Sun in Glory and Other Tales of Valdemar

"Huh! I'd heard them Whiteshirts was pretty tough in a fight."

"I always thought these heroes was overrated." The big brigand leered and stepped up to Rin, raising his sword. "G'night, Whiteshirt."

A short figure in homespun rushed in, and the head of Valon's toy horse was a white blur as it swung. The solid wooden horsehead whacked the outlaw's knee, and he bellowed and swore. The blow had to hurt, even if it didn't really injure. The big man spun and caught Valon by the back of his tunic, lifting the boy flailing and kicking. Attention off him for the moment, Rin still gasped vainly for air as he clawed at his boot top.

"Bugger! This one's too much trouble. We ain't takin' him back!" The outlaw hefted Valon up as if serving a game of shuttle cock, but the arm he cocked back held a sword instead of a paddle.

Rin's knife flickered silver as it flew and turned. It made a muffled thack as it hit the outlaw in the back of his thigh, just above the knee.

He dropped both Valon and his sword and went down, holding his leg and cursing. The second outlaw moved grimly at Rin, his sword raised to strike, his other hand up shielding against the stones Natli threw at him. The first stone had drawn blood on his cheek. The second missed, and then Natli was out of stones. There was still no sign of the third, slower brigand.

"Aughh! Damnit!" The downed outlaw continued cursing from where he lay, gripping his injured leg. "Forget captives! Kill 'em all!"

Rin's lungs still wouldn't cooperate. He tried feebly to get to his feet, but the sword was up and Rin could see his death. He closed his eyes.

There was a hissing, a loud chunk, and a louder scream. Rin's eyes flew open to see an arrow standing out of the man's sword arm. He'd dropped his sword, and wasn't looking at Rin. On the downhill trail a rider pelted up toward them on a mount so white it hurt the eye. Behind him, an identically mounted figure fitted another arrow to bowstring.

The outlaw turned and sprinted back up the hill, the arrow still in his bleeding arm. His downed comrade tried to drag himself up and run, cursing and gasping, but fell after two clumsy, limping steps.

The running outlaw sped up the hill, but now men in steel caps and leather armor filled the roadway, seeming to rise up from the hill's crest. Long blue shields locked edge to edge, and spears leveled over the rims. The running brigand turned without breaking stride and plunged into the woods.

Muffled commands were shouted as the Militia broke ranks, some chasing the running outlaw, others coming down to seize the other who was still trying to drag himself into the brush. A few mounted Militiamen rode into sight at the hill's crest, holding the horses of their dismounted comrades. The horses, like some of their riders, appeared past their prime.

Rin, on hands and knees, looked back again at the two white-clad figures now riding abreast toward him. Nice shot, he thought. His lungs worked, but he was in no shape to run, even after Valon and Natli helped him up. His next thought, after seeing the two riders' mounts close up was, how could anyone ever mistake them for just horses? It wasn't just the sheen of their coats, the rippling muscles beneath, or their regal, easy grace. The blue eyes had intelligence behind them, and more.

The Heralds were an older man and a tall, dark-haired young woman. The woman still had an arrow on her bowstring, and a look for Rin that said she knew exactly where she wanted to put it. Rin noted that she and he were about the same size, and had an uneasy suspicion she was the original owner of his stolen Whites. The man was muscular looking, with a close-cropped beard and hair shot with gray.

He looked first at the children.

"Are you injured? Did those men hurt you?" His voice was a soothing baritone.

"They wanted to!" blurted Natli. "But we fought 'em!" She looked at Rin, then back up to the Herald. "Well, we helped Herald Rincent fight 'em."

"So we saw, from about the time this young man," a nod to Valon, "ordered that fierce Companion of his to defend...uh...Herald Rincent. I think you have a solid career if you ever join the Guard, lad."

Valon had retrieved his hobbyhorse. Its ear was broken off.

"Unh-unh." The boy shook his head solemnly as he looked up. "Don't wanna be a soljer...I'm gonna be a Herald."

The older Herald grinned broadly. Even the grim-faced young woman smiled.

"That might also be possible," responded the Herald. He turned to the woman. "We'd best split up to help the Militia." The woman nodded, never taking her eyes off Rin. The older Herald dismounted in the usual way, but the woman pulled her left foot free of the stirrup, raised her right leg over saddle pommel and her mount's neck, and slid smoothly to the ground. Her hands never left bow grip or arrow nock.

The Herald's Companion snorted, and both left the road and cantered into the woods, following the sounds of shouting, running men. Rin felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

The senior Herald looked grim as he turned back to Rin.

"As for you, Herald Rincent." His eyes flicked over the children, and back to Rin. "We have a great deal to discuss."

They were an odd parade as they came into the children's home village. The Militia officer rode first, leading a stubby packhorse straddled by the big outlaw with the injured leg. The outlaw was bound and neck-roped to the other two brigands who walked, also bandaged and bound, on either side of the horse. Any escape attempt would likely strangle all three.

Next came Rin, leading his mare. She had been found wandering in the woods by the Companions, and the children now rode her, with the two Heralds and their Companions to either side. The senior Herald, who called himself Terek, had warned Rin to keep his mouth shut and maintain the game until they could talk privately. Terek made it plain bad things would happen if Rin tried to get away. Rin was sure this was true, even without the too-knowing gaze of the Companions and the ready bow and hard looks of Trefina, the other Herald. They were followed by the Militia, pleased with themselves and riding in smart order, shields up and spears braced upright, late sunlight catching red gleams off spearheads and bridle fittings.

At the edge of the village, a young woman with disarrayed hair and reddened eyes rushed up to the mare, laughing and weeping at once. The children's mother pulled the children fiercely to her for a long moment, and then recovered her composure. She gave fervent but dignified thanks to the Heralds and Rin. Rin's feelings were jumbled. He felt proud for his part in the children's return, but oddly confused about how to receive thanks and praise he for once partly deserved. He felt happy about the children returning to their mother and family and profoundly sad that he'd never had the same chance himself, and probably never would. Too, it bothered him that he'd so long regarded people like this with amused contempt, at best.

The summer night was soft and warm, and the waxing moon cast pale light on the village's cluster of homes and outbuildings, added to by lamps and a fair number of bonfires. The surviving outlaws, both those chasing the children and three others captured that afternoon after the Militia's sudden appearance at the village, were locked in the smokehouse. The stale smell of charred wood carried from the one cottage partly burned by the outlaws before the Militia arrived. Five fresh graves at the edge of the wood held neither villager nor Militia. Wounds of Militia and villagers were bandaged. People were quietly celebrating the end of the brigands, the return of their children, the survival of their friends and families.

After tending his mare, Rin helped Terek bring water to his Companion, whom Terek introduced as Coryandor. The Companion (much more then a horse, Rin now knew), drank deeply, then nodded briefly to Rin as if in thanks. Rin didn't know where the other Companion was, but he was glad it wasn't here. The young woman's mount made it clear she disliked Rin as much as her rider, twice bumping Rin roughly, and looking as if she wanted to do more.

Terek brought out a currycomb and began running it over the Companion's coat, Coryandor closed his eyes and sighed with sheer bliss.

"Time to talk." said Terek. "To be specific, time for me to talk and you to listen as if your life depends on it. Which it does."

Rin nodded. He felt very uncomfortable.

"Impersonating an officer of the Crown is a serious offense, usually a capital crime. Serious enough to drag me from Haven to find you. People must be able to trust their Herald, and impersonating a Herald is unthinkable. Well, almost unthinkable. You obviously thought of it."

Rin thought of running, but gave it up when he saw Coryandor staring at him as if the Companion knew his every thought.

"In your defense, there's your protection of those children. Even after meeting you, the boy still wants to be a Herald." From the direction of the houses came the cheerful sound of voices singing with more enthusiasm than skill; something about drunken crows. They sounded much happier than Rin felt.

"We've been following you for three weeks." Terek continued. "Apparently, you never stole anything outright while posing as one of us, and you have no history of violent crimes." Terek straightened up from brushing Coryandor's front leg. "At least none we discovered. Another small point in your favor is that Cory says you took good care of your horse." Rin wondered how the Companion told Terek that.

"Because of these factors, you have a choice between two options. One is to go back to Haven with us, where, after unpleasant interrogations, even more unpleasant things will happen to you."

"How unpleasant?" asked Rin, feeling unpleasant already.

"Very." said Terek. "Perhaps hanging if you're lucky. If you're not, well...as much as Heralds despise someone posing as a Herald, there's a group with even stronger feelings. You could be turned loose in the exercise yards with a dozen young Companion stallions."

Rin's spine chilled. It got worse as Coryandor turned his head to give Rin a hard, unblinking look, and Rin caught, not words, but a feeling, as if pressed into his mind from outside. The feeling said Rin would be much better off hanging.

"I'll take option two," said Rin.

"Better hear it first. Understand that if you don't deliver on any part of option two, option one becomes the only option. And never think we can't find you." Coryandor turned slightly so Terek could get to his flank, but the Companion still stared at Rin.

Rin simply nodded. "Go on."

"If yours was a lesser crime, and these less pressing times," continued Terek, "I'd have you go back to each and every village you visited, and work off every morsel of food, every piece of equipment and every courtesy." Terek shifted and curried the Companion's other side. "But these are special times.

So, the Crown will honor that pile of townchits in your saddlebags, and give the village their tax credits.

In other words, Valdemar will buy your debt from the villages."

"And then?" Rin asked, though he didn't much want an answer.

"You return to Haven with me. That reminds me, change clothes as soon as we get away from here. Wear any combination of tan, or brown, or purple spots, or anything except white or gray. If anyone recognizes you as a 'Herald' tell them you're on a Philosophical Leave of Absence, developing your humility and service."

"Heralds do that?"

"They do now. At least you do. After we reach Haven, you will go through training. Ethics, for a start, and Weapons, too...you can certainly use it. Mathematics, Reading and Writing, too, along with some...specialized classes."

Reading and Writing? But Rin still grimaced. "That could take years!"

"Option number one, then," said Terek.

"Um...never mind," said Rin quickly, "forget I said anything. So I go to school on the Crown's coin.

That's the punishment?"

Terek smiled as nastily as any brigand.

"That's the preparation. Understand that any shortcoming, any shirking, any attempt to disappear or go back to your old ways and it's option number one."

Coryandor was looking at him again, with those scary blue eyes. The man who said there's always a choice was a liar, thought Rin.

"I, uh, accept." he said. Even with Herald wizardry watching, there was always the chance he could slip away later. "What happens after I get educated?"

Terek smiled like he meant it. "You come to work for me and Valdemar."

"What?! Why me?"

Terek rubbed his Companion's neck. "Because if you don't, you're back to option one," he said cheerily. Coryandor snorted and bared his teeth at Rin. Rin blanched.

"Also, you're reasonably intelligent, if not always smart. Gods know you're lucky. You've traveled around both in and outside Valdemar. You can gain people's trust quickly, and convince them you're something you're not. And if needed, you can think the unthinkable. Any Monarch who cares about Valdemar and her people can use a few knaves fighting and conniving for the Right and the Good. You likely won't be a Herald; that choice is out of my hands, but with time you may equal one in service to Valdemar. It's up to you."

Rin being of service to others, without being forced. The idea was a new one. Still...

"You think I can do all this?" he asked.

"With my job you have to be good at reading a person's potential and seeing his true colors,"

replied Terek. "I'm very good at it. You might even call it a Gift."

Rin's smile grew slowly to a huge grin as he thought about it. Here was a chance to be admired for himself, to learn to read and write and to use a sword, to adventure, to defend a kingdom using a slickman's stock in trade, and maybe most importantly a place to belong.

It might even be worth school.

Valon stuck his blond head in the doorway behind Terek and smiled shyly at Rin. The boy still had his wooden Companion with him. Valon's mother appeared behind the boy, put a hand on his head, and smiled. For the tiniest moment, Rin tasted dried apples.

Rin looked down at his torn, dirty Whites, back at Terek and Valon, grinned crookedly, and spread his arms.

"Looks like it's time to change," he said. Terek's chuckle said he knew Rin wasn't just talking about clothes.

Touches the Earth

by Brenda Cooper

Brenda Cooper has had stories published in Analog and Asimov's with collaborator Larry Niven, and her own work has appeared in Analog. A long-time fan of Valdemar, Brenda loved doing a story for this anthology.

She lives in Bellevue, Washington, works in Kirkland city government, and loves to run, read, write, and enjoy family.

"That's right. Locate the energy line below you good-now draw it up through your feet, through your center, and feed it out slowly." Tim's voice teased the edges of Anya's focus as she drew a mental picture of energy flowing. Floor to flank to fingers, earth becoming light. She fed the tiny flame she had conjured in the bowl in front of her. The fire flared from the size of her thumb to something that would engulf her palm, and she drew in a sharp breath. Her calf muscles quivered, pain shot through the small of her back, and the bright glow winked to nothing.

"You lost it. What happened?" Tim asked.

"I...I don't know. All of a sudden my back hurt and then it was gone."

Tim frowned. "And what happened last time?"

"My fingers quivered and didn't point the right way." He'd been there when she caught the edge of a tablecloth on fire. Anya heard the defensiveness in her voice and labored to find another tone. "It...it seems like I can only hold so much energy, and then something happens. It's not always the same thing, but it's always something. Physical. In my body. I don't know what to change!" Now it sounded to Anya like she'd exchanged defensiveness for despair. "I'm sorry," she mumbled.

"You can hold more energy. I can feel your potential. You aren't even near your capacity." Tim tugged on his graying braid, and frowned. Then he looked intently into Anya's eyes. "You're fighting it.

There's a point where you have to surrender. You have to feel it-there are no words, and I've been told it's different for everyone. It's keeping focus, maintaining control, but it's also surrendering. All at once."

He was pacing, his words more insistent than usual. Anya knew better than to interrupt him-he could be harsh when frustrated. "Your focus is clear, but I can't feel your surrender. You're trying to be a warrior spouting flame at an enemy, but Healing isn't warrior's work. Surrender, and your body will be able to hold energy much longer. Now, try again."

Anya breathed into her belly, tucked her hips, and refocused on her shielding. Then she started again, conjuring the flame, feeding it to fist-sized, holding it, holding it, and then her forehead flashed with pain and she blinked, opening her eyes to an empty bowl.

Tim didn't comment. Instead, he said, "I'll go catch us some supper. While I'm gone, think about what might be between you and your full abilities. Feeding flame is a small trick, but it's handling the same energy you'll need for any major Healing." Tim stood, glanced at her, and walked out the door.

Grateful for the respite, Anya allowed herself a long sigh as soon as Tim was out of sight. Tim expected her to be good enough to replace him as the troubled village's Healer soon. If only they could have a real Healer from Haven!

She had been studying for two whole years now, and while she'd started out learning fast, the last year had felt like stepping backward. Or, at best, sideways. She'd learned new things, but hadn't made any real progress. At the beginning, Tim had expressed surprise at how quickly she started to cure simple maladies like headaches and sniffles, and to make a tiny flame. Since then, she'd added the ability to form-no, collect-balls of light and to lessen stomach cramps. She knew how to shield, to ground and center, to focus. It wasn't enough. Real healing eluded her. Tim had to step in every time.

She'd seen Tim repair multiple burn wounds last year when a half-finished sheep barn had burned, and then have the bad grace to barely look tired. After just two hours of much less difficult work, every muscle along her back was tense, calves to shoulders. She wanted to close her eyes and sleep. Instead she looked around, struggling for alertness.

* * *

Tim's home was an ingenious cave. Campfire stories whispered that the mysterious hertasi had built it secretly, when Northend Homestead was only a few families struggling to feed themselves. If so, the hertasi were masters at their craft. Anya had never seen one, but they had been described as lizard-like, with hands that worked more cleverly than human hands, fashioning and shaping and building for the Hawkbrothers.

