Sword of Ice and Other Tales of Valdemar

Sword Of Ice And Other Tales Of Valdemar

Sunlancer

The Demon's Den

Ironrose

Babysitter

The Salamander

A Child's Adventures

Blood Ties

. . . . Another Successful Experiment

Choice

Song of Valdemar

The School Up the Hill

Chance

Sword of Ice

In the Forest of Sorrows

Vkandis' Own

A Herald's Honor

A Song For No One's Mourning

Blue Heart

SWORD OF ICE

And Other Tales Of Valdemar Edited by Mercedes Lackey

DAW BOOKS, INC.

Copyright © 1997 by Mercedes Lackey and Tekno Books

Contents

Introduction by Mercedes Lackey

Sunlancer by Philip M. Austin and Mercedes Lackey

The Demon's Den by Tanya Huff

Ironrose by Larry Dixon and Mel. White

Babysitter by Josepha Sherman

The Salamander by Richard Lee Byers

A Child's Adventures by Janni Lee Simmer

Blood Ties by Stephanie D. Shaver

. . . Another Successful Experiment by Lawrence Schimel

Choice by Michelle West

Song of Valdemar by Kristin Schwengel

The School Up the Hill by Elisabeth Waters

Chance by Mark Shepherd

Sword of Ice by Mercedes Lackey and John Yezeguielian

In the Forest of Sorrows by John Heifers

Vkandis' Own by Ben Ohlander

A Herald's Honor by Mickey Zucker Reichert

A Song For No One's Mourning by Gary A. Braunbeck

Blue Heart by Philip M. Austin and Mercedes Lackey

Introduction

My very first published story, in 1985, was a piece for Marion Zimmer Bradley's "Friends of Darkover" anthology, Free Amazons of Darkover. At the time, although I was working on what would become the first of a series of fifteen novels (with no end in sight), I never thought that I would be in the position to do as Marion had done, and open up my world for other professionals to tinker with.

And yet, ten years later, here it is, the Friends of Valdemar anthology. Some of the stories here are by names you will recognize, some by authors you will not, but the one thing that unites them all is that somewhere along the line, they actually enjoyed my work enough to want to add their own touches to the world that I created. Several of the authors in this book are protege's of mine and have cowritten other things with me; some are proteges of mine and have had work published that I had no hand in, which is, to any teacher, a source of great pleasure. You always hope that the "student" goes beyond what you can teach and finds his or her own way, own voice, and own creations that you have no direct part in.

And it is entirely possible that one or more of the authors in this volume will one day find him- or herself playing host and editor to a book of stories set in a world he or she has created.

And when that happens, I hope that they think of me, and ask me to come play, too!

Sunlancer

by Philip M. Austin and Mercedes Lackey

Philip Austin writes, "Misty Lackey is the one who made this story come alive. She deserves the majority of the credit and all my thanks. [She] has been a good friend and mentor. She's been helpful in so many ways. Through her good offers, I've been able to dream of a future. A creative future. That dream is worth more than any monetary reward."

Mercedes Lackey was born in Chicago, and has worked as a lab assistant, security guard, and computer programmer before turning to fiction writing. Her first book, Arrows of the Queen, the first hi the Valde-mar series, was published in 1985. She won the Lambda award for Magic's Price and Science Fiction Book Club Book of the Year for the The Elvenbane, co-authored with Andre Norton. Along with her husband, Larry Dixon, she is a Federally licensed bird rehabilitator, specializing in birds of prey. She shares her home with a menagerie of parrots, cats and a Schutzhund trained German shepherd.

Clarrin Mul-Par knelt below his open window and raised his face to the rising sun; he closed his eyes and felt the warmth of its rays against his cheeks, watched the inside of his eyelids turn as red as the robes of Vkandis' priests. The sun was a pressure against his skin, as real as the pressure against his heart.

Vkandis! Sunlord! he prayed. Hear me, and guide me in what I must do. Red-priestess Beakasi tells us we do your will and bidding—should I believe her? She tells m " that it is your will that we take the young ones, that your.*

miracles show her the ones to test for your service. Must I believe her? Sunlord, all life comes by your gift; to live in your light is the old teaching, passed from generation to generation. But is this what you meant? Vkandis! Sun-lord! What must I do? Give me a sign!

He lowered his outstretched arms, letting the rays of the sun bathe him. But although they warmed his body, they did not touch the cold in his heart, nor did they ease his worry and confusion.

For the first time in his life, he doubted.

No, he told himself firmly. No, I do not doubt the Sunlord. I doubt those who speak in His Name. I doubt that what they call upon me to do is truly His Will

And he knew exactly where to place the blame for that doubt—if "blame'" was precisely the right thing to call it.

Squarely in the lap of that scholar-scribe with the terrible eyes: the guest of his grandfather, and as such, sacrosanct.

The man had been there when he arrived last night; they seemed to be old friends, and Grandfather had introduced him as such. Clarrin found the man to be a fascinating storyteller, and the three of them had conversed long into the night, in the garden pavilion, where—now that he thought about it—no one could creep up upon them to listen without being seen.

And it was the scholar's questions that had made him doubt. . . .

"Captain Clarrin Mul-Par is a wise man, I have no doubt," the scribe said in accentless, flowing Karaite that even a priest would envy. "As well as a man trusted in the Temple's service. I value wisdom, and I seek answers, answers to questions a man such as the Captain may be able to give me."

As he sat there, completely at ease in the low couch, boots crossed at the ankles and elbows resting on knees, his eyes never left the face of the Captain of the Temple Lancers. Clarrin wondered what in heaven or earth he

was reading there. He never had learned to completely school his expression.

But he had tried not to betray his uneasiness. "What are your questions, good sir?" he replied, forcing himself to return the scribe's direct gaze. "Although you grant me more wisdom than I would claim, I will do my best to answer you."

"My first question is this—and pray, do not take offense, for I am a foreigner, and I mean none," the scholar said, with a smile that looked honest, leaning forward a little to speak. "Are the miracles performed by your priests and priestesses true miracles, or are they actually magic?"

Clarrin licked his lips, and answered carefully. "Vkandis forbids the practice of magic," he replied sternly. "It was by his will that magic was driven out of the land. His miracles ensure that we of Karse need no magic, and aid his holy ones to keep magic from our borders."

The scribe did not seem particularly disturbed by the implied rebuke. He sipped at the pleasant, fruity wine with appreciation, examined the crystal goblet that contained it for a moment, then looked up through the latticework of the pavilion's roof at the stars. Only then did he look back at Clarrin.

"Spoken as a true warrior of the Temple," he said, with another of those enigmatic smiles. "Yet—I have been in other lands. Rethwellan, Hardorn, even Valde-mar. I have seen those who claim to be practitioners of magic perform feats precisely the same as those that Vkandis' priests perform. Does the Sunlord grant these people the power to work miracles as well?"

Clarrin carefully set his goblet down on the low table they all shared, heated words rising in him. "I have not seen these marvels that you claim to have seen, scribe," he replied, his anger giving his voice a distinct edge, "So I may make no judgment."

But his grandfather frowned. "Sharp words!" he chided. "Grandson, you come close to dishonoring my granted guest-right with your sharp tongue!"

Clarrin flushed, this time with embarrassment. He might be thirty summers old, but this was the man who had raised him, and the bright-eyed old fellow did right to remind him of the courtesies owed a guest of the house.

"I am well rebuked, old owl," he replied, with a bow of apology to the scribe, and a smile of affection for the wizened old man. "You remind me of the proper way to answer our guest."

He turned to the scribe. "I apologize for my discourteous reply, sir. And to answer your question with strict truth, I do not know. I have no knowledge of magic and have never seen any who practice it; we are taught that it is all trickery in any case, that the miracles of Vkandis alone are no deceit. The priests would tell you that this magic you have seen is nothing more than cleverness and misdirection."

The scribe smiled, giving Clarrin the slight bow of scholar-to-scholar, wordlessly telling Clarrin that he had shown wisdom by admitting his ignorance. Clarrin flushed again, this time feeling pleased and flattered.

"Now this—" the scribe said lightly. "This is a moment of true men's pleasure: to sip good wine, hi a beautiful garden, on a clear summer's night, discussing the mysteries of the world. Among men who can face truth and enter debate with open minds, no apologies are needed, for all three of us are men who can acknowledge that we can speak the truth only as we see it. And the truth is a crystal with many facets."

A night bird began a liquid, plaintive song just as the scribe finished speaking. The scribe half-closed his eyes to listen, and out of courtesy, all of them remained quiet until it had finished and flew away.

"The ovan has other pleasures in mind," Tirens Mul-Par, damn's grandfather, said wryly. "He calls a mate."

Clarrin and the scribe both chuckled. "Ah," the scribe replied. "And have you never heard the tale of the 'scholar's mate'?"

Both indicated ignorance, and he told them a roguish story of a priestly scholar who so loved to read hi bed

that he filled half of his bed with books and heavy scrolls every night, leaving an impression on the mattress that looked as if someone had been asleep there. This continued until his superior spied upon him to catch him in the act of bringing in a (prohibited) female, and caught him only with a "mistress" made of paper.

With the atmosphere lightened, the scribe leaned forward once more, and Clarrin told himself to keep his temper in check, anticipating another unpleasantly direct question.

He was not wrong.

"Another question comes to my mind," the scholar said. "The faithful are granted healing of ills and new injuries in the Temple, and it is true healing, for I have seen the results of it. This is said to be another miracle of the Sunlord, is this not true?"

Clarrin nodded warily. "Yes. I have received the Sun-lord's Gift myself. As a young lancer I was arrow-struck during our foray into Menmellith to relieve the true believers trapped there." He tapped his left leg to indicate the site of the old wound. "One of the priests laid hands upon the wound and drew out the arrow, and there was neither blood nor wound after, only a scar, as if the injury had occurred weeks hi the past."

"I am glad that you were healed that you may still serve," the scribe replied. "Yet—forgive me, but in other lands, there are healers as well. In fact, in every land I have ever been or even read of, there are healers of the flesh. In Valdemar, they are even gathered together at an early age, and taught at a great school called a Collegium."

"We gather those granted the healer's touch by the Sunlord and teach them in the Temple—" Clarrin began, but stopped when the scribe held up a finger.

"True enough, but the healers in Valdemar are not taught in a temple, for there are many beliefs in their land, not one," the scribe said earnestly. "When these healers are proficient in their work, they are given green clothing to wear so that they may be recognized and heeded. They go where they are needed, and all may

come to them for aid, even the lowest and the poorest. So, here again, I must ask you—if there are true healers elsewhere, does the Sunlord grant them this miracle of healing as well as he does here?"

Clarrin sighed. "Your question marches with the one before," he replied. "In truth, I cannot answer."

He picked up the pitcher, hoping to stave off more questions. He poured his grandfather another goblet, offered wine to the scholar and was politely refused, and filled his own glass. And in truth, he felt the need of it. This scribe had a way of demanding answers to questions he had rather not think about.

"I only have one more question, Captain," the scribe said, chuckling when he saw damn's expression of resigned dismay. "Though it could be seen as more than one."

"A puzzle, then? Or a riddle?" Clarrin hoped so. He and his grandfather had often traded riddles long into the night.

"Perhaps, yes!" the scribe agreed. "A puzzle of questions."

Clarrin waited while the breeze stirred scent up from the night-blooming flowers around them, and made the wind-chimes play gently. "Your puzzle, then?" he prompted.

"Only this; why are the young ones chosen by the priesthood taken from their homes at night? Why are they tested, cleansed of all ties of kinship, and never seen again by their kin except at a distance? Why are those that cannot be cleansed of kin-ties in your temple, or those who fail the testing, cleansed instead by burning in the fire of Vkandis? Why does the Sunlord, the giver of all life, require the death of children? Is it the cleansing and sacrifice of kin-ties that give the priests and priestesses the power to perform the Sunlord's miracles, or could they perform them if they never set foot in the temple or donned robes?"

Clarrin shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but the scribe was not yet done with him.

"Is it possible," he continued, leaning forward so that

his terrible, knowing eyes bored into Clarrin's, "that the ones who are fire-cleansed are destroyed because their powers are too strong, too strong to permit their minds and hearts to be cleansed of the love of their kinfolk, and that if they lived, they could rival the priests and priestesses without ever having to wear a robe?"

His eyes seemed to penetrate right into Clarrin's mind, as if he were daring Clarrin to find the true answers to this "puzzle" of his. And there was something lurking in the depths of his gaze; a hint of pain, of loneliness, of half-madness that made Clarrin finally shiver and turn away.

"I—have no answers for you at all, sir scribe," he replied, rising to his feet, quickly. "I am only a poor lancer, with no head for such an elevated discourse. I will have to leave these things to men of wisdom, such as you and my grandfather. Now, if you will forgive me—" he ended, hastily, already backing away, "I have duties early in the morning. Very early—"

And with that, he beat a hasty retreat.

Tirens Mul-Par also faced the sun this morning, but not to pray. His prayer had been answered last night, and that in itself was proof enough of the Sunlord's power—and that His power, like the light of the sun, granted blessings and prayers in every land and not just in Karse.

Instead, he watched as his servants secretly readied all the horses in his stable for a long journey, and his thoughts, too, returned to the previous evening's conversation.

Clarrin beat a hasty, but tactically sound, retreat from the garden. He did not—quite—run, but it was plain enough from his posture that he wished he could. It was too bad for his peace of mind that he would never be able to run fast enough or far enough to escape those questions the scribe had placed in his thoughts.

Tirens watched him go, and hid a smile. This was not the first time that he had entertained the scholar who

called himself "Brekkan of Hawk's Rest," but it was the first time he had been utterly certain of what this "Brekkan" really was.

"I fear I may have upset your grandson, Tirens Mul-Par," the scribe said softly. "It was not my intention."

The old man snorted. "It was always your intention— Valdemaran," he said, and watched with interest as the scribe's hand twitched a little. Interesting. A sleeve-dagger? "You Heralds of Valdemar do not care to see folk become too complacent, do you?"

He saw the man's eyes widen just a trifle, and smiled.

"I think you are mistaken—" the so-called "scribe" began.

Tirens held up a finger, cautioning him to silence. "If I am mistaken, it is only in thinking that a Herald would not resort to a hidden dagger up a sleeve." His smile broadened as the Herald twitched again. "But I did not make any mistakes in giving you my hospitality, nor in bringing my grandson here for you to disturb with your questions. He is old enough, and well-placed enough, to make a difference in this sad land."

Again the Herald moved as to protest, and again he silenced the man with a single finger.

"Your questions deserve answers, not platitudes or religious cant. But he must decide for himself what is right. I cannot give him answers, nor can you." He shrugged expressively. "I do not know what his answers will be, nor can I say what he will do once he finds them. That will come as Vkandis wills."

The Herald watched him with narrowed eyes, gray eyes, which marched well with his straight brown hair, the color of old leaves. You would never notice him in a crowd, so long as he was not wearing the expression he bore now. Which, Tirens supposed, was the point....

"How did you know?" the Herald asked, his voice low and potent with threat.

"That you are a Herald?" The old man grinned. "I did not know it until this visit, when I had need to know. I have the sight, at need. At those times, I can sense things that are not apparent."

His guest was not in the least mollified. "Why did you grant me guest-right, Tirens Mul-Par, if you knew what I am?" he demanded harshly.

Tirens sipped his wine. "I have a granddaughter," he said. "A little above damn's age. She has a daughter, a lovely child in my eyes, who laughs at the stories of her greatgrandsire, and who loves him as much as he loves her. She is only nine years old. A dangerous age, in Karse."

The Herald relaxed, just a trifle. "They test children in the temple at their tenth birthdays. . . ."

"Exactly so." He allowed his smile to fade. "She tells me stories as well, of dreams in the night. At times, those dreams come to pass.'.'

The light of understanding blossomed in the Herald's eyes. "Dreams can be dangerous—in Karse."

The old man nodded, curtly. "I wish her and her mother to be taken someplace where dreams are not so dangerous. Before we have visitors in the night."

The Herald tilted his head to one side. "Her father may have something to say about that," he ventured.

Tirens waved his hand hi dismissal. "Only if he chooses to return from the hosts at Vkandis' right hand, where the priests pledge me he has gone," he replied.

The Herald chuckled at that, and relaxed further. His hand made an interesting little movement, that told Tirens the dagger had returned to its home. "When?" he asked only.

"Tomorrow," the old man said firmly. "I have already made the arrangements. My granddaughter is privy to them, and just as anxious as I for her daughter's safety. They will not inconvenience you. In fact," he allowed a twinkle to creep into his eyes, "a prosperous scholar, with a Karsite wife and child, returning from visiting relatives, is not likely to be questioned by anyone, so long as be is careful to stay within law and custom. Which his Karsite wife will be sure to impart to him."

The Herald coughed gently. "I can—ah—see that."

Tirens still had not heard the promise he wanted.

"Please," he said, resorting to beggary. "Please, take them to safety. You will have no cause to regret this."

But the Herald had not been reluctant after all. "Of course I will," he said, a little embarrassed. "I was just— thinking for a moment! Rearranging my trip to account for a new wife and child!" But at Tirens' chuckle, his gaze sharpened. "But what of you, old owl?" he asked, using the name Clarrin had used hi affection.

The old man leaned back in his seat on the couch and sipped his wine. "Oh, I shall enjoy my garden until I die," he said casually. "Life has been . . . interesting. But I do not fear to leave it." And before his visitor could ask anything more, he leaned forward with an eagerness that was completely genuine. "And now, Herald of Valdemar, since your other tales have been so fascinating—tell me of the land that my dear ones will live in!"

Clarrin put aside his doubts long enough to bid farewell to his family. It would be many more months before he had another chance to visit them, and without a doubt, by then his niece Liksani would be almost a woman. Already she had the look of his sister Aldenwin about her, and he could not help but remember all the times when it had been Aldenwin who clung to his stirrup and begged him to stay "just one more day."

But when he told Liksani, with a playful shake of his head, that there were no more days left in the visit, she let go and let him mount.

"Uncle Clarrin," she said, her pretty, dark-eyed face solemn, "I almost forgot. I dreamed a tale for you this morning, in the women's garden after sunrise prayers."

He bent down to ruffle her hair. "And what did you dream, little dreamer?" he asked, lightly, thinking it would be a request for a doll, or some such thing.

"I dreamed that a man in armor so bright I could not look at him told me to tell you something," she laughed up at him.

Clarrin went cold inside but managed to keep smiling. "And what thing was that?"

"He said to tell you that—" she screwed her face up in concentration. "—that 'the light is the life and the breath, the flame is the blessing and not life's-ending' . . ." she faltered for a moment, then smiled, ". . . and that 'children should live and laugh and play!' Then he told me to go and play in northern flowers!" she finished, giggling.

A weirding chill raised the hackles on his neck, but somehow Clarrin managed to lean down from his saddle to hug her firmly, lifting her right off her feet as she put her arms around his neck.

"Be happy, Liksani," he ordered gently. "Live and laugh and play, like the shining man told you."

"I'm always happy, Uncle Clarrin. You know that," she giggled as he set her back down on the ground.

Sunlord, keep her happy, he prayed silently, turning his horse to the gate, and leading his seven guards back toward his duty. Sunlord, keep her always happy.

Tirens watched as his grandson rode off down the road to the south. And two candlemarks later, he watched as his granddaughter, Liksani, and six of his seven servants rode off down the road to the north and west. With them, rode the Herald, whose true name Tirens still did not know.

He knew that the Herald was a man of honor. That was all he needed to know.

The sun was directly overhead, the birds singing all about his favorite pavilion, as his one remaining servant served him his finest wine from a fragile crystal goblet. He sipped it with appreciation as he turned the crystal to admire the way it sparkled in the sunlight. This had been one of a set of two, from which he and dear Sareni had drunk their marriage-wine. The shards of the other lay with Sareni in her grave.

