Sun in Glory and Other Tales of Valdemar

Table of Contents

Errold's Journey by Catherine S. McMullen

The Cat Who Came to Dinner by Nancy Asire

Winter Death by Michelle West

A Herald's Rescue by Mickey Zucker Reichert In the Eye of the Beholder by Josepha Sherman Trance Tower Garrison by Fiona Patton

Starhaven by Stephanie Shaver

Rebirth by Judith Tarr

Brock by Tanya Huff

True Colors by Michael Longcor

Touches the Earth by Brenda Cooper

Icebreaker by Rosemary Edghill

Sun in Glory by Mercedes Lackey

ERROLD'S JOURNEY

by Catherine S. McMullen

Catherine S. McMullen was just twelve years old at the time of the writing of this story. She wrote her first story when she was seven, but that one is still buried in a drawer somewhere. She has had six stories published professionally or sold, starting with "Teddy Cat" in the August 1999 Interzone. She has been involved in the writing community since she was two, and is constantly reminded that many people used to know her when she was "just a kid." She loves to write, and is fascinated by the peculiarities of the English language. She is also an avid reader and has read as many as one thousand books in one year. Her work has appeared in such venues as Interzone, A Drop of Imagination, Spinouts, and Thrillogies.

Ma'ar was closing in, and while everyone was to be evacuated from the Tower area eventually, the non-combatants were leaving first. Urthro didn't want anyone nearby who would panic and cause disruption.

Some large groups had already been sent to places far enough away to be safe from Ma'ar.

Everyone was being spread out so thinly that Ma'ar would never have a large group close to him. It was true that the precautions might not be necessary. Ma'ar might eventually be defeated, but unfortunately it was unlikely to happen now, if ever.

I looked at the organized chaos and turned to Master Thomas. I had not counted on being part of the evacuation. I was apprenticed to a great war mage! Surely we would be needed?

"If we're packing our tent, we are going to be evacuated, Master Thomas. I am right in assuming this?"

"You are correct, Errold. You and I are going to go with a large group, about three hundred people, who are to be Gated to safety. The requirements of precisely where are not very rigid, the place just has to be fairly safe: that is, not a swamp or a lava pit, and very, very far away. It will be a one-way Gate; once we are gone, we will be cut off from Urtho's camp permanently. Ahhh, and I can see another question in your eyes. Why are we going with this particular group? They need us as mages: to heal, to defend, and to lead. The group was most reassured when they were told that we were to come with them. They asked for a mage because where they are to be Gated is the farthest away of all. We don't even know what animals live there, what the land is like, or even if there are any other humans there. This group is a special case, and you and I fit the requirements. More people have been watching your development as a healer than you realize. My leadership experience, and probably my reputation, help keep the group together."

"But what about the war here? Don't they need you to help defeat Ma'ar?"

"I am known as a very powerful war mage, I'll grant you that. But what about the people who are being scattered? Who will teach them our skills? Besides, I want to have a place to settle down, where I can live...with challenges to cope with, but none of them named Ma'ar. I am heartily sick of that name, and all the troubles that go with it."

"Well...I can understand why the group would need a leader, but why not have a professional healer with the group? I mean, I am not really qualified as a mage or even a herbalist, let alone a healer yet. And a group of this size will need a proper healer, won't they?"

"Have you listened to anything I've been saying? You are known to be a dedicated student, and are well versed in herbal techniques. You would be able to cope with any injuries that occur on the journey, without a doubt. It would be perfect for both of us to go with them. Are you prepared to go?

You do have a choice, you know. If you don't want to go, you don't have to. I would understand."

"When are we leaving, Master Thomas?"

Master Thomas smiled.

"That's the spirit. We are leaving soon. Very soon. Our group is ready, and we are only waiting until our Gate gets set up."

"About how long will that be? I haven't finished packing."

"About a half a day, but you'd better hurry. I've already almost finished getting my own things together."

"You just wanted to get a head start on me so the master wouldn't be shamed by his student's fast progress. Hah! I'll show you."

And with Master Thomas' laughter ringing in my ears, I left to pack for the journey of my life.

* * *

I had a list of what I needed to pack and how I needed to pack it. I had decided, after many shorter trips where I had been badly equipped, that I would not make a single mistake. It would be faster to pack everything slowly but correctly the first time, instead of throwing everything together and having to repack a hundred times. First in were some of my softer clothes, with no metal buckles or straps in them, placed against the back of the pack so that I had padding against my skin. I had made the mistake of putting a belt buckle at my back once before, on one of my short journeys into the forest. Needless to say, after a day of it rubbing against me, that was a mistake I intended never to repeat.

Next the seeds went in, a vital component of my supplies. When we reached a place where we could settle down, the seeds would be needed to grow crops, and for my herbs. I placed the seeds in specially prepared bags that were proof against water and fire, and woven through with protective spells.

The spells had been done by me, not Master Thomas. Master Thomas was an expert on war magics, but he recognized that I knew more about the smaller, more useful spells for daily chores. It wasn't something that was likely to get me recognition as a great mage, but I had a knack for it. After I had learned all the simple spells that Master Thomas could teach me, and after that had become apparent that I would never master the really powerful ones, I started turning to books.

I had had to learn most of what I knew by myself, deciphering the spells alone. I still hadn't learned even half of what I wanted to know, so I was taking some books with me. It had been hard to decide what books to take and which ones to give away, but it came down to what I would really need and, eventually, what a village would need. I carefully packed five spell books into my pack, wrapping them in more clothes. I had also prepared a whole range of herbal remedies, but only a little of each. Someone in the group was sure to need them as we traveled, and I didn't want to be caught unprepared.

Lastly, I packed the food, water, and metal tools that Master Thomas had given me to carry for the group. These all went at the top because they would be needed most often. I did one last check of the list, making sure I hadn't left anything out, then I struggled into the straps and heaved the pack onto my shoulders. I had been confident that I could cope with the weight, or that I would get used to it in time, but it turned out that I had a previously undiscovered ability to underestimate weight. Well, I would have to adapt or die...guess which one I thought was more likely at that stage!

I took a last look at my bare tent. It was a sobering sight, seeing the emptiness of it, when only a couple of days ago it had been full of furniture, books, clothes, and other paraphernalia. Everything had either been packed to be taken with us, or given away. There was no point asking people to save things for us, as we would never be coming back. There were some very happy mages as a result of the grand book handout that Master Thomas and I conducted. So many loved, well-used books, now in so many different hands. Oh well, at least they would be appreciated. I sighed and staggered off to find Master Thomas. I hoped that he wasn't moving around, as I didn't want the camp's last memory of me being me hyperventilating as the pack became too much. Probably a forlorn hope, unfortunately.

* * *

Our Gate was finally ready. A place sufficiently far away had been found: a forest, with really huge trees. It was so remote that nobody even recognized the types of trees. We all lined up, all loaded down with our carefully prepared and very heavy packs. Have I already mentioned heavy? Anything that couldn't be carried just wasn't taken. When people complained about their packs being too heavy, Master Thomas just took out the really useless things-like jewelry, coins, and so on-and showed them the differences in weight. It worked every time. As soon as everyone was ready, the Gate was activated, showing the forest on the other side. When the last person was through the Gate, it closed. The light from the camp on the other side disappeared, and we were left in the half-light under towering tree giants. We were a long way away from home, with no chance of ever returning.

Master Thomas clapped his hands for everyone's attention.

"We have one long-term problem and a lot of short-term problems," he began. "The long-term problem is finding a place with suitable resources to settle down and build a village. The short-term problems are who will cook, who will hunt, who shares tents with whom, what the rotations of lookouts are to be-in other words our organization for traveling and getting along together. Before we start moving, we must have a meeting to sort everything out. Anyone who has anything to contribute, or who thinks they can do something particularly well, should speak up. This meeting is essential to the group's well-being, so everyone must come along."

The meeting had a really long agenda, and it lasted until after dark. Master Thomas was quickly confirmed as the leader of our group, because he was already experienced with organizing large numbers of people. After that was established he ran everything efficiently, but it still took a long time and a lot of talking. Everyone had to do something, but he arranged duties so that people did what they were good at or enjoyed. The only people who did not have mundane tasks assigned to them were Master Thomas and myself. Master Thomas actually had the hardest task of all: running things, making decisions, sorting out disputes, and shouldering the heavy burden of responsibility. My trouble was that quite a few people didn't realize that I was his student. After a few complaints along the lines of "What about 'im, he don't have to do no dishwashing!" everyone was treated to a lecture from Master Thomas, about who had heated the water, driven the insects away, made the tents waterproof, and many other things. It then became established that for the little spells, you came to me, not him. After that, I not only didn't have to do chores, but I was called on to do a lot of spells that I had never tried before. I knew I would have to study my books a lot more, and find new possibilities in some previously useless spells.

I did some reading by the campfire's light, then returned to the tent that Master Thomas and I shared. He was outside, staring up at the sky through a break in the trees' canopy. He stood up and asked me to walk with him. We had only gone a short distance when there was a flash of light in the east, but it was the sort of flash that blazed out but just kept getting stronger and stronger for a few seconds.

Slowly it began to fade. Everyone had stopped talking by then, and they were all looking across at us. I had to turn away, so that I did not show the worry that I was feeling for the people nearer to the blast.

Many of my friends had been very much closer.

"That must have been the magical weapon of Urtho's combined with the Tower being annihilated,"

said Master Thomas. "Hurry, we don't have much time." I had to start to run to keep up with him.

"Why are you running? What's the threat to us?"

"Think. We are at least an ocean away from all that magic, yet we still saw the flash! We must shield the campsite from the magical blast which will follow. If we shield the group, the effects on us might not be too bad. We can only hope."

We gathered everyone together and began putting up the shields. A lot of people were scared, but Master Thomas reassured them by explaining what the flash of light had meant, just as he had explained it to me. Once the shields were up, we just settled down to wait. People began to relax and make themselves comfortable. It had been lucky that nobody had put up their tents too far away from anyone else. A smaller area meant a tougher shield. Master Thomas and I walked back the short distance to our tent and went inside. I was worried, but I hadn't wanted to ask any questions in front of the rest of the group. It would only have scared them.

"Master Thomas, if you think the magic will be dangerous for us, all the way over here, what would it be like over there?" I asked. "Will anyone have survived?"

"I think Urtho's remaining people will have survived. They have experienced mages who are experts at coping with the unexpected. But I don't think the land or the animals on it will ever be the same again." He looked into the distance and seemed thoughtful.

"This means the changing of magic as we know it forever. The people like you, who can ration their magic, will be the ones who prosper and survive. It is highly likely that I will never be able to perform really powerful spells ever again. We have never seen anything like this before, this kind of magical situation. You have just become part of an event that will be remembered forever as the day magic changed."

* * *

Half an hour later the mage storm hit the shields with deadly force. I soon began to worry more about us than the people closer to the blast. Master Thomas and I were the only mages here, whereas they had many skilled mages to put up shields and protective spells. We really had our hands full, considering what lay outside of our shields. Out there, the forest seemed to be in chaos. Magic was swirling everywhere, and when I looked outside of the shields for too long, my eyes hurt. Just as I thought we could hold the storm back up for no longer, it abated. The assault had only lasted for a day, but to me it seemed like it had lasted for weeks. When we lowered the shields, the forest around us seemed fairly normal. But then, when night would normally have fallen, there was only an eerie half-light.

There were places where piles of ash and soot were all that was left of great tree giants. Flickering lights in the trees had everyone scared, and the few children in our group had to stay with their parents all the time. I made an observation to Master Thomas about something that worried me a lot.

"Master Thomas, I have noticed something and I want to know whether it is just me. Weren't the leaves green and healthy before the mage storm hit, and not brown and falling from the trees?"

"I think you're right about that, Errold. But what is your point? There have been much worse things done by the mage storm than simply changing the state of the leaves."

"That's just it! All the other effects of the mage storm have been obvious. But what if there are effects that are even more subtle? If the state of the leaves could be changed, couldn't berries we know are safe to eat have become poisonous?"

"That is a very intelligent observation to make, Errold. I will alert the rest of the group to this new danger. They might not react very well, but I think it is necessary. Thank you. I wouldn't want to lose anyone from the group, and your observation may have stopped that from happening because of foolish mistakes."

As I sat in our tent, I continued to worry, and turned similar thoughts over in my head. This forest had been changed dramatically by what Master Thomas now called the "mage storm." But could we survive in it? Or was even the water no longer safe to drink? And what about the animals that hadn't been within our shields? What about them?

* * *

We began traveling again the second morning after the storm. All seemed well until one of the scouts saw huge animal footprints. We reported back to Master Thomas, as he didn't recognize what he had seen. Everyone was told to be especially careful until we learned what the animal ate, and more importantly, whether its diet might include us!

The next day, while the group was resting and eating, I wandered off in search of any recognizable wild herbs. I had no luck in finding any, and decided that when we settled down I would experiment to see what those that were new to me were useful for. I was walking back to where the group was resting when I came upon the type of animal that must have made the footprints. It was large and woolly, but seemed to be fairly harmless. I had never seen anything like it in the forests I had traveled before. I herded it back to the group, and Master Thomas proposed that it be taken with us. We had no other livestock for when we founded the village, and besides, it could carry packs.

I thought that the thing probably wasn't safe to eat, because of the magic that had obviously affected it. Master Thomas called a meeting to discuss possible problems from changed animals.

"As we all know, the mage storm has obviously affected the land, and the plants and animals on it.

We have one of the results of the storm in our camp now, the animal we have named Carpet. Carpet will be very helpful to us when we settle down, but although she is apparently safe, we do have to look at the wider range of our worries. I personally have noticed that Carpet is unusually intelligent, and other people have also commented on this. Forest animals are often cunning, but never intelligent. We will have to be exceptionably wary, and closely observe all animals that we encounter. From now on our scouts will be carrying magical sensors that Errold will make. These will detect any large animals nearby, and by night I will erect shields around the camp to protect us when we are sleeping. Does anyone have anything else to suggest, or does anyone disagree with our plan?"

Now that people knew the facts, the meeting went well. People who wanted to be taken off scout duty were reassigned, but generally everybody was fairly happy with what our leader had proposed.

After everyone had dispersed, I went over to Master Thomas.

"Master Thomas? I have an idea." I said.

"What is it?"

"Master, consider the level of intelligence in our friend Carpet. Herbivores are usually a bit dim, they don't seem to need that much intelligence, but Carpet is as bright as a dog. If a herbivore is now that smart, what will the carnivores be like? They may be extremely intelligent now, possibly even sentient-and all that being sentient implies."

"This is true, Errold. What are you proposing?"

"Making the sensors for the scouts won't be hard. At most, it will take a couple of hours. I must do some scouting myself, though. While you are shielding the camp, I will set up scanning spells to sweep the forest for a hundred yards all around. If some of predators in this forest are as intelligent as we think, they will come at night to observe us. If I detect something, I will go out and make sure it is harmless or try to disable it."

"That's very good proposition, Errold. But I don't want you outside of my protection like that. I am tempted to go instead of you, but I am used to working with huge amounts of magic and I would not be as good as you would be against a single animal. You use the smallest spells to the best advantage. I give you permission for this plan. Do you really think that the predators will be so intelligent?"

"Yes, I do. Even before the storm, it was thought that some predators in the known world were remarkably cunning, if only in pursuit of their prey. I think that any new `smart' predators will be a real threat to us, if not now, then when we settle down. It is vital for us to establish that we are not prey and should be avoided."

Master Thomas nodded his head but still looked doubtful.

"Better figure out how you are to disable predators, though. They will be fast, deadly, and intelligent, while you are just intelligent. You need a spell that can tell if something really is intelligent."

In all my studies, I had not come across anything like that.

"It'll be tricky, but I'm sure I'll think of something, Master Thomas," I said, not at all sure if I could actually do it.

I lay in my tent that night, furiously studying the spell books I had brought. I had an idea that would use a really simple spell. Predators are curious, and did a lot of patient stalking. Thus, my trap worked on curiosity and would certainly disable anything watching me. It was the sensing of large animals that I needed to work on. I stayed up most of the night, figuring out how to combine shields together, how to get the right range, and the search requirements. I got it together eventually, then crawled gratefully to my bed roll. I needed all the sleep I could get, because I knew that some night soon we would have company.

* * *

The following day everything seemed to go fairly normally. We noticed no large shapes in the distance, and saw no unusual tracks. I still felt as if we were being watched, though. Any truly smart animal would stay on rocky ground or the trunks of fallen trees. It was nightfall that I was waiting for.

That was when we were not moving and the shields would be up. It would be then that I would be prowling just like a predator.

After we had found a suitable spot to camp, I immediately cast my sensing spell, but it wasn't till halfway though the night that it alerted me. I sneaked out of camp, using a simple camouflage enchantment on my clothes and carrying a rope. The magical sensor that I carried told me when I was fairly close to the animal, and it "felt" only one animal in a hundred-yard radius. This made everything a lot easier for me. I sat down a few yards from the bushes where my sensor amulet had shown the animal was. Now I prepared the spell that I had thought of using the night before. I took my time. Anything nearby that was curious would be watching intently as I waved my hands and conjured energies. Then closed my eyes and set it off.

Even with my eyes shut, the blinding flash of light still hurt. Judging from the thrashing noises and growls from the bushes, whatever had been lurking there had been staring at what I had been doing with intense interest. I conjured a globe of light and set it hanging in midair. It showed a huge cat with a high forehead. Its fur was a very deep shade of green.

Using my rope, I ensnared the thrashing limbs and tied up the cat before it could see again. Then I sat down in front of it, weaving a rather delicate and tricky translation spell. Soon I could hear that the animal's noises were not really just yowling, but some very nasty swear words.

After it had blinked a few times, and seemed to be able to see a bit, it focused its gaze on me.

"Speak, I can understand," I told it.

For a moment it just stared in surprise.

"Well? Why haven't you killed me?" it asked.

"I could ask why you have not attacked our other scouts," I replied. "But I already know why. You are intelligent, and you were being sensible and cautious. Because of that, I caught you with a spell that would have worked with any truly intelligent species. A more stupid predator would have just attacked me because I am smaller and look defenseless."

"I do not care to risk injury by attacking dangerous prey. If I am not fast, fit, and strong, I will starve."

"To answer your first question, I haven't killed you, because we, too, are an intelligent species."

"That is obvious. I was sent to watch your camp for three nights, then report to the rest of the pack. You puzzled us: you do not hunt, yet you do not graze either. You are soft and defenseless, like grazers, yet bright and cunning..."

"Like hunters."

"Yes. We would have attacked your camp already, otherwise."

"That would have been very, very silly. Our weapons are not claws and teeth, but they are still deadly."

"Now I know that your species is truly sentient, not like the mrran."

"Mrran? What is that?" I asked

"A mrran is the animal that you have adopted into your herd-or should I say pack? It puzzled me greatly when you did not kill and eat the mrran. The others could hardly believe me when I told them."