She'd never spoken to a Hawkbrother, but Anya had seen them twice before, riding fast on graceful dhyeli, warning Homestead of a storm once, and a dangerous hedge-wizard another time. She wanted the mysterious and beautiful people to stay, to talk to her, but of course they were busy.

Nevertheless, she'd watched for them on woods walks, but they were as elusive as true Healing.

All the best magic in the world, except her teacher himself, was hiding from her. Everything bright and positive was hiding, ever since she'd moved here and left her home, searching for work. Tim had identified her Gift. He was a good thing, the best thing, in her life. His regard for her was bright, but she was so far from his expectations she might as well have become the village sheepherder.

Homestead was one of a handful of towns in the far north of Valdemar; land the Hawkbrothers had reclaimed for safe human habitation only a few generations ago. Lately, raids had come with no warning, and the town was now smaller and more indrawn, afraid. Now, townspeople only came to Tim's cave in the light of day, and even then, they often sent Anya to fetch the Healer. In the past three months, ten men had disappeared with no trace. Ten more had left to find them, disappearing as well.

Light spilled in through the door and fell from two clever round openings in the roof, illuminating the large open space with mid-afternoon sun. A few carefully crafted items lined the walls, leaving a large clear area where Tim struggled twice a week to teach her. Anya's gaze fell across the small altar in front of her. A wide burled maple trunk had been sawn flat and polished to a bright surface that glowed when the light-like now-hit it just right. A fine hand-sewn cloth two handspans wide sat in the center. It shimmered when sunlight hit it, somehow twisting from black and gray to purple and blue. The work was so magnificent that Anya couldn't imagine the weaver. In the center of the cloth rested a candle and a drawing of three figures. The drawing showed a woman, a man, and a small boy. Anya was sure Tim had drawn them, although they looked somehow less alive than pictures he drew of wolves and deer and, sometimes, of townspeople.

Anya closed her eyes, pulling her focus inward, trying to release the tight muscles along her spine.

Then suddenly, they clenched again. The peal of the town alarm bell screamed for attention, and in two heartbeats Anya had grabbed her backpack and was pelting down the trail toward Northend Homestead.

This time it wasn't a direct raid; there was no noise of fighting staining the town. Nevertheless, Anya's landlady Elena was crying quietly, a group of women gathered around her. Hovering at the edges of the crowd, Anya was able to glean that Elena's oldest, nine-year-old Justine, had left before dawn to deliver eggs and had not returned after half a day. She should have been gone just a candlemark.

Justine's father was one of the men who had followed the raiders ten days ago. Elena and Justine had not seen or heard from him since. After Anya moved to town three years ago, Justine had become a frequent visitor to Anya's room. Just last night, Anya had prepared a tea of comforting herbs to ease Justine's bedtime fears. The girl had stammered and thanked her. Then Anya had held her close for almost a full candlemark, while she cried for her father, until Justine fell asleep in a tangle of bedclothes and blond hair.

Only a handful of candlemarks remained until dark. Teams split up in the four directions, agreeing that the town bell would call them back if anyone succeeded in finding Justine. Tim insisted they go east, the same direction as his underground home. They stopped there to provision, but rather than helping Anya, Tim sat down in front of the small altar and just stared at his drawing.

"Well?" she looked at him.

He didn't respond at all, just picked up the picture of the three people and held it in his hands, his eyes closed.

Anya gathered cheese, bread, and an herb kit into packs. She stared at Tim's unmoving back.

After a few moments she said, "We need to hurry. Justine could be hurt."

Tim ignored her and slipped into his bedroom, closing the door.

Anya waited, drumming her fingers, and then pacing.

When he finally emerged, Anya raised her eyebrows at him.

"They're...from how I lived once before." A quite serviceable sword was buckled around his waist, and a long knife stuck hilt-up from his boot. In his right hand he held out a short dirk toward her. He looked unfamiliar, different. Somehow he fit the mood he had been in all day: stern and serious

"But...but you've always told me you weren't a fighter."

"I didn't say I wasn't one. Just that I'm not one now. So go on, take it. I'll feel better. I made you stop practicing with the young men at guard, but that was to hone your focus on healing skills," Tim said.

"I've seen you use a weapon, you'll pass. You may need one today. Go on."

Puzzled and a little alarmed, Anya palmed the blade and stuck it in her waistband. They left, climbing up the rise behind Tim's cave. A stream ran down the hill on the other side, and there they walked with just the water between them, searching for tracks, but close enough to talk. "So, tell me about it," Anya said.

"I used to be a fighter."

"I can see that."

"A mercenary. I thought it was a good thing to be. I loved the action...loved being so strong. But then I went too far."

"And?"

"I killed people for money. Sellswords do that." Tim stopped for a minute and bent down to look at the ground. Then he shook his head. "Not Justine's track. Someone bigger, but not necessarily an enemy." He shrugged. "Anyway, I went too far and one day I woke up sick and tired of it all. I had done something...wrong...terrible the day before. At first, I drank it off. But in the morning, my head became crystal clear, and I got up and walked away."

That wouldn't have made him popular with his troop. "What did you do?"

"We'd been hired to clean out a bunch of thieves from someone's holding."

"That sounds pretty normal," Anya said.

"Yeah. But it turned out we were the thieves."

"Does this have anything to do with the pictures on your altar?" Anya asked

"They were the rightful owners." Tim's voice clamped down and he walked a while before he spoke again, "They were defending their home. I killed the man with my own hands. I broke his back and pulled his head back and snapped his neck. I threw the fire-brand that caught the house's roof on fire.

The woman and the boy burned alive. I did it just because I was told to. I didn't think."

Anya had no response. They walked as quickly as they could and still watch the ground. At one point they found a bit of red string stuck to a low branch, about waist level. There was no way to know if it was Justine's, but it kept them following the stream. As the sun touched the treetops, the temperature dropped, shadows, lengthened, and Anya felt fear building.

"So, when you left, when you walked away from being a mercenary, what did you do?"

"I got lost." Tim stood still and looked around. "We should stop soon, we may spend the night out here."

"I haven't heard the town bells."

"You won't. I'm sure we're going the right way."

"I thought you said FarSeeing wasn't a Gift of yours."

"It's not. But sometimes I just know things. I have ever since I was a kid. I think that's what made me good at fighting in the first place."

Three forest tracks converged near the bottom of the hill. Gold light dappled the paths and a rabbit flashed its white at them as it dove into the safety of the underbrush. Tim pointed out shallow hoofprints.

"These look fresh. Probably made today, at least." He gestured at her to stay close to him. "Did you think about what is stopping you?"

Anya bit her lip. "Fear, I guess."

"Of course. But what are you afraid of?"

Anya let the question hang in the air for a bit. She was so absorbed in trying to read the faint tracks that her next words surprised her. "Healers are people in stories and songs-not me. I'm just Anya."

"You don't know how good you are."

Anya smiled. Tim was always saying she was good, and complaining at her for failing, all in the same conversation. "But still I can't do half of what you do. How will I ever take over for you?"

"When you have to, you will."

An owl screeched. It was close to dusk, but still early-owls shouldn't be hunting yet. And the sound was-desperate. Anya looked at Tim.

He was standing completely still. "I think we'll know something pretty soon. Follow." Tim took off to the right, toward the sound. The owl screeched again, sounding at once angry and frightened. They ran.

Two hundred yards farther along, Anya heard the sounds of fighting. Tim gestured to her to stay back, and he kept going, running low, tugging his sword from its scabbard as he went. He disappeared down the edge of a ridge.

Anya's breath tangled in her lungs as she worked her way quickly and silently to the fir trees at the ridge's edge. A shadow passed over her head. She looked up. The bird was impossibly big, twelve feet or more wingtip to wingtip, and it was diving down, silent and deadly. The owl arrowed directly at a man Tim was fighting. The man flinched, stepping back to avoid the wings and talons directed at his face. Tim ran his sword through the attacker, whirling to hold off a second man.

Anya's fingers clenched the dirk's hilt, fear and confusion anchoring her feet. Her eyes swept the scene, trying to make sense of the movement. A wagon sat in the middle of the path, twisting dangerously as two horses danced and kicked with their back legs. The spooked horses were unable to run; leather hobbles bound their front legs. A small figure lay in the wagon, covered by a blanket. Justine?

A dead man lay near the wagon. Another man, no two men, rolled on the ground. One of them was covered with twigs and mud and colored like the forest. It was so hard to see him, Anya had to focus hard to keep him in sight even though he was moving. He must be a Hawkbrother scout. Then the owl was his bondbird!

The scout slashed a knife across the throat of the man he struggled against. Now free, the Hawkbrother stood quickly, running toward Tim.

Anya wanted to move, but couldn't tell where to run. Her eyes found Tim. There was a new slash across his shoulder, and blood ran down his bicep and dripped from his elbow. Still, she had never seen him move with such speed and sureness. Tim circled, using the long knife that was in his boot, keeping his attacker from the sword that now lay gleaming dully on the ground. His challenger came in low, and Tim blocked with his damaged arm, pushing the man off as Tim himself fell. New blood bloomed where the man's knife had gouged his thigh.

A flash of silver light caught the last rays of the sun and the Hawkbrother's knife thudded into the neck of Tim's challenger, who crumpled. Tim waved thanks. He tried to stand and made it to one knee, his right leg dragging. He reached for the sword, holding it out in front of him as blood dripped from his arm and from the edge of the sword as well. No one else moved.

Anya finally leaped into motion, running down the small hill toward the rocking wagon. She was only halfway there when the wagon tipped and rolled over, knocking one of the fractious horses off its feet. The other one planted a solid kick on the wagon's side. Anya scrambled to the front of the wagon, banged her knee, and used the dirk to saw the leather traces loose from the tongue. Hooves sliced the air, one quite near her head. She backed up, talking softly to the frightened animals, trying to calm them enough to see if Justine was under the wagon.

Abruptly, both horses stilled, their attention focused on the Hawkbrother walking carefully toward them. He bent and expertly cut the hobbles. Now free, the big animals stood placidly.

All of the chaos had disappeared from the scene, and the path and forest became silent and still.

The owl glided in, landing on a branch at the edge of the clearing, watching with the same quiet that had settled on the rest of the forest.

The Hawkbrother looked directly at Anya, paused, and then simply said, "Well met. I'm Nightsinger."

"Thank you." she replied, then offered, "I'm Anya, and that is Tim."

He grinned. "I know who Tim is. You must be his student."

How could the man grin at a time like this? Nightsinger helped her turn the crumpled and staved wagon over. It was Justine under the wagon, legs twisted sideways, both arms splayed wide as if she had tried to break her fall. Blond hair spilled out from the blanket, dark with blood. Nightsinger ran toward Tim, gesturing that she should stay and tend to the girl.

"Justine!" Anya called out, kneeling by the still form, placing one hand on Justine's chest. She had a heartbeat, but her skin was chalky, her scalp bleeding. As Anya felt along the top of her head, one part felt mushy, as if the business end of a horse's hoof or a board had knocked into her. Anya looked around frantically for Tim.

He was still thirty feet away, and Nightsinger had rolled him onto his back. The new wound on the back of his thigh was bleeding extremely fast, staining the earth around it. She had to go to him! She leaped up and ran to his side. Pain swirled like a live thing in his bright, wet eyes, and he clenched the knife tightly.

"Let me..." She began.

"Justine." Tim croaked. "Justine first."

"But...but you might die!"

"I'm tougher than I want to be-this won't finish me." Tim's teeth ground into his lip, sweat stood out on his forehead, and Anya could hear noises dying in his throat as he refused to cry out. How could he survive this?

Defiantly, she placed her hands on his thigh near the worst of his wounds.

He raised the knife, made as if to slash at her with it. "Justine first."

Anya felt like she was being severed in two. The little girl clearly needed her, but Tim was the real Healer, not her. Not yet. If she helped Tim, he could help Justine...but Justine could die without immediate attention. It was beyond her to save one, and they both needed her. What if Tim died? She felt anchored in place-the way she had been when she was watching the fight, unable to choose a direction because all of the choices needed doing. But Nightsinger was with Tim, and Justine was a child.

Turning away from Tim was like spiraling through a physical wall. Her legs shook as she walked away from him.

Anya forced herself to look only at Justine, to hear and taste and sense only things surrounding the little girl.

Justine's head wound was threatening by itself; enough to explain why the girl was out stone cold.

Her legs were bound together, badly chafed, the skin deeply raw around the ropes. Anya thought they could be broken. Her arms and torso looked unmarked, except her left hand was gashed and bleeding.

Anya cut the ropes around Justine's legs and straightened them.

Now, how could she ground herself? She had always worked in homes or in the main room at Tim's-and always with Tim coaching her. Here, there was no comfortable place to stand rooted to.

Justine was in an awkward spot, and Anya didn't think it safe to move her. She chose a kneeling pose and probed for Earth energy, the way Tim had taught her.

It was there, a breath, a stream, and available. She pulled it up into her, setting shielding to keep her focus, to close out the woods and the path and the wounded Healer behind her. Her body gained life, her mind focus, and she began to see things more clearly as she prepared to transfer the energy filling her to the wounded girl.

She needed Tim. It felt like so much, like more than she had ever felt. Tim should do this-she wasn't up to it.

The energy poured away, lost like water over a cliff, and she put her head down and hid her face in her hands. She shivered; cold and frustrated.

A croak rose from far behind her. Tim's voice. "I can see you do this. Start over." A softening of his tone. "Surrender, Anya. Let go."

She looked back. Nightsinger sat quietly next to Tim. The Hawkbrother nodded at her. "Can you help Tim?" she pleaded.

"Only a little. You must help him by doing your work."

Tears stung the corner of her eyes. She touched the earth, tapping the stream of energy again. It was weak and she reached, and reached, and barely gathered a warm trickle. It wasn't enough. She was going to fail.

She let go, started over, ignoring her first touch of darkness. Whether real or not, she heard Tim's voice in her head, saying, "Surrender. Surrender." She touched and reached, and this time the line of power felt focused, less diffuse. She filled herself with each breath, establishing the stream into her as a river, seeing it as light she could channel through her palms. It was more than she could take, and still less than Justine needed. She wanted to scream. Necessity pushed at her until something inside crumpled away, something thin but important. Loss swept into trust, and Anya realized how afraid she had been to...trust...herself. Power, earth energy, filled the places where fear had been. Now, she was part of it, and it was part of her, and the outcome no longer mattered, just the work.

She placed her hands on Justine's head, directing the energy into the prone form. It was warmth flowing down her arms and through the center of her palms into Justine, overwhelming the cold of her wounds, acting on them like sun on ice, melting pain. Slowly. Ever so slowly. Anya could feel it, almost see it, and it was exquisite, like spring colors and stored sunshine flowing into Justine from the earth. It used Anya, like a vessel and a map, seeking direction and amplification in her focus.

Warmth spread through Anya into the girl's head, burning away pain and harm, healing her broken skull. Warmth began to flow down Justine's shoulders, and Anya felt almost as if the two of them were one being. Then suddenly it was too much, her back was freezing. Anya shuddered, the connection lost.

Now it was only her own empty hands on Justine's head. Every muscle in her arms quivered and shook.

Anya's body demanded rest, sleep. She fought for strength to see to Justine. The girl was breathing better, more regularly. Her skin wasn't quite the right color, but it was somehow less white. Anya probed Justine's head gently, and it felt normal. Justine's legs were bleeding where the bonds had been, and still swollen and bruised. So she hadn't finished. But it would be enough. Justine's youth would heal the rest quickly. Anya sighed, and then in a tiny flash of energy, she remembered Tim.