Sareni would have approved, he thought, as he drank the last of the wine, and slipped his frail old hand into the bowl of figs where a tiny, rainbow-striped snake was curled. He stirred the figs until he felt a slight sting on

his hand, then a sudden lethargy. The goblet fell from his nerveless fingers and shattered on the pavilion floor. He lay back in his couch, watched the snake slip away under the rosebushes, and wondered if Vkandis liked gardens.

Clarrin stirred his noodles with his fork, and stared at nothing at all.

"Captain!" his Corporal-Orderly said sharply, making him jump.

"Yes, Esda?" he replied, wondering if he looked as guilty as he felt.

Evidently not. Esda pouted at him, hands on side-cocked hips, a petulant expression on his face. "Captain," he complained, "you've hardly touched your meal, and I worked very hard making it! What is bothering you?"

Clarrin grinned in spite of himself at the burly corporal's burlesque of a spoiled girl. "Esda, you lie! You never work hard at anything. Not in the ten years you've served me, anyway!"

Esda grinned back. "Too true, Captain. That's why / picked you for my officer."

Clarrin shook his head at his Orderly's unrepentant grin. "Here," he said, shoving the plate of noodles across the table toward Esda. "Sit down, finish my meal for me, and let me use your common sense." He made it less of an order, and more of an invitation.

Esda's grin faded immediately, and the grizzled veteran's expression was replaced by one of concern. "You are troubled, Captain," he observed, taking the seat, but ignoring the food, his eyes fixed on damn's.

Clarrin shrugged. "I have some questions to repeat to you—and a dream to tell you about," he said, slowly.

"A dream!" Esda lost every trace of mockery. "Dreams are nothing to disregard, Captain." Esda had served the Temple for longer than Clarrin had been alive—he had seen three Sons of the Sun come and go. And he was both a skeptic and a believer; if anyone

knew where Temple politics began and true religion ended, it would be Esda.

"Yes, well, see what you think when I am done."

For the next candlemark, Esda sat and listened without interruption as Clarrin recounted the discussion in the garden and little Liksani's dream.

"You know we serve at the Cleansing," he finished.

"Aye, and I know you mislike the assignment," Esda replied gruffly. "But—is it Vkandis you blame for—"

"No!" Clarrin exclaimed, cutting him off with a slam of his open palm on the wooden table. "Never! I cannot believe that the Lord of all Life would ever countenance taking life, that is all! It is the priests and their minions that I mistrust and fear! I believe they serve themselves, not Vkandis! And I fear that they use magic, and call it 'miracle,' to order to puff up their own importance!"

"Well, then bugger them all, Captain!" Esda grinned, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. "Whatever you decide to do, just remember that poor, overworked, old unappreciated Esda will be there to pick up your soiled linen!"

The roar of laughter that followed made the rest of his personal guards turn their heads, wondering what outrageous thing Esda had said to him this time.

Esda moved quietly among the guards, speaking with them one at a time, over the next two days, while Clarrin pretended that he did not notice. And over the next two days, every one of his men approached him quietly, one at a time, to offer their personal fealty to him. Clarrin was touched and humbled by their trust. But he still did not know what he was going to da In ten days, Clarrin was back in command of his troop of Temple Lancers. In fifteen days, they paraded for the Ceremony of Cleansing, conducted by Red-priestess Beakasi. The Temple square was crowded with worshipers and spectators at two sides, behind the lines of the temple guards. Clarrin's Lancers dosed the third side of the square. The low Sun Altar, flanked by priests and

priestesses in order of rank, filled most of the fourth side.

At damn's signal, the lancers knelt as one at their horses' heads, lances grounded, with the shafts held stiffly erect. The red pennons at the crossbars moved lazily in the warm afternoon air.

Red-priestess Beakasi, flanked by her torch-bearers, mounted the altar-platform, and turned to face the crowd and the setting sun behind them. Her arms stretched out toward the sun, and her red robes matched the red clouds of sunset.

At that signal, lesser priests brought the two who were to be cleansed to the steps: a boy who looked to be hi his early teens, and a girl somewhat younger, dark-haired, with a pretty, gentle face.

damn's breath caught in his throat. She could be Lik-sani, he thought in anguish. The words of his niece's dream kept repealing, over and over, in his head.

The flame is the blessing and not life's ending. Children should live, and laugh, and play,

The boy was shoved forward onto the platform. He stood there looking frightened and confused.

"Vkandis! Sunlord!" Beakasi sang. "Grant your miracle! cleanse this tainted one with your holy fire!"

She brought her hands together over her head, closing them on the iron shaft of a torch held there by a Black-robed priest. He let it go, and she held it high above her head, flame flickering.

"Witness the Sunlord's miracle!" she sang. "Tremble at his power!"

The torch flame flared, and grew suddenly to man-height, then bent toward the boy. He started to scream, but remained where he was, frozen with fear. Another Red-robed priest pointed, and the boy's scream was cut off; he remained where he was, a wide-eyed, open-mouthed, living statue. Flames flowed from the torch to the boy, arching overhead like water from a fountain, in a long, liquid stream. They touched him, then engulfed him, turning him into a column of searing, white-green fire that grew to three times the boy's height. A vaguely

human-shaped form turned slowly in the upper half of the column of fire, as if bathing in it.

Clarrin's heart spasmed, and his gorge rose.

Slowly the flames diminished and flowed back into the torch, until it burned normally once again.

The boy was gone, and there was only a small pile of ashes to mark where he had stood.

The priestess waited until the original bearer had his hands on the torch, before she removed hers, spreading her arms wide. Looking somewhere above the heads of the onlookers, she called out into the silence.

"Hail Vkandis, Sunlord!"

"Hail Vkandis, Sunlord!" the crowd roared in response. Beakasi signaled for the girl to be brought forward.

'The flame is the blessing and not life-ending," Clar-rin murmured, his eyes bright with tears. "Children should live, and laugh, and play!"

He was standing now, moving to his saddle in slow, sluggish motion, warring within himself.

The flame is the blessing, and not life-ending. He reached for the saddle-bow and swung up into place, feeling as if he were trapped in a fever-dream. Children should live, and laugh, and play!

His hand was on his lance; his horse jerked its head up m astonishment at the tightening of his legs, then stepped forward.

He kicked it, startling it into a gallop.

"The flame is the blessing, and not life-ending!" he screamed, the words torn from his throat in torment. His lance swung down, into the attack position. "Children should live, and laugh, and play!"

Red-priestess Beakasi swung around in surprise. Her face mirrored that stunned surprise for a few moments, then suddenly began chanting in a high, frightened voice, words Clarrin could not understand. Her hands moved in intricate patterns, tracing figures in the air.

damn's superbly-trained mount, the veteran of many encounters, plunged up the stairs at the gallop, never missing a step. "The flame is the blessing, and not life-

ending!" Clarrin roared as a warcry. "Children should live, and laugh, and play!"

The priestess held up her hands, as if she could ward off the lance with a gesture. The long, leaf-shaped blade impaled one of those outstretched hands, nailing it to her chest as it struck her heart.

She shrieked in anger, shock, and pain. The crossbar behind the blade slammed into her hand and chest. Clarrin took the impact in his arm, lifting her up off her feet for a moment, as he signaled his horse to halt. He dropped the point of the lance, and the priestess' body slid off the blade, to lie across the altar.

Clarrin leaned down as he wheeled his horse and started back down the stairs, sweeping the young girl into his arms without slowing. The horse plunged down the steps at the back of the altar, and they were away, the child clinging desperately to him. Clarrin held her protectively to his chest, and urged his mount to greater speed.

So far, they had escaped, but their luck could not last for much longer.

He heard horses behind him. Close, too close. He looked back, his lips twisting in a feral snarl, ready to fight for the child's life, as well as his own.

The snarl turned to a gape, and the gape to a grin that held both elation and awe.

His own personal guard and fifty of his lancers, those that had served with him the longest, were following. Esda in the lead. Many had blood on their blades.

Clarrin slowed just enough for the rest to catch up with him. Esda waved an iron-banded torch—just like the ones carried by the priests. As they galloped past a rain-swollen ditch, Esda tossed the torch into the water. Green-yellow smoke and steam billowed up hi a hissing roar as they passed the place, and a vaguely man-shaped form twisted and jerked in the heart of the smoke, as if it were on fire.

Clarrin and Esda spat, and rode on, letting the evening breeze carry the smoke away in their wake.

The pursuit, when it finally came in the wake of blame-casting and name-calling, was vicious. Clarrin felt extremely lucky that they crossed into Rethwellan with twenty-six still alive.

Or rather, twenty-seven. Twenty-six men, and one special little girl, who could now live, and laugh, and play in the warm morning sun. Without fear, and without threat.

Fifteen days later, Clarrin crossed back into Karse, his men with him, all disguised as scholars. They quickly dispersed, each with provisions and a horse, and a series of uncomfortable questions.

There were more young ones to save.

And after all, at the right time and place, a question was more deadly than any sword.

The Demon's Den

by Tanya Huff

Bom In the Maritimes, Tanya Huff now lives and writes in rural Ontario. On her way there, she spent three years in the Canadian Naval Reserve and got a degree in Radio and Television Arts which the cat threw up on. Although no members of her family are miners, "The Demon's Den" is the third story she's written about those who go underground, and mines have been mentioned in a number of her books. She has no idea where it's coming from, but decided not to fight it. Her last book out was No Quarter (DAW, March 1996), the direct sequel to Fifth Quarter (DAW, August, 1995) and her next book will be Blood Debt (DAW, April 1997), a fifth Vicki/Henry/Celluci novel.

The mine had obviously been abandoned for years. Not even dusk hid the broken timbers and the scree of rock that spilled out of the gaping black hole.

Jors squinted into the wind, trying and failing to see past the shadows. -.Are you sure it went in there?:

:Of course I'm sure. I con smell the blood trail.:

.-Maybe it's not hurt as badly as we thought. Maybe it'll be fine until morning.: His Companion gave a little buck. Jors clutched at the saddle and sighed. :All right, all right, I'm going.:

No one at the farmstead had known why the mountain cat had come down out of the heights—perhaps the deer it normally hunted had grown scarce; perhaps a more aggressive cat had driven it from its territory; perhaps it had grown lazy and decided sheep were less work. No one at the farmstead cared. They'd tried to drive it off.

It had retaliated by mauling a shepherd and three dogs. Now, they wanted it killed.

Just my luck to be riding circuit up here in the Great White North. Jors swung out of the saddle and pulled his gloves off with his teeth. :How am I supposed to shoot it when I won't be able to see it?: he asked, unstrapping his bow.

Gevris turned his head to peer back at his Chosen with one sapphire eye. :It's hurt.:

:I know.: The wind sucked the heat out of his hands and he swore under his breath as one of the laces of his small pack knotted tight.

:You wounded it.:

:I know, damn it, I know!: Sighing, he rested his head on the Companion's warm flank. :I'm sorry. It's just been a long day and I should never have missed that shot.:

:No one makes every shot, Chosen.:

The warm understanding in the mind-touch helped.

The cat had been easy to track. By late afternoon, they'd known they were close. At sunset, they spotted it outlined against a gray and glowering sky. Jors had carefully aimed, carefully let fly, and watched in horror as the arrow thudded deep into a golden haunch. The cat had screamed and fled. They'd had no choice but to follow.

The most direct route up to the mine was a treacherous path of loose shale. Jors slipped, slammed one knee into the ground, and somehow managed to catch himself before he slid all the way back to the bottom.

:Chosen? Are you hurt?:

Behind him, he could hear hooves scrabbling at the stone and he had to grin. :I'm fine, worrywart. Get back on solid ground before you do yourself some damage.:

Here I go into who-knows-what to face a wounded mountain cat, and he's worried that I've skinned my knee. Shaking his head, he struggled the rest of the way to the mine entrance and then turned and waved down at the glimmering white shape below. -.I'm here. I'm fine.: Then he frowned and peered down at the ground. The cart tracks coming out of the mine bumped down a series of

jagged ledges, disappeared completely, then reappeared down where his Companion was standing.

:I don't like this.:

If he squinted, he could easily make out Gevris sidestepping nervously back and forth, a glimmer of white amidst the evening shadows. :Hey, I don't like this either, but. . .:

:Something is going to happen.:

Jors chewed on his lip. He'd never heard his usually phlegmatic Companion sound so unsettled. A gust of wind blew cold rain in his face and he shivered. :It's just a storm. Go back under the trees so you don't get soaked.:

:No. Come down. We can come back here in the morning.:

Storm probably has him a bit spooked and he doesn't want to admit it. The Herald sighed and wished he could go along with his Companion's sudden change of mind. .7 can't do that.: As much as he didn't want to go into that hole, he knew he had to. .7 wounded it. I can't let it die slowly, in pain. I'm responsible for its death.:

He felt reluctant agreement from below and, half wishing Gevris had continued to argue, turned to face the darkness. Setting his bow to one side, he pulled a small torch out of his pack, unwrapped the oilskin cover, and, in spite of wind and stiff fingers, got it lit.

The flame helped a little. But not much.

How am I supposed to hold a torch and aim a bow? This is ridiculous. But he'd missed his shot, and he couldn't let an animal, any animal, die in pain because of something he'd done.

The tunnel slopped gently back into the hillside, the shadows becoming more impenetrable the farther from the entrance he went. He stepped over a fallen beam and a pile of rock, worked his way around a crazily angled corner, saw a smear of blood glistening in the torchlight, and went on. His heart beat so loudly he doubted he'd be able to hear the cat if it should turn and attack.

A low shadow caught his eye and against his better judgment, he bent to study it. An earlier rockfall had

exposed what looked to be the upper corner of a cave. In the dim, flickering light he couldn't tell how far down it went, but a tossed rock seemed to fall forever.

The wind howled. He jumped, stumbled, and laughed shakily at himself. It was just the storm rushing past the entrance; he hadn't gone so far in that he wouldn't be able to hear it.

Then his torch blew out.

:Chosen!:

:No, it's okay. I'm all right.: His startled shout still echoed, bouncing back and forth inside the tunnels, :I'm in the dark, but I'm okay.: Again, he set his bow aside and pulled his tinderbox from his belt pouch with trembling fingers. Get a grip, Jors, he told himself firmly. You're a Herald. Heralds are not afraid of the dark.

And then the tunnel twisted. Flung to his knees and then his side, Jors wrapped his head in his arms and tried to present as small a target as possible to the falling rock. The earth heaved as though a giant creature deep below struggled to get free. With a deafening roar, a section of the tunnel collapsed. Lifted and slammed against a pile of rock, Jors lost track of up and down. The world became noise and terror and certain death.

Then half his body was suspended over nothing at all. He had a full heartbeat to realize what was happening before he fell, a large amount of loose rock falling with him.

It seemed to go on forever; turning, tumbling, some-tunes sliding, knowing that no one could survive the eventual landing.

But he did. Although it took him a moment to realize it.

:Chosen! Jors! Chosen!:

:Gevris . . .: The near panic in his Companion's mind-touch pulled him up out of a gray-and-red blanket of pain, the need to reassure the young stallion delaying his own hysteria. :I'm alive. Calm down, I'm alive.: He spit out a mouthful of blood and tried to move.

Most of the rock that had fallen with him seemed to have landed on his legs. Teeth clenched, he flexed his

toes inside his boots and almost cried in relief at the response. Although muscles from thigh to ankle spasmed, everything worked, :/ don't think I'm even hurt very badly.: Which was true enough as far as it went. He had no way of telling what kind of injuries lurked under the masking pressure of the rock.

:I'm coming!:

:No, you're not!: He'd landed on his stomach, facing up a slope of about thirty degrees. He could lift his torso about a handspan. He could move his left arm freely. His right was pined by his side. Breathing heavily, he rested his cheek against the damp rock and closed his eyes. It made no difference to the darkness, but it made him feel better. :Gevris, you're going to have to go for help. I can't free myself, and you can't even get to me.: He tried to envision his map, tried to trace the route they'd taken tracking the cat, tried to work out distances. •.There's a mining settlement closer than the farmstead, just follow the old mine trail, and it should take you right to it.:

:But you . . .:

:I'm hot going anywhere until you get back.:

I'm not going anywhere, he repeated to the darkness as he felt the presence of his Companion move rapidly away. I'm not going anywhere. Unfortunately, as the mountain pressed in on him and all he could hear was his own terror filling the silence, that was exactly what he was afraid of.

It was hard to hear anything over the storm that howled around the chimneys and shutters, but Ari's ears were her only contact with the world and she'd learned to sift sound for value. Head cocked, tangled hair falling over the ruin of her eyes, she listened. Rider coming. Galloping hard. She smiled, smug and silent. Not much went on that she didn't know about first. Something must've gone wrong somewhere. Only reason to be riding so hard in this kind of weather.

The storm had been no surprise, not with her stumps

aching so for the past two days. She rubbed at them, hacking and spitting into the fire.

"Mama, Auntie Ari did it again."

"Hush, Robin. Leave her alone."

That's right, leave me alone. She spat once more, just because she knew the child would still be watching, then lifted herself on her palms and hand-walked toward her bench in the corner.

"Ari, can I get you something?"

Sometimes she thought they'd never learn. Grunting a negative, because ignoring them only brought renewed and more irritating offers, she swung herself easily up onto the low bench just as the pounding began. Sounds like they didn't even dismount. I can't wait.

"Who can it be at this hour?"

Her cousin, Dyril. Answer it and find out, idiot.

"Stone me, it's a horse!"

The sound of hooves against the threshold was unmistakable. She could hear the creak of leather harness, the snorting and blowing of an animal ridden hard, could even smell the hot scent of it from all the way across the room—but somehow it didn't add up to horse.

And while the noises it was making were certainly horselike ...

From the excited babble at the door, Ari managed to separate two bits of relevant information; the horse was riderless and it was nearly frantic about something.

"What color is it?"

It took a moment for Ari to recognize the rough and unfamiliar voice as her own. A stunned silence fell, and she felt the eyes of her extended family turned on her. Her chin rose and her lips thinned. "Well?" she demanded, refusing to let them see she was as startled as they were. "What color is it?"

"He's not an it, Auntie Ari, he's a he. And he's white. And his eyes are blue. And horses don't got blue eyes." Young Robin was obviously smarter than she'd sus-pected. "Of course they don't. It's not a horse, you rock-headed morons. Can't you recognize a Companion when you see one?"

The Companion made a sound that could only be agreement. As the babble of voices broke out again, Ari snorted and shook her head in disbelief.

"A Companion without a Herald?"

"Is it searching?"

"What happened to the Herald?"

Ari heard the Companion spin and gallop away, return and gallop away again.

"I think it wants us to follow it."

"Maybe its Herald is hurt, and it's come here for help."

And did you figure that out all on your own? Ari rubbed at her stumps as various members of the family scrambled for jackets and boots and some of the children were sent to rouse the rest of the settlement.

When with a great thunder of hooves, the rescue party galloped off, she beat her head lightly against the wall, trying not to remember.

"Auntie Ari?"

Robin. Made brave no doubt by her breaking silence. Well, she wouldn't do it again.

"Auntie Ari, tell me about Companions." He had a high-pitched, imperious little voice. "Tell me."

Tell him about Companions. Tell bun about the time spent at the Collegium wishing her Blues were Gray. Tell him how the skills of mind and hand that had earned her a place seemed so suddenly unimportant next to the glorious honor of being Chosen. Tell him of watching them gallop across Companion's Field, impossibly beautiful, impossibly graceful—infinitely far from her mechanical world of stresses and supports and levers and gears.