"We have other uses for the mrran. It provides wool to cover us. Unlike you, we have little fur of our own. Do you understand that?"

"Yes. In a way I pity you for not having a naturally warm, glossy, thick coat." At this it preened a bit. "What are the other reasons?"

"Do you remember what happened a couple of days ago?"

"Vaguely. There was a storm...and before the storm I was something else. As smart as the mrran, perhaps. Maybe even less smart. During the storm, I changed. All those of my pack changed."

"In a way, the storm created us as well," I explained. "We make our own food, we are neither hunters nor hunted. But we are very, very dangerous. Spread the message to your pack: leave us alone.

Soon we shall stop and make a thing called a village. Stay away from it. You are most dangerous when you pounce, but we are even more deadly when we stop moving."

"I have seen that."

I slipped the knots on its bonds and it shook itself free in a moment. It stood and looked at me.

After a moment it spoke.

"Something in me says I shouldn't respect anything without fur. But I respect your kind if they are all as smart as you. Is this the right thing to feel, I wonder?"

"I respect your kind." I replied. "But I do not fear them."

"Then we are equal. And because we are equal, I don't think that our peoples should be enemies."

"Spoken like a true and intelligent predator. If my villagers and your pack can stay friendly, then when one of you is sick or injured and needs care, I can help."

"Help the injured? Why?"

"Because it benefits everyone. Are you intelligent enough to see that?"

If cats could frown, it did.

"Fighting would bring the pack no benefit," it said eventually. "I assume that you need clear land and nearby water for your village?"

"Yes, we do. That is why we have not settled down yet. There are too many trees."

"If you continue on for about a day, and then turn east, you will come to the edge of the forest, where the grasslands begin. There is a stream running close by. We don't like water or open land. You are welcome to it."

"Thank you, I think we shall like it a lot."

I picked up my pack, but it did not move.

"Just one last question before I go to my pack. Do you know what we were before the storm?"

"You were cats," I guessed. "All that has been changed is your coloring, your intelligence, and your size. You weren't dark green before the storm, and you didn't have language and reasoning. You certainly weren't four yards long."

I hoped that I had guessed correctly, but soon it nodded its head and padded for the trees. Then it stopped and looked back.

"Perhaps, sometime, we should talk again," it suggested. "It could prevent misunderstandings in the future. If you need to speak to me, just ask one of my people for me. My name is Proouw."

"A good suggestion, Proouw. My name is Errold." I said.

Proouw turned and glided away into the shadows of the forest without another word.

After I had had the meeting with Proouw, I went back to the camp and called a meeting. I explained what had happened, what he had told us, and what I had arranged. Everyone was very happy that we would not be hunted by anything so big and intelligent, and that there was a site nearby to build the village on. It was felt that looking after Proouw and his pack medically was a fair exchange. After the meeting was over, I just sat and thought. I wondered whether the shields hadn't somehow leaked during the storm, and changed me like it had changed the cats. The old Errold would have never even thought of that plan, let alone have insisted that he be the one to carry it out! And the old Errold wouldn't have negotiated like that with Proouw. But I eventually decided that it was just me doing what everyone did, adapting as new things happened to me.

After a day of traveling, and after we turned east, we found the spot Proouw had mentioned. It was perfect for our needs, and everyone immediately started talking about what we would do, and how the village would be organized and laid out. There was also discussion about what the village would be called. They eventually decided on a name...Errolds Grove!

It was a big surprise to me, but as they explained, I had done the most in regard to founding it. The stream was named Master Thomas' stream, which was just as important, as without water there could be no village. I was happy, and the arrangement with the cats worked out well, with Proouw and I meeting like ambassadors, and the pack chasing mrran in our direction to keep in our flock. I had a feeling that the village would last for a long time, two thousand years...or maybe more.

THE CAT WHO CAME TO DINNER

Nancy Asire

Nancy Asire is the author of four novels, Twilight's Kingdom, Tears of Time, To Fall Like Stars, and Wizard's Spawn. She also has written short stories for the series anthologies Heroes in Hell and

Merovingen Nights, and a short story for Mercedes Lackey's Flights of Fantasy. She has lived in Africa and traveled the world, but now resides in Missouri with her cats and two vintage Corvairs.

The last rays of the setting sun struck the multiple small circular windows of the chapel, fracturing the light into a myriad sparks dancing on the warm wooden walls and on the altar.

Reulan stood for a long moment caught in the glittering manifestation of the God’s greatest gift to mankind-light. Several village women had finished their task of caring for the interior of the sanctuary only a candlemark ago, and the pungent scent of wood polish filled the chapel.

Reulan held a taper in both hands as he stood facing the altar of Vkandis Sunlord.

Where in colder weather a fire burned on the altar, summertime warmth dictated a profusion of red flowers. Reulan briefly bowed his head in contemplation-Vkandis, source of all comfort, light and warmth, protector and sustainer of mankind.

The light faded fractionally. Reulan stepped close to the altar and, as the chapel grew dim with the setting of the sun, he lit the large, thick candle that stood at the center of the altar. Darkness should never touch the chapel, with some form of light needed at all times to honor the Sunlord.

Flickering shadows danced on the chimney-altar, then steadied as the candleflame stabilized. The gold image of Vkandis on the chimney glittered in that candlelight, the features of the image inscrutable but hinting of both power and love. Reulan bowed his head again in homage to the God, made the sign of the Holy Disk, and left the chapel through the door to one side of the altar.

Only a step lay between the chapel and Reulan’s room, but the distance might as well have been leagues. Closing the door, he removed the heavy gold chain of sun-priest and then his vestments, standing clad in simple black robes. He sighed quietly, standing silent for a few long breaths, mentally moving from his attitude of worship into the mundane world.

With the Night Candle lit, the chapel secure until the rising sun celebration, he could now turn to supper.

The height of summer was nearly on the village of Sweetwater. Two windows and a door stood open to catch the breeze. Just enough light lingered for Reulan to strike flame to the candles on the table, dresser, kitchen cupboard and the smaller table that stood beside his narrow cot. He gathered up the greens he had picked from his garden, added them to the plate where his sausage sat next to a roasted potato, and filled a cup with water from the village well-water so pure and sweet it had given this village its name. Sitting down at the table, he blessed the food he was about to eat, and looked up.

A pair of eyes looked back, the candlelight flaming in their depths like golden fire.

“Vkandis preserve me!” he murmured, starting at the sight. It was a cat, a very large and furry cat, sitting in the chair opposite as if specifically invited to dinner. “Where in the God’s green earth did you come from?”

The cat, as was typical of all members of the species, gazed back expressionless as a statue. Having recovered from his surprise, Reulan examined the cat closely. Large was a understatement: this was possibly the biggest cat he had ever seen, and the village of Sweetwater was no stranger to champion mousers. But here sat an interloper. The cats of Sweetwater were by and large brown or grey tabbies, while his “guest” sported a coat of light cream. A thick mane surrounded the cat’s face and, even without seeing it, Reulan knew the creature’s tail most likely would be a plume.

“You are a big one,” he observed. The cat yawned and resumed its staring. “Begging for dinner are you? I don’t think I have any mice and I doubt you can while away the evening with a tale or two. However, the God has been generous this summer and I’m more than willing to share.”

He cut off a hunk of his sausage and extended it. With a delicacy belying its size, the cat gently took the offered meat, jumped to the floor, and settled down to its dinner. Reulan chewed his own meal thoughtfully. The low rumble of a purr filled the room and, for an instant, Reulan was transported back to his father’s barn, where he had sometimes sat surrounded by the resident cats, all of whom seemed content to lie purring in the sun until night and the hunt were upon them.

Darkness hovered not far away, the long summertime dusk deepening outside. Reulan cleaned his dish, put it away, and blew out the candle on the cupboard. He expected his visitor to be gone when he turned back, but, no, the cat was now busy cleaning his face and whiskers.

“Time to go,” Reulan said, and reached down to push his guest toward the open door.

“Dawn comes early, and I must be in bed.”

The cat protested with a deep meow, standing stiff-legged, but finally allowed Reulan to escort him out the door. He stood facing Reulan for a moment, a half-accusing expression on his face and then sat down, wrapping his thickly-furred tail around his front paws. The young priest felt a slight twinge of guilt as he closed the door and turned toward his bed.

Tomorrow he would ask around the village to see if anyone knew who might own the cat.

Tonight, however, with all of Sweetwater’s barns available, the feline could easily find any number of places to hunt and sleep.

* * *

The first light of dawn woke Reulan from a deep sleep. Something heavy lay next to his feet and, when he looked down to the end of his bed, he was amazed to find the cream-colored tabby curled up in a comfortable ball, still sleeping deeply. The window, he thought absently, the cat must have come in through the window last night. We’ll see how long he stays.

But all that day, through the numerous chores Reulan completed, the day after and the next, the cat never stayed far away. No matter what he did-whether weeding his garden, repairing a few shingles on the chapel (and it took some doing to scale the tree nearby to jump across to the roof), or taking meditative walks through the fields or forest-the cat kept close to his side. No one Reulan spoke with could remember seeing such a magnificent beast or one of that particular color. He finally admitted the cat had adopted him and felt oddly grateful for the company.

One evening as he and the cat sat down to supper together, Reulan heard the distant rumble of thunder. He had been expecting a storm, for the air had been close and heavy all day, and its coming promised some relief from the heat. Finished with both dinner and toilet, the cat disappeared into the night. He never stayed away long...no chasing down sausages in the night for this fellow. Far better to wait politely and let the human provide the meal.

Reulan closed the shutters to his room as the wind rose and the temperature started to drop. Distant lightning became more vivid now and foretold a good soaking overnight rain.

Reulan still didn’t see the cat and called out to his companion, but saw nothing. A faint pang of anxiety tightened his heart-he didn’t want the poor fellow to be caught in a downpour.

Another rumble of thunder and one last call. Cat’s been out in the rain before, he thought, and likely will be again. Trust to the Goddess to keep him safe.

Shutting the door, Reulan slipped into bed, blessed himself with thoughts of the God he served, and blew out the candle. One last prayer for the safety of the cat crossed his mind, and then he fell asleep, the thunder now overhead and the rain beating down on his roof.

* * *

Long years of training and practice woke Reulan the next morning before dawn, though with his windows shuttered the interior of his room was dark as night. He reached for the candle on his bedside table and froze in place. A light purr sounded from the end of his bed and the by now familiar weight of the cat shifted ever so slightly beside Reulan’s feet. A chill ran up Reulan’s spine as he lit the candle and discovered the cat busily engrossed in his morning bath. A quick glance to both windows revealed that the wind had not blown them open during the night, and that the door remained securely shut. How, in the name of Vkandis Sunlord, had the cat managed to get inside?

“You’re the oddest fellow I’ve ever had the occasion to meet,” Reulan said, reaching down to scratch his bedmate behind the ears, the sound of his own voice helping dispel the strangeness of the situation. “You must have run in between my feet last night without my knowing it, no?” The cat merely yawned, showing sharp white teeth and pink tongue.

Reulan stretched, rose from bed and opened his windows and door. The storm had indeed cleared the air and, this high in the hills, even in summer the morning was bracingly cool. The cat rubbed up against his ankles, meowed pitifully as if he had not eaten in days, and planted himself in the chair he had claimed for his own. Reulan washed his face from the bucket on the cupboard, dried off, and donned his vestments. The rising sun celebration was close at hand; he left his room, crossed the small chapel and threw open the doors at its west end. Then, standing before the altar, he closed his eyes, opened his mind to the glory of the God, and waited for first light to strike the windows above his head.

He felt a bump against his leg and quickly opened his eyes. The cat sat beside him, facing the altar, proper as any worshiping villager. At first, this had somehow bothered Reulan, but he believed that Vkandis cared for all creatures, that any who wished to worship the God should be welcome at his altar. Reulan heard the village farmers arriving and sensed them standing in silent meditation as the first rays of sun struck the windows above.

Lifting his hands, Reulan spoke the words of Morning Greeting.

“Vkandis Sunlord, Giver of Life and Light, be with us today. We praise you, we honor you, we keep you in our hearts and minds. What is good and true, help us to do and become. What is hateful and cruel, aid us in denying. We offer this day to you, Sunlord, and seek your blessings on all that we do.”

“May it be so,” responded the voices behind him.

Reulan extinguished the candle that had lit the chapel during the night and turned to face his congregation. “Go forth to daylight, knowing the God is by your side.” The farmers bowed their heads briefly, smiled at Reulan, and silently filed out of the chapel to their various fields and gardens. Once again, the cat rubbed up against his legs, meowing pitifully.

“Breakfast, eh? What would you like this morning, sir cat? I have only what I’ve given you in the past-sausage. I’d think you’d grow tired of it.” The cat looked up and, for a brief moment, Reulan could have sworn he heard a voice saying, “Well, if you must ask, I’d really rather have fish.” He laughed quietly, amused that he had assigned spoken words to an animal, and returned to his room and his morning meal, the cat following close behind.

* * *

Being a sun-priest in a small village required not only knowledge of the ways of Vkandis Sunlord but also of teaching, mending (both physical and metaphysical), gardening and, to a certain extent, more than a passing proficiency in healing. But one of the most pleasant duties of a priest to Reulan’s mind was the time he spent in silent meditation, fixing his mind on the glory and love of the God he served. It had become his habit, not long after arriving in Sweetwater and becoming old Beckor’s assistant priest, to spend this time outdoors, preferably at high noon when the Vkandis’ power was the greatest. The place he set aside for communion with the God was a small clearing in the forest east of the village. It was there that Reulan turned his footsteps this day, his morning chores done and the villagers about their daily tasks. He strode along the pathway, his mind stilled, already slipping into light meditation. The cat, as usual, came along, periodically darting off into the bushes, then back again.

The day was especially fine, blue sky above and sunlight slanting through the trees.

Reulan rejoiced and marveled at the power of the God that protected the land and its people. Though apprenticed at an early age to Beckor, which made his parents proud and additionally relieved them of a mouth to feed, he had always felt close to the God. Somehow he sensed he had been born to this...that he had been chosen from an early age. Now with Beckor gone to the God and Reulan no longer apprenticed, his life seemed to have become all it was meant to be.

The clearing lay just over a rocky rise in the ground. Reulan could see the sunlight pooling ahead and quickened his pace, eager to arrive at his goal.

:Reulan! Snake! Don’t move!:

For a moment, Reulan thought his heart had stopped. He certainly did, for anyone who had been born and raised in this area of Karse knew the peril of snakes. Frozen into immobility, he looked down to see a large rock snake stretched out on the path in a patch of sunlight, only two steps away. A cold sweat broke out on Reulan’s forehead: the bite of a rock snake was often fatal. Very carefully and ever so slowly, he backed away, never taking his eyes from the reptile.

Halfway down the path now and far enough away that the snake posed no immediate danger, he started shaking, aware just how close to death he had come. But who had called out his name? Who had warned him?

The cat rubbed up against his leg and sat down.

:Well,: a voice said inside his head. :The least you could do is thank me.: Reulan stared at the cat, feeling his mouth drop open.

:And close your mouth before you catch flies,: the cat advised, cocking his head and twitching his tail around his front paws.

A talking cat! Knees suddenly weak, Reulan glanced around, very carefully this time, for a place to sit that was not already occupied by a snake. Sinking down on a small boulder, he stared at the cat, his pulse racing. He had heard old grandmother tales about talking beasts-birds, horses, cats-creatures larger than normal that could speak mind-to-mind, but he had always considered these tales a fine way to while away the long hours of a winter night, not truth. But now...

Reulan swallowed heavily. “You talk!” he finally got out when he had gained control of his voice.

:It’s fortunate for you that I do,: the cat retorted, but Reulan sensed a smile. :And since we’re now on speaking terms, you may call me Khar.:

Khar? Certainly no name of any cat he had ever known-certainly not Boots, Patches, Puss or any of the other descriptive appellations people gave their cats.

“But...how...I mean, you’re speaking to me like...like...”

:A person?: And this time Reulan was certain he heard a laugh. :We all have our burdens to bear. And yours, sun-priest, is rudeness. You still haven’t thanked me.: Reulan licked his lips and swallowed again. “Thank you, Khar. I could be dead if you hadn’t been with me! But why-”

:If you’d be so kind,: Khar interrupted, busy now smoothing down his abundant whiskers, :I’d appreciate a small reward. I would suggest a fish...a large, fat fish.: How catlike. Despite his confusion and awe, Reulan smiled. Trust a feline to always be looking out for itself. “I’m sorry, Khar,” he said, feeling slightly foolish to be talking to a cat.

“Sweetwater has no fish. And if we wanted fish, which most of us don’t, we’d have to depend on traders or go to Sunhame itself.”

:Well, now, that’s an idea. Let’s go to Sunhame, you and I, and you can get me a fish.:

Reulan stared at the cat, unsure if he was being mocked or not. Sunhame was more than four days’ walk away, not an arduous journey but one he had not particularly contemplated. A sudden thought passed through his mind. Sunhame. He hadn’t been in the capital city since the final six-month period of his training as sun-priest and that had been over three years ago. The Holy Writ required that every person, once in his or her lifetime, should visit Sunhame. The most propitious of times to make that journey was at mid-summer, to be present at the high holy day of Summer Solstice, when the sun stood longest in the sky. Naturally, the journey was even more important for sun-priests, who were expected to serve as examples to the populace. He mentally figured out the calendar: Summer Solstice was only six days away. He could easily make Sunhame by then.

He snorted. What was he thinking? Why should he suddenly leave his village to make a journey to Sunhame? Certainly not for a fish, though he knew he owed Khar more than a simple meal for saving his life. On the other hand, the village was as prosperous as a village its size could be, its people were healthy, and no babies were due. Besides, the village midwife could handle that far better than he.

A strange, fey mood swept over him. Sunhame. Why not?

“Do you think,” he asked, reaching down to scratch Khar under the chin, “that you could wait a bit to collect your reward? Long enough for me to set things right in the village and to pack my supplies? Or do you suggest we leave this very day?” If feline expressions could be said to duplicate those of human beings, Khar looked positively disgusted. :Cats, Reulan,: he said with monumental dignity, :are known for their patience. A few more days certainly won’t kill me.:

* * *

And so it had been decided. Reulan had sought out Santon, the village headman, and explained that he would be making a pilgrimage to Sunhame to fulfill his obligation to be present at the Temple of Vkandis Sunlord at the Summer Solstice. Santon, understandably, was somewhat taken aback by the suddenness of this decision, but Reulan had mollified the big farmer by pointing out that the villagers could walk to Two-Trees, the village closest, for their own mid-summer celebration at that chapel. And if anyone was injured or needed medical care, Two Trees was large enough to have its own healer.

