Sword of Ice and Other Tales of Valdemar

"You know I would've rather stayed—" he started.

"Sa, sa," she interrupted. "We all must have our freedoms, fledgling. I would not limit you yours."

He sat up, shaking droplets from his hair. "Look, I'm soaked. How about I put on some of my dry things and you take the packs inside?"

She nodded, smiling. "I'll get to stoking the fire-Father can complain if he wants, but the rain is a good omen and you're cold. The wood is worth it."

With brisk efficiency, she took the packs and went inside.

It took him a while to realize that she had never told him what was wrong, and he cursed himself for not recognizing the same tactics he had used on his cousin.

Rivin watched the scythe slide over the grain, listening to the whisper of the wheat as it cut. He blinked rapidly, exhaustion blurring his vision. He had been working sun up to sun up for the past two days, with one more day to go. Harvest week was crucial to the prosperity of the crop—if they didn't reap it in tune, the wheat would spoil along with their profits.

While he was used to this sort of work, he wasn't so sure of his sister. She was some hundred yards away, working her section of the field, cutting with slow, even strokes. In the past months since the planting season had started, she had grown more and more anxious—worried almost—with lines of fatigue growing around her eyes. Rivin had no idea why she felt this way—the crop was growing well, and they should be able to harvest enough to make a large profit. But, still, the state of desperation—almost depression—she had fallen into made him wonder, and agitated him no small amount.

He did not know what made him stop and look up. He thought that he heard a soft voice call his name like a lost spirit on the breeze, but he was never sure. One moment he was biting his lip to keep himself awake, the next his head had snapped up and trained on Sattar, who had fallen motionless in the field.

"Sattar?" he called, dropping his scythe and running over.

Rivin knelt when he came to the body of his sister, and was shocked to see blood staining the heavy layers of her skirts. A claw of pure fear gripped his heart, and

he glanced toward the scythe she had been using, fearing that she had fallen on it.

But, no, the blade shone like a clean moon, the silver edge dulled, perhaps, by the work it had been doing, but not bright red with fresh gut-blood. Than what . . . ?

"Move away, boy!" Delanon roared, coming out of nowhere, and Rivin was pushed back by surprisingly strong hands.

"Sattar?" he heard his father say, panic in his voice. The man shook her, rolling her over and staring into her pale face. Even from where he lay in the ripe crop, Rivin could see the sweat on her clammy skin, could almost feel the chill coming off her cool body.

"Should I—should I get the Healer?"

"Yes! Now!" his father roared, picking her up and cradling her tenderly, like a lover. His jaw was clenched tight, his eyes downcast, and Rivin could clearly hear him say, "Don't die, girl. Papa loves you. Don't die now. Not yet."

And then the boy was running—not for his life, but his sister's.

"Let me see," said the Healer, his face blank as he bent over the unconscious form of Sattar.

Rivin was still breathing heavily as he leaned against the doorway to his sister's room. The Healer lived a full hour down the road, but it had seemed to Rivin to be a thousand miles he traveled before he finally arrived at the old man's house, banging on the door and screaming at the top of his lungs as if the Hounds of Hell were on his heels. It had taken another thousand years to saddle the Healer's horse, and then a thousand leagues to ride back, with Rivin gasping the whole way.

Now, safe at home, he watched in anxious concern as the Healer drew back the covers and examined his sister.

After a moment he looked up, giving Rivin and Delanon a severe look and saying, "Please leave the room."

The two men filed out, Rivin panting now from increased fear as well as exertion.

The door shut with an ominous thud.

Rivin waited, shifting nervously from foot to foot. After a moment, he felt an iron hand on his shoulder, and turned to look into Delanon's dead eyes.

"Go," he said, pointing out the door, toward the fields.

Rivin's jaw dropped, and it took all his will not to scream, You've got to be joking!

"Now," Delanon said, leaving no question of authority.

Rivin submissively lowered his head and walked out the door.

In the field, he picked up his fallen scythe, looking at the only-half-harvested crop, blind to the fact that the profits this year would be slim.

The silent whisper of the scythe was the only sound he heard, gasping like the laboring death-rattle of a dying person.

"Ho—boy."

Rivin stopped his work, dumbly turning toward the Healer who was standing in the stubble of wheat-trail that Rivin had made.

"We must speak.'"

Mute still, and shivering from sweat-chills and weakness, Rivin leaned on his scythe, waiting.

"How is she?" he asked bluntly.

The Healer shook his head. "There is a sore deep inside her that my Gifts and knowledge can't seem to reach. I am going to try and summon help, but I fear I may not be quick enough."

Rivin scrubbed his face, pretending that the dampness this action left on his hand was sweat, and not tears.

"Why has this happened?"

The Healer frowned, a line of worry between his brows. "Did not you know, boy? She has miscarried. The babe could not survive the strain of the work she was doing. Some can, but she was too frail." A note of disapproval entered the man's voice.

Rivin blinked, the chill in his body suddenly concentrating and finding a focus in his breastbone.

"Do you know the father?" the Healer went on.

Rivin stared at the man, feeling a numb balm wash him. In that moment, he felt separate—from his body, from the situation, from the questions the old Healer asked. He was above it all—all laws and vows, all beliefs and blood ties that had bound him to his family and his father. The chill in his heart began to radiate outward, and he felt it enter his gaze.

The Healer must have seen it, for his own blue eyes widened and he stepped back, slowly, first one step, then another.

"I—" the old man began, and then broke into a run, waddling flat-footed toward his horse, mounting, and galloping off into the night.

In his belly—even apart—Rivin felt a colddrake uncoil, stirring.

Go, the Rivin that walked apart from Rivin thought. Summon your Healers. They may be able to help my sister, but there is none who can save my father.

Carefully, Rivin felt himself lay the scythe down. He would not need its edge. He turned to the farm, and took one step—

The movement was like a trigger. He Felt the tremble of inner blocks crack, fracture, and start to collapse. Revulsion, that sense of broken trust, panic—the source of all those emotions had overflowed its dam. The walls disintegrated—

And ... he remembered. . . .

So long ago, as a child—a baby. The warm trust and love he had once held for the man who loomed above him, who he called Da. He remembered the day he had been playing in the barn and his mother had been down at Rianao's, on an errand with Sattar, heavy with Dana-van. He remembered looking up, and seeing Delanon—

He remembered pain, and screaming. He remembered the ripping sound of his clothes as they were torn from him, and he remembered begging, pleading, "No—no— please, Da, no—"

He remembered being beaten, and then told that if he

told anyone, anyone, his father would kill him—or kill Sattar. And it would all be Rivin's fault if that happened.

And he had made himself forget. To keep that from happening, he had built up walls, drowned the memory, weighted it with stones and thrown it down a well—

But now he knew. Now he was soaked with memory. All the groundless fears had a base. His vision was clear. The denial was gone. Now he knew—

His father had raped him.

The door to the farm did not open, it exploded. He Felt himself reaching for the chill fire that had now spread to his palms, and he Felt it buoy his spirit higher. He Felt the hunger for revenge—cleansing at last!— sweep him as he opened the door to Sattar's room, and stared down at his father.

Who was sitting in a stool, holding his daughter's hand, bent double.

There was no pity, no remorse at that moment. There was no doubt as to who was the father of Sattar's baby. He had heard the unknown element in Sattar's voice that rainy night he had returned from his excursion to the city, and now he knew a name for it.

Shame.

Delanon stood, a frown on his brow, his eyes dark. With a sweep of his hand, Rivin felt raw power roar through his body and pick his father up, slamming the older man against a wall.

There was a crack and a scream as Delanon's rib cage broke and his pelvis shattered, and Rivin felt a rivulet of sheer exhilaration trickle into him. Retribution, he thought, and Reached for more.

"No!" the disembodied boy heard. He saw realization in his father's eyes, a desperate plea—horror—fear— good!—"Stop! Please—oh—gods—I'm sorry—"

Rivin did not waste the breath to tell his father that there was no way he could excuse what he had done, nor words enough to apologize. There wasn't even the time for words. Only the time for destruction. Only— the solution—

Fire exploded from the boy, smoking through his body and out of his hands in a burst of light and energy. He Felt the agony as his father screamed, writhing and twisting. The fire sloughed off flesh, burned away blood, burrowed into marrow and bone. Rivin screamed his hatred—his burden of shame—into the winds he had summoned, feeling his mind snap and crackle beneath the new burden of magic.

And then it was over, leaving behind only a char-black, greasy smear on the wall, and ashes on the floor. Rivin swayed, staring down at his hands, amazement in his eyes.

With a popping sound akin to that of a dislocated joint being reset, he came back to himself.

What have I done?

He sank to his knees, sanity returning, the cold banished, weakness and a strange inner emptiness making him tremble. The air was stifling. He felt flushed. When he ran his hand over his forehead, he pulled sweat away from his face.

What have I done?

Slowly, he stood, turning his eyes from the glassy-slick mark on the far wall, turning to the shutters of the window, fumbling to open them, to let this foul, foul air out—to purify—deep, clean, breaths—clean, cleansing air.

His body was racked with sobs when he finally pushed the shutters open and nearly collapsed against the win-dowframe. He was a murderer—a killer of men—he was foul—slimy—caked in dirt—stained in blood—blackened by ash.

He was just like his father.

Like father. Like son.

:No.:

The voice was assertive, female. He trembled, fear consuming him again, making a fist around his belly. He shook his head against the voice, choosing to disbelieve.

Killer. Defiler. Damned. What have I become?

:No!:

The voice again, and he screamed in the silence of his

soul, Don't you see what I just did? Don't you know what I have done? Don't you understand?

.7 see. I know. And I understand.:

He looked up, for a moment blinded by a light akin to the sun, though it was an hour until dawn. And then he saw her—the graceful line of her white neck, the glancing blue-stream brilliance of her eyes—like fire, but kinder.

Shock gathered him up in its prickly folds, and then plunged him into an endless field of blue that was as textured and soft as a satin robe, and as all-encompassing as the closing surface of water. But he had no fear of drowning. Nor did he want to. All he felt—was—her—

And her name was Derdre, and he was her Chosen.

Lisabet gently pulled the covers over the bed that had held the corpse of the girl, tucking everything into neat order. The undertaker had carried the body of Sattar Morningsong off two days ago, and buried it yesterday. They had had to wait that long just to let Rivin rest from the exhausted state he had fallen into.

The man that the regional Healer had brought from Maidenflower stared at the bed and then turned away. He had stayed around in case any other—accidents— had occurred.

"It didn't have to end like this," he murmured, glancing out the window toward the boy, leaning against his Companion, head buried in her slender neck.

"It didn't have to start either," Lisabet replied grimly, glancing at the mark on the wall that no amount of washing had removed. "Gods damn it—I should have known!"

The Healer, a man by the name of Yiro, put a hand on her shoulder and shook his head. "Stop it now, Herald. Sometimes it's almost impossible to tell. Even Delanon's sister said that she thought he was a tad harsh, but never . . . well. . . ."

"Those kids carried that secret well."

"Or else they thought it was normal to be treated that way."

They stood in silence for a time. Then: "Why would someone do that to their own children?" she whispered.

"I've asked myself that same question before. The best answer I have is that they like the . . . power. The pleasure of a helpless victim. The dependence. They get a feeling of control. Some even think they're doing the child a favor. If nothing else, they try to justify their actions."

Quiet. Outside, the Herald could hear Derdre take fidgety steps, the tall grass whispering softly. Then, "And the other two?" she asked.

"I've already called in one of the best MindHealers in this district. She'll check them out, live with them for a while. They're young. With luck, she'll be able to Heal them."

After a moment, Yiro clasped her in a quick hug. "Cheer up, sister. Things'll get better. The boy will most likely heal, if not today, then tomorrow. If not tomorrow, then the next day. It will take a lot of time, but hopefully, it'll happen. He'll realize . . . and then maybe he'll even forgive." "But not forget."

"No. He already forgot once, from what we got out of him. He must have blocked that incident for years. I've heard of it."

But the Healer's words were fading away as Lisabet moved out of the room and toward the figure in the fields.

Gently, she placed a hand on his shoulder, remembering what she had seen from her view out the window of her cousin's home when Nastasea's bathtime had come up. A child comforting a child.

And now I am doing the same. Aren't we all just children at heart?

She enclosed him in her arms, petting his hair, holding him as he began to cry.

"Sattar," he whispered, weeping into her shoulder. "She's gone," Lisabet replied. "Want Sattar," he said, echoing Nastasea's words.

"Sattar's gone now. It's time to let go, Rivin."

The boy neither agreed nor rejected her words. Instead, he turned and mounted his Companion, his face a cast-granite mask of sorrow. Lisabet checked the shields around him, looking for leaks and holes. No use letting that powerful a new-born Mage-Gift get out of hand.

Satisfied, she called Raal over, and pulled herself into her own saddle. With one trembling hand on her Companion's neck, she led the way down the road toward Haven.

Gods—mage-power coming to life like that scares me. The boy didn't even know what he was doing—didn't even realize it was magic—until it was too late. It was only luck that this was my circuit and that I was close by when he first Reached. I don't think that I would have wanted a stranger taking care of him. She shivered. There was so much anger in him. . . .

:Thus, the nature of madness,: Raal said, his voice heavy and dusky in her mind.

:I'll never figure it out.:

•.Some things we were never meant to figure out.:

-.Like Companions?: Lisabet asked slyly.

She heard a dry chuckle. -.Like Companions.:

A wind chuckled by, catching her hair. She saw Rivin's head jerk up, as if he had heard something, and then he shook himself, falling back into his mournful brooding.

It was then—when he lifted his head—that she noticed the worryline now chiseled between his brow. She noticed his taut neck muscles, the lines around his eyes. But most of all, she noticed the way he held his arm and rubbed his shoulder as if it ached with the pain of a hard grip that had, for a long while, forgotten how to let go.

. . . . Another Successful Experiment

by Lawrence Schimel

Lawrence Schimel is the co-editor of Tarot Fantastic and Fortune Tellers, among other projects. His stories appear in Dragon Fantastic, Cat Fantastic III, Weird Tales from Shakespeare, Phantoms of the Night, Return to Avalon, the Sword and Sorceress series, and many other anthologies. Twenty-four years old, he lives in New York City, where he writes and edits full-time.

They resembled nothing so much as ill-proportioned hammers, but Chavi was pleased with them. No, he decided as he held one aloft and the weight of the tiny head on the end of the broomstick-length handle caused it to quiver slightly, he was more than just content.

"They're perfect!"

Gathering the other five from his bed, he tucked them all under one arm and went in search of his year-mates.

Chavi had spent the last week hidden in his room constructing these strange items. An air of mystery had naturally developed around them as Grays and sometimes even full Heralds stood outside his door listening to the curious sounds of their creation. Locking himself into his room was always the first clue that mischief was afoot, and that another of Chavi's (in)famous experiments would soon be unveiled. Therefore, as Efrem wandered down the hallway and noticed the door ajar, he could not resist the temptation to peek inside, hoping for a glimpse of the latest invention. Finding it empty, not only of marvels, but of the mischief maker himself, he went in search of him, knowing it would be worth his while, in laughter if nothing else.

Whether it was simply a lucky guess, or the fervent hope that Chavi was not foolish enough to premiere one of his experiments indoors again, his search led him— after a brief stop in the kitchens—to Companion's Field, where Chavi and his Companion Tecla waited for his year-mates to arrive.

The first person to show up was not, however, one of Chavi's year-mates. A tall, lanky man in the red-brown of a Bardic trainee came by and leaned against a tree, facing Chavi and Tecla. Chavi was of a mind to ask him to "Move along," then decided it might be good to have a Bard on hand to immortalize his success. He was sure it would be a success, too, and did not even consider that the experiment might fail.