Tell him how she'd made certain she was never hi the village when the Heralds came through riding circuit because it hurt so much to see such beauty and know she could never be a part of it. Tell him how after the accident she'd stuffed her fingers in her ears at the first sound of bridle bells.

Tell him any or all of that?

"You saw them, didn't you, Auntie Ari. You saw them up close when you were in the city." "Yes." And then she regretted she'd said so much.

.•Chosen! I've brought hands to dig you out!:

jots released a long, shuddering breath that warmed the rock under his cheek and tried very, very hard not to cry.

:Chosen?:

The distress in his Companion's mind-touch helped him pull himself together. -.I'm okay. As okay as I was, anway. I just, I just missed you.: Gevris' presence settled gently into his mind, and he clung to it, more afraid of dying alone in the dark than of just dying.

:Do not think of dying.:

He hadn't realized he'd been thinking of it in such a way as to be heard. .'Sorry. / guess I'm not behaving much like a Herald, am I?:

A very equine snort made him smile. :You are a Herald. Therefore, this is how Heralds behave trapped in a mine.:

The Companion's tone suggested he not argue the point so he changed the subject. :How did you manage to communicate with the villagers?:

:When they recognized what I was, they followed me. Once they saw where you were, they understood. Some have returned to the village for tools.: He paused and Jors had the feeling he was deciding whether or not to pass on one last bit of information. :They call this place the Demon's Den.:

:Oh, swell.:

:There are no real demons in it.:

:That makes me feel so much better.:

:It should,: Gevris pointed out helpfully.

“Herald's down in the Demon's Den." The storm swirled the voice hi through the open door stirring the room up into a frenzy of activity. All the able-bodied who hadn't followed the Companion ran for jackets and boots. The rest buzzed like a nest of hornets poked with a stick.

Ari sat in her corner, behind the tangled tent of her hair, and tried not to remember.

There was a rumble, deep in the bowels of the hillside, a warning of worse to come. But they kept working because Ari had braced the tunnels so cleverly that the earth could move as it liked and the mine would move with it, flexing instead of shattering.

But this time, the earth moved in a way she hadn't anticipated. Timbers cracked. Rock began to fall. Someone screamed.

Jors jerked his head up and hissed through his teeth in pain.

:Chosen?:

:I can hear them. I can hear them digging.: The distant sound of metal against stone was unmistakable.

Then it stopped.

:Gevris? What's wrong? What's happening?:

:Their lanterns keep blowing out. This hillside is so filled with natural passageways that when the winds are strong, they can't keep anything lit.:

:And it's in an unstable area.: Jors sighed and rested his forehead against the back of his left wrist. .-What kind of an idiot would put a mine in a place like this?:

:The ore deposits were very good.:

:How do you know?: Their familiar banter was all that was keeping him from despair.

:These people talk a great deal.:

:And you listen.: He clicked his tongue, knowing his Companion would pick up the intent if not the actual noise. -.Shame on you. Eavesdroppers never hear good of themselves.:

Only the chime of a pebble, dislodged from somewhere up above answered.

:Gevris?:

:There was an accident.:

:Was anyone hurt?:

:I don't... no, not badly. They're coming out.:

He felt a rising tide of anger before he "heard" his Companion's next words.

:They're not going back in! I can't make them go back in! They say it's too dangerous! They say they need the light/ I can't make them go back in.:

In his mind Jors could see the young stallion, rearing and kicking and trying to block the miners who were leaving him there to die. He knew it was his imagination, for their bond had never been strong enough for that kind of contact. He also knew his imagination couldn't be far wrong when the only answer to his call was an overwhelming feeling of angry betrayal.

The damp cold had crept through his leathers and begun to seep into his bones. He'd fallen just before full dark and, although time was hard to track buried in the hillside, it had to still be hours until midnight. Nights were long at this time of the year and it would grow much, much colder before sunrise.

Ari knew when Dyril and the others returned that they didn't have the Herald with them. Knew it even before the excuses began.

"That little shake we had earlier was worse up there. What's left of the tunnels could go at any minute. We barely got Neegan out when one of the last supports collapsed."

"You couldn't get to him."

It wasn't a question. Not really. If they'd been able to get to him, they'd have brought him back.

"Him, her. We couldn't even keep the lanterns lit."

Someone tossed their gear to the floor. "You know what it's like up there during a storm; the wind howling through all those cracks and crevasses. . . ."

Ari heard Dyril sigh, heard wood creak as he dropped onto a bench. "We'll go back in the morning. Maybe when we can see. . . ."

Memories were thick in the silence.

"If it's as bad as all that, the Herald's probably dead anyway."

"He's alive!" Ari shouted over the murmur of agreement. Oh, sure, they'd feel better if they thought the Herald was dead, if they could convince themselves they hadn't left him there to die, but she wasn't going to let them off so easily.

"You don't know that."

"The Companion knows it!" She bludgeoned them with her voice because it was all she had. "He came to you for help!"

"And we did what we could! The Queen'll understand. The Den's taken too many lives already for us to throw more into it."

"Do you think I don't know that?" She could hear the storm throwing itself against the outside of the house but nothing from within. It almost seemed as though she were suddenly alone in the room. Then she heard a bench pushed back, footsteps approaching.

"Who else do you want that mine to kill?" Dyril asked quietly. "We lost three getting you out. Wasn't that enough?"

It was three too many, she wanted to say. If you think I'm grateful, think again. But the words wouldn't come. She swung down off her bench and hand-walked along the wall to the ladder in the corner. Stairs were difficult but with only half a body to lift, she could easily pull herself, hand over hand, from rung to rung—her arms and shoulders were probably stronger now than they'd ever been. Adults couldn't stand in the loft so no one bothered her there.

"We did all we could," she heard Dyril repeat wearily, more to himself than to her. She supposed she believed him. He was a good man. They were all good people. They wouldn't leave anyone to die if they had any hope of getting them out.

She was trapped with four others, deep underground. They could hear someone screaming, the sound carried on the winds that howled through the caves and passages around the mine.

By the time they could hear rescuers frantically digging with picks and shovels, there were only three of them still alive. Ari hadn't been able to feel her legs for some time, so when they pried enough rubble dear to get a rope through, she forced her companions out first The Demon's Den had been her mine and they were used to following her orders.

Then the earth moved again and the passage dosed. She lay there, alone, listening to still more death carried on the winds and wishing she'd had the courage to tell them to leave her. To get out while they still could.

"Papa, what happened to the Companion?"

"He's still out there. Brandon tried to bring him into the stable and got a nasty bite for his trouble."

Ari moved across the loft to the narrow dormer and listened. Although the wind shrieked and whistled around the roof, she could hear the frenzied cries of the Companion as he pounded through the settlement, desperately searching for someone who could help.

"Who else do you want that mine to kill?"

She dug through the mess on the floor for a leather strap and tied her hair back off her face. Her jacket lay crumpled in a damp pile where she'd left it, but that didn't matter. It'd be damper still before she was done.

Down below, the common room emptied as the family headed for their beds, voices rising and falling, some needing comfort and absolution, some giving it. Ari didn't bother to listen. It didn't concern her.

Later, in the quiet, she swarmed down the ladder and hand-walked to where she'd heard the equipment dropped and sorted out a hundred-foot coil of rope. Draping it across her chest, she continued to the door. The latch was her design; her fingers remembered it.

The ground felt cold and wet under the heavy calluses on her palms, and she was pretty sure she felt wet snow in the rain that slapped into her face. She moved out away from the house and waited.

Hooves thundered past her, around her, and stopped.

"No one," she said, "knows the Den better than I do. I'm the only chance your Herald has left. You've probably called for others—other Heralds, other Companions—but they can't be close enough to help or you wouldn't still be hanging around here. The temperature's dropping, and time means everything now."

The Companion snorted, a great gust of warm, sweetly-scented breath replacing the storm for a moment. She hadn't realized he'd stopped so close, and she fought to keep from trembling.

"I know what you're thinking. But I won't need eyes in the darkness, and you don't dig with legs and feet. If you can get me there, Shining One, I can get your Herald out."

The Companion reared and screamed a challenge.

Ari held up her hands. "I know you understand me," she said. "I know you're more than you appear. You've got to believe me. I will get your Herald out.

"If you lie down, I can grab the saddle horn and the cantle and hold myself on between them." On a horse, it would never work, even if she could lift herself on, she'd never stay in the saddle once it started to move; her stumps were too short for balance. But then, she wouldn't be having this conversation with a horse.

A single whicker, and a rush of displaced air as a large body went to the ground a whisker's distance from her.

Ari reached out, touched one silken shoulder, and worked her way back. You must be desperate to be going along with this, she thought bitterly. Never mind. You'll see. Mounting was easy. Staying in the saddle as the Companion rose to his feet was another thing entirely. Somehow, she managed it. "All right." A deep breath and she balanced her weight as evenly as she could, stumps spread. "Go."

He leaped forward so suddenly he nearly threw her off. Heart in her throat, she clung to the saddle as his pace settled to an almost gentle rocking motion completely at odds with the speed she knew he had to be traveling. She could feel the night whipping by her, rain and snow stinging her face.

In spite of everything, she smiled. She was on a Companion. Riding a Companion.

It was over too soon.

* * *

:Jors? Chosen!:

The Herald coughed and lifted his head. He'd been having the worst dream about being trapped in a cave-in. That's what I get for eating my own cooking. And then he tried to move his legs and realized he wasn't dreaming.: Gevris! You went away!:

:I'm sorry, heart-brother. Please forgive me, but when they wouldn't stay. . . .: The thought trailed off, lost in an incoherent mix of anger and shame.

:It's all right.: Jors carefully pushed his own terror back in order to reassure the Companion. :You're back now, that's all that matters.:

:1 brought someone to get you out.:

:But I thought the mine was unstable, still collapsing.:

:She says she can free you.:

:You're talking to her?: As far as Jors knew, that never happened. Even some Heralds were unable to mind-touch clearly.

:She's talking to me. I believe she can do what she says.:

Jors swallowed and took a deep breath. :No. It's too dangerous. There's already been one accident. I don't want anyone dying because of me.:

:Chosen . .. The Companion's mind-touch held a tone Jors had never heard before. . I don't think she's doing it for you.:

When they stopped, An took a moment to work some feeling back into each hand in turn. Herald's probably going to have my finger marks permanently denting his gear. Below her, the Companion stood perfectly still, waiting.

"We're going to have to do this together, Shining One, because if I do it alone, I'll be too damned slow. Go past the mine about fifty feet and look up. Five, maybe six feet off the ground there should be a good solid shelf of rock. If you can get us onto it, we can follow it right to the mouth of the mine and avoid all that shale shit."

The Companion whickered once and started walking. When she felt him turn, Ari scooted back as far as she

could in the saddle, and flopped forward, trapping the coil of rope under her chest. Stretching her arms down and around the sleek curve of his barrel, she pushed the useless stirrups out of her way and clutched the girth.

"Go," she grunted.

He backed up a few steps, lunged forward, and the world tilted at a crazy angle.

Ari held her uncomfortable position until he stopped on the level ground at the mouth of the mine. "Remind me," she coughed, rubbing the spot where the saddle horn had slammed into her throat, "not to do that again. All right, Shining One, I'll have to get off the same way I got on."

His movement took her by surprise. She grabbed for the saddle, her cold fingers slipped on the wet leather, and she dismounted a lot farther from the ground than she'd intended.

A warm muzzle pushed into her face as she lay there for a moment, trying to get her breath back. "I'm okay," she muttered. "Just a little winded." Teeth gritted against the pain in her stumps, she pushed herself up.

Soft lips nuzzled at her hair.

"Don't worry, Shining One." Tentatively she reached out and stroked the Companion's velvet nose. "I'll get your Herald out. There's enough of me left for that" She tossed her head and turned toward the mine, not needing eyes to find the gaping hole in the hillside. Icy winds dragged across her cheeks, and she knew by their touch that they'd danced through the Demon's Den before they came to her.

"Now, then . . ." She was pleased to hear that her voice remained steady. "... we need to work out a way to communicate. At the risk of sounding like a bad Bardic tale, how about one whicker for yes and two for no?"

There was a single, soft whicker just above her head.

"Good. First of all, we have to find out how badly he ..." A pause. "Your Herald is a he?" At the Companion's affirmative, she went on. ". . . how badly he's hurt. Ask him if he has any broken bones."

:I don't know. I can't move enough to tell.:

Ari frowned at the answer. "Yes and no? Is he buried?"

:Only half of me.:

:Chosen, I have no way to tell her that.:

.•Then, yeah, I guess I'm buried.:

"Shit." There could be broken bones under the rock, the pressure keeping the Herald from feeling the pain. Well, she'd just have to deal with that when she got to it. "Is he buried in the actual mine, or in a natural cave?"

:She seems to think it's good you're in a natural cave.:

jots traced the rock that curved away from him with his free hand. His fingers were so numb he could barely feel it. :Why?:

:I can't ask her that, Chosen. She wants to know if you turned left around a corner, about thirty feet in from the entrance to the mine.:

:Left?: He tried to remember, but the cold had seeped into his brain and thoughts moved sluggishly through it.

"I—I guess so."

"Okay." Ari tied one end of the rope around her waist as she spoke. "Ask him if the quake happened within, say, twenty feet of that corner."

.7 don't know. I don't remember. Gevris, I'm tired. Just stay with me while I rest.:

:No! Mean-brother, do not go to steep. Think, please, were you close to the comer?:

He remembered seeing the blood. Then stopping and looking into the hole in the side of the tunnel. :Yes. I think no more than twenty feet.:

"Good. We're in luck, there's only one place on this level where the cave system butts up against the mine. I know approximately where he is. He's close." She reached forward and sifted a handful of rubble. "I just have to get to him."

A hundred feet of rope would reach the place where the quake threw him out of the mine, but, after that, she could only hope he hadn't slid too deep into the catacombs.

Turning to where she could feel the bulk of the Companion, Ari's memory showed her a graceful white stallion, outlined against the night. "Once I get the rope around him, you'll have to pull him free."

He whickered once and nudged her and she surrendered to the urge to bury face and fingers in his mane. When she finally let go, she had to bite her lip to keep from crying. "Thanks. I'm okay now."

Using both arms at once, then swinging her body forward between them, Ari made her way into the mine, breathing in the wet, oily scent of the rock, the lingering odors of the lanterns Dyril and the others had used, and the stink of fear, old and new. At the first rockfall she paused, traced the broken pieces, and found the passage the earlier rescue party had dug.

Her shoulder brushed a timber support and she hurried past the memories.

A biting gust of wind whistled through a crack up ahead, flinging grit up into her face. "Nice try," she muttered. "But you threw me into darkness five summers ago and I've learned my way around." Then she raised her voice. "Shining One, can you still hear me?" The Companion's whicker echoed eerily. "You don't need to worry about him running out of air, this place is like a sieve, so remind your Herald to keep moving. Tell him to keep flexing his muscles if that's all he can do. He's got to keep the blood going out to the extremities."

:What extremities?: Jors heard himself giggle and wondered what there was to laugh about.

:Chosen, listen to me. You know what the cold can do. You have to move.:

:I know that.: Everyone knew that. It wasn't like he hadn't been paying attention when they'd been teaching winter survival skills, it was just, well, it was just so much effort.

:Wiggle your toes!:

Gevris somehow managed to sound exactly like the Weaponsmaster, and Jors found himself responding instinctively. To his surprise, his toes still wiggled. And it still hurt. The pain burned some of the frost out of his brain and left him gasping for breath, but he was thinking more clearly than he had been in some time. With his Companion's encouragement, he began to systematically work each muscle that still responded.

The biggest problem with digging out the Demon's Den had always been that the rock shattered into pieces so small it was like burrowing through beads in a box. The slightest jar would sent the whole crashing to the ground.

Her eyes in her fingertips, Ari inched toward the buried Herald, not digging but building a passageway, each stone placed exactly to hold the weight of the next. Slowly, with exquisite care, she moved up and over the rockfall that had nearly killed Neegan. She lightly touched the splintered end of the shattered support, then went on. She had no time to mourn the past.

Years of destruction couldn't erase her knowledge of the mine. She'd been trapped in it for too long.

"Herald? Can you hear me?"

Jors turned his face toward the sudden breeze. "Yes . . ." -.Gevris, she's here!:

:Good.: Although he sounded relieved, Jors realized the Companion didn't sound the least bit surprised.

:You knew she'd make it.:

Again the strange tone the Herald didn't recognize. .7 believed her when she said she'd get you out.:

"Cover your head with your hands, Herald."

Startled, he curved his left arm up and around his head just in time to prevent a small shower of stones from ringing off his skull.

"I'm on my way down."

A moment later he felt the space around him fill, and a rough jacket pressed hard against his cheek.

"Sorry. Just let me get turned."

Turned? Teeth chattering from the cold, he strained back as far as he could but knew it would make little difference. There wasn't room for a cat to turn let alone a person. To his astonishment, his rescuer seemed to double back on herself.

"Ow. Not a lot of head room down here."

From the sound of her voice and the touch of her hands, she had to be sitting tight up against his side, her upper body bent across his back. He tried to force his half-frozen mind to work. "Your legs . . ."

"Are well out of the way, Herald. Trust me." Ari danced her fingers over the pile of rubble that pinned him. "Can you still move your toes."

It took him a moment to remember how. "Yes."

"Good. You're at the bottom of a roughly wedge-shaped crevasse. Fortunately, you're pointing the right way. As soon as I get enough of you clear, I'm going to tie this rope around you, and your Companion on the other end is going to inch you up the slope as I uncover your legs. That means if anything's broken, it's going to drag, but if we don't do it that way, there won't be room down here for me, you, and the rock. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Good." One piece at a time, she began to free his right side.

:Gevris, she doesn't have any legs.:

:I know.:

:How did she get here?:

: brought her.:

:That's impossible!:

The Companion snorted. .-Obviously not. She's blind, too.:

"What!" His incredulous exclamation echoed through the Demon's Den.

Ari snorted and jammed a rock into the crack between two others. It wasn't difficult to guess what had caused that reaction, not when she knew the silence had to be filled with dialogue she couldn't hear. She waited for him to say something Herald-like and nauseating about overcoming handicaps as though they were all she was.

To her surprise, he said only, "What's your name?"

It took her a moment to find her voice. "Ari."

"Jors."

She nodded, even though she knew he couldn't see the gesture. "Herald Jors."

"Are you one of the miners?"

Why was he talking to her when he had his Companion to keep him company? "Not exactly." So far tonight, she'd said more than she'd said in the five summers since the accident. Her throat ached.

"Gevris says he's never seen anyone do what you did to get in here. He says you didn't dig through the rubble, you built a tunnel around you using nothing but your hands."

"Gevris?"

"My Companion. He's very impressed. He believes you can get me out."

Ari swallowed hard. His Companion believed in her. It was almost funny in a way. "You can move your arm now."

"Actually," he gasped, trying not to writhe, "no, I can't." He felt her reach across him, tuck her hand under his chest, and grab his wrist. He could barely feel her touch against his skin.

"On three." She pulled immediately before he could tense.

"That wasn't very nice," he grunted when he could speak again.

She ignored his feeble attempt to tug his arm out of her hands and continued rubbing life back into the chilled flesh. "There's nothing wrong with it. It's just numb because you've been lying on it in the cold."

"Oh? Are you a Healer, then?"

He sounded so indignant that she smiled and actually

answered the question. "No, I was a mining engineer. I designed this mine."

"Oh." He'd wondered what kind of idiot would put a mine in a place like this. Now he knew.

Ari heard most of the thought and gritted her teeth. "Keep flexing the muscles." Untying the end of the rope from around her own waist, she relied it just under the Herald's arms. It felt strange to touch a young man's body again after so long. Strange and uncomfortable. She twisted and began to free his legs.