Nightsinger sat immobile by Tim, hands on her teacher's thigh wound. Tim's head was turned away from her, but Nightsinger looked directly at her and said, "You did well, little one. Let go." She wanted to go to Tim, but blackness caught her, and she barely felt the ground slap the side of her head as she surrendered to it.

* * *

Anya woke to the sounds of many people. She was bundled in a blanket by the side of the path.

Her mouth was fiercely dry. She licked her lips and tried to sit up, but her head was so dizzy and painful she simply fell back again.

She heard the rustle of clothes, and a cup of water appeared in front of her eyes. An arm propped her up, and another held the cup to her lips. She sipped greedily. When the cup was empty, Nightsinger rocked back on his heels and let her sit on her own. Surprisingly, she found she had the strength, if barely. She watched him refill the cup from a water bag he slung over his shoulder, all of her focus on the precious water, on quenching the desert inside of her.

Nightsinger grinned at her as she got partway through a third cup of water, and finally looked up at him. His long hair was down, a signal to her that they were safe. "Now, take it easy, little one. You'll be sick. Let the water in slowly. You used a lot of energy."

Memories flooded back over her. "Justine?"

"Is fine. I had to splint her legs until one of our Healers got here, and sew her up in a place or two.

Nothing I don't know how to do. But you saved her life. I'm Healer-trained, but have no Gift like yours. I could not have done what you did. She even woke up this morning and asked for you."

"This morning? How long have I been asleep? How's Tim?"

"You've slept almost two days."

"And Tim?"

"Ahhh, Tim. He's gone back to the vale-to our home-for a while. A brother of mine came to get him. Tim lived with us once before, that's where he learned his healing skill-the things he taught you."

"I've heard stories. He never would talk about his past. At least until...until the day we found you.

But how is he?"

"He'll be all right." Nightsinger laughed. "Sorry, I should tell you more. Years ago, when he was my age, when we found him, he was-broken. Learning Healing gave him enough purpose to stay alive. And now, well, he swore never to fight again, but you and I just saw how well he does that. This time it was to save people he loves. Maybe, the next time he leaves us, he will be able to both fight and heal."

"Can I see him?"

"He's already gone. He said you should move to the cave. He'll visit." Nightsinger held his hand out for the empty water cup.

"But I...I need to learn more," she protested, handing over the cup. "Tell him he has to come back as soon as he's healed."

"He said he'd visit."

Anya frowned.

"Maybe I'll visit, too-I've never seen this fabled hertasi-built house of his-no, yours-before."

"I'd like that," she said.

Nightsinger was smiling companionably. She tried to match his expression and asked, "Hey, is there food?"

ICEBREAKER

Rosemary Edgehill

Rosemary Edghill is the author of Speak Daggers to Her, The Book of Moons, and Fleeting Fancy. Her short fiction has appeared in Return to Avalon, Chicks in Chainmail, and Tarot Fantastic. She is a full-time author who lives in Poughkeepsie, New York.

It was Midwinter Festival in Talastyre, and the younger children were gathered in the square to watch the traditional Midwinter play before heading home to spiced cider and oranges and the family feast. Elidor stood at the edge of the crowd, unwilling to admit, at fifteen, that he still liked to watch the play, but this was a day of rare liberty for him. Elidor was one of a dozen copyist-apprentices at the great Library of Talastyre-when other libraries around Valdemar needed a copy of one of their books, it was copyists like Elidor who would write out the text in a fair hand. When he was fully trained, he might seek work at any library, or in a lord's household, or even at the Collegium in Haven itself.

He had been brought to Talastyre at the age of six, on a winter's day even colder than this one. He remembered crying, and clinging to his uncle's coat, begging and pleading not to be left here among strangers, to be let to go home to his parents, to his brothers and sisters.

He remembered the fire, of course. He had gone into the attic to play at Heralds and Companions-the carved wooden toys had been his Midwinter gift, and when he'd told his brothers that someday a Companion would come to choose him for a Herald, they'd laughed at him, and teased him so badly that he'd decided to find a place to play undisturbed. The attic was cold, but he'd taken his cloak with him, and later it had gotten so warm that he'd taken it off.

He remembered how his eldest sister Marane had come running in. She smelled of smoke, and her face was streaked with tears. He'd started crying, too, because she frightened him, even more when she told him he mustn't cry, he must be brave. He was still clutching the white painted Companion when she pushed him out the tiny attic window, too small for an adult to get through.

He screamed as he fell-such a long way-but the snow was deep that year, and he wasn't badly hurt. He crawled away, through the melting snow, clutching the carved white horse, shouting for his mother, for Marane.

He understood later that the house had burned, and the townsfolk had come to try to put out the fire and see if any of the house's inhabitants might be saved, and found him, the only survivor. At the time, all Elidor knew was that strangers took him away, and would not tell him where his family had gone.

When his uncle finally came, Elidor hoped he would be taken home again. His uncle was a silent distant man, who rarely came to visit his brother's family, but he was Elidor's closest kin. He had no experience of children, and spoke to Elidor as if he were an equal.

"Simon left his affairs in order, I'll give him that. And I can get a good price for the land, even though there's nothing left of the house. It will all come to you, boy, never fear-no man can say that Jonas Bridewell would cheat his brother's kin. It comes to a tidy sum. I've taken steps to secure your future, and an enviable one it is, too. You need have no fear of toiling in a shop or a mill for the rest of your days. Folk will look up to you, young Elidor."

There was little about this speech that made sense to Elidor, beyond the knowledge that he was not to go home again. His uncle hired a coach, and after a long and tiring journey, they reached Talastyre.

There he discovered he was to be abandoned.

It had been the Master of Boys who dried his tears, who gently explained to him what his uncle had assumed he understood: that his parents were dead, and that Talastyre was to be his home now. In the dark days that followed, Elidor clung to only one hope: that a Companion would come for him, to take him from this terrible place. Every chance he got, he slipped away from his duties and hurried to the woods at the edge of Town, watching for the flash of shining white through the trees that would mean a Companion was near.

He told no one of his dream. In his thoughts, the fire and his last Midwinter gift were tangled up together in a way he couldn't explain. At first slept with his painted horse beneath his pillow, but he got into such terrible fights with the other boys when they tried to take it away from him that at last the Master of Boys said he would keep the toy safe for Elidor in his own office, where Elidor could visit it whenever he wished.

The weeks passed, then the months, then the years, and no Companion came, and slowly, rebelliously, Elidor settled into the routine of the Library and its school. First he worked as a runner, delivering messages between the offices of the great library, then as a page, reshelving books and bringing volumes when they were asked for. Along with the other children sent to Talastyre to learn-to Elidor's astonishment, most of them had families (his uncle had been telling the truth when he said he had secured for Elidor an enviable position)-Elidor was taught to read and write: his first lessons were in the Common Tongue and to scribe a simple fair hand, but they would be followed by courses in other, older languages and the clear difficult copyist's hand. That training would be the work of years, for it took decades to make a fully-trained Scribe. Not everyone completed it. Some lacked the aptitude. Others were there only to learn the basic lessons before returning to their families, or passing on to other training.

Elidor hated and envied them, while clinging to his secret hope: that he would be Chosen, that he would be more special, more loved than all of them, in the end. He made no friends, and wanted none, and the work he could not avoid, he did grudgingly, and only if watched.

Literacy was Elidor's salvation.

"Here is something that might interest you," the Master of Boys said. He sat down beside Elidor-who was being detained, as punishment, while the other boys were sent out to play in the spring sunshine-and set a book upon the desk. It was large, bound in blue leather, stamped in silver.

Elidor hated everything about books-the way they looked, the way they smelled, their weight, their pages filled with incomprehensible symbols. He turned his head away. But the Master of Boys didn't seem to notice. He simply opened the book.

A flash of color drew Elidor's attention, and he looked. There, painted on the page, was a brightly-colored painting of a Companion and its Herald. Every detail was clear, and in the spring sunlight, the silver bells on the Companions harness shone like stars.

Elidor grabbed for it, but the Master of Boys drew it back.

"Are your hands clean?" he asked gently.

Elidor inspected his palms. They were gray with the slate of the pencils the boys had been using to practice their letters.

"Go and wash them, then."

Elidor hurried to the back of the room and rinsed his hands quickly in the basin there, leaving most of the dirt on the towel. But his hands were clean when he returned. He held them out for inspection.

The Master of Boys passed him the book.

Quickly-and carefully, as he had been taught-Elidor turned the pages. But there were not many pictures, though many of the pages had a large bright initial letter, each one in Herald blue, some with a tiny picture of a Companion twined around it.

"It is a great pity you cannot read this," the Master of Boys said thoughtfully, "for it contains many tales of the Companions and their brave Heralds." He gently drew the book away from Elidor and closed it. "There are other such books in our Library. Perhaps someday you will be able to read them, if you apply yourself to your lessons."

From that day Elidor worked hard at his lessons, and harder at any task that brought him among the books. Soon he could read as well as many of the older boys, and when two more years had passed, the Master of Boys made good on his promise, and Elidor was given a pass that allowed him free access to any book on the open shelves of the library.

At first he was only interested in works about the Heralds and the Companions, their history and their deeds, but as the years passed and he had run through all of those, his interests broadened until a book's subject hardly mattered. All of Elidor's adventures were lived through books, and most of the time he was resigned to the fact that this was how it would always be. His friends were the books of the Great Library, and his teachers spoke approvingly of his abilities. Elidor, they said, will be a Master Copyist someday, and a great credit to our training.

But deep inside, the unacknowledged spark of resentment at how Life had cheated him still burned dully, and the hope remained, grown faint and dim with the passing of years, that a Companion would come to make his life magical.

* * *

In the town square, the play was getting to the part that he liked best, and unconsciously Elidor rose up on tip-toes, trying to see better.

There was a jingle of bells onstage, as the actor dressed as the Companion appeared from the wings. The horselike body was woven of light wicker covered with white velvet, and its flashing eyes were made of bright foil-backed blue glass. Slowly the Companion danced forward, pausing in turn before the Raggedy Woodman, the Greedy Tax-Collector, and the Karsian Wizard before stopping at last at the feet of Hob the Orphan Boy.

Something soft and moist touched Elidor on the back of the neck.

He turned and stared, only dimly realizing that everyone else was staring too.

It was a Companion, real and live and in the flesh, no more like a horse than the carved wooden toy of his childhood was. Its coat was white, almost more like duck down than horsehair, and from its blue eyes shone such a sense of calm majesty that Elidor nearly wanted to weep.

It was so close to the moment he'd dreamed of all his life that it seemed unreal, as if he ought to be reading about it, not living it. A Companion had come for him at last!

But somehow it didn't seem right. All the stories agreed that the candidates knew when they'd been Chosen, though the stories never managed to describe the feeling. He reached out a hand to stroke that downy muzzle, and the Companion took a step backward, still watching him with grave, wise eyes.

He wants me to follow, Elidor realized. He nodded, not really sure if the Companion could understand, and took a step forward.

Immediately the Companion turned, and took several steps away, and waited, almost fidgeting. He hadn't known something in the shape of a horse could fidget, but there it was.

"You!" Elidor said to the nearest boy. "Go and tell them at the Library that a Companion has come!" He didn't know what else to say, but surely that would be enough? Then he hurried off after the Companion, trotting to keep up with it. He realized he felt no impulse to even try to mount the stallion, and that, too, wasn't as things went in the stories.

Some of the townsfolk followed them-at a prudent distance-as far as the edge of the town, but it became obvious that the Companion's destination lay further, and Elidor began to wonder if he was going to have to walk all the way to the Collegium. As they left the shelter of the buildings and passed through the town gate that stood open from dawn to sunset, the winter wind struck with renewed chill. He pulled his cloak-dark red, with the arms of the Library of Talastyre sewn in a badge at his left shoulder, as befit a Journeyman such as himself-tighter, and hurried even faster to keep up with the Companion.

"If you'd let me ride, we could get there faster, wherever we're going," Elidor muttered under his breath.

The Companion stopped dead, turning its head to regard him with an affronted expression.

Apparently it had heard him.

It stood so still not even the silver bells on its harness jingled, swishing its tail dangerously.

Hesitantly Elidor approached. He'd made the suggestion, and it seemed he was to be taken up on it. Hesitantly he set his foot into the stirrup.

The Librarians and Scribes of Talastyre had little need to learn horsemanship, and certainly Elidor had learned no equestrian skills before he came here nine years before. But he could not resist the demand in that arrogant blue gaze any more than he could have turned back in the first place. Hesitantly, Elidor set his foot into the silver stirrup, and heaved himself ungracefully onto the Companion's back.

It was the moment he'd dreamed of, the dream he'd lived in, and for, so completely that the real world around him had seemed dim and unreal by comparison, but now, when he had it in his grasp, it all seemed wrong, as if he were straining to squeeze his feet into a pair of boots that didn't fit.

The Companion hardly waited for him to settle himself before it took off-at a much faster pace than before. It was the Companion, rather than any skill of his own, that kept the saddle-leather beneath Elidor's rump. The trees whipped past him in a blur, and the wind that had been cold before turned to a thousand needles of ice seeking every opening they could find in his good wool tunic and heavy trousers.

He knew better than to reach for the reins, and clutched with one hand at the edge of the saddle, and with the other, at his wildly-flapping cloak. He barely had time to realize how acutely-miserable he was-and only think, this was a Herald's job, to ride out in all seasons and all weathers-before the Companion stopped once more, and again Elidor had that sense of barely-restrained impatience.

He scrambled from the Companion's back without even looking around, and then saw he was in the middle of nowhere.

"What?" he said aloud.

Snow covered the ground, but this was the main road, and usually remained passable unless there was a major blizzard. A few yards down the road he could see one of the shelter-huts, built for emergency shelter in winter. He frowned. Something about what he saw wasn't right.

The Companion shoved him in the back.

"Ow!" Elidor yelped, staggering forward. He'd thought that in person Companions would be the way they were in books-kind and loving and faithful, but this one seemed a lot more like some of his teachers; firm-minded and impatient.

Then he saw it.

"Something went off the road."

He saw the wheel-ruts in the snow. They stopped short and went to the side of the road-not the inside, where anyone familiar with the countryside would pull off, but the outside of the road, where a screen of trees concealed the sloping hillside that led down to a little stream. With the winter snow, the extent of the drop-off and even the stream were hard to see.

Elidor ran forward to where the tracks stopped. He could see a coach down there, lying on its side-a small one, far too light for the road and the season. There must be something down there, though, some reason a Companion would come all the way into town and lead him back here.

"You stay here," he told the Companion firmly, speaking to it as if it were a large dog. "If you go down there, you'll break your neck. There's ice, and a stream. Understand?"

He didn't stop to see whether he'd insulted it, but plunged down the hillside, moving carefully through the snow. He slipped and slid, holding onto the trees for support, and finally reached the bottom.

The snow was deeper here, all the way to his knees, and he moved through it carefully.

There was someone under the coach.

A man in Herald's whites-that was why Elidor hadn't seen him before. His spotless whites made him invisible against the snow. Elidor could see now that the coach had landed on a rock, propping it up.

Though his eyes were closed, and his cowl pulled up, covering most of his face so Elidor couldn't see him clearly, the man might still be alive.

"Herald? Sir?" Elidor said hoarsely.

When he spoke the Herald opened his eyes and pushed the cowl away from his face. His skin was dark, and his hair and eyes were black.

"Ah," the Herald said. He managed to smile, though Elidor could see it cost him. "You're from the Library."

"Yes, sir, Herald, sir. I'm Elidor. Your, uh, Companion brought me. I told him not to come down here."

"And did he listen? That would be a great marvel. Darrian rarely listens to anyone. But I forget my manners. I'm Jordwen. I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Librarian Elidor."

"Oh, no, sir, Herald Jordwen, sir. I'm only a Scribe, and a Journeyman anyway. But you must be cold, sir, lying there in the snow."

He was babbling like an idiot, and Elidor's ears flamed with the embarrassment of it, and the shame of having thought, even for a moment, that the Companion had come for him. Of course the Companion was already bonded to a Herald, and of course if any Companion were to come looking for Elidor, it would only be to seek help for its Herald. But in the strangest way, mixed in with his feelings of humiliation and wild embarrassment, was the oddest sort of relief.

"We have to get you out of there."

"Ah, there lies the difficulty," Jordwen said regretfully. "I'm afraid that when the blessed contraption fell on me, it managed to tangle itself up with me in a way I haven't yet unraveled. I'd resigned myself to lying here until Spring came and the birds built nests in my hair. There's beauty in a meadow, of course-"

He was rattling on a little breathlessly, and it occurred to Elidor that whatever had happened to him, it must hurt very much. Somehow, that made his own fear and awkwardness go away.

"Look here, Herald sir-"

"Do call me Jordwen. I don't think our discourse can survive many more Heralds and sirs, do you?"

"I'm small, and there's space under the carriage," Elidor said, ignoring the interruption. "I think I can get under there and see how you're pinned, if you're willing. I might be able to get you lose."

"I think you must," Jordwen said, and for all his languor, there was steel beneath his words.

Elidor pulled off his cloak and draped it over the Herald like a blanket. Kneeling down beside him, where the gap beneath the coach was deepest, he began to dig and burrow, tunneling his way beneath the coach alongside Jordwen's body.

He soon saw what was wrong. When the coach had fallen, Jordwen's foot had slipped between the spokes of one of the wheels. It was twisted far to the side, swollen to shapelessness, the white leather of his boot ugly with blood. Elidor gulped, swallowing bile. He couldn't begin to imagine how much that hurt.

He slithered back out again. Jordwen was watching him.

"And will I ever dance again on moonlit nights on green lawns with fair ladies? Ah, for the perfumed air, the gentle music of the harp..."

"Your foot's caught between two of the spokes of one of the cartwheels," Elidor announced, trying not to listen to what either of them was saying. "I think the ankle's broken. I can work it free, and then you can just slide out. But it's really going to hurt."

"Then give me a moment," Jordwen said. "I may seem to sleep, but I assure you, I won't be. Since I may be . . . somewhat incapacitated . . . may I beg a further favor?"

"Yes, of course, Herald si-uh, Jordwen," Elidor stammered.

"There's a shelter by the side of the road-you will have seen it, when Darrian brought you here?"

Elidor nodded.

"The driver and his passenger, and the two coach-horses-Darrian will have brought them there for safekeeping after my disastrous and ill-considered attempt at coach-repair. You will see them safe to Talastyre if I cannot?"

How could Jordwen possibly think he'd be doing anything after Elidor got him out from under the coach, Elidor wondered. Aloud, he said. "Of course I will."

Jordwen smiled. "Then in just a few moments, we will begin."

As Elidor watched, Jordwen seemed to fall into a light sleep. His eyes closed, and his breathing deepened, until once again he was as Elidor had seen him first. Only the ache of cold roused him to his own task, and once more he squirmed beneath the coach.

Desperately careful, not wanting to hurt the Herald any more than he must, he took the leg in both hands and eased it forward, toward the edge of the wheel where the gap between the spokes was widest. He still had to turn it to get it through, though he was as careful and as gentle as he could be in the cramped and awkward space. When at last he could lower the mangled leg gently to the snow, he was trembling and covered in sweat.

Now to get Jordwen out from under the carriage.

When he crawled out from under the carriage again, it was to confront Darrian standing over Jordwen, nuzzling gently at his face. Elidor had the sense he'd somehow intruded on a very private moment, that he was watching something forever beyond his reach.

As if feeling automatically for a broken tooth, he probed for feelings of jealousy and resentment-the same feelings he'd had when hearing the other children at the Talastyre school speak of their families and their futures-but for the first time, they weren't there. But they ought to be there, shouldn't they? Because this was a Companion with his Herald. He was looking at what he'd always wanted most.

Wasn't he?

He put those thoughts aside. There was work to be done.

Jordwen was starting to rouse. As his eyes fluttered open, he gasped and grimaced, then set his teeth against the pain.

"Yes, I know," he said, answering a comment Elidor hadn't heard, "but we can't always choose...can we?" He turned to Elidor. "Thank you for your help. You were very brave."

"Me?" Elidor shook his head. "We aren't done yet. I need to pull you out of there."

"As to that-" Jordwen's voice was slightly breathless with the pain, "I think it's time for Darrian to start earning his keep. If you can get my hand to his stirrup-"

"Be careful," Elidor said quickly, not sure to which of them he spoke. "There's a stream right behind you, and I don't think it's frozen through."

Darrian shook his head, and all the bells on his harness jingled. He stepped daintily through the snow behind the Herald, onto the frozen stream. The ice groaned beneath his silver-shod hooves, then gave way. The Companion turned and stamped, until he had cleared a safe place to stand on the streambed, then came up the bank again, standing over Jordwen so that his stirrup dangled above the Herald's face.

Carefully, Elidor guided Jordwen's hands to the stirrup, though his own were nearly numb with the cold. "Okay," he said. "Now."

Darrian backed carefully into the stream again, and Elidor pushed, making sure that no part of Jordwen stuck or caught. The Herald's clothing had frozen to the snow, and Elidor winced in sympathy as it tore free.

But then Jordwen was sitting up, his good leg drawn up to his chest, leaning against Darrian, who had come forward to support him.

"Well-served for my vanity," he said shakily, regarding the blood-stained leg. "Here, Journeyman Elidor, your cloak. Winter Whites are much warmer, I assure you, when one is not lying in the snow.

You look blue with cold, and only think, if someone had to come and rescue you in turn-why, it would be like the tale of Mistress Masham and the Goosegirl's Daughter: by spring we would have all of Talastyre here, one by one, each coming to rescue the one who had come to rescue the one before."

Elidor grinned at the image as he took his cloak and wrapped it around himself again, but the seriousness of their situation quickly sobered him. He was strong for his age, but he could not carry Jordwen up the slope to the trail-hut, or even lift him to his Companion's back, and there was no way under heaven the man could walk even a step.

"But what now, you may ask? Well, if my good Darrian will consent to humble himself-a great concession, I do assure you-and you will give me some trifling assistance, we shall ride in style back to the road, collect our dependents, and be on our way."

"Yes, of course," Elidor said dubiously.

The Companion regarded him sternly. Elidor slipped his arm around Jordwen's back for support, and the great white stallion moved away, then slowly and carefully knelt in the snow a foot or so away.

"Now I to my feet," Jordwen said.

Elidor scrambled around to his other side, where the bad leg was, and squatted beside him. He got an arm beneath Jordwen's shoulders, knowing how this was done and knowing he must do it well. He must not slip. He must not fall. He must not fail.

"Now," Jordwen said softly, and Elidor rose to his feet.

Cold muscles screamed with cramp, but he ignored them. He clutched Jordwen hard against his side, pulling with all his wiry strength, a strength honed by years of working among the heavy volumes of Talastyre. To his surprise, he and the Herald were much of a height.

"Not-much-farther-now-" Jordwen gasped. His bronze skin had an ashy tint.

Elidor shifted his grip to the Herald's belt, and half lifted, half dragged him through the snow to his Companion. The bad leg scraped against the drifts. There was no way to stop it, and Elidor heard Jordwen's breath catch in ragged sobs, starting tears in his own eyes.

When they reached Darrian, it was all Elidor could do to deposit Jordwen upon his back sideways, as if the saddle were a chair.

"This won't do," Jordwen said after a long moment, with a brave attempt at his usual light tones.

"If-If-If he puts his head down," Elidor said, amazed at his own presumption, "I could lift your bad leg over, I think. But-"

"-But it will hurt," Jordwen finished for him, with the ghost of a smile. "Still, I think it will work.

What say you, my friend?"

The last remark hadn't been addressed to him, Elidor realized. Darrian stretched his neck out as far as it would go, and laid his head against the snow. The position looked awkward.

Elidor hurried around to the Companion's other side, and gently reached for Jordwen's leg. He slid his hands beneath it, above and below the knee and raised it high, flexing it like the joints of a doll, and swiveled it toward him, across Darrian's neck, until Jordwen sat astride the saddle.

Darrian raised his head quickly, with a huff of relief.

"You have good hands," the Herald said. "Gentle and deft."

"Scribes have to have good hands," Elidor said, still holding Jordwen's leg so that the heel didn't have to rest against the snow. He was proud of being a scribe, he realized. He was good at it, and it wasn't something everyone could do. He put the thought aside for later consideration. "I don't think you should try to put your foot in the stirrup," he said gravely.

That surprised a shaky laugh from Jordwen.

"Bless you, I am through with rash mistakes for today!"

Darrian got carefully to his feet. There was a line of snow melted into the Companion's coat, as even as the waterline of a boat. Elidor stared at it with a scholar's fascination. They really ARE whiter than snow...

"And now to our charges," Jordwen said.

"But I can-"

"No. They are my responsibility," Jordwen interrupted sharply.

Again there was that sense of a conversation Elidor couldn't hear, and Jordwen shook his head.

"You're right, of course. My apologies, Journeyman Elidor. My incivility is precious little thanks for all your aid."

"If you are Jordwen, then I am Elidor," Elidor said, trembling at his own amazing boldness at speaking to a Herald so. "I'll meet you at the top," he said, to cover his embarrassment. He turned quickly away, and hurried back along his own tracks up the side of the hill.

Darrian took a longer path, finding a gentler slope, so they reached the trail-hut at the same time.

Since Jordwen was manifestly unable to dismount, it was Elidor who pushed open the door.

Two carriage-horses stood placidly in one corner, gazing at him incuriously. In the other, sitting on a bench, was a large man in a heavy driving cloak, and beside him, a small child of perhaps four or five, her face red and swollen with tears.

"Are you with the rescue party?" the man demanded truculently. "It's about time-I've been cooped up with this squalling brat for hours!"

"And you are?" Elidor asked.

"Meachum, job-coachman, hired to deliver Mistress Vonarre to the Library at Talastyre, and I've had a time of it, I tell you-first one of the horses went lame, then the coach lost a wheel, and then some fool of a Herald came along and made matters worse-"

You haven't had as bad a time as Mistress Vonarre or that 'fool of a Herald' has had.

Ignoring the man, he went over to the girl and knelt before her.

"Hello, Sweetheart, are you Mistress Vonarre?"

She looked at him, blue eyes made enormous with tears, and nodded, lip trembling.

"I'm Elidor. I live at the Library. There are a lot of little girls there who want to be your friend. I'll be your friend, too. And right now, there's a Herald outside. I bet he'll even let you say hello to his Companion, Darrian. Would you like that? And then we'll go to Talastyre."

"What about the rescue party?" Meachum demanded.

"There is no rescue party," Elidor said, over his shoulder, his attention focused on the little girl.

"Got no parents," Vonarre said, hiccupping on a sob. "And it's cold."

"Well, it won't be cold soon," Elidor said. "And do you know what? I haven't got any parents either. But there are wonderful things at the Library. Books with beautiful pictures all full of stories. I'll show you. Now come on." He scooped her up into his arms and carried her outside.

Her eyes widened when she saw Darrian again, and she reached out to touch him. Though he'd been standoffish with Elidor, Darrian lowered his muzzle into her hand and allowed her to stroke him.

She seemed to forget most of her troubles at the sight of the Companion, and Elidor could understand why. They were wonderful, magical creatures.

But he didn't want one. He wanted the life he had. He was proud of the life he had.

He looked up at Jordwen. The Herald smiled, as if he could guess most of Elidor's thoughts. "It's not for everyone, you know," Jordwen said softly.

"I do. Now. Is that why Darrian came for me?" In a different way than a Companion would come for his Chosen, but one that had made just as much of a difference to Elidor.

"Could be. He had to get someone before I froze to death, and oddly enough, not just anyone will go off with one of us. And I assume you sent a message to the Library?"

"Sure. It might take a while. It's Midwinter."

"Ah. You lose track of things on the road. Well, give her here. We'd best go and meet them."

"Sweetheart, how would you like to be able to tell your children you once rode a real live Companion?" Elidor asked. "This is Herald Jordwen. Jordwen, here is Mistress Vonarre."

"I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, Mistress Vonarre," Jordwen said, in his most courtly tones. No one would have guessed that the man was freezing and injured. Elidor handed Vonarre up to him, then went back into the shelter. As he did, he heard the faint jingle of silver bells as Darrian started down the road at a slow walk.

"Come if you're coming," Elidor said with determined cheerfulness to the unpleasant coachman as he gathered up the horse's bridle-reins. "It's a long walk to town, and better with company."

"You can't expect me to walk?" the man said in astonishment. "It's freezing out there, and we're miles from town! If that fool of a Herald hadn't put my coach over the cliff, we could ride in comfort. I'll sue the College for damages, you see if I don't!"

Sharp words rose to Elidor's tongue, but he didn't say them. If Jordwen could be kind and forgiving to a journeyman scribe while lying cold and injured, Elidor could certainly keep his temper with a blustering fool.

"I'm sorry. Perhaps you can ride one of the horses. They should be sending someone to look for us, but if they don't, at least we'll reach Talastyre by dark."

* * *

They had gone less than half a mile when they were met by the Master Librarian's own coach and a dozen outriders, and Elidor, Jordwen, Vonarre, and Meachum finished the journey safe and warm.

* * *

Several of the outriders went on ahead, so everything was waiting for them when they reached the city gates. Suddenly shy, Elidor slipped away in the confusion, before anyone could think to speak to him, and hurried to his rooms.

As one of the journeymen, he had a semi-private room of his own, and Caleanth was home with his family at Festival time. It was odd to think, now, that he had grudged his fellow Journeyman that, when he had all of Talastyre for his own, as much his kingdom as any prince's.

No one is too young to be a fool-or too old, either! he thought, thinking of Meachum. But surely the coachman's greatest crime had been only that he had been thinking too much of his own troubles-he had gone quite satisfyingly white when the outriders from the Library had lifted Jordwen into the carriage to finish out the journey, his leg in a makeshift brace and bandage, and there had been no more talk of

'foolish Heralds.'

He stood for a while, gazing out the window at the buildings of the Library and Scriptorium, its stone dark silver in the winter twilight. Imagine being on the road so many days you didn't know it was Midwinter, and then having to spend most of the Festival pinned beneath a broken coach, only to be half-rescued by a wet-eared journeyman with a dream-stuffed head! Elidor smiled ruefully at the thought, then went to the chest at the foot of his bed, opened it, and withdrew his oldest and longest-prized possession.

The white paint was worn away in spots, showing the wood beneath, but the tiny blue glass eyes were still as bright, as were the tiny beads that stood in for the silver bells on the painted harness of the carved wooden Companion. He kissed the small wooden toy gently on the forehead, saying goodbye to a dream that had served him well, then tucked the toy into a pocket in his cloak and went to do something he should have done long ago.

He walked across the quadrangle to the Infirmary. The Herald would be in the hands of the Healers, of course, but Mistress Infirmerer was a reliable source of all gossip at the Library, and he hoped to find where little Vonarre had been taken.

But to his surprise, the first person he encountered upon entering the Infirmary precincts was the Mistress of Girls, Lady Kendra. As he lingered in an outer room, uncertain of how far to go exploring, she came through a doorway and advanced upon him, heavy skirts swishing.

"So here is our hero," she said, keeping her voice low.

Elidor ducked his head, feeling awkward. It was one thing to do what was needed, he realized, and quite another to hear about it later. "I came to see Mistress Vonarre," he said.