The second arrival, however, gave Chavi pause. Efrem was a fellow Gray, who had been chosen two years before him. While Chavi did not at all dislike the Herald (he doubted it was even possible for a Herald to actively dislike another Herald), his presence made Chavi nervous. Had he been wandering by and noticed them, Chavi wondered, or had he known to come to Companion's Field now? If one of his year-mates had let slip that they would unveil his latest experiment. . . .

Just then, Gildi arrived with her companion, Fedele. With them came an older woman in Healer's green, her hair just turning to frost.

"I knew it," Chavi admonished, even as he hugged his year-mate in greeting. "I told you not to tell anyone." He glanced meaningfully from the Healer to Efrem and the Bard.

"I've been part of your experiments before, Chavi, and felt having a Healer on hand was a precaution worth taking. But / didn't tell anyone."

"Someone must have" he said, glaring at the pair of bystanders.

"Oh, don't sulk, Chavi. What harm is there in having spectators to revel in your latest crowning glory?"

He grinned at her. "Well, when you put it that way. . . ."

Tecla warned him that he was in for a surprise when he turned around. Nervously, Chavi looked behind him. His year-mates Some and Grav had arrived with their Companions.

:That's not it,: Tecla told him.

Chavi looked again, and this time saw what Tecla had meant: a group of three full Heralds coming toward them. "Aaaarrgggh! Why me? Why? All I ask for is a little peace and quiet in my life!"

Gildi could not stop laughing at that last comment until the three Heralds had reached them. Their Companions had come in from the Field to greet them. That must be how Tecla had known they were coming, Chavi realized.

"So who told you?" Chavi asked with a small grin, by way of greeting to the three Heralds.

All three of them laughed. "I'm afraid you can't keep a secret that involves six Companions," one said.

Chavi looked sternly at Tecla, about to ask her if she had told, but then decided he really didn't want to know. He was sure she had read his thoughts and knew what he had meant to ask, but she kept silent, aside from her usual comforting presence at the back of his mind.

Chavi sighed. While he was interrogating, he might as well do them all. "And how did you find out?" he asked the Bardic trainee.

"One of the servants told me."

One of the servants, Chavi thought. And how did they know? Did he have no privacy whatsoever around here, or what?

Chavi turned to Efrem. "You?" He was getting very tired of this question very quickly.

"No one."

"No one?"

"We all knew you were making something in your room, since you could hear the noise even from the cellar, practically. When I noticed your door was open again at last, but the room empty, I knew there was a sight to be seen somewhere, if only I could find it. One worth risking Mero's wrath by skipping out on preparation." Efrem smiled. "But I found a way around that."

"Oh?" Chavi asked, very curious as to any new techniques he might learn, for getting out of chores. "Pray tell, how was that?"

Before Efrem had a chance to explain, the answer walked into sight. Mero carried a basket stuffed with food in each hand, the three Grays in tow carried chairs and a table. They would work outside, and therefore all get the chance to watch the spectacle.

"This is ridiculous!" Chavi exclaimed as they began setting up the table and chairs. "You'd think I had invented entertainment for the first time."

Kem and Fiz chose that moment to show up with their Companions. "Are we charging admission or something?" Fiz asked.

"Then neither of you told?"

"Chavi. Really." Kem struck a melodramatic pose. "That you could even doubt us."

Chavi turned to Gildi. "Now you see why I didn't want spectators? Put him in front of a crowd and he's incorrigible."

"You're just jealous of my charm and good looks," Kem replied.

In answer, Chavi picked up one of his inventions and held it aloft. Advancing on Kem he said, "I can take care of those looks."

But once his actions had gotten enough laughter, Chavi lowered the creation again and turned serious. He turned to face the crowd. "I'll bet you're wondering why I've brought you all here," he began, earning boos and catcalls from his year-mates. Chavi looked down his nose at them, even though he was shorter than all save Grav. "Now where was I. .. ? Oh, yes, today's demonstration. You are very privileged to witness here today the birth of a new sport. A game of skill that will enchant spectators, and also," Chavi turned toward the three Heralds, "help train the participants in equitation and combat."

"You don't intend to spar with those things while riding Companions?" one of the Heralds asked.

"Hear me out." Chavi turned to his year-mates and began passing out his creations, one to each. "The rules are simple. Mount your Companions and I shall explain."

As they climbed into their saddles, Chavi whispered to his year-mates, "Now I have no idea if this is going to work." Gildi and Kem exchanged knowing glances, for Chavi never made disclaimers like that unless he was sure of success. "But let's at least put on a good show, eh?"

Switching back into a performer's voice, Chavi continued explaining the rules. "I'm sure you are all familiar with the games of stickball and football played by children? What we are about to play is a mix of both." From one of Tecla's saddlebags he brought forth a small wooden ball wrapped in leather and tossed it to the ground. "That is the object of our pursuit. To manipulate it, we use these." Chavi held aloft his creation in demonstration and, swinging down, gave the ball a solid crack which sent it rolling off through the grass. There was a burst of applause from the audience, in response to which Chavi stood in his stirrups and bowed to them, before continuing.

"The game is played by two teams of three players each. Why this number? Because more Companions and Heralds than that on the field of play at once would be disaster." He smiled. "There are also that number among my year-mates and myself, and since I am inventing this game, that is what I decided. Besides, it takes forever to make the mallets.

"Some, Kem, and Gildi are one team; your goal is those two trees over there marked with yellow ribbons. Grav, Fiz, and myself guard the goal on the other side of the field marked by blue ribbons. Points are scored by knocking the ball through the opposing team's goal." Chavi paused to let all this information sink in and smiled out at the assembled crowd. They were listening raptly for his every word, and Chavi exulted in the sensation while his year-mates made practice swings with their mallets, testing the distance between themselves and the ground.

"Are there no precautionary rules?" the Healer nervously asked at last, breaking the silence.

Chavi smiled kindly at her, wondering what Gildi had told her of his earlier experiments. "Indeed there are. While our Companions are quite capable at taking care of themselves, and us, we shall not put them at unnecessary risk. No hitting Companions or riders with your mallets or fists, although I would hazard to say that leaning heavily against someone as you rode them off would be fair, so long as your hands stayed over your own saddle. No sticking your mallet under or between the legs of a Companion, even for the sake of hitting the ball. Furthermore, no lifting the mallet head higher than your shoulder, so you don't endanger those of us topside. And finally, the rider who has control of the ball (with his mallet—touching the ball at any time with your hands will result in a penalty) the rider who has the ball, also has the right of way to follow after it for a second swing. This means you cannot ride in front of him, in a perpendicular path, and stop there. The object of the game is not to get injured, nor to wind up with all our Companions smacked into each other.

"Now, is everyone set on these rules?" His year-mates nodded, and the Healer looked content. "Then let's play ball."

Chaos quickly descended upon the field, and had it not been for the precautionary rules (which the Companions remembered, reminding their riders whenever they forgot) all six players would have wound up in the House of Healing after the first five minutes of practice, never having the chance to move into full fledged play. Grav's first swing at the ball was so wild he fell from the saddle. He turned as scarlet as a Bard's garb, but climbed back on and tried again.

"If you stand up in the stirrups like this," Chavi advised, "and lean from the waist, you should find it easier to keep your seat." Chavi had, of course, taken all his tumbles days ago when no one was around to see them.

Grav followed Chavi's instructions and gave the ball a nice, solid whack, knocking it over the bystanders' heads.

"Careful there!" the Bardic trainee shouted as he ducked the projectile.

Grav apologized, but he was feeling smug as he turned to Fiz and said, "Your turn."

Fiz fared slightly better than Grav, in that he did not fall off his horse on his first swing. However, he did not hit the ball. After his seventh missed swing, the crowd was wild with laughter that far exceeded what Grav's fall had earned. The expression of frustration on Fiz's face each time he swung was enough to redouble their mirth. As he was winding up for an eighth swing, Fedele brought Gildi alongside of him and she blocked his mallet's arc with her own.

"I would have hit it that time!" Fiz screamed, sending the crowd of onlookers into hysterics.

Gildi merely gave him a sarcastic look and tapped the ball out of Fiz's reach. However, when Fedele walked up to it and she took a second swing, she missed too. Grav lost no time in riding behind her, standing up in his stirrups as Chavi had told him, and giving the ball another good, solid crack. It sailed into the audience once more.

"That's twice," the Bardic trainee said as he ducked again.

Just then, Efrem lost control of the potato he had been peeling, and it slipped out of his hands. With a mixture of shame and curiosity he watched its arc as it left his hands and knocked the trainee in the back of the head, where he knelt in "safety" behind a bush.

"Herald, thy days are numbered," the Bardic trainee thundered as he turned to face his assailant-from-behind. "Thy lack of skill with a blade shall henceforth go down in the annals of history in the 'Ballad of How Efrem Lost the Battle of Potato Picnic.' Let thy infamy precede thee wherever thou go." He sat down with his back to a nearby tree and began composing verses as he watched the rest of the game.

"You know, he's right," Eladi told Efrem after they had all laughed heartily. She handed him some of her carrots to peel, hoping he would have more luck with them. "I mean, if Alberich had seen you—" She shuddered, the thought too unpleasant to contemplate.

"What do you mean if?" a voice behind them asked. Eladi turned to find the weapon's master standing behind them. Efrem did not need to look to know who it was; the overwhelming feeling of impending doom was enough.

The game was as exhilarating as Chavi imagined it would be, once everyone had mastered the rudiments of play and the actual game was underway. It moved at a remarkably fast clip, the entire thrust shifting to the other side of the field as a backhand swing sent the ball arcing toward the other goal.

Gildi served as a highly efficient captain for her team, masterminding a myriad of strategies which Chavi took careful note of. She was less concerned with scoring the most points herself than in helping her team to the most points. Her favorite tactic was to ride up alongside someone as he was about to take a shot and block his mallet with her own. Then, one of her team mates, who had been instructed to follow her, took the ball back toward the other goal. Through Mindspeech, team members were only a thought away as strategy decisions were relayed to them by their Companions.

Fiz proved to be an excellent backhand, although he still had difficulties with his forward shot. Grav was the powerhouse hitter, often sending the ball arcing out of bounds (usually toward the audience). Kem and Some were both adequate players, but they never really excelled at anything in particular. Chavi kept worrying that they weren't enjoying themselves.

:You're daydreaming again: Tecla warned him. -.Keep your eyes on the ball. We're going for the shot.:

Chavi relinquished his musings to the game. He focused on the ball, stood up in his stirrups, and swung. He connected, and a moment later whooped with delight as the ball rolled into the unprotected yellow goal.

Chavi held one of his creations aloft and decided that, yes, he was more than just pleased with them. He was elated. The game was seen as a general success by one and all. The Bardic trainee had begun a second ballad about the day's events, featuring Chavi as its hero. Chavi was grateful that he had changed his mind before asking the man to "Move along." As the game progressed and she was not called upon in her official function, the Healer let herself relax enough to enjoy the sport. Word had spread quickly once the game was underway, and the audience had swelled to five times its original size. Even the Queen herself showed up to watch. Aside from thinking it looked like fun, Heralds were interested in the game for the combat training and equitation skills it provided.

Everyone wanted a mallet of their own. Chavi was beside himself with pleasure.

As his tired but happy year-mates dismounted and relinquished their mallets to other Heralds who wished to try them, Chavi began congratulating himself. "Yes, yet another successful experiment brought to you by the one and only Chavi the magnificent, inventor of innumerable wondrous inventions, including the—"

Gildi Mindspoke to Fedele, who passed the message on to Tecla, who dumped Chavi into the river.

"All right, all right," Chavi said, as he dragged himself, soaking wet, onto the shore, where his year-mates waited, ready to toss him back in depending on his attitude. "So I had a little help from my friends."

Choice

by Michelle West

Michelle West has written two novels for DAW, Hunter's Oath and Hunter's Death, and, with any luck, is finishing her third, The Broken Crown, by now. She likes the Heralds, but couldn't imagine being one-she's the only fantasy writer she knows who's never been up on the back of a horse for fear of breaking her arm in three places when she came off it. Not that she lets cowardice rule her life, of course. Well, not often.

When Kelsey saw the white horse enter the pasture runs, she stopped breathing for a moment and squinted into the distance. Then she saw the Herald Whites of the man who walked just beside it, and with a pang of disappointment she continued across the green toward the inn. Shaking her head, she grimaced just before she took a deep breath and walked through the wide, serviceable doors.

"Kelsey, you're late. Again."

"How can you tell?" She pulled her dark hair back from her square face, twisted it into a makeshift coil, and wrapped it up with a small swathe of black silk—a parting gift from a friend who'd left the town to join a merchant caravan. It was the finest thing she owned, and the fact that she used it in day-to-day wear said a lot about her. Not, of course, that she had very many other places to wear it.

"Don't get smart with me," Torvan Peterson snapped, ; more for show than in anger. He had very little hair left, and professed a great resentment for anyone who managed to retain theirs, he was obviously a man who liked food and ale a little overmuch, and he owned the very practically named Torvan's Tavern. Children made games with that name, but not often in his presence. "Not," he added, "that I would disparage an improvement in your intellect." He stared at her expectantly, and she grimaced. "Well, out with it, girl. If you're going to be late, you can at least amuse me with a colorful excuse."

She rolled her eyes, donned her apron, and picked up a bar rag. "We've got a Herald as a guest."

"Chatting her up?"

"He, and no."

"Hardly much of an excuse, then. All right. The tables need cleaning. The lunchtime crowd was rather messy."

She could see that quite clearly.

On normal days, it wasn't so hard to come and work; work was a routine that added necessary punctuation to her life. She saw her friends here—the few that still remained within reach of the inn—and met strangers who traveled the trade routes with gossip, tales of outland adventures, and true news.

But when a Herald rode through, it made her whole life seem trivial and almost meaningless. She worked quickly, cleaning up crumbs and spills as she thought about her childhood dreams, and the woman who had— while she lived—encouraged them.

"You can be whatever you choose, Kelsey," her grandmother was fond of saying. "You've only to put your mind and your shoulders to it, and you'll do us all proud."

Kelsey snorted and blew a strand of hair out of her eyes. I can be whatever I choose, but I'll never be Chosen. In her youth she'd believed that to be Chosen by one of the Companions was a reward for merit. She'd done everything she could think of to be the perfect, good little girl, the perfect lady, the little hero. She had forsworn the usual childhood greed and the usual childhood rumbles for her studies with her grandmother; she had learned, in a fashion, to wield a weapon, and to think her way clear of troublesome situations without panicking much. Well, except for the small stampede of the cattle back at Pherson's, but anyone could be expected to be a little bit off their color in the midst of their first stampede.

She had done her best never to cheat or lie—excepting those lies that courtesy required; she shared every bounty she was given; in short, she had struggled to lead an exemplary life.

And for her pains, she had drifted into work at Tor-van's Tavern, listening to her friends, encouraging and supporting their dreams, no matter how wild, and watching them, one by one, drift out of her life, either by marriage, by childbirth, or by jobs that had taken them out of the village.

She had her dream, but it was a distant one now, and it only stung her when she came face to face with the fact that someone else—some other person, through no work, no effort, no obvious virtue of their own—was living the life that she had dreamed of and yearned for ever since she could remember.

Still, if the Heralds—they never traveled alone—came in for a meal and left their Companions in the pasture runs, she could sneak out for a few minutes and watch them, and pretend. Because no matter how stupid it was, she couldn't let go of her dream.

It was clear from the moment he walked into the tavern that something was wrong. Heralds were able—although how, she wasn't certain—to keep their Whites white and in very good repair, and this Herald's Whites were neither. He was pale, and the moment he stepped out of the glare of the doorway, she saw why; his arm was bound, but bleeding, and his face was scraped and bruised.

- "Excuse me," he said, in a very quiet, but very urgent voice, "I need help. My Companion is injured." " Heralds seldom traveled alone. Kelsey tucked her rag into her apron pocket and made the distance between the table and the door before Torvan had lifted the bar's gate.

"What—what happened?"

He shook his head, and it was obvious, this close up, that he was near collapse. She put an arm under his arms—she was not a weak woman—and half-walked, half-dragged him to a chair. "Don't worry about me," he said softly, his face graying. "She's hurt, and she needs help."

"Why don't I worry about both of you?" Kelsey replied, mimicking the stern tone of her grandmother in crisis. "Torvan—send Raymon for the doctor, and send Karin for the vet!" The Herald started to rise, and she blocked him with her arm. "And where do you think you're going?"

He opened his eyes at the tone of her voice, and studied her face as if truly seeing her for the first time. Then he smiled wanly. "Nowhere, ma'am," he replied. It was then that she realized that he was probably twice her age, with gray streaks through his long braid and two faded scars across his neck and cheek. His features were fine-boned, unlike her own; he looked like the son of a noble, except it was obvious that he was used to doing his own work.

"Good. What are you smiling at?"

"You. You remind me of my grandmother." The smile faded as he winced; his expression grew distant again. She knew that he was seeing not only the loss of the Herald he traveled his circuit with—for she was certain that that Herald must be dead—but also the fear of the loss of his Companion.

She brought him an ale and made him drink; he finished most of it before the doctors—human and animal—arrived.

"If you make her travel on the leg, you can probably get a few more miles down the road, but you'll lame her," the vet said, staring intently at the cleaned gash across the knee. "I don't know much about Companions—but I do know that if she were a horse, she would never have made it this far." That he didn't offer more,

and in the lecturing tone that he was wont to use, showed his respect for the Herald.

The Herald—who called himself Carris, although that was dearly not his full name—nodded grimly and wiped the sweat absently from his forehead with a handkerchief. His uniform was safely in the tub in Kelsey's room, and he wore no obvious weapons, although a sword and a bow were in easy reach. "How long will it be until she can travel safely?"

"Hard to say," the older man replied.

Cams nodded again, absorbing the words. The doctor had been and gone, and Kelsey had been forced to rather harsh words with both doctor and Herald before an uneasy truce had been reached between them.

"You don't interfere with His Majesty's business," she'd snarled at Dr. Lessar. "And you—what did you think we called the doctor for? He'll bind and treat that arm—and those ribs—even if you feel it's necessary to go out and break them again. Is that clear?"

The doctor laughed. "And you're telling me how to talk to a Herald?"

Oddly enough, the Herald laughed as well. And he did submit to the doctor's care, electing to more quietly ignore most of the doctor's subsequent advice.

Torvan accepted Kelsey's desertion with as much grace as he could muster during the season when the trade route was at its busiest and the tavern could be expected to have the most traffic. She did what she could to lend a hand between the doctors' visits with Carris and his Companion, but it was clear that she felt them both to be her concern, and clearer still that the Herald [was almost in bad enough shape to need it, so he gruffly chased her out of the dining room and told her to finish off her business.

Her business took her to the stables, where, in the dying light, the orange flicker of lamps could be seen through the slats of the door. That's odd, she thought, as she lifted her own lamp a little higher. It wasn't completely dark by any means—but the stables tended to need a little light regardless of the time of day—and she shone that light into the warm shadows.

Cams was kneeling at the feet of a pinto mare, gently probing her knees. She nickered and nudged him, and he nearly fell over as he spun quickly to face Kelsey.

"What are you doing here?" they said in unison.

Then Carris smiled. "You know, lass," he said, although she'd passed the age of "lassdom" five years back, "you should consider a career in His Majesty's army. You've the makings of a fine regimental sergeant."

"Thanks," she replied, feeling that he meant to tease her, but not seeing anything in his words that could be viewed as perjorative. "You haven't answered my question."

He chuckled, and it added wrinkles to his eyes and mouth that suggested he often laughed. "No, lass, I haven't. What do you think of her?"

"Of—" She looked at the horse, and then realized that it wasn't. A horse. "That's your Companion."

"If she forgives me for the indignity and the desertion, then, yes, she is."

"Why—why have you done that?" She lowered her lamp, as if to offer the Companion a little more privacy. Her tone made it clear that she thought it almost sacrilegious.

"Don't you start as well," Carris said, mock severely. "I've done it," he added, his voice suddenly much more serious, "because I've a message that must be delivered—and I can't take her with me, but to leave her here, as an obvious Companion, is to risk her life."

Kelsey let the seconds tick back while she figured out exactly what he meant. Then she lifted the lamp again. "Are you crazy?" she said at last. "You can't ride with your arm like that and your ribs broken—you'll pierce your lungs for certain!"

The Companion bobbed her lovely head up and down almost vigorously.

"Don't start," Carris said again. "We've already covered that ground, and I've made my decision. She knows it's the right one." He stood slowly, but winced with

pain just the same as if he'd jumped up. "Kelsey, you've done as much as any girl can to help me—but I've one more favor to ask of you."

"W-what?"

"I want you to take care of her."

"Of . . . her?"

"My Companion, yes," he replied. "Her name is Arana." He waited for her to answer, and after five minutes had passed, he said, "Kelsey?"

She couldn't even speak. Instead, she walked past him, holding the lamp as if it were a shield. She approached the dyed Companion, met her eyes, and held them for a long time. Finally, she remembered that she wasn't alone, and had the grace to blush.

"I meant to tell you that dinner's been laid out for you. It's probably cold, but you should still get to it while you can."

"Kelsey?"

"I'll have to think about it," she replied, not taking her eyes off of Carris' Companion.

That night, with the moon at half-mast, it was dark enough that she stubbed her toes twice on the path to the stable. The lamp that she held was turned down as low as possible—she didn't want to attract attention from the field mice and the rats.

She wanted to look at Arana again, without Carris intruding upon the privacy of her old dreams and her old desires. Could she watch the Companion. Could she take care of her. Ha!

She opened the doors, paused as the smells of the hay and the horse scent hit her nostrils, and made her way in. Usually Companions weren't stabled like this—but Carris had insisted that Arana be as horselike as possible.

"Does she like sugar?"

Carris had laughed. "As much as a real horse."

She hadn't snuck into stables since she was child, but she'd lost none of her old instincts. She made her way, unerringly, to Arana's stall.

She wasn't particularly surprised to find Arana waiting for her. "Hello," she said softly. The Companion, as expected, didn't answer. A pang of disappointment, like a slightly off-key chord, rippled through her and vanished. "I'm Kelsey."

Arana lifted her head and nodded.

"I suppose you've met a lot of people like me. I—I always wanted to be a Herald. I've always prayed that one day, a Companion would Choose me. It's never happened," she added ruefully. "And I don't suppose you'd be willing to tell me why."

Arana put her head over the stall's door and let Kelsey scratch her. It was easier than scratching a normal horse; the Companion seemed to be more sensitive. "Doesn't matter. Cards wants me to stay here, with you, while he does some fool thing on his own, injured, without anyone to look after his back. What do you think of that?"

Arana said absolutely nothing, but she became completely still. Kelsey shook her head and lowered the lamp. "That's what I thought as well. Here. I brought you some sugar."

"Where do you think you're going?" Carris, dressed like a well-to-do villager, frowned as Kelsey let her backpack slide off her shoulders to land on the ground with a thump.

"Talked it out with Torvan," she replied, around her last mouthful of bread and cheese, "and he says it's a go." She swallowed, wiped her hands on her pants, rolled her hair into its familiar bun, and shoved her coin bag into the inner reaches of her shirt.

"What's a go?" Carris asked, suspicion giving him an aura of unease that made Kelsey want to laugh out loud.

"I'm going with you, Carris." She checked her long dagger, and then picked up her wooden bat. Made sure she had a hat, and a scarf to keep it attached to her head.

"That's preposterous," he replied. "You are doing no such thing."

She shrugged. "Whatever you say."

"Kelsey—"

"Look—what did you think you were going to do? Dress like that, but pick up a fast and fancy horse that'll take you to the capital?"

He looked taken aback.

"You'll stand out like a scarecrow. You're afraid that someone following you would recognize Arana, and if that's the case, you'll be recognized if you travel as you'd planned. Trust me."

"I wasn't aware that you'd studied the arts of subterfuge. You certainly haven't mastered the art of subtlety."

"Ho ho ho." She bent down and picked up her pack; slung it over one shoulder, and then bent down for his. "Don't argue with me," she said, not even bothering to look up. "I'll take the packs. You take your arm and your ribs. Oh, damn."

"What?"

"I almost forgot."

"What?"

"The hair. It has to go."

Carris was in a decidedly less cheerful mood when they finally departed the inn. "Look, Kelsey," he said tersely. "You may not believe this, but that hair was my single vanity."

"A man your age shouldn't be beholden to a single vanity," she replied sweetly. "Now come on. You've come at a good time—I've a friend who guards one of the caravan routes, and they're always looking for new hands."

"As a caravan guard in this territory?" Carris raised an eyebrow. "You do realize that with the upsurge in banditry lately, he's just asking for trouble?"

Something about the way he said the word "banditry" caught her attention; she pursued it like a cat does a mouse. "What do you know about the bandit problems?"

He didn't reply.

"This have something to do with the message you need to deliver?"

He nodded, but no matter how she pressed him, he would say nothing else.

Well, it's King's business, not mine, Kelsey thought. And probably better that I don't know. She knew enough, after all, to know that as a Herald he was trustworthy, and that anyone who tried to kill him was as much the King's enemy—and therefore her own—as a stranger could be. Still, she felt a twinge of envy; she knew that were she a Herald, they'd talk openly of their mission-like equals. Comrades.

As if he could read her thoughts—and it was rumored that some Heralds could—he said, "It isn't that I don't trust you, Kelsey."

"Don't bother with explanations. I can come up with a dozen good ones on your behalf and you don't even have to open your mouth." She paused, and then stopped. "You can wield that thing, can't you?"

"Both of them, yes," he replied, smiling.

"Good."

"What did you intend as a weapon?"

"This." She pulled her bat out of her pack and swung it in a wide circle. "I call it a club."

"You're going to sign on as a caravan guard wielding a club?"

"You've never seen me wield a club before," she assured him. Then she laughed. "You should see your face. Yes, I intend to sign on, but I'll probably do it as cook or a handler. If a person's willing and able to work, there are always jobs on the trade routes. Especially now." She started to say something else, and then stopped. "Are you in pain?"

"Yes," he said, but the word was so soft it was a whisper.

She studied his pale face for a moment and then grimaced. The death of his friend wasn't real for him yet, but in bits and pieces it was becoming that way. Kelsey was almost glad that she wouldn't be with him when he finally completed his mission—because she was certain that when he did, he'd collapse with grief and guilt.

She'd seen enough hurt men and women come through Torvan's place to know the look of it.

"That's the life of a Herald, dear," her grandmother would tell her.

"I know," she told her grandmother's memory. "But I want it just the same."

David Fruitman had the look of a barbarian to him. His face was never closely shaven, but never full-bearded, his brown hair was wavy—almost scruffy—and long, and his carriage gave the impression not only of size, but of the ability to use the strength that came with it to good advantage.

Kelsey waved and shouted to catch his attention.

When he saw her, he rolled his eyes. "What, you again?"

Carris hung back a bit, unsure of the larger man's reception, but Kelsey bounded in, slapped him hard on the upper arm, and then dropped the two packs she carried to give him a bear hug. She called him something that was best left in the tavern among friends who had had far too much to drink, and then swung him around.

"Carris, get your backside up here. David, this is Carris. Carris, this is David. He's what passes for a guard captain around here."

David looked at Carris, raised an eyebrow, and then looked down at Kelsey. "There's a problem, Kelse," he said.

"What?"

"His arm's broken."

"So? It's not his sword arm."

Carris and David exchanged raised brows. "Shall I explain, or shall you?" Carris said.

"You do it. I'm not getting enough danger pay as is."

"Very funny, both of you. David—can I talk to you in private for a minute or two?"

"Is this like last time's private—where you shouted loudly enough that this half of the caravan lost most of their hearing for the next two weeks?"

"Very funny." She scowled, grabbed his arm, grabbed

her packs, and nodded frantic directions to Carris. It all came together somehow, and they made their way to the wagon that David called home while he was recruiting.

"Well?"

"Carris is a Herald," she said, dispensing with pretense and bluster—although the latter was hard to get rid of. "His partner's dead, his Companion's injured, and he's got a message that he's got to get to the capital as fast as possible. He can't ride—don't argue with me, Carris, you heard what the doctor said—and he's being hunted."

"Hunted by who?"

"He can't say."

"I can't hire him, then."

"David—he's a Herald."

"That doesn't mean the same thing to me as it means to you," David replied. "Look—the people who hunt the type of guards I hire are cutthroats that I know how to deal with. The people who hunt a Herald . . ."

"David!" She reached out, grabbed the front of his surcoat, bunched it into two fists and pulled. Even Carris recoiled slightly at the intensity of her tone. "You-are-going-to-hire-us-both."

He raised a brow, not in the least put out. "Or?"

"Or I will tell Sharra about the time that—"

He lifted both of his hands in mock surrender, and than his expression grew graver. "Is it that important, Kelse?"

"More. Trust me. We need you."

"All right. Let go of my surcoat and pray that the entire encampment didn't just hear that. I'll take Carris on,—but we've got to strap a shield to that shoulder."

"Can't you just say he was injured in the line of duty?"

"Sure. But who's going to ask me? Most of the guards here are the same as I started with, and they'll know he's a stranger if they're asked. We've hired five men here, and he'll just be another one of those—but he's got to look the part, even if he's not going to act it. Clear?"

She said something extremely rude. "Yes. Clear."

"Good."

"Captain?" Carris said softly. "What?" "Thank you."

"Don't. Thank her. I owe her, and it's about time she started calling in her debt."

"I hope you appreciate this," Kelsey said to Carris as they set up their tents. Her hands were stiff and chapped, and she was busy nursing a blister caused by peeling carrots and potatoes for a small army. When he didn't answer, she looked across the fire.

"What's wrong?"

"It's Arana," he replied at last, weighing his words. "You travel for this long with a—a very dear friend, and you really notice when she's gone."

"You aren't used to being separated?"

"No. I'm used to being able to hear her no matter where I am." He was quiet, and she let the silence stretch between them, wondering when he would break it. Fifteen minutes later, she realized he wasn't going to.

"Is it everything they say it is?"

"Pardon?"

"Being a Herald. Having a Companion. Is it everything it's cracked up to be?"

He smiled. "It's harder than I ever imagined," he replied, leaning back on his elbows, and then wincing and shifting his weight rapidly. "And it's the most rewarding thing I could ever dream of doing." He laughed, and the laugh was self-deprecating. "It wasn't what I'd intended to do with my life—and both of my parents are still rather upset about it, since it significantly shifts the family hierarchy."

"Do you know why you were Chosen?"

"Me?" He laughed again. "No. If I had to Choose, I'd be the last person I'd ask to defend the kingdom with his life." He sobered suddenly. Rose. "Kelsey, I don't know how to thank you for everything you've done, and I know that leaving you to the campfire alone isn't the way to start."

She waved him off. "Everyone needs a little space for grief," she told him firmly. "Even a Herald. Especially a Herald."

But after he was gone, she stared at the fire pensively. By his own admission he'd done nothing to be considered a worthy candidate—why had he become a Herald? Why had he been Chosen? Don't start, Kelsey, she told herself sternly, or you'll be up at it all night.

"You look awful," David said, as he ducked a flying handful of potato rinds.

"I didn't sleep very well," she replied. "Are you here to annoy me, or should I just assume that you already have?"

He laughed. "I wanted to see how you were faring. The caravan's got a few extra mouths this time round; if I was going to choose KP, I wouldn't have done it for this stretch of the route."

"Thanks for the warning," she said, and heaved another handful of rinds. Then she wiped her hands on her trousers, set her knife aside, and stood. "Why is the caravan so bloody big this time?"

"It's well guarded," David replied, lowering his voice. "Well guarded. We've done our buying for the season, and we're doing our damned best to protect our investment."

"How bad has it been? We'd heard rumors that—"

"It's been bad." His face lost all traces of its normal good humor. "If you hadn't insisted, Kelse, I wouldn't have taken your friend on. There's a very good chance he'll get to see action whether he's up to it or not."

"Oh." She blew a strand of dark hair out of her eyes. "Is there some sort of drill?"

"Meaning?"

"What should the noncombatants do if the caravan is attacked?" She waited for a minute. "Look, stop staring at me as if I've grown an extra head and answer my question."

"Well," he replied, scratching his jaw, "if I were in that position, I'd probably hide under the wagons."

Great. "If I'd wanted an answer that unreal, I'd have asked a Bard." She picked up her knife and went back to potatoes, carrots, and onions. Onions. That was the other thing she was going to have to find a way around.

Carris took to taking it easy about as well as a duck takes to fire. He was grim-faced and impatient, and he watched the road and the surrounding wooded hills like a starving hawk. David had decided that the best watch for Carris was the night watch; under the cover of shadow and orange firelight, he could pass for a reasonably whole guard. He carried his sword and his bow— although Kelsey pointed out time and again that the bow was so useless it was just added encumbrance—and wore a shield that had been strapped to his front as well as possible given the circumstances.

What he did not do well was blend in with the rest of the guards. It was his language, Kelsey reflected, as she listened to him speak. He didn't have the right cadence for someone who had fallen into the life of a caravan guard. Never mind cadence, she thought, as she dove into the middle of a conversation and pulled him out— whole—he didn't have the vocabulary, the tone, the posture. He did, having been on the road without being able to shave himself, have the right look.

"Stop being so nervous," she said, catching his good arm in hers and wandering slightly away from the front of the caravan.

"Kelsey, do you know what this caravan is carrying?"

"Nope. And I don't want to."

"Well, I do. We're going to see action, and I can't afford to see it and not escape it alive. We've lost four Heralds to this investigation, not including Lyris, and we'll lose more if I don't get word back."

"We'll get word back," she said, assuring him. But she felt a twinge of unease when she finally left him. Dammit, he's even got me spooked. She went to her pack, found her bat, hooked it under her left arm, and walked quickly back to her place among the cook's staff.

* * *

"What is that?" A familiar voice said.

"Don't ask her that." Marrit, the older woman who supervised the cooking, looked a tad harried as she glared in David's general direction.

"It's a bat."

"I know what it is."

"Then why did you ask?"

"Don't be a smartass, Kelse. Why are you carrying it around?"

"It's as much a weapon as anything else I own."

"And you need a weapon on kitchen duty?" David laughed. "Marrit, I didn't realize that you'd become such a danger over the past few days."

"Look—don't you have something to do?"

"I'm off duty. I've got nothing to do but sit and visit." He smiled broadly and took a seat He even managed to keep it for five minutes. Marrit didn't say one disparaging word about her cook's lax work habits when Kelsey dropped her knife into the potato sack, turned, and pushed him backward over the log.

Two days passed.

Carris was edgy for every minute of them, except when he spoke of Lyris. Then his emotions wavered from guilt and grief to a fury that had roots so deep even Kelsey was afraid to disturb them by asking intrusive questions that stirred up memories too sharp and therefore too dangerous. This didn't stop her from listening, of course. She managed to infer that Lyris was the Herald who had traveled with Carris, and further that Lyris was young, attractive and impulsive. She knew that he had come from the wrong side of town, just as Carris had come from too far into the right side, as it were.

Never anger a noble, her grandmother used to say. Especially not a quiet one. Although it was a tad on the obvious side, it was still good advice.

"Kelsey, why must you take that club everywhere you go?"

Given that she'd just managed to hit his rib with the

nubbly end, it was a reasonable enough question—or it would have been had she not heard it so often. "Don't start. I thought if there was one person in camp I'd be safe from, it'd be you. Why do you think I'm carrying it?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Everyone here seems to have their pet theory."

"What do you mean, everyone?"

"Guards," he said, offering her the gleam of a rare smile, "have very little to talk about these days."

She blushed. "I'd better not catch them talking about me, or I'll damned well show them what I'm carrying it for."

Carris actually laughed at that. Then he stopped. "I know I'm unshaven and unkempt, but have I done something else to make you stare?"

"Yes," she replied without thinking. "You laughed." She regretted her habit of speech without thought the moment the words left her lips; the clouds returned to his face, and with them, the distance.

"And there's not much to laugh about, is there?" He said softly, his right hand on his sword hilt.

Kelsey was at the riverside, washing more tin bowls than Torvan owned, when she heard the screaming start. A silence fell over the men and woman who formed Marrit's kitchen patrol. Fingers turned white as hands young and old clenched the rims of tin and the rags that were being used to dry them. No one spoke, which was all the better; Kelsey could hear the sound of hooves tearing up the ground.

Horses, she thought, as she numbly gained her feet. The bandits have horses!

"Kelsey!" Marrit hissed. "Where are you going?"

Kelsey lifted her fingers to her lips and shook her head. She motioned toward the circular body of wagons. Marrit paled, and mouthed the order to stay by the riverside, where many of the cooking staff were already seeking suitable places to hide.

It was the smartest course of action. Of course, Kelsey thought, knees shaking, that's why I'm not doing it. She swung her bat up to her shoulder and began to run.

In the confusion and chaos, panic was king, and the merchant civilians his loyal subjects.

The wagons, circled for camping between villages too small to maintain large enough inns and grounds, provided all the cover there was against the attackers. People—some Kelsey recognized, and some, expressions so distorted by fear that their faces were no longer the faces she knew—ran back and forth across her path, ducking for cover into the flapped canvas tents, the wagons, or the meager undergrowth. The guards on watch had their hands full, and the guards off duty were scrambling madly to get into their armor and join the formation that was slowly—too slowly—taking shape.

She counted forty guards—their were forty-eight in total—as she scanned the circular clearing searching desperately for some glimpse of Cards. No sign of him; maybe he'd finally shown some brains and was hiding somewhere under the wagons.

Ha. And maybe the horses she heard were a herd of Companions, all come to ask her to join them. She took advantage of a scurry of panicked movement to take a look under a wagon. She saw the horses then.

Funny thing, about these bandits. They weren't wearing livery, and they weren't wearing uniforms—but they looked an awful lot like a Bardic description of cavalry. The horses were no riding horses, and no wagon-horses either. She didn't like the look of them at all, and she loved horses.

They sure make bandits a damned sight richer than they used to, she thought, clenching her teeth on the words that were choking her in a rush to get said. And a damned sight more organized. She had a very bad feeling about this particular raid. And when the blood spray of a running civilian hit the grass two feet from her face, she knew that if there were any survivors to the raid at all, it was going to be a minor miracle.

A flare went up in front of the lead wagon; fire-tipped arrows came raining from the trees, and shadows detached themselves from the undergrowth, gaining the color and height of men as they came into the fading daylight.

Kelsey knew she should be cowering for cover somewhere, but the tree that she'd managed to climb was central enough—and leafy enough—that it gave her both a terrific vantage point and a false sense of security. She counted the mounted men; there were ten. She couldn't get as good a sense of the foot soldiers—bandits, she corrected herself—but she thought there weren't more than thirty. So if one didn't count the cavalry as more than a single man each, the caravan guards outnumbered them.

It made for a tough fight, but the horses were too large to be easily maneuvered around the wagons, and if the merchants and their staff were careful, the caravan would pull out on top. She smiled in relief, and then the smile froze and cracked.

For on horseback—a sleek, slender riding horse with plaited manes and the carriage of a well-trained thoroughbred—unarmored and deceptively weaponless, rode a man in a plain black tunic. At his throat, glowing like a miniature sun, was a crystal that seemed to ebb light out of the very sky.

This was the threat that Carris wouldn't speak openly of. This was what he had to reach other Heralds to warn them about. This was the information that the King needed. Kelsey gripped both her bat and the tree convulsively as the Mage on horseback drew closer to where she sat, suddenly vulnerable, among the cover of leaves.

His was a power, she was afraid, that dwarfed the power of all save a few Heralds—and she was certain that Carris was no Herald-Mage, to take on such a formidable foe.

Damn it, she thought, holding her breath lest a whisper rustle a leaf the wrong way. Carris was right. I shouldn't have brought him along with the caravan. Then,

And he'll probably die just like the rest of us—they won't know he's their Herald, and they won't care.

One of the mounted soldiers rode up to the Mage.

"That wagon," he said, pointing. "Food supplies, but nothing of more value."

"Good." The Mage gestured and fire leaped up from the wagon's depths, consuming it in a flash. The circle was broken, and the ten mounted horseman, pikes readied, charged into the encampment.

She heard the shouts and then the screams of the guards and the civilians they were to protect. People fled the horses and the hooves that dug up the ground as if it were tilled soil. They didn't get far. Kelsey saw, clearly, the beginning of a slaughter.Sickened, she shrank back, closing her eyes. There's nothing you can do, some part of her mind said. Hide here. Maybe they won't notice you.

"Captain! 'Ware—they've got a Mage at the center of their formation!" It was Carris' voice, booming across the panicked cries and painful screams of the newly dying. In spite of her fear, she gazed down to see him, sword readied, shield tossed aside and forgotten. The blade caught the fire of the camplight, and it glowed a deep orange.

You see? Another part of her taunted. You wouldn't have made a decent Herald after all. She hid in the trees, and Carris, broken arm and cracked ribs forgotten, stood in the center of the coming fray, his sword glowing dimly as it reflected the light of the fires.

No. She took a deep breath. Watched.

The guards met the bandits, but the bandits attacked like frenzied berserkers, and it was the caravan guards that took casualties. Kelsey could not make out individual faces or fighting styles—and she was thankful for it. What she could see was that somehow, the blows that the caravan guards landed seemed to cause no harm.

It was almost as if the enemies were being protected by an invisible shield. Magic. Magic.

Another horseman rode in, and stopped three yards from the mage. "Sir," he said. "We've got a group of

them hiding by the riverside. Possible one or two have managed to cross it."

The Mage cursed. "Get the archers out, then," he snarled. "We can't afford to have anyone escape."

"Can't you—"

"Not if you want to be safe from steel and arrow tips," he replied grimly. "Go." He gripped the crystal around his neck more tightly.

Get down, Kelsey. She shivered as she saw the Mage close his eyes. Now's your chance. Get down. But her legs wouldn't unlock. Her hands shook. She watched the ground below as if the unfolding drama was on a stage that she couldn't quite reach.

Carris came out of the wings. She saw him, close to the ground, and nearly cried out a warning as the mounted soldier departed. But she bit her lip on the noise. He used the shadows, Carris did, and he moved as if he had no injuries. An inch at a time, he made his way to the Mage who sat on horseback, concentrating.

The horse shied back, and the Mage's eyes snapped open. Carris leaped up from the ground, swinging his sword. It whistled in a perfect arc; the Mage didn't have time to avoid it. The sword hit him across the chest arid shimmered slightly. That was all.

The man laughed out loud. "You fool!" He cried. "Did you think to harm me with that?" Carris swung again, and again the Mage did nothing to avoid the strike. "Why, I think I know you—you're the little Herald that escaped us. It's probably best for you—you wouldn't have enjoyed the fate that you consigned your friend to suffer alone."

Carris' next swing was wild, and it was his last; three foot soldiers came up, slowly, at his back. But the Mage lifted a hand, waving them off. "No, this one is mine, gentlemen. Unfinished business." He smiled. "Don't you have merchants to kill?"

The soldiers nodded and stepped back almost uncertainly. If Kelsey had to guess, the Mage had probably killed one or two of them to keep them in line; they weren't comfortable with him; that much was clear.

"You can't think that you'll get away with this," Carris said. It was, in all, a pretty predictable thing to say—and not at all what Kelsey would have chosen as her last words.

Something snapped into place for Kelsey as she thought that. / can't let him die with that for an exit line, she told herself, and very slowly, watching her back as much as possible, Kelsey began to shinny down the tree.

"I know we will," the Mage replied, all confidence. "Are you sure you don't want to continue your futile line of attack? It amuses me immensely."

Carris lowered his sword.

"You could try the bow—you can wield it, can't you? It would also amuse me, and perhaps if I'm amused, you'll die quickly. I was embarrassed by your escape," he added, his voice a shade darker. "And have much to make up for to the Baron."

Carris said nothing.

"Come, come. Why don't you join me? We can watch the death of all of your compatriots before we start in on yours. You see, you have a larger number of guards— but they aren't, like my men, immune to the effects of sword and arrow. It's a lovely magic I've developed, and it's served me exceptionally well. Come," he added, and his voice was a command.

Like a puppet, Carris was jerked forward.

"Watch."

It was almost impossible not to obey his commands. Kelsey looked up—and what she saw made her freeze for a moment in helpless rage. David was fighting a retreat of sorts—but he was backing up into another cluster of the enemy. He seemed to understand that the swords that the caravan guards wielded were only good for defense, for he parried, but made no attempt to strike and extend himself to people who didn't have to worry about parrying anymore.

A guard went down at David's side.

Kelsey bit her lip.

And then, because she was her grandmother's daughter—and more than that besides—she swallowed, took a deep breath, and crawled as quickly as possible to where the Mage sat enjoying the carnage.

She wanted to say something clever or witty or glib— but words deserted her. Only the ability to act remained, and she wasn't certain for how much longer. She lifted the bat, and, closing her eyes, swung it with all the force she could muster.

She had never heard a sound so lovely as the snapping of the Mage's neck. She would remember it more clearly than almost any other detail of the attack. Almost.

He toppled from his horse as the horse reared. She watched him crumple and fall, watched his body hit the ground. Then she lifted the bat and began to strike him again and again and again. Carris shouted something-she couldn't make out the words—as she began to try to shatter the crystal that hung at the Mage's neck.

Then she felt a hand on her arm, and swung the bat round.

"Kelsey, it's me!" Carris' face was about two inches away from hers. There was a bit of blood on it—but she thought it wasn't his. Couldn't be certain. "You did it," he said. He tried to pry the bat out of her hands, but her fingers locked tighter around it than a merchant's around his money chest. He let go of her hands and smiled. The grin was wolfish.

"We've got them, Kelsey. Thanks to you, they don't know that they can die yet—but they're about to find out the Mage is gone." His teeth flashed. "And they've been walking onto our swords because there's no risk to them."

"Remind me," she said faintly, "not to make you mad."

He looked down at the corpse at her feet. Laughed, loudly and perhaps a little wildly. "You're telling me that?"

An hour later it was all over. People lay dead in pockets of blood across the width of the encampment. The merchants buried and mourned their own, but they left the bandits for carrion. The mounted men had fared the best, once they realized that they were vulnerable, and three at least had fled the arrows and bolts that the guards used against them. The rest joined their unmounted counterparts.

David, injured, was still alive. Kelsey was glad of it. She watched his wounds being bound by the doctor— the merchant Tuavo always traveled with a good physician as part of his caravan—and swung her bat up onto its familiar shoulder-perch. "Hey," she said.

"I know, I know. So we never make fun of strange barmaids who carry bats around the kitchen. Okay?"

She smiled. "That's not what I'm here for. It's about my position as a caravan guard."

"As a what?"

"Look, I'm a bit of a hero for the next hour, and I'll be damned if I don't use it to get out of peeling potatoes and onions for the next two months. You're going to vouch for me—is that clear?"

He laughed. "As a bell."

"Hello," Kelsey said, as she caught Carris' shadow looming over her shoulder. "Aren't you late for your shift?"

"The captain excused me. I've been," he added, lifting his arm, "injured in action." He grinned and Kelsey laughed. She'd done a lot of that lately.

Carris returned her laugh with a laugh of his own. He seemed both taller and younger than he had when she'd first laid eyes on him in Torvan's place. A little more at peace with himself.

Still, there was something she wanted to say. "I—I've been meaning to apologize to you."

"To me? For what?"

"The Mage." She looked up, and her eyes, dark in the fading day, met his.

Carris shook his head almost sadly. "Was it that obvious?" He took a deep breath, and ran his fingers through his short, peppered hair. Very quietly, he gave her her due. "I've never wanted to kill a man so badly in my life."

"I would've felt the same way."

"You got to kill him." He looked into the fire, and she knew he was seeing Lyris. She reached up and caught his hand, felt his fingers stiffen and then relax as she pulled him down to the log.

"Tell me," she said, in the softest voice he had yet heard her use. "Tell me about Lyris."

He did. He talked for hours, letting his tears fall freely at first, and then returning to them again and again as an odd story or an old, affectionate complaint brought the loss home. He talked himself into silence as the fire lapped at the gravel.

Then he did something surprising. He turned to her in the darkness and said, "Now tell me about Kelsey."

She was so flustered, she forgot how to speak for a moment—and Kelsey was not often at a loss for words. Well, she thought, as she stared at the crackling logs beyond her feet, what do you have to say for yourself? About yourself?

His chuckle was gentle. "Should I start?"

"Go ahead."

"Kelsey is a young woman who, as a child, very much wanted to be a Herald."

It was dark, so he couldn't see her blush. "H-how did you know that?"

"It's a ... gift of mine. And as a Herald, you get used to spotting people who hold the Heralds in awe. Or rather," he added wryly, as he touched his short hair again, "hold the position in awe."

She shrugged.

"You asked me if I knew why we were Chosen—but what you really wanted to know was why you weren't."

She couldn't answer because every word he spoke was true.

"I don't know why." He slid an arm around her shoulder and it surprised her so much she didn't even knock him over. "But having met you, I can guess."

Here it comes. "What? What would you guess?"

"Kelsey—I told you that I was the son of a noble, and as it's not important, I won't tell you which one. But if

Arana hadn't come to me, hadn't Chosen me, I would have become embroiled in the politics of the nobility, and would have done very little of any good to the people of the Kingdom as a whole. I like to think I would have ruled my own people well, but . . . it's not easy.

"And Lyris? Much as I love him, he'd have probably wound up as a second-rate thief—or a corpse. Not much good there either."

She was very quiet.

"You don't have a Companion, yet if not for you, the people of this caravan would have been slaughtered like sheep at the Crown Princess' wedding." He caught one of her hands in his good one. "I've got to get some sleep, if I can. So do you. But think about it."

"I will."

Kelsey had spent many sleepless nights in the cold of a dying fire, and this one was to be no exception. What did it mean? What did it really mean? She looked at her hands, seeing both the calluses and the dried blood of the injured that she'd helped the doctor with. They were good hands, strong enough to do what was necessary.

I'm not a Herald, she thought, as she stared at them. And I never will be. She turned it over in her mind, and for the first time in her life, she accepted it without sorrow. / never will be Chosen.

She stood up as the embers faded. But if I can't be one of the Chosen, I can be one who chooses. And 1 choose to do what I must, when I'm needed.

Heralds couldn't do everything for themselves; she knew how to run an inn—maybe, if she proved worthy of it, she'd be allowed to run a school. Everyone needed to eat—surely the Heralds would need a cook? And that close to the thick of things—that close to Heralds, Companions, possibly the King himself—there was certain to be a lot for Kelsey to do.

She smiled; the sun was on the fringe of the horizon.

"Carris!"

If she expected him to be sleeping, she was wrong; he was awake, and a strange little smile hovered around the corner of his lips. "Yes?"

"I'm coming with you to the capital, and I won't take no for an answer. You're still injured, you probably still need someone to watch your back, and you—"

"And I'd love your company."

He didn't, come to think of it, look at all surprised. Made her suspicious, but it also made her, for the first time that she could remember, completely happy. She had done with waiting; it was time to start the life that her grandmother had always promised her she could choose to live.

Song of Valdemar

by Kristin Schwengel

Kristin Schwengel is an avid fan of Mercedes Lackey's work, and leaped at the opportunity to write about Valdemar. This story is her first published work. She lives in Green Bay, Wisconsin with her fiance, John Heifers, whose work also appears in this collection. They have no cats (yet), but they do have a collection of wolf and wildcat paraphernalia, which will have to do for now.

"Revyn," Eser called quietly, "I need some more of those bandages over here. And a splint."

The young trainee trotted over to the Master Healer, arms full of soft fabric, fingertips barely clutching the smoothly carved pieces of the splint. Eser took the wood from his hands just before he dropped it, smiling gently.

"Now, lad, I don't need you bringing so much that you lose it before you can do any good with it," he teased, a smile lighting his faintly lined face. Revyn smiled thinly back at him, acknowledging the mild rebuke, and watched with feigned disinterest as the Healer carefully set the broken leg.

"Do you think you could do the same, hmm?" Eser asked when he had finished, glancing up at his pupil.

Revyn avoided Eser's eyes as he lifted his shoulders slightly, carefully hiding the surge of affirmation that raced through him.

"I—I'm not sure. It seems easy enough, but ... I wouldn't want to cause more harm than is already done." He spoke awkwardly, trying to seem all nervousness and uncertainty.

Eser's lips thinned as he stood smoothly, stretching his back to straighten out the knots that he got from hunching over the pallet. He still moved with a fluidity and grace belying his forty years, but every so often his body chose to remind him of his true age. He studied Revyn's averted face carefully. What was wrong with the young man? Was there more than he himself was aware of? Eser shrugged mentally, knowing that answers would come eventually, one way or another. Now, they had more important things to take care of. Eser gestured to his apprentice to follow him and moved down the halls of the House of Healing to the storeroom.

"Well, Revyn, you're going to set a leg now. Teral wasn't the only one caught in that rockslide. More bandages and another splint, lad, and follow me."

Revyn nearly gasped aloud at Eser's words, staring at the older man's parting back. What if he finds out? he thought frantically. / can't hide much longer, but I can't keep refusing either. Taking a large breath to relax his nerves, he scurried along the halls of the House of Healing after his teacher, nearly spilling the extra bandages again in his haste.

Finally, Eser stopped and gestured for Revyn to precede him into the sickroom. Revyn paused in the hall-way to allow his heightened breathing to slow to a normal pace. "Never enter a sickroom in a hurry or in obvious panic," he heard Eser's voice in his head, "for that is the best way to hinder the Healing you wish to encourage." Gently, he laid his hand on the door and slowly pushed it open. The well-oiled hinges made barely a sound as the two of them slipped into the room and closed the door carefully behind them.

Glancing at the blanket-covered figure on the low pallet, Revyn was barely able to contain a low gasp of shock and surprise. It was just a boy! A boy, no older than his sister Chylla. The lad was clearly fevered, for he tossed his head restlessly under the effects of the herbs that had taken away his pain and put him to sleep so that the Healers could work on him. Looking uncertainly up at Eser, Revyn received no encouragement other than a small nod. Taking a deep breath, he knelt on the floor by the side of the pallet and lifted the blanket from the boy's thin legs.

Carefully, Revyn moved his hands gently over the skin of the broken leg, exploring the shape of the bone and determining how much movement would be needed to line up the two edges so that the splint and bandages could do their work. Thankfully, he had just to pull slightly on the boy's foot to straighten the bone, and the pieces moved easily into place, seeming to straighten almost of their own accord. Silently, Eser crouched next to him and maintained the tension on the foot so that Revyn could place the splint and swiftly bandage the leg tightly, making sure the bone would heal as straight as before. Standing, he met the Master Healer's eyes and was surprised and intensely pleased by the approbation he saw there.

"He will sleep easier now that his bones are in line, and the healing herbs can take better effect. Well done," Eser said softly. "We are finished here, but I would speak with you."

Revyn was no stranger to the sudden sinking feeling in his stomach. He had often felt this way before one of his older brother Myndal's chastising sessions—those that had involved swift beatings and usually the destruction of at least one of his own precious treasures, few though they were. He had thought he had done well with the young boy's leg—no, he knew he had done well. Eser's own words had told him that. What could have gone wrong? He followed the Healer out of the House, trying to control his concern.

Eser slowly shut the door to his room and turned to face his student, a swift touch to his temples easing the tension headache that was already building.

"Why, Revyn?" he asked. "We both know that you have a strong Healing Talent. Why do you resist it so?"

Revyn looked down at the floor, shuffling his feet slightly. How could he put it so that the Healer would understand? He didn't want to be a Healer, at least he hadn't wanted to until— He broke off his thoughts and tried to answer.

"I—I don't know. I just don't want to ... hurt anyone when I try to help them. And I seem so clumsy sometimes that it seems that all I can do is just to make a mess of what I put my hands to, and . . ." The hurried flow of his speech stopped as he ran out of words, and he glanced uncertainly up at Eser. The older man had turned to look out the window at the autumn golds and reds in the garden, just visible beneath the dusting of the second snow.

"Revyn, you've been here at Haven for almost a year now, and most of that time you have spent with the Healers. You should be farther along in your studies than you are now. Your skill today, handling that broken leg without even asking advice, proves that you are not as clumsy as you say. Yes, I know you nearly dropped the splint this afternoon," Eser laughed, holding up a hand to stop his student's protest, "but that was only because you took more than you could easily carry, through no fault of your own."

The Healer paused for a moment, thinking, then turned to look his student straight in the eye. "Just because one dream won't come true for you doesn't mean that you should stop dreaming, should stop thinking of the good you can do for yourself and others." He would have continued, but Revyn, choking as if the words he wanted to say were stuck in his throat, had already turned and fled.

How can he know? Revyn thought furiously. He's just a Healer. He ran to his room, paused only to snatch his letters from his desk and stuff them inside his tunic, and hurried out to the garden. He only knows Healing. He wouldn't know who has the Gift and who doesn't. "But Bard Keryn would," a small voice in his head reminded him, a voice that he crushed as he had so many times before. Keryn could be wrong, he told himself. Sometimes Gifts don't show until later, like with the Heralds. Some of them aren't Chosen until they're older than I am. There's still a chance that I could have a Bardic Gift, he told himself, refusing to listen to the voice that told him otherwise.

Revyn settled himself in a private grotto in the garden, the one farthest from the buildings, and pulled the two letters, each with the seal of Hold Elann, from the front of his tunic. Even though he had been receiving these letters roughly every month since he had come to Haven, each time he opened them his heart raced in anticipation.

My dear son,

It is good to hear that you have learned so much in your time in Haven. Perhaps soon you can return to us. Your brother Myndal seems to have come to terms with your leaving, as he allows us to write to you openly now. If you come back to us, surely he would respect your skills with your professional training.

Your sister writes you as well, so I will not speak to you of her, save that she misses you greatly. We are all well here in Hold Elann, though we miss your music. Myndal begins to speak of finding a wife and raising children to carry on the mastery of Elann. He hopes for a daughter of one or another of the nearby landowners. Young Aislynn, whom you surely remember, grows ever prettier. If you were to return soon, before someone else snatches her up, I think the two of you could make a match of it.

The dogs are well, though Tygris is aging. I fear she has raised her last batch of pups this summer, for she will likely not survive the coming winter. I run out of paper, and so I close with best wishes for your continued health and hope that you return soon, the Bard I always knew you could be. '

Your loving Mother

Revyn bit his lip, wishing that there were some way he could tell his family what his situation truly was. How could he say that he was no longer a Bardic student? That he was now in the Healer's Collegium? Chylla would be so disappointed. She had always wanted him to compose a song for her when he tried to reach Master Bard rank. She wanted him to write a ballad about Val-demar, a song that put everything that was best about their homeland into words. On his journey to Haven he had begun a draft of it, but ever since that interview with Bard Keryn he had tried to forget about it, the sheets of paper covered with his brief notations buried in the back of his desk.

His mind flashed back to that day Keryn had spoken with him, only a few weeks after he had come to Haven and been brought from an inn to the Bardic Collegium by Keryn herself.

"Revyn, you'll make a superb Minstrel, better than most even here in Haven. You're one of the most talented students we've ever had. But I'm afraid that you don't have the Bardic Gifts. Some of us think that you might be Gifted in Healing, however, and . . . Revyn, I'm sorry," Keryn had said softly.

The hurt of hearing Keryn's words still tasted bitter in his mouth, even months later. She had tried to be kind, tried to tell him about his Healing Talent, but it had all added up to the same thing. He could never be a Bard. Those first few weeks of living and studying in the Bardic Collegium had easily been the happiest time of his life. Hearing Keryn affirm his worst doubts and fears had torn his joy away from him, leaving an aching empty spot where his long-cherished dream of being a Bard had been, a spot he had thought could not be filled. And then Eser had come and taken him to the House of Healing....

Revyn brought his mind back to the present with a quick mental shake, avoiding the thought of being a Healer as he had tried to avoid it for the past year. He broke the seal on the second letter with a smile, thinking of his fair-haired sister, and her laughter that sounded like summer's golden sunshine would.

Revy— Oh, how I miss you still. Hold Elann isn't the same without you. You probably said that when Minstrel Des died, didn't you? Well, now I know how you feel. Did Mother tell you? Myndal is letting us write you openly. Maybe that means you can come back soon.

Speaking of Myndal, that oaf actually thinks he can find a girl stupid enough to marry him. He tried for Aislynn, but she had too much sense for him. Besides, she told me she wanted to wait for you to come back. Even though she's two years older than me, she doesn't act like it, and we're still friends.

1 think Myndal also wants to set up a marriage for me, it being as I'm getting to be old enough. Think of it, Revy, your Chylla the matron of a household—at fourteen and a half! Sometimes I can't think of it for laughing. I hope he goes to Hold Gellan. Edouard, the younger son, is unmarried and only a few years older than you are, so he's not too old for me. And he's handsome, too!

Your horse misses you, the dogs miss you (Tygris has faded in health ever since you left), Mother misses you, and I miss you most of all. I hope you get to Journeyman rank soon, so you can come to see us.

Love and hugs, your own Chylla

Revyn leaned back against the sun-warmed stone of the grotto, closed his eyes, and smiled, laughing with his merry sister. He could see her now, just the way she had been on the day he told her he was leaving Hold Elann.

"But what will Mother and I do without you?" Her lips were quivering, and she bit them so hard he was sure she would cut them. She looked at the ground then, turning away from him so he wouldn't see her tears.

"You'll have to take care of Mother for me, Chylla. You know how hurt she'll be when you tell her where I've gone." He smiled and gently touched her thin shoulders. She turned abruptly back to him, taking a deep breath.

"Take me with you, Revy. Please. I can cut my hair.

You can tell the traders I'm your little brother. Please don't leave me here, not alone with Myndal."

"Better that you stay with Mother," he had answered gravely. "Mother will need you more than you will need me. Besides," he said, smiling cheerily, "I'll come back for you, little one. You know I will, and everything will be fine."

If only she could be here with him now, everything would be fine. She would understand about him being a Healer if she just saw him, if he could just talk to her and show her how he felt, but he didn't know how he could write it to her. It seemed to him that to tell his family would make everything just that much more final. Telling them that he wouldn't be a Bard would mean that he would have to give up his dream and become a Healer.

"You know you want to be a Healer, too," came the insistent voice in his head, the second self that chose times like this to scold him. This time, however, he didn't slap it away as he would a biting gnat. "You have Talent. You know it, Eser knows it, the rest of the Healers know it, too. You're just afraid."

Revyn thought about that one for a while. What would I be afraid of? he asked himself.

"You're afraid of losing your last hope of being a Bard. As long as you stay in the House of Healing without making any progress in using your Healing Talent, there's a chance that a Bardic Gift might show up. If you become a full Healer, you might have to leave Haven, and you couldn't continue your musical studies like you have been. Like Eser and Keryn have indulgently allowed you to."

The voice was a sting of conscience, sharply reminding him of how ungrateful he had been to those who were trying to help him and teach him. He squirmed suddenly, trying to avoid his self-recrimination. But the voice, once unleashed, refused to be fettered again.

"You know it's just your own pride. Keryn said you could be a good Minstrel—and you already are one, even if it is 'just' around the circle of other Healing students.

And a Healer who can play music to soothe and calm the nerves is a rare thing. You're just too stubborn to accept that. You won't accept being anything less than the best, anything less than what you decided you had to be without even knowing what you could and couldn't be. You—"

Enough! he "shouted" at the voice, squelching it into silence. You've made your point. Leave me alone for a while. I just need to think, to figure out what I want.

Some weeks later, Revyn hurried down the hallway of the House of Healing ahead of Eser, anxious to get to young Seldi's room for a few quick minutes of conversation in the course of the morning rounds. The boy's broken leg had been healing well, and Revyn expected that Eser would soon allow the lad to return to his family's holding with his older brother, who had arrived in Haven this day to fetch him.

"Good morning, Seldi," he said cheerfully as he entered the room, smiling at the first patient he had ever treated on his own.

"Hi, Revyn," the younger boy said, grinning. "I hear my brother's come t' pick me up. 'S it true? Will I be goin' home soon?"

Revyn glanced in mock warning at the door. "I wouldn't say that too loudly when you know Healer Eser is coming. He's liable to keep you here just to dash your hopes."

Eser smiled at the sound of the two boys' laughter as he entered the sickroom.

"Well, Seldi, how do you feel today?"

"I'm itchin' t' go home, Healer Eser, sir. I hear m'brother has come t' fetch me."

"He has, and he'll be in to see you soon. But it seems you might not be getting away from us for good, after all."

Revyn shot Seldi a quick "I-told-you-so" look, then turned his attention to what the Master Healer was saying.

"You, my boy, have a slight Talent for Healing. Not

enough to make you a Master Healer, so don't worry about being trapped in my job," Eser said, smiling at his own expense. "But what you have, if trained, would be very useful back on the farm to help with the livestock and small injuries."

"What, me, a Healer?" Seldi gaped at Eser, eyes wide with disbelief.

"Yes, in certain things, if you choose to come back when you're a little older, for training. You probably wouldn't be strong enough to save lives, but you could save a good deal of the pain from small things—the little hurts that you get often enough on a farm. And you could learn to set legs, too."

"In case anyone else is fool enough t' go climbin' the crag so soon after the first snow, y'mean?" Seldi grinned.

"Something like that," Eser smiled. "Would you like to be able to do that?"

"Would I! Ma 'n' Da are allus sayin' how much we need a Healer down nearer t' the village—we can't allus be runnin' t' Haven. An' if I could take care of what we need, well, that'd save us time and gold. Sure I'd come back!"

Eser smiled again at Seldi's infectious enthusiasm.

"Well, then, we'll just have a look at your leg and I'll talk with your brother and we'll see if we can get you sent off home to finish knitting up that bone." He turned and nodded at Revyn, who slipped quietly into his accustomed place beside the cot, lifting the blankets and laying his hands gently over the bandages.

Carefully, he let his mind sink into the leg, beneath the bandages and the splint, until he could See the white of the bone buried deep within the flesh. The joining of the two pieces was a complete, though fragile, network Of bone and ligaments. The break had healed straight and clean. He withdrew his awareness and looked up at Eser, nodding slightly.

"It's clean," he said quietly. Eser bent down and touched the leg briefly, checking Revyn's Sight against his own, and nodded back at his student.

"Well, Seldi, you're doing fine. I'll just have a word

with your brother and we can send you home in good health. Mind you don't try walking too soon, now, or you might bend the bone."

"Thank you, Healer Eser, sir," Seldi murmured breathlessly. "I'll be back before you know't."

Eser slipped out the door, leaving Revyn alone with the younger boy.

"I'm t' be a Healer like Eser an' like you, Revyn. Can you believe't?"

Revyn grinned at his friend, sharing his delight.

"Who'd've thought this would come of me breakin* me leg tryin' t' get me Mum the last Of the ferril flowers?"

"Was that what you were doing, Seldi? You never said."

"Oh, aye, a stupid enough thing, eh? I allus promise t' pick the last ferril flowers I can find for me Mum, and I hadn't gone and got 'em this year. So after the first snow, I decided to take a last look up the crag t' see if'n I could find some. When the snow started again, Teral came up to look for me, an' we both went down in that rockfall." Seldi became quiet and looked down at the blanket, absently picking at its weave.

"Well, you never can tell when good'll come to you, right?" Revyn asked cheerily, standing and heading toward the door to join Eser and continue the morning session.

"Nay. Sometimes, good comes even when you don't get what you want—or when you don't even get what you promised yourself an' somebody else, too."

Revyn turned suddenly, staring at Seldi in shock. Sometimes, good comes even when you don't get what you want, he repeated to himself. Havens, I think I must be the fool here. Seldi's climbing the crag to pick flowers for his mother is no stupider than what I've been doing here for the past year.

He smiled and said his farewells to the young boy without really paying attention to what he was doing, his mind still repeating what the lad had said. Without even knowing it, Seldi had done more for him than a year of Eser's teachings.

Passing into the hallway, Revyn nearly ran into the Master Healer, who was just returning, a tall strapping youth with a striking resemblance to Seldi following in his wake.

"Ah, Revyn, there you still are. I will just take Derem in to see his brother and we can finish visiting our patients. I know you'll be in a hurry now."

Revyn gave his teacher a questioning glance and saw the smile crinkling the corner's of Eser's eyes.

"I have letters for you from Elann," he said, opening the door to Seldi's room and gesturing for the other boy to enter, then going in after him.

Revyn stared at the closing door, then turned and hastened down the hall to the next occupied sickroom, not even bothering to wait for Eser to finish talking to Seldi.

Revyn took the two letters from Eser's hand and hurried out to the garden, ignoring the midwinter cold. He always read letters from home in the privacy of what he had come to consider "his" grotto, bad weather notwithstanding.

Brushing the snow off of the small bench, he sat down and studied the envelopes. The first he recognized as his mother's handwriting, and he expected the second to be from Chylla.

Revyn nearly dropped the second letter in surprise when he saw that the second letter was addressed in the awkward, blocky script of his brother. Why hadn't Chylla written him? Why would Myndal, of all people, write to him? He decided to read Myndal's letter first— it would surely be the shorter, and would probably only be a tirade against him anyway.

Revyn—

Your sister took sick a fortnight ago, going outside in the snow like the fool she was. She said she was going to find you, but I think she was running away from the decent marriage I had arranged for

her. Anyway, she took sick real badly after we found her and brought her back. She died last week at a candlemark before midnight. I thought you ought to know, but we don't expect you back soon, so we buried her right away.

Myndal

Hot tears flooded from Revyn's eyes as he read the last lines, trying to force his mind to accept them. Chylla, his beloved golden sister—gone! No, it wasn't true. It couldn't be true. Gods, why Chylla? Why couldn't it have been—he stopped that thought before it completely formed. No. He couldn't wish death on anyone, even Myndal. Healers weren't allowed—again, he stopped his thoughts before he touched that which he feared and wanted so much. He folded the page before his tears splotched the ink beyond legibility, tucking it absently into his tunic. Hurt raged inside him as his mind cried her name in agony.

Long minutes later, he broke the seal of his mother's letter and slowly unfolded it.

My poor, dear son—

/ weep as I write this, weep for your poor sister, and weep for your foolish brother. Ah, if the gods only knew how I suffered. I am sure Myndal has told you what has happened, but I doubt me that he told you all. He had arranged a disagreeable marriage for poor Chylla, wanting to wed her to a rich man my own father's age, simply to combine our lands. I could do nothing to stop his plans, nor could your poor sister. Ah, me, how foolish I was. I should have dissuaded her from her attempt to flee to you. She left just before a great storm came up. Myndal was furious and set out with hounds and men after her. They brought her back half-frozen and sick. The fever set in, and Myndal refused to send for any Healers, saying Chylla would be fine and that she deserved a little sickness for her disobedience. I sent for the herb-healer, but she was

helpless. Finally, Myndal sent to Hold Gellan, for they have a full Healer, but by then it was too late. Ah, poor Chylla. My heart grieves for her, my son, as it does for you. As soon as you are able, come home to me, for I fear I need you more than ever. Your ever-loving

Mother

Revyn's tears began again, but this time he felt awash in a feeling of guilt. If only he hadn't stayed to be trained and to continue his Bardic schooling. If only he'd gone home when he knew he couldn't be a Bard, Chylla would still be alive. He could have stopped Myndal from marrying her off to an old weakling. He could have helped her. He should have brought her to Haven with him. He should have— A sudden thought struck him, and he turned back to the letter. Yes, his mother had said that Myndal had refused to get a Healer until it was too late. Gods, his fault again!

He'd been resisting the Healers, holding back on his training, trying to give any Bardic Gift at all as much chance to emerge as possible, hoping against hope that he could still be a Bard. If he had taken the training as it had come, maybe he could have been home, and if Chylla had gotten sick anyway, he could have Healed her. He had a strong enough Gift, he now knew that instinctively. Now he accepted it, now that it was too late for Chylla. Twice and three times a fool! Twice and three times his fault!

He tucked his mother's letter next to the other inside his tunic, folded his arms across his knees, bent his head down, and wept furiously, shaking with sobs as he reviled himself for his stupidity. He grieved for his sister and blamed himself for his grief. The tears soaked the arms of his winter cloak, chilling him as the snow seeped into his bones, but he didn't care. Chylla was dead, and it was all his doing. Nothing would ever matter again, not without Chylla there for him.

Much later, Revyn was only vaguely aware of Eser and some other Healers running toward him with blan-

kets. They snatched him up and brought him in, warming him and giving him the Healing teas that he had so often helped to brew. Thoughts of Chylla raced through his fevered mind, until finally he slept.

He was back at Elann, standing outside the gardens on a foggy spring day. Hazy clouds swirled around him, and his head throbbed painfully. Somewhere, he heard music. Then he heard the golden music of Chylla's laughter. A sharp pain stabbed deep into his heart when he heard the joyous sound.

"Chylla!" he cried, "I'm sorry!" He ran into the garden maze, calling her name, following the laughter that rang in his head. "Chylla, come back to me!"

Suddenly, he rounded a corner, and there she was, rosy as ever, her golden hair spilling over her shoulders, her bare feet buried in the fresh green grass.

"Chylla," he gasped, "I'm sorry, so sorry. It's all my fault."

"Oh, be quiet, Revy," she said affectionately. "Maybe Myndal was right, maybe we are both fools."

"But, if I could have been there, I could have Healed you, if I'd accepted my training . . ." Her laughter rang out again.

"If you'd been there, it would have happened differently. But don't you see? It doesn't matter now. The Havens are so bright, so wonderful. They sent me back to wake you up. It's not your fault, silly. I'll be fine."

"But, Chylla . . ."

She stepped forward and put a golden fingertip across his lips. "No more of that, now. Tell Mother I love her, and that I'm happy. She always worried about the ending of life. Tell her it's just a new beginning." She danced backward and began to head toward another of the maze pathways. Just before she disappeared, she turned to face him.

"And, Revy, don't worry about that song you were going to write for me. Just keep Healing. It's a different music, but it's all connected." She slipped back into the maze, and the shrubs began to disappear into the haze

around him. Rooted to the spot, he cried out her name, trying to bring her back to him.

"Revyn, wake up," Eser murmured again, holding the student's head in one hand and a mug of tea in the other. _x

"Eser?" Revyn said, wonderingly, turning his head slightly to look at his teacher.

A smile lit the Healer's face as he raised the cup to Revyn's lips. "Drink," he said, "and rest. Your mother only needs to grieve for one child at a time."

Revyn nodded and drank obediently, then slipped back down under the quilts. The dream of Chylla was still so strong, so clear in his mind and his heart.

Eser smiled again and nodded to himself. The lad would heal soon, and then they could talk again about his resistance to the training. He stood and slowly headed towards the door. A weak voice stopped him.

"Eser? How long before I can resume my training in the House of Healing?"

The Healer tried unsuccessfully to hide the happiness in his voice as he turned to the bed again. "You won't be able to visit the sickrooms for at least another week, until your strength is back. We can still give you some lessons here in your room, though. Would you like your lute? You can begin to practice again in a few days."

"No, I don't think so," Revyn said drowsily. "Chylla told me I was better off playing a different kind of music."

The School Up the Hill

by Elisabeth Waters

Elisabeth Waters sold her first short story to Marion Zimmer Bradley for The Keeper's Price, the first of the Darkover anthologies. She has sold short stories to a variety of anthologies. Her first novel, a fantasy called Changing Fate, was awarded the 1989 Gryphon Award, and was published by DAW in 1994. She is a member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America and the Authors Guild. She has also worked as a supernumerary with the San Francisco Opera, where she has appeared in La Gio-conda, Manon Lescaut, Madame Butterfly, Khovanschina, Das Rheingold, Werther, and Idomeneo.

The voices were particularly loud today. All day the instructions, unspoken and impersonal, were dinned into her brain. "This is how to make it rain . . . now you do it." She spent the entire day resisting, trying to block them out.

These voices weren't so bad, though; at least they weren't men wanting her to do things she had no desire to do—men who saw her as a thing, not a person with feelings.

Then twilight came. She had always hated twilight, when her mother's customers started arriving. She had never liked her mother's customers and had resolved at a young age that she was going to find some way to live without selling her body. And that was before she started hearing what they were thinking.

Some of the customers wanted her in addition to her

mother—or instead of her mother. And when her mother started thinking that it was time she began earning her keep, she ran away, as far and as fast as possible, until she found a place where she felt safe.

But still twilight made her uneasy, and her resistance to the commands weakened. . . .

Myrta lay back in the tub in her room and relaxed. Maybe it was a bit self-indulgent, but she really enjoyed a bath in the early evening, before she had to busy herself with the rush of customers the inn got every evening, particularly in the bar. The town of Bolthaven had been built around the winter quarters of a mercenary troop. When the Skybolts moved out, their garrison had been taken over by a mage-school, the largest White Winds school in Rethwellan. Now instead of drunken mercenaries, the bar got student mages.

Sometimes this created problems: a mercenary could be asked to leave most of his weapons back at the barracks, but a mage's abilities were always with him. And if the mage was young enough for practical jokes and/ or foolish enough to get too drunk. . . . Well, the school had a policy for that; they'd send down a teacher to stop whatever was going on, and the school would pay for any damage done.

Myrta heard running footsteps in the hall and a quick tap on her door. One of the barmaids dashed into the room before Myrta had time to say "enter."

"Excuse me, Mistress, but it's raining in the kitchen!"

Myrta surged out of the tub, splashing a fair amount of water around the room as she half-dried herself, threw on the nearest garment, and ran for the kitchen.

It was indeed raining in the kitchen. A thin layer of cloud had formed just below the ceiling, and rain dripped steadily from it. Fortunately, the brick floor in the kitchen sloped slightly to a drain in the center, so that water was running out as fast as it fell; and the stew for tonight's dinner was cooking in the fireplace, so the rain wasn't falling into it. But the floor was getting rather wet and slippery, and the biscuits the cook had been

rolling on the center table were a total loss. The table's surface was being rapidly covered with flour-and-water paste, and the cook was cursing steadily. Serena had been a Skybolt until an injury left her with a permanent limp. Myrta counted herself very fortunate to have Serena in the kitchen; she was a wonderful cook, and she wasn't frightened by the occasional magical mishap. Frequently angry, but never frightened. The new scullery maid, on the other hand, was cowering in the corner by the fireplace. She looked wet, miserable, and terrified.

Poor girl, thought Myrta, she's not used to the hazards of Bolthaven yet, and she can't be more than thirteen years old—if that. "Serena, I think both you and Leesa had best go get into dry clothes. I'll send up to the school and have them deal with this."

Serena stalked out, still grumbling. Leesa scuttled after her, hugging the wall, trying to stay as far as possible from everyone else. Myrta closed the door behind them, sent the barmaid back to her regular duties, and went out to the stables.

"Ruven!"

"Yes, Mistress?" The stable boy, a stocky lad of seventeen, appeared from one of the stalls.

"I need you to run up to the school. Present my compliments to Master Quenten, and tell him it's raining in our kitchen."

"Raining in the kitchen, right." Ruven wasn't terribly bright about anything but horses and mules, and thus he tended to accept everything, however outrageous, as normal.

He dashed off, and Myrta returned to the bar to wait for help to arrive.

Elrodie, one of the teachers at the school, was there within half an hour. In addition to being an earth-witch, she was also an herbalist. "Master Quenten wasn't certain how much salvage would be required for tonight's dinner," she explained, greeting Myrta. "Let's go see the damage."

The two women stood in the doorway. It was still

raining, but the fire under the stew still burned, and the stew did not seem to Myrta to have scorched.

"I think the stew will be all right," Elrodie said, confirming Myrta's opinion, "assuming I can get the rain stopped quickly." She sighed. "That shouldn't be too difficult; the apprentices have been practicing weather magic all week. By now I think I could stop rain in my sleep."

"Thank you, Elrodie," Myrta said. "I'll leave you to work in peace, then. I'll be in the bar when you're ready for me."

Elrodie nodded absently, already rooting in her belt-pouch for supplies.

The rain was stopped in short order, the kitchen cleaned up, and Serena even managed to finish a new batch of biscuits in time for dinner. Myrta went to bed in the early hours of the next morning believing that life was back to normal.

This belief lasted until the next evening, when she was interrupted just as she was about to get into the tub.

"Mistress?"

"What is it, Rose? It's not raining in the kitchen again, is it?"

"No, Mistress." The barmaid took a deep breath and said nervously, "This time it's fog."

Myrta put her gown back on and went down to the kitchen. Everything was normal in the other rooms, but at the kitchen doorway the air turned misty gray. The visibility in the kitchen was less than an arm's length, as Myrta discovered when she stuck her arm into the fog and her hand vanished. Cursing from the center of the room informed her that Serena was still managing, after a fashion. "I'll send for help," she informed the cook.

Elrodie arrived and surveyed the scene with a teacher's eye. "Yes, this is today's apprentice lesson, all right. And someone has done a very nice job of it."

"But why is it in my kitchen?" Myrta asked.

Elrodie sighed. "Either it's a practical joke, or we've got an apprentice whose control needs more work. I'll

clear this up for you, and then I'll have Master Quenten put a shield around your building for a few days so that no external magic can get in here. That should give us time to sort through the new apprentices and find out who's doing this. I'm truly sorry for the inconvenience, Mistress Myrta."

Myrta shrugged. "These things happen, and it could be a lot worse. Just fix it, so that the cook can see what she's doing. A shield around this place should certainly take care of the problem."

She broke out of his grip and ran, terrified, into the first hiding place she could find. What he wanted was only too clear—he wanted her to do what her mother had done, but he wasn't even planning to pay her. She remembered what her mother had said to her when she was a little girl, the one time she had spoken of wanting to do something else when she grew up. "What else are you good for?" her mother had asked. Mother had been so angry that she had never mentioned the subject again, but she had resolved that she would rather die than be a harlot.

But maybe she was one; maybe if your mother was, you didn't have any choice, no matter how hard you tried. After all, why else would he treat her like that? It must be her fault somehow.

The air around her was turning colder and darker. Now snow was starting to fall. She huddled against the wall, her face pressed into her knees, and just let the snow cover her as the tears froze on her face.

Myrta walked into the bar to find Ruven complaining to Rose and Margaret.

"... I don't know what she made such a fuss about— I barely touched the girl. I wasn't going to hurt her."

What girl! Myrta wondered. Please don't let it be anyone with protective or influential parents.

"Ruven," Rose said patiently, "you scared her. And you were going to hurt her."

"What do you mean?" Ruven asked. "I never hurt you two."

Margaret sighed. "Rose is eighteen and I'm nineteen. Leesa is twelve, much smaller than you, and a virgin. You were going to hurt her if you continued with what you were doing."

Myrta's relief that this problem was confined to her own household was cut short by a stream of curses coming from the kitchen.

She hurried there at once. The kitchen looked normal enough, but when she joined Serena at the entrance to the pantry, she saw a great cloud of white before her eyes. For an instant she thought that someone had dropped a bag of flour, but then she realized that all the white stuff was coming straight down from the ceiling and it was cold.

"Ruven!" she called. "Go tell Master Quenten that it is snowing in my pantry, and I would greatly appreciate it if he would give the matter his personal attention, since this appears to have come through his shields!"

Ruven ran out immediately, but it took a while for Master Quenten, who was not a young man, to come down the hill. By the time he arrived, everything in the pantry was covered with six inches of snow.

"I apologize for the delay, Mistress Myrta," he said mildly. "I stopped to check my shields on the way here, and they are intact. It's beginning to look as though whatever is causing this is here, not at my school."

"Here?" Myrta said incredulously. "Do you think I hire mages to wait on my customers?"

"Not knowingly, I'm sure," Master Quenten replied. "But tell me, who was in the building when this started?"

"I was," Myrta said, "along with the two barmaids, the cook and the scullery maid—and I believe that Ruven was indoors at the time as well."

Ruven looked as if he would rather not have been anywhere near the house. "I didn't do anything to her, honest!"

"To whom?" Master Quenten inquired, raising his eyebrows.

Ruven stared at him dumbly, and Rose answered for him. "The scullery maid. It seems that Ruven fancies her, but she doesn't fancy him."

"Indeed?" Master Quenten turned his attention to Rose. "How old is this girl, and how long has she been here?"

"She's twelve," Rose said, "and she's been here about three weeks."

Master Quenten looked around the kitchen. "And where is she now?"

Margaret looked worried. "I thought she was in here. She ran out of the bar crying when I came in and Ruven let her go."

Myrta silently resolved to pay a lot more attention to Ruven's activities in the future.

Serena frowned, trying to remember. "She ran in here crying, and ... I think she went into the pantry."

Master Quenten hurried into the pantry. The snow stopped falling as soon as he crossed the threshold, and the clouds just below the ceiling thinned and vanished. The snow on the floor melted away from his feet as he walked the length of the room and reached down to grasp what appeared to be a sack of grain covered in snow—until he pulled the girl to her feet and began gently brushing snow off her hair and shoulders. "I think we've found our mage," he said calmly.

Leesa looked even more incredulous than Myrta had at the suggestion. "That's silly," she said. "There aren't any mages—except in old ballads. My mother said so."

"Indeed?" Quenten asked. "Where are you from, child?"

Leesa looked at the floor. "Haven," she said softly.

"Valdemar," Master Quenten said. "That explains a lot. Until recently there were no mages in Valdemar; it was certainly the most uncomfortable place for a mage to be." He shuddered at the memory. "I was there once, briefly, and as soon as I crossed the border it was as if

there was something watching me all the time. I got out as soon as I could."

He looked Leesa over carefully. "So if you were born in Valdemar with a Mage-Gift, which you were—believe me, anyone with Mage-Sight can see it—you would never know you had it as long as you stayed there. But when you came to Rethwellan, whatever it is that inhibits magic in Valdemar would stop affecting you."

"If it's so obvious that I'm a mage," Leesa said disbe-lievingly, "then why didn't that teacher who came here the last two days notice it?"

"That is a good question," Master Quenten said approvingly. "Elrodie has no Mage-Sight, so she would not have noticed—and I imagine you kept out of her way as much as possible, didn't you?"

"Yes," Leesa admitted. "Being around mages makes me feel funny—they're so noisy, yelling about how to make it rain, or how to make fog, until I feel like my head is going to burst."

"You heard the instructions on how to make rain two days ago and how to make fog yesterday, right?"

Leesa nodded. "I don't like hearing voices all the time. It was nice when they stopped."

"So you didn't hear anything today?"

Leesa shook her head. "No. Not until Ruven came in and grabbed me. Then I could hear him really loud." She shuddered. "At least my mother's customers paid her to do stuff like that!"

Master Quenten turned a measuring eye on Ruven. Myrta glared at the boy. "Can't you tell when a girl is not interested?" she asked. "Or don't you care?"

"He doesn't care!" Leesa said, suddenly furious. "I told him to stop and I tried to get away from him, but if Margaret hadn't come in then . . ."

"You probably would have killed him," Master Quenten finished calmly, "and quite possibly leveled the entire building while you were at it."

Leesa looked at him uncomprehendingly. "I'm not a harlot," she said. "I'd rather die than be one."

"Well, that explains the snow," Master Quenten said.

"What do you mean?" Myrta demanded.

"She turned her perfectly justifiable anger at what was being done to her inward instead of outward. Part of her wanted to die, and part of her put the weather lessons of the last two days together. Precipitation and a low enough temperature generally produce snow."

"Lessons?" Serena said.

"Leesa," Quenten said, "fog occurs in nature when—"

"—the ambient temperature approaches the dew point." Leesa finished the sentence automatically, with the air of a student who had heard the lesson more times than she wanted to.

"You're a quick study," Master Quenten said approvingly.

Leesa just shrugged. Compliments made her feel uneasy. Since her own mother had never seen anything to praise in her, she figured that anyone who was nice to her wanted something in return. But she couldn't read this man; he didn't broadcast his thoughts the way most men she had encountered did. "What do you want?" she asked him suspiciously.

"I want you to come up the hill to my school, to live and study there, so that you can learn how to use your abilities without hurting anyone."

"I haven't hurt anyone!" Leesa protested.

"You're hurting yourself," Master Quenten pointed out. "You are standing here in dripping wet clothing, and by my reckoning this is the third day you've managed to soak yourself to the skin. Keep this up and you'll be sick. Do you have any dry clothes left?"

"Well, no," Leesa admitted after a moment's thought. "Everything I own is still damp."

"Come on upstairs," Margaret said, "and Rose and I will find something to fit you. We weren't in the kitchen during any of the incidents, so our spare clothes are dry."

"Good idea," Rose agreed. She glanced at Master Quenten to see if he had any objections, then took Lee-sa's hand. The three girls went up the stairs to the large attic room they shared.

"What you said about her leveling the building," Myrta said as soon as the girls were out of earshot, "you were exaggerating, weren't you?"

"No," Quenten said, as Serena shook her head. "She really could have done it. It's fortunate for all of us that the lessons the last few weeks have been basic weather magic, rather than say, how to summon a fire elemental." He looked at Ruven. "You, young man, have had a very narrow escape. And I wasn't joking about her killing you. If you hadn't let her go, if she had felt truly cornered and desperate, you would be dead by now. Think about that next time you're tempted to treat a girl worse than you would treat a horse."

"But horses are different!" Ruven protested.

Serena snorted. "Yes, they're bigger than you are, and they kick harder. Go back to the stables, Ruven."

"Shouldn't he apologize to her?" Myrta asked.

"Not if she can read thoughts," Serena said. "That's why I always say exactly what I'm thinking—I spent enough of my time in the Skybolts around Master Quenten and his mages to learn that you're much safer around mages if your behavior matches your thoughts. Since Ruven obviously doesn't understand what he's done wrong, any apology he attempted to make would be perceived by Leesa as an insult—and he's insulted her more than enough already."

"I see your point," Myrta said. "Ruven, you can go back to the stables now, and I suggest that you stay there."

Ruven, still looking bewildered, shrugged and went out.

Meanwhile Quenten was conferring with Serena. "You've worked with her for several weeks. What's your impression?"

"She's smart, determined, and a hard worker," Serena replied promptly. "I'll be sorry to lose her; it's not often you get help that diligent. But she's running scared from something—probably her mother's way of life."

" 'I'm not a harlot,'" Myrta quoted softly. " 'I'd rather die than be one."

"Exactly," Serena said. "And if 'I'd rather die' had been 'I'd rather kill,' we'd have a real mess on our hands. The sooner she's moved up to the school, the better."

"You're sending me away?" Leesa stood in the doorway, looking stricken. The fact that she was wearing clothes too large for her made her look even more like a helpless and frightened child.

To Myrta's astonishment, for Serena had never struck her as the motherly type, Serena limped over to Leesa and held out her arms, and Leesa took the step that closed the small distance between them and clung to Serena.

"Master Quenten is an old friend of mine," Serena said quietly. "We were Skybolts together, and I've trusted him with my life many times."

"Almost as many as I've trusted you with mine," Master Quenten pointed out.

Serena ignored him. "He's good people, and the school he runs is one of the best. You'll have a room of your own there, with a lock on the door—"

Leesa looked sideways at Master Quenten, who nodded.

"—and you'll have people to teach you how to use your powers. There are a lot of jobs that mages can do, and I think that you're going to be a very good mage."

"I think so, too," Quenten said, smiling at her.

"What's the catch?" Leesa asked, still suspicious. "Am I going to be a prisoner up there?"

"No, you won't be a prisoner," Master Quenten assured her. "Students are not allowed to leave the school grounds without permission, but permission is routinely granted when you have free time." He chuckled. "How many of our students do you get in your bar here every night?"

"Quite a few," Myrta said, "and even more on holidays."

"And I'll come up and visit you, too," Serena said reassuringly. "You're not going to vanish into a dungeon. Once you reach Journeyman status, you can go out and get a job if you're tired of studying. And by

then, you won't have to worry about anyone's trying to rape you—you'll be able to defend yourself from idiots like Ruven."

Leesa looked up at her. "Truly?"

Serena nodded. "Truly."

"And you promise you'll come visit me?"

"I promise."

Leesa chewed on her lower lip, then decided. "All right, I'll go."

"Excellent," Master Quenten said. "You can share my horse on the ride uphill."

Leesa's eyes sparkled. Riding a horse was a real treat.

"But promise me one thing, Leesa," Serena said. "Even when you've learned how, don't turn that idiot Ruven into a frog. It's a waste of energy."

Leesa laughed. "I promise."

Chance

by Mark Shepherd

In 1990 Mark Shepherd began collaborating with Mercedes Lackey in the SERRAted edge urban fantasy series with the novel Wheels of Fire, (Baen Books). Also available from Baen is another collaboration with Mercedes, Prison of Souls, and a solo project, Escape from Roksamur, both novel tie-ins based on the best-selling role-playing computer game Bard's Tale. His first published solo work, Elvendude, appeared on the Locus bestseller's list In the works is a sequel, Spiritride, to be published in 1997.

He is not what I expected, and everything I expected, Guardsman Jonne thought as he made his way back to the camp. What I didn't expect was that he would look so tired.

It had been a candlemark since making the acquaintance of Herald-Mage Vanyel, and already Jonne was convinced that the gods had sent him to this place for a reason.

It certainly took Haven long enough to send a Mage; here on the Karsite border the battle had been raging for some time, and until recently had been limited to the more "conventional" elements of warfares arrows, swords, knives. These were the things Jonne knew well. Levin-bolts and mage-lightning, these were better left to the magicians.

But Vanyel, he is no mere magician. If the stones I've been hearing are true, he could level the entire town of Horn with a glance.

Jonne walked with a lightness in his step and a gladness in his heart, both of which were unfamiliar feelings in this war-torn land. He'd grown up in the area, with Karse just on the other side of the valley, and he'd be-" come accustomed to the Karsites' occasional war threat. But Jonne and his family, comrades in arms and friends, had never felt as vulnerable as they had this war. Jonne's family owned a good piece of the land bordering Karse, including a number of crystal mines that were relatively untouched, so he had a personal interest in defending the border, as well as a patriotic one; lately the war had gone badly, and this was most certainly one of the reasons why Vanyel the Herald-Mage had been sent.

Perhaps there was another reason, which had nothing to do with the war, the Kingdom, or even with Vanyel's magical abilities.

Perhaps, Jonne thought, we were simply meant to meet.

There were other stories, about Vanyel's lovers, one in particular. They said he was shay'a'chern, that his loves were all young men. Jonne was in his thirtieth summer, had never married, but had also been drawn to the males of his village from an early age. He knew what he was long before puberty breathed new life into his body while torturing it with growth, but only recently he'd had a name for it: shay'a'chern. His experiences in youth and early adulthood were awkward, brief, and scarce, and had never grown into anything other than fumbling adolescent experiments. The last, of a few years before, with a young farmer having marital problems, might have become more than a single night. But the farmer had second thoughts, guilty thoughts con- nected to his religion, and had pushed Jonne out of his life and declared the whole affair a moment of weakness that he would not repeat. Jonne accepted the reaction, and his fate, resigned to a life of loneliness.

Then he started hearing stories about others, this Herald-Mage in particular, and he began to wonder if perhaps he might meet someone like himself, who would want more than a single night of physical pleasure. When his captain asked for volunteers to be the Herald-Mage's guide, he raised his hand immediately. Given Vanyel's mysterious and frightening reputation for destroying armies at a glance, no others offered their services. Which was just as well, as Jonne was the only one who knew the area, having grown up in this very forest.

Vanyel and other important Valdemaran officers had made camp on a hillside. Jonne looked back at the camp, now visible as a campfire in the forest; when Jonne had asked them why the camp was so far from the troops, Vanyel had replied that it was to draw any magical attack toward him, the Herald-Mage, and away from the troops, who were ill equipped to deal with such an attack. Jonne thought this a great act of bravery, or stupidity; since he had little experience in magical warfare, he withheld judgment. After all, he was a mere country lad, trained as a soldier, whereas Vanyel was a full Herald, and a Mage to boot, educated at the Collegium and, it was rumored, a close friend of the King himself.

Vanyel has survived many battles, magical and otherwise. He must know what he's doing, Jonne reasoned. Or he would not be here, filling in for five Herald-Mages.

After his brief introduction to Vanyel, the guardsman sensed something familiar behind the younger man's eyes. It was a look, a spark of recognition, that Jonne had seen maybe a dozen times in his life. It was a lingering gaze, normally brief between most men, but between shay'a'chern the gaze lasted a moment longer, just long enough to let the other know that yes, I know you, too. We are both . . . different.

The Guardsman also felt Vanyel's power behind the sexuality; Jonne had a slight Gift for Empathy and Mind-speech, but it was so unpredictable that he did not qualify for training. Occasionally the Gift would surface when his emotions were charged, as they were this evening.

Jonne bid him good evening with promises to return the next day. Yes, he knows. He is, he thought, trying not to let his joy show to the others gathered there.

The next day they would properly scout the Karse border, and perhaps catch a glimpse of the enemy, way off in the distance. War seemed to be a distant prospect now, as more pleasant thoughts occupied his mind as he made his way back to his company. Nearby was a system of caves he would show the Herald-Mage.

The path Jonne had taken passed along a ridge, below which was a sea of tents housing Valdemar's forces. Here and there was the occasional revelry, as this was Sovvan, which some insisted on celebrating despite the circumstances. The tents looked like shingles on a tiled roof, reflecting pale light from a full harvest moon. His own tent was down there somewhere, and as he began the descent to the valley, he even fantasized that some night very soon he may not be sleeping in it alone.

So long, Jonne thought. So very long. The Guardsman didn't want assume too much. After all, Jonne was no spring chicken anymore, and he had no way of knowing if the Mage would find an older man attractive, even if he was only five years his senior. Many years of sword training and a dislike for wine left him leaner and younger than his years; he made a point of staying in shape, not only to maintain his strength and stamina, but to keep himself physically appealing for that special man, wherever and Whenever he might happen along. Jonne wanted so much to believe that Vanyel was that man.

The path led downward, into a thicker part of the forest where the shadows darkened. Jonne hesitated before starting down it. Something felt wrong, very wrong ... the hair on his neck stood up.

Above the hill where Vanyel's group was camped, a dark stormcloud blotted out the moon. Lightning raced from it, striking the ground, rippling through the sky. There had been no sign of rain a mere hour before; wind whipped up from the south, racing up the valley and through the forest. Trees swayed around him, and he felt a surge of magic, evil magic, coming from Karse.

Jonne saw the magic for what it was, an attack from the south. On this night, of all nights, when we would least expect it, he thought in panic.

His first duty was with the company, but the rest of the army was still some distance away, and Vanyel's tent was much closer. Something called to him, drawing him

back the way he came. From the thunderclouds came another streak of lightning, followed by an enormous fireball, which struck the hillside, sending a cloud of sparks high in the air.

Gods, was that their camp? Jonne thought, breaking into a run. Have they been destroyed?

He didn't want to consider the possibility that Herald-Mage Vanyel was injured. But when he reached the camp, he knew someone had been hurt. Three of the tents were ablaze, and other Guardsmen were scurrying about, trying to put out the fires. The hair on the back of his neck raised again. Guardsman Jonne dropped to the ground and covered his head.

The concussion hammered through the ground he lay against. A wave of heat blazed over him, scorching the back of his hands covering his head. Behind him someone was screaming; another Guardsman was on fire, and others tried to wrestle him to the ground.

"Lord and Lady, what is attacking us?" someone shouted, but in the chaos Jonne didn't see who.

Jonne started to get up, but before he was fully on his feet, a voice resounded in his head:

:Guardsman, come help us,: came the distraught words. In the shadows cast by the flickering flames, Jonne saw a shape, which moved toward him. What he first took for a large man in Herald Whites turned out to be a white horse.

No, not a horse, Jonne thought. That is a Companion.

He knew enough about the Heralds and their partners to know that this was no mere horse, and was as intelligent as any man.

:Vanyel is injured,: the words sounded. :Come help us now.:

At the mention of the Herald's name, Jonne stood straight up.

"Vanyel?" he called out. "Where is he?" Then he knew he was speaking to the Companion.

:This way,: the Companion answered, moments before the next explosion hit.

Jonne heard nothing as a flash of light illuminated the

entire area. The light came from behind him, as it cast his long shadow on the ground before him. The explosion threw him forward, into his own darkness.

Something solid nudged him solidly in his ribs. When he opened his eyes, the Companion was standing over him, looking down.

:You survived,: the Companion Mindspoke. :You, and Vanyel. The others are dead.:

Again, Jonne got up. The camp had been leveled by whatever struck them last. All that remained of the tents were wisps of burning fabric. A forest fire raged, spanning outward, burning away from them, filling the air with thick smoke. The Companion appeared to be singed, and smelled of burned hair, but for the most part unhurt. Items of Jonne's own clothing continued to smolder, and the Guardsman batted them out. He moaned when he touched the back of his neck and hands, the only parts of him that were burned.

"The others," Jonne murmured, then he saw them. Burned, unmoving bodies lay about like discarded dolls. Then, "Vanyel. Where is he?"

:This way,: the Companion said, and led Jonne to a clearing just beyond the tents. Above, lightning continued to flash, casting brief moments of visibility on the area. Still, no rain had fallen, but threatened to at any moment. Vanyel lay in the center of the clearing, and the Companion went to him, nudging with her nose.

:He's alive,: the Companion Mindspoke. :But he is injured. Help him onto my back. This is not a safe place anymore.:

The Guardsman sniffed the smoky air, remembering that whatever sent that last blast was still out there, somewhere, and was probably getting ready for another attack.

Jonne easily picked up the Herald, noting his slight weight as he propped him up on the beast. Vanyel muttered something unintelligible as he found his balance on the saddle.

:He can ride,: the Companion told mm. :Take us to safety, please, Guardsman.:

Lightning struck the campsite, several paces behind him. The blast spattered them with dirt and pebbles, and in reflex Jonne shielded his face with his arm.

Time to go. Now.

"There are caves nearby," Jonne offered. "Will that—"

:Take us to them,: the Companion ordered. :While you still can.:

Jonne led the Companion and her barely conscious rider to the mouth of one of the hidden caves. In the distance, he heard battle, and felt an urge to go join it. Torn between his duty to his company and his new assignment to Vanyel as his guide, he had little trouble choosing his course of action.

This Herald is injured, and if I don't take him to safety, we will lose him, and all will be lost, the rational part of Jonne's mind told him. But beyond his duty, he felt a link to Vanyel, as if they were part of the same brotherhood: the brotherhood of shay'a'chern.

Jonne had chosen this cave because it had a hot spring pool near the mouth, and also because it had a few provisions they would need, which he'd stored down here in case of an emergency. The Guardsman led the Companion a few paces into the cave, where he paused to light a torch mounted on the cave wall. The sudden light revealed a pair of straw mattresses, lanterns, candles, and a cabinet which, assuming it hadn't been disturbed, had medicines and supplies he would need.

As he helped Vanyel down, he saw, in the blazing torchlight, the burns. They were three lines, slicing through his Herald Whites, reaching from his neck down past his waist. Jonne gently cradled Vanyel in his arms, hoping he wasn't injuring him more by moving him.

Lord and Lady, what did this to him? he thought, but deep inside he already knew. Mage-lightning. What was he taking on, out there in that clearing? As he lowered him to the mattress, Vanyel opened eyes wide with alarm.

"Easy, easy," Jonne said, suddenly concerned for his own safety. "I'm Guardsman Jonne, and I'm here to help you:"

The brief words seemed to do the trick. Vanyel visibly relaxed, and allowed the Guardsman to ease him onto the mattresses.

Vanyel's Whites practically fell apart as he lay him on the mattress. The mage-lightning had sliced through his clothes. Jonne reached into the cabinet for some ointment he hoped was still in there; it was, and when he opened the ceramic jar, Jonne found Vanyel eyeing him with a mixture of admiration and, something else, an emotion Jonne couldn't readily identify.

"We were under attack," Vanyel said. "The camp . . ."

The Campanion stepped forward, nuzzled Vanyel affectionately, and the Herald looked directly into her deep blue eyes.

"All of them?" he asked sadly. Jonne realized they were communicating, and the Companion had just told him about the camp. Then, "I have no energy left, Yfan-des." A pause. "Yes, I will stay put—ouch!"

Vanyel had moved sideways on the mattress, raking his arm across his burns. He looked down at his ruined Whites, "I guess this uniform's had it," he said. "That makes the second this month."

Vanyel sat up on an elbow, regarding Jonne thoughtfully, wincing at the evident pain. "Where is this?" he said, looking around the cave.

"This mine belongs to my family," Jonne said, kneel-Jng down beside Vanyel. "We are safe for the time being. How do you feel?"

Vanyel shrugged, leaned back on the mattress. "Dreadful, after that last round," he said. Jonne waited for him to continue. "I wasn't ready for that attack. We had no idea Karse had mages that powerful."

"Those burns look nasty," Jonne said, looking over Vanyel's mostly naked body. "Mage-lightning?"

"The worst," Vanyel said, but his tone had changed,

from that of a powerful man to a meek boy. "It got through my shields somehow. Just wasn't ready."

"Lean back," Jonne said, "I'll put some of this on."

Jonne smoothed the ointment on, starting from his neck and working down to his ankles. Vanyel looked down at himself, then gave an embarrassed laugh.

"Don't take offense," Vanyel said, through obvious embarrassment. Jonne tried not to laugh, and continued to ignore Vanyel's excitement. "I'm shay'a'chern," he said, flustered. "Sometimes I don't have any control over it."

"Don't worry about it," Jonne said, suppressing a grin. "So am I."

Vanyel sat up. "You're what!"

"I'm shay'a'chern, too," Jonne said, but Vanyel still looked stunned.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm thirty years old," Jonne said, as he continued spreading the ointment. "I should think I would know by now, wouldn't you?"

Vanyel looked too tired to discuss it further. "I would never have known," the Herald said distantly.

"And neither would I, if your reputation hadn't pre-ceeded you. But, given your condition, I doubt you're feeling very romantic," Jonne said reluctantly. "I'm not suggesting anything. At the moment."

Vanyel reached over and touched his wrist. "But / am."

Some time later they had submerged themselves in the hot springs near the mouth of the cave; Van took a little more time to get in, wincing as the waters touched his wounds, but in moments he had surrendered to the pool's warmth, and allowed Jonne to wrap his arms around him. The shallow pool was only waist deep, but had a smooth rock surface beneath, and a natural bench for them both to recline on. Steam rose from the surface of the water, forming clouds around their heads.

// my life ended right now, I would consider it fullfilled, Jonne thought as he held Vanyel closer to him, avoiding

the worst of the burns. Fortunately, the injuries were bad only above the waist.

"I should feel guilty about leaving the war right now, but I don't," Vanyel said, snuggling closer to Jonne. Yfandes had politely excused herself before things had gotten too involved, and Vanyel said he was keeping in touch with her. The Companion had recently returned from a brief recon of the area, and her news had been good. All magical attacks had ceased, and the regular army was on alert, ready for any conventional invasion.

"The Karsite Mages may think I'm dead," Vanyel said casually. "In which case, I had better keep my head low, and in this cave. I suspect this place is shielding me from them." He shook his head. "All those men, dead. Why was I the only one to survive?"

Jonne didn't know how to answer him, so he remained quiet. Something dark and sinister haunts this man, and if I pry too much, he's likely to shut me out completely, Jonne reasoned. He will tell me when he is ready. If that time ever comes.

"You survived so you could be with me," Jonne teased, and nibbled on his right ear. "Otherwise, who would I have had to sleep with? My horse?"

"Your horse," Vanyel said, with a smirk, "would have had more meat on his bones than I. Not to mention ... well." Van turned, and gave him a long, slow kiss. Afterward, he proceeded to wrap Jonne's arms around him 'again, holding them tightly. "How can you find me attractive?" Van said, after a long pause. "I've lost so much weight in the last year, I'm practically a skeleton."

The question confounded Jonne. How can I find him attractive? How can I not! I haven't felt this good bedding someone since I was twenty.

"You are a most beautiful man, Vanyel," Jonne said. "I suspect that you're not very good to yourself." The Guardsman almost regretted saying that last; this was getting into an area Vanyel probably didn't want to explore. But Van said nothing, at first.

"Savil would agree," Vanyel said at last. "Tell me, Jonne, have you ever had a lover?"

What, exactly, does he mean by lover? he wondered, and since he didn't want to seem thick, he didn't ask. A one night fling, or a year-long relationship? The farmer he'd known was the closest thing to being a lover, his marriage to a lady notwithstanding. Jonne told Vanyel about him, and the day or two they'd spent in each