Jors listened to her breathing and thought of being alone in darkness forever.

:I'm here, Chosen.:

:I know. But I wasn't thinking of me. I was thinking about Ari. . . Ari. . .: "Were you at the Collegium?"

"I was."

"You redesigned the hoists from the kitchen so they'd stop jamming. And you fixed that pump in Bardic that kept flooding the place. And you made the practice dummy that . . ."

"That was a long time ago."

"Not so long," Jors protested trying to ignore the sudden pain as she lifted a weight off his hips. "You left the Blues the summer I was Chosen."

"Did I?"

"They were all talking about you. They said there wasn't anything you couldn't build. What happened?"

Her hands paused. "I came home. Be quiet. I have to listen." It wasn't exactly a lie.

Working as fast as she could, Ari learned the shape of the stone imprisoning the Herald, its strengths, its weaknesses. It was all so very familiar. The tunnel she'd built behind her ended here. She finished it in her head, and nodded, once, as the final piece slid into place.

"Herald Jors, when I give you the word, have your Companion pull gently but firmly on the rope until I tell you to stop. I can't move the rest of this off of you so I'm going to have to move you out from under it."

Jors nodded, realized how stupid that was, and said, "I understand."

Ari pushed her thumbs under the edge of a rock and took a deep breath. "Now."

The rock shifted, but so did the Herald.

"Stop." She changed her grip. "Now." A stone fell. She blocked it with her shoulder. "Stop."

Inch by inch, teeth clenched against the pain of returning circulation, Jors moved up the slope, clinging desperately to the rope.

"Stop."

"I'm out."

"I know. Now, listen carefully because this is important. On my way in, I tried to lay the rope so it wouldn't snag, but your Companion will have to drag you clear without stopping—one long smooth motion, no matter what."

"No matter what?" Jors repeated, twisting to peer over his shoulder, the instinctive desire to see her face winning out over the reality. The loose slope he was lying on shifted.

"Hold still!" Ari snapped. "Do you want to bury yourself again?"

Jors froze. "What's going to happen, Ari?"

Behind him, in the darkness, he heard her sigh. "Do you know what a keystone is, Herald?"

"It's the stone that takes the weight of the other stones and holds up the arch."

"Essentially. The rock that fell on your legs fell in such a way as to make it the keystone for this cavern we're in."

"But you didn't move the rock."

"No, but I did move your legs, and they were part of it."

"Then what's supporting the keystone?" He knew before she answered.

"I am."

"No."

"No what, Herald?"

"No. I won't let you sacrifice your life for mine."

"Yet Heralds are often called upon to give then- lives for others."

"That's different."

"Why?" Her voice cracked out of the darkness like a whip. "You're allowed to be noble, but the rest of us aren't? You're so good and pure and perfect and Chosen and the rest of us don't even have lives worth throwing away? Don't you see how stupid that is? Your life is worth infinitely more than mine!" She stopped and caught her breath on the edge of a sob. "There should never have been a mine here. Do you know why I dug it? To prove I was as good as all those others who were Chosen when I wasn't. I was smarter. I wanted it as much. Why not me? And do you know what my pride did, Herald? It killed seventeen people when the mine collapsed. And then my cowardice killed my brother and an uncle and a woman barely out of girlhood because I was afraid to die. My life wasn't worth all those lives. Let my death be worth your life at least."

He braced himself against her pain. "I can't let you die for me."

"And yet if our positions were reversed, you'd expect me to let you die for me." She ground the words out through the shards of broken bones, of broken dreams. "Heralds die for what they believe in all the time. Why can't I?"

"You've got it wrong, Ari," he told her quietly. "Heralds die, I won't deny that. And we all know we may have to sacrifice ourselves someday for the greater good. But we don't die for what we believe in. We live for it."

Ari couldn't stop shaking, but it wasn't from the cold or even from the throbbing pain in her stumps.

"Who else do you want that mine to kill?"

"This, all this, is my responsibility. I won't let it kill anyone else."

Because he couldn't reach her with his hands, Jors put his heart in his voice and wrapped it around her. "Neither will I. What will happen if you grab my legs and Gevris pulls us both free?"

He heard her swallow. "The tunnel will collapse."

"All at once?"

"No . . ."

"It'll begin here and follow us?"

"Yes. But not even a Companion could pull us out that quickly."

:Gevris . . .: Jors sketched the situation. :Do you think you can beat the collapse?:

:Yes, but do you think you can survive the trip? You'll be dragged on your stomach through a rock tunnel:

:Well, I'm not going to survive much longer down here, that's for certain—I'm numb from my neck to my knees. I'm in leathers. I should be okay.:

:What about your head?:

:Good point.: "Ari, you're wearing a heavy sheepskin coat, can you work part of it up over your head."

"Yes, but ..."

"Do it. And watch for falling rock, I'm going to do the same."

"What about your pack?"

He'd forgotten all about it. Letting the loop of rope under his armpits hold his weight, he managed to secure it like a kind of crude helmet.

"Grab hold of my ankles, Ari."

"Ari, I can't force you to live. I can only ask you not to die."

He felt a tentative touch, and then a firmer hold. :Go, Gevris!:

They stayed at the settlement for nearly a week. Although the Healer assured him that the hours spent trapped in the cold and the damp had done no permanent damage, Jors wore a stitched cut along his jaw as a remembrance of the passage out of the Demon's Den.

Ari was learning to live again. She still carried the weight of the lives lost to her pride, but she'd found the strength to bear the load.

"Don't expect sweetness and light, though," she cautioned the Herald as he and Gevris prepared to leave. "I was irritating and opinionated before the accident." Her mouth crooked slightly, and she added, with just a

hint of the old bitterness, "I expect that's why I was never Chosen."

Jors grinned as Gevris pushed his head into her shoulder. "He says you were chosen for something else."

"He said that?" Ari lifted her hand and lightly stroked the Companion's face. She smiled, the expression feeling strange and new. "Then I guess I'd better get on with it."

As they were riding out of the settlement to take up their interrupted circuit again, Jors turned back to wave and saw Ari sketching something wondrous in the air, prodded by the piping questions of young Robin.

:I guess she won't be alone in the dark anymore.:

Gevris tossed his head. :She never had to be.:

:Sometimes it's hard for people to realize that.: They rode in silence for a moment, then Jors sighed, watching his breath plume in the frosty air. :I'm glad they found the body of that cat—I'd hate to have to go back into the Den to look for it: Their route would take them nowhere near the Demon's Den. :That was as close to the Havens as I want to come for a while.: And then he realized.

:Gevris, you knew Ari wanted to die down there!:

:Yes.:

:Then why did you let her go into that mine?:

:Because I believed she could free you.:

:But. . .:

:And,: the Companion continued, :I believed you could free her.:

Ironrose

by Larry Dixon and Mel. White

Larry Dixon is the husband of Mercedes Lackey, and a successful artist as well as science fiction writer. Other stories co-authored by him appear in Dinosaur Fantastic, and Deals With the Devil. He and Mercedes live in Oklahoma.

Mel. White is an accomplished writer whose work also appears in Witch Fantastic and Aladdin: Master of the Lamp.

The tiny forge's flames comforted Ironrose. Its presence was a constant in his life; not always a focus of his attention, but there. Its fingers were of flame, which didn't caress him as a lover or massage him, but still provided comfort to him. The spring which fed water to its mechanical bellows was another constant, shaped by Adept magic to a simple water funnel that split off for quenching and tempering.

Tempering was another constant in Ironrose's life. He had always tempered himself, reciting oaths silently when upset, bringing his spirits up with songs when saddened. Sadness, though, had come to perch on his forge like a wingbroken vulture of late. His hard work was valued by the Clan, and his skills were ranked well above the average for Artificers. He was also well-thought-of among his Hawkbrother brethren—when he was thought of at all. And that was why sadness was making his temper brittle.

"Ironrose? I've brought your game."

He turned from the forge and laid down his tools. It was Sunrunner, the lithe, strong hunter, only two-thirds his height, half his weight, and utterly unattainable. She set down an overstuffed game bag on a chipped worktable, and a sack of greens and wild herbs a moment later. She looked at him expectantly.

"Ah. Sunrunner. Ah, thank you," he stammered. How foolish he must look! The largest of his Clan, all callused fingers and strong arms, intimidated by this young hunter. And surely she knew it. How could she not? His sweating certainly wasn't from the forge's heat. He caught himself staring at her as she stood in a shaft of the late afternoon sunlight, with dust motes dancing all around her. A sudden fire burned in the pit of his stomach and he wiped his sweaty palms on his thick apron, trying to calm the sudden thunder of his heart. It was all too embarrassing, and he tried to cover it by searching for the arrowheads and bow fittings he'd made for her. They'd been put somewhere. Sunrunner stood, looking quietly at him.

Where was Tullin when he was needed?

Tullin was, in fact, behind the forge polishing an iron ring with a small file. Absorbed in his task, he hadn't noticed the hunter's entry, but he did notice when Iron-rose's hammer blows stilled. That meant a visitor; someone to pick up an order or barter for the smith's services. The small hertasi cocked his head and flicked his tongue to taste the air. The scent identified the late afternoon visitor as the hunter, Sunrunner. Lately Ironrose had reacted like a spooked rabbit every time she visited the forge building. Ghosting up behind the smith, he tasted the air again to catch the nuances of Ironrose's scent. No doubt about it—courting pheremones. He bunked his large gold eyes in delight as he studied the scene. The lonely human had finally selected a mate: the hunter that his own mate served.

"Tullin!" Ironrose turned and found the small hertasi standing beside him, silently holding half a dozen arrowheads and the bow-fittings toward him. The smith accepted them with a growl and turned back to Sunrunner as Tullin collected the game bag and herbs. He identified the contents—rabbit, a tiny marshbuck, and tubers from the southern marsh—more than enough to feed the smith for two days. The hunter kept her bargain well.

Tullin watched Sunrunner trace a careful finger over the sharp edges of an arrowhead. She was a good provider: a quiet woman who appreciated well-crafted things. According to his mate, Coulsie, Sunrunner was also very even tempered. Emotionally, she was well suited to live with the shy metalsmith.

Critically, Tullin eyed her figure. Her legs were strong; her hips deep and wide; adequate for large babies—perhaps a bit too large for hertasi standards, but necessary for a woman of the Hawkbrothers. Tullin picked up the two bags of food and ghosted toward the rear door of the smithy. "You and she will be a very good match," he observed casually as he headed toward the kitchen. "When will you offer her a love token?"

"TULLIN!!!" Ironrose wheeled, gaping after him in outraged indignation. Sunrunner stood frozen in surprise. But all they saw of the hertasi was the mischievous flick of a silvery-scaled tail as Tullin vanished through the doorway.

Tullin's mate, Coulsie, was tall and stocky, with an air of quiet competence about her. She bobbed her head affectionately in greeting as he trotted in. He nuzzled her snout, tasting her warm, enticing scent.

"You take care of the hunter, Sunrunner, don't you?" he asked as he set down the bag with the rabbits. She nodded, handing him a sharp knife for skinning before selecting a knife for herself.

"My Ironrose is most interested in her. I think he needs to take her as his mate."

She slid her eyes toward him, her nostrils flared with surprise. "She is one who walks alone. She does not need a mate."

"Nonsense. Have you tasted their body scents when they are near each other? I have. They have a hunger for each other—and we both know how lonely they are.

The only thing that keeps them from courting others is their own belief that no one would want such as they for a mate. This sorrow over their inner selves is only an old path that they tread. Mated, they will overcome these things."

She gave a quick head jerk hi protest, but he nuzzled the point of her jaw and whispered softly, "Besides, what finer service can we offer than to bring the Hawkbroth-ers that which they most desire?"

Sunrunner's day had been as bad as the previous ten. Her hunting had been dismal, but she stayed by her barter with the ironcrafter and gave him the best she'd taken. The weather had been cold and damp. The seasonal dance was tonight, and she was one of the few hunters and scouts who wouldn't be going. She cloaked herself in bravado among her peers, taking this night on watch "so they could enjoy themselves," but the truth of the matter was that when it came to celebrations, she was a gray sparrow, as exciting as tree bark. So it had always been.

It didn't make sense, she repeated in her mind, as she had hundreds of times before. It didn't make sense. She was attractive enough; a hard worker, and responsible. Yet where were her suitors? Some of the scouts were like the rabbits they hunted, yet she was never offered a trysting feather.

It was a vicious trap—they didn't pursue her, so she stayed away from where they might. She left scout meetings early, avoided celebrations and gatherings, and became part of the forest at the slightest indication of direct attention from a potential lover. Besides, just any lover wasn't really what she wanted in her heart.

It didn't make sense, she thought, for yet another time.

But what could be done?

There was no doubt in Tullin's mind what needed to come next. The next step, of course, was to work on Ironrose, who was as stubborn as the mountains and as open to subtle hints as the rocks themselves. It would take a direct line, Tullin decided as he reentered the forge room. The smith was hammering away furiously on an arrowhead. He was putting too much force into the blows.

"Is that your love token for her? Usually they like something a little less practical," he observed, his tailtip twitching with amusement.

The smith turned, scowling. "I am in no mood for hertasi jokes," he thundered. Tullin raised his chin, baring his throat in a submissive gesture. "I had no intent to offend," he said gently. "Only, you were in a bad mood today and so was she, and I thought that it might do you both good to go to the dance together tonight. But you would not ask, so I thought I'd prod you into action."

"I don't need your help."

"True, but you do need a bath. I will have a hot soak ready for you in a hawk's stoop," Tullin said before Ironrose could muster a decent protest. "I can see tension in your neck and shoulders, and that makes for poor work. And it's irritating your bird."

In response, Ironrose's bondbird, a very old tufted owl, Opened one eye for almost an entire minute.

"I don't do poor work, Tullin, and I don't need a soak right now. I've got bow-fittings to design for Tallbush. Folding bow springs and runners, white to red and un-tempered. I have his drawings right here. . . ."

"Nonsense. You are tense. Your muscles are like ropes and the air tastes of your weariness. There is no one at the pools right now. You can soak for a finger's width of the moon's path and come back to work after that. It will give me time to restock the forge and to bring you the dinner that Coulsie has fixed. When you've eaten and rested, your hammer will ring truer."

Ironrose hesitated and Tullin offered his clinching argument. "Besides, a certain hertasi has prepared the third pool to your liking and has sent for a mug of wanned truespice tea and towels by way of an apology to you. It would be a shame to have them go to waste, you know."

Ironrose stared at him for a long moment and then, outsmarted, began removing his apron.

Sunrunner tallied her aches and bruises as she slogged down the path to the bathing pools. She'd almost gotten caught by a damned wyrsa while she was out today, and had scrapes and scratches that stung even after being bandaged and salved. She'd also lost three of her new arrowheads somehow, before they were even fletched onto shafts. Now she'd have to barter with the iron-crafter again. If she wasn't so sure that hertasi were infallibly trustworthy, she'd almost think Coulsie had taken them. Coulsie had only clucked when asked about them, though, and shooed Sunrunner off to the hot spring, promising to bring the hunter her evening meal while she rested and bathed.

She sniffed the humid air of the bathing pools appreciatively. Surely things were going to get better. She sat on a pad of moss beside a steaming pool and wearily removed her stained and sweaty clothes.

Ironrose yawned sleepily. The heat and the wine had relaxed him, and he was reluctant to go back to work in the forge. There was a slight rustle of leaves from the far edge of the pool. Tullin was announcing his presence, he thought with a grin. Usually the hertasi moved silently as the night, but Tullin seemed to be more aware of human needs and occasionally made small noises to alert Ironrose to his presence. He opened his eyes and met the gaze of Sunrunner.

She entered the water unself-consciously, then paused when her eyes met Ironrose's. "I ... hope you don't mind," she faltered. "Coulsie said this bath would be unoccupied tonight. I guess she didn't speak to your hertasi."

"Err ... no. I didn't mean to stay so long," he fumbled. "Fell asleep in the water." Ironrose reached nervously for his clothes, but found them missing. "Tullin!" he hissed.

"Is something wrong?" Sunrunner asked, splashing water over her sun-browned arms.

He sighed. "Only that the hertasi are being entirely too efficient tonight. It seems Tullin thought that my taking a bath would be the perfect chance to take my clothes to be washed and mended."

"I can pick another pool," she said with a smile.

"I'm afraid it's too late," he said wryly.

"You mean . . . ?"

Ironrose nodded. "Efficient hertasi. I just saw your clothes vanish. Nothing to do for it but wait till they decide to bring them back."

She glowered at the bushes, then slipped farther into the water. "Oh, well. I'm glad enough to find you here. I've lost some of my arrowheads and need to barter for more of them. Don't know what I did with them; I didn't lose that many arrows hunting."

He scrubbed at his arms with a small pumice stone. "I've got some extras at the shop. You could come by in the morning to pick them up," he offered.

"I'll need three of them," she said. "I'm down to six good arrows now and that's not enough for anything more than small game. I promised Winterstar a marsh-buck in exchange for a winter blanket. I'm surprised to find anyone here," she added. "I thought everyone would be at the dance."

He lowered his eyes to his forge-stained fingers, thick from years of hammering metal. "Great clumsy thing like me? At a dance?" he said wryly. "I'd terrorize the dancers and fall on the musicians. You never saw someone so awkward and untalented in your life."

"That's hard to believe," Sunrunner said as she palmed warm water onto her face. "You create some of the most beautiful metalwork. I remember that metal buckle in the shape of a lizard that you made for Starhawk."

He groped for conversation, finding that he enjoyed talking to her, desperate for an excuse to prolong the meeting. A soft rattle at his elbow alerted him that Tul-lin had returned and he turned to speak to the hertasi. But Tullin had vanished, leaving behind a platter of steaming rabbit and herbs—and two plates.

He filled one plate and shyly pushed it toward Sunrun-ner. "Please . . . won't you join me? There's more than enough, and Tullin brought an extra plate."

She reached for it, smiling her thanks. From his vantage point in the bushes, Tullin blinked his eyes in amusement. Things were going splendidly.

"Move over!" Coulsie hissed, sliding into place beside Tullin. Tsamar and Shonu eeled through the bushes behind her.

"Anything happening?" Shonu whispered though whispers were not necessary. The hertasi language sounded like a series of hisses and snorts to the untrained human ear, and blended in with the rustle of the leaves in the wind.

"They're sharing food," Tullin said with satisfaction. "And they're talking, too, about things other than hunting and metalsmithing. It's going splendidly."

Shonu snorted softly. "Splendidly? He misses her signals completely! Look, there, how she hoods her eyes and how her hand signals 'come closer' each time she says something to him. He sits there, nostrils dilated, ready for her, frozen like a statue, afraid to move. This isn't 'splendid,' Tullin. Perhaps we should ..." A long, clawed hand reached out and wrapped itself around Shonu's snout.

"I remember the last time you had a good idea," Tullin said with ironic humor. "We spent three weeks trying to explain the situation to the Hawkbrothers and getting them all settled down again. Bluethorn didn't speak to me for five days. I don't think we need any suggestions about Ironrose and Sunrunner."

"But . . . but just look at them. At that pace, our children's children will be having children before those two do more than say 'good morning.' Those two need help."

"I remember how well Icefalcon and Eventree fared with your help."

Shonu closed his mouth with a snap. Tullin blinked his amusement and turned back to watch the two in the pool.

"But it all grew back," Shonu protested in vain.

Tullin entered the smithy, blinking contentedly in the early morning sunlight. Ironrose was already there, stoking the fires of the forge. He tasted the air out of habit, noting that the smith was in a good mood this morning. Gliding over to the worktable, he examined the sketches that Ironrose had left. Today they'd begin on the new bow fittings for Tallbush. He eyed the design critically. They'd need a fairly flexible blend; one that could take a lot of stress . . . probably one of the eastern Blend Eight ingots. As he turned back toward the ingot storeroom, a scrap of parchment on the floor caught his eye. He bent and picked it up.