Truth to be told, another reason surfaced in Reulan’s mind for the journey, and that was simple curiosity. When traders had come through Sweetwater a month ago, they had told the villagers that the tragic and untimely death of the Son of the Sun, along with the inability of the senior-most priests of the Temple to choose his successor, had thrown Sunhame into confused anticipation. From what the traders said, infighting among various factions of the senior priesthood had broken out. Time and again they had sought a consensus, put forward various candidates, but had reached no agreement. It seemed as if something was blocking a decision that would make everyone happy.

Reulan looked on the infighting among his superiors with a certain amount of disdain.

Politics! God, he hated politics! As a priest, it was his duty to worship Vkandis and to look after the God’s people, not to find ways to increase his own standing. But if there was any time to journey to Sunhame, to see the Temple again, and possibly to be present at the elevation of the new Son of the Sun, this was it.

And so, the following morning Reulan set forth, carrying a light pack filled with provisions enough to see him there and back. The villagers had wished him a good journey and smiled to see their priest and his always-present cat set off down the dusty road to the south. Long accustomed to physical activity, Reulan soon settled into his walking stride, an easy gait that would carry him to his stopping place for the night without leaving him exhausted. He glanced down at Khar who trotted alongside, and shook his head. If he hadn’t thought his eyes were deceiving him, he would have sworn that Khar had grown overnight.

The biggest cat he had ever seen now appeared even bigger.

“Well, Khar,” he said conversationally, “are you happy now? We’re off to Sunhame and your fish.”

:And possibly more than that,: was the cat’s reply.

Reulan waited for Khar to continue, but the cat fell silent. Reulan shook his head. Cats.

Some of the most secretive creatures ever born, it ill served a human to attempt to pry information from them. Even ones who spoke.

The setting sun to his right, Reulan and Khar entered the next village south of Sweetwater. His black robes and gold chain of office would grant him food and rest wherever he chose to stop, but he aimed for the chapel, knowing that Faroaks’ own priest would welcome him for the night. And he was correct, for as he approached the chapel to attend its own sunset service, Dhadi stood at the doors, waiting for the villagers who chose to attend the service.

“Reulan!” the priest said, extending his hand in greeting. “What brings you to Faroaks?” His eyes fell on the cat, who sat at Reulan’s side, breathing a bit heavily from the long walk. “God of Light, Reulan! Where in the world did you find that cat? It’s absolutely huge!”

Reulan glanced at Khar and started. If possible, Khar had grown even more during the walk from Sweetwater. “He adopted me,” he explained lamely, feeling as if he had blundered into some story. And Dhadi only knew the half of it. Reulan smiled what he hoped was his most disarming smile. “I’m on my way to Sunhame for the Summer Solstice and if I could spend the night with you, I’d be most appreciative.”

“Of course,” Dhadi said. “Come in, Reulan. The sun’s nearly set and I must light the Night Candle.” He looked slightly askance at Khar. “Does he follow you even to services?”

“He’s one of the God’s creatures,” Reulan responded. “If you don’t mind, he’ll come with me.”

For a moment, Reulan thought Dhadi would refuse, but his fellow priest merely shook his head and gestured inside. “Stranger things have happened,” he murmured. “You and your cat are welcome, Reulan. The God’s blessing be on both of you.”

* * *

After assisting Dhadi in celebrating the rising sun and sharing a wholesome breakfast with his fellow priest, Reulan set out on the road again. He had not even reached the fields when he noticed several villagers following after. With the breeze at his back, he overheard snatches of conversation, not a bit of which was devoted to him. No, it was Khar they spoke about. Finally, curiosity triumphed and one of the men trotted up to Reulan’s side.

“Begging your pardon, sun’s-ray,” he said, dipping his head in an abbreviated bow.

“Me and my friends, well, we’ve never seen such a cat as the one you’ve got. He’s near big as my dog.”

Reulan shrugged uncomfortably. “You think he’s big? You should see the mice in Sweetwater!”

The farmer simply stared, oblivious to Reulan’s attempted humor. “Maybe so, sun’s-ray, but he’s one blessed big cat.” He dipped his head again. “Sunlord guard you on your journey.”

“And bless you and your endeavors,” Reulan replied automatically, sketching the Holy Disk symbol to include them all.

He turned away and set out on the road again, Khar trotting along at his side. Once he was out of hearing range, he glanced down at the cat. “You’ve grown again,” he accused, shifting his pack on his shoulders to a more comfortable position. “And don’t try to deny it.”

:Perhaps,: Khar replied. :But maybe you’re only seeing better.: Reulan made a face. “Inscrutable as always, sir cat. I must admit you’re beginning to make me nervous.”

If a cat could snort derisively, Khar did just that. :Spoken by a man who for days now has been conversing with a “dumb” animal.:

A faint blush heated Reulan’s cheeks. “Maybe so, Khar, but something’s going on here that I don’t understand. Why did you ‘adopt’ me? And, for the love of the Lord of Light, how is it that you talk?”

Khar flicked his tail in high good humor. :You’ve been initiated into mysteries, Priest Reulan. And aside from your initial shock, you’ve adapted very well. Who better to ask for fish?:

* * *

Three days into his journey, Reulan found the road becoming more crowded. No longer did he simply meet farmers going out to their fields, or the occasional horse-drawn cart filled with vegetables headed off to market somewhere. Now he shared the road with well-dressed folk who rode horseback, or those who walked in groups, all seemingly headed to Sunhame for the Summer Solstice. As the riders passed, bowing in their saddles to a sun-priest, he had to endure their comments about the size and beauty of the cat at his side. A few even made offers of purchase, proposing sums that made Reulan’s head spin.

As for Khar, despite his dissembling, he had continued to grow. The farmers outside Faroaks should see him now, Reulan thought. Though he had become somewhat accustomed (if that word fairly described his state of mind) to Khar’s company and to sharing conversations with what everyone else deemed a speechless animal, he felt he somehow skirted the edge of mystery.

That evening, stopping in a large village, he once again sought out the local sun-priest, arriving just in time for the lighting of the Night Candle. He knew the priest here very well; his former master Beckor had apprenticed Jaskhi at one time, before Reulan’s entry into the priesthood. Reulan and Jaskhi had become close friends after Beckor had died, the young priest turning to the older man for wisdom and support.

“So, Reulan,” Jaskhi said, dinner over and the two of them sitting for a moment in the well-lit room behind Jaskhi’s chapel. Khar had curled up at Reulan’s feet, purring like approaching thunder. “You’re making your pilgrimage, eh? Better early than late, I say.

You’ve timed your journey well, my friend. You should arrive in Sunhame the morning of the Summer Solstice. All the inns will be full, but you can always find a place to sleep at the Temple.”

“Unless it’s too full of quarreling priests,” Reulan murmured.

“Ah, that!” Jaskhi waved a dismissive hand. “When Vkandis wills, they’ll find their choice obvious. And what better day for that to happen than Summer Solstice? I envy you, Reulan. To be present at such an event is something no one would ever forget.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Now, tell me about your cat.”

Reulan sighed. If one more person asked him about Khar, he thought he would choke.

By this time, however, he had come up with a story of how Khar had “adopted” him he could recite without even thinking about it.

“There’s still something strange about that cat,” Jaskhi said, unconvinced, “and I think you know more than you’re letting on.”

“What do you mean?”

“Aside from his size, which is enough in itself to set anyone back, there’s a touch of mystery about him, as if he’s a gateway into somewhere we can’t go.” Reulan stared. “What are you talking about?”

“I really don’t know,” Jaskhi admitted. “But, I’ll tell you right now...this is no ordinary, if simply oversized, cat. Cats don’t grow that big, and I’ve never heard of one walking beside a human all the way to Sunhame.” He held up a hand. “No, don’t say anything. I’m sure I’m not the first to comment on your cat. Just remember this, Reulan...there are more things in this world than even we sun-priests can see. And I think you’ve walked straight into one of them.”

* * *

When Reulan set out on the last day of his journey, he was only hours away from Sunhame. By now the road had grown congested with people from all walks of life. As had become the case yesterday, Reulan was surrounded by a crowd of people who, for all their deference to a sun-priest, couldn’t refrain from making comments about Khar. Reulan set his face in a proper priestly expression, refusing to acknowledge the remarks supposedly made out of his hearing. Khar, of course, remained oblivious to the commotion he caused.

The outskirts of Sunhame came into view around a bend in the road, a road that was now broad and paved with large flat cobbles. As had been the case when Reulan had seen it first, the capital of Karse seemed overwhelming. Born and raised in the country, Reulan had found it hard to believe so many people could live in one place. The six months he had spent in his final studies before being elevated to the priesthood had not lessened that feeling. Today was no different. The buildings were huge. The press of people amazing. The noise, the confusion, the smells...

And now, people were pointing in his direction. The crowds created so much noise that Reulan could not hear what was being said. From the expressions on people’s faces, some great lord and his escort had been caught up by the press of people behind him. But when he looked over his shoulder, all he saw was a sea of faces, and each one of them seemed to be staring at him.

Or, he admitted uncomfortably, at the cat.

He glanced down at Khar, who walked very close to him now to avoid being stepped on by the unwary person or horse. The cat’s appearance was slightly different...his tail, face and legs appeared a darker shade of cream. But that plume of a tail was held straight up and there was a spring to Khar’s step that Reulan had not seen before. Fish. It had to be fish. Close as Sunhame lay to a broad, slow moving river, and to both Ruby Lake and its smaller companion, Lake Mist, fish would be readily at hand.

The buildings loomed taller now, over three, sometimes four, stories. The closer one drew to the center of Sunhame, the more impressive the architecture. The capital was laid out in the shape of a wheel, or a sundisk, with the Temple holding the center and twelve main roads leading out from that center. Reulan glanced up and saw faces looking down from many of those windows. The noise of the crowd grew even louder and people leaned out from those windows, pointing downward. Vkandis Sunlord! What was going on? Once more, he glanced over his shoulder, certain he would find a procession or something of the sort that could be causing all the commotion. Again, he saw nothing but wide-eyed faces staring at him and the cat that walked at his side.

There are more things in this world than even we sun-priests can see, his friend Jaskhi had said. And I think you’ve walked straight into one of them.

Reulan quickened his pace. The sun was near its zenith and he wanted to be standing with the rest of the people at the Temple when the Solstice occurred. He knew from past experience he was too late to attend the service inside the Temple. And with no Son of the Sun to lead the ceremonies, the great sanctuary would be packed by senior priests and those who had staked their claims on the best spots to see and be seen.

He heard someone cry out, but couldn’t distinguish the words. Nervous now, he kept his eyes straight forward and concentrated on ignoring the growing noise of the crowd.

Though he walked down a clogged street, no one bumped into him or, for that matter, even came close. He and Khar walked in a small circle of emptiness and that fact alone made Reulan more jittery than ever.

Vkandis Sunlord, he prayed. Protect me! He didn’t include Khar in that prayer, quite certain the cat could more than take care of himself.

More shouting broke out but Reulan couldn’t see far enough to tell what was happening. But when the road rose upward toward the Temple at the highest point in the city, he began to see what was going on. A crowd of Black-robes, Red-robes and White-robes plowed through the crowd, swimming upstream as it were against the tide of travelers headed toward the Temple. Reulan swallowed heavily. Something was happening here...something of great importance. And he didn’t have a clue as to what it was.

I’m a simple country priest, I’m no one important, he pleaded inwardly. Don’t look at me as if I were.

One of the Black-robes, a senior fellow if his gorgeous robes and gold accouterments meant anything, turned and all but sprinted toward the Temple, his fellow priests falling back to let him through. The noise of the crowd intensified, blending into an excited roar. Reulan could see the Temple now. White marble caught and held the sunlight and shone like a flame at nighttime. The many steps leading up to the sanctuary gleamed in the sunlight and the gold on the cornices seemed blindingly bright.

He approached the steps, more determined than ever to ignore the uproar. The crowd had drawn back from the main entrance to the Temple, leaving the plaza around it shockingly empty. Reulan stopped, unsure what to do next. Then something bumped into his leg above the knee, the familiar head-butt of his cat. But above knee height?

Reulan looked down and his heart gave an absurd little leap in his chest. Knees trembling, feeling faint, he stared at his feline companion.

In place of the cat who had journeyed with him from Sweetwater stood a creature straight out of legend, one every child had heard about in tale after tale. The cream-colored body was still there, but no tabby markings marred its hue. Now a brick-red mask, legs and tail graced the cream. And the eyes. O Vkandis Sunlord! The eyes were blue, the blue of a cloudless sky, a blue so deep he felt he could have fallen into their depths and kept falling forever.

A Firecat!

* * *

“Khar?” he breathed, knowing the cat would hear. “O Lord of Light...Khar, is that you?”

:Steady, Reulan,: Khar said, rubbing his cheek against Reulan’s leg. :Take a few deep breaths, and everything will be fine.:

The noise of the crowd shut off as if someone had taken a knife to it, separating one moment of clamor from the next instant of total silence. Reulan stood rooted in place, lifting his eyes to the steps leading up to the sanctuary. A procession had formed at the top of those steps that consisted of the senior-most priests of the land, who were now slowly headed down toward where Reulan stood. Though every muscle in his body quivered, screaming at him to turn and run, he could not move. His mouth grew dry and he feared he would choke on the avalanche of emotions that gripped his heart.

The procession stopped a few steps from where he stood, the expressions on the faces of the priests one of uniform awe. It had become so quiet now, he could hear Khar’s rumbling purr.

As one, every priest facing him bowed low.

Two of them approached: one removed Reulan’s pack and the other fastened a cloak about his shoulders, a cloak heavily encrusted with gold and sun-gems. Reulan could hardly breathe at this point, his mind whirling out of control and his heart beating so loud he was sure the entire plaza could hear it.

Then from the center of the procession stepped the senior-most priest of all who had gathered here, a man his master Beckor had acknowledged as one of the purest souls in the capital. An old man, white hair gleaming in the sunlight and eyes wide with awe, the priest bore in his hands the great golden crown of the Son of the Sun.

Reulan briefly closed his eyes. This couldn’t be happening! It was utterly impossible!

He had never had any desire to do more than minister to his people and-

“Vkandis has chosen!” the old man called out, his voice surprisingly clear and more than loud enough to be heard by those who had gathered in the plaza. He lifted the crown and set it on Reulan’s head at the very moment the sun reached its zenith in the sky.

For an instant, Reulan forgot to breathe.

And then the glory descended.

Light, golden light, light that filled him like water poured into an empty vessel. Light that lifted him out of himself into a place where no darkness could ever come. He was enfolded by light, consumed by light, cradled by light. He was the fiery wick on a brilliant candle the size of the universe. He cried out voicelessly in the presence of that light, protesting that he could not be worthy.

And the light responded, not in words but in something far beyond words. Comfort came with those “words,” along with a feeling of subtle good humor. Could he question the will of Vkandis? Could he possibly know more than the God? And what if Vkandis required a “simple country priest” to lead his people?

The light, if possible, intensified and coursed through his veins like fire. His heart expanded, accepting the love and wisdom of the God who touched him. He bowed before that Presence, accepting the choice of the God he loved.

And, suddenly, he saw again with the eyes of flesh. The silence in the plaza beat at his ears with the same intensity that the roar of the crowd had possessed not long ago...a lifetime ago. He felt Khar’s shoulder snug against his leg, heard the Firecat’s soothing purr.

The crown on his head should have weighed enough to bend his neck, but he felt nothing heavier than the touch of a gentle hand.

He stared at the crowd that stood in a circle around him. No one moved or spoke. He turned slowly, looking from person to person. And his heart quivered in his chest at what he saw.

Behind those who faced him stretched their shadows, as if he were a lamp lit in the darkness and they had turned toward his light.

Khar butted his head against Reulan’s leg again. He glanced down at the Firecat, seeing true affection dancing in those very blue eyes.

:Well, Reulan. We’re here at last. Now can I have my fish?: Winter Death

by Michelle West

Michelle West is the author of numerous novels, including the Sacred Hunter duology and the Sun Sword series, which will be concluded with the publication of The Sun Sword in January 2004. She re-views books for the online column First Contacts, and less frequently for The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. Other short fiction by her has appeared in dozens of anthologies, most recently in The Sorcerer's Academy, Apprentice Fantastic, Once Upon A Galaxy, Familiars and Vengeance Fantastic.

Kayla was born in the harsh winter of life in the mining town of Riverend. Her father had been born there, and her mother had come from the flats of Valdemar's most fertile lands.

An outsider, she had learned to face the winter with the same respect, and the same dread, that the rest of the villagers showed. She had come to be accepted by the villagers in the same way, slowly and grudgingly at first, but with a healthy respect that in the end outlasted all of their earlier superstitious fear of the different.

Margaret Merton, called Magda for reasons that Kayla never quite understood, was different. She could walk into a room and it would grow warmer; she could smile, and her smile would spread like fire; her joy could dim the sharpest and bitterest of winter joy could dim the sharpest and bitterest of tempers, when cabin fever ran high. How could they not learn to love her?

Even in her absence, that memory remained, and when her daughter showed some of the same strange life, she was loved for it. More, for the fact that she was born to the village.

* * *

The Heralds came through the village of Riverend in the spring, when the snows had receded and the passes, in the steep roads and treacherous flats of the mountains, were opened. Heralds seldom stopped in the village, although they rode through it from time to time.

When they did, Kayla took the little ones from the hold and made her way down to the village center to watch them ride through. She would bundle them one at a time in the sweaters and shawls that kept the bite of spring air at bay, and gently remind them of foreign things-manners, behavior, the language children should use in the presence of their elders.

She would remind them of the purpose of Heralds, and promise them a story or two if they behaved themselves, and then she would pick up the children whose toddling led them to cracks in the dirt, sprigs of new green, sodden puddles-in fact, anything that caught their eye from the moment the hold's great doors were opened-and hurry them along; in that way, she managed to keep them from missing the Heralds altogether.

This spring was the same, but it was also different; every gesture was muted, and if she smiled at all, it was so slight an expression that the children could be forgiven for missing it. It had been a harsh winter.

A terrible winter.

And the winter had taken the joy out of Kayla so completely the villagers mourned its passing and wondered if it was buried with those who had passed away in the cold.

On this spring day, the Heralds stopped as the children gathered in as orderly a group as children could who had been cooped up all winter.

There were two, a man and the woman who rode astride the Companions that set them apart from any other riders in the kingdom of Valdemar.

"Well met," the woman said, nudging her Companion forward at a slow walk. Kayla heard the whisper that started at one end of the small group and traveled to the other. She almost smiled.

Almost.

Mitchell and Evan began to shove each other out of the way in an attempt to be at the front of the group. Kayla set Tess down and separated them, grabbing an elbow in either hand. She didn't need to speak; her expression said everything.

Bells caught light and made of sound a musical cacophony, which was not in fact dissimilar to the sound it evoked from the children, whose quarrels fell away in the wake of shared wonder.

Well, almost all of the quarrels at any rate; there was still some scuffling for position, with its attendant shoving and hissed accusation. Given everything, this was almost angelic behavior; it wouldn't be good enough for the old aunts, but it was good enough for Kayla.

Two years ago, she would have asked for more-and gotten it, too-but two years ago, behavior had seemed so much more important than it was now.

These children were the children of winter, and the winter was harsh; she knew that if half of them lived to be eight, the village would count itself lucky; if half of those lived to be fifteen, it would count itself more than that.

The Herald, an older woman with broad hips and an easy smile, watched the children from the safe distance of her Companion's back; her Companion, on the other hand, had no difficulty wandering among the many outstretched-and upstretched-hands. The second Companion seemed to have a more obvious sense of personal dignity-or at least a healthy caution when it came to children; it was hard to say which. Her rider was a handful of years older than Kayla, if at all, but his face was smooth and unblemished by either time or war, and he seemed both grave and dignified in a way that reminded her of her dead. Riverend was a harsh, Northern town; the dead were many.

"Youngling," the older Herald barked, her voice loud but not unfriendly.

Mitchell leaped up about six feet, straining to look much older than his handful of years.

"Yes, ma'am!"

The young man who rode at her side laughed. "Ma'am, is it?" His glance belied the gravity of his expression; Kayla liked the sound of his voice.

"Obviously I don't look as young as I'd like to think I do. Ah well, time is cruel." Her smile showed no disappointment at that cruelty as she looked down at Mitchell. "You know the people of the village by name?"

He nodded.

"Good. I'm wondering where Kayla Grayson lives." Mitchell lifted a hand and pointed toward the large hold.

"Will she be down at the mines, or up at the hold?" He frowned. "Neither."

Kayla said nothing.

But she felt it: a change in the older woman's mood and intent; there were currents in it now that were deeper than they should have been. She snuck a glance at the man, and listened carefully. There, too, she felt a determination that was out of place. It put her on her guard.

"Why are you looking for Kayla?" she asked.

"We've heard a bit about her, and we-well, I at least-thought it would be nice to meet her on our way through Riverend. We don't often get much call to travel this way."

"What have you heard?"

"Well, for one, that she's Magda Merton's daughter, the last of four, and the one most like her mother."

Kayla hesitated a moment, and hid that hesitation in the action of lifting a child to the wide, wide nostrils of a very patient Companion. She had the grace to wince and pull back when the child's first act was to attempt to shove his whole hand up the left one.

"That's true," she said at last. "At least, that she's the last of her daughters. You'll have to judge for yourself how much alike they actually are." She straightened her shoulders, shifting her burden again with an ease that spoke of practice. "Because I'm guessing you knew my mother."

The Herald's expression shifted; it didn't matter. Kayla already knew what the woman was feeling. Surprise. Concern. Hope. "So you're Kayla."

"And you?"

"Anne," the woman replied. She reached out with a hand, and after only a slight hesitation, Kayla shifted the boy to one hip, freeing one of hers. She shook the Herald's hand and then turned to face the quieter young man. "If you want to join us, there's food, but I'll warn you, it's spare; we can offer you news, or trade, or water-but we barter for most of our food, and only Widow Davis has stores enough to entertain important guests."

The Heralds exchanged a look, and then the young man smiled. "We're well provisioned. We'd be happy to offer food for our discussion or news."

"He means-and is too polite to say it-gossip."

But Kayla felt the twinge of guilt that hid beneath the surface of those cheerful words, and her eyes fell to the saddlebags that his Companion bore without complaint. It occurred to her that the Companions and their Heralds seldom carried much food with them, for the villages who fed and housed them were reimbursed for their troubles, and at a rate that made it especially appealing for the poorer towns.

But when the man dismounted and unstrapped the bags from the side of his Companion, she knew, she just knew that they had been brought solely to be offered to Riverend. And she didn't like it, although she couldn't say why.

"Your pardon," he said, dipping his head slightly, "for my manners. My name is Carris."

"And her name?" She asked, staring at his Companion.

The Herald smiled. "Her name is Arana. She is a queen among Companions. And knows it," he added ruefully.

Kayla nodded quietly and turned away. "The hold is dark, even at this time of day; there is only one room with good windows. Shall I send for the mayor?"

"No. No, that isn't necessary. It's really an informal visit." Anne frowned. "And yes, I did know your mother. She was a very, very stubborn woman."

"You know that she died."

Anne nodded, and there was a very real weariness in the movement. "Aye, I know it."

But she added no more. Instead, she turned to her Companion and began to unstrap her saddlebags as well. They were equally heavy.

* * *

"I won't lie to you, Kayla," Anne said, as she took a seat while Kayla set to boiling water for the tea and herbal infusions that the Southerners often found too thin or too bitter. "I did not know your mother well. This has been my circuit for a number of years, and although we're often sent out on different routes, we become familiar with the villages along the King's roads.

"Your mother wasn't the mayor, but she was the center of Riverend. I never met a woman with a cannier sense of the dangers of living in such an isolated place-and I grew up a few towns off the Holderkin, so I'm aware of just how dangerous those fringes can be.

"But your mother had a great love for your father, and for the lands that produced him.

And she had a gift, as well, a...clear understanding of people." She hesitated, and Kayla felt it again, that low current beneath the words that seemed to move in a different direction from their surface. "A clearer understanding than perhaps most of us have." She waited.

Carris said nothing, but he did clear his throat.

"We've brought a few things that the village will find useful," he said at last, looking to just one side of her face, as if his dark and graceful gaze had become suddenly awkward.

"Magda often asked for aid for the rough times, and-and-she made it clear what was needed. There are medical herbs and unguents here, there are potions as well; there are bandages and cleansing herbs, as well as honest tea. There's salted, dried meat in the second bag; a lot of it, which might help. The harvest in the mainland has been...poor this year. There's also some money in the last bag."

"You shouldn't be telling me this," Kayla said quietly. "You should talk to Widow Davis; she's the mayor hereabouts, or what passes for one. She'll know what to do, and she'll be very grateful to you both."

They exchanged another glance.

"Well, then, maybe you'd better call for the Widow Davis after all."

Kayla smiled politely. "If you think she isn't already on her way, you don't know Riverend all that well."

* * *

But Kayla knew something was wrong.

The Widow Davis did, indeed, arrive; she scattered the children with a sharp inquiry about the current state of their chores, and an even sharper glance at the children who had the temerity to tell her they wanted to stay with the Companions, and then eyed the saddlebags the Heralds carried with an obvious, and deep, suspicion.

"Kayla, go mind the children. If you can't teach them to heed their duties, no one can. I'll deal with the strangers."

Kayla felt her jaw go slack, but she hid the surprise that had caused it as she nodded to the widow and retreated. These were Heralds, not medicants, and she had never heard the Widow Davis be rude to a Herald before. She was glad that the children had been sent back to their work.

She did not see the Heralds leave, but when she had time to glance outside again, they were gone, the white of their uniforms, and the white of Companion coats, little glimpses into the heart of winter, a hint of the future.

And when she at last tucked in for bed, she fought sleep with a kind of dread that she hadn't felt since she had slept in the arms of her own mother, at a time of life so far removed it seemed centuries must have passed. The nightmares had been strong then; they were strong now.

Many of the village children dreamed. They found a place in her lap when they wished to make sense of all the things that occurred only after they closed their eyes, and she had spent years listening, with both wonder and envy, to the hundreds of broken stories that occupied their dreamscapes.

Not so her own.

* * *

She had two dreams.

There was a black dream and a white dream, set against the mountain's winter.

As a child, the black dreams were frightening, bewildering; she would wake from sleep to search for her mother; it never took long. Her mother would come, precious candle burning, and sit by the side of her bed.

"What did you dream of, Kayla?"

"The dragon."

She had never seen a dragon; the stories that the old wives told described them as terrible, ancient beasts who had long since vanished from the face of the free lands. Books in the hold were so rare they were seldom seen, and books with pictures tipped in were rarer still.

But there was something in the shape of shadow that reminded her of those pictures.

"What was he doing?"

"Crying."

"Ah. Try not to listen too carefully, Kayla. Dragon tears are a terrible thing."

"I think...he's lonely."

Her mother's smile was shallow, even by candlelight. "Dragons are lonely; they sit on their cold, cold gold, their hard jewels, and they never come out to play."

"He would," she would tell her mother, "if he could find us."

"I think it best that he never find us, Kayla. Riverend is no place for such a creature."

* * *

The white dreams were different.

The snows were clearer and cleaner, and the pines that guarded the pass stretched beyond them to cut moonlight and hide it. But the light was strong enough to see by, and she always saw the same thing: the white horse.

He was the color of snow, of light on snow. And in the hold, in this place just one edge of rock and mountain, where spring came and went so quickly and summer's stretch was measured in weeks, snow was the color of death. Even as a child, she had understood that.

He did not speak to her until her father died.

"You can talk?"

Yes. A little. It is difficult now. But... :I heard your voice, little one. I heard your singing.:

"Singing?"

:Aye, song, a dirge, I think, to break the heart for its softness. I heard you sing years ago, and your song was so light and so joyful, I waned all of my compatriots to stand, to listen, to feel. There was such love in that song. And in this one. In this one, too.: She knew what he spoke of, and said nothing, but looked down at the back of her hands. They were child's hands; smooth and unblemished by calluses and dirt. Because it was a dream, she did not ask him how he had come to hear her heart's song.

:If I asked you to come with me, what would you do?:

And because she understood something of the nature of dreaming, she allowed herself to be honest. "If you had asked me as a child, I would have tendered a child's answer. But I have children now, and they need me greatly, and you are not a creature to be confined to a place like Riverend."

He had met her eyes with eyes, she thought, that saw whole lives as if they were the course rivers ran, beginning to end, and he might map them out, might remark on where the rapids lay, and where the oceans, at last, waited, for the movements of rivers to cease. And he said, :Tonight then, dear heart, I will not ask.:

But she knew that the time was coming when he would, and she was afraid of it.

Because Riverend was her home, and she wanted to leave.

* * *

He came to her often in her dreams after that, and she spoke with him, he with her. But his was not the only dream which changed.

For one night, huddled alone in the cold, she dreamed the black dream, and it was different: The dragon took flight. It searched; it searched for her. She could hear it roar when it opened its lips, and its voice was a song of death and desire.

And when it sang, she heard over voices as well, thin and terrible, the wailing of children, of grown men reduced to that earlier state, of women whose losses were so profound that silence-even the silence of the grave- seemed to offer mercy. They were lost, these voices; she knew it. They were lost to the devourer, the shadow, the dragon.

And if she were not careful, if she were not silent as mouse, and hidden in the darkness of a hold's small room, it would find her, it would consume her, and it would add her voice to its song.

She woke, sweating, her voice raw; the walls of the hold were solid, but she could hear footsteps in the halls beyond her room. They paused a moment outside her door, but no one knocked; no one entered. Her mother was gone.

* * *

After that, she dreamed of the darkness often. It grew stronger and stronger, and she, weaker.

On the morning of the worst of these dreams, the Heralds had come with their ominous gifts, and she had left them with Widow Davis.

Tonight, the darkness had not yet fallen across the field of her vision. He was waiting for her, cold beauty.

She felt the howl of winter wind through passes closed by snow and storm; memory of spring and summer faded until only the cold remained, essential and eternal. The ice glittered from the heights of the mountains' peaks; caught light in a skirt around the fringes of the evergreens that stretched a hundred feet in height to the edge of her vision.

The snow did not swallow him; is weight did not bear him down, down through the thin crust of snow. Silent, he waited for her.

As he always waited.

But it was different, tonight, and she knew it.

She said, "You cannot carry an Oathbreaker."

He met her gaze and held it, but she heard no voice, and she found the absence unsettling, for in dreams like these, she had spoken to him for much of her life.

"Did you send the Heralds? Did they bring gifts that were meant to take my place?"

He offered no reply.

And she was afraid. Her arms were cold; the day was fading. Night in the mountains was bright, if not brighter, by moonlight, but the colors-winter colors, to be sure-were leached from the landscape until only shades of gray remained beneath the black and white of sky and star.

"This is no dream," she said quietly, the question a shadow across the words.

He nodded.

She did not know what to feel; the winter had settled deep within her.

* * *

In the morning, he came. He came after breakfast had been prepared, but before the miners had gathered in the hold; the sun cut crisp, long shadows against the sparse growth.

The children carried word of his presence from one end of the village to the other, but they came in numbers to where Kayla cleaned the heavy ceramics that held the morning porridge. Kayla quietly washed and dried her hands, while smaller hands tugged at her apron's hem and strings.

"There's a Companion in Riverend!" Tess said, her dark eyes wide and round.

"I know," Kayla told her softly, bending and gathering her in shaking arms.

"It's got no Herald!" Evan added. "lt's got no rider!"

"I know," Kayla replied. She straightened.

"Everyone wants to see it. Do you think it's come searching?"

"Aye, little, I think it's come searching."

"For who?" Tess asked, insistent, and unaware of the stillness of Kayla's expression.

"Do you think he'll take Evan away?"

Evan was her older brother, by about four years. "Not yet."

"Too bad."

She laughed. "I'm sure Evan thinks so, too."

"But do you think he's lost his Herald? Do you think he needs help? Do you think-"

"I think," she said, "that he'll have died of old age before I can see him if I answer all your questions first."

"Just one more?"

"One more."

"Do you think he'll let me ride?"

"No, little, I think you'll fall off his back, and Companions aren't in the business of visiting villages just to injure the dearest of their people." She kissed the girl's forehead, just as she would have once kissed the forehead of her youngest.

Tess wrapped her arms around Kayla's neck. "But what do you think he wants?"

"I think," she said quietly, "that we'll find out soon. Now hush."

* * *

Widow Davis was there, in the clearing by river's side. The river itself, cold and loud, was a thin one, but it was clear and the water, fresh. She looked up when Kayla approached, her eyes narrowed and wrinkled by exposure to wind, to cold, and yes, to the scant sun. "Well, then," she said, "You've heard."

"I've...heard."

"Your mother told me," the widow said, turning back to her bucket.

"Told you?"

"To be careful of the Companions."

"They're not evil, Widow Davis."

"No, I'm certain of it. All of our stories say so, and they've come to the aid of the village at least three times in my living memory." She was silent a moment. "But this will be the first time they take more than they offer."

"Widow Davis-"

The old woman's look stopped her flat. "Come on, then. You're here, and we might as well have it out." She offered Kayla an arm; Kayla shifted Tess to one side and took it.

Together they crossed the uneven ground that led from stream to the shadows cast by the tall, white Companion, caparisoned in livery of blue and sliver, belled so his movements might evoke a sense of music, a sense of play. But his eyes were dark, and large as the palms of a child's hand, and he did not blink when he turned his massive head toward the two women Children dogged their steps, crossed their shadows, whispered eagerly and quickly amongst themselves. Not even the dour expression of the Widow Davis could silence them completely.

The widow's hand tightened; Kayla's arm began to tingle. She did not, however, ask the old woman to let go.

"He's here for you, girl," the woman said, pulling her arm free Kayla looked up at the Companion, and then she reached out with her free hand. Her fingers stopped inches from his nose, and she let that hand fall. She said, quietly, "Do I have to go with you?"

He looked into her eyes and said, in a voice that made all song seem flat and thin,

:The choice is yours.

:I have waited long for this day. I have waited, bright heart, and promised myself that I would let you lead the life the mountain would give you.

:But I have heard your cries from across the continent; I have been with you when you buried your dead, when you cradled the living that you knew you could not hold on to.: She looked up at his eyes; his gaze never wavered. "You know that this choice is no choice."

He was silent a moment; she thought he would offer no answer. And then, quietly, he said, :Better than you would understand.:

"Because the choice has always been yours to make."

:Because the Companions Choose, yes.:

"And the Heralds?"

:They are Chosen. But they feel the bond, and they desire it, and they accept it for all that it is; all that it can be.:

"And my oath?" she asked him, voice steady, arm now drawing on an young child for support.

:There are oaths that are made that cannot be kept in the manner that their maker envisioned. If a child promises to love you, and only you, for all of forever, could you hold him to that vow? Would you desire it?:

"I was no child when I made that vow."

:Dear heart,: he said gently, :you are barely an adult now, and you made that vow when your older brother moved away, long before you had husband or children.: He stepped forward, and she shied away.

Because she wanted what he offered.

Because she had never wanted anything so badly. :I choose you, Kayla.: She heard the song of his name, although she had never asked it of him, and he had never offered it-as if they both understood, in the dreams of her youth, that his name was a binding they had avoided by careful dance until this moment.

"Darius."

Widow David coughed. The old woman's face was set in its harshest lines. In the distance, children that had been silent until that moment surged forward as Kayla did; they came in a press of small bodies, eager and excited.

But she knew that they would understand it truly later.

For now, all they said was, "You're to be Chosen, Kayla? You're going to be a Herald?

Will you wear white? Will you have a sword? Will you have a bow?"

She answered all questions gravely, until one lone boy spoke. Evan.

"Will you come back?"

"Yes," she said, fiercely. "Often. I will come back with a saddlebag full of Northern toys and treats and books, and I will come at the edge of winter, just before they close the passes, like some foolish, green merchant."

Darius had saddlebags. She knew, without looking, that they were full; full enough for a long journey.

"Widow Davis," she said softly. "Can you do without me?"

The old woman had some mercy. "Aye," she said gruffly. "We did before your mother came. We managed." She started to say something else, and then stopped. "They must need you, Kayla, They must need you even more than we do."

Kayla said nothing.

Because she knew a lie when she heard it. What could they need from her that a hundred other girls. couldn't give them? They had Heralds, full-trained; they had soldiers, they had lords, ladies, Kings. They had so much.

And Riverend had so little.

"I'll be back," she whispered.

Widow Davis met her eyes, without blinking, and then to Kayla's astonishment, the old woman stepped forward and wrapped arms around her shoulders. "Come back, child," she said, although it had been years since she had called Kayla a child. "Come back whole."

Kayla flinched. She felt her eyes sting. "Widow Davis-"

"You've not come back to us with the spring. We missed your song in the winter. It may be that you need what it is he offers; it may be he'll help you to sing for us again."

Kayla buried her face in the old woman's shoulders.

* * *

Before lunch that day, she was on the road. Her neck was cramped; she'd done nothing but gaze backward, over her shoulder, until not even the hills that were home to Riverend could be seen in the distance. All of her life lay in that village, or beneath it; all of the things she valued.

Promise me, Kayla, that you'll stay. Promise me that you'll take care of Riverend when I'm gone.

I promise, Mother. But you won't be gone for a long time, will you?

Not if I have anything to say about it. Of course, she hadn't.

* * *

Riding was nothing like it had been in her dreams. It was hard work. And painful.

She could feel Darius' rueful smile. She could not see his face, of course.

"They need me, you know," she told him, the accusation soft.

:I am sorry, dear heart, but so do we.:

"Why?"

:That I cannot tell you yet. But you will understand, I fear, as we approach the city.:

"What city?"

:The King's city,: he told her quietly. :The capital. Or what's left of it.:

"What do you mean, Darius?"

Darius didn't answer.

"Are we at war?"

:We are always at war, Kayla. But the battlefields shift and change with time.:

* * *

He had to tell her what to do for him when they stopped by the Waystations left for Herald use. She did not know how to brush him, water him, blanket him; was not familiar with the food that he ate. Everything about the life beyond Riverend was strange and unexpected.

But sleep was bad. Every night she spent away from the hold, she spent beneath the great, unfurled wings of the shadow beast, the devourer. She knew that she would never have the white dreams again.

Darius would nudge her out of sleep, and she would cry out, reach for him, and then stop, letting her hands fall away.

"I don't see you in my dreams anymore." The words shook as much as her hands did.

:I know.:

"Will I ever?"

:Yes, Kayla. But . . . it was never easy to reach through your dreams to you. It takes gift. Talent.:

"But you-when I dreamed of you, I didn't dream of the-of the-other."

:I would claim that as my action, but there will be too much between us to endure a lie. If you found peace and haven from the-from your dreams, it was not a haven I could create. Not then. Not now.

:If I not been meant for you, if I had not known of you when you were a child, I would never have been able to breach the barriers set by-:I

He fell silent, and after an awkward pause she asked, "How did you know of me?"

:I heard you.:

"You traveled through Riverend?"

:No. But I heard you. I heard your fear and your terror. I heard your sorrow. I heard your song. Your song is powerful.:

"My mother used to tell me song was my Gift."

:Did she? Interesting. Song is the only way that I have seen you use your Gift. You sing, and others listen. You listen, and you hear the harmonies and disharmonies that are hidden in a speaker's voice. But that is not your gift, Kayla.:

"What is?"

His mane flew as he shook his head. :The dreams are worse, yes?: She knew that that was as much an answer that he would offer, and it made her uneasy. She said, simply, "My mother told me I was safe as long as I was in Riverend."

:You were safe there. But others are not.: He was silent while she gathered her things.

Only when she was safe upon the height of his back did he continue. :What you dream of...it is true in a fashion. We are closer to it. We will draw closer still. I am...sorry.:

* * *

On the fourth day, she woke from dreaming with Darius' muzzle in the side of her neck.

She was sweating, although it was cold, and he caught the edge of her rough woolen blankets in his perfect teeth and pulled them more tightly around her.

His eyes were dark, his gaze somber.

"Darius," she whispered, when she could speak past the rawness in the throat, "I heard bells."

He was silent.

"Not bells like yours, not bells like the ones you're decorated. with. But . . . bells. Loud and low."

:I know.:

"There are no bells here, are there?"

:No. Not on these roads; the next village is half a day's hard riding away.:

"What are they?"

:You know, Kayla.:

And she did, although she did not know how. Death bells. "Tell me?"

He shook his head. :It is forbidden for me to tell you what they are; you will know. We will reach the capital in the next two days.:

As he spoke, the hairs on the back of her neck rose. She thought of Riverend. Of Tessa and Evan, of Mitchell, of the Widow Davis. For no reason at all, she wanted to weep.

* * *

The first large town that Kayla entered seemed so vast she assumed it was the capital.

Darius laughed, but his laughter was gentle enough that it reminded her of her father's amusement at her younglings antics a lifetime ago.

"But it's so-so-big!"

:It is big, yes. But . . . it is not a city. The town is large. That building, there? That houses the mayor and his family. And that, that is as close to a cathedral as you will find.

But this is a tenth, a twentieth, of the size of the city you will enter when we-Kayla?: She sat frozen across his bare back, her legs locked so tightly her body was shuddering.

:Kayla!:

She could not even shake her head. Her mouth, when it opened, was too dry to form words. Darius...

:Kayla, what is wrong?:

The screaming. Can't you hear it? The screaming.

:Kayla! KAYLA!:

* * *

She was on her feet. Not his back, not his feet. She could not remember sliding from the complicated bits and pieces of baubles that announced his presence and his station so eloquently.

The cobbled streets passed beneath her; she noticed them only because they felt so strange to her feet, so unnatural beneath open sky. The screaming was so loud she could hear no other words, although she thought she could glimpse, from the corners of her eyes, the opened mouths and shocked faces of the strangers she hurtled past, pushed through.

She was through the doors and into the light before she realized that she had entered the cathedral; that she stood in the slanting rays of colors such as she had never seen captured in glass. A man, ghostly and regal, illuminated her and the ground upon which she stood.

She stopped only a moment because given a choice between beauty and terror, beauty could not hold her. She knew what she heard. She knew it.

The cathedral was an open, empty place of light and space, with benches and an altar at the end of the apse. She ran down it, boots pounding the ground, footsteps echoing in heights she would never have dreamed possible in Riverend. And she forgot to feel small, to feel humble; she knew she had to read the person whose screams were so terrible, and soon, or it would be too late.

And she never once stopped to wonder what too late meant.

She found him.

It wasn't easy; there were doors secreted in the vast stone walls, beautifully oiled and tended, that nonetheless seemed like prison doors, they opened into a room so small.

Curled against wall and floor, huddling in the corner, was a man. A stranger.

In Riverend, strangers were always eyed with suspicion, greeted with hearty hospitality and an implacable distance. She had shed both of those the moment she had heard his terrible cry.

And she heard it still, although she could see-with wide eyes-that his lips were still. But his eyes were wider than eyes should be, and they stared ahead, to her, sightless, as if he had gone blind.

:Kayla! Be careful!:

Darius' voice.

She realized then what was so wrong, so cutting, about this man's cry of terror: it reached her the same way that Darius' words did, in a silence that spoke of knowledge and intimacy. Without thought, she bent to the man huddled against the floor, and without thought, she tried to lift him.

Realized that lifting him would strain the muscles she had built in the hold, lifting even the largest of the children; he was not a small man.

And she was a small woman. But determination had always counted for something.

Always.

She caught him in her arms. Caught his face in her hands as his head sought the cradle of arms and breasts.

His screaming was terrible.

But hers was louder, longer, as insistent as his own.

Look at me!

He whimpered, but the sound was a real sound, a thing of throat and breath and lips.

His eyes, glassy, brown, deep, shifted and jerked, upward now, seeking her face.

"The darkness," he whispered. "The darkness. The emptiness. I've lost them. I've failed them all." For a large man, his voice was small, tiny. She should have been terrified, then.

But as he spoke, she felt what he felt, and she knew, knew, that she had passed through it herself.

* * *

Her own children were gone.

And she was young enough that the visiting merchants never realized that she had had a husband-gone, too-and a family; that she had had everything she had desired in her youth.

And what was the point of that desire, but pain? In the end, what was the point? Her children had not disappeared in the mining accidents that killed the men, when the men did die; they had not gone missing in the terrible snows that could strand a person feet away from the doors of the hold, and bury them there, as a taunt, a winter cruelty.

No. She had held them.

She had held them, just as she had held this man, in this dark, cramped room, in this empty place that had no words of comfort to offer her.

The cabin in which she had lived was hallowed by the terrible silence of their absence; she might walk from room to room-for there were only three-and listen furtively to catch their ghostly voices. This was the way she evoked memory, and memory, in this dark place, this gloom of log and burning wood and little light-for light let in cold-was unkind. It led her into darkness.

And that darkness might have devoured her, if her mother had not held her, held on to her, filled the emptiness with her words and the blessed sound of her voice. Mother's pain, always.

She spoke to this stranger.

She spoke to this man who understood, who was somehow-at this instant-a part of all the losses she had faced.

And as she did, she opened her eyes to a dream. Heard the voice of the devourer, all his voices, the cries of terror and emptiness.

Promise me, Kayla. Promise me you will stay and protect Riverend. Promise me.

I promise. I promise, Mother. I promise.

She forgot the cathedral, then. Forgot the lines of this stranger's face. She held him, as if a storm raged just beyond her bent shoulders, her bowed back. She found voice; she sang. She sang to him.

And the singing did what the words she had spoken-for she was aware that words had left her lips, aware that they were a failure before she had finished speaking them-could not.

Dark eyes turned to her; dark eyes saw her; the agony written and etched in terrible lines across a gray face shifted as eyes she would have sworn couldn't grow any wider, did.

He clung to her, his face made her breasts ache, her spine curved in until it was almost painful just to sit, but she sat. She sat.

And the priest came.

She heard his voice at a distance. She heard his words as if they were spoken from within her. He was praying. After a moment, she joined him, although she didn't know the words that he spoke. Hers were as heartfelt, and they were all she had to offer.

"Come home," she whispered, kissing the sweaty, damp strands of this stranger's hair, stroking his face as if it were the fevered face of her eldest. "Come home."

* * *

Darius was waiting for her. Companions, it seemed, were not considered beasts of burden in even the grandest of venues; he stood in the light of the windows as if he were a dream. He walked forward slowly as the priest helped the man to his feet.

:Kayla,: he said gravely. :What you did here was bravely done.:

"What did I do?" she whispered softly.

:What you were born to do.:

The priest was staring at her. She turned to him and bowed. "I-I'm sorry," she stammered. "But-I-I-"

He shook his head. "He came to this place seeking help. And you came to this place offering aid that we could not offer. Do not apologize, child. But-"

She shook her head. "I don't know. I don't know what-what I did."

"You saved him," the priest whispered. "I was so certain-" He closed his eyes a moment; she thought he might retreat into prayer again. But he shook himself free of the words, and when he stood, she saw that he was over six feet tall, his shoulders wide and broad. As her father's had once been, before the mines.

"There are others," he said after a moment. He turned and bowed to her Companion.

"She is your Chosen?"

The Companion nickered softly.

"But she wears no white, no gray. Child, can it be that you have not yet made your journey to the Collegium?"

"I-no. I think we're on the way there."

"Might I ask-if it's not too much-that you come to the infirmary?"

She looked at Darius. Darius was absolutely silent, as if he were adornment to the statues, the windows, the altar of this place.

Her decision, then. She nodded.

* * *

He led her through the cloisters; she realized later that this was a courtesy to Darius.

Darius was comfortable in the apse, but once the halls narrowed, movement would be restricted, and it was clear what the Companion-no, her Companion-thought of that.

She even smiled, felt a moment of almost gentle amusement, until she glanced at the older man's face. Care had worn lines from his eyes to his lips, and she thought that no matter what happened in future, they were there to stay.

They grew deeper as he left the cloister; deeper still as he walked down a hall and stopped in front of a door that was slightly ajar. "Here," he said quietly.

She nodded and opened the door.

And stopped there, beneath the lintel, staring.

There was more than one room; she could see that clearly in the streaming light of day.

And there were beds, bedrolls, makeshift cots, with only barely enough room between them to allow a man passage. Each of the beds was occupied.

Darius.

:Kayla.: The word was urgent, but real.

She was afraid.

"I can't-I can't go in there," she whispered. :Kayla.: But the door was no protection; it was open. She could hear weeping, whimpering, screaming. Her hand caught the frame of the door and her fingers grew white as she held it.

:Bright heart.: Darius said firmly, :see with your eyes. Hear with your ears; hear only with your ears.:

She drew a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. See, she thought, with your eyes.

She could do that. She could look.

Men lay abed. Women. There were children as well, although they were mercifully few.

They gazed up at the ceiling of the room, or at the walls, their eyes unblinking. They did not move; their lips were still. She shook her head to clear it of the sounds of despair, and as she did, the priest gently pushed his way past her.

"They have been this way," he said softly, "for weeks. They will eat what we feed them, and drink when we offer them water; we can clean them, wash them, bathe them. But they will not rise or move on their own; they do not speak. Some of them have families in this town, but-but most of their families can only bear to visit for the first few days." He walked over to one of the beds and set upon its edge, heavily.

"More and more of my people are brought here every day. And throughout the town there are others whose families can afford the cost of their care."

"They-they have no fever?"

"None. No rash, no bleeding, no outward sign of illness. But they are gone from us." He looked up; met her eyes.

"The man that you-you found, today, would have joined them by evening at the latest."

"How do you know?"

"I've seen it. I know the signs. All of us do."

"But-"

"We have no doctors who can aid us; no healers who can reach them." He closed his eyes. Opened them again. "What did you do, Herald?"

She shook her head. "N-nothing. And-and I'm not-not a Herald." She walked into the room, to shed the weight of the bleak hope in his eyes.

And as she did, she passed a small cot and stopped before it, frozen.

It held a young child, eyes wide, hair damp against his forehead. Were it not for the slack emptiness of his features, he would have been beautiful. She forgot Darius; forgot his words.

She listened with her heart.

And her heart shuddered, and nearly broke, from the weight of what it heard. She had once been near the mines when a shaft had collapsed. The roar of falling rock had deafened her; the shouts of fear, of terror, the commands for action, had done the same. And through it all, one guilty thought had kept her still: she should not have come here. Children were not allowed by the mines. But she had wanted to see her father.

Standing in this room, at the foot of this anonymous cot, she felt the same deafness and the same guilt. Some part of her urged her to turn, to run, but she ignored it because she had heard it for most of her adult life.

What loss could she suffer that she had not suffered?

She took a step, and then another, pushing her way forward as if through a gale, until she stood by the child's side. And then she reached for him.

He was not large; she did not know if he had once been chubby, as children his age often were; he was not that now; he weighed almost nothing. She lifted him, as she had lifted one other sick child, almost two years ago.

He was screaming now, in the silence behind her silence, and she joined him because it was the only way she knew to answer the memories that even now threatened to break her.

Her son.

Mommmmmmmeeeeeee

Her child.

MOMMMMMEEEEEE

Her own son had not wept or cried or struggled. The fever had spared him terror, and he understood, in the height of its grip, that she held him in the safety of her arms.

Almost unconsciously, she shifted her grip on this stranger until it was the same embrace; her shoulders were curved forward, her spine rounded at the top, as if, hunched over him, she might hide from the death that was waiting, waiting, in the winter's depths. She placed her lips against his forehead, and tasted salt.

She was crying.

He was screaming, but she knew how to comfort terror by now. Her arms tightened and she began to rock him, gently, back and forth, whispering his name, her son's name, as if they were the same.

It happened suddenly: His arms jerked and trembled as he tried to lift them. She did not know how long he had lain in that cot, inactive, but his hands were so weak they were like butterfly wings against her neck.

"The dragon," he whispered, his voice a rasp, a creak. "The dragon will eat us."

"No," she told him firmly. "The dragon can't land. He can only fly, making night wherever he goes. He can roar. He can scream. But he can't land."

"He hates us."

"Aye," she replied. She had never lied to her children; she felt no need to lie to this one.

"He hates all living things. All happy things." And as she said those words, she felt the truth of them, although she had never thought to speak them before. The boy's hands touched her cheeks. "You were scared," he whispered.

"No."

"But you were. You have tears on your face."

She could not dry them; both of her hands were occupied with his scant weight. But she turned to the priest who was watching in utter silence.

"You can breathe now," she said.

The priest's eyes were wide. "Herald," he said again, and this time she did not correct him, "can you reach the others?"

"I-"

:No.:

She frowned. It was Darius' voice. :Darius-why?:

:You are exhausted, Kayla. You are light-headed. You you will put yourself at grave risk if you attempt to proceed. These people have lain immobile for some weeks, and the townspeople are decent; they will care for them.

:But if we do not reach the capital before he finds you, they will have no way back:

:Before who finds me?:

Darius was silent.

She drew the boy up in her arms, into a hug; her arms were as gentle as she could make them in a grip so tight. She felt his bony chin in the hollow between her neck and her shoulder, and the weight of it, resting there, was everything she desired for that moment.

But this is how she had quieted her sorrow; she had filled it with life, small life, the immediacy of children.

"Where are his parents?" she asked the Priest.

"He has no parents. I am sorry. They passed away a year and a half ago in the summer crippling plague."

"His family?"

"He was their only child. They were newly married. His grandmother is in the town to the east. She is his only living relation; it is why he was here-when it happened."

She pulled the boy away from her chest and her neck; held him out so that she could meet his serious, brown eyes. He was so damn thin. "Daniel," she said softly, "my name is Kayla."

"I know."

"I am going to the capital. I am going to learn how to become a-a Herald."

He was too tired to look awed, and she loved him for it. Was afraid of that emotion, because she knew it should not have come so quickly, so easily, for a stranger.

"But I don't want to leave you here, alone. I dream of the dragon. I have always dreamed of the dragon; he hunts me in my sleep. But he has never caught me, never once. If you want-if you would like-you can come with me."

:Kayla, that is not allowed-:

:I don't give a damn.:

The boy slid his arms around her neck and held her tightly, and that was his entire answer. She turned to the priest, a mixture of defiance and possessiveness lending strength to the soft lines of her face. "I cannot help them all," she said quietly. "Not yet. But I promise, if it is in my power, that I will."

And wondered what the word of an Oathbreaker was worth.

Looked at the child's head, his messy hair, the wax in his ears that hadn't been cleaned out by whoever had been attending him.

And knew that the word was everything. Mother, forgive me. Forgive me. I will return to Riverend when I am done.

"I am taking this child with me," she told the priest. She almost lied. She almost told him that if she didn't, he would lapse back into his state of wide-eyed immobility. But she didn't believe it.

"Will you take him into safety, Herald-"

"Call me Kayla. Kayla Grayson."

"Will you take him into safety, Kayla? Or into danger? If you ride toward the capital, you will find this...disease...is far more prevalent as you approach the palace. We have had care of him for two weeks, and we are prepared to care for him until-"

"Until he falls victim to the terrors once again? No. If I take him into danger, I take him with me, and I know-I know how to comfort a child."

"You will have your duties."

"What duty is more important than this? I will protect him. But-"

And a head appeared in the doorway; a white, large head, with deep blue eyes the size of palms and a long, straight muzzle wearing a silver-and-blue strap and bells.

Companions had no words to offer anyone but each other-and their Heralds-if the stories were true, but Darius did not need words; he butted the priest gently in the chest, and met his eyes, unblinking.

It was the priest who looked away.

"I won't abandon you," she said softly, and hesitantly, as Riverend flashed before her eyes. "But...but I think I understand now why I was called."

"What are you, child?"

"I don't know."

:Tell him your Gift is Empathy.:

"Darius says my Gift is Empathy."

The priest closed his eyes. "Then he is taking you to an unkind fate, Kayla."

"Why do you say that?"

"The Empaths, the greatest of the Empaths, were the first to fall."

* * *

The town's many inns offered food and wine and water when Darius entered their courtyards. But they were silent as they made their offers, and the fear that she had sensed in the infirmary had extended outward in an echo that was terrible to witness. On impulse, she said, "I have with me one of the children who was in the cathedral infirmary. He's not very talkative," she added, as the boy shyly turned his face into her shoulder, "but he's recovering. I know it's been bad on the town, but as an outsider, I'm amazed at the way the town has come together to help the fallen, even when they don't understand the disease.

"There's hope," she added softly.

And the innkeepers, their wives, their guests, leaped at the words that she had spoken aloud, a clear indication that eavesdropping was a way of life in any place, be it small hold or large town.

They might have called her a liar, but she was astride a Companion, and the Heralds did not lie.

So they breathed a sigh of relief instead. "We've been pleading for help," the innkeeper's wife said, as she added four extra pies to their load. "But the only help the King sent lies in the infirmary with the others. We didn't know-" She ran the back of her hand across her eyes. "My brother's in back, same as them that you saw. Thank you, Herald."

Kayla had given up telling people that she wasn't. The woman composed herself, although the redness of her eyes spoke of unshed tears. "You'll want a blanket for the boy; it's chilly on the hills in these parts."

* * *

The boy ate like a pig. Which is to say, he ate everything they put in front of him, and he ate it in a way calculated to leave the most food on his clothes. The innkeeper's wife-a woman, and a mother, who therefore thought of these things-had seen fit to pack him extra clothing; Kayla was grateful for it.

She did not let the boy leave her, and he did not wander farther than her hand could reach. But his ordeal had left him easily tired, and he slept frequently, his back against her chest, her arms on either side of his upright body to stop him from plunging the distance between Darius' back and the forest floor.

"Is it true, Darius?"

:Yes. In the capital, where there are so many more people, many have died from the...ailment. They cannot feed themselves, and if they fall in the streets before the Heralds or the Kings' men find them, they're often robbed and left for dead.:

"How long has this been happening?"

Darius was silent.

"Darius, I think I've figured out why you came to Riverend by now. How does my ignorance serve your purpose? Tell me. If I'm to help, I need to know."

:I would tell you everything in a minute, but there are oaths you must swear, and vows you must undertake, before you become Herald; and if you are Herald, there is no information with which you cannot be trusted.:

She knew when she heard his words that she suddenly didn't want that much trust.

Daniel chattered as they rode. And he helped with the food that was meant for Darius; helped with the blankets that were meant to keep him warm in the night. But he helped in a way that he didn't understand, for he would not sleep without Kayla's arms around him. She held him.

When the nightmares came that night, they were subtly different. The beast that roared with the voice of a thousand-tens of thousands-of screams, had eyes that were focused. Its flight was lazy, the circles it drew in the night sky slow and deliberate.

He was searching, Kayla realized. For her. For the child she had taken from him.

She did not scream. She wanted to, but she knew what it would cost the boy, and she kept it to herself.

And because of that, she reached the capital, and the Herald's Collegium, before sun's full height the next day.

The Kings' guards bowed quietly as Darius approached the main gates, and although it was evident that they were curious, they merely welcomed him home.

:They are usually more friendly,: Darius said apologetically, :but things in the Collegium have been dark for many months. I- Come, Kayla. Here is a woman you must see.:

A Herald?

:Yes. She is the King's Own, second only to the King in authority, and she is beloved of the Heralds. I should warn you, though that it is not for the quickness or sharpness of her tongue that she is loved.:

* * *

Kayla learned this almost instantly. A Herald met her at the front doors to the dauntingly huge building; he bowed to Darius. "So you've brought her," he said. "Finally."

"Yes," Kayla replied, although the words had clearly not been directed at her. "He did.

And I guess he didn't tell you that I'm not used to being talked about as if I'm not here."

The man raised a brow. "I see that you have more in common with Magda Merton than it seems." His frown, edged with weariness, deepened. "Darius-you did not choose someone with a child that young?"

"No," she said flatly. "He waited until all mine were dead."

The Herald had the grace to look shocked, and she regretted the words almost instantly. Such a grief, such a loss, was never meant to be used as a weapon; it was wrong.

It was just wrong. She slid off the back of her Companion, gently extricating herself from Daniel's arms. "My pardon, Herald," she said, to the chest of the man in Whites. "I woke the child from a...from a deep sleep. It was safest to bring him here."

"There is no safety here, if the child was affected by the-" He grimaced. "The Kings'

Own has been waiting for you, if you are Kayla; please, follow me."

She hesitated a moment, and then Daniel said, "It's all right, Kayla." His words were thin and shaky; she could see the fear in his eyes. But he drew himself up to his full height, as if he were adult; as if he could bear the weight of her absence. "Darius says that he'll take care of me."

"Darius says-" Her eyes widened. "You can hear him?"

"Sometimes. When he's talking to me."

She pondered that as she followed the Herald. He led her down the hall into a very finely appointed room-a room that was the size of the gathering hall in the Hold of Riverend.

There, a woman was standing by the great window that ran from floor to ceiling, an ostentatious display of glass.

Kayla had the ridiculous urge to kneel; she fought it carefully, although she did bow deeply.

"I am Gisel," the woman said.

"I'm Kayla."

"Kayla Grayson, Margaret Merton's daughter."

"Her youngest, yes."

"Arlen says that you've been through Evandale."

"Arlen?"

"Ah. My Companion. She has been speaking with Darius. It appears that you...met with...the victims of the shadow plague. And that you saved two."

Kayla nodded hesitantly.

"I guess that means that Magda took it upon herself to teach you."

"T-teach me?"

Gisel frowned. "Yes, teach you. Your Gift." When silence prevailed, the unpleasant frown deepened. "You must understand your Gift?"

"W-what Gift would that be?"

Gisel raised a hand to her gray hair and yanked it out of her face. "I wish I had time, child. I don't. Your mother was one of the most gifted Empaths the kingdom of Valdemar has ever known."

"E-empath?"

"I really do not have the patience for this."

It was true. Kayla could feel the older woman's anger, but it was mixed with a terrible sorrow and a deep guilt. Guilt, in her experience, had always been a double-edged sword; it could drive men mad. In the hold, it had.

"Empathy is a Gift that is deeper than words, and more subtle. You have that Gift. And if your mother didn't teach you how to use it, and you've survived the passage through Evandale...then you are more than just her daughter." Gisel walked away from the window and the light in the room grew. It was a cold light. "There are people who are born with other talents; you must have heard their stories. Some can summon fire; some can work great magic; some can heal with a touch; some can hear the words that men don't speak aloud.

Any of these, untrained, are a danger to themselves, or to others. But Empaths can exist without such training; they are often sympathetic, or perhaps skittish, because of what they can sense. Feelings often run deeper than words; most men and women never really learn how to adequately speak of what they feel.

"I have wine here, and water; would you care for either?"

Kayla shook her head.

"As you wish. I intend to have a great deal of the former before this is over." True to her word, she poured herself a glass of a liquid that was a deep crimson, and stared at its surface as if she could glean information from it.

"An Empath can do these things. It is why empaths have often made better diplomats than those whose Gift it is to read the thoughts, the unspoken words of others."

Kayla had only barely heard of people like that, and she had always feared them. She said nothing.

"You'll be given your grays, and settled in, but you won't have the chance to train and learn with the newest of the Chosen. Your work is already waiting, and-I'm sorry child-but we don't have the time it would take to prepare you.

"This is a risk. I apologize for forcing you to take it. You know that the King has three sons, yes?"

"And two daughters. Which is more children than-"

"Yes, yes."

"And they've all survived," Kayla added, unable to keep the bitterness out of the words.

"It depends. The youngest of his sons was a...difficult lad. He doted on his mother, the Queen. When she passed away, he drifted, and his father was not a sensitive man; the running of the Kingdom during the border skirmishes kept him away from the capital for much of the year.

"But Gregori was Chosen, in spite of his black moods and his despondency. His Companion-" and here, she did flinch, "was Rodri. Rodri was as sensitive as Gregori, and gentle in a way Gregori was not, and when Rodri did Choose him, we rejoiced." Again the words were bitter.

"We rejoiced anew when we discovered that Gregori was Gifted; that he was an Empath of exceptional power. It was part of the reason he was so withdrawn and so moody as a child; he could not bear the constant anger, fear, and hatred that he felt around him.

The court...is not a suitable place for a child of such sensitivity."

"It's not just those things."

"What isn't?"

"That you feel. That I feel. There's more. There's joy. There's silliness."

"Magda did teach you, even if she didn't tell you what it was she was teaching."

"Rodri did teach Gregori to listen to those things, and Gregori-flourished. We were grateful. The King was grateful."

She knew that the story was going someplace bad, and she almost raised a hand to stem the flow of this autocratic woman's words. But she knew that would be a mistake.

"Rodri died, didn't he?"

Gisel raised a brow. Lifted her glass. "Yes. He died."

"And Gregori?"

Gisel closed her eyes. Set the glass down and filled it again. "There are Empaths among the Heralds," she said, when she chose to speak again. "I am not one of them.

"If I were, I would not be here to speak to you now."

And Kayla knew, as the words left the lips of the King's Own, that she was angry; that had it been up to this woman, Gregori would be dead.

She took a step back, a step away, and lifted her hand.

Gisel's dark eyes became narrowed edges into a harsh expression. "Yes, Kayla, you're right. If it had been up to me, I would have killed the boy. If it were up to me, he would be dead now."

"But the King-"

"Yes. The King feels guilt. Even though he sees the cost of Gregori's continued...existence, he feels that if he had somehow been present, he could have prevented what did happen. What is happening even as we speak. And he has summoned every Healer in the kingdom to the side of his son's bed in an attempt to revive him, to bring him back.

"They have failed, all of them."

"And the Empaths?"

"Two of them were my closest friends," Gisel said. She walked back to the tall window and stood in its frame, looking out. "The bells have tolled for the youngest."

"But-"

"But?"

"I don't understand."

"That much is clear. Ask, and ask quickly."

"If the Empaths couldn't help him, why have you been waiting for me?"

"I don't know."

"P-pardon?"

Gisel turned; the light was harsh; it made her face look like broken stone. "I don't know.

I don't know what it was that Magda-that Margaret-Merton might have done to save him. I was there when Sasha fell. I was there when Michael joined her. I've been all over the city looking at the sleepers who are just waiting to join the dead. And I can hear what they think, when their terror has any words at all. It's my belief that if Gregori died, they would wake."

Kayla listened as Gisel spoke.

:Darius.:

:Kayla?:

:It is-the King's son-he is-:

:Yes.:

:The dragon.:

"You're wrong," she heard herself say.

Gisel raised a brow.

"If you killed him, he'd take them all with him when he went. All of them."

Gisel closed her eyes. Her turn. But she snapped them open quickly enough. "And you know this how?"

Helpless, Kayla shrugged. "I don't know. But...I'd bet my life on it."

"Well that's good, because you will be. Go and get a bath, get food, settle into your room. We'll come for you."

Kayla nodded. "Can I have-"

"What?"

"Darius. Can I have Darius with me?"

Gisel hesitated. It was a cold hesitation. "It would be...better...if you did not."

* * *

In her room-and it really was a single room-she found Daniel perched on the edge of her bed. He started when he saw her, and leaped up from the bed's edge, shortening the distance with his flight of steps. She caught him in her arms and held him tightly, seeing another child in his stead.

"You need a bath," she told him gently.

He said very little, but she managed to ask for water, hot and cold, and she tended him first. She had spent most of her life taking care of the children of Riverend, and this one was no different.

Or so she told herself.

:Darius,: she said, as she worked, soap adding to tangles of hair and the murk of what had been clear water, :What was Gregori doing when Rodri died?:

:He was at the Border,: Darius replied.

It was strange, that she could speak to him from such a distance, and that it could feel so natural. :During the skirmishing?:

:Yes.:

:Why?:

:He was a Herald.:

:That's not enough of an answer. If he was so sensitive...Gisel spoke of training. Was he trained?:

:He had better teachers than you, if that's what you meant.:

:But he-:

:He was very, very powerful, Kayla.:

:Then why did it take so long to figure out what he was?:

:He let no one know. No one but Rodri.:

:He was in the middle of battle.:

:Yes.:

:Constantly?:

:Not...physically. But there is evidence that he was aware of it. He could sense the movement of our enemies well before any others could. War breeds fear and hatred.: She pulled her son-no, this child, this stranger's son-from the bath water and set him in the towel in her lap.

:Darius. I need the truth.:

:I have not lied to you, Bright Heart. Between us, there can be no lie.:

:Could he use his Gift as a weapon?:

Darius did not answer.

Answer enough.

* * *

She did not sleep that night. She knew that sleep, in this place, was death. Close her eyes, and she could see the black spread of dragon wings, the lift and curl of air beneath their span. Close her eyes, and she could hear those borne aloft by that terrible flight; the screaming and the terror of those who had not yet realized they were dead.

Kayla, her mother said, from the distance of years, from the safety of death, people make weapons out of anything. It's important that you understand this.

Her mother's voice, sad but firm, was all that remained her. She could not see her face in the darkness. In the hands of the wrong men, guilt is a weapon. Love is a weapon. Hope is a weapon.

You have the ability to make weapons far sharper, far harsher, than others can. And the only person who can choose how those weapons are wielded is you.

She hadn't understood what her mother meant, then. She had been younger.

Young Caroline makes a weapon of desire every time she wanders past the boys at the mine. She understands this, but she wants only the power of their adoration.

Others are not so kind.

You cannot be Caroline.

I'm not beautiful enough.

Hush. You are far, far more beautiful. To me. But that's not the point, and I won't let you distract me tonight. There is a difference between manipulation and motivation.

Sometimes desire is good, sometimes it is bad; she will discover that in her time.

You must understand it now. You understand love as a young girl does, and not as an old woman, like me. You must let it come to you; you must never force it upon another.

But-

I've seen you. I've seen you make Caroline cry because you're jealous of her. I've stopped you from doing it myself, but I will not always be here to stop it. She will grow, child. She will change. Let her. Instead of forcing others to respond to you, become something worthy of the response you desire.

Kayla was silent. In the present, with a child cradled against her, she lay open-eyed in the dark, hearing his heartbeat as if it were her own. Her mother's words continued, the past seeping into the present in a way that Kayla would never have foreseen.

Why do you think I came to Riverend?

Because of Father.

Yes. And no. Why do you think I tell you this, now, when I could keep it hidden?

I don't know.

Because I killed a man, Kayla.

She felt the harsh shock she had felt upon first hearing the words; felt the panic as she had attempted to deny the truth of them by finding the lie in her mother's mood. It wasn't there.

B-but why? How?

I forced him to feel my despair, my self-loathing, as if it were his own. He was not trained; not aware that what he felt came from outside of his core; he could not cope with what it was I placed there. I did not lift a hand, of course, but the end was the same as if 1

had.

And worse.

I look at my hands now, and I see a killer's hands. I look at my hands, and I see worse: I taught this Gift. I passed it on.

But-but what does that have to do with Riverend? Nothing. Everything.

The Holds are so dark and so isolated people can go mad in the winters. And do.

But...with my Gift, here, among these people, I can remind them, without words, of the spring and the summer; I can give them hope. They take hope, and they make of it what they will, and we survive until the passes open.

But is that so different? If you make them feel what they don't feel Is there a difference between watering a plant and drowning it? Here, in Riverend, there are few. The ore the mines produce is needed by the King. I have chosen to help these people, as I can, because I have grown to love them.

She had been silent, then.

Promise me, Kayla.

I promise, Mother.

* * *

In the end, she slept.

And the great beast was waiting for her, eyes red with fire, wings a maelstrom of emotion. He was despair, anger, loathing, but worse: He made mockery of the transience of the things Kayla valued: Love. Loyalty. Hope.

And who better to know of transience than she? She had buried a husband, a mother, a father. But worse, so much worse.

The dreams had always been her terror and her salvation.

When she lost her oldest child, Darius, unnamed and unnameable, had come to her in the untouched winter of a Riverend that was barren of life, and she clung to his back and wept, and wept, and wept.

Her youngest was old enough to walk, not old enough to speak, and he was also feverish, and she prayed to every god that might have conceivably lived, and in the end, weak and almost weightless, her second child's fever had broken.

But he never recovered, and although he seemed to take delight in the coming of spring, in the warmth and color of summer, the weight he had lost did not return. And she had wept then, at the start of winter, because she knew what it would mean. But at least, with her second, she had time. She told him stories. She sang him songs. She held him in the cradle of aching arms, and she comforted him, and herself, until she was at last alone.

But she was considered young enough in the village, if her heart was scarred; she was twenty-two. Her oldest son had survived six years, which was better than many, and the oldwives gathered to discuss her fate, and to ask her to marry again.

She had almost forgotten her mother's words, that day, and the promise she had made to her mother-for her mother was dead, and that death was so less painful than this terrible intrusion of the living.

She had had nothing, nothing at all. She had carried the blackness and the emptiness within her until it had almost hollowed her out completely. She felt it now; it was a visceral, terrible longing.

A desire for an end. An ending.

And she knew it for her own.

The dragon nodded, wordless; swept back huge wings, opened its terrible jaws. They were kin, she thought. He offered nothing but truth.

Two things saved her.

The first was the flash of white in the darkness: Darius, the Companion of winter in Riverend. And the second, more real, more painful, the small fingers that bruised her arms, the whimpering that reached her ears, that pierced the fabric of a dream she could not escape, tearing a hole in the wall between sleep and the waking world.

The child was weeping. She held him, and the ache in her arms subsided. This was what she was. This was what her mother had taught her to be: comfort. Hope. But when he called for his mother in the darkened room, she answered; she could not deprive herself of that one lie.

* * *

In the morning, grim, she rose. The child was sleeping, and his peace was fitful, but it was there. She dressed in the odd, gray uniform she'd been given, admiring the quality of its workmanship, if not the choice of its colors. Then she lifted him, waking him. He was disoriented, but only for a moment; she let him throw his arms around her neck until she could almost not breathe for the tightness of the grip. She loved that breathlessness.

"Daniel," she told him gently, "I need you to talk with Darius. I need you to stay with him."

The boy's smile was shy, but it was genuine.

"I-I have work to do today. Darius is not really allowed inside."

"But he's not a horse!"

"No...he's not a horse. He's better than that, and I'm sure he'll let you ride him if you want. Come. Let's find him."

* * *

The halls were bustling; there were more people in the Collegium than she had ever seen in the Hold, and she found their presence almost overwhelming. But she discovered two important things from the young-the very young-man who stopped to talk to her. The first, where breakfast was served-and when, that being important-and the second, where the Companions were stabled.

She knew breakfast was important, and stopped for just long enough to feed Daniel.

Then she carried him to where she knew Darius was waiting.

He met her eyes, his own dark and unblinking.

Without preamble, Kayla set Daniel upon his back. He accepted the burden.

:You made a weapon out of him.:

:No, Kayla. He made a weapon out of himself He thought that that was the best way of proving his worth to a distant father.:

:But his father-:

:His father loved him, yes. Loves him still.:

:If he was truly an Empath, he would have known that

:The Kings,: Darius said sadly, :are taught to shield themselves. Against all intrusion, all influence. They must be strong.:

:And his youngest son was so insecure that he couldn't infer that love.: Darius was silent.

:My mother knew him.:

:Your mother...knew him, yes. Your mother could have reached him, had she lived; your mother was the one who discovered his Gift, the strength of his Gift. Your mother was the woman who insisted that he be moved from the court and taken to a place without the politics of power.:

:But she must have known-the dreams, the dreams I had-she must have had them:

:I...do not know. She could have reached him. The Heralds who have some hint of your Gift...could not. He made a weapon out of himself and the forging was completed with the death of his Companion.:

She knew, then.

:He...he killed his Companion?:

:No! No. But the loss broke something in him. No other Companion can reach him now, and believe me, Kayla, we have tried. He is one of the Gifted; he can hear us all, if he so chooses.:

:But this must have happened years ago-:

:Yes, but few.:

:That's not possible. I felt him years ago. In my dreams. I...: But the dreams had been different. She had felt loneliness, isolation, the desperate desire to be loved. Not madness.

:You are powerful, Kayla. What you felt then was true. It is far, far less than what you will feel now. Far less. Kayla, I must warn you-:

:I know.:

:Those who are affected, always, are those who have some hint of the Gift. When the Gift is strong, the effect is not sleep...

:It's death.:

:Yes.:

Gisel summoned her shortly after. Darius informed her of the summons, and she hastened back-with some difficulty, for the building really was a maze of passages compared to the simplicity of the Hold-to the rooms in which they had first met.

"I'm ready to meet him now," she said, before Gisel could speak.

Gisel raised a brow. "There are things you should know about- "

"There is nothing I should know that you will tell me," Kayla replied softly. "But I believe that this-this prince-has been hunting for me for much of my life, and it's about time I stopped running."

"Hunting for you?"

"In my dreams," Kayla replied.

Gisel added nothing. "The Grays will do. Gregori is here, in the Collegium. We've sent all those who might be affected as far away as we can; distance seems to have some affect on his ability to-to reach people."

"But not enough."

"Not enough, no. Understand that we have not explained this to the world at large. It is treason to speak of it. I will have your oath, child, that you will comport yourself as a Herald-as a true servant of the King."

Kayla nodded. And then, quietly, she knelt, her knees gracing the cold stone floor.

* * *

The two women traveled; Kayla let Gisel lead, and made no attempt to memorize their journey, to map the long halls, the odd doors, the hanging tapestries and the crystal lamps.

She could see other things more clearly. Once or twice she reached out for Darius, and when he replied, she continued.

Until they reached a set of doors.

She froze outside of them, almost literally.

"Do you know why Darius waited?" she asked Gisel softly.

"Waited? To Choose you?"

Kayla nodded.

"No. He told us that he knew where you were to be found, but he refused to tell us how to find you until this spring."

She nodded again. Touched the door. It was cold. Winter cold. Death cold. Within these walls, beyond these doors, the dragon lay coiled.

"Will you wait outside?" Kayla asked. It was not possible to give an order to this woman.

Gisel ignored the request; she pulled a ring of keys from her belt and slid one into the door's single lock.

Whatever Kayla expected from the rooms of a prince had come from stories that Widow Davis told the children. She had long since passed the age where stories were necessary, but she wanted them anyway. She gazed, not at a room, but at a small graveyard, one blanketed as if by snow, hidden from sight unless one knew how to look for it.

She knew.

Her dead were here. Her dead...and the losses that death inflicted. She faced them now. Swallowed air, shaking.

"It's hard," Kayla whispered. "When they're gone, it's so damned hard."

"What?" Gisel's sharp tone had not softened in the slightest.

"To feel loved. To know that you are loved. I think-I think sometimes it's the hardest thing in the world." She entered the room unaware of the weight of the King's Own's stare.

A young man lay abed.

He was older than Kayla; he had to be older. She knew this because of her mother's words, her mother's memory. But had she not known it, she would not have guessed; he was slender with youth, and he lay curled on his side, shaking slightly, his eyes wide and unseeing. She felt his pain as if it were her own. As if it were exactly her own.

She did not know if she loved Darius.

That was truth. He was part of her in a way that she could not fathom, did not struggle to understand. But she did not know if she loved him.

She could say with certainty that she had loved her husband. Could say-no, could not say, but could feel-with certainty, that she had loved her children, the children that life in Riverend had taken from her one by one.

And she could say with certainty that this man-boy, this terrible dragon, this hunting horror, had loved his Companion. Or had felt loved by him.

The loss she felt was profound and terrible. It dwarfed all losses that she had ever suffered but one. "Leave us," she whispered.

Gisel hesitated for only a minute, but that minute stretched out into forever. And then she was gone. "All right," Kayla said quietly. "It's time you and I had a talk."

* * *

She touched his face; his skin was clammy.

His eyes, wide and unseeing, did not turn toward her, but something beneath them did.

Kayla looked into the red eyes of the dragon.

And trapped within them, she saw a child. Or a mirror.

She had never dreamed of flight, although the other village children often spoke of it.

She had never dreamed of wings; the only time her feet left the ground in her dreams was when she rode a Companion who could cross the walls that darkness imposed upon her dreaming.

"Gregori," she whispered.

He did not move.

But the beast did. It knew exactly where she was, and the waking world offered her no protection, no place to hide.

* * *

Gregori.

Dragon name. Prince name. Powerful name. He turned. You!

Yes.

I know you.

Yes. I am Kayla.

Despair washed over her. Despair and more: death, images of death. The loss of her home. The loss of her village-of Riverend, the home she had promised her mother she would protect. But there was more. She felt the death of her husband as the mines colapsed, as oxygen fled, slowly enough that fear and hysteria had time to build. She felt her father's death, the snap of his spine, saw-although not with her eyes-the pale whites of eyes rolled shut when no hands were there to gently drawn lids across them.

Her mother's death followed.

And after that, the deaths of her life: her sons. One by one, in the absence of Healers, in the winter when no one could travel through the pass.

She was alone. Terribly, horribly alone. Everyone that had ever loved her, gone; she was like a ship without anchor.

All that existed was this darkness. She wandered within it, weeping now, her arms so empty she knew they would never be full again.

But she was not terrified. She felt no horror.

How could she? The things she had feared, the things that made fear so visceral, that made her feel truly vulnerable, had already come to pass.

She could not speak; her lips trembled, her jaw; her shoulders shook as if she were caught in the spasms that collapsed whole tunnels dug in rock.

And because these things were truth, she accepted them as she had managed just barely-to accept them in the village of Riverend.

How? How had she done it? For a moment she could not remember, and then her mother's voice returned, distant and tinny: Promise me that you will care for Riverend.

Duty. Just that, only that, hollow and cold. Despair gave way to anger.

:Is that the worst you can do?: she asked the dragon, she so small she was almost insignificant.

:I killed them!: The dragon roared.

She almost believed him, the emotion was so compelling. So much, so very much, like her own. But she said, as she had said to herself over and over again for the last year, :Life killed them. Winter killed them. Work killed them.:

:How dare you! Do you not know who I am?:

:Oh, yes, I know you. Despair. Terror. Fear. I have lived with nothing but you for the last several months of my life.:

:I killed them!:

:No.:

:I killed them.: She could no longer feel her feet. She threw her weight forward because she had some hope that she could land on the bed instead of the hardwood floor.

:No, you didn't::

"I killed Rodri.:

:No.:

He laughed, and the laughter was terrible, the most terrible thing she had heard from him. In all of her nightmares, the dragon's voice had been a roar of pain. But this, this mirthless sound, was worse.

It was true.

She could not see for darkness, but sensation returned to her hands, and beneath her hands she felt the clammy warmth of his body, the fever of it; she could count his ribs as her palms traveled the length of his slender chest, child's chest. He was dying. He was dying; the fever-root had done nothing to drive the fires away, and he was burning from within. He-No. No.

:Tell me,: she said softly, as her hands touched his chin. :Tell me.: His hair was a tangle, matted and thin, child's hair. The sensation was almost more than she could bear, and only the fact that she knew he was too heavy for her to lift kept her from gathering his body to her.

She had carried her son.

She had carried him for three hours, in the cold, while her toddler wailed.

:Mother?:

She could not answer him; could not lie to him. Instead she continued to stroke his hair.

And after a moment, she sang, her voice a little too dry, a little too shaky. Song had been her gift. She had never found a person in Riverend who would not listen to her song, not be gentled by it.

:I wanted to help them. I wanted to help. I couldn't wield a sword. I tried. I tried for so long. I cut my legs, my arms; I cut Rodri's flank. I couldn't do it. And I couldn't pull the bow.

I could wind a crossbow. I-:

His hair.

She saw images of a child, thin and awkward, and she knew what that child represented. The Prince. Gregori. She saw the ghostly image of a mother, a specter composed of a child's loss, a child's longing; she saw the gray, distant ice of a father's disappointment and contempt. She felt his isolation and his loneliness so clearly she could not separate it from her own.

Nor did she try.

:Rodri loved me.

:Rodri found me when I was lost. He called me, and I came.

:They gave me Whites. They tried to train me. We were happy here.: She felt his terror building, and she knew the storm would return. But she had lived life in Riverend, and she had wintered there. There was no storm that she could not weather, not now.

:I could tell where the enemy was. I could tell them by what they were feeling. I-: They had not made a weapon of the boy. She saw that; he had made a weapon of himself.

She saw her mother.

She saw an assassin. She knew, then, when her mother had killed, and why: to save this boy.

He had begged her to teach him this Gift, and her mother had fled, taking her love-yes, even her mother-with her to the farthest reaches of the Kingdom's border.

That desertion had hurt him; she could feel the pain clearly. But she could also feel the determination that followed as he dismissed Magda Merton for a selfish, powermongering woman, like all the other women in court.

In silence, she let his story unfold. It was not neatly told; it was broken by storm and rage, by fear, by self-loathing.

He had taught himself. He had used his power, his full power, for the first time; it had been a surprise. A Gift. A thing to give his father, a way to prove to his friends that he, too, could help save the Kingdom from invasion. He had turned his Gift outward, reflecting emotion, magnifying it. It worked. It struck the enemy, scattering them, breaking their lines.

But the bond between Companion and Herald was strong; the creature most affected by the sudden outward blow was Rodri. Would have to be Rodri.

Gregori screamed. He screamed, not with his Gift, but with his voice. And she, seeing her own graveyard, and knowing what lay beneath the earth, screamed with him.

And then, soundless, he turned, dragon wings wide. He listened for the sound of singing, for the songs of joy or hope or love that he had heard for almost all of Kayla's life.

She knew: It was her song.

And what he found was her pain, her despair, her endless rage at fate and winter and people who still had children to love.

She continued to stroke his hair.

* * *

Darius woke her.

She rose at the sound of her name, and found that she could see the room clearly; the storm had passed for the moment. She turned to look at the man who lay in the bed; saw that his eyes were closed. His lashes were long, like boys' lashes so often are; his skin was winter-pale.

On impulse, she bent and kissed his forehead.

* * *

"He isn't doing it on purpose," she said quietly, her arm around Darius' neck.

Darius said nothing.

"The King had little patience for him, and no affection."

:He loves his children.:

"Gregori felt what the King felt, Darius. He wasn't just guessing."

:He felt part of it; some people remember best the things which wound them.: She thought of her children. After a moment, she said, "He would have killed himself."

:Why didn't he?:

"I don't know." But she was beginning to. She said, instead, "You lied to me. He did kill Rodri."

:He did not. The enemy shot Rodri.:

"Rodri was mad with terror and fear, and it was Gregori's."

Darius said nothing.

Kayla let her arm slide away from his shoulder. "I have to speak with Gisel," she said softly. Just that.

* * *

Gisel was waiting for her, tense and pale. She looked old, Kayla thought, bent with Gregori's weight. But she smiled a moment when she saw Kayla enter the room.

And looked surprised.

"He can't stop," Kayla told her.

"You don't believe in idle chatter, do you?"

"I'm from the Holds," Kayla replied tartly.

"But you survived him. You...touched him, and you survived."

Kayla nodded. "I know why Darius waited," she told the King's Own. "And I know that what you thought he waited for can't happen. Not here."

"You can't reach him?"

"I can. But-" She shook her head. Stared at her hands for a moment.

"But?"

"Not here."

Gisel rose, mistaking her meaning.

"Not in the capital," Kayla told her gently, almost as if she were speaking to a child.

"What do you mean?"

"Let me take him home."

"This is his home."

Kayla rose. Rose and walked to a window whose splendor she had never seen in Riverend. Light broke upon the river that ran through the city; the river was murky and slow.

She thought it must be warm, as warm as the air in this almost endless spring. Without turning, she said, "I have to take him to Riverend."

"You can't. Here, the Healers and the Empaths have worked to contain him."

"And they're failing. One by one, they're failing. He speaks to sorrow and loss, and speaks so strongly that that's all that's left to those who can hear his voice."

"You hear him."

"Yes."

"Magda-Margaret Merton-was the only Empath to equal Gregori in the Kingdom.

You-and I mean no offense, child-are untested."

"Yes. And I will remain untested. For now. I am safe in Riverend. Do you know why I can hear him, feel him, listen to him, and walk away?"

"No, child, although I am certain there are those within the Collegium who would love to know it."

"Because I have felt everything he offers, and I have learned to...walk...away from it. Let me take him home."

Gisel hesitated. And then, after a moment, she nodded. "I will need to speak with the King. Wait outside."

* * *

But Kayla did not wait.

Instead, she went to her room, and found Daniel. He smiled when he saw her.

"Daniel," she said quietly, "I have to leave the Collegium. I come from the North, near the mountains, and I have to return there."

"Can I come with you?"

"Yes." She held out her arms and he ran into them; she lifted him easily, catching most of his weight with her right hip. "But first, I want you to come with me."

"Where?"

"To meet a Prince."

* * *

The door was open slightly. No one, Kayla realized, had touched it since she'd walked away. She took a deep breath. "No matter what you feel or hear here, remember that I'm with you. That I will always be with you."

Daniel nodded.

She nudged the door open with her foot and took a step inside. The Prince was sleeping.

"Is that a Prince? Really?"

"Yes, Daniel."

"He doesn't look like much of a Prince."

"No, he doesn't."

"Is he sick?"

"Yes."

"Can you make him better?"

"Maybe." She walked to the side of the bed and sat on it.

The eyes of the Prince opened. She felt Daniel's sudden terror, and she held him tightly, pressing her chin into the top of his head and rocking him. This sensation was as real as any sensation, an echo of another time. She'd been happy, then.

She remembered it.

Drew on it, calling her ghosts. This boy was her son. This boy was her child.

She loved her children, and for her children, she could sing. She remembered the sweet, gentle nature of her oldest, and the stubborn fury of her youngest, and for the first time since she had bid them farewell, she laughed in delight at their antics.

The man in the bed stirred.

She had survived their loss because of her vows, and she had found that sorrow, in the end, could not keep her from the other children in the Hold. They needed her. Their parents needed her. In the worst of winter, she could soothe temper, displace boredom, still fury; she could invoke the love her mother invoked.

Even after the deaths.

Even then.

"Gregori."

The sound of his name drained the room of light. But Daniel was safe; she felt his fear struggle a moment with her love. And lose.

Such a small thing, that fear.

She reached out to touch Gregori's forehead; his eyes widened in terror and he backed away. But he had been abed many, many months; he was slow. And she, mountain girl, miner's daughter, was fast. She ran her fingers through his hair and let go of all thought.

What remained was feeling.

Love.

Loss.

Gently, gently now, she brushed his hair from his face. She felt the raging fury, the emptiness, the guilt, and the horror that he could not let go. Not on his own.

But surely, surely she had felt this before?

A child's emotions were always raw, always a totality. They existed in the now, as if the past and the future were severed neatly by the strength of what they felt in the present.

:Don't touch me! Don't touch me! I'll kill you!:

But she continued to touch his face, the fine line of his nose, the thin, thin stretch of his lips.

"You need my song," she whispered, "and I had forgotten how to sing. I am sorry. I am sorry, Gregori."

She did not question; did not think. To do either was death. Instead, she gave in to her Gift.

To her mother's Gift. What she felt, she made him feel, just as he had made his enemies feel. :Don't-don't touch me

:Don't touch

:I'll kill you

:I'll kill you, too

:1 don't want to kill you, too

She sat in the room with her younger child in her lap and her older child in his bed.

:Hush, hush.:

And when the older child began to weep, she held him.

* * *

Darius was a patient Companion. And a large one.

He did not complain at the weight of three passengers, and had he, Kayla would have kicked him. After all, she was no giant, Daniel was less than half her weight, and the Prince, tall and skeletal, probably weighed less than the saddlebags.

The King had agreed to let his son go, but with misgivings; it was therefore decided, by Royal Decree, that a Healer, and three attendants, would accompany them.

She was grateful for that; the spring in Riverend had already passed into summer, and in the winter, with a Healer, there might be no deaths. A winter without death.

"Kayla?" Gregori said, as the Hold came into view. She felt his anxiety.

"Daniel's fallen asleep and my arm's gone numb. I don't want him to fall-"

"You won't let him fall," she told the Prince gently. "And I won't let you fall."

"Will it be all right? Will they accept me?"

"I was so lonely here," she answered. "I was so lonely. I don't think they'll begrudge us each other." She smiled, and the smile was genuine. "Do you think you've learned the dawnsong well enough to sing it with me?"

A HERALD'S RESCUE

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

Mickey Zucker Reichert is a pediatrician whose science fiction and fantasy novels include The Legend of Nightfall, The Unknown Soldier, and several books and trilogies about the Renshai. Her short fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies, including Battle Magic, Zodiac Fantastic, and Wizard Fantastic. Her claims to fame: she has performed brain surgery, and her parents really are rocket scientists.

Dust motes swirled through the sunbeam glaring into the barn. By its light, Santar trapped the upturned right front hoof of the salt merchant's gelding between his muscular calves. "Hand me the pick."

Blindly, he held out his right hand.

Santar's younger brother, Hosfin, slapped the tool into the proffered palm. "Do you see something?" He crowded in for a closer look, his tunic tickling Santar's bare arm, his shadow falling over the hoof.

"Think so," Santar grunted. "Got to get past all the crap first." Flipping the pick in a well-practiced motion, he gingerly hooked out chunks of road grime and straw. The sharp odor of manure rose momentarily over the sweet musk of horse. "Here." He touched the pick to a gray cobble shard lodged in the groove between forehoof and frog. He dug under the hard, sharp stone. The horse jerked its foot from his grasp, just as the pick lodged into position, and the movement sent the fragment flying. It struck the wooden wall with a ping, then tumbled to join the rest of the debris on the stable's earthen floor. Still clutching the pick, Santar scooped the hoof back upward to examine the damage. He discovered a light bruise but nothing that suggested serious swelling or infection. He stroked the injury with a gentle finger, and the horse calmed.

Hosfin's head obscured the hoof. "No wonder he was hopping and snorting."

"Yeah." Santar released the hoof and patted the horse's sticky flank. "Could have been a lot worse.

Lucky beast."

"Lucky man," Hosfin corrected. He stepped back, skinny arms smeared with grime, sandy hair swept back and tied with a scrap of leather. "Don't think he could afford another horse by the look of him. Needs to learn to take better care of his valuables."

Santar's brown hair hung in shaggy disarray, in need of a cut. Horse work had honed his muscles: lugging grain bags and hay bales, exercising his charges, cleaning and grooming. He also had an almost inexplicable way with afflicted creatures that made his father's stables an exceptionally logical place for any traveler to board. They might find stables nearer their lodgings or destination, ones larger or with more modern construction, ones with fancier names or decor. But Santar's father prided himself on service, mostly provided by his seven sons and one daughter. Travelers who cared as much for their animals' comfort as their own tended to seek them out, including the occasional Herald from Valdemar.

Santar especially loved their huge white mounts with their impeccable coats and strange, soft blue eyes.

They seemed so docile and intelligent, their conformations so perfect, their intensity of attachment to their riders so mythically intense. The Heralds tended them so vigilantly, Santar rarely had the opportunity to do anything for them but stare.

A sharp whinny from the yard sent Santar's head jerking up so suddenly he nearly brained his brother. "Who's that?"

Hosfin's thin shoulders lifted, and he slouched from the stall. As Santar watched him move, he marveled at how his brother had grown just in the last few months, gaining the gawky, spindly proportions of an adolescent. Santar wondered if their eldest brother had looked at him the same way when he had turned fourteen three years ago.

Santar caught up to his brother at the door of the stable. The younger man stood as if frozen, the door wedged against him. Alarmed, Santar pushed past Hosfin. "What is it?"

A handsome white stallion stood in the yard, coat shimmering silver in the late afternoon sunlight.

Against his fine, pink hooves, the grass looked like crystalline emerald; and blue sky reflected from eyes full of wisdom. Santar shook his head to clear it, shocked to find the creature of his reverie come so abruptly to life. "It's...it's a Companion."

Hosfin finally spoke, but only to force out a single syllable. "Yes."

The Companion let out another trumpeting cry, this one seeming ten times louder without the sheltering walls of the stable. It cocked its head, one pale eye focusing directly on Santar.

Hosfin managed more words. "I've never seen one without a Herald on it."

Santar had, but only after the rider had negotiated its board. "Very odd." He held out a hand toward the animal and advanced with shy caution. If it wanted, the huge stallion could stomp him to a smear.

Head still tipped, the Companion watched Santar's approach. He had almost drawn near enough to touch it, when the stallion raised his muzzle in a blasting whinny.

Ears ringing, Santar jerked back, watching the animal prance a wild circle, then stop to snort and stare at him again. Cursing himself for his own sudden movement, he spoke softly and soothingly as he would to any horse, "What's wrong, boy?"

Still at the entrance to the stables, Hosfin said, "Maybe he's lost his Herald."

It seemed unlikely. Santar believed the Companions chose the best and brightest, and the Herald/Companion bond was unbreakable. Needing something to say to the horse, however, Santar repeated, "Have you lost your Herald, boy?"

The horse bobbed his head savagely and pawed the ground. He whirled, stepped, then looked back at Santar over his shoulder.

The gesture was unmistakable.

Hosfin explained the obvious. "He wants you to follow him."

"Yes." Santar studied the horse. Only one scenario made sense to him. "Is your Herald...in need...of help?"

The Companion's head whipped up and down so hard he had to make himself dizzy. He pranced forward and back, still staring at Santar.

Terror shocked through Santar. He wiped his grimy hands on his tunic. "All right. Let me just gather a search party." He considered aloud. "We'll need a doctor, a few strong men, a-"

The Companion spun suddenly and charged at Santar.

"Hey!" Santar ran toward the barn. Hosfin ducked behind the door.

Santar had barely managed two steps when the stallion's head slammed his side, bowling him to the ground. "Hey!" he shouted again, throwing up his hands to protect his head from the heavy hooves.

Huge, flat teeth closed over his tunic, hefting him into the air.

Santar bit back a scream, which would only further upset the horse. Instead, he launched into a steady patter in a calm voice meant to compose both of them. "Easy now, boy. Nothing to get riled about." He hid fear behind a tone deliberately pitched to rescue self and animal from panic. He felt himself lifted, tossed. Air sang through his ears, then he landed on his belly across the horse's withers. It did not wait for him to settle before galloping away from the village.

For an instant, horror overwhelmed logic. Stunned silent, Santar could only feel each wild hooffall jar through his body. Instinct awakened first and he scrambled to a sitting position, grasping a hold on the streaming, white mane. The smooth precision of the Companion's run thrilled through him. He had ridden many horses in his day but none with the silken grace of this stallion. Every stride seemed to flow into the next, and his body cycled like liquid through every movement. Finally, the last of Santar's fear slipped away, replaced by exhilaration.

Hesitantly, Santar stroked a neck as soft as velvet, glazed with sweat. The familiar perfume of horse musk filled his nose, and the mane striped his knuckles like bleached twine. "All right, boy. I get it.

Your Herald is in immediate trouble."

The Companion nickered, a clear indication that Santar had properly interpreted his actions.

"What good's my getting there fast if I don't have any supplies or expertise to help him?"

This time, the horse gave no reply, the road through the surrounding farmland unscrolling beneath his hooves. Apparently, the horse found Santar adequate enough to save his Herald. The stable boy hoped Hosfin would have the sense to call for help. Perhaps they could mass a group to follow him, hopefully one that included men with healing knowledge and strength.

As the Companion's long strides ate up a mile, Santar caught sight of farmers too far away to hear his call. Suddenly, it occurred to him where the Companion was headed. Not toward the river. Recent rains had swollen the waters past their banks and well over the ford. Santar glanced around the stallion's neck. They approached the river at breakneck speed, and Santar knew it had surged to well above his head. "Stop!" he shouted.

To Santar's surprise, the horse obeyed. It drew up with a suddenness that should have sent him flying, but that motion proved as fluid as every other. Instead, they came to an effortless halt just a few steps in front of the flooded fording. Uncertain of his next chance, Santar dismounted.

The Companion made a mournful sound deep in his throat. He plunged toward the water, then looked longingly at Santar. He lunged forward again, this time splashing at the edges of the pool.

Though it was against his better judgment, Santar approached the Companion. "I know you're intelligent, and you can understand me."

The horse pawed the ground furiously, attention beyond the water where the road continued eastward through the Tangled Forest. Santar had only gone this far a few times, and then only in the company of his father and brothers. The sun already lay well behind him. Unless the Herald lay just past the ford, they would wind up in the woods at night, never a pleasant prospect even in broad daylight on the well-traveled path. Demons owned the forest nights, ready to steal the soul of any man foolish enough to wander into their realm.

Santar continued, "It might take a few more seconds to gather a party, but it'll be well worth the trouble to save your-"

The Companion bellowed out an impatient sound, then slammed a hoof into the river, splashing muddy droplets in all directions.

Santar bit his lip, trusting the Companion's judgment. He knew the bond between Companion and Herald surpassed anything he would ever understand. This horse came to me for help, and I'm going to give it. I'm not going to let another man die for my fear. "All right. Let's go." Catching a handful of mane, he dragged himself to the stallion's withers again.

Without a moment's hesitation, the Companion sprang into the ford.

Cold pinpoints of water splashed Santar's face and arms, and his legs seemed suddenly plunged in ice. He wound his hands into the Companion's mane, gripping desperately, as the water surged and sucked around them, threatening to drag him from the stallion's back. He watched a massive branch swirling wildly in the current, lost to his sight in moments. The understanding of true danger finally reached him. Having thought only of the bare possibility of demons, he had not considered how much the horse would struggle in the current, how dire the swim, that the churning current could pluck him like a twig from the animal's back and send him helplessly spinning to his doom. Though an able swimmer, he could never win against such a force.

Apparently immersed in the swim, the Companion paid the man on his back no notice, though Santar's death grip on his neck had to have become burdensome. The water slapped and tugged at Santar's sod-den clothing, threatening a hold that he gradually winched tighter. Focused on his grip, Santar put his trust wholly in the Companion, blindly depending on him to bring them safely ashore and never once considering that the stallion's strength, too, might fail. It was a Companion, the most clever and competent animal alive and used to having a human wholly reliant upon it. Not wholly reliant, Santar reminded himself. We're talking about Heralds here, plenty capable and talented in their own right.

Only then, Santar thought to worry that his own puny normalness might disrupt the tenuous balance, that the horse might count on him to perform with the ability of a Herald. We're dead! By the time the idea materialized, the Companion gave a mighty surge that hauled both of them from the water.

Glad to find himself on dry land, Santar leaped from the horse and wrapped his arms around the nearest tree. We made it! Gradually, the doubts raised by his earlier thoughts intruded. The torrent had carried them far enough downstream that he could no longer find the road. The horizon cut a crescent from the lowest edge of sun, giving the woods a gray-orange cast that seemed supernatural. Over the bubble of water, he could hear a softly rising chorus of bugs punctuated by other, unidentifiable sounds.

Demons. Santar shivered in his soaked clothing and looked to the Companion.

The horse pawed the ground, clearly anxious. He nudged Santar toward the woods.

Santar swallowed his fear. A Herald's life depends on me. On us. He appreciated the company, though it had dragged him here in the first place. He remembered how the stallion had given him the chance to back out at the fording. He had chosen to continue to save a man's life. To trust the horse's instincts meant believing time of the essence. For the Companion to opt for sped, over preparation and skill, had to mean the Herald lay close to death. The horse, he felt certain, would know.

Though the urge to remount prodded strongly, Santar resisted. In the dark forest, he could see and lead safely better than any horse. He only wished he had had time to grab a lantern, or even just a tinderbox as the forest supplied plenty of torches and kindling. He pushed through the underbrush, tense as an over-wound lute string, the horse moving quietly at his heels. The woods smelled of damp moss and pungent berries, close and green. Branches swept across his face, stinging; and he tried to hold them aside for his larger companion. A whirring sound appeared and disappeared at intervals, grinding at his nerves. An owl cut loose above his head, sending him skittering for-ward in a rush. Stop it. Stay calm.

Accustomed to regular horses, Santar tried to maintain the appearance of self-control. The animal might sense his fear, and a panicked horse became a deadly and unpredictable weapon.

Forcing himself to appear calm gradually resulted in a true inner peace. Santar surrendered himself to the mission. For whatever reason, the Companion had chosen him to rescue the Herald, an enormous responsibility. At first, he had believed it sheer coincidence, but he discarded that thought. Companions had a good people sense. It could have approached anyone else in the town, or his brother, but had selected him. Whether Santar saw the quality in himself or not, the Companion had; and he would not betray the stallion's trust nor the life of its Herald.

The animal's nose poked Santar's right side, steering him leftward. The moist nostrils tickled the inner part of Santar's elbow, and he could not help smiling through his fear. He allowed the horse to steer him in this manner, blazing a trail through the Tangled Forest that anticipated deadfalls, brush too thick to penetrate, and trees packed too closely for a large horse to squeeze around. A gray glaze descended around them, deepening the forest shadows to unsettling darkness. The black flies and mosquitoes swarmed in a biting cloud that followed their every movement. Chilled, Santar wished his tunic at least had sleeves.

As the night wore on, Santar battled exhaustion. He had worked a full day in the stables since sunrise, hauling bags and bales, cleaning stalls, wrangling horses; and he had missed the evening meal.

The bugs and the cold seemed to drain his vitality along with his blood. Yet, the Companion steered him ever onward with delicate nudges that displayed need but forced nothing. Santar wished for supplies but refused to bemoan them. Somewhere out there, an injured man needed him. Or woman, Santar reminded himself. The Heralds, he remembered, come in both varieties.

The journey continued as fatigue became a leaden weight across Santar's shoulders. He longed to sit for just a few moments. His eyes glided shut, and he forced them open in time to avoid walking into a towering oak. Worries about demons receded, replaced by a solid fight against the sleep that threatened to overwhelm him. Just putting one foot ahead of the other became an all-encompassing battle. Only the realization of a life dependent on his own kept him going. He found himself blundering into dead-ends and copses, uncertain how he had gotten there. He forced himself onward, every step a victory, and hoped he would catch a second wind when he finally reached the ailing Herald.

Suddenly, the stallion gave Santar a hard nudge that drove him to his knees. Moonlight glared into his eyes, blindingly bright after the vast expanse of dark forest. In front of him lay a craggy mountain that seemed to touch the very sky. Santar closed and opened his eyes, but the towering monstrosity remained, a dozen others beyond it. Groaning, Santar staggered to his feet and willed himself forward, preparing to climb.

The Companion gave Santar another abrupt nudge that, once again, dropped him to his knees.

Rocks stabbed into flesh, and a trickle of blood stained his britches. Pained, tired, irritated, he turned on the horse. "I'm going, already. I'm going!"

The Companion nickered, pawing up divots of muddy weeds. He tossed his head.

Santar glanced ahead, only then noticing the dark mouth of a cave etched against the rocky cliffs.

Suddenly the horse's intention became clear. "He's in there?"

The horse whinnied, head bobbing.

Santar felt a warm wash of relief that he would not have to fight his way up the mountains, tempered by the realization that he would have to enter a dark cave alone and without a light. The stallion could never fit inside, which made sense. If he could, he would have scooped up the Herald and assisted or carried him to safety rather than dragged some stable boy through demon-infested forest and high water to the Herald. Santar sucked in a deep breath, releasing it in a slow hiss. "All right. I'm going in."

He rose and picked his way to the entrance, staring into the black interior. "Any chance you could help me find my way around inside?"

The Companion nickered.

"Didn't think so," Santar mumbled. He returned his gaze to the cave, seeing only as far as the moonlight could penetrate. It did not show him much. "Let me gather some weeds or pebbles, first.

Something to drop and follow back out."

The Companion shook his head wildly, silver mane flying.

A stranger's voice touched Santar's mind then: :I will guide you.: Startled, Santar whirled. "Who? Who...?"

:Come. I'll guide you.:

The Herald. Santar had heard that Heralds had unusual powers, but it still took him inordinately long to figure out the obvious. "Can you hear me as well?"

No response. The voice gained a touch of urgency. :Please come. Quickly.:

"I'm coming," Santar promised. If this Herald was like those he had met, he would maintain grace under pressure, which meant he probably needed help a lot more than he would admit. Santar secretly wondered if he could do anything worthwhile to assist. He did have a way with horses and their wounds, but he had never tried his skills on humans. Nevertheless, he plunged into the cave.

The leathery flap of wings filled Santar's hearing, and the air became pungent with guano. A clotted mass of bats hurtled from the cave, wings beating furiously. Startled, Santar dropped to the floor, ears filled with the smack and cut of their wild flight. Silence followed, eerie with menace. Though glad the bats had gone, Santar could not help filling the intensity of the quiet darkness with unseen demons.

:Take your first left,: the voice ordered.

Shocked from his own thoughts, Santar obeyed gratefully. He hoped the Herald would stay with him in spirit. He felt so much braver with a companion, even a disembodied, faceless one. :All right.: Santar concentrated on the thought, though the other gave no indication he received the message.

Santar veered leftward, keeping a hand lightly against each damp, musty wall. Better to glide his fingers through something disgusting than to risk losing his way.

:Skip the next opening to the left, then the one to the right.: Santar obeyed, passing up both opportunities to turn.

:Now go right.:

Santar did as the other suggested, still scraping the stone with his fingers. Though worried to interrupt the concentration of the one he sought, he tried tentatively, :Can you understand me, too?:

:Yes,: the other sent. :Go right again.:

Santar did so. :My name is Santar.:

:Orrin. Skip the next right, then go right again. Careful, it's a tight fit.: Orrin was not kidding. Santar found himself suddenly entering a narrowing that seemed impassable.

If he became wedged, they would both die in the dark, dank interior. :Orrin, I can't fit.:

:You'll fit. Trust me.:

Santar had to keep reminding himself that he spoke with a Herald, one who desperately needed his help for survival. The idea that he might become stuck fast grew into obsession. Santar realized he alone could make that judgment: the Herald could not know the size of the man who had come for him. :I can't make it, Orrin. I'm sorry.:

:Do what you must.: Simple words, brave words, from one who had just condemned himself to death.

Santar knew he had to try. He could not banish his fear, but he could choose to ignore it. He sucked in a deep breath, then let it out fully, tightening his muscles and huddling into the smallest area he could manage. Then, he forced himself into the opening.

The rock crushed in on him, tearing furrows of skin from his chest and arms. He closed his eyes, trying to trick his senses into believing this deliberate act was the source of the darkness. He felt pinched, squeezed in all directions. Crushed empty, his lungs spasmed, seeking air. Panic trickled through him, sending his wits scattering. He forced himself onward, gathering his thoughts and binding them together into one solid goal-the rescue of a stranger for whom he had already risked so much.

Then, suddenly, the pressure disappeared. Santar popped into a cavern that seemed enormous after the constriction that had nearly held him fast. :I'm coming,: he sent. :You were right. I made it through.: His tunic had torn and now hung in two rags from his shoulders. Though irritating, he did not remove them. He might need the fabric to cushion some other movement or to use as bandages. For a moment he wondered how he would get back, especially towing another man. He brushed the thought side. First, he had to find that injured Herald.

When Orrin made no reply, Santar forced conversation. He had once seen a Healer do the same thing, keep his patient talking to assure he did not lose consciousness. Obliged to respond, the wounded man had had little choice but to attend the questions, no matter how silly or obvious the answers, which kept his mind working, awake, and focused. :Your Companion brought me here.: The Herald did not seem impressed.

:I'd guessed that. Next right, please.:

Undeterred, Santar continued. :A remarkably handsome creature, in addition to being loyal and intelligent.:

:Best there is.: Orrin's voice itself seemed to smile, distracted from the pain. :I'm very lucky.:

:What's his name?: Santar took the indicated right and suddenly found himself bathed in moonlight. Though still night, the contrast with the depthless cave interior seemed blinding. He blinked several times, gradually taking in the spray of stars across the blue-gray sky, the skeletal hulks of trees waving in the wind, and the snarl of weeds and bushes that defined the Tangled Forest.

The Companion lifted his head and looked worriedly in Santar's direction.

"Oh, no!" Filled with a tense mixture of alarm and despair, Santar dropped to a crouch. :I messed up. I lost you.: Santar whirled, rushing back into the cave. :I've gone in a circle. I'm sorry. You'll have to start over.:

:The Companion's name...is Orrin.:

Santar froze. :Orrin. But that's your-: Shoulders drawn up to his ears, he turned slowly to confront the stallion. :You?:

The horse nodded. :Yes.: