pulled step and shortening of stride on the left side were the only signs that the injuries of the day before were still present. :The pursuit is closer than I thought. I will go back and blur the trail again—at least they do not have dogs to track by scent. I do not think we are too far from your home.:

Laeka studied the brush around them and did a quick calculation in her head. “A few marks, perhaps a little more at this pace.”

:They smell of greed and desperation. They are hungry for the wealth, and maybe fear the anger of their buyer. But I think they would be more afraid to be caught.:

“They will not come too close to signs of settlement. We will move, then.” The kyree disappeared back into the brush, and Laeka kneed the mare out of her easy fast-walking pace. She urged the horse to take the forest paths as fast as she dared—with their Shin’a’in blood, her horses would be faster and more surefooted than any of the bandits’ animals.

For a mark or more, they ran, until Laeka could feel the copper mare’s stride beginning to shorten. Her breathing was still even, though, and her coat was not yet completely sweat-darkened. Glancing back, she saw that the less burdened gray and the chestnut gelding were still running smoothly. The next time the kyree ghosted along the path beside them, Laeka spoke to her.

“The horses need to rest a bit. How close behind us are they?”

:We have gained ground, but not as much as I would like. A short rest, though, we can spare.:

The game trail had been following a creek, and Laeka slowed the horses at a point before the path split, one fork angling deeper into the forest. She urged them to stand in the shallows to cool their hooves and forelegs, dismounting in the water herself to check their harness and quickly brush at the sweatiest spots with the extra saddlepad. With their Shin’a’inbred intelligence, she could trust the horses to wait until they had cooled a bit to drink, and not to drink so much as to bloat their stomachs and make themselves sick.

Too soon, Laeka led the horses out of the water and mounted up, this time astride the gray mare. Well, I’ve thoroughly ruined these boots, she thought with a sigh. By the time we get back, the water will have soaked them beyond repair. Not to mention what cold, wet leather after a night outdoors might do to my health. If all I get is a nasty cold, I’ll consider myself lucky.

Taking the bend of the game trail deeper into the forest, she kept the horses at a slower pace while she studied their surroundings, finding the triple-leaved plants that only grew in the Pelagiris around where she had built her stables. This trail should connect, then, with one that crossed the road to her steading. Even if the bandits tracked them to the road, she thought the pursuit would end once they neared populated areas.

A faint echo of a surprised shout startled her—she guessed it was close to where they had rested. And they had not hidden which fork of the trail they had taken. The path widened, and she bent forward over the mare’s neck, urging her into a steady canter, the kyree falling behind them. The soft pounding of hooves on grassy sod filled her ears, the mare’s mane lashed her face, and a strange exhilaration swelled up within her. So this was what adventuring felt like! The horses behind her, the frightened cubs, the kyree mother all vanished from her head, drowned by this wild delight. She wasn’t even aware of guiding the mare out of the woods until they were on the road and the sound of the hoofbeats changed. Still entranced by the strange joy, she pushed the mare to a full gallop, thrilling to the rise and fall of each stride and the power of the horse beneath her.

Only when they rounded the last corner and approached the fenced areas and the guardhouse did she ease back in the saddle, bringing the mare down to a canter, a trot, a walk.

The guard on duty hailed them but recognized the horses and Laeka almost in the same breath. The cubs stayed hidden in the cage, and when Laeka glanced back, she saw that the kyree appeared a great deal smaller and more doglike. Smothering a smile, she nodded to the guard, ignoring the question in his face.

She took the horses to one of the farther corrals—shamefacedly making use of the block to dismount on the way there and nearly losing her feet anyway. Meros appeared out of nowhere, and she was silently grateful for his aid as they pulled down the cage, placing it in a nearby tack shed before unsaddling the spent horses and brushing them down, their only words soft murmurs of praise to the horses.

When the horses were finally made comfortable, Meros walked to the stable, his arms full of sweat-laden tack while Laeka went back to the shed.

The kyree had gathered her family, ready to return to the forest.

“Will you be safe?” Laeka murmured.

:We cannot go to our cave, but I know of another place where we can stay until the little ones are more grown and able to travel longer distances. Foolishly, I had wanted to live away from the Pack, but . . : She tilted her head towards the cubs. :I believe I shall rejoin them.:

“Fair travels to you then, and may Agnira watch and bless you and yours.”

:And the same to you and yours.: The kyree turned and herded her pups ahead of her, crossing the pasture toward the woods. Just before they slipped under the fence and between the trees, she looked back.

:I am Rheena, of the Hyrrrull Pack. I name you Friend to the Pack, for we are in your debt. We shall return to repay our debt.: She turned again and nudged the cubs before her.

:And I still want to hear how you met Cousin Warrl.: The plaintive Mind-voice drifted back from the tree-line, and Laeka laughed aloud as she walked stiffly back toward the house. A hot bath, she thought, as hot as I can stand it. I haven’t ridden like that in many years—and there’s a reason for that.

Passing the private corral, Laeka paused while the brood mares pushed against the fence in front of her, their eager noses stretched out for her strokes and gentle scratches. It was good to know that she had helped save the kyree’s cubs. But it was better to be home again.

The Sword Dancer

by Michael Z. Williamson

Michael Z. Williamson was born in the United Kingdom and raised in Canada and the U.S. A twenty-three-year veteran of the U.S. Army and U.S. Air Force combat engineers, he is married to a reserve Army combat photographer who is also a civilian graphic artist. They have too many cats and two children who have learned how to fight anything, including zombies, from the age of four.

Riga Gundesdati, called Sworddancer, swigged from her bottle and pushed her helmet back on. Tendrils of flaxen hair obscured her eyes until she pushed them under the sweat-soaked leather padding.

All the students were working especially hard. Swordmistress Morle was watching, and some Herald from far Valdemar stood at the Yorl’s spot, studying them.

“Fight!” called the judge. Her new opponent, Ruti, looked nervous, so she charged.

“Yaaaaaah!” she shouted, and he hesitated. She swung her wooden practice sword and dropped her wrist, aiming for his thigh. He blocked and leaped, defensive, cautious, and timid. This fight was over, even if he didn’t know it.

A twist of her hips and shoulder brought her shield up against his swing. His blow was firm enough but without heart. She blocked it easily. His next strike was better placed, but he hadn’t yet realized that her presented stance—sword foot forward instead of shield foot—gave her longer reach.

With his third swing she had his rhythm. She shot her arm forward, pivoted at the hip, swung, snapped her wrist, and laid timber between his shoulder and helmet. A loud crack indicated what would be a killing strike in battle, and she cocked her arm for a followup before he realized he’d been hit. He stepped back and bowed out.

She bowed in return and stepped out of the rope-edged vollar. She’d won three of five bouts so far.

Father was waiting, and she smiled. He took her in a huge hug. When young she’d complain about him squashing her, and he’d bellow, “I like squashing you!” He was getting on in years, but he was still tough and muscular.

He stepped back and kept hold of her shoulders.

“I already saw Erki. I’m called for a scout ride. I should be back in a week. Meanwhile, take care of Erki and ask the Swordmistress if you need help.”

Whatever was happening was huge. She kept the sob she felt to a sigh and hugged him close, hampered by leather and iron.

“Yes, Father,” she said.

“Good luck, girl. I’ll watch one bout. Show me your form.”

She nodded and hugged him again, then redonned her helmet and got in line.

Ten youths about her age were here today, having finished their letters and numbers. All the children learned to fight, even if they might go from here to pursuits like counting, textiles or motherhood. They were sea- and river-borne tradespeople and often had to fight attackers.

She wrapped up her musing because she was next. At a wave, she entered the vollar. Her opponent was Snorru, two years her elder, just now a man, big and proud, but he sometimes hesitated, worried about his appearance.

“Sworddancer and Strongarm. Honor having been given, fight!”

“Go, Riga!” her father shouted, then was silent. Coaching from the rope was not allowed, and he never had. He gave her her own mind, and she loved him for it.

Riga strode straight across the vollar, shield up and sword ready. Snorru swung, and it was accurate and strong. She deflected it, but it staggered her. His follow-up blow cracked on her shield and skinned her helmet.

She recovered, hiding behind her shield as she brought her sword up in front with a snap. The tip slapped Snorru’s wrist. His grip slipped and his weapon fell, as she swung up and around, cracked him in the back of the helmet, then his kidneys, then over into his chest. Her joints were trained to impart all their energy in a moment. He staggered down under the rain of blows.

“You could hit harder,” he said, rising and breathing hard, “but I grant you style.”

“Harder is better only so it breaks armor,” she replied. “Undirected force is wasted.” She offered a hand to him, and he took it.

She turned to find her father’s smile ... but he was gone. He’d known she’d be occupied with the bout, and he snuck out. She sighed. He was an honest but shrewd merchant, and that was so like him.

“He saw you,” her friend Karlinu said from the rope.

“Kari?”

“He left just moments ago. He saw your bout and grinned to split his face. That was great, girl! But you need to keep your tip higher when in guard.”

She knew that was a problem with her form, but she pushed Kari aside, hoping for a glimpse of Father.

“He’s gone. I’m sorry. And the Swordmistress wants to see you.”

She glanced at the youth vollar where Erki was working on his form. He was too eager, brave but incautious. Good with a sword, but his shield tended to drop.

She doffed her helmet, shimmied from her mail and left it in a neat pile near her cloak. Her real sword came with her, slung and ready. No warrior went without a weapon. She held the dressy bronze-tipped scabbard as she jogged. It was chased, with a falconeye jewel and a silver appliqué of a cat, its tail knotted about it. The plain fighting sword within was steel fitted with unadorned bronze around a chatoyant wood grip. She and Erki had fine blades. She tried to be worthy of hers.

Riga entered the Swordmistress’s tent at the field edge. She always felt nervous facing her teacher, as if there was something she would be chastised for. Nothing came to mind as an infraction, so she put it aside. Her sweaty gambeson didn’t help her nerves.

Not only Swordmistress Morle but also the visiting Herald were within. She bowed first to her Mistress, then to the guest. She faced Lady Morle but turned so she could study the Herald. He was tall, handsome, and very well dressed. His outfit was plain with just a touch of piping, but well fitted and spotless. He looked like something from a royal court.

She’d only heard mentions of Heralds, but they were highly regarded. This one had arrived a few days before, escorting a High Priest. He wasn’t one for any of the Kossaki gods, so he’d been made welcome as a guest.

Riga had no idea what had come about. The elders and her father, seemed aware of these Heralds and the priest and were unbothered. Now, though, her father had ridden off, as had most of the men and some of the women, all those trained and able to ride.

“Sworddancer, you must guide a party,” the Swordmistress said.

“I am honored,” she replied at once. Honored and scared. At sixteen, she was a capable fighter and skilled, but lacked the wiles and polish of her elders. She flushed hotter than she already was, then chilled.

“You hide your nerves well,” Morle said with a grin. She continued more seriously. “I don’t ask this lightly. A great many people need us.”

“I’ll do what I can,” she agreed. They were asking an adult task.

“Then look at this map.”

Morle unrolled the scraped vellum across her table and pointed.

“We’re here,” Riga indicated. “Little Town is there.”

“Yes. And there are refugees down here.” Morle indicated the south. “The villages south of Paust Lake are being sacked and destroyed by Miklamar’s thugs.”

Riga understood. “They’re fleeing. We can’t support them in our lands, and we must hurry them through in case we need to defend our own borders. We also don’t want the attention they’d bring.”

“Very perceptive,” the Herald spoke at last. “I’m impressed.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” she replied, meeting his eyes and trying not to be shy, “but I’ve studied since I was four. A map and supply count tell me all I need to know.

“I will lead youths, I presume?” she asked of Morle. “I can’t imagine I’m to lead senior warriors.”

“A youth,” Morle replied, and Riga gulped. “This is scouting, not fighting. There are thousands of refugees, and we’re not a large outpost.”

They weren’t even truly an outpost, Riga groused. Gangibrog, meaning “Walking Town,” was a glorified camp with little besides docks. Nor would the local resources permit it to become much larger. They were a trading waystop. River barges came from the coast; lighters went across Lake Diaska to rivers inland. Her family had traded widely; then Father retired here to raise them after their mother died.

“May I take my brother?” she asked. “He’s strong and sharp when he listens.”

“And you’re loud and bossy when he doesn’t,” Morle chuckled. “Why him?”

“Because if he has to go with someone, he’ll feel safer with me, and he’ll make me feel better if not safer.”

“Ordinarily not. But you’re right. I’ve allowed each party five coins in supplies. Any others must come from your own hus. I wish I had better news.”

“I’ll manage. Who’ll watch our hus?”

“Someone will, I promise. I know you have no mother or sister, Riga. Hurry to Arwen and leave as soon as you can. She has your directions.”

“Yes, Mistress.” She bowed to both and left.

It was exciting and scary. Guiding wasn’t like war. However, two youths going into hostile territory made her guts twist. She might be trained as a warrior, but everyone understood that women guarded the hus and family. They were defenders, not campaigners, except in emergencies.

Erki was waiting, his gear a jumbled heap as usual.

“Erki, neaten that up and move your helm before someone steps in it!” she commanded. Not only that, but it would rust if left on the damp ground.

“I forgot!” he said. “Did you see me beat Sammi?” He grabbed his stuff quickly.

“No, but good. He’s a stone larger than you. Did Father see you?”

“Yes, he’s off on a ride.”

“We’re going, too, by ourselves. You have to do as I say.”

“I’ll try! Where are we going?” He almost jumped in glee. The boy never held still.

“We’re guiding refugees and I’m not sure yet. You’ll do more than try, too. This is real.”

“I’ll pack Trausti, then,” he said.

“Excellent idea. Keep a list.”

“Yes, Riga.” He took off at a sprint. He’d do that well, she knew. He was bright if impetuous, very much “boy.”

She headed for the river and bounded down the floating dock to check on their current workers. Most of them were off riding, too, with boys and old men shifting cargo from a barge to a lighter. The whole town was responding, and fast.

At their hus, she decided the fire was low enough to ignore, then fastened the place down for a trip or storm. Window shutters, back door, hang everything on hooks or shelves away from walls and floor, valuables into a chest in a stone hole under a bench. Then pack light. Blessi was a small horse and wouldn’t take more than Riga’s weight in cargo. Eir would manage more, since Erki was smaller. Trausti would have only supplies.

Erki could pack well, sometimes too well. She caught him stuffing extra clothes into the pack saddle.

“Good idea, but too much weight,” she said. “One change is all. We’ll have to hope to air out.”

“I already checked and oiled their hooves,” he said.

“Good,” she agreed. “I’ll be back. Get finished, please.”

She hurried down the planked timber street to Arwen’s warehouse. “Auntie” was good to all of them. She usually found a way to sneak some treats to the children.

“Auntie Arwen, I’m here for supplies,” she said as she walked through the open door. The plank-built store was nothing but shelves, neat stacks and crates inside. Traders weren’t impressed by pretty presentations.

“Good morning, Riga. You, too? All our fighters are called, even youth. It worries me.”

“I need some supplies. Is there spare?”

“Not much. The Corl came first, then others. It seems all who will be left are children, the old, some craftspeople. Even the smiths and tanners have their armor and bows.” She pointed at her own panoply. Her blades and armor were well-worn and patinaed with decades of use. Her age had slowed her, but she was still capable. Riga had beaten her once. Arwen had then spanked her buttocks with the flat, to keep her modest.

“That’s why I’m called, then,” Riga decided. It wasn’t flattering to be needed rather than wanted. “I’ve packed us down to ten stone of essentials, with water.”

“Do you have your stuffed bear?” Arwen asked with a faint smile.

Riga blushed, because she did. Mother had made it for her long ago. She said nothing.

“Oh, child, take the toy. It weighs little, and if it offers comfort, it hurts nothing. You can’t take a cat or dog.”

“I’d like to take signal birds.”

“So would everyone. I have two left, both young and not the best.”

“They’ll fit right in, then,” Riga said in self-deprecating humor.

“You plan better than half the men in camp, girl. A dozen I saw without gloves. ‘Just a couple of days,’ they said. Aye, and it’ll be cool those days, and colder at night.”

“I’ll need extra travel rations, in case of delay. We won’t have time for hunting.”

“That I have. Thrice-baked biscuits, hard cheese, honeyed nuts, and smoked meat. It’ll bind up your guts, but you won’t be hungry. Or rather, you’ll have to be to eat it.” Arwen dragged two prepared bundles over.

“I’m told I’m too picky about my food, anyway. This might help my reputation.”

“Only so long as you don’t come back half-starved,” she chuckled.

“That would be my brother.” Erki was finicky beyond belief. Meat and bread were all he would eat, given the chance.

“Ah, I’ll talk to him before you leave. I’ll fix that.”

“Do you have any shooting stars?” she asked.

“One per party. Your colors are purple and green, yes?” She turned and mixed powders and stalk, tamped the end, and sealed it with wax. “Though it’ll only help if there’s someone nearby.”

Shortly, Trausti had a camp pack with food, the birds and shooting star, three large water jugs, the sundries. Their riding horses were trimmed to move fast. If it came to that, poor Trausti was in trouble.

Riga wore her sword high on her side; a brace of javelins and a spear rode up behind her with her bow-case and a capped quiver of arrows. She wore a large knife at her belt, a small one in her boot. A broad round shield, iron bossed, covered the pack over Blessi’s rump; the edges of her mail and bedding peeked out, with her helm mounted atop.

Her fighting clothes were masculine, a thigh-length tunic and trews. The heavy cloth was a luxuriant, comfortable weave that would stop the whipping wind. Her family might have money, but they didn’t waste it, so the clothes were repaired and patched, multiply over knees and elbows. Her boots were calf high and well worn, hard enough for riding, soft enough for walking or fighting. She hoped the dull fabric made her look a bit worn and experienced.

Erki only looked like a boy. He carried a sword with bone and wood fittings, the scabbard carved with beasts and tipped in bronze. He had no spear, just a bow, and only the one knife. His garb, like hers, was fine but well worn. Eir was a pony at best, but Erki handled him surely.

An hour later they were riding, leading Trausti behind them at a fast walk. They each had a pannier of oats to supplement forage. The horses weren’t the massive chargers of warrior lords, but sturdy beasts used to skirmish and short rations, not to mention shipboard travel.

Riga kept glancing at her map. It wouldn’t make things move faster, but it was a nervous habit. She’d never gotten lost, though, so she didn’t plan to change.

“There’s Acabarrin,” Erki said, peering over. “Why do the refugees have to leave?”

She sighed. She wasn’t sure of the politics herself, certainly not enough to explain them to another child. She hated the subject, but her father was the town teacher. He insisted relations between countries and groups were the key to trade, war, even happiness. She thought he exaggerated on the latter.

“You’ve heard of Miklamar. He wants their land.”

“Why doesn’t he just trade? Ships come from the Black Kingdoms, all over the seas. Why waste money on a long campaign?”

She sighed. The boy was right, and wiser than some adults.

“He doesn’t think that way,” she said. “No, I don’t know why,” she added, before he could ask. “He wants everything.”

“The way I used to take all the biscuits and make you come and get them? Because I was afraid of running out?”

“That could be,” she agreed. It very well could be. “That would make him as mature as a five-year-old.” With some of the more gruesome stories she’d heard, that also made sense. It wasn’t comfortable to think of adults being so immature.

They stopped talking except to coax the horses through puddles in the terrain, still ice-skinned from the chill night. Anyone without gloves and hood was going to regret it. It was cool and getting colder. Brisk gusts of wind punctuated the air.

On the way back they’d not take this route, she decided. She’d mark it in ink later. Improving the map was the duty of every Kossaki. She marked larger copses of trees, deep gullies, bare rocky tops, and stream courses that were landmarks.

They stopped at dusk, wanting enough time to pitch a proper camp on a slight rise with a nearby copse as a windbreak and for fuel. She easily found what she needed in this rolling terrain.

“Erki, trample grass.”

The boy was enthusiastic about the task, stomping and jumping. As he did so, she made a quick sweep around the copse and hill. Nothing and no one in sight. It was as if they were the only people in the world.

Erki had the grass flat. With a tarp, a spear, a rope and three pegs, they had shelter in minutes. A few moments’ digging with a trowel shaped sleeping hollows; then Erki threw his smaller tarp and the blankets within. Riga grabbed hobbles so the horses could graze without straying. The plowpoint shelter opened downwind, and she dug a firepit before grabbing food.

“Beef and honey-nuts, Erki,” she said, holding a bag aloft.

She was amused to see the boy tumble grinning toward her with an armful of fuel, dropping and recovering it as he came, just as if he had too many biscuits. They had been born fair-skinned Northerners, though they were tanned now from the plains, and Erki had sky-blue eyes and straw hair that would have the girls lining up to be courted, especially with that grin. They grew taller and more robust than the plains natives, too.

It was close to freezing by the time she backed into the tent and rolled under the blankets with her fleece and linen bear. She snuggled up tight to Erki, who was cuddly but getting bony as he sprouted up. He put out a lot of heat. He also kicked and tossed even when asleep. The fire burned its small sticks and moss quickly, offering little heat. She took a long time to fall asleep, starting at every howl, flutter, and gust of wind. They were safe, she told herself. She’d made a sweep, and the horses would alert them to trouble, not to mention kick a wolf.

She woke stiff and groggy in the chill silver-gray dawn. Actually, it was the fourth or fifth time she woke, due to Erki’s incessant twitching and kicking and stealing of covers. Kari would have been a better choice to camp with, but she was on another route.

Riga chewed her tooth bristle as she struck the tent with its feathery fungus of frost. Oh, she ached. At home, she had a four-poster bed, like any town-bred girl of means. She could sleep on the ground when she had to, but even bundled warm was not enough when cold fog rolled past. She’d been fine until she stood; then her spine and neck protested.

There was nothing to do but ride. They chewed hard biscuits, hard cheese and dried meat, all cold. She longed for an apple.

Half the morning, then rest, lunch and unsaddle, resaddle and ride half the afternoon, then rest. Blessi was doing great for such a long trip. The two signal birds in their cages on Trausti’s back were not so calm. They twittered. She sent one aloft in midafternoon. “Circle and see,” she told it.

It landed a few minutes later and cocked its head south. They rode that way.

Dinner was also a saddle meal. They should be getting close, she thought. They were in from the coast, and she thought she could catch occasional glimpses of the Acabarrin border hills south of here.

“I see them,” Erki said.

She squinted and saw movement in the dusk ahead of them and west, a small caravan seen from the side. The wagons were not plainsworthy, only meant for use in farmland. The rough, rolling ground would disable them soon. Some people walked alongside. The horses and mules were old but healthy. One wagon was drawn by oxen. Chickens, children, and caged rabbits filled out the swaying loads.

“Good job,” she said. “Look sharp and we’ll ride up.”

She called softly, not wanting to echo through the night. “Ho!” They heard and faced her, but she was far too close for them to have done anything against a threat. A few of them might know enough fighting to hold off brigands, with enough numbers. None of them were warriors.

She trotted to the front, watching them watch her. No one gave any indication of status, so she chose the driver of the lead wagon.

She spoke in Acabarr. “I am Riga Gundesdati called Sworddancer, Scout Archer of Gangibrog of the Kossaki. This is my brother Erki. We will escort you to Little Town.”

“We’ll meet your war party there?” Clearly, he didn’t know where he was on the map.

“No, that’s your destination, out of Acabarrin and past our lands,” she said firmly. His wife looked relieved under her shawl.

He said, “But we’re pursued! And you are two youths.” He eyed Erki with disdain, and her with an admiring stare, but probably not for her martial bearing.

“Many are pursued, and we’re not a large town. You needn’t worry. Two Kossaki are more than enough for a caravan of thirty.” Riga smiled in false pride. She didn’t believe her own tale. She was sure she could fight most adult men, certainly peasant levies. However, some of the pursuing forces were professionals.

“We’re at least headed in the right direction,” a man commented from the second wagon. “I am Walten, the smith.”

“Greetings,” she said. “Yes, near enough the right direction. It’s time to stop, though.”

“We should travel through the night to make distance,” the first driver said.

“You should stop now before losing a wheel or a horse in the holes and dips hereabouts.”

“That’s wise, Jarek,” Walten said. Jarek clearly wanted to argue, but acceded.

The drivers stopped their wagons, and she dismounted.

“You’ll need three pickets,” she said, taking charge. “Front, aft, and steerboard. We’ll take port.”

“Yes, I’ve traveled before,” Jarek said.

She bit her lip. While she might have come across a bit presumptuously, she was the local guide and warrior. His presentation and gear marked him as a trained village militiaman, no more.

Still, he was doing the right thing. She let them maneuver and get sorted, then chose a slight hummock to camp on.

Remembering that Erki had been nodding in the saddle, she ordered him into the tent to sleep. She’d need him alert tomorrow. She inspected their pickets herself and forced herself to say nothing. They weren’t worth much. She’d sleep with her sword and with her bow strung. She warned against fire. There was little to use as fuel unless they wanted to burn animal dung, which was not only unsavory but would stink for miles.

This night was worse than the last, with squalling babies. They might be uncomfortable, but they made more noise than a seasick Kossaki whelp. Clearly, they were not a traveling people. Riga awoke about dawn, still groggy but unable to sleep, and crawled out. Her cloak had been over them as another blanket. Now it was a tangled heap next to Erki. She grabbed it, wrapped it around herself, and looked around. She’d dislodged her bear, which was outside. She blushed and stuffed it into a sack.

The caravan was readying to move. They had no trouble fleeing and seemed adequate in their care and preparations, but, gods, they made a racket and left a trail a noseblind hound could follow.

She understood their fear, but they were already mounted and inching forward, as if they planned to leave their guides. She prodded her brother with her toe and said, “Erki, strike quick.” She walked briskly to the front wagon.

“I didn’t get your name last night, driver,” she said to the gruff man.

“Jarek,” he said.

“I’m impressed at your speed in striking camp,” she said. “We’ll make good time today.”

“Guide us west, then,” he said. He still didn’t look at her.

“West is Rissim and Kossaki territory. I’m to take you to Little Town on Lake Diaska.”

“It’s too far,” he said.

“Our territory is too close and can’t support many people. My orders are to take you to Little Town,” she repeated. He was frustrated and scared, but he had only vague notions of where he was going. “We go north, slightly east.”

“The lake is north-northwest,” he said. Blast the man for having to argue every point.

“Which takes you through hummocks that’ll tear off a wheel. I won’t even take a horse through there.”

“I’m sure when you have as much experience as I do, you’ll be able to.”

Riga boiled and had to pause before replying.

“Have you more experience with this steppe?” she asked.

He ignored her and reined forward, toward the west. The trailing drivers shouted to their teams to follow.

She sprinted back to Blessi and mounted fast. “Erki, mount now!” A squeeze of her heels, a quick gallop, and she was in front.

“Have you?” she asked again.

Jarek snorted and turned away.

If he wanted to rouse her ire, he was going at it the right way.

She slid over her saddle, stood off-stirrup, and stepped over to his seat. He looked up surprised just in time to catch her slap full across his face. His wife gasped.

Riga realized her mistake. She’d hit him either too hard, or not nearly hard enough. He shoved her in the middle and she bounded off. Almost catching her stirrup and bridle, she wound up on the ground, wincing at a twisted ankle and gritting her teeth as she remounted. This was not a good way to lead.

She looked at her brother and saw him fingering his hilt, a dark look on his face.

“Erki,” she commanded, and pointed. He nodded at once and trotted forward to block the route, trying to look mean and only looking like a boy playing. She sighed. Jarek attempted to steer around, and she interposed with his draft mules. They all bound up in a knot and stopped.

She fought down anger. If it were reversed—Erki the teen—he’d probably be accepted, and she a cute mascot. As it was, he was seen as a mere boy, not a warrior in training, and she as a flighty girl. She was angry with herself over the bear, also.

“Girl, I will spank you if you don’t move,” Jarek growled. His eyes hinted he’d enjoy it, too.

Well, that put it in terms she understood as a fighter. She looked him over. Wiry. About her height. Shorter legs.

She swung to the ground. “You’re welcome to try.”

His first move was to detour again. He thought better of it, apparently realized he had to take the challenge or look foolish. Growing red in the face and tight-jawed, he stepped down from his seat. He shrugged off his wife’s restraining hand.

He’d look foolish spanking her, too. Either way, he’d lost, but Riga had not yet won.

This could be dangerous several ways, she realized, not the least of which was he might spank or beat her. She’d certainly lose face and status from that and from losing her charges. Erki would probably let the story of any spanking slip. Accidentally, of course, but it would still shame her.

Luckily, Jarek was so contemptuous he didn’t even consider she might actually know how to fight. He grabbed her wrist and pulled to bend her over his knee. She locked his elbow with a methodical yank, caught his wrist in her own hand as she broke the hold, then kicked his calf until he was on his knees. He grunted as he went down. He struggled until she pressed on his elbow. It would take but a moment to follow through and stand on his neck, but she decided to hold back.

“I ask that you trust me,” she said, loud enough to keep it public and diplomatic. “I know these plains, and they’re not just empty fields. I’ll speed you through and keep eye out for threats, animal or man.”

Walten said in loud reply, “I call to follow her. We’d look silly stuck in a bog.” Riga wondered why he wasn’t in charge. He was much more mature and thoughtful. Politics.

Jarek was clearly incensed, embarrassed, and offended, but he seemed to grasp that he was outmaneuvered. He nodded and clambered silently up to his wagon.

“So lead us,” he said, grinning. He thought to be clever and leave the entire problem in Riga’s lap.

Perfect.

She smiled, mounted, and led the way. She pointed north and slightly east.

Then she had to rush to help Erki gather their camping gear and Trausti. It detracted from her warrior presentation.

She didn’t try to talk to Jarek, and cautioned Erki with hand signs to keep quiet. She couldn’t have them sounding like children, and nothing was going to warm this man up until she accomplished something.

Of course, when one needed everything to go right, it would invariably go wrong. Shortly, a party became visible ahead. They were on tall horses with no wagons. A patrol.

She’d gain nothing by withholding the information, and it was unlikely they’d suddenly turn east and clear the way.

“Party ahead,” she said clearly and simply.

“I wonder if it’s too late to turn west,” Jarek said loudly. “Men, arm up!”

“Wait!” she called. “I will go and treat with them. Erki, take this,” she said, handing him the map satchel.

She galloped ahead, both to avoid the tension of two armed parties meeting and to get away from Jarek’s scared but derisive laughter.

She slowed to a canter once she had space. She watched the soldiers to see how they reacted. They faced her and kept moving at a walk. That was encouraging so far. She matched that pace. No need to rush to meet death.

Gulping and sweating, she remembered her position. She was the warrior. Her duty was to protect these people. With that in mind, she sat tall in the saddle and approached, doing her best to look casually proud and secure in her status. They weren’t in livery, but that meant nothing. Her own people didn’t wear set colors.

She brushed her bow with her fingertips. She might have to draw, shoot, and drop it before reverting to steel. She wished for one of the short, laminated bows of the plains people. Hers was a longbow of two horns with a center grip, stronger but awkward from horseback. She was a foot warrior, not a plains rider. She wished she had time to don her mail.

Her opposite number was a bearlike man she knew she could never beat in any fight. She might cripple him, but even that was a long roll of the dice. Once inside bow range she had nothing but projection and attitude. Still, his bearded face and shaven head were visible because he was unhelmed. That was a helpful sign. His three compatriots followed his lead.

“I am Riga of the Kossaki,” she said simply. No rankings here. They’d just sound silly. “I am guide and escort for these refugees.” She wondered which languages they spoke.

“Balyat of the Toughs,” the man said in broken Danik. “What is your destination?” She could comprehend.

“I won’t discuss that,” she replied. “It is north, as you see, and away from here. That’s enough for you.” Had she delivered that properly? She wanted to sound firm but not arrogant.

“If you go that way, we won’t call you hostile,” he said. “But we don’t speak for our employer.”

“Good to know we might only be killed for money, not for care, mercenary,” she said. Four of them. She might take the smallest down before she died, if she was quick. She held the shiver to a bare twitch.

“Keep moving,” Balyat advised. “We report tonight.”

“Fair enough,” she said, and meant it. With luck and speed, a few hours would have them safe. If not, at least they would suffer a quick, clean death from professional warriors, not the nauseating horrors of the Empire’s troops.

“I hope not to meet again, Kossaki,” Balyat said and turned his mount.

As she turned, she smiled slightly to herself. A renowned troop of mercenaries seemed to accept her as warrior, even though inferior.

Civilians were harder to persuade, though. They always wanted to tell you how to conduct a fight, while not fighting themselves.

The look on Jarek’s face as she returned was interesting. It wasn’t one of trust, but it might have a glimmer of respect.

“Who were they?” he asked.

“Oh, just some mercenaries,” she smiled. “I told them who I was, and they agreed to let us pass.” It wouldn’t have worked with most of the hired thugs on the peninsula, nor fealted troops. She wouldn’t share that, though.

Erki looked ready to burst out with something that would wreck it. “Erki, take the rear for a bit, and keep watch,” she said to interrupt him. He nodded and trotted back.

She turned further north and kept them driving until full dark. Jarek argued to keep going, but his own wife spoke up, and others. They were so exhausted the walkers staggered, and the riders could barely stand.

It wasn’t any warmer that night, though the ground was flatter and the grass thick enough to offer some padding. They didn’t dare risk fire. They were a few miles from where the mercenaries had patrolled. Fire could mean the difference between being passed by a few hundred yards away or being seen from miles.

Wake, and move. This distance had taken Erki and her under two days. It was taking three for the caravan, and that was at a speed that strained human endurance.

Toward afternoon, they saw movement to the west, paralleling them. It took most of an hour to discern it was a larger caravan with outriders. Then a messenger bird swooped in, lit on Erki’s shoulder, to his delight and nervousness, and twittered, “Helloooo from Karlinooo.” It stretched out a claw with a tiny note bound to it.

It was a rough map with a list of family groups. Riga read them off loudly. “Fenk the Smith, Nardin the Banwriht ... boneworker? It’s your language in our letters. Rager the Fitter.” She hadn’t talked much to the caravan members, but they muttered and exclaimed in relief that some of their friends and acquaintances were accounted for.

The other caravan was huge. It must be a dozen families, perhaps an entire village. One of the half dozen escorts shouted and broke off. Riga gave a warbling shriek, and reined back.

“Kari!”

“Riga!” Her friend galloped up, and they hugged from horseback, sweaty and dusty and warm to the touch.

“Gentles, this is my friend Karlinu the Quick, Scout Spear.”

Jarek just grunted. Walten nodded, smiled, and said, “Hello.” The others offered greetings.

Karlinu said, “Herald Bellan wants a tally. He’s here, and another Herald is in Gangibrog.”

Riga gestured with her head and moved a bit forward. Kari nodded and paced her.

Once out of earshot, Riga said, “I’ve barely heard of these Heralds before. Why are they so influential? Our entire town has stopped working.” She didn’t want to be presumptuous, but she had a vested interested as part owner of her father’s dock and transfer business. Their safety was also her concern, with all this attention.

“Talk later,” Kari said. “Tally?”

“Twenty-seven. And how is your mother the Swordmistress?” She changed subjects, since she wasn’t going to get an answer.

“Frazzled and harried and snapping as if we’re at drill, even for mundane matters. It’s not just us. Knutsford is about, and the Ugri. The Morit as well.”

“The Morit. I wonder if Brandur ...” She stopped talking and blushed.

Karlinu laughed. “I expect your suitor will be there. But is it wise to be with a man you can easily best with sword?”

“I don’t care. I like him, and he’s not much poorer than we.”

“I must report. Hold on.” Kari reached into her horse’s pack and drew out a bird cage. It took her moments to inscribe a note and whisper another message while she attached the parchment to the bird’s leg sheath. “Fly home, fly home!” she said and tossed the bird skyward.

“Fly hoooome!” it agreed, circling and heading west.

Within the hour, the Herald came up personally. He wore riding clothes that were also white. His mount was a white stallion with vivid blue eyes. Riga hadn’t seen it closely before. Looking at it now, it seemed to stare at her and delve into her thoughts.

“You seem to be doing well, Riga,” he greeted.

She increased her pace and gave him a bare twitch of a rein finger. With a slow nod he moved to pace her. She waited until they had distance to speak.

“They treat me as a girl,” she said, “except when things go bad. Every problem is mine. Either my advice is bad, or I’m naı̈ve ...”

“They are villagers of a farming culture,” Bellan said. “You are a woman of a trading culture that grew from warriors. I knew this would be a problem, which is why I hurried to gather you all. You’ve done well, no matter how it feels.”

“Now they’ll just feel you’ve taken over,” she groused. She wasn’t sure why she was sharing so much with this stranger. He exuded trustworthiness, though.

“Of course,” he nodded. “But more importantly, they will be safe for now, and your people won’t be burdened with noncombatant refugees as you prepare. I can’t fight for you, but I can clear the field for you.”

Riga didn’t like the sound of that. It made sense that Miklamar was heading their way, but still ...

“Wouldn’t it make sense for your people to join us and fight here, before it reaches your lands?” she asked.

He laughed. “Oh, Riga, Valdemar is weeks away by road, even as fast as my Companion can travel.” He patted the horse’s flank. “I’ll do what I can to help, but Miklamar is no threat to my nation. Our rulers are busy with things close to home. Nothing as important as an empire-building butcher, but far more immediate. It’s one of the tragedies of the world. Your people must deal with this as best you can. Still, I’m glad we were in the area and can offer some help.”

He paused for a moment, as if listening to the air, or his horse. Riga took the time to consider his words. No, she didn’t think her remote town, nor even their small nation, were important worldwide. She’d hoped for more, though.

“There is a war band ahead,” Bellan said.

“Is it the mercenaries?” she asked, half in hope, half in dread.

“They’re on foot, crossing us, probably from the coast road. We can outride them, but the refugees can’t.” Their wagons managed a walking pace at best in this terrain. The children and elders wouldn’t be able to keep up on foot.

“Not the Toughs I met, then.”

“Behind them may be more. We can’t detour that way. We also can’t wait. We’ll have to go through, then ride fast and through the night.” He seemed to shift back to the present. “Please come with me. We need to plan this.”

“Yes, certainly,” she agreed. She turned and called, “Erki! Take point.”

Riga nodded to the others as she approached. No one here saw her as only a girl. Most had felt her blows. Kari, Snorru, Rabal and his uncle Lar, three other men and two women, and the Grogansen boys.

A dozen Kossaki, half youths and women, and the Herald. The army ahead was hopefully less than eight times that size, but might be the van of a far larger force.

“What would you do, Sworddancer?” Lar asked. She realized things were being hashed out and she’d missed some of the talk.

She breathed deeply and stared at nothing. A prayer cleared her mind and she thought.

“I’d shoot arrows from distance and continue until closing. We should dismount close to cause surprise and hopefully break their ranks with fear of the horses.”

“Not bad. We need wranglers. Nor do we want a long fight with infantry. We must hurt them and retreat fast, then look prepared to repeat it. Those levies won’t have the heart for a long fight against professionals, without the mercenaries.”

“We’re to look like professionals?”

“Worse,” Kari grinned. “We’re girls.”

Girls with twelve years of training in horse, sword, bow, map, languages and business, Riga thought, and grinned back. No Kossaki would underestimate a youth. They were fighters, traders, and travelers from the time they could walk.

She said, “Erki should wrangle and recover bows and glean points, but he’ll complain I’m being protective.” Of course, she was, but it made sense for him as youngest to hold back. He could also ride fastest if need be, to carry a message.

“I’ll tell him,” Bellan said.

“Also, we should fire off a shooting star.”

“What good will that do?” Snorru asked. Our nearest element is hours away.”

“They don’t know that. Act as if we expect overwhelming backup, and hit them hard. As Lar says, they won’t stomach a long fight.”

“And best we scare them now,” Bellan said. “Soon enough Miklamar will want your port, also, if he’s not stopped.”

“It might alert another patrol, too,” Rabal said.

“It might. What do you think of that against its advantages?”

“Yes, it’s risky,” Lar said. “But the mercenaries have reported by now. That’s probably why this force is crossing bare steppe toward the caravan.”

“Yes,” Riga agreed.

“Do it.”

Riga and Bellan rode back to the caravan, now combined with the others.

“We’ll be fighting, then cutting across fast and continuing,” Bellan told them.

“We will arm up, then,” Walten said, looking old but sounding firm.

“No, you should move fast and protect your families if it comes to that.”

Jarek nodded, and Riga steamed. He didn’t question Bellan. Had she given the same advice, she knew he’d have argued.

Bellan said, “Northwest, and fast. There are towns. Stop only for feed and water, and be sure they know the threat. From Little Town, head north to the rivers.”

“Start that way now,” Riga said. “We’ll catch up and guide you later.”

Then she turned, not wanting to know what they thought, and trying not to care. She saw a blue and yellow shooting star scream up: Snorru’s colors. It crackled and burst, visible for miles. She grabbed for her mail, and shimmied in. Then she helped Erki with his quilted staghide. It was loose on his frame, but it wouldn’t be for long. Handsome boy, she sighed. She worried more for him than herself.

One in seven, she thought. Wound or kill one in seven, and all but the most dedicated force would retreat. There were seventy-two troops, eight across and nine deep, with two mounted officers. They had bills and spears mostly, with shields, and leather armor. They were not elite, but they were definitely professional, even if levied.

They needed to wound about one each, if they didn’t lose too many themselves, though desperation gave them determination.

The troops looked nervous as they approached. The small Kossaki force approaching with weapons drawn was either insane or expected backup beyond the hundred militiamen in the caravan. The shooting star suggested backup. Where was it, though? Riga watched them cast glances about and ripple their neat formation.

Bellan quietly said, “First line, dismount, shoot on my order. Second line, prepare to charge.” He wore gorgeous mail with iron joints, and a polished helm.

She swung from the saddle, drew an arrow, and stood next to Blessi.

“Shoot. Charge.”

She nocked, drew, loosed, and shot again. She had three arrows in the air before he called, “Hold!”

Their timing and discipline were good. The other half of their force and Bellan had galloped ahead and were dismounting right in the faces of the enemy, hurling javelins as they did so.

The troops moved their shields in response. Only a couple shouted from wounds. A score of arrows and a half-dozen javelins used for that. It was amazing how expensive battle was.

Riga dropped her bow and sprinted forward, un-slinging her shield and drawing steel. She saw Erki gathering reins and backing, cajoling the horses. They were holding up well in the fight, and he was earnest in his task. She saw all that live steel, and her knees went weak. Sparring with blunt steel in the vollar was nothing like ugly strangers who wanted you dead. Her helmet was loose, but there was no time to adjust it.

The enemy spread out for envelopment and slaughter, and Bellan pointed to the left. She moved over that way, between Kari and Snorru. Lar tossed a javelin right past her, to break their line into clumps. One flinched as it caught on his shield and made the mistake of reaching over to unstick it. She reached him, snapped out her sword and took a chunk from his arm. He staggered back howling and got in the way of his mates.

The troops had numbers and were trained to follow orders. They had discipline but not the years of precision and skill she’d learned. She deflected a raised pole and got in close to thrust at anything exposed. The three nearest all turned to face her and started jabbing. It turned into a deadly dance.

This was how she’d earned her name. Father had always taught her that if you were blocking, you should also be attacking, if attacking, also moving. One foot should be aground for balance, one shifting, and both arms fighting. The shield boss could also bash, its binding smash, its broadness conceal your movement from your opponent. The sword could threaten as well as strike. Silence and noise were each intimidating. Moving targets were harder to hit. She’d inflicted no lethal blows yet, but her opponents, four so far, were cut and bleeding. A gimp arm took a warrior out of the fight and was easy to score. If they wanted to stick them out, she’d cut them. She was smaller, lithe, agile, and used to fighting one to one as well as en masse.

“One, back!” Bellan called, and Kari and Snorru turned and whipped away. She gulped and tingled in fear. Knowing it was planned didn’t make it easier to be left in front, face to face with angry strangers. They pushed forward, seeing the Kossaki retreat and believing they had won.

“Two, back!” Bellan shouted.

She turned and ran, keeping low so javelins could fly over her. Then she saw Erki off to the side. He’d dismounted to recover a bow, and one stray fighter was closing on him.

Her first thought was that it made no sense. The man was chasing a target of little value. She wondered if his plan was to take a hostage, or chase the horses off, but he was waving his polecleaver vigorously.

Then raw pain and nausea flooded through her mind. He was going to kill her little brother.

Tactics said she should stick with the element and her orders or she’d make the disparity of numbers worse. Tactics be damned. “Erki, your left!” she shouted to alert him, and dodged past Bellan’s mount. Erki turned and grabbed for his weapons.

“Go, Riga!” Bellan said, acknowledging her, but she didn’t care. The first swing of that long weapon tore and splintered Erki’s shield to the boss. He stumbled back and raised his sword to block. The cleaver fell, met the sword in a dull clang. He dropped his weapon and howled, face contorted in agony, but he hadn’t been opened up yet.

Then the soldier realized he was being flanked and turned. He had no time to swing, so he thrust. Riga caught the tip straight into the tough leather and wood of her shield, twisted into it. He made the mistake of trying to hold on to the haft, and wound up sideways to her.

Her first swing hit too hard. She felt the blade bite and stick in his thigh, and had to fight it loose as he fell, kicking and screaming. Real battle was tremendously noisier and dirtier than the vollar, she thought as she followed up with a thrust to his torso.

She retained enough presence of mind to make a sweep around herself. Some officer had drawn the force back into a bristling defensive formation. Kossaki javelins chunked into shields but rarely found a mark, and one of the Grogansens had recovered his bow. She was safe for the present.

For a moment she thought Erki had lost an arm. He shrieked and squirmed and was painted with blood. A fresh bout of nausea started, and she grabbed for a bandage from her belt. It was only his thumb, though, or part of it. The blade had not been sharp and had mangled it. He might retain some use.

She dropped her sword in front of her, slapped his helmet to draw his attention back to the world and shouted, “Use this!” as she thrust a bandage at him. He gasped in surprise and nodded, before she reached under his hips and heaved him back across his saddle and the added pain of moving set him screaming again. She bent, grabbed her sword, made another sweep, then grabbed his blade and Snorru’s bow. It was heavier than hers, but she’d draw it if she had to. She said, “Off hand!” and flipped Erki’s sword up to him as he tumbled upright. Then she turned back to the fight, clutching at her quiver. Her hands were sticky.

Her first arrow wobbled. The bow needed heavier arrows than hers, but the range wasn’t great. She wondered where the brilliant flash of flame came from, then realized four shooting stars had been fired horizontally. Half the front rank clutched at their eyes and dropped their guard, during which Snorru, Lar, and the Grogansens charged in and speared any handy flesh, then jammed the points into shields and left them as they dove and rolled away. Those troops had to drop their shields, and she shot an arrow straight into the revealed mass. Two javelins followed.

She put her third arrow into the officer riding down on them. It was a lucky shot. She’d been aiming for the torso and caught him in the throat, right under the helmet. No one could see luck, though, only a hit.

He tumbled from his horse, and the fight was over, the foot troops retreating in ragged order, glancing back but with no heart to fight. They carried and dragged their wounded. Only two dead yet, four lame and being carried, perhaps twenty wounded, but infection would take others, unless their leaders were the type to waste healing magic on arrow fodder. She suspected not.

Still, the caravan would have to move faster, even if it meant losing a wagon and any contents that couldn’t be shared in a hurry. Where those troops came from there would be others. There wasn’t time to properly loot, only to grab pouches, weapons, and the occasional helmet, and to recover a few bows and javelins.

Snorru, mounted, led Erki by his left hand. The boy looked faint from pain and shock. They reached the caravan, and Snorru helped Erki down as Riga jumped from her saddle.

Bellan caught up, grabbed Erki, inspected his hand in a moment, and shoved him down on the gate of a wagon.

“Let’s do this fast. Riga, can you hold him? And Kari.”

“I can,” she said, voice cracking and tears blinding her. She grabbed his arm, pinned it down, and leaned her weight on it. Kari did the same on the left, as Erki panicked and started thrashing. Only his feet could move, drumming and kicking on the wagon deck. She closed her eyes and wished she could close her ears and nose. Snorru ran up and shoved a leather rein between his teeth for him to bite on. Riga heard his cries, and under them, the sound and smell of battlefield surgery. His screams hit a crescendo as Bellan said, “That’s it. Only one joint. You’ll still be able to work and fight. Drink this.” He handed over a leather bottle as he turned to help bandage Lar’s arm. There were several moderate wounds.

Erki was too dazed to handle the bottle, and Riga helped him drink. He guzzled five times, and she pulled the bottle back. He needed help with the pain, but not enough to get sick. Then she took three burning swallows herself. Kari did, too, then Snorru. They swapped looks that combined compassion, fear, horror, and the bond that came only with shared battle.

After easing Erki into his saddle so he could rest, they rode another five miles before Bellan called a halt, well after dark. Everyone slept on wagons or under them, ready to fly if another troop came. Walten offered his wagon to the Kossaki youth, and slept underneath.

Erki cried and cried. He’d quiet down, drift fitfully to sobbing sleep, then some tortured nerve would jolt him awake to writhe and scream again. The herbs were supposed to lessen the pain and prevent infection, but hand injuries were among the most painful.

Riga cried, holding him tight in the damp cold amid dust and tools, comforting him. They were children, not warriors. They shouldn’t have to fight, certainly not Erki. He was barely lettered and just big enough to ride. She cursed Miklamar and his troops, the mercenaries, Jarek and his helpless bumtwits, the Swordmistress, Bellan. Couldn’t they fight their own battle and leave her out of it? She clutched her bear, not caring if anyone saw.

She realized part of her distress was fear of losing Erki, had the blow been better aimed. Or her father. Or herself. A warrior was willing to risk such things, but she wasn’t sure she was.

It was only a thumb! People lost worse in grindstones, forges, even looms. Bjark had lost two joints of fingers just last year. It could have been worse.

But this was Erki, and it had been in war. That made it different.

And it could have been worse.

In the morning, pressups and sword drill did nothing to loosen the knot in her shoulder or the ache on the side of her head. Erki looked groggy from shock and fatigue, but he’d stopped crying. He let nothing near his hand, though.

It took all day, but by dusk Lake Diaska was visible, the sun glittering off its windblown waves. Gangibrog was at the south point, Little Town, now part of the Kingdom of Crane, to the north. They pushed on, saddlesore and stiff, but with a huge burden lifted.

They stopped, late and exhausted to staggers. The refugees rolled up in blankets where they sat or sprawled and made snide but quiet comments about the Kossaki setting camp. Riga finished pitching the shelter quickly, despite working alone, disregarding their snickers. Tonight would be cold. They’d learn as they traveled north.

Erki looked unhappy, able only to hold a javelin while she drove spikes and dug them in. She shooed him in and crawled in alongside, with an extra blanket against the chill.

In the morning, the elders were locked in conference. They didn’t break for long minutes while the mist and dew burned off. Riga secured the gear and handed Erki a bowl of hard cheese and nuts.

“Thank you,” he said, staring at his bandaged thumb.

“I’m sorry.” If she’d been a moment sooner ...

“I wonder what it feels like to die?” he asked.

That was the type of question children asked parents. She wasn’t ready for it yet. And she knew what it felt like to kill.

Bellan finally came over with a wave for attention.

“We’ll have to split up. You’ll take Erki home, with the other youths. Now that they’re one group, we’ll take them north. The Morit will meet us.”

Riga choked a little and took a deep breath. She’d spent all night nerving up to continue, and now she was being replaced, just a girl again. She did want to go home, badly. She also wanted to finish the job. She’d completely forgotten that she and Brandur might meet, and that chance was also gone.

“I understand,” was all she could say.

“You’re named well, Sworddancer,” he said with a reassuring smile. “Morle was right to select you.”

Riding back wasn’t bad, with Kari and the Grogansens for company. Even Snorru, who’d always been a bit self-absorbed, treated Erki almost like his own brother. They made good time toward the road and saw lake barges towed by sail tugs. They passed occasional traffic at a run.

Once in town, she could see things returning to normal. The hus was open, too. Father was home!

They galloped alongside the planked road, heedless of the splattering muck, and she dismounted as he came out the door.

“Riga!” he shouted, grinning and arms wide. She charged up and leaped at him.

A moment later she said, “You’re squashing me.”

“I like squashing you,” he said, very softly. She started crying.

The fire was going, and he’d made a large pot of stew. It was so like being home, and so like being a girl again. She ate and warmed herself, peeling off layers. Meanwhile, Father looked at Erki’s thumb.

“Arwen has fresh herbs, not like the dried ones for the field. And it’s not much of a wound. You’ll get used to it and be able to work just fine. Remember this?” He showed one of his own injuries, a smashed fingertip.

Riga moved away, not wanting to see it again. She hung her clothes, mounted her mail and helm on their stand, and set about cleaning her sword.

Before she took over the ledgers, she might have to be a warrior. She’d trained for it all her life, but she’d never thought to actually use it, beyond a tavern brawl or a mob of thieves at quayside, the occasional bandits or brigands. It was a cold thought.

Meanwhile, she was home with her family, a soft bed, her toys and crafts, and a chance to be a girl again, for the little time she could.

Broken Bones

by Stephanie D. Shaver

Stephanie Shaver lives in St. Louis, Missouri, with her cats and her computers. When she isn’t working, cooking, wrestling with her lawn, or writing, she’s out in the woods climbing something or frantically checking for ticks. Her day job involves creating online games for Simutronics, where she acts as a lead designer and creative know-it-all for the fantasy-based MMORPG

Hero’s Journey

. You can find out more about her at her website,

www.sdshaver.com

.

“So. There I was—”

“A likely story.”

The Bard paused, inky nib poised over parchment. She hadn’t even written two words. “Do you want this report or not?”

She could hear the smirk in the Herald’s voice. “Can’t you just skip to the good part?”

“They’re all good parts!”

“Oh, fine then. You may continue.”

“You,” she said, stabbing her quill at the air, eyes still fixed on the parchment, “could test a Companion’s patience.”

“And often do.”

Lelia resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She took a big gulp of ale, then a deep breath, and squared her shoulders.

“So,” she said, scribbling once more. “There I was. Halfway to the middle of north nowhere, freezing my delicate Bardly bits off.”

Lelia’s teeth would not stop chattering. She had tried clenching them to make it stop, but that only made her feel like her teeth were going to crack from the strain.

I don’t remember the north being this cold when I was younger, she thought as she trudged forward. Mid-morning had started out warm, the snow melting a little, but by afternoon the temperature had plummeted, freezing what had thawed. Irregular gusts howled out of Sorrows to the north. Sunset threatened, casting hues of apricot and blush across the road.

“Sweet Kernos,” she muttered into her scarf, “I’m too young and precious to die.” Every breath she took tasted of greasy wool and the cold egg and onion pie she’d eaten for breakfast.

“I’m sure your overall adorableness is an important deciding factor for Lord Death,” a sweet voice said.

Lelia glanced in the direction of the speaker, and felt only a distant and winter-numbed surprise at seeing her best friend from the Collegium walking beside her, dressed out in the lightest summer Scarlets.

“Oh, hey, Maresa,” Lelia said. “Out for a stroll?”

Maresa snorted.

“I know. You’re not really here.” Lelia returned to focusing on trudging through the snow.

“Ah, but maybe I am?”

The voice had changed, and when Lelia looked again, it was her brother Lyle—more appropriately dressed in leather Whites—forging down the road with her.

“Really doubtful,” she replied to her figment, “but nice try. Still, I know you wouldn’t go anywhere without your horse.”

Her twin smiled at her, that heartbreaking, guileless smile that made her want to beat him over the head with a gittern and tell him to be more careful, dammit. He was safely out of gittern range, however, riding the Exile’s Road on the tail end of his first circuit with his mentor, Herald Wil.

“Oh, I could really be here,” Lyle said. “You’ve read enough stories. You know that strange things regularly transpire between twins.” The vision blurred, and he became a shade taller, his features sharper and his gray eyes less trusting. The Whites stayed the same. In his place was—

Lelia stopped, her narrative stalled.

“What?” the Herald asked.

“I am debating whether this bit is relevant,” she replied. “I was definitely hallucinating. My brother. Maresa . . .”

You. She toyed with the pendant around her neck.

“Too much time alone,” he said sagely.

“That, and I was half-starved, I couldn’t feel my extremities, and I’d been walking for candlemarks in the wind. My head had all sorts of reasons for dipping me into a vat of crazy.”

Her hand trembled with the name it was still poised to write—then she set the paper aside and reached for a clean sheet.

“Might be relevant,” she muttered to herself. “Might not. I’ll know later.”

She picked up the story a little further down the road.

“Lelia, you need a warmer jacket, and you should eat more.” The hallucination had kindly returned to being her brother, his lips curved in a beatific smile. “You can’t suffer for your work if you’re dead.”

“You think about yourself!” she growled back. “I’m not the one hoofing it around Evendim Sector under the tutelage of the Herald most likely to smother a burning orphanage with his own body!”

“Hickory,” Lyle replied.

“What?” she said, whipping her head in his direction—but no, he really wasn’t there. There may have been twins born with bonds strong enough to let their minds touch across massive distances, but Lyle and Lelia’s was not one of them.

This may all be delirium, but at least it’s a sensible delirium, she thought. The hallucination was right—it killed her to spend money on anything, but if she didn’t acquire a better jacket, it would just flat out kill her.

She shut her eyes against the glowing white snow and breathed in deeply.

A whiff of woodsmoke—hickory—caught her olfactory attention. Too real to be another waking dream. Squinting northward, she was pretty sure she could see a smudge of smoke against the horizon.

Village. Fire. Inn? Hopefully. Someone to make me clothes? Maybe. Her mouth watered. Food.

It took another half-candlemark for the promise of a village to resolve into something other than woods-moke and hope. It was not unlike many in this region: slate-roofed, large enough to sport a palisade, and with a central building in the square that was most certainly an inn.

She’d have wept for joy, if not for the fact that she was pretty sure her tears would have frozen on her cheeks.

“That’s how you wound up in Langenfield,” the Herald said.

“I was aiming for Waymeet.”

Stony silence.

She sighed. “I know. I missed by a few miles.”

A polite cough.

“Okay, I missed by a lot.” She took a long draught of ale. “Doesn’t matter. The ultimate goal is to get to Sorrows.”

“About that. Why?”

She shrugged. “One of my teachers at the Collegium always drilled into me to live Valdemar. Go to the battle sites, the weird forests, smell the smoke in the resin down at Burning Pines. I wanted to do that.”

She turned her mug. It was only one side of the jewel of truth. Just enough to convince an inquisitive Herald.

“And, as always, I wanted a song,” she added, flashing another facet.

“Oh?”

“Found it, even.” She grimaced. “I just didn’t know it when I first met her.”

Lelia staggered into the inn, and the middle of an argument.

“You ain’t listening!” a tall, powerfully built young man was saying to a petite blonde woman with greasy hair, tunic, and trews. He wasn’t quite yelling, but it was clear he was building up to that point. “There’re no bones on my hearth and none in my scrap pile!”

The girl flushed. “You were cooking a ham just last night—”

“I said I ain’t got any, and even if I did, I don’t know that I’d sell ’em to you! What part of that don’t you conjugate?”

“The p-part where y-you’re lying,” the blonde said in tones that could have frozen spirits of wine, even with her frustrated stammering. “And the w-word is c-c-cogitate, you country o-oaf!”

She spun and stormed toward the door, her warpath bent on bisecting Lelia—until she actually saw the Bard and stopped dead.

“Can I help you?” the young man said.

“A Bard?” whispered the blonde.

“That’s me!” Lelia said cheerfully, mustering what she hoped was a disarming grin and not a grim, half-frozen rictus. “Does your innmaster have room for one? I don’t have much money—”

“Bright Havens!” the man said, rushing over to relieve her of her pack. She kept his big, clumsy hands away from her gittern—no one handled Bloom but her—but gladly gave him the rest.

“If you’re playing, you’re staying!” he went on, and from what she gathered, he was the innmaster—just an awfully young one. “Hellfires, even if you’re not playing, you can still stay—how fares the Queen? The last we heard, there was a hunting accident!”

That’s the official story, yes, Lelia thought as she recounted what she knew—officially—to the innmaster, even as she edged toward a stool by the fire. The savory aroma of fennel sausage and sage nearly swept the strength from her knees.

Lelia sat, taking the opportunity to smile at the openly staring blonde. “And you are?”

The blonde’s nostrils flared. She turned and walked out.

Well, Lelia thought. Nice, friendly locals.

“Ah, I’m sorry, m’lady Bard,” the Innmaster said, hurrying over to a keg and taking a mug off a shelf. “That’s Herda and she’s ...” He shook his head. “Different. You’d do best to just ignore her.”

I would, but the argument you two were having actually sounded interesting. “Village madwoman?”

“Something like that.” The young man grinned, bringing her a brimming cup. “I’m Olli, and I’m the innmaster you’re looking for—you mind ale?”

Lelia raised her brows. “Good sir, you could serve me trough-water and I’d ask for more!”

He chuckled. “My brew’s not that bad! Now, you get warm here, m’lady Bard. I’m going to go get the word out that you’re in town!” He swept a heavy woolen cape down from a wooden peg by the door and hurried out into the dusk before she’d taken so much as a sip.

Lelia appraised the inn silently as she drank. Shabby but clean. It looked like it would hold a fair amount, though nothing like the alehouses in Haven, where more sensible Bards like Maresa made their names.

But it had seemed a grand adventure at first when Lelia decided to do as the Masters did: see, experience, integrate. A chance to find a song and change her scenery, to pursue a different kind of romantic notion—the kind that didn’t end in wine cups and broken hearts.

But blisters were not romantic. Fumbling around with numb fingers for dry firewood was not romantic. Eating snow to stave off hunger—downright prosaic.

“Should have been a Herald,” she muttered, turning her face toward the fire. “Should have saved a few brats from drowning and made one of them blue-eyed horsies Choose me. Then I’d have a convenient mount and I could melt brains with the Truth Spell.” She grinned, drowsing away into a happy fantasy where she could get any story anytime she needed it.

The inn filled with alarming speed. Lelia picked out farmers, housewives, and a few artisans, taking time to move through them and share brief exchanges, getting a feel for what jokes and performances would work with these folk. Her chats revealed that the village wasn’t big enough for a permanent Healer or even a priest, but it saw enough trade that not everyone made their living from the earth.

Herda’s “welcome” was no indication of her fellow villagers—everyone Lelia met seemed genuinely grateful to see her. Bards and skilled gleemen didn’t travel these roads often, and she and they knew it. She threw herself wholly into her performance, giving them her boisterous best. There was dancing and foot stomping. The wooden shutters shook, and the rafters rained dust.

Six pints, two sets, and three encores later she finally flopped over on the hearthstones, convincing the room that, yes, it was really over this time. Sleepy locals filed out, leaving her alone with the innmaster’s enormous cats, already drawing up plans to colonize her head and belly.

“Time to go, Herda,” she heard Olli say.

“I w-wanted to talk to the B-bard,” the familiar voice of the stammering Herda responded.

“Oh, now you want to talk?” Olli replied with flat stubbornness. “Come by tomorrow morning and talk then.”

“But it’s three miles from here to my home—”

“Herda.” Another voice, one worn with age. “Come along, dear. The Bard’s tired.”

Lelia heard the heavy door thud shut and the bar drop across it, accompanied by Olli’s grunt. Lelia continued emulating a hearth-puddle.

“A fine set tonight, Bard,” the innmaster said cheerfully. She could hear the scrape of the benches across the rush-strewn wooden floor as he put the room to rights again.

She raised her sore and throbbing right hand in a gesture of agreement and thanks.

“How long are you in town for?” he asked.

“Only as long as it takes me to acquire fresh provisions.” She liked phrasing it that way. It made it sound like she’d headed north with all the proper gear from the get-go.

“It’s been a long while since we had a Bard visit,” Olli said. “We’ve seen hard times.”

She raised her head a little. “Oh?”

“Snow fever. Last year. We’re only really recovering from it now.”

“I’m sorry.” She understood now why the innmaster was such a young man.

“Life on the Border. We’re just glad to have you. Bards remind us that there are other lights, other fires burning in the long nights.” He doffed an imaginary hat. “Sleep well, Bard. We’ll see you well fed in t’morning.”

“Thanks, Olli,” she replied. When she was sure the innmaster was abed, Lelia dragged herself up and sifted through the coins that had landed in her boot. She’d earned enough to commission a coat, as well as set some aside for what she liked to think of as the “stormy day” fund, or possibly the “buy an old pony” fund. She was not quite yet at “buy an Ashkevron destrier,” but hope sprang eternal.

She tucked the coins into various places on her persons before curling up on the stones. A cat landed on her side and oozed over her narrow hips. Hope you like sleeping on bones, furfoot.

Lelia herself didn’t care for sleeping on mortared stones, but they were warm, and she was exhausted. She fell asleep to the crackle of the fire and the droning purr of the hearthcats.

“Wine cups and broken hearts?” the Herald asked as Lelia reached for her drink to wet her throat.

“Did I say that?” Lelia asked, alarm in her voice. She scanned the sheaf of papers and grimaced. “Hellfires, I did.” She made a clucking noise. “Sorry, song lyric I’ve been working on. Crept right in, didn’t it? I mean, that was just plain gratuitous. And really not relevant.” She realized she was babbling and shut her mouth.

“How were things worse when you were wandering around Forst Reach?” the Herald asked, clearly confused. “It’s not nearly as cold; there are far more inns and alehouses to sing at. I’d think you’d be happy there. Granted, it was annoying sometimes to find you in the villages on our circuit. Lyle in particular always worried about you.”

“I wasn’t happy,” she said, forcing a smile. “But after what happened the night of my first performance here—” she indicated with a sweep of her hand the otherwise empty common room of the Langenfield Inn “—I too thought that I’d been better off sticking to the Exile’s Road.”

The outhouse door clapped shut behind Lelia, and she started the short, slippery walk across cobblestones icy from the evening’s thaw-and-freeze. The sky was free of clouds, the luminous moon gazing down from her heaven.

Warm fire, Lelia thought muzzily. Blankets. And then breakfast. Her mouth watered. Bright Lady, let there be bacon.

Something cracked behind her—a fallen branch, or a tree splintering under the chill of winter. She glanced back reflexively but could see nothing. She took another step without looking, and suddenly there was no ground, just her body tumbling head over appetite.

She threw her arm out, but she knew instinctively that the angle was off. She landed seconds before it seemed she should have, every dram of breath driven out of her. The snap of the little bones in her left hand was not unlike the crackle of the fire-devoured logs in the inn’s hearth. The pain that followed was certainly fiery, a white-hot shock that whipped up a frenzy of realizations, starting with something is not right, followed by is it broken? and finally oh, gods, no.

She screamed, as much in despair as agony.

“The worst part,” Lelia said to the Herald, “was that it could have been so easily avoided.”

“But it kept you here.”

“Yes.”

“That turned out to be a good thing in the end, right?”

She frowned, not wanting to answer. “Olli heard my screams. He found me in the snow—”

Lelia flatly refused to cry. She sat in the inn with clenched teeth as Olli hovered and a gray-haired woman poked at her hand.

“Broken,” the woman said. Her worn voice seemed familiar. Her disheveled hair bespoke an unexpected rousing from bed.

“Oh?” Lelia replied in a tight voice.

“Mm-hm.” The woman raised her eyes. “Healing Temple is a week away.”

“Is that so?” Lelia replied, feeling alternately faint and nauseated.

“In good weather.”

“Ah.”

“Healer just left here, in fact.”

“Mmhm.”

“Won’t be due back for another month or more.”

Lelia pressed her eyes shut. “I see.”

“You—”

“Stop.” Lelia raised her good hand. “Just a moment.” She took a deep, steadying breath. “Okay.” She opened her eyes. “Can you set it?”

The old woman nodded.

“I mean, really, truly, can you do this? Not—I did it once with a goat and well, Havens, I think I got it right because the goat sure never complained, tee hee.” The old woman’s brow lifted, but Lelia drove on regardless. “Really, honestly, truly, can you set this right?”

The old woman pursed her lips, then nodded again.

“You are certain?”

A third nod.

“Okay.” Lelia thrust out her good hand. “Hi. I’m Lelia, what’s your name?”

The old woman took her hand and shook. “Artel.”

“Right.” Lelia looked her makeshift Healer square in the eye and held the faded blue gaze as firmly as she gripped her hand. “Artel, I believe you.” She released the crone’s weathered grip. “Now set my hand.”

“I am not too proud to admit that I passed out,” Lelia said, not looking up from her growing pile of papers.

“Of course.”

“But I did so with immense heroism.”

“Naturally.”

“Some of the greatest heroes I know have passed out at least once.”

“Carry on, O Brave One.”

Lelia woke up on a pallet between a row of barrels and canvas sacks of grain.

“Hellfires, Lyle,” she said to the air. “What now?”

“Fall three times, stand up four?” She could even hear her brother’s warm, friendly voice saying it. She wished she could also imagine him helping her up, but no such luck. The best she could do was a mental image of him kneeling by her side, smiling encouragingly.

She sat, then stood, her arm pressed tightly to her chest to keep from inadvertently using it. She suspected that she was in a storage room at the inn, and confirmed her deduction as she passed through a hallway leading to the common room.

“Ah, there she is!” Olli leaned on his broom amidst a heap of rushes. “Gave us quite a fright, little sparrow.” In a gentler tone, he asked, “How d’ya fare?”

“My hand’s broken,” Lelia replied blankly.

He winced and made no reply.

She looked behind her at the hallway she’d emerged from. She thought about slogging through the snow to the Healing Temple. She thought about trying to build a fire with one hand, or what would happen if she fell again, or unwrapping food, assuming she even had food to unwrap.

She thought about bandits and could not contain a shiver.

She gathered her wits, turning to regard the innmaster. “How much would it cost me to stay here and convalesce?”

Olli rubbed his chin. “Your voice still works, yeah?”

“Clearly.”

“So then, you can still sing.” His wildly unkempt brows rose. “And maybe help a little with the picking up?”

“So long as the picking up in question only requires one hand.”

He grinned. “Mugs and plates, bread and bowls. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Olli, I am forever in your debt.”

He snorted. “I’ll be in your debt, before it’s over. A Bard—even a broken one—is going to make me money.”

“Well, when you put it that way—how much are you going to pay me?”

His eyes twinkled. “How does a room in the back sound?”

She made a show of thinking about it. “Sounds glorious.”

“Sounds like a deal.”

“That, too.”

“Being a Bard without an instrument,” Lelia said, setting the quill down and flexing her fingers, “really makes you rethink your repertoire.”

The Herald said nothing.

“I did a lot of duets, changing my voice for the different roles.” She cocked her head. “Conversations with myself seem to be a specialty, now that I think about it.”

He chuckled.

“I decided not to look at it as a restriction so much as a chance to explore other avenues. I used to have to play an instrument to really get my Bardic Gift going.”

“Now?”

“Just talking a certain way lets me use it.”

“Interesting.”

“Attendance slacked off after the first three nights, but Olli said it was still more business than usual.” She eyed the pages of writing she’d already done. “Herda came nearly every night.”

“But never said anything?”

She shook her head. “She lurked. I got the feeling she wanted to talk, and a few times I initiated, but she’d always scurry off. At first I was relieved—she was weird, you know—but after a while, I got curious.” She felt her mouth stretch in a grim smile. “You know that I met the Ashkevron Bard?”

“Really? Or did you just imagine it?”

“No, I really, truly did.” She traced one of the knife marks in the table. “At an inn in Forst Reach. After he assured me there was no chance in hell I was going to inherit his position—” The Herald coughed delicately, and Lelia grinned. “—he gave me some useful advice. He told me any idiot could write a song about a hero. It takes real skill to dig the stories out of the commonfolk. They all have stories, he said; you just need to ask the right questions and then frame the answers.”

“So . . . ?”

“I started asking questions.”

“She can talk to wolves, and chickens squawk in terror when she walks by!”

“I hear there’s a colddrake in her stable. She drinks its blood, and that’s why she doesn’t need a coat in the cold!”

“Her family died from fever, but she keeps their bodies under the floorboards, so now her house is haunted, and they eat those bones she keeps stealing!”

Lelia propped her head up in her good hand, regarding the three scamps with some amusement. She’d made friends with the children of the village, and Jarsi, Bowder, and Aric were three of her best informants. They’d do anything for a song—literally.

Questions about Herda, unfortunately, had yielded nothing but childish speculation.

From what Lelia had gleaned, Herda really was the village madwoman. She lived out in the woods, in a cabin once shared by her family until they’d perished of snow fever. She foraged for a living: mushrooms, medicinal roots, rare minerals, exotic barks, and so on. She also had a thing for creatures of all sorts, especially abandoned ones: wounded rodents, broken-winged birds. She loved—or perhaps the proper word was related to—animals more than people. There were even rumors of wolf cubs that had been tended to by the wild-eyed Herda.

That, Lelia suspected, was why she’d been pestering Olli for bones. Whatever menagerie she tended, she had to feed them.

No one shunned Herda, per se, but no one invited her over for tea and jam tarts, either. The kindest emotion Lelia had seen directed at the girl was pity. She was considered impoverished, even by local standards. No one sat next to her when she watched Lelia’s performances.

“Wolves and monsters and ghosts, eh?” Lelia arched a brow at the boys. “And you’re all three reliable eyewitnesses, I take it?”

“My cousin saw the colddrake!” said Aric. “She, uh, ran before it could eat her.”

“I saw the ghosts!” said Jarsi.

“So you’re saying you did see them?” Lelia asked.

“Yeah.” Jarsi squirmed. “Kind of. It was dark. I saw something! I ran before it could suck out my eyeballs.” He looked nervously at his two friends, both clearly skeptical. “What? That’s what ghosts do!”

“Wolves,” Bowder, the eldest boy, muttered. “I’m telling you, she talks to wolves. You ask her! She won’t deny it! She just ...”

“Grins,” Aric whispered.

“Right.” Lelia smiled and sat back. “Well, if you can prove any of this ...” She palmed a coin into her good hand, walking it up and down her knuckles. “We’ll talk, eh?”

Olli wandered in when the boys were gone, his mouth tugging to one side. “You seem keen on finding out more about our dear, touched Herda.”

“I admit a bit of a fascination.”

“I’ve heard it all before.” He nodded with a rueful smile toward the door the boys had left through. “Her story was sad once. Now it’s just a curiosity for the children to make up wild tales about and the elders to discuss at night.” He met her gaze directly. “You ask me, there’s a part of her heart that went to the Havens when the fever caught her.”

“Hm.” Lelia pursed her lips. “What if it’s true? The wolves, the colddrake, the ghosts—any of them. But not true to us, just to her.” She raised her brows, contemplating her own dance with delirium on the road to Langenfield. “It doesn’t need to be real. She just needs to believe it is.”

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “That’d be a powerful delusion.”

“Just a theory.” She stood, arching her back in a brief stretch. “I suppose it’s time for me to set the tables. How many you think we’ll get tonight?”

“Who can say? Last time I saw this much business we had a gleeman claiming to be from Haighlei.”

Lelia scoured her memory but could not place the word. “Never heard of it.”

“Neither had we. Havens know how he wound up here, but he assured us he was from there, and after seeing his trick we half-believed him. A little snake he would coax out of a jar by playing music.” Olli mimed playing a flute. “Strangest thing. The snake would sway back and forth, just like a dancer ... people came from miles to see it.”

“Herda, too?”

Olli laughed. “You never give up, do you? Oh, yes. Herda was fascinated, just like all of us. He had a side business selling versions of the little egg-flute he played.” He grinned. “Took some doing convincing the littles that they weren’t magical, and snakes don’t just answer when you blow a few notes.”

Later, as Lelia set out pots of honey, she thought about the Haighlei gleeman. A Bardic Gift of a different color? Her hands itched for a flute. She might even be able to play it one-handed. First snake I see, I’ll have to try.

Lelia filled her mug herself and reclaimed her seat. Outside, the sun was a candlemark past dawn. She could hear the distant clop clop clop as Olli chopped the wood for the day. The Herald said nothing.

“In retrospect,” Lelia said after a long drink, “it was very foolish of me, sending the children to pry.”

“You didn’t know better.”

“True, but ...” She shook her head. “I like to think I would pick up on something—not right.”

“What makes you so special?”

She tapped her chest. “I’m a Bard, remember?”

“Bard or not, we all make regrets. And mistakes.”

“Yeah. The scamps never got me anything useful anyway.” She sipped ale.

“How are you not even a little tipsy?” he asked, a note of criticism in his query.

“Heyla.” She tapped the rim of her cup, grinning. “Still a Bard.”

“Whoever set this did an excellent job,” the Healer—introduced as Kerithwyn—said as she poked and prodded Lelia’s hand. “There’s little for me to do, really.”

Artel puffed up with pride. “Excellent job,” she echoed.

Lelia felt a smile glide over her lips. The old woman had checked on her hand daily for three weeks, suggesting poultices and brews. Lelia was confidant that she owed her a whole book of songs immortalizing her care.

Kerithwyn sat back and regarded Lelia. “It may be stiff and weak, but it’ll be back to its old callused self with use. No reason you can’t have a long and illustrious career.”

“Provided the snow doesn’t kill me,” Lelia said.

Kerithwyn nodded. “There is that.” She looked up at Artel. “You said something about Sandor’s wife carrying twins?”

The two bustled out of the inn, leaving Lelia to flex her fingers experimentally. Her eyes went to the gray cloak hanging by the front door, sewn from local fibers. It wasn’t red, but it was warm, and that mattered far more to her at the moment.

Evening came on the wings of a howling wind. The patrons who did wander in were notably subdued, shaking off snow and ice as they took their places. Lelia marked when Herda entered, waiting for her to settle and order her thinned ale from Olli.

Lelia approached her cautiously, as if confronting an easily frightened beast.

“Hey,” she said.

Herda looked up at her. “Wh-what?”

“Nothing.” She set a plate with a fat joint of meat in front of Herda. The girl’s eyes lit up, her tongue flicking like a snake’s. “I just wanted to talk.” Lelia indicated the plate. “For you. From me.”

Herda’s eyes darted up at Lelia and then back at the meat—and the marrow bone sticking out of it. “T-talk?”

Lelia sat down beside Herda, but with her back to the table so that her elbows rested on it and her hands dangled off the edge. “Sure. About anything.”

Herda carved off a sliver of meat and nibbled. One of the hearthcats wandered by, and she gave it an absent scratch. Lelia waited patiently.

At last, Herda leaned over, eyes downcast. “Can I trust you?” she asked softly. Her stutter had vanished.

Finally, Lelia thought. “Of course.”

“I—” Herda’s voice lowered further “—have a magical flute.”

Lelia closed her eyes briefly. The urge to scream was powerful.

“Really?” she asked, focusing on Herda once more. “What does it do?”

“Magic.” Her gaze flashed briefly upward. “Amazing magic.” She leaned close to Lelia. “But dangerous.”

“How so?” Lelia asked.

“Can’t explain. Only show. Do you want to see?”

Not really. Lelia wondered if she would be arrested for punching the Ashkevron Bard next time she saw him. She supposed that would not be the wisest of career moves.

Herda touched her arm, the first time Lelia thought she’d ever seen her touch anyone. “I’ll show you,” she said, with grave intent. “You of all people should understand.” She glared past Lelia, at the unsuspecting villagers. “You’re not ignorant.”

Completely insane, Lelia thought, but she smiled. “All right.”

“Come to my cabin. Just you!” Herda hissed, squeezing Lelia’s arm so tightly she was sure it would leave a bruise.

“Just me,” Lelia replied solemnly.

Herda let go, snatching up the joint of meat and wrapping it in her cloak. “Good.” She smiled. “Tomorrow morning, Bard. Three miles to the north. I’ll be waiting.”

When Herda was gone, Lelia went and found Olli.

“Performance starting soon?” he asked, looking hopeful.

“Real soon,” she said. “But first—how good are you at following someone without being seen?”

“So you aren’t completely stupid.” The Herald sounded relieved.

“Coming from a guy whose sense of self-preservation is comparable to that of a turnip’s, I choose to find your accusation amusing rather than a grave assault on my character.”

“Come now. What did turnips ever do to you?”

She smiled grimly. “As Herda requested, I got to her house a little after dawn.”

Herda walked them through a forest of naked raival and hickory trees, stopping when they came to a cottage situated in a wide clearing. A modest stable stood across from it, the double doors shut and barred. Herda said nothing as she led Lelia to her home.

The door glided open on well-oiled hinges. Lelia had expected something fetid and disheveled, but instead she found a tidy domicile, every corner swept, every jar labeled and ordered in place. Colorful curtains decorated the windows, and herbs hung from the rafters.

As nice as the day her family left it, Lelia thought.

Herda plucked an egg-shaped clay flute from the room’s only table and held it out.

“May I?” Lelia asked politely.

Herda solemnly passed the instrument to the Bard. Lelia turned it over, the glazed ceramic cool in her palm. A simple whistle, the sort any child could learn on with time and determination.

She brought it to her lips, but Herda’s hand shot out.

“No!” she shrieked. Lelia pulled the flute away instantly. Herda snatched it from her. “It’s magic. You need to be careful with magic!”

“Oh. Sorry.” Lelia’s heart pounded. Herda’s panic was beginning to infect her.

Herda glared at her as she went to the door. “Stay here. I’ll call you when it’s safe.”

When what’s safe? Lelia thought, but the door shut, leaving her alone.

Outside, she heard the sound of a thud and the creak of wood coming from the vicinity of the stable. Herda’s voice crooning, and then the soft whistle of the flute. A simple tune, five notes over and over, a hypnotic pattern of high-low-high-high-low.

Lelia went over to one of the windows, but the shutters were in place and doing their duty of keeping the light and cold out. She couldn’t see through the cracks. She eyed the door.