It was a drawing of a rose, caught at the earliest flush of bloom; a graceful spiral of stem and petals reaching upward like a promise. He studied it speculatively for a long moment, then tucked it into his tool pouch. He hefted an ingot of Blend Eight and then, on a sudden impulse, added a quarter-ingot of Blend Two to his load.

"Where are the drawings?" Ironrose frowned, pawing through the nominally organized litter on his worktable.

Tullin blinked innocently. "I set them down there, on the corner of your worktable next to the other project. It's still there. Perhaps you picked it up and put it somewhere else?"

Ironrose moved aside the metal bar of Blend Eight. "Not under them. I promised him the fittings would be finished in the next two days," he fretted. "I can't imagine what I've done with them."

"Why don't you work on your love token for Sunrunner while I look for them," Tullin suggested.

"Love token?"

Tullin pointed to the scrap of paper with the rose, lying pinned by the quarter ingot of Blend Two. "A fitting symbol; a gift more enduring than the feather, a thing of inner grace and beauty with a strong outer form. Like yourself, or like the hunter."

Ironrose stared in astonishment. "Really, she's not . . ." he began.

". . . interested in you? Your eyes fail to see what hertasi eyes see—how the hunter laughs with you as she does with no other; how her eyes follow you sadly when you leave. Human eyes may not note, but the hertasi do. Offer the token. It will not be refused." He leaned back, resting his weight on his tail, a casual pose belied by the interest in his wide eyes.

Ironrose hesitated. "If you think I am wrong, make the rose anyway. If she refuses it as a love token, say that it was only made as a gift.

"You have nothing to lose," he added, closing in for the verbal kill. "If nothing else, she'll probably give you a return gift of a marshbuck quarter."

Ironrose weighed the ingot in his large hand. Tullin blinked mildly and picked up a lightweight hammer from the workbench, silently offering it to the smith. Ironrose scowled and took the hammer and turned back to the forge, grumbling, the design for the rose in his hand.

As soon as the smith's head bent over the design, Tullin darted for the back door.

Coulsie flicked her tailtip in satisfaction as she took the day's kill from Sunrunner. Tullin slithered in the doorway behind Sunrunner, carrying two arrowheads for the hunter's bow. He nodded and touched muzzles with his mate, then handed the arrowheads to Sunrunner.

"I see you've had good hunting," he said. "Here are the three arrowheads you asked for—and two more, as a gift."

Sunrunner took them, bewildered but pleased. "For me? A gift?"

Tullin nodded knowingly. "I think Ironrose is very interested in you. He would like to offer you a courtship token, I think, but he is too afraid you will reject him— as the others have. So I bring these to you for him, though I know he would rather send his heart. He is afraid of love, but would welcome your friendship."

Coulsie hissed at him, shocked at his boldness. Tullin blinked one eye at her, his claws flexing with repressed mischief.

"Ironrose surprises me," Coulsie murmured in the hertasi tongue. "It is a good move, but one I thought he was too shy to make."

"I didn't say he SENT the two extra arrowheads, now did I?" Tullin said straight-faced. "Nor did I say that he made them. I said that they were a gift—and so they are. I made them for her myself."

Coulsie flicked her tongue over her muzzle thoughtfully. The Hawkbrothers relied on the truthfulness of the hertasi folk, and while Tullin hadn't lied, he hadn't told the full truth, either.

"Tullin . . ." she murmured.

"Trust me," Tullin whispered. "I have a plan."

"Move over, Coulsie! I can't see!" Tullin prodded. "You're blocking the view!"

She looked at him speculatively. "Is Ironrose coming?"

He nodded, wiggling to a comfortable position next to her.

"And—?"

"He finished the token. It took me a long tune to talk him into bringing it with him. I came ahead to check on things here and make sure that everything was prepared."

"Shonu's got dinner for two set up. H'shama and Huli have the kitchen relay ready and Tsamar is cooling the ashdown tea over in the stream."

"Good. Good," Tullin said with satisfaction. "There's Ironrose now. He's slow tonight."

Coulsie looked sympathetically at the tall form of the smith. "More awkward than usual, and stiffer in his movements—if that's possible," she noted as the smith began undressing. "Look how carefully he folds his clothes, taking his time. This was a hard decision for him. He looks scared."

Tullin wiggled, rubbing shoulders with her. "No more scared than I was when I danced my courting dance for you. But I had tasted your scent and knew what the answer would be. Poor taste-blind Hawkbrother only has what his eyes and his heart tell him. The eyes and the heart are notorious liars. Not like the tongue. You cannot lie to the tongue." He slithered down from his perch. "I don't see the love token he made," Tullin sniffed critically.

"The rose?" Coulsie said.

"Yes. It's not in his clothes either," Tullin said, rocking back on his heels. "He must have been afraid to bring it after all. I'll have to fix the oversight. Start the food and drinks; I'll be back in a moment!" he whispered as he slid through the leafy undergrowth.

The hunter toyed with the lacings of the smith's apron she had bartered a moon's hunting for. Tallbush had managed to keep it a secret; he was certain Ironrose would like it very much. She was not so sure, considering the circumstances her heart told her it should be given in.

Well. If he didn't seem receptive to a courting gesture, then it wasn't really one at all. Just a gift to a skilled artisan to thank him for his work. Nothing more. Easy to explain away.

Sunrunner smoothed down the outfit Coulsie had prepared for her. It seemed entirely too soft, and it fit the contours of her upper body perfectly. Below that, it draped like a hawk's tail when she walked.

At least it wasn't in some shocking color like a festival costume. It was a comfortable warm gray, speckled and smooth-seamed. The most confounding thing about it, she'd realized after it was on, was that it had lacings oh the back that she couldn't reach herself. How odd.

Ironrose cursed himself for his ineptitude. If only he was more romantic, like his brethren, he wouldn't feel like he was stumbling naked into a thornbush. He'd made the rose, thinking of her the whole time, crafting the petals with his most beloved tools. He had cooled it with his own breath, felt its heat radiating to his lips, and imagined Sunrunner's kiss. When he had polished it, he'd imagined Sunrunner's body, smoothed under his hands. And he had imagined her smile.

But now, he was as nervous as he had ever been in his life. He had mustered enough bravery to come here and meet her, but he didn't have the courage to go any further than that.

Then she appeared. He looked longingly at her, drowning in her hint of a smile, wishing that he could say or do something.

"Sunrunner. Good evening. Please. Join me."

She looked for all the world like a gray falcon flying along the ground as she came closer. When she slowed her walk, her clothing billowed around her legs like a falcon spreading its tail to land. She was grace itself in his eyes.

She gingerly laid down a pack and pulled back a few strands of hair from her eyes. "I wanted to thank you for the arrowheads. And for everything. I hope you like this."

"A ... gift? For me?"

Her face flushed red. She nodded, then looked away.

Oh, stars above, she . . . how could I have missed this opportunity? I'll look like a fool, and she won't know that I. ...

A small, taloned hand reached out and gently touched the smith's elbow. He turned. On a towel by the pool lay the iron rose, gleaming softly in the starlight.

Babysitter

by Josepha Sherman

Josephs Sherman is a fantasy writer and folklorist whose latest novels are the historical fantasies The Shattered Oath and Forging the Runes. Her latest folklore book is entitled Trickster Tales.

Thunder shook the earth and lightning seemed to shred the sky apart, and Leryn, crammed into this barely dry little cave in the middle of the gods-only-knew-where, thought wryly:

Of course. Why should my luck change now?

The whole expedition had been a farce from the start; he acknowledged that now with flawless hindsight. He was a city man, curse it, a settled gem merchant with a settled business. What in the name of all the powers had possessed him to up and leave it? To start over as a wandering merchant? (Elenya, lost Elenya—No!) Bad enough to go traveling among the more-or-less civilized peoples. But why had he ever been mad enough to come up here, to this cold, rocky, godsforsaken wilderness north of Lake Evendim? (Elenya, his mind insisted, his dear one, and the panicky flight from a grief that would not let him rest—No! He would not think of that!) Had he actually expected to start a profitable enough trade with the scattered little hunting parties, their furs for his pretty gems?

Furs, ha! What did he know of furs? Of course he'd failed! The locals had, as the saying went, seen him coming. And no one had thought to warn him about the bandits who called the wilderness home.

Leryn shivered. Of his troop, only he remained alive, and that only because he'd been lucky enough to outrun those bandits.

Lucky. He was alive, yes—but thoroughly lost in the wilderness with nothing more than his belt knife and the clothes on his back. Yes, and with a storm like the end of the world raging all about him.

And did you want to live? a voice deep within his mind wondered. Wouldn't it have been better to die at once and rejoin Elenya!

"No," Leryn said aloud, then laughed without humor.

What difference did it make? He'd probably wind up dead anyhow, more slowly, of starvation or cold.

At least the horrendous storm seemed finally to be wearing itself out. A few more rumbles, one last flash of light, a final burst of rain, then . . . silence.

Almost too stiff to move, Leryn uncurled out of his cramped shelter, stretching complaining muscles. And for all the burden of chill fear within him, he stood looking about for a moment, almost in wonder. Gods, it was beautiful out here, even in the middle of all his trouble, he had to admit that: rocks and sturdy northern forest all clean-washed and glittering in the first rays of sunlight breaking through the dissipating clouds. The air was so clear and cold it made him cough.

Eh, well, all this nature worship was fine, but it wasn't helping his plight a bit. He had a goodly way till sundown, judging from what he could see of the sun, and Leryn shrugged in wry bravado. If he headed due south, he must, eventually, come out on the shores of Lake Evendim, and from there, eventually, if he followed the lake along eastward, maybe some friendly settlement.

And if he didn't, well, at least moving was better than standing around waiting to die!

But Leryn hadn't gotten very far before he let out a startled yelp and dove in the prickly shelter of a thicket. What was that? Something large, tawny-gold ... a gryphon? Had he actually seen a gryphon? Leryn freely admitted he knew next to nothing about the magical, intelligent beings, other than what probably fantastic stories the locals had told him. All he could remember right now was that gryphons were definitely carnivorous!

But the gryphon ahead of him wasn't moving in the slightest, and after a wary moment, Leryn struggled out of hiding. And, much to his surprise, he heard himself gasp aloud in pity.

What a beautiful creature this was, all lovely, graceful sleekness—or rather, what a beautiful creature it had been.

The poor beast must have been caught in the storm. Either the lightning struck it, or the winds dashed it to the ground.

But why would such an experienced flyer (judging from its enormous wings) have taken such risks? Leryn saw the carcass of a deer still clutched in the gryphon's claws, and realized with a shock that it—she? The gryphon was slender enough to be a she—she, then, could only have been bringing food to her offspring. But where was her mate? Didn't gryphons mate for life?

Ah well, there wasn't anything he could do. Even if he could, by some wild chance, find where she'd hidden her young, there wasn't any way he could help them. Leryn shook his head (his own loss, his Elenya, and the child who had died with her—No!) and turned brusquely away. But then he turned again and hesitantly approached the dead gryphon.

"I hate to rob you, but I need this more than you."

His belt knife wasn't the best tool for the job, but at last, wincing at the messiness of the whole process (remembering days at home, when servants bought and butchered and served his meat to him), Leryn managed to cut off a good hunk of venison. What could he wrap it in? Leaves, yes, nice broad leaves like these ... there. It made a squishy package, slung over his back like this, but at least he wasn't going to starve right away.

Feeling a bit foolish, Leryn saluted the gryphon. "Thank you. You've given me life."

He headed on, picking his careful way through a tangle of rocks.

But then something wriggled away from him. Some-

thing screamed in alarm, a Jong, shrill skree of fright that shot right through Leryn's head.

"What in the name of—"

The terrified screaming broke off abruptly at the sound of his voice. A bright-eyed, curved-beaked little head poking up out of the rocks. "A gryphon!" A gryphon cub, rather, or pup or—or whatever the babies were called. "You belonged to that poor creature, didn't you?" Leryn murmured, and the baby stared. "Poor little one, you can't possibly understand that she's dead."

The baby trilled softly, such a quick, inquisitive little sound that Leryn smiled in spite of himself. "You've never seen a human before, have you? No, you're probably far too young for that. Probably never even left the nest before—before this."

The gryphon trilled again, impatiently this time. I'm hungry I the sound seemed to say. I'm hungry and lonely, and what are you going to do about it?

What, indeed?

You shouldn't feed it, Leryn warned himself. You'll only be postponing the inevitable.

But the baby trilled yet again, wriggling out of the rocks. Leryn froze, enchanted. What a funny, chubby, furry little thing! It was about the size of a hunting hound—though no hound ever bore those silly little downy wings or that spotted, striped, yellow-brown-tan baby fuzz. The gryphon must be very young, indeed, because it was still just a touch unsteady on its too-big-for-its-body paws.

Damn. / can't just walk away. "Uh, well, I do have some meat," Leryn told the baby. "I only hope you can eat solid food."

Gryphons didn't nurse their young, did they? No, not when even the babies sported those sharp, curved beaks! Leryn unwrapped the slice of venison, and the baby let out its ear-splitting scream.

"Hey, stop that! I'm moving as fast as I can!" Using his belt knife, Leryn cut off a tiny sliver of meat, wondering aloud, "I hope you don't need your food regurgitated, the way birds feed their chicks. There are limits."

Judging from the way the little gryphon practically tore the sliver of meat from his hand, that wasn't going to be a problem. It paused only long enough to gulp down the fragment, then started to scream again.

"Hey, hey, I told you, I'm cutting it up as fast as I can!"

That didn't stop the ear-splitting complaint. Leryn tapped the baby gently on the beak with the tip of his knife, and the astonished gryphon fell silent, staring at him in innocent wonder. The man winced.

"Oh, don't look at me like that. I'll give you a good meal, but that's it. After this, you're on your own."

The baby continued to stare.

"Stop that! Don't you understand? I can't stay here to take care of you, and I can't take you with me; you'd never be able to keep up. Ha, you can barely walk steadily as it is!"

But the gryphon continued to watch him even as it gulped down meaty sliver after sliver. At last it seemed to be full, its little belly gently rounded. With a satisfied little churr, the baby collapsed on Leryn's feet, staring adoringly up at him.

"Wonderful. Just wonderful. Now what am I going to do with you?"

He reached a tentative hand down to the spotted baby down, wondering if the little beast would let him touch it. When it didn't even flinch, he stroked the gryphon gently, enjoying the fuzzy feel of it. The baby smelled faintly of spices—cinnamon, was it?—and of that delicate newness that all young things seem to have in common.

And for a moment, Leryn's hand paused in its stroking as he remembered another baby, and Elenya—

Not I will not—No! "Ah, gods," Leryn murmured to the gryphon. "I can't leave you here to die."

The baby churred again, almost as though it understood, and Leryn sighed. Maybe this would work. The little thing was about dog-sized, after all, and he doubted it weighed much more; a creature meant for flight couldn't be too heavy. Leryn sighed again, knowing he'd already come to a decision.

"All right, baby. We travel together, at least till I can find an adult gryphon to take care of you. Assuming the creature doesn't try to rend me apart first as a baby-thief!"

Ah, well, one problem at a time. The gryphon had curled up on his feet, sound asleep. Leryn continued to stroke the warm, fuzzy fur. And after a tune, he realized, much to his astonishment, that he was smiling.

He stopped smiling about midway through the next day. The gryphon had tagged along after him nicely enough for a while, but it was a baby, with a baby's limited attention span and lack of sense. First, Leryn had to rescue it from a pond into which the little thing had fallen while chasing a butterfly. Then he had to pry it out from between two rocks which were just a bit too close together to allow the gryphon to pass. In between, the baby would plop itself down with a baby's suddenness, instantly sound asleep, or complaining with ear-splitting pathos that it was hungry.

Leryn glanced at the rapidly diminishing chunk of venison and winced. It wasn't going to stay fresh much longer or, for that matter, judging from the gryphon's appetite, last much longer.

And what do I do when it's gone? I'm no hunter; I'm not even carrying a decent knife! Gods, I don't even have any way of starting a fire!

At least, now that that spectacular, deadly storm was past, the weather remained dry. But the air was cold, and it grew colder as night fell. Leryn tried to sleep curled up in as tight a ball as he could manage, struggling to ignore his aching, hungry body, but the earth was as chill as the air. And for all his weariness, he couldn't get comfortable enough to sleep.

But then a fuzzy little body, warm as a furnace, pushed itself against him: the gryphon, whimpering softly. Leryn drew the baby to him, glad of its warmth, and the two lonely beings at last slept

* * *

Leryn sank wearily to a rock, head down. The gryphon pushed against him, trilling anxiously, but the man ignored it, too worn to care.

How many days had it been of endless walking, of hunger and aching muscles and skin chafed raw from the clothes he couldn't change? How many nights of broken sleep and cold, never-ending cold? The last scraps of the by-now-barely-edible meat had been devoured by the baby a day ago, and though the gryphon had managed to snap up enough bugs along the way to feed it—or at least keep it from that ear-splitting complaining—there hadn't been anything for a human to eat. Leryn had tried to fill his complaining stomach with spring water, but the water had been so cold it chilled him to the bone.

You knew it was going to come to this sooner or later. You knew you didn't have a chance of surviving. . . .

"I just didn't know it was going to take so long."

The gryphon cut into his bitterness, pushing anxiously against him, trilling and trilling in panic till at last Leryn roused himself from thoughts of death. He stared at the small, frantic baby. And slowly it came to him that he couldn't die, not yet, not while this small, so-very-alive creature was depending on him.

Leryn reached out a weary hand to ruffle the gryphon's fur, then staggered to his feet.

"Come on, baby. We'll see how much farther we can get."

The gryphon shrilled in sudden alarm. Leryn stumbled back, staring blankly at the men who'd come out of hiding and into whose arms he'd almost walked.

For a moment Leryn's mind simply refused to function, noting only that these strangers were warmly clad, and looked well-fed. But the gryphon continued its shrill screaming, stubby wings fluttering, trying its baby best to defend him against:

Bandits, Leryn realized through the haze of weariness. Maybe even the same who attacked me the first time.

What difference did it make? He certainly didn't have anything on him of value, and if they just waited a bit, he'd probably die of hunger or exhaustion and save them the trouble of—It was the gryphon they wanted. They were going to kill his little friend for its fur, or carry it off to captivity.

"Like hell you are!" Leryn roared (or at least thought he roared), and charged.

The first bandit was so astonished by this rush of strength from such a worn-out creature he didn't defend himself in time. Leryn tore the club from his hands and laid about with it with half-hysterical fury. The gryphon baby, shrilling a childish battle scream, fought with him—small, sharp beak nipping, small, sharp talons scratching. But of course they hadn't a chance of winning, not one weary man and one little gryphon.

At least this'll be faster than dying of hunger, Leryn thought wryly.

Thunder deafened him, wild wind buffeted him. For a dazed moment, swathed in sudden shadow, Leryn could only wonder how a storm could have struck so swiftly.

But the storm was moving, shrieking, and all at once he realized that what was looming overhead was a gryphon, two gryphons, and he forgot all about the bandits as he stared in wonder at the living golden wonders soaring down at him.

The bandits didn't waste time in staring. They scattered in all directions, racing off into the underbrush like so many terrified rabbits, and Leryn could have sworn he heard one of the gryphons hiss in soft, fierce laughter.

They landed in a wild swirling of wind and dust. The baby gryphon let out one startled little yelp and ducked behind Leryn, then took a wary step out from hiding, gaping, every line of its small body rigid with astonishment. For a long moment, Leryn stood frozen as well, staring, too weary for fright, at the savage, splendid, vibrant size of them, at the wise, keen, alien eyes watching him, at the beaks, wickedly elegant as curved swords, that could snap him in two, at the gleaming talons that could rend him apart as easily as he might tear worn-out fabric. He should be afraid, Leryn thought, he really should.

But the last of his desperate strength was ebbing from him. Leryn felt his exhausted body crumple to its knees.

And then he knew nothing at all.

He woke slowly, languorously, to warmth, wonderful, spicy-scented warmth. Meat was being pushed at his lips, and if that meat was raw, at least it was fresh and full of the promise of life, and he chewed and swallowed without protest, feeling the dawn of strength returning to him.

Then Leryn came to himself enough to realize he was cradled like a baby against a gryphon's side, a golden wing sheltering him, and it was a deadly beak so gently offering him food. The beings must have known he was half-dead for want of food and warmth.

Ah, warmth, yes ... it was so good to be warm again . . . warm and fed and cozy ...

. . . cozy as he'd been with Elenya, his own sweet wife cuddled beside him in their bed, and the promise of new life growing inside her.

The promise that had gone so terribly wrong.

The memories hit him without warning, hit him so hard that Leryn, still too weak to control his will, broke as he had not during all the long, empty, dry-eyed days of mourning. Broke and wept against the warm, tawny side, sheltered under the soft, golden wing while the gryphon churred ever so softly, stroking his hair with a gentle beak as though he were her child.

Her. He had no doubt of his protector's gender. And Leryn heard, or felt, or sensed, he couldn't have said how, the gryphon's own grief. She who had died in the storm had been this one's sister, long lost from the nest: too proud, too sure of herself, heeding no one's advice, taking an aging mate, one who'd died and left her and her young one alone.

Race, species were forgotten in their mingled grief. And out of mingled grief came at least the seeds of healing.

"Eleyna, Eleyna, I still miss you, and shall miss you all my life. But. . . I am alive. And I must go on being alive."

He could almost have sworn that somewhere, far beyond space and time, she'd heard, somewhere she'd smiled.

Leryn sat bolt upright. The gryphon raised her wing to free him, and he found himself staring into the wise, amused eyes of her mate.

"ssso. You live."

"You speak!" Leryn reddened. "I—I mean, of course you speak, it's just—I didn't expect—I don't know what I expected."

The gryphon chuckled. "We hardly expected you to ssspeak our tongue."

"Uh, no. I ... uh ... I'm not familiar with your kind." Leryn glanced about, seeing a neat-walled cave— no, not a cave, a ruin of some sort, human-built but plainly now the gryphon pair's nest. "But the baby!" he suddenly remembered. "The little gryphon. Where is—"

A small thunderbolt sent him staggering back into the side of the female gryphon. The baby leaping at him, churring with delight, wriggling like a happy puppy, until a quiet word in the gryphon tongue made it reluctantly settle to the floor.

"You've brought my sssissster's child to me," the female gryphon murmured. "For that we thank you."

"You kept the little one alive," said the male. "And that," he added with a chuckle as the wriggling baby eyed then pounced on his tufted tail, "could have been no easssy thing. For that we thank you, too."

"I could hardly have let a—a child die!" A little shiver ran through Leryn at the memory of his own son, who'd never known the touch of life, but he continued resolutely, "Besides, the child kept me alive!" It was true enough. "Without this little ball of fur, I would have given up a long time ago."

"Yesss, but now the quessstion isss: What do we do with you?"

"Ah." What, indeed? No funds, no weapons, not even

a change of clothes. "I don't know. In my home town, I'm a merchant of gems, but—"

"Gemsss? The pretty ssstonesss you humansss like? Then thessse mussst belong to you."

"My gem pouches! Where did you—"

The male gryphon licked his talons with a lazy tongue. "I chasssed the banditsss," he murmured, eyes glinting dangerously. "It wasss good sssport. And asss they fled, they dropped everything they bore."

Leryn stared at the fortune glittering in his hands. His gems, returned to him. Ah, gods, now he could start over, and not waste the life he'd been given!

Suddenly it was all too ridiculous. Leryn burst into laughter, gasping, "I—I've come a long way just to find the—the path back to myself. And I could have managed without the hardships, thank you! But," he added, bending to stroke the baby's furry head, "I think everyone's happy with how things worked out."

"Everyone sssave the banditsss," the gryphons murmured, and gave their churring laugh.

The Salamander

by Richard Lee Byers

Richard Lee Byers worked for over a decade in an emergency psychiatric facility, then left the mental health field to become a writer. He is the author of 7776 Ebon Mask, On A Darkling Plain, Netherworld, Caravan of Shadows, Dark Fortune, Dead Time, The Vampire's Apprentice, and several other novels. His short fiction has appeared in numerous other anthologies, including Phobias, Confederacy of the Dead, Dante's Disciples, Superheroes, and Diagnosis: Terminal. He lives in the Tampa Bay area, the setting for many of his stories.

By my reckoning, the arsonist might strike in any of fifteen places. It was sheer luck, if that's the right term, that I'd chosen to guard the right location.

When it happened, it happened fast. One moment, I was prowling the cramped recesses of the tiring house of the Azure Swan Theater. Painted actors frantically changing costume squirmed past me, glaring at the intruder obstructing the way. Their ill will didn't bother me half as much as the flowery rhetoric being declaimed on stage. That night's play was The Bride and the Bat-tlesteed, a tragedy that blends mawkish sentimentality with a flawless ignorance of life on the Dhorisha Plains. Suffering through a particularly lachrymose soliloquy, I wished that the theater would catch fire, just to terminate the performance.

Try not to think things like that. One never knows what gods are listening.

An instant later, I heard a boom. Some of the audience cried out, and the forty-year-old ingenue ranting on stage faltered in mid-lament. Something began to hiss and crackle. I scrambled to the nearest of the rear stage entrances, looked out, and saw that a patch of thatch on the roof of the left-hand gallery was burning.

Then the straw above the royal family's empty box exploded into flame. The two fires raced along the roof like lovers rushing to embrace. At the same time, they oozed down the columns into the topmost of the three tiers of seats. I peered about, but could see no sign of the enemy I'd been hired to stop.

Shrieking people shoved along the galleries toward the stairs. Others climbed over the railings and dropped into the cobbled courtyard, where they joined the stampede of groundlings driving toward the exit at the rear of the enclosure. In half a minute, the passage was jammed.

It was plain that not everyone would make it out that way. There was a stage door in the back of the tiring house, but none of the audience had come in that way, nor was it visible from any of their vantage points, so none of them thought to use it.

Abandoning my efforts to spot the incendiary, I ran forward past two wooden columns painted to resemble marble to the foot of the stage. Though the blaze had yet to descend past the highest gallery, I could already feel the heat. "This way!" I shouted. "There's another exit!"

Nobody paid the least attention. Perhaps, between the roar of the fire and the panicky cries, no one heard.

I jumped off the platform, grabbed a strapping, tow-headed youth with bloodstained sleeves—a butcher's apprentice, I imagine—and tried to turn him around. "Come with me!" I said.

He snarled and threw a roundhouse punch at my head. I ducked and hit him in the belly. He doubled over. I manhandled him toward the stage. "I'm trying to help you," I said. "There's another way out. Go behind the stage. The door will be on your right. Do you understand?" Evidently he did, because when I let him go, he clambered onto the proscenium.

I induced several other people to head backstage. Eventually, others noticed them going, and followed.

Which soon threatened to create a second crush, at the rear stage doors. I sprang onto the platform and dashed back there to manage the flow of traffic as best I could, with pleas when possible and my hands when necessary.

By now the air was gray with smoke. I kept coughing. The Heavens—the machine room above me, the underside of which was painted to resemble the sky—started burning. Sparks and scraps of flaming debris rained down.

At last the stage was clear. My handkerchief pressed to my face, I scurried toward the exit. The ceiling burst. A windlass, used to lower the actors portraying gods and their regalia, plummeted through the breach and struck where I'd just been standing. The impact shattered the floorboards.

When I escaped the playhouse, I trotted some distance away, not only to make sure that I was out of danger but to better survey the overall situation. Turning, I noticed something strange.

Fortunately, the Azure Swan stood on a spit of land that stuck out into the river. It wasn't close to any other structure. For a while, the flames enveloping the building swayed this way and that, as if groping for some other edifice they could spread to. At times they appeared to move against the breeze.

Two candlemarks later, those of us who had sought to defend the theater regrouped in a private room in a nearby tavern. This council of war included several blades of the Blue political faction, which vied with the Reds, Yellows, Blacks, and most bitterly with the Greens for control of Mornedealth, an equal number of their retainers, Draydech the sorcerer, and myself. And a singed, grimy, malodorous, and surly lot we were, too. Also present was Lady Elthea, widow of a middling prominent Blue leader, owner of the three businesses that had thus far burned, and my employer. Though elderly and infirm, she'd insisted on venturing forth from her mansion to view the site of the latest disaster.

"All right," I said, "we searched the Swan beforehand, without finding any incendiary devices. Did anyone see a figure on the roof? Or any flaming missiles?" The other men shook their heads. "Then it's magic kindling these fires, Lady Elthea. That's the only logical explanation." I looked at Draydech. "Do you concur?"

The warlock was a short fellow in his late thirties, younger than I, though with his wobbling paunch, graying goatee, and the broken veins in his bulbous nose, he looked older. He'd served his apprenticeship living rough with the nomadic Whispering Oak wizards of the deep forests. Afterward, he'd embraced the amenities of civilization with a vengeance. I'd never seen him eat a raw piece of fruit or vegetable, drink water, or go out in inclement weather. Nevertheless, he'd lost none of the skills he'd mastered in the wilderness. He was particularly adept at sniffing out mystical energies, and, despite his exorbitant fees and extortionate habits, I retained him whenever that kind of witchy bloodhound work seemed likely to be in order.

Now, however, raising his eyes from the chunk of amber he'd been staring into while the rest of us glumly guzzled our wine, he said, "Certainly it's magic. Judging from the appearance of the conflagration, someone's conjured a salamander, a being from the Elemental Plane of Fire, to do the job. But I can't find it."

I scowled. "Old friend. This is not the time to angle for more gold."

Lady Elthea extended her trembling hand. Her skin was like parchment, her knuckles, swollen with arthritis. "Sorcerer, I beseech you. Some of our fellow citizens died tonight. More could perish tomorrow. If you can help prevent this, don't hold back."

Jarnac, one of the Blue blades, rose from the trestle table. "I'll take care of it, Lady Elthea," he said. He was a lanky, sandy-haired youth, dressed lavishly but not tastefully in a sapphire- and ruby-studded particolored doublet with intricately carved ivory buttons. At his side hung the latest rage, one of the new smallswords, this one sporting a golden hilt. Smallswords looked elegant, and were adequate for fighting another gentleman similarly equipped. But they were apt to prove too flimsy against a heavier weapon or an armored foe, which was why I was still lugging my broadsword around.

As might have been inferred from Jarnac's ostentation, he was New Money, with a parvenu's eagerness to parade his wealth and sense of style; unlike most of his cronies in the room, he couldn't claim kinship with one of the Fifty Noble Houses. Not that that mattered to me. My birth was considerably humbler than his.

He dropped a fat purse on the table. Coin clinked. "Take it, magician," he urged. "And rest assured, there's plenty more where that came from."

Draydech gazed longingly at the money. I fancy he came close to licking his lips. But at last he shook his head and said, "I can't take it, sir, because I'm not sure I can earn it. Despite Master Selden's slander—" he shot me a reproachful glance, which, given our shared history, failed to inspire any remorse, "—I wasn't trying to inflate my price. Rather, I was attempting to explain that something odd has happened.

"We all should have seen the salamander. They're not invisible, quite the contrary. Even if its summoner veiled it in a glamour, / should still have spotted it. But I didn't.

"What's more, I've been sitting here scrying, and I can't pick up its trail. Apparently someone's developed a cunning new type of cloaking spell."

Sensing that he was telling the truth, I said, "And until you work out how to pierce the charm, you can't banish the spook, or guide us to its master either. Is that about the gist of it?"

"I'm afraid so."

I sighed. "What more can you tell us about salamanders?"

"A sorcerer enlists the aid of an elemental by opening a Gate to its home plane, then bartering for its services. It was probably fairly easy to recruit a salamander to start fires. They love to do it anyway. The trick will be to keep it under control, to make sure it only burns what the summoner wants it to."

Fire is a threat to any town. In Mornedealth, built all of wood, the menace was all the greater. Remembering how the theater blaze had flowed against the wind, the beginnings of a headache tightening my brow, I wondered how our problem could get any worse. The answer was immediately forthcoming.

Pivor, Lady Elthea's grandnephew and closest living kin, sprang up from his bench. He did belong to the Fifty, and no mistaking it. He had the kind of exquisite features and supercilious carriage that only generations of controlled inbreeding can produce. "Enough of this prattle," he said. "The mage has already admitted he can't aid us, so we'll have to help ourselves. We know who to blame for our troubles: the Greens." The company murmured agreement. They'd all seen the unsigned threat, written in emerald ink, that someone had tacked to Lady Elthea's door the night before the first fire. "So I say we strike back at them at once."

"No," Lady Elthea said. "I don't want—"

Pivor ignored her. "A lot of them drink at The Honeycomb. We can lie in wait in the alley that runs—"

"That's a bad idea," I said. "My gut tells me that not all the Greens are involved in this. We need to identify the ones who are. Indiscriminate slaughter would only compound our difficulties."

"If we kill enough of them, the ones who remain will be afraid to send the spirit out again."

"No, they won't," I said. "They'll merely seek to butcher you in turn."

Pivor's lip curled "I heard that when you founded your fencing academy, you swore your days as a hire-sword were over."

"You heard correctly," I said. "Twenty-five years of soldiering was enough. Unfortunately, I have a penchant for losing horses and needy friends. When the combination depletes my coffers, I accept commissions of a certain sort. Pray tell, why are we discussing this?"

"I was just conjecturing that you gave up the mercenary life because you've turned coward. For, truly, you seem afraid to fight."

No doubt he said it to shame me into supporting his strategy. But of course there was only one proper response to such an insult, and that wasn't it. Simply because Jarnac was near me, I turned to him. "Sir. Would you do me the honor of acting as my second?"

One of Pivor's friends said, "That figures. One base-born fellow looks to the other."

Jarnac colored. "It would be better if you asked someone else, Master Selden, because I agree with Pivor. Not in his assessment of your character," he added hastily, "but about what's best to do. We shouldn't waste time trying to ferret out one man from the mass of our foes. We should wage war on them all."

Balm, one of my more promising students, said, "I'll stand for you, Master Selden."

"Thank you," I said. I gave Pivor my best killer's glare. "Then perhaps we can arrange this straightaway."

I'll give him credit, I couldn't stare bun down, but he grew pale, no doubt in belated remembrance of my reputation. "Verrano, will you act for me?" he stammered.

"Stop this!" Lady Elthea said. "Didn't you all come here for the same purpose? To succor a poor old woman who needs your help desperately? Then I beg you, please, don't fight among yourselves!"

This time, Pivor chose to heed her. "You're right, of course. Moreover, this is your affair, and if you think this man should be in charge, so be it." He bowed to me. "Master Selden, for my grandaunt's sake, I apologize."

I bowed back. "And for her sake, I accept."

"If we aren't going to massacre the Greens, what are we going to do?" Draydech asked.

"The gentlemen of the Blues will keep guarding my lady's properties," I said. "Perhaps one of them will spot our human foe, lurking about the scene. You'll try to devise a magic that will locate the salamander. I'll nose around and see what I can uncover through more mundane channels. And by working together, we'll put an end to this outrage." I wished I were as confident as I was trying to sound.

I contrived to approach the house from the rear, then hid behind the stable. After a while, a maid trudged out the back door and started tossing feed to the chickens. The birds were plump and lively; she, thin and lethargic. Their feathers shone white in the morning sunlight, while her gown was drab and threadbare. In short, they looked better cared for than she was.

Which was more or less what I'd expected. Her employer was famous for the sumptuous banquets he gave for his fellow Greens, but, provided one talked to the poor as well as the prosperous, equally notorious for his miserly treatment of his servants.

I checked the windows of the four-story dwelling, making sure no one was peering out, then stepped from concealment. "Hello," I said.

The girl jumped. "Who are you?"

"A friend." I showed her the trade-silver in my hand. "With a proposition."

She looked yearningly at the money, reminding me fleetingly of Draydech. But then she scowled and said, "I'm not that kind."

"You mistake me," I said. "I just want to ask you some questions, about things you may have noticed or overheard. Though I must admit, there's a chance that something you say could embarrass your master. So I'll understand if you decline."

She glanced over her shoulder at the house, then snatched the coin. "What do you want to know?"

The racket in The Honeycomb was deafening. The tavern was packed, most of the patrons were roaring drunk, and two lunatics were playing bagpipes. We lads at the corner table had to bellow with the rest to make ourselves heard.

"And that was that," said one of my companions, a burly hire-sword with a forked beard, a broken nose, and a Green favor pinned to the sheepskin collar of his jacket. "When they saw that, armed only with a soup ladle, I'd killed eight of their band in half as many seconds, the rest of the bastards turned tail."

"Amazing," I said. I was trying to sound admiring, and truly, I was impressed by his powers of invention. I stroked my false whiskers the way I always do when I wear them, to make sure they aren't failing off. "Of course, if what we hear in Valdemar is true, it's no wonder you men of Mornedealth are master warriors. Folk say you keep in constant practice fighting one another. For instance, you Greens are at odds with the Silvers, isn't that so?"

"The Blues," someone corrected.

"Pardon me, the Blues. What's that all about, anyway? And who's winning?"

Smiling slyly, the fellow with the broken nose said, "I'm afraid that's a very long story. And my throat's already parched."

Taking the hint, I waved for the barkeep to bring another jug.

Lithe and lightning-quick, Marissa flowed through the gloomy practice hall, a dagger flashing in either hand and her short black hair flying about her head. When she finished the exercise, I said, "Your high guard is a hair too high."

"Says you," she replied. If she'd kept to her usual schedule, she'd been practicing hard for a candlemark, but she wasn't even slightly winded. "Good evening, Sel-den. Stop by to sign up for some lessons?"

"Who could afford your rates?" I said, sauntering from the doorway into the hall. "Well, perhaps I could if I could stay away from the hippodrome, but that's by the by. I need information about the Greens."

A Child's Adventures

by Janni Lee Simner

Janni Lee Simner grew up in New York and has been making her way west ever since. She spent nearly a decade in the Midwest, where the recent floods formed some of the background for this story; currently she lives hi the much drier Arizona desert. She's sold stories to nearly two dozen anthologies and magazines, including Realms of Fantasy and Sisters in Fantasy 2. Her first three books, Ghost Horse, The Haunted Trail, and Ghost Vision, have been published by Scholastic.

When the Companion first appeared in the marketplace, Inya hoped it had come for one of the grandchildren. Such a thing wasn't unheard of, even in a village as small as River's Bend. Companions were said not to care about rank, or about where people were born.

The people milling around the square froze at the sound of those bridle bells, at the sight of the graceful white creature, too perfect to be a horse, trailing silver and sky-blue trappings. The Companion had no rider, and everyone knew what that meant. She had come searching, maybe for one of them.

Lara fidgeted at Inya's side, and Inya squeezed the girl's hand. Mariel stood beside them, large-eyed and still. Lara was too young, but Mariel, just sliding into the awkward lankiness between childhood and adulthood, was not. Companions came for children Mariel's age all the time. Anyone who spent an evening listening to a tavern minstrel knew that.

The Companion tossed her head, mane falling down her back like soft winter snow, sapphire eyes scanning the crowd. Then she started forward, bells jingling, steps light and quick. Inya heard Mariel catch her breath. After all, she'd heard the minstrels, too.

But maybe, just this once, the stories would turn true. The Companion stepped toward them, until Inya saw her breath, frosty in the late autumn air. Another step, and she would be within reach. Another step—

A wet, silky muzzle nudged Inya's chest She looked down, startled. The Companion looked back at her, through eyes bright and very deep. Inya felt herself falling, drowning in that endless blue. At the bottom waited friendship, and welcoming, and a life without loneliness. The world tilted crazily around her, but for a long moment she didn't care.

The moment ended. Inya pulled herself away, flinging the Companion's reins to the ground. She hadn't even realized she was holding them. The ground steadied beneath her; the world came back into focus.

The Companion kept staring at her. Something brushed Inya's mind, soft as a feather. . I Choose you:, a voice whispered. :After all my searching, I Choose you:.

As a child, Inya had dreamed about hearing that voice. But that was a long time ago. She didn't have tune, now, for a child's adventures. She had a farm to keep up. She had grandchildren to raise. And someone had to look after the girls' father, too. The Companion had made a mistake. Inya couldn't run off, not now.

"Go away," Inya whispered. She twisted a gray strand of hair between her fingers. "I'm too old. You're too late. Go away."

The Companion shook her head. :You:.

"Take one of the children. They're who you're looking for, not me."

The Companion snorted, a surprisingly horselike sound. She knelt beside Inya, inviting her to mount.

"No!" Inya turned from the Companion's sapphire eyes. Her foot slipped on a loose stone, and pain shot through her knee, so sharp she caught her breath. She stood still for several minutes, waiting for the pain to fade.

Even if she could leave her home and her family, she couldn't follow the Companion. Who ever heard of a Herald with bad knees, with joints that ached whenever it rained?

She felt warm breath on her neck. The muscles down her back tensed. "Go away. You've made a mistake."

"I wish mistakes like that would happen to me."

Inya turned to see Mariel standing beside her, the bag with their purchases swinging from one shoulder. The girl's face had a twisted, angry look. :You should have come for Mariel:, Inya thought again. She sighed, taking Mariel's hand. She had to get home, to start on dinner, to clean the house. Whatever dreams she'd had as a child, she didn't have time, now, to argue with Companions.

Lara came up at Inya's other side, and Inya took her hand, too. People lingered in the square, staring. Inya ignored them. She started past the jumble of stalls and vendors, toward home.

Lara twisted around and looked over her shoulder. "She's following us." The girl giggled, as if the idea were terribly funny.

Mariel dropped Inya's hand, turning to look for herself. "You have to stop," she said. "You can't just leave her there." Mariel's voice was fierce. "You can't."

"It's not your place to tell me what I can or can't do," Inya said sharply. "Now come along."

She kept walking. Mariel followed, but she wouldn't take Inya's hand again.

All the way home, Inya didn't turn around. Even though she heard the Companion's steps, light as snowfall, behind her.

By the time they got home, an icy rain was falling, turning the dirt road to mud. Inya shivered, dropping Lara's hand to pull her cloak close around her shoulders. Over the steady patter of the rain, Inya no longer heard the Companion's hoofs. Maybe she had finally gone away.

Lara started to run, and Inya, unable to keep up, let her. Mariel followed her sister, the two of them racing for the house.

Inya skirted the edge of the fields, where the girls' father was working. Jory nodded as she walked past. He was splattered with mud, brown curls plastered to his face. Beside him a dappled brown horse was hooked to the plow, deep in mud itself.

Beyond their land, through the trees, Inya saw the dark band of the river. Even from where she stood, she could tell the water was rising. Tongues of water lapped at the trees.

Inya kept walking, past a battered barn and on to the house. She started a fire in the kitchen hearth, and made the girls change into dry clothes.

Mariel avoided Inya's eyes. She wouldn't talk to her, and she ran back outside as soon as she'd changed, muttering something about helping her father. Inya sighed.

She started on dinner, Lara by her side, trying to help but mostly just getting flour in her face and short curls. The fire quickly took the chill from the room, and the smell of simmering soup made the cold outside feel even farther away. Inya kneaded the smooth, hard dough beneath her fingers, trying to forget the Companion's bottomless eyes, trying to forget the silky whisper in her head.

Jory and Mariel came in just after dark. They ate in silence. Jory wolfed down his food, face tired and tight. Mariel didn't eat at all, just stared at Inya with an unreadable expression. Outside, the wind picked up, whistling through the gaps around the door. One of the hinges was wearing loose. Inya needed to fix it before winter.

Jory looked up. "I spoke to old Caron today." Jory's tangled curls fell into his face. Lara looked a lot like him. Mariel was the one who looked like their mother— Inya's daughter. She couldn't believe Anara had been gone almost a year.

Inya fixed her gaze on Jory. "What'd Caron say?"

"He offered me half again what he'd offered before—more than this farm's ever going to make on its own." Jory buttered a thick slice of bread. "I said I'd think about it."

Inya stiffened. "It's not your decision to make." The farm had been in her family for generations, since before River's Bend was more than a few scattered houses, before the village even had a name.

"Well, maybe you should think about it, too," Jory said.

They'd had this discussion before. Caron had first approached Jory nearly two years ago. The farm, once a candlemark's walk from the next nearest house, was now close to the village. The merchant wanted to build a tavern there, and maybe a couple of shops.

At first Jory had refused, just as Inya expected him to. Then Anara had died, giving birth to a child who died a few hours after her. After that, Jory took Caron more seriously. "My heart isn't in this place anymore," he'd told Inya once.

Jory's family had moved to River's Bend when he was a child. He didn't know what it was like to be in a place for hundreds of years, to stay with it through good times and bad.

"We could move up to Haven." Jory had finished the bread and reached for the ale pitcher. "With what Car-on's willing to pay, we could start all over again."

"This is our home."

"Anywhere can be home." Jory's voice rose. "Unless you're too foolish to let it be."

"Jory." Inya kept her own voice low. She wouldn't yell in front of the children. "What would you do in the city? You're a farmer."

"My grandfather worked leather. It's a trade I could learn, if I set my mind to it."

"We belong here."

"You always say that!" Suddenly Jory was standing, yelling across the table. "We belong where we can make a living!"

Mariel silently left the kitchen. Lara followed her into the bedroom. Inya let them go. It was bad enough they'd

lost their mother. They shouldn't have to worry about losing their home, too.

"You're a fool," Jory said, but he didn't say anything more. Somehow, with the children's leaving, the argument had ended.

For now. Inya sighed and started clearing the table.

She'd just finished the dishes when the door flew open and Mariel staggered in. Her clothes were soaked through; water streamed from her hair. She shivered. Thunder rumbled outside.

Inya hurried her to the hearth. She hadn't seen Mariel leave; the girl must have climbed out one of the bedroom's shuttered windows. Inya winced. Had the argument with Jory upset her so much that she didn't want to go through the kitchen again?

Mariel stared at the flames. Her face had a strange look, eyes very large and dark. Inya hoped she hadn't caught a chill. She put water on for tea.

"What do you think you're doing, running around in the rain like that? You'll make yourself sick."

"I had to feed the animals." Mariel's teeth chattered.

"Your father would have done that."

"I had to do it."

The tea boiled. Inya poured Mariel a steaming mug of it, then added a spoonful of honey. Mariel took the cup eagerly. Inya poured herself a cup, as well. Just listening to the wind made her shiver. Her joints were stiffening with dampness; she knew she wouldn't sleep well.

She sipped the hot tea, staring at Mariel over the cup's rim. Mariel's clothes and hair were drying; she'd stopped shivering, too.

She looked a lot like her mother had at that age, from the dark eyes to the long, stringy hair. For a moment Inya thought she saw Anara sitting there, not a married woman but a girl, halfway between childhood and adulthood, staring at her through serious eyes.

"Grandma? Are you all right?" Mariel's voice brought Inya back to the present.

Inya brushed a hand across her face. "I'm fine. Are you warmer now?"

Mariel nodded.

"Why don't you go on to bed, then?"

"Come with me." Mariel sounded suddenly young.

"I'll be along in a moment." Inya watched as Mariel left the room. Then she stood, wincing at the weight on her knees. She walked slowly to the door, examining the worn-out hinge. She felt a tingling at the base of her skull. Some instinct made her undo the latch. She opened the door, staring out into the cold, wet night.

The wind had died. The moon shone through the dark clouds, lighting the field. And something stood beneath that moon, too perfect to be a horse. Its white hide shone, brighter than any moon.

Inya slammed the door shut again. The hinge creaked in protest.

She realized she was crying. .7 can't follow you. Don't you understand?:

The Companion didn't answer, and Inya didn't open the door again. She banked the fire and stumbled into bed.

That night she dreamed of half-grown children—Mariel, Anara, even herself as a girl. Only all the girls had blue eyes, bright as sapphire. Inya knew that wasn't right, though in the dream she couldn't think why.

Inya woke in the dark, not sure what had stirred her. Rain crashed against the roof; thunder rumbled. She crawled out of bed. The dirt floor was cold and damp beneath her feet, even through heavy socks. Her knees and ankles ached. She walked slowly toward the kitchen.

Jory stood by the door, holding a lantern. The yellow light cast shadows on his face. His shoulders were tight, hunched together. He looked tired.

Inya tensed. "What's wrong?"

"It rained harder than I thought last night. The river's rising fast. If it doesn't crest by the end of the week, the farm'll flood out. Sooner, if the rain keeps up."

Inya bit her lip. She'd known the water was high, but she'd thought they had more time.

There hadn't been a flood since she was a girl. People had come from the village, then, helping her parents build floodwalls of mud and wood. Together, they'd held the water back.

Jory ran a hand through his hair. "Soon as the sun's up, I'm going to start digging."

Inya nodded, suddenly wide awake. "Ill send the children into town with word that we need help."

Jory nodded. He opened the door again. The sky was dark, still more black than gray. Rain fell in icy sheets. There was no moon, no Companion standing in the field. Perhaps she had given up and gone away.

Jory stepped back out, closing the door behind him. Inya went to wake the children.

Mariel was already up. Lara poked out from under the blankets, yawning and rubbing her eyes. Inya explained, as quickly and calmly as she could, while the sun rose and thin light crept around the shuttered windows.

"Will we have to swim?" Lara sounded so worried that Inya didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"Of course not." Inya spoke as gently as she could. "We're going to sit down and have breakfast, same as always. Then I'm going to send you into town with a message for the mayor." As a child, Inya had taken a similar message to the mayor's grandfather. River's Bend hadn't had a mayor back then, but there had been a village council, and he'd been on it.

While the girls munched on reheated soup and cold bread, Inya wrote the message. Then she bundled Lara and Mariel into warm clothes and followed them outside. The rain had let up, and pale yellow light filtered through the clouds. The warm rays felt good on Inya's face.

She didn't have time to stand around, though. The dishes needed washing, and the door needed mending. She had to check for new leaks in the roof, too. And with Jory and the girls out all morning, she needed to make something warm for lunch.

She went back inside, closing the door behind her.

* * *

The rain started again soon after the girls left. No thunder this time, and not much wind; just a steady drizzle that stole all the warmth from the air. Inya found herself shivering, even inside. She worked slowly, knees and ankles complaining as she did.

Lara didn't return until well past noon. She pulled off her boots, sat down by the hearth, and stretched out her feet to warm them. "Where's Mariel?"

"She's—" Lara hesitated. "She's outside helping Dad."

Inya nodded. She put water on for tea, then sat down beside Lara.

"They made me wait a long time," Lara said. "They wouldn't let me see the mayor, but they took the note to him, and came back with an answer. It's in my pocket." Lara pulled out a sheet of wet, crumpled paper. The ink ran, but Inya could still make out the writing. She read the letter slowly. Then she read it again, unable to believe the words.

Much of it was formal, meaningless prose, thanking her for writing and expressing concern for her family. But two lines told her what the message really meant.

While we share concern for your property and safety, the village has not gone unaffected by this rain, and our own affairs occupy most of our time. I can make no promises, though we will send what help we can, when we can.

Anger blurred Inya's sight. What help we can, when we can. That meant there'd be no help at all. And, our own affairs. That meant the farm's affairs were not the village's affairs, not their concern at all.

Things had been different when Inya was a girl. The farm and village had worked together; in her grandmother's day, the farm had even been the larger of the two. There'd been no question, then, about whether the villagers would help hold the water back. They had helped. Just like Inya's family had helped the villagers, during hard winters, supplying food and charging only what they could afford.

Inya wondered when things had changed. She wondered why she hadn't noticed. She'd been busy—raising children, raising grandchildren, working on the farm— but how could she have missed what was happening around her?

She threw the message into the fire. The wet paper hissed, then burst into flames, turning to ash as she watched.

She found Jory by the river, ankle-deep in mud, leaning on his shovel and staring at the water. A wall of dirt and wood began upstream, beyond the house, and extended to where he stood.

The current swirled swiftly by, carrying tree branches, loose reeds, clumps of grass. Something that looked like a broken chair floated past. Inya shuddered.

Jory shook his head, splattering water around him. "I can save the house," he said. His voice was hoarse. "But not the barn and the rest of the land. Not without help."

"There won't be any help." Inya told him about the mayor's note.

Jory brushed a hand across his dirt-streaked face. "Doesn't surprise me. That's how people are, you know. Watch out for themselves first, and for everyone else if they have any time left over."

But people weren't like that, Inya thought. Not everywhere. They hadn't been in River's Bend, not when she was a girl. She stared at Jory, not sure what to say. If he assumed people only cared about themselves, no wonder he wanted to move. One place was the same as another, if you saw the world like that.

An awful thought crossed Inya's mind. If the people in River's Bend didn't care, did that mean it was time to leave, to find a place where they did?

"I'll finish securing the house tonight," Jory said. "And see what I can do about the fields in the morning."

Inya nodded. "At least you've had Mariel helping you."

"Mariel?" Jory squinted. "I haven't seen her all day."

"What do you mean?" Ice trickled down Inya's spine. "Lara said she was with you."

Jory shook his head. "I'll go look for her. You talk to Lara."

Inya hurried toward the house, boots squishing in the mud. She slowed down when her legs began to ache. Sweat trickled down her face, in spite of the cold. She threw the door open and went inside. Lara still sat by the fire.

"Where's your sister?"

Lara started. "I promised not to tell."

"Lara—"

"She's in the barn." The girl's words tumbled over one another. "It's not my fault. She made me promise."

Relief washed over Inya. Of course Mariel was all right. She'd been silly to think otherwise. The girl had probably run off to be alone. Anara had done the same at Mariel's age.

"How long has she been there?"

"All day."

Well, Inya would have to talk to Mariel about that. The girl had no right to send Lara into town alone.

"Don't tell her I told," Lara begged.

Inya didn't answer. She gulped down a mouthful of warm tea and went back outside.

She found Jory in the barn, staring at the ground. Mariel was nowhere in sight.

"Look at this." Jory's voice was strained.

Cold dread settled in Inya's stomach. She followed his gaze.

The muddy barn floor was covered with Mariel's boot prints. But there was a second set of prints, too, and those weren't human.

Hoof prints. Inya knelt to have a closer look. The prints were large, larger than any horse Inya had owned. She examined a print more carefully. Short, white hairs were scattered in the mud. They were bright and fine, and even hi the mud hadn't gathered any dirt.

Inya caught her breath. The Companion had left—and had taken Mariel with her. Inya smiled, though she felt a tinge of sadness, too.

"You see anything down there?"

"Yes." She told Jory about the Companion, leaving out her own role in the tale. It was Mariel's story now, after all. As it should be.

Jory didn't smile. In a thin voice he asked, "Do you think she's all right?"

Mariel was Chosen, Inya thought; of course she was all right. But she realized she didn't really know what happened after someone was Chosen. The Companion would head to Haven and the Collegium, but that was more than a week away. What would Mariel eat? Did she have warm clothes? Why had she left without saying good-bye?

Inya examined the prints again. They led out of the barn, toward the river. Mariel never mounted, just continued alongside the Companion. Didn't Heralds always ride?

Probably everything was all right. Probably Inya was just a crazy old woman, worrying too much. But probably wasn't enough.

"We have to find her. Bring her some food. Make sure she's all right."

Jory nodded. But then he looked back toward the river, and Inya knew what he was thinking. If he went after Mariel, they might lose the farm.

"I'll go," Inya said.

"That's crazy." Jory brushed his hands against his breeches.

"No it isn't." Inya spoke fast, afraid she might believe him if she didn't. "On horse I can make decent time, even with my knees. What I can't do is keep the farm from flooding out. You can."

"It'll be dark soon."

"I'll bring a lantern. I can carry it and walk, once the sun goes down." Inya didn't know how long she could manage on foot, but she'd worry about that later. She stared at Jory, hoping he'd see that she was right.

"I don't like it." Jory looked at Inya through tired eyes. He needed to rest, much more than Inya did. He'd been building walls all day, after all. "I'll take another look around the farm," he said. "Maybe she hasn't gone all that far." "I'll start packing," Inya told him.

By the time she was ready to leave, the sun was low, casting gold light through the drifting clouds. Jory hadn't found Mariel—both her boot prints and the Companion's hooves followed the river, disappearing upstream.

Jory didn't argue any further. He saddled the dappled horse and helped Inya mount. Her knees ached, unused to being twisted out for riding, but she gritted her teeth and ignored the pain. Her hips complained, too, at the way they stretched across the saddle.

Inya reminded Lara to listen to her father, reminded Jory that there was some reheated soup on the fire. Then she left, following the tracks past the edge of the farm.

The sun soon dipped below the horizon, but the light stayed with her for a while. The moon rose above pink and orange clouds. Inya's breath came out in frosty puffs.

The scattered trees grew thicker beyond their land, until Inya rode at the edge of a forest. The mud deepened, and she had to slow down.

Inya stopped just as the last light faded. She didn't want to dismount, but she needed to rest and get something to eat. Better to go slow than to wear herself out.

She eased herself out of the saddle. Her legs wobbled as she hit the ground. She hadn't realized that getting off would hurt more than getting on.

She ate by yellow lamplight, munching on some bread while the horse grazed nearby. By the time she was ready to move on, the moon had slipped behind a cloud.

Taking the horse's reins in one hand and the lamp in the other, she started walking.

Inya tired much more quickly on foot. Every can-dlemark, it seemed, she had to stop, rest, and eat something.

Small swirls of water appeared in the mud, and the swirls turned into puddles. Mud coated her boots; water soaked through her socks. Cold air numbed her face and fingers. She pulled out the scarf and gloves she'd packed. The next time she stopped, she'd change her socks as well. She was glad she'd packed extra clothes. When she was younger, she probably wouldn't have bothered. But back then she could have managed, in spite of her foolishness. She didn't have that luxury now.

The puddles widened, until Inya had to veer into the woods to get around them. She lost track of how long she walked.

Then she saw that the sky had turned from black to dark gray. It was almost morning. The very thought made her tired. She stopped to rest, wondering how much farther Mariel had gone.

The gray sky lightened; a thin band of color appeared along the horizon. Birds chirped across the treetops. There was another animal, too, farther away, but Inya couldn't hear it as well. It made a low sound, more like a cry than anything else.

A child's cry.

Fear tingled down Inya's spine. "Mariel!" She took off upstream at a run.

Her legs protested, but she ignored the pain, shut it away to deal with later. In the growing light she saw that the ground had turned uneven. In spots the water surrounded small islands of land.

She found Mariel on one of those islands.

The girl stared at the water, eyes wide. Her clothes were rumpled and muddy, as if she'd slept on the damp ground. The water wasn't very wide, but it was still— and therefore deep.

"Grandma!" Mariel looked up, red-eyed. "I fell asleep. There wasn't any water when I fell asleep."

Inya wanted to reach out and hug her. Instead she just called out, "I'm here, Mariel," as calmly as she could. A distant corner of her mind wondered where the Companion had gone. She'd worry about that later, after she got Mariel off the island.

"You'll have to swim. You can throw your shoes across to me first; that'll make it easier."

"I can't." Mariel choked on a sob.

"Of course you can. I'll be right here, waiting for you."

"No." Mariel began to cry. "I can't swim. I don't know how."

For a moment Inya didn't believe her; she was sure she'd taught Mariel to swim herself. But no, Anara was the child she'd taught. She'd assumed Anara had taught her children in turn.

Inya might be able swim to the island herself, but she couldn't make it back, not while carrying someone. And the damp logs on the ground were too soft and slippery to walk across.

In the distance, the dappled horse let out a nervous nicker. If the horse could swim, it could carry them both across, but the mare had a terror of water that no one had broken.

"Grandma?" Mariel shivered, drawing her arms around herself. Inya felt cold too—frozen, unable to move, unable to think what to do next.

Her skull tingled. There was a sudden flash of sapphire, bright and deep, gone before Inya was certain she saw it. The sky was gray, with pale streaks where the light filtered through.

Somehow, that flash of blue unfroze her, allowed her to think again. She couldn't use the dappled mare, but maybe she could call someone else. Someone who had no right to have left Mariel in the first place, but she'd worry about that later.

:Thea.: Inya didn't know where the name came from, but she knew it was right. :Thea, 1 call you.:

For a moment the air was still, the birds in the tree-tops silent. Then Inya heard a sound—like a nicker, only higher, lighter, more graceful. Hoofs hit the dirt lightly, with only the faintest whisper of noise.

And the Companion stood before her. Mud splattered her saddle, but the white coat was bright. Beneath the

overcast sky, the creature seemed to glow. And her eyes—

No, Inya wouldn't look into her eyes. She wanted to be able to let her go when she was through.

The Companion snorted, pawing one foot against the ground. She almost seemed impatient.

All right, then. :Thea. You're the one who left Mariel stranded. Now you're going to help get her out.:

:I did not leave her. She ran away on her own. I only followed because I was worried about her safety.: But Thea knelt, inviting Inya to mount.

The Companion was larger than the dappled horse, and wider; Inya's hips stretched painfully across the saddle. Yet Thea moved more smoothly than any horse; when she stepped forward, Inya barely felt the motion.

She almost didn't notice when Thea stepped into the water, not until the water came up to her feet and soaked through her breeches. Water sloshed over the saddle, and the Companion used her strong legs to swim. Inya clutched the wet mane, drew her legs more tightly around the saddle.

Then the water turned shallow again. Thea stepped up onto dry land, and Inya shivered as the air hit her wet clothes.

"Grandma!"

Inya eased her way out of the saddle and took Mariel in her arms.

"She wouldn't take me," Mariel sobbed. She buried her face in Inya's shoulder. "She was in the barn, and you didn't want her anyway, but she wouldn't take me."

Inya whirled to face the Companion, glaring. "How dare you get a child's hopes up like that? How dare you follow her this far and not Choose her? You lied to her, that's what you did!"

:No. I never claimed to Choose her, though she begged me to. I did not know my presence on the farm would bother her so. I did not know she would run away. I went after her, but I could not persuade her to return.:

:So Choose her now. It's not too late.:

:No. I Choose you.:

:Damn you!: Inya turned away, facing Mariel again. :She's still young—young enough for a child's adventures. She has an entire life in front of her.:

:There is no right or wrong age for such things.:

Inya laughed, a bitter sound. :You don't know much about the responsibilities that come with adulthood, then. Or about the ailments that come with old age.:

Thea snorted. .7 know that you've had the strength to keep your family together, through death and hard times. You've had the strength, too, to travel through the night, steadily and in spite of pain, to rescue a child. These are not small virtues. They are virtues that would serve a Herald well.:

:That's not enough,: Inya said.

The Companion stamped a foot; it squished against the mud. .7 know, also, that you're more sensible than a child would be. You packed extra supplies, made sure you stopped to rest before you collapsed from exhaustion. You would never die for the stupid reasons young people die. Your age makes you more likely to be taken seriously, too, in negotiations and other diplomatic matters. There are a thousand reasons. Need I list them all?:

Inya felt anger again, not for Mariel's sake, but for her own. She brushed hot tears aside with one hand. :Why in all the Havens didn't you come sooner? Why didn't you come when I could still leave?:

Thea came up behind Inya, leaning a silky muzzle against her neck. Inya turned to look at the Companion.

And made the mistake of meeting her eyes. She felt herself falling, drowning in a field of endless sapphire blue.

.7 Choose you. Don't you understand? Now neither of us will ever be alone.:

.7 need to take care of Jory and the children. I can't just follow you away.: She knew, though, that Jory would welcome the chance to move to the City. And the villagers would hardly notice they were gone.

.7 couldn't come sooner. I was not yet in this world, and then I was too young. I've come now. Will you have me?:

Inya took a deep breath. Her next words surprised her. "I don't know."

"Don't know what, Grandma?"

Inya looked down to see Mariel staring at her. She hadn't realized she'd spoken aloud.

.7 can wait while you decide.:

There was the farm to take care of. The water to hold back. And the land had been in her family for so long. No matter how hard the villagers turned their backs, Inya wouldn't walk away without thinking a good, long time. :How long are you willing to wait?:

:As long as you need.: Thea met Inya's eyes again, but this time, Inya didn't drown in them. Instead, something rose up from the Companion, a warmth that surrounded her, made her understand what it truly meant to never be alone. She was crying again, but this time she didn't even wipe the tears away.

She knew, then, what her answer to the Companion would be. She'd wait a while to give it, but she knew.

"Grandma? Are you okay?"

:Your grandmother is fine.:

"Grandma!" Mariel's face lit up. "She spoke to me! Did you hear? She wouldn't Choose me, but at least she spoke. That's something, isn't it?"

"Yes, that's something." :You should have taken Mariel,: she thought again, but she didn't know whether she meant it. Something brushed her mind, feather-light. Inya smiled. She reached out and hugged Mariel.

Thea did not speak again, not then and not for a long time afterward. The Companion knelt down, letting Inya and Mariel mount.

The three of them crossed the river, and together began the long journey home.

Blood Ties

by Stephanie D. Shaver

Stephanie Shaver is a twenty-something writer living in Missouri. In her spare time, she works on the obligatory novel and short stories, but most of her time is taken up attending school, where she's majoring in Computer Science, and writing code for an online games company. She has worked at Marion Zimmer Bradley's Fantasy Magazine, and considers it one of the great experiences of her life. Of this story, she says, "I wrote this story for the anthology a long time ago, back when I was still in my 'Angry Young Woman' phase. Misty has always been a strong force in my life, beginning at the age of thirteen. I can only thank her for introducing me to a world of magic and wonder, a feeling I hope to someday breathe into my own works."

Dedication:

to Mr. Brian Devaney—respected teacher, good friend,and one of the few true Heralds in this world

"Rivin."

From where he sat at the table, the boy looked up at his father. He had been rubbing his fingers—near to blistering from chopping wood all day—trying to get the ache out of them.

Holding so hard to the ax handle I forgot how to let go, he thought, reminding himself of a quote his older sister, Sattar, was fond of.

Rivin looked around to see Sattar clearing the wooden trenchers for washing, Danavan—his younger sister—smiling her sweet, undefiled smile and vanishing after Sattar, and Nastasea squalling as she tried to catch up with her two older siblings. In his concentration on his pain, he had forgotten that dinner was over.

"Is—something wrong, sir?"

For a small man, Delanon Morningsong had an enormous presence about him. Strict and solemn, dedicated to purist beliefs, he was a refugee of the famine that had caused his family to flee from their native land of Karse.

Rivin had not been part of the flight that had carried his father, mother, and their extended families to Valde-mar, but he had heard enough stories about it to be happy to no longer live in Karse. While he had been pelted with his father's beliefs since before he could speak, his daydreaming and slightly absentminded attitude had mostly helped him to escape the rigid mind-frame of most of his father's teachings—and had also caused him great bodily harm in the area of thrashings and penance.

"You chopped that wood?"

"Aye, sir." Rivin smiled, not wincing as he ran a hand through his short black hair. His eyes were gray, like his mother's.

"All of it?"

"Yes, sir."

The dark brown eyes of his father flickered.

"Good," he grunted at last. "I have another task for you."

Rivin groaned inwardly. He had estimated one week until he began planting in the fields—usually that week was a lazy, vacationlike existence where he performed menial tasks and occasional chores, a break before the longest season. But Delanon had been piling jobs on him since weather had permitted, and Rivin feared his father might be trying to put the yoke of "responsible manhood" upon him.

Well, I am nearly thirteen . . . I suppose he'll be thinking about marriage, too, soon.

Outwardly, Rivin's face remained neutral, neither smiling idiotically nor showing contempt toward further work. One would have been considered mockery, the other insubordination.

But the words Delanon had to say were hardly what his son expected, and it was all the boy could do to keep the shock and joy from showing on his face.

"I want you to go into town and buy some things. Sacks, candles, Sattar says she needs a new spindle as well." His serpentine eyes turned thoughtful as he appraised his son. Rivin blinked in surprise. This was no chore! He was going into town! Away from the farm! Away from work! Freedom and fresh air!

"In addition to that, Sattar and I have decided that we can no longer support having Nastasea and Danavan. I talked to my sister, and she said she'd be more than happy to take them—she being no longer capable of having littles and all."

Surprise again, and relief as well. Rivin and Sattar had been conspiring long and hard to get Nastasea and Danavan out of the house, if only to avoid having to endure a life of poverty and their father's harsh rules .. . now it seemed their plans would come true.

"After all, they'd only be a dowry fee and a nuisance," he added casually. "And we don't have the money your aunt does."

Probably because Aunt has the sense to let some of her fields lie fallow, while you plant more than you could ever hope to harvest! Rivin had heard his father's excuses and complaints many times, and had long ago stopped believing them.

Delanon raised a glass filled with water to his lips and drank. His father had long ago forsworn spirits and beer, sticking to clean water and berry juice, or cow's and goat's milk.

"Any questions?" the older man asked, wiping his mouth.

Rivin shook his head, and then said, "No, sir."

"Then get to bed. You'll be leaving in the morning."

Rivin bowed his head. "Thank you, sir."

The soft pad of his feet as he left the house for the stables was all the sound Rivin could make to express his joy.

Though clouds had built up the night before, the promise of rain had not come through. Rivin awoke in the barn, surprised to find the hay he was lying in (with a scrap of cloth thrown over to take away the itch) was not damp with early moisture. Indeed, the day was clear and the sky blue as the Morningsong excursion began— Nastasea and Danavan behind and Rivin leading in a steady walk. In a way, he was grateful for the clear weather. It meant that the trek would be easier. But dry weather wouldn't make planting less difficult, and he hoped that it would cloud over after he dropped off Nastasea and Danavan with Aunt Rianao.

/ don't care if I get drenched, but the girls are still too delicate. They'd probably die of pneumonia, and gods know what hells I'd go through trying to forgive myself— as well as the suffering Father'd put me through. Not like he'd need to do anything. I'd probably kill myself if I let one of them die.

Time whittled away as they moved, Rivin's feet taking well to the walk. He glanced back only once, when they got to the top of the hilly slope that overlooked the farm. He thought he saw Sattar standing in the doorway, hands tucked into her apron, the wind stirring her hair lightly. She was a mirror of their father—dark and sharp—except that her eyes were not solemn, they were sorrowful. Ever since their mother had died a month after Nastasea's birth, she had taken on the tasks of housewife and sister, moving like a steady ghost through the house and tending to their needs. He felt a stab of sadness as he disappeared over the ridge, as if he were leaving her forever. . . .

But I'll be back before the moon turns full. Why do I feel this way?

Sunzenith rose over the windy farmlands, and Rivin took the time to rest and feed his sisters on bread and cheese and cool water. He himself fasted, knowing that in three candlemarks there would be a good meal waiting at Rianao's. Besides, he would need to keep a tight watch on his rations if he were to make it to Kettlesmith and back.

By a candlemark and a half, he was carrying Nastasea, who had begun complaining—"feet!"—to mean that her feet hurt. Though nearly five years old, she still talked like one of the littlest littles. Sattar said that they had all been like that, and that this would pass.

Aye, just like the fears of monsters in the well and colddrakes In the dark. And me—with my fear of the barn. Still get kind of nervy when I go in there at night to sleep. Ah, well, time will cure.

A thread of wind tickled his face, and Nastasea giggled a little, playing with a digit of his hair.

Rivin nodded to himself. Time always has before. . . .

Rivin rubbed his shoulder—weary from holding the burden of his younger sister—trying to massage the pain out of it. His back leaned against the wood-built wall of his aunt's fore-room, his left side toward the cheery fire that was burning steadily in the hearth. He took a long drink from his milk-filled tin cup, grateful for the cool liquid, and smiled when Rianao walked by.

His aunt's establishment was larger than his home, being the dwelling of numerous children (called Rianao's Brood) as well as a crew of work hands, seven large wolfhounds, and five cats.

On the other side of the room was an enigma. Seated in a high-backed, armless wooden chair and dressed in white tunic and side-split, white leather riding skirt was Lisabet Morningsong, the Herald-Mage of the family, and distant cousin to Rianao. She didn't look much like a mage—with needlework on her lap and her face lost in concentration as she pulled up a knot—but there was a slight aura about her that spoke of control, restrained power, and authority.

She looked up at him upon noticing his eyes on her, and smiled slightly, inclining her head at him just a little before reaching into the basket at her side and hunting for a new color of thread.

"She's here on vacation," he heard a voice say, and looked up at the looming form of Rianao's fifteen-year-old son Tileir, who had met the Morningsong pack as they arrived at Rianao's farm. "Some vacation—haw!" The older boy shook his head as he slid down on the floor next to Rivin. "She's just 'bout as old as Ma an' looks like she was Ma's daughter! They say," his voice grew to an undertone, "that it's the magic tha' does't."

"I never heard of magic doing that," Rivin murmured back.

"Neit'er I until m'cousin Kentith told me."

"And what does Kentith know?" Rivin had only met Kentith once or twice, but had, from first encounter, disliked the boy for some strange reason.

Tileir gave a braying laugh. "Why, boy, didn't ya hear? Kentith's been Chosen, too!"

Rivin went silent with shock. "Kentith? Kentith Ra-venblack? Our cousin?"

"Why are ye so surprised? If Lisabet, why, then, whyn't another?"

Rivin shrugged. "Do'know. It's just . . ." he trailed off, shook his head. "Never mind." He could see Tileir was going to push the subject, so he said, "Where am I sleeping tonight?"

Tileir considered for a moment, his caravan of thought rerouted with this new line of questioning. "Why—most prob'bly wi' me."

Rivin winced, feeling a strange panic build inside. Panic not so much of having to sleep with Tileir, but of what Tileir might do to him.

Why am I thinking like this? he rationalized to himself in bewilderment. Tileir wouldn't do anything to me! Lady—I think I'm going mad!

Across the room Lisabet's head lifted, and she cocked her head to one side, as if trying to hear something she couldn't quite catch. She swept the room with baffled eyes, pausing only momentarily to look at him before going on.

It was then that Rivin heard the thin wail coming from outside.

"... No/ no! no! no! . . . won't! won't! won't! . . . DON'T WANT BATH!"

Rivin ran outside, stopping when he saw Rianao standing over Nastasea. The child was snarling up at her aunt, her little face streaked with tears and broken with anger.

"Won't, won't, WON'T!"

"Now, 'Stasea—" Rianao said soothingly, moving forward.

"NO!" the child shrieked, hands curled into white-knuckled fists at her sides, eyes squeezed shut.

"Aunt—here, let me." He moved forward, past the round, horse-faced body of his aunt, and knelt hi front of Nastasea.

" 'Stasea," he said, touching her fists.

"No!"

His ears rang as her scream echoed around him. In a soft voice he gentled her, watching as her short-lived tantrum drained away, her expression remolding again, except now it was confused and tear-filled.

"Want Mamma," she whimpered, using her word for Sattar.

"Mamma's not here anymore, 'Stasea. Rianao's going to be your new mamma."

"No!" The shriek went up again.

"Yes," he said firmly, pulling her into his arms. "Yes."

He stroked her hair lovingly as she sobbed against his shoulder, stuttering out "Mamma" every third word. He could feel Rianao's curious gaze on him as he spoke to his sister. He kept his own eyes fixed on the steaming tub in front of him.

"Let Ria give you a bath?" he asked at last, patting her back with a note of finality.

She sniffed and nodded, her eyes downcast.

"Good." He turned to his aunt. "All yours."

She looked a bit shocked as he handed her his sister. "I thank ye," she said, blinking owlishly at him as he stood.

" Twas nothing," he said as he walked away from

them, going back into the house, masking his face with false cheer.

But between his brows was a headache, between his shoulders tight muscles, and his arm once more hurt from holding on too hard to his sister.

Night!

He woke with a start, his breath heavy as his eyes strained to adapt to the absence of light. Next to him, Tileir dreamed on, his heavy snoring sending discordant ripples into the pearly pre-dawn silence of the room.

Rivin wiped his hands over his brow, surprised to find it dry. He had been flushed a moment ago, he was sure of it The room must have been stifling hot—

But it wasn't. The window was open, letting the cool air in, letting the hot air out. Slowly, so as not to wake Tileir, Rivin stood. He picked up his belongings, cast one last unnecessary, fear-inspired glance back, and then exited.

Rianao's home was silent save for the sound of the sleepers. The chairs were empty, the sewing set aside, and Rivin found himself thinking, / guess mages sleep, too.

He purloined a loaf of the oldest bread he could find, then moved outdoors and filled his leather skin with water from the well. His aunt wouldn't mind, he knew, but she would probably be disappointed when she found him gone before she woke. So would Nastasea and Danavan. Rivin had to remind himself that they were only half a day's ride from his father's, and that it would be easy to come and visit. . . just as soon as he finished planting . . . and harvesting . . . and trading . . . and planning for winter . . . but then they would be snowbound for all the winter, and then. . . .

Rivin realized with a sinking heart that it would be a very long time before he saw his sisters again.

Silent with guilt, he loped down the road.

Two days later, he was ruing his wish for a storm. While the precious items he had bought in town were

securely wrapped in layer upon layer of lavishly waxed skins, he had no such protection, and was drenched to the core when finally he reached home, letting himself into the barn to change and then go via the adjoining, dry overhang into the house proper.

"Rivin?" he heard, low and soft from his right, and he spun—panic catching him off guard—only to see Sattar, sitting in a golden pile of hay with her knees drawn to her chest and her arms wrapped around her legs. She looked up at him, and he noticed the dark rings around her eyes.

Somewhere inside him, despite her appearance, he felt a deep weight lifted, and relief flooded every pore.

She's alive, he found his mind sighing.

"Sattar—" He swallowed. "You scared me."

She nodded, and he noticed a haunted look in her eyes.

"What's wrong?" he asked, kneeling next to her. Concern tinged his voice.

She flinched as he touched her, her muscles clenching spasmodically, and then the emotion smoothed away as she took rigid control of her body. She smiled at him, her lips tight, if not pained. One hand sought his hair and the other went around his shoulder in a gesture that reminded him keenly of his mother.

"Sa ... sa ... sa," she murmured. "How was your trip, Rivin?"

He shrugged, wrapping his arms around her and placing his cheek against her shoulder.

"How did you convince Da about the girls?"

" Twas nothing. Da is very easy to talk to if you— catch him in the right mood."

He heard loss and something he knew but could not name lace her words, but he ignored it, instead closing his eyes and being content to listen to her heartbeat.