Lady Kendra's expression softened. "Poor mite! To come such a long way, and at this time of year, and sent like a parcel of old clothes to the ragman, her that wasn't to come until a year spring-you may be sure that yon coachman will have a better care for the next child he must bring such a distance, and a pox upon him!" Lady Kendra's eyes flashed, and she took a deep breath. "But a hot bath and a bowl of soup mends much, and I will sit with her until she sleeps. She will soon settle in. Tomorrow we will send someone to the wreck to bring back her things, and the letter that will undoubtedly explain all."

From her tone, it was clear the Mistress of Girls doubted the explanation would satisfy her.

"I can go with them. I know where it is," Elidor said. "But I've brought her a present. It's Midwinter. Can I give it to her? I'll stay with her, if you like."

Lady Kendra looked surprised, but the expression passed so quickly that Elidor wasn't quite sure he'd seen it. "Well, then. Do. But mind she drinks her milk. There's a sleeping posset in it."

"I will," Elidor promised.

He went through the door the Mistress of Girls indicated. There was a table with a small lamp burning on it, and a wooden cup beside it. Beside the bed that took up most of the space in the room was a wooden stool. Vonarre was sitting up in bed. She had been scrubbed, and her hair brushed out, and dressed in a thick flannel nightshirt, just as any traveler whose things had been lost might be. Elidor loosened his cloak and sat down beside her bed. She smiled when she saw him, hopefully, as if-just perhaps-the world was not terrible after all.

The books he'd read spoke of breaking hearts, and of the pain they caused, and its curious joy, but in all their stories, never once had Elidor read of the comforting pain of a heart that mends, though he knew he felt it now. Thank you, Jordwen. Thank you, Darrian. He reached into his cloak.

"I've brought you a Midwinter present," he said, offering the carved Companion to the child. "This was mine when I was little. I think you'll like it."

"His name is Darrian," Vonarre said firmly, clutching the wooden horse against her chest.

"Shall I tell you a story?" Elidor said. He picked up the wooden mug and held it out. "Drink your milk and I will. Once, long ago-a long, long, time ago, there was a Companion named Darrian, who was the partner of a Herald named Vonarre..."

SUN IN GLORY

by Mercedes Lackey

Mercedes Lackey is a full-time writer and has published numerous novels, including the best-selling Heralds of Valdemar series. She is also a professional lyricist and a licensed wild bird rehabilitator.

Sunset was long past; the light in his study came from the lanterns high on the wall behind him. The floor-to-ceiling stained-glass window on the other side of the room was a dark panel spiderwebbed with lead channels. It formed a somber backdrop behind the two men seated across from Herald Alberich. The Weaponmaster to the Trainees of all three Collegia at Haven in the Kingdom of Valdemar coughed to punctuate the silence in his quarters. He regarded his second visitor, who was ensconced in one of his austere, but comfortable, wooden chairs, with a skeptical gaze.

His first visitor he knew very well, dressed in his robes of office, saffron and cream; mild-mannered, balding Gerichen, the chief Priest of Vkandis Sunlord here in Haven. Not that anyone knew Gerichen's temple, prudently called only "the Temple of the Lord of Light"

was of Vkandis Sunlord, at least not unless you were a Karsite exile...

Of which there were a surprising number in Valdemar-surprising, at least, to Alberich even now.

Gerichen had been born here, but most of his fellowship had not been, and Karse did not easily let loose its children, even if all it wanted of them was to reduce them to ashes.

Yet, year by year, season by season, for decades it seemed, Karse's children had been, slipping over the Border into Valdemar, beating down their fear of the "Demon-lovers"

because real death bayed hot at their heels and the possibility of demons seemed preferable to the certainty of the Fires of Purification. Some couldn't bear the fear of the things that the Priest-Mages (in the name of the god, of course) sent to howl about their doors of a night. Some came because the Red-robes had taken, or had threatened to take, a child or spouse-either to absorb into the priesthood or to burn as a proto-witch. And amazingly enough to Alberich, some of them came because he had dared to, so many years ago.

Alberich had met Gerichen longer ago than he cared to think about, when he was first a Herald-Trainee and Gerichen a mere Novice. Both of them were older than they liked to admit, except over a drink, in front of a cozy fire, late of an evening. Gerichen was one of a very small company of folk who had supported Alberich's presence in Valdemar from the very beginning.

The other visitor, sitting beneath the left eye of the stained-glass image of Vkandis as a Sun In Glory that formed the outer wall of Alberich's study, was someone that Alberich knew not at all, though he knew far more about this fellow than the man probably suspected.

He was here at Gerichen's request. He was also here, if not illegally, certainly covertly, for he was a Priest-Mage of Vkandis Sunlord in Karse. There had not been one of those on Valdemaran soil in centuries.

There had not been one on Valdemaran soil as anything other than an invader in far longer.

Karse-sworn enemy of Valdemar for so long that very few even knew it had once been a peaceful neighbor, had been Alberich's home. Karse was ruled, in fact if not in name, by a theocracy who called the Heralds "Demons" and were pledged to eradicate them. And of that theocracy, the ruling priests, the Priest-Mages and the priests who had clawed their way up through the ranks, were the true aristocracy of Karse, answerable only to one authority, the Son of the Sun.

Who-until very recently, at least-had called Alberich himself "The Great Traitor" for not only deserting his post as captain of a company of Vkandis' Holy Army, but for turning witch and joining the ranks of the Demon-Riders of Valdemar. And worse; rising to a position of such trust that Witch-Queen Selenay counted him among her most valued advisers.

The Priest-Mages were not only the Voices of Vkandis; they had the power to summon and control demons themselves-not that they called such creatures "demons," not even among themselves, preferring to refer to them as the "Dark Servants" or "Vkandis' Furies."

All in Vkandis' name, of course, or so they said. All at the behest of Vkandis Himself, or so they claimed.

One of those Voices had condemned Alberich to death by burning, and all because he'd had the temerity to make use of a "witch-power" and save the inhabitants of a Karsite Border village from certain slaughter by a band of outlaws. Never mind that he'd had no more control over that so-called "witch-power" than he had over a raging storm, had never asked for that power, and would have given it up without a moment of hesitation.

But the current Son of the Sun-the newly chosen Son of the Sun-was not of the same stamp as all of those who had preceded her. And the Voice that sat beneath Vkandis' left eye was not at all like the arrogant, cold priest who had pronounced sentence on Alberich that day. He was young, surprisingly so. It would hardly be politic for him to be clad in the red robes of his office here in the heart of a land that was his enemy's, but in ordinary clothing that would not disgrace a moderately prosperous merchant, he had an aura of calm authority that set him apart, even from Gerichen. He was short, stocky, clean-shaven; his white-blond hair was as close-cropped as that of all Sun-priests, with keen eyes as blue as those of any Companion set in a face whose planes might have been cut by a chisel. And yet-not cold, that face; alive and curiously accepting. Beside Alberich, on the other side of the fireplace, sat Herald-Chronicler Myste. She regarded the two priests with a gaze as penetrating as that of the visitors, and perhaps more uncanny, at least to the stranger, since her hazel eyes looked at him through a pair of round glass lenses that magnified what was behind them, giving her an owllike stare. Myste was the official historian of Herald's Collegium, the Herald-Chronicler, and had been since she finished her internship. She had a facility with words that would have suited her to the job had she not had other handicaps that kept her out of the Field.

Myste had been as odd a Herald, in her way, as Alberich. She had always, from the moment she arrived, been shockingly short-sighted, and had never been assigned to Field work on account of it-not the best notion to put someone in the Field whose precious glass goggles could be lost or broken, rendering her the next thing to blind. Perhaps that was why she had always been Alberich's friend. "When you can't see what people are like on the outside," she'd once said in her blunt manner, "you stop even considering appearances and concentrate on everything else."

That was, among other reasons, why Myste was here tonight.

Alberich coughed again. "And exactly it is to what that I owe the honor of your presence?" he asked, stressing the word "honor" in such a way that implied it was anything but. He spoke Valdemaran, not Karsite.

The stranger cast a mild glance at Myste. "Could one ask why the lady is present?" he replied-in Karsite, not Valdemaran.

"I am the Herald-Chronicler, and I am here to record this meeting, at the request of Herald Alberich," Myste said for herself-in flawless Karsite, not Valdemaran. She'd learned it from Alberich, of course, but she owed her accent to her own exacting ear for languages.

To Alberich's surprise, the stranger smiled. "Excellent," he said, with every appearance of approval, "Would it be too much to ask for a copy for myself-and to conduct this discussion in my own tongue? My command of yours is in nowise as good as yours clearly is of mine."

His smile was sudden, charming, dazzling even-and apparently genuine. Alberich and Myste exchanged more than a glance.

:I don't sense any falsehood,: Myste Mindspoke. Her unique Gift was a strictly limited ability to Truth-Sense without the use of a spell. She could only concentrate on one person at a time, and had to be within an arm's-length or two of him, though, which (again) rendered it less than useful in the Field.

:But their so-called Priestly Attributes are no more nor less than our Gifts,: he reminded her. :What if he can block you?:

A purely mental shrug. :Then what I sense is meaningless. On the other hand, how many people know my Gift-and of those, how many are outside the Heraldic Circle or would guess I'd be here at your request?:

Not many; he had to admit that. Surely no matter how good the Karsite spies were, they didn't know that about Myste, or would think to warn this man against her. "I think, if only for the purposes of clarity, we should conduct our discussion in Karsite," he replied.

"And I will be pleased to provide a copy," Myste added smoothly.

The visitor smiled again. "Before we begin, then, will you introduce me to the lady, Herald Alberich?"

The word "Herald" sounded strange in the middle of a Karsite sentence. They didn't have a word for "Herald." It sounded even stranger spoken without a curse appended.

"Herald-Chronicler Myste, this is Mage-Priest Hierophant Karchanek," Alberich said solemnly. He couldn't resist a slight smile of his own as Karchanek started just a little, while poor Gerichen's eyes practically bulged out of his head. "I assume I have given your title correctly?"

"Quite correctly," Karchanek replied, recovering. Since he hadn't given Alberich his title, and Gerichen didn't know it, he must be wondering how Alberich got it-and from whom.

Your borders are not as secure as you think, Alberich told the man silently.

But of course, one single Karsite priest would not have come here, unescorted, into the heart of the enemy's capital, if he was not the equivalent of a one-man army. Karchanek probably could fight his way out of this room using his own deadly skills, wreaking considerable havoc as he did so, and might even escape if he could outrun the alarm. He definitely could slip out of his quarters at Gerichen's temple, be they ever so closely guarded, and make his way past just about anything Alberich could throw at him to get home. Karchanek commanded magic- real magic-the magic that Valdemar hadn't seen for centuries until this current war with Hardorn. He might be the most powerful Priest-Mage that Karse had seen in centuries, save only the Son of the Sun.

And the Son of the Sun had sent him here. To speak with Alberich. The Great Traitor.

Karchanek pursed his lips. "I find myself wondering if I can tell you anything that you do not already know," he said at last.

Alberich leaned back in his chair. "I am a man of great patience," he replied. "I have no particular objection to hearing something more than once. Begin at the beginning."

"The beginning..." mused Karchanek, then smiled again. "Ah, then you will have to have great patience, for the beginning, the true beginning, lies with the Son of the Sun, may Vkandis hold her at zenith. Solaris. Who has been and is my friend as well as my superior."

Alberich was very glad of his ability to don an inscrutable card-sharper's face, for he surely needed that mask to hide his eagerness. Solaris! Now there was a person no one knew much about here in Valdemar-and someone whom they all desperately needed to know everything about.

But he kept his mask in place. "The new Son of the Sun," he observed dryly. "The female Son of the Sun." Just to pair "female" with "Son of the Sun" would have been a blasphemy so profound a few years ago that the speaker would not only have been burned, but his ashes mixed with salt, his lands plowed under, his wife and children sacrificed, his ancestors dug up and reburied in a potter's field, and every trace that he had ever lived at all utterly eradicated.

Karchanek's smile broadened, and he spread his hands wide. "Even so. And so crowned by Vkandis Sunlord-" he made the sign of the Holy Disk, "-himself, with His Own hands. Perhaps you had heard of this?"

"Some," Alberich admitted. "Rumors, tales that seemed particularly wild."

"Not so. This, I witnessed along with thousands of others, and do believe me, Herald Alberich, it was no delusion, no trick of magic or mind, no clever artifice with a moving statue. Though the statue did move, it was no mere trumpery with a cleverly hinged arm. The Image arose from His throne, walked lithe and manlike, and took the crown from His Own head to place it upon that of Solaris. Which shrank as He put it there to fit her-exactly. I saw it. I have held that very crown in my two hands, and-" he paused again. "There is a thing not many would know about, save the handful of novices sent to polish the Image entire, one of which I was, and the only one among them to polish the crown. Which task I owe to my habit of squirreling up the cloister walls, into the cloister orchard, round about when the plums were ripe." His eyes twinkled, and Myste hid a grin. "At the back of the crown upon the Image there was a lozenge, no bigger than my palm and quite invisible from below, where the sculptor, the gilder, and the jewel smith set their marks. That lozenge and those marks are upon the back of the crown that Solaris now wears."

"Interesting," Alberich began, still skeptical, for a truly clever fraud would have taken that into account and made sure to replicate every oddity and imperfection in the crown worn by the Great Image. And someone who was Solaris' friend as well as her supporter would probably swear that the Sun had stood still in the heavens for a day in order to lend more strength to her claim to the Sun Throne. But Karchanek was not finished.

"Nay, there is more, for has the Sunlord in His wisdom not granted her direct counsel in the form of-a Firecat?" Karchanek's brows arched, and well they might.

"A Firecat?" The words were almost forced from him. Alberich had not been a scholarly man, but even children knew all the tales of the miraculous avatars of Vkandis, and most Karsite children played at Reulan and the Firecat the way Valdemaran children played at Heralds and Companions. "But-Firecats are legend, merely-"

Karchanek shook his head emphatically. "No more. One walks by her side and sits at her Council table, and, when he chooses (which is seldom) lets his thoughts be known to those around Solaris as well as to the Son of the Sun herself." Karchanek sat back just a little, a smile of satisfaction playing on his lips. "He has, in fact, deigned to address a word or two to me. It was a remarkable experience, hearing someone speak inside one's head.

Although I imagine that you, Heralds, are so used to such a thing from your own Companions by now that you take it as commonplace."

That was a shrewd shot-telling them that he knew not only that Companions weren't horses (or demons), but that they Mindspoke to their Heralds.

:Is he saying this-Firecat-Mindspeaks?: Myste asked incredulously.

Well, if it was a real Firecat, that would be the least of its talents. If? There was no reason to doubt it. Without a Firecat, the living, breathing, and very present symbol of Vkandis' favor, Solaris could not have lasted a month. :Like a Companion, yes. And, presumably, gets its wisdom from the same source.:

"There have been reforms of late, in the ranks of the Sun-priests," Alberich ventured.

"Solaris' reforms, it is said."

Now Karchanek actually laughed. "Reforms-yes. One could call them 'reforms'-in the same way that one could refer to the razing of a robber's stronghold as 'a little housecleaning.' Not even Solaris can root out all the corruption of centuries, but the cleansing has begun." Then he sobered. "The Fires, the summoning of demons, the terrorizing of our own people, all these are no more. And there is something that should die with them. The enmity between Karse and Valdemar."

Well, there it was, the offer that Alberich had been hoping for, but was still not certain he should trust. "We seem to be facing the same enemy," he pointed out. "Ancar of Hardorn-"

"Hardorn can devour us separately: United, we will be too tough a morsel to swallow,"

agreed the other. "And there is no surety on your part that once he is disposed of, we will not turn back to our old ways and warfares."

"But-"

"But hear the words of the Son of the Sun." Karchanek brought out a thin metal tube from within his sleeve, in diameter no larger than an arrow shaft. He opened it, and removed a sheet of paper so thin that Alberich could see the writing on it from the opposite side.

"Greetings to Captain Alberich, now Herald of Valdemar, loyal son of two warring lands," Karchanek read aloud. "I, Solaris, Son of the Sun by the grace of Vkandis Sunlord, send these words to you and not to the Queen who holds your allegiance because the counsel of the Sunlord is that one with a heart divided will be more like to lend heed to that which promises division will be healed than one who is single-hearted. To you I say this: without Karse, Valdemar may fall, and without Valdemar, Karse may perish. Yet to unite our peoples, more than words on a treaty are needed All overtures were like to come to naught, or be concluded too late. So I brought my prayers to the Sunlord, and the Sunlord has said this unto me. 'Bring Me a Herald of Valdemar, that I may make of her a Priest of My Order in the sight of all, that none may doubt or dare to prosecute a war which is abomination in My sight.'"

Alberich suddenly found it hard to breathe, and Myste gasped openly. With Karchanek's eyes on him, he forced himself to take a breath, forced himself to think, think about this offer, so strange, and so unexpected.

And when he managed to get his mind focused, one thing leaped out at him.

"You read Solaris' words exactly?" he demanded, his voice harsher than he intended.

"Exactly." Karchanek averred. "And there is just a little more." He cleared his throat, and went on. "And when the Sunlord had said this to me, I bowed before His will. 'I shall send my trusted envoy with all speed,' I pledged, but He had not finished. ' Not any Herald for so great a trust, not any Herald can bridge this gap between our peoples,' He said unto me. 'Send thou to the one they call the Great Traitor, for only his tongue will be trusted, and say that I require they send the one who stands at the Queen's right hand. Say that I call upon the Queen's Own to join My service, and be a bridge between Our peoples.' And so He left me, and so I have done. By my hand and seal, Solaris, Son of the Sun."

The last words fell like pebbles into an abyss of silence as Alberich gave over any effort to keep his face expressionless. His mind was a total blank. If anyone had told him that these words would ever be spoken between Karsite and Valdemaran, he'd have sent for the Mind-Healers. Insane. Impossible.

"Gods don't ask for much," Myste said into the silence. "Do they?"

"I will leave this with you," Karchanek said solemnly, rerolling the near-transparent paper and inserting it in its metal tube, handing it to Alberich who took it numbly. "There are other sureties I have that I will bring to you later. I understand that you have a kind of magic that can determine if one is telling the truth, and I beg that you will tell your Queen that I submit to such willingly. This is no trivial thing we ask of you." He stood up, and Gerichen belatedly did the same. "You will know where to find me when you are ready."

Without asking leave-not that Alberich could have given it at the moment-he and Gerichen walked out. Alberich stared at the metal cylinder in his hands.

"ForeSight-" Myste said firmly. "We need someone with ForeSight." She started to get to her feet, but Alberich shook his head at her.

"Eldan and Kero, these are who we need first of all," he countered. His own ForeSight, limited as it was, hadn't even warned him that this was coming.

Then again, would it? It only tells me about disaster looming, not if something good is going to happen...

Small wonder he was a pessimist by nature. "I shall get them-if they are where I think, none other would be paid heed to," he continued, handing the cylinder to Myste. "If you so kind would be, would you with a scholar's eye look this over for tampering."

"I can try," Myste said dubiously. "But I don't exactly have a lot of Karsite documents to compare to it-or anything in Solaris' hand either."

But she unrolled the document and bent her lenses over it, much to Alberich's relief. He didn't want her haring off to the Collegium in search of someone with ForeSight and letting fall any hints of this evening's revelations. At least, not until she had gotten over her own shock and regained a Chronicler's necessary dispassion for the situation.

Herald-Captain Kerowyn was the logical choice to be informed, since she was practically in the Lord Marshal's back pocket. And as for Herald Eldan-well, that worthy was Alberich's source of information on Karse and the goings-on there. Not to put too fine a point upon it, Eldan was a spy, and but for a single slip, had never once alerted even the Priest-Mages to his true identity.

Kero wasn't in her quarters; neither she nor Eldan were particularly pleased when Alberich interrupted them by pounding insistently in a coded knock on Eldan's door.

"I don't smell smoke and the Collegium isn't on fire, so this had better be at least that important, Alberich," Kero growled, cracking the door only enough so that Alberich caught a glimpse of tousled hair and an angry blue eye in the light of a hall candle.

"It is," he said. "A friendly visit I have had, from-Gerich's outKingdom visitor."

Kero blinked. "Friendly?" she said dubiously.

" Very friendly. Unbelievably friendly. This cannot wait until morning. I think it should not wait a candlemark."

"Right. I heard that," said Eldan's voice from deeper in the room. "Give us a little; we'll be right on your heels and meet you in your rooms at the salle. Outside of the Queen's suite, you've got the most secure quarters in the complex."

Alberich nodded and left them to put themselves back together in peace. Poor Kero!

Eldan was only just back from his latest covert foray into Karse-which was how Alberich had known just who Karchanek really was-and already business had interrupted their time together.

But when had that not been the case with a Herald? Add to which, Kerowyn had been the Captain of her own Guild Mercenary Company, so she should be used to being interrupted by now. She might not like it, but she should be used to it. She's been a mercenary for twice as long as she's been a Herald; Business always comes first for them, he told himself. In fact, when they arrived at his door, he doubted there would be a single word said about what he'd just interrupted.

Nor was there, and the pair were, as Eldan had said, just about on his heels; he wasn't more than half of the way back to the salle when he looked back and saw the two white-clad figures emerging from Heralds' Wing. He'd barely gotten inside his own door and heard from Myste that if there had been any tampering with the missive she couldn't find it, when they arrived at his door, as neatly turned-out as if they'd just come from standing guard at a Court ceremony.

Alberich explained the situation to them in a few terse sentences and handed over the letter and its tube. Kero examined the tube; Eldan, who was second only to Alberich and Myste in his mastery of Karsite, scanned it quickly and whistled.

"Well, that explains something-" he said, "-why on this last time, even the most reactionary of the old-guard were being v-e-r-y careful to be good little boys, and if they had any complaints about the new Son of the Sun, keeping them behind their own teeth."

Alberich shook his head. "Understand, I do not," he confessed.

"It's quite simple, and a bit scary, old man," Eldan replied, handing the letter on to Kero as they both took the seats so recently vacated by the visitors from Karse. "I'd heard all the stories about Solaris, but I hadn't talked to any eyewitnesses-not that it would be likely I could, since my contacts don't reside in such lofty circles. Still, the stories were all of a piece, and the Sun-priests were suddenly all acting like they'd put heart and soul into the reform movement. Karchanek's eyewitness account just clinches it." He glanced over at Kero. "Doesn't it, love?"

Kerowyn nodded. "No doubt in my mind. Wherever He's been for the last couple of hundred years, Vkandis is back now in Karse, and He's cracking heads and taking names.

Just like the Star-Eyed. Remember, I've seen this before, in my grandmother's Shin'a'in clan." She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Mind, the Star-Eyed usually operates through Her spirit-riders and Avatars, but maybe that's what this Firecat is, a spirit-rider equivalent."

Alberich went very, very still. Of all the things he had hoped for to happen in Karse, this, if true, was the best and the least likely. It might be frightening for Valdemarans, who had no history of direct intervention by their gods, but for a Karsite this would be the return of things to their proper ways, ways long since lost beneath the centuries of rule by a corrupt and cruel priesthood. "You are certain?" he asked carefully.

"I've heard all of Kero's stories, and factoring in the atmosphere down there right now-well, I'm as certain as I can be without walking into the Temple there and demanding Solaris conjure up a miracle to prove it to me," Eldan said firmly. "Not that I'd give that approach a try. From what I've heard of the lady, she's got a pretty dry sense of humor, and might decide to ask Vkandis to teach me a little proper humility."

Alberich closed his eyes for a moment. What, exactly, is one supposed to do when the prayers of a lifetime are so fully answered?

:Be properly grateful,: said his Companion Kantor. :And don't question why it has taken the God so long to act. That wouldn't be a good idea.: Kantor's reply startled him further. This statement, from a Companion, had a weight that went far beyond the simple words.

:There was probably something about Free Will involved,: Alberich replied, voicing the thoughts that had occurred to him in the dark of the night. :And making our own mistakes.: Free Will figured largely in the theology of the older texts-the ones dating from before the Son of the Sun became the tacit ruler of all Karse and the priesthood began conjuring demons to enforce their will.

:And, just possibly, there was something about waiting to be properly asked to step in, prayers of the faithful and all that,: Kantor amended. :Gods don't go where they aren't invited, not the ones we'd call "good," anyway. After all, as long as people seemed to be content to putting up with things as they were, there would be no reason for Vkandis to intervene.:

:That would be the "Free Will" part,: Alberich reminded his Companion.

Kantor ignored the interruption. :Vkandis, I suspect, has been dealing with wrongdoers on an individual basis once they died and were in His hands and in no position to dispute the error of their ways. I suppose even a God who intervenes regularly in the lives of His people cannot build a paradise in the world, since everyone would have a different idea of what paradise should be. But then again, I could be wrong.: Alberich found that last statement difficult to believe. Oh, perhaps another Companion could be wrong, but Kantor had never so much as missed a single hoof-step in all the time Alberich had known him. Kantor never spoke unless he had something of import to say.

And Companions were not unlike Firecats...

Could they, as it was said of the Firecats, be able to pass the sincere prayer directly into the ear of a God?

His prayer? His God? What was it that Kantor had said-"the prayers of the faithful?"

Was this, in part, due to him?

No. He would not even think that. Coincidence, merely, and he would confine himself to rejoicing that things had changed in his lifetime. Events had turned to the redemption of his land. A new Son of the Sun, more like in spirit to those of the old days, sat on the Sun Throne. And if he could trust this overture, then perhaps there would be peace between Valdemar and Karse as there had been, in the old days, the times he had read about in long-forgotten histories in the Queen's library.

If it wasn't all a cunning trap. If he could somehow convince Herald Talia, who had already been through more than anyone should have to endure, to walk into the wolf's mouth a second time.

:It isn't Talia you'll have to convince,: observed Kantor shrewdly, :but her husband.

And the Queen.:

Oh, yes. There was Dirk to convince as well. And Selenay. Neither of whom were going to be as ready to agree to this as Talia.

"If you and Kantor are quite finished," Kerowyn said, with heavy irony, interrupting his thoughts, "the rest of us would like to actually discuss this."

"Out loud," Eldan added.

Alberich leveled a glance at them that would have made any of his pupils quiver where they stood. But of course, Eldan wasn't a Trainee anymore, and he'd faced worse than Alberich over his breakfast fire, day in and day out, for the past five years. And of course, Kerowyn never had been his pupil, so there went that particular hold out the window.

With a sigh, he sat down, and the discussion began in earnest. It as going to be more than a "discussion," when it finally got to the Queen-it was going to be a battle, and Alberich was not going to go to that battle less than fully armed.

* * *

In the end, it was Karchanek who won the battle, which was shorter than Alberich would have been willing to believe. Perhaps things were more desperate than he had thought, where Hardorn was concerned; he made his case to Selenay to hear Karchanek out, supported by Kero and Eldan, then didn't learn anything more until Karchanek himself came to tell him that Selenay had agreed. Alberich didn't hear as much of what went on in Council sessions anymore, now that Kerowyn (with young Herald Jeri as her assistant) was taking over many of the duties he had performed, but for Selenay and for her father.

That had only meant he hadn't needed to sit through the candlemarks of arguments, for and against the invitation. Rightly or wrongly, this had been one session that Selenay had decided he especially should not participate in.

No matter: Karchanek had been his own best advocate, once Selenay actually heard him out. Perhaps his two most persuasive points had been that he himself would remain in Selenay's hands as a hostage, and that Alberich himself and one other Herald should go with her. Kero had objected to that, putting herself up as Alberich's substitute. But this was one duty he had no intention of giving over to Kero-well, for one thing, as she assumed his role, he became more expendable and she, less so. For another, there was no one living in Valdemar who could read his fellow countrymen as well as he could.

He stood now beside Karchanek, who was arrayed in one of Gerichen's borrowed robes, beneath a slightly overcast summer sky, in, of all places, Companion's Field beside a hastily erected archway of brickwork. It lacked only two days to Midsummer, the longest day of the year and so the most auspicious for Vkandis, the day appointed for-Well, Alberich didn't quite know what. Solaris hadn't given anyone any indication of just what was going to happen, other than Talia being invested into the ranks of the Sun-priests.

Maybe Solaris herself didn't know. But Midsummer was when it was going to happen, and somehow Karchanek was going to get them there for it. Talia had been here for a candlemark, Rolan beside her, both of them arrayed and packed for traveling. Kantor stood beside Rolan, calm and serene as usual, and in nowise intimidated by the presence of the King Stallion of the Companion herd. Beside him was Dirk's Companion, with Dirk fiddling nervously with girth and stirrups. There was also a crowd of Heralds, Companions, and interested parties surrounding them in a rough circle that was a prudent distance from the innocuous brick arch. No one knew what Karchanek was going to do. They only knew that it would be the first real demonstration of magic within the city of Haven for-centuries.

"-and when the Holy Firecat senses that I am reaching with my signature power toward him." Karchanek was explaining to Jeri, as he had already explained to Talia, Dirk, Selenay, and everyone else who was involved in making this decision, "he will open the Gate between us, exactly as if he was burning a tunnel through a mountain to avoid having to climb and descend to reach the other side."

"And you can't do that alone?" Jeri asked.

He shook his head. "Only one of Adept power can open a Gate alone, and then, well, it is better that it be done by two or more such Adepts, and then only to a place that has been prepared as I have prepared this archway. One cannot simply make a Gate into nothing, or into a place where one has never been. And the farther one is from the place where one wishes to Gate to, the more power it takes to make the Gate. I cannot do that, no ten Adepts in Karse-if we had ten, and not merely myself and Solaris-could do it. I provide only an anchoring point. It will be the Firecat who creates this Gate."

"I suppose," Jeri brooded, "that's the only reason why you've never Gated in behind our lines with an army."

Karchanek shrugged. "Power, lack of familiarity with the place, and that there are very, very few Adepts. The Order as it was distrusted mages, and the more power they had, the less they were trusted. Those who manifested great power and demonstrated an ability to think for themselves often met with unfortunate accidents, or fell victim to the White Demons.

So it was said."

"And Ancar?" Jeri asked soberly.

"Could learn this, has he those who will teach him," Karchenek replied grimly. "Never doubt it. He, as were some of the worst of the Sun-priests of the past, is not limited in power by what he can channel naturally- he can, and has, and will, channel blood-magic, which has no limits other than the number of people that one can kill. Yet another reason why this alliance is so vital. Vital enough that I will remain here, whatever it costs me, hostage to the Son of the Sun's good behavior, although..."

He didn't have to finish that statement; Karchanek looked like a man haunted by his own personal set of demons. In a way, apparently he was. According to Kerowyn, who'd had mages in her Skybolts company that hadn't been able to bear what happened to them when they crossed into Valdemar, the reason why there were no real mages in this land was because they couldn't stand being here. The moment anyone worked real magic here-something happened. Something-a lot of somethings, evidently-swarmed over the mage and gathered around him, night and day. And stared at him.

Now that didn't sound too dreadful to Alberich until he'd had a chance to see what the experience was doing to Karchanek's nerves and thought about it himself. What would it be like to have dozens, perhaps hundreds of people around you all the time, never taking their eyes off you, glaring at you by light and dark, sleeping or waking? Nerve-racking, that was what it was. And when the creatures were invisible to everyone else?

There was no equivalent to the Queen's Own in Solaris' "court," but Karchanek was close-lifelong friend and supporter, powerful mage, on whom she depended for able advice.

That he pledged to remain as hostage was probably the o nly reason why, in the end, this plan had been agreed to. "And what do we do to keep you from spiriting yourself away?"

Selenay had asked sharply when he first made the proposition himself.

He had shrugged. "Whatever you please. Bind me, blindfold me, keep in me a darkened room, drug me if no other solution presents itself. Whatever makes you certain of me."

Selenay had taken him at his word. There was a small cup of some drug or other waiting in a page's hands for the moment when the Gate came down again. Karchanek would be drugged until the morning of the ceremony, then watched like a hawk until the moment when the Firecat would call him and use him reopen the Gate to Valdemar, this time in the full presence of every important person in Karse at the High Temple itself, and send Talia and her escort home. He didn't seem at all unhappy about that-

"-the truth?" he said to Jeri, when she asked him about that herself. "I will welcome it.

To sleep, oblivious to all the vrondi- eyes upon me! I could ask no greater boon, at this moment. They do not just watch, you know. They talk, at me sometimes, but mostly among themselves. It is not just the eyes upon me, it is the chatter, the droning babble that never stills and never ends, that I cannot understand." He shuddered, and Alberich saw with an easing of his worries that a faint expression of sympathy flitted over Selenay's face.

Sympathy-for a Karsite other than Alberich. A good omen, but one he didn't have time to contemplate. Already Karchanek approached the brickwork archway, and he had warned Alberich that not even a Firecat could maintain a Gate at this distance for too long. They would barely have time to get through it.

As a lowly Captain of the Border Guard, he had never actually seen any priestly magic being performed, other than the simple act of kindling fire on Vkandis' altar; he'd only heard the howls of the spectral creatures conjured to harry "witches and evildoers" through the night. He couldn't bear to watch it now. Perhaps one day, when he'd had a chance to become accustomed to the idea of magic being used for anything other than harm, but not now. Not when his nerves were singing with the need to act, and he feared that if he watched Karchanek, a man he would like to think of as a friend one day, he might see the Priest-Mage calling a demon...

So he busied himself with Kantor's tack, and when the signal came, he mounted in a rush, and drove through the Gate with his eyes closed, hard on Rolan's heels.

There was a long, long moment then of terrible cold, then bone-shaking nausea, and the horrible sensation that he was falling through a starless, endless, bottomless night. It seemed to last forever, but Kantor's steady presence in his mind held him, as it had held him during the long, slow agony of healing from his terrible burns, when Kantor had rescued him and brought him here, to safety and a new life

Then he was not here, anymore, but there-in Karse.

Sun blazed down upon him and the others, a sun fierce and kind at the same time.

They stood, their Companions' bridle bells chiming softly as they fidgeted, in the middle of a bone-white courtyard surrounded on all four sides by enclosing walls. Before them waited a cat, and a woman.

The cat was the size of a large dog, with a brick-red mask, ears, paws, and tail shading to a handsome cream on the body, and piercing blue eyes. A Firecat-

:Indeed I am,: said a voice in his mind with a touch of satisfied purr behind it. :My name is Hansa, and this, of course, is Solaris. Welcome home, Herald Alberich.:

"I second that sentiment," echoed the woman.

She had presence that entirely eclipsed her appearance. If Alberich had not already known that her eyes were a golden-brown subject to changing as her mood changed, and her hair a darker golden-brown, he would not have been able to tell anyone that if he turned around and took his eyes off her. Yes, the Firecat was impressive-any feline that came up to his knee would be impressive, much less one like Hansa. And the faint golden glow that surrounded each hair certainly didn't hurt.

But Solaris had that same golden glow about her. And a great deal more. Measuring by eye, she was certainly no taller than Selenay and much shorter than Alberich-but she somehow loomed larger than that.

"You, I do hope, Herald Talia are," she said in slow and deliberate Valdemaran to Talia, who had dismounted. She held out her hand, and Talia stepped forward and took it.

And both of them smiled identical, warm smiles that managed to humanize Solaris without diminishing her impressiveness by a whit. "And this the formidable Herald Dirk would be?"

she inquired with a slight lift of one eyebrow that somehow had the effect of making Dirk flush.

There were no servants, no lesser priests, there was no one but Solaris and Hansa-Hansa, who Solaris scooped up with an effort and held draped over her arms, for despite the Firecat's aplomb, he seemed exhausted. It was Solaris who escorted them to their rooms, indicating with a simple nod of her head that the Companions should come also. She brought them down quiet, white corridors lit from above by skylights and ornamented at intervals with great Sun-In-Glory Disks on walls and inlaid in the floors.

The rooms were simple, probably priests' quarters; Dirk and Talia shared one, with Alberich in the next-and most interesting, a kind of rough box-stall hock-deep in fresh straw took up about half of each of the rooms. Kantor went directly to his with a shake of his head; after a long and searching look at their Chosen, Rolan and Dirk's little mare went to theirs.

"And here my own suite is," said Solaris, throwing open the next door, which differed not at all from theirs. "Some changes I made when they were mine..."

Alberich could well imagine. Solaris' predecessor had been one of the worst in the long line of corrupt and venial leaders. He could see that the plain door was very new, and could only imagine the sort of gilded monstrosity that had once stood in its place.

Something had certainly been scoured and sanded from the wall now painted a plain pale wheat color. Furnishings were just as simple as those in the rooms he and the others had been given; two long couches, three lounging chairs, and a desk and working chair. Solaris put Hansa down on a low couch and straightened up again.

"We in the heart of our great Temple are," Solaris said gravely. "My hand-picked servants, a brace of trusted Priests, these all that know of your presence are. Come here, none else shall."

"But-isn't there some preparation we should make?" Talia asked. "What are we-am I-supposed to be doing?"

"That, I know not myself," Solaris said ruefully, surprising all of them. "The Sunlord has not told me. Here-come and sit, and tell you what I know, I shall."

She took a seat on the couch beside Hansa, leaving them to choose seats for themselves. Now, no longer quite so dazzled by her presence, Alberich noted that her robes were as simple as her rooms...

And just as deceptive. For the chair he chose was carved of tigerwood, comfortably cushioned with soft doeskin tanned to a golden hue. And Solaris' robes might be simple in cut, but they were a heavy golden silk-twill, subtlety embroidered with the Sun In Glory in a slightly darker shade. No matter what else she was, Solaris was not ascetic.

"This much, I know," Solaris told them, one hand on Hansa's back, stroking as she spoke. "At the Solstice ceremony, some few chosen Novices made Priests are, here in the High Temple." She made a face. "Those with families of wealth and influence, most generally. Some times, of outstanding ability, one or two. Among them, you are to be. Last, you will be announced and made Priest. A simple ceremony, it is-repetition of vows, which I will show you, so that you know I do not bind you to more than I claim. More than that, I know not."

"But there will be more than that," Alberich stated, as Talia bit her lip.

Solaris traded a glance with Hansa. :Of a complete certainty there will be more, much more than that,: the Firecat said. :But the Sunlord does not choose to impart to us precisely what He has in mind.:

"Trust you must, to Him and to me," Solaris said.

It could be a trap. It could be something really horrible. Alberich knew without bothering to try and read his expression that all manner of grim possibilities were running through Dirk's mind. Whether Talia suffered the same concerns he couldn't say, but he rather thought not. Talia couldn't read thoughts, but she could, as an Empath, read emotions, and those often spoke more clearly and unambiguously than thoughts. Her expression showed no sign of worry; on the contrary, she seemed as comfortable as she could be with the news that a God had decided to spring some sort of surprise, not only on His own people and chiefest Priest, but on her. Whatever she read from Solaris, it gave her no concerns on that score.

Solaris sighed. "Inscrutable, the Sunlord is, and unknowable His mind...but a wish I have, in my weakness, that He be somewhat less so."

Hansa made a sound between a purr and a cough that sounded like a laugh, and Solaris bent her golden gaze upon her Firecat. "And you, also," she added, with a touch, a bare touch, of sharpness.

:I am a cat,: Hansa reminded her with supreme dignity. :And a cat is nothing if not mysterious. It is our charm.:

To Alberich's surprise it was Dirk who chuckled weakly. "Well, Radiance," he said, having learned the proper forms of address from Alberich and Karchanek, "we're used to this sort of behavior out of our Companions. They seem to have a proper mania about keeping secrets from us mere mortals."

That relaxed Solaris; Alberich read it in the lessening of the tension of her shoulders.

"When divine intervention requested is, and received it is, then churlish is must be to cavil at how it comes, one supposes," she offered.

Talia uttered a ladylike snort, and Solaris hid a smile behind her hand. "If God understandable becomes, need Him we no longer should," Solaris observed after a moment. "For we would be as He..."

:An interesting observation, and an intelligent one,: Kantor said with approval, but no surprise.

Alberich could only wonder how this woman had managed to survive in the cutthroat world of Temple politics with a mind like that.

"Well, tell us about this ceremony," Talia said after a moment of silence, in lieu of any other comments, and Solaris hastened to tell them what she could.

* * *

When Talia and Dirk retired, Solaris motioned to Alberich to stay. "I would like to introduce you to my chief friends and supporters, aside from Karchanek," she said, switching to Karsite with obvious relief.

"And I wish to learn to know you, Alberich, and through you, the land I wish to make our ally."

He resumed his seat warily as she continued, after summoning a silent servant with a double clap of her hands and issuing orders for food and drink.

"You have been a Herald of Valdemar for longer now than you ever lived in Karse," she observed shrewdly. "Would you return to dwell here permanently-if you could?"

He shook his head. He had already considered this from the moment that he was convinced Karchanek could be trusted. "No, Holiness," he replied with all respect. "Even if I were to be accepted by those who called me traitor. I am a Herald."

He half expected her to be insulted, but she smiled as if she understood. "Then from time to time, Karse will come to you," she said, and at that moment the servant entered with another, both bearing trays.

Now, scent-as Alberich well knew, since he had now and again used it as a weapon-is the sense that strikes the deepest and at the most primitive parts of a man. And he had not realized just how much he missed his homeland, until the scents of the foods of his childhood arose from the dishes that the servants uncovered, and briefly-briefly-he regretted giving the answer he had.

She must have read that in his expression, for she laughed. "Now you see how fair I am with you," she told him, and at that moment she showed her true age, which was less than this, and perhaps less than Selenay's. "For had I wished to have my will of you, I should have asked you that question with the scent of spiced sausage, dumplings and gravy, and apple cake in your nostrils!"

The servant handed him a filled plate, which he took eagerly. "This is not the fare I would have expected in the Palace of the Sun, Holiness," he said, prevaricating, for she had come far too close to the truth with that comment.

"Hmm. Larks' tongues and sturgeon roe, braised quail, and newborn calf stewed in milk?" She gave him a sardonic look. "My cook is appalled by my tastes, but my people know that I eat what they eat, and I have made it certain that they have heard this from the Palace servants. There has been far too much of larks' tongues on golden plates, while babies wail and children have the pinched faces of hunger on the other side of the Temple wall." She took the plate that the servant offered her; Alberich observed that both plates were of honest ceramic. "The golden plates went to replenish granaries; the furnishings and precious objects I found in these rooms bought new herd-beasts to strengthen bloodlines.

Oh, I hardly gave all away," she admitted, and paused for a hungry mouthful herself. "Much has gone into the decoration of the Temple and I will not strip the Sunlord's sanctuary of its glory. But the wealth that I did was the loot of centuries come straight out of storehouses, and has restored, if not plenty, then at least sufficiency to my land. Plenty will come in time, Sunlord willing, and with the work of the people."

"And the border?" Alberich dared to ask. "There are still bandits there that prey on Karse and Valdemar alike."

She smiled grimly. "I have recalled the corrupt troops, put Guild mercenaries in their place until I can train young fighters who will serve and not exploit, and-" she paused significantly, "-I have distributed arms to the Border villages."

Alberich was in significant shock over the news that Karse had hired Guild mercenaries. He wondered how she had managed to convince the Guild that Karse was to be trusted, and had winced at the thought of the size of the bond she would have had to post. But to hear that she had distributed arms to the common people-

"I doubt that they will be effective; it is more a matter of improving their morale and bolstering their courage," she continued. "They'll likely be frightened of the Guild fighters until they realize that they are trustworthy, and being armed will make them feel more secure.

Still, one never knows. They might surprise me, and take over their own defense."

Arming the villagers- If nothing else, this was the clearest indication that the Fires of Cleansing had been extinguished. No Red-robe Priest would dare to enter a village on a mission of Cleansing where the villagers were armed.

She ate in silence until she had cleaned her plate, then set it aside, accepted a cup of good-but common-wine from the servant and sat back. "Let me tell you the rest of my reforms, in brief. The village priests have been reassigned to new villages, unless all, or almost all, the villagers themselves protested and demanded that their priest remain with them. It might surprise you to learn that a good two thirds did just that."

Alberich shrugged; he hadn't seen that much widespread corruption among the village priests when he'd been a Captain. Those who abused their authority were attracted to the real seat of power in Sunhame.

"There are no more forays by troops and priests into the villages to Cleanse or to test and gather up children. If a parent wants a child tested, they must take the child to the village priest, who will call in a Black-robe Priest-Mage." She sipped her wine. "I surmise you already know that there are no more Red-robes, and no more demon-summoning."

"And you suppose these changes will endure past your lifetime?" Which may be a short one, he added mentally.

"Change is generational, but I intend to outlive all those who oppose me until there are no Sun-priests in Karse that I have not overseen the training of," she retorted. "I am young enough: Sunlord permitting, there should be no reason why I cannot do this."

If you survive assassins-he thought, when Hansa coughed politely, and he met the Firecat's sardonic gaze.

:That is why I am here,: the Firecat replied, with casual arrogance.

:I believe that the Sunlord plans to ensure that the Son of the Sun survives assassins-and everything else,: Kantor observed.

Since he had quite left that consideration out of his calculations, he felt a wave of chagrin, which he covered by handing the servant his empty plate and cup. The servant left with the dishes and her orders to see that Talia and Dirk were also offered a meal.

With her attention no longer on her meal, Solaris proceeded to- "interrogate" him was too strong a word for what she did, since she was polite, interested, and deceptively offhand in her questions and remarks, but "interrogation" was what it amounted to. He had been prepared for it, and answered with all due caution, wondering if she, Hansa, or both might not consider putting the equivalent of a Truth-Spell on him.

They didn't, though, or at least not that he could tell, and Kantor didn't say anything about it.

She only broke it off when the servant returned with three more Sun-priests, one older than Alberich, two young, all male. "Ah, good, you managed to get away," she said genially, as the three bowed to her before taking seats at her wave of invitation. 'This is Herald Alberich; I wanted you to meet him without the other two in attendance. Alberich, this is my dear friend and mentor Ulrich, and my fellows in the novitiate, Larschen and Grevenor."

The older man, Ulrich, smiled broadly and nodded; the one that Solaris had called Larschen widened his eyes and said, so seriously that it could only have been a joke, "I expected someone taller. With horns. And hooves."

Grevenor tsked. "What a disappointment! His teeth aren't even pointed!"

"And after I spent all that time filing them flat so I wouldn't alarm you!" Alberich replied, with the same mock-seriousness, and was rewarded by a smile from Solaris and a withering glance from Hansa.

:A typical feline,: Kantor observed. :He only appreciates jokes when he makes them.: The atmosphere relaxed considerably now that Solaris' friends were here, and even though more questions came at him, he was able to ask as many as he answered, and within a candlemark or so, he had a very vivid picture in his mind of the first days when Solaris had come to power. It seemed that many of those in the temples outside of Sunhame had rallied to her after the miracle of her coronation. But before the miracle she had spent years in garnering the support of her contemporaries; Solaris was no Reulan, to come to the Sunthrone without opposition.

And that was intensely interesting. She had been prepared for this miracle, and when it came, she had everything in place to ensure that she simply wasn't escorted off and quietly done away with so that the running of Karse could go back to "business as usual."

Yes, that was interesting. Very interesting. So she had known, for years, that she was going to be the Chosen One, but instead of biding her time quietly, she had created a support base that ensured she could not be gotten quietly out of the way, and which gave encouragement to others to fall in with them.

She was remarkably quiet about how she had known, however, and Alberich could only wonder. For all that she was amazingly down-to-earth among her supporters, there was still something about her, a sense that she probably did spend the hours in meditation and prayer that the Son of the Sun was popularly supposed to do. And that she probably always had...that here was a person for whom the service of Vkandis truly was a vocation.

Alberich was not overly familiar with the aura of sanctity, but he thought that it surrounded Solaris.

And therein lay her greatest difference from Selenay, although in many, many ways the two were very much alike. Selenay was warmly and completely feminine; Solaris was warmly and completely-neuter. It was very much as if some cloak of power lay lightly on her shoulders, and sent out a wordless message: I am for no man.

In that, she was not unlike the Shin'a'in Sword-sworn; Alberich had met one, some distant relative or other of Kerowyn. Whether that was by choice, natural inclination, or necessity mattered not. That Solaris would have cut her own breasts off if Vkandis had required it of her was something that no one who sat in the same room with her for a candlemark would doubt.

And perhaps, after all, this was why she now sat in the Sunthrone. Perhaps this was why Vkandis had taken so long to manifest Himself to His people. Someone like Solaris was rarer than someone with the special Gift that qualified her as Queen's Own.

Someone who had that much raw faith and still remained human and humane was rarer still.

Only a God would have the patience to wait for such a servant to be born-but a God could afford to take a very long view indeed.

* * *

Alberich and Dirk sat silently, side by side, high above the crowded sanctuary, in a concealed alcove that no one below would guess existed. The cunningly pierced carving gave them an excellent view without revealing that there was anything behind it. The air in here was cool and a little dank, enclosed entirely in stone as they were. Even the cunningly-pivoted door was stone. It was also dark; any light would show through the stone lacework of the panel behind which they sat. The Temple sanctuary beyond that screen was a blaze of white, red, yellow, and precious gold. Sun gems winked from the centers of carved Sun-flowers, gilding was everywhere, and there were so many windows (besides the great skylight over the altar) that the place seemed as open as a meadow.

Down there, arrayed in a semicircle in front of the altar, were the Novices about to be made Priests. Only a few were ever endowed with their holy office standing before the Sun Throne. Fewer still were granted the honor of one of the major Festivals. And of hose few, only the highest took their vows on the Summer Solstice, the day when the sun-disk reigned longest in the sky. Four and twenty of those stood down there today; Talia was the last, and the others-who knew each other by sight at least-must surely be wondering who she was and why she was among them. Censers fuming incense-perfectly harmless, undrugged incense of a pleasant spice scent-stood at either end of their semicircle. The incense drifted up to Alberich's hiding place, relieving the slightly stale scent of the air.

One and all, the Novices wore simple robes of black, without ornamentation. One by one by they were summoned before Solaris, who administered their vows-surprisingly simple vows-and arrayed them in their black-and-gold vestments. Solaris herself was a glory in her robes of office and crown, covered with bullion, medallions, even plaques of gold, and what wasn't sewn with gold was embroidered with Sun gems. Alberich couldn't imagine how she could stand under the weight of it, yet she moved effortlessly, calling each Priestly candidate forward, taking his-or her, for half of the candidates were women-vows, and with the aid of two acolytes, arraying them in their new vestments. So far there was no sign that Solaris had made any special announcement about Talia-her core group of supporters knew, of course, but no one else seemed to. Why was she keeping it all so secret, if this was supposed to be the start of a new alliance?

:Perhaps she's had-advice,: Kantor suggested. His tone suggested that the advice might have come from a higher authority.

Well, that was certainly possible, but Alberich worried that she had been left to her own devices to orchestrate this, and was playing her game too close.

Or perhaps she didn't intend to announce Talia's origin at all.

That actually made him feel a lot less nervous about this.

Perhaps she just intended to invest Talia without making any fuss about where she was from, and only after they'd gone home would she announce it. There would be no prospect of enraging anyone while the Heralds were still in Karse that way.

That plan would make Alberich a great deal happier than facing the possibility of a riot in the Temple when Solaris announced just what Talia was.

Dirk was equally edgy, actually fidgeting, peering through first one then another of the pierced holes in the stone screen that covered their hiding place. Alberich wished he could fidget, but discipline was habit now, and there was nothing he could do to relieve the tension that made him feel as if he vibrated in place. The narrow stone bench on which they sat bit into his thighs, and he wished devoutly that this was all over...

One by one, the candidates approached, said their few words-and he was grateful that nothing in that vow interfered with Talia's pledges to Valdemar and its throne-were bedecked with their heavy trappings, and departed again.

And now, at last, it was Talia's turn.

The sun was at its zenith, and the rays poured down through the skylight above the altar. This was the holiest moment of the holiest day of the calendar and now

"I summon the last candidate," Solaris called, in that peculiar, carrying voice of hers that sounded no louder than a simple conversation and yet could be heard in the last rank of worshipers at the rear of the Temple, even though there was a steady murmur of praying and talking. "I call Herald Talia of Valdemar."

Reaction rippled over the crowd like a wave. Dirk went rigid, and Alberich gripped the stone with both hands. A silence fell that was as heavy as a blanket of lead. Hundreds of heads suddenly swiveled up and forward. Hundreds, thousands of wide, shocked eyes stared at Solaris, at Talia, as the latter bent her head calmly and accepted the vestments of a Priestess of Vkandis. Shock still held them, as Solaris took Talia's hand and turned her to face the crowd so that all of them could hear her take her vows-and could see the Firecat pace slowly down from behind the altar and place himself protectively at Talia's feet, purring, the sound being the only thing other than the two voices that pierced that silence. It did not escape Alberich that Hansa was between Talia and the crowd of worshipers.

Then Solaris spoke, and Hansa muted his purrs. Up until this moment, there had not been real silence in the Temple. Now there was, an empty, hollow silence, waiting to be filled. The few words of the vows, spoken in a tone hardly louder than a whisper, echoed at the farthest corners of the Temple.

Then, as the last of Talia's words died away in the awful silence, Solaris spoke again before the silence could be filled by any other.

"The time has come," Solaris said, in a voice like a clear, silvery trumpet call, addressing Talia, but also the crowd. "The time has come for the ancient enmity between our land and Valdemar to be burned away. It is time for hatred, death, and the taint of spilled blood to be burned away. Will you come with me, and trust to me and to the God to whom you made your vows, Herald Talia?"

"I will," Talia replied, in a voice as firm, if not with the same clarion sound. And she put her hand in the one Solaris stretched out to her. Together they turned to face the altar.

As they turned to the altar, flames sprang up upon it all in an eyeblink with a roaring sound; golden flames as high as a man and seemingly born of the rays of the sun falling on the white marble.

The crowd gasped, then stilled again.

No one had been there to kindle those flames. There was nothing there to feed it: no wood, no coal, no oil, and yet the flames leaped and danced and even from here Alberich could feel the heat of them, hear the crackle and roar. Solaris and Talia approached the altar, hand in hand, as Dirk shook like an aspen leaf.

There were stairs built onto the side of the altar. Had they always been there? Alberich hadn't noticed them before, but now Solaris led Talia toward them-toward the flames-They were climbing the stairs.

They were standing in the flames!

The golden flames lapped around them, and Alberich stared, waiting for Talia to start screaming, waiting for their robes to burst into flame, waiting, with his throat closed with horror-The flames enclosed them gently, like loving hands, or a shower of flower petals. The flames caressed them but did not consume them.

Talia was smiling.

Solaris was not smiling, but on her face was an expression that Alberich could not put a name to. Some-thing ineffable-something beyond his understanding.

And the same stillness that filled the Temple entered Alberich's heart.

Wait. Watch. All will be well.

Feelings, not words; a peace deeper than anything he had ever felt before, even when in profound communion with Kantor. From Talia? Perhaps; she was a projective Empath, and strong enough to have sent this out to the entire Temple if she thought it needful.

Or Talia might be the channel for something else.

His tension vanished, and something else took its place. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dirk's hands drop from the stone screen, and knew that his fellow Herald felt it, too.

Cradled lovingly in the heart of the flames, Solaris remained unchanged in her golden robes, but something was happening to Talia.

No, not to Talia, but to her robes, he vestments. They were changing.

He couldn't say they were bleaching, because there was nothing in the transition to suggest the process of bleaching. There was no fading to gray-no, Talia's robes were lightening, not fading, they were becoming full of light, growing lighter and lighter until they glowed with a white intensity that outshone the flames.

Then, all at once, the flames were gone.

Solaris and Talia stood atop the altar, Talia looking a little embarrassed, as if she had been given some incredible honor all unlooked-for that she felt unworthy of.

Talia's priestly vestments, the robes of a Sun-priest, were no longer black and gold.

They were white and silver.

Heraldic colors.

"In the long ago," Solaris said, her voice floating above the crowd like a subtle melody,

"There was a third order of Sun-priests. These were the White-robes, whose duty was to serve as Healers, to solve dissension, to keep the peace."

:Whose duty was also to serve the Goddess-but she won't mention that at the moment,: said Kantor absently.

Goddess? What Goddess? When had there ever been a Goddess in Karse? :What are you talking about?: he demanded, but Kantor wasn't answering, and more than half of his attention was on the two women anyway...

"Vkandis has chosen this woman to be the first of the new White-robes," Solaris continued, her voice stronger, as in a call to arms. "Vkandis has burned away all the hatred, all the death, all the evil that has passed between our lands! Vkandis has sent His purifying fire to show us the way, to give us this new, living bridge, of understanding between His land and Valdemar! I, Son of the Sun, now charge you-cry welcome to Talia, White-robe Priest of Vkandis!"

The cheering that erupted vibrated the very stone beneath Alberich's feet and left him momentarily deafened. But that was all right, for the cheers went on so long that no one would have been able to hear anything anyway.

* * *

The three Heralds and their Companions stood in front of the arched doorway into Solaris' private courtyard that would serve as the framework for the Gate. Hansa stared fixedly at the arch- presumably, in the little clearing in Companion's Field, Karchanek was doing likewise. Alberich was as tired as if he'd been running training exercises for a day and a night without a rest. Dirk looked stunned, as if all of this still hadn't quite sunk in yet. Well, Alberich didn't blame him. He didn't feel as if it had all quite sunk in yet either.

Talia's new vestments and robes were packed up into a saddlebag on Rolan's back; on the whole, given all of the bad blood between Karse and Valdemar, Solaris deemed it wise for them to leave now, before this first flush of good feeling faded and people began looking for the Demon-riders and their Hellhorses to have a few choice words with them.

Few even among the Priest-Mages knew that a Gate was even possible, and those few were in Solaris' ranks; the arrival and departure. of the Queen's Own would seem miraculous, as miraculous as the transformation of Talia's robes from black to white.

Was it magic-or a miracle? Alberich knew which his heart wanted it to be. And he wished he could recapture a little of that wonderful stillness, that peace, that had come over him. But that was, after all, the nature of miracles. They were evanescent, and left little or nothing behind to prove where they had come from. It all could have been magic-illusory flames, and Talia projecting that stillness under Solaris' guidance. It could have been a well-orchestrated series of magic spells, set up by Priest-Mages in hiding just as Alberich had been. Who knew how many of those little niches overlooking the sanctuary there were.

Alberich didn't want to question it, though. His rational side said he should, and when he got home, Myste almost certainly would want to know why he hadn't. And he didn't have a good answer for her-: And you will continue to believe in the face of her questions, even though at times doubt overcomes that belief,: Kantor said. :That, after all, is the nature of faith. And perhaps that is as it is intended to be, and the reason why miracles so seldom leave tangible evidence of their origin behind.:

:What-: Alberich replied. :So that we have nothing to rely on but belief?:

:That would be the "free will" part, I think.: Kantor replied, with just a touch of impishness.

There was no time for further discussion. The Gate sprang into uncanny life. The stones of the archway began to glow; the brightness increased, and suddenly, instead of the room beyond the door, there was an empty blackness within the arch that made Alberich's eyes ache.

Then crawling tendrils like animate lightning crept across the blackness, tendrils that crisscrossed the darkness and multiplied with every heartbeat.

Then, with a jolt he felt somewhere in his chest, the blackness vanished, and the arch opened up on Companion's Field on the twilight, and his waiting friends, and Karchanek in front of them all.

"Time to go," said Dirk, and suited his action to his words, riding straight through without a backward glance. Poor Dirk! This had not been easy for him....

"Thank you for your trust," Solaris said to Talia, and held her in a momentary embrace that Talia bent down from her saddle to share.

"And you for yours, Radiance," Talia replied, smiling, some of the peace that Alberich wistfully wished for still lingering in her gaze. Then it was her turn, and she rode through to the welcoming committee on the other side.

Alberich would have followed, but a restraining hand on his stirrup made him pause.

"Here-" Solaris said, handing him a basket that smelled of home. "I told you that Karse would come to you."

All of this-and she remembers sausages and herb-bread for me?

She smiled up at him-once again, the ordinary-extraordinary woman that she was when she was not encased in the Sunlord's gold. "This could not have been done without your trust as well."

He coughed. "It was little enough, for so great a result, Radiance," he replied, shifting the basket uneasily.

"It was greater than you will admit," she retorted. "And I think you had better not say anything more that would indicate you disagree with your spiritual lord. I might arrest you for heresy."

"The day you arrest anyone for heresy will be the day that the sun turns black, Radiance," he responded, earning another smile from her. He hesitated a moment, poised on the brink of asking all those questions that quivered on the tip of his tongue.

But she was having none of it.

"Go!" she said, with a playful slap to Kantor's rump. "Hansa wearies and Karchanek cannot wait to quit your soil and its plague of eyes!"

Kantor leaped forward without any urging from Alberich, and as he fell through the arch in that moment of eternal darkness, he felt something brush past his leg-Karchanek, taking advantage of the fact that the Gate would not close immediately to escape back into his own land and place.

Then Kantor's four hooves thudded on solid turf, and he was surrounded by friends and fellow Heralds, and he realized that the basket he held did not smell of home after all. It smelled of childhood memories, yes, and of things he thought of as comforts that he had not enjoyed in a very long time. But not of home.

Home was here, in a land whose language had become his in dreams, among people who were dearer than blood-kin, who would gladly give him anything they had, including their lives.

As he would, for them.

And as for his God-well, Vkandis had shown more clearly than in words that a border was nothing more than an artificial boundary, and names were just as artificial. Vkandis had been here all along, cloaked in the hundred names for Deity that the Valdemarans had for Him; Alberich just hadn't known it in his heart until now.

"Welcome back!" said Eldan, relieving him of the basket so that he could dismount.

The relief on his face said all that he would not say aloud-that despite all of the assurances, the guarantees, the others had been wound as tight with worry as he had been in the Temple. "I hope it all went all right?"

"Better, much, than all right," Alberich replied, the cadences of Valdemaran coming strangely-for just a moment-to his tongue. He looked around, and saw that all of the Council as well as Selenay and the Prince-Consort had surrounded Talia and Dirk to get their version of the story. His own friends, including Myste, surrounded him. "Many tales, have I to tell," he continued. "And tell them I shall, when we settled are, with good wine in hand."

"How are you feeling?" Myste asked, taking his hand and looking into his eyes-perhaps looking for a sign that he regretted leaving.

"Well. More than well." He smiled down at her. "It is good to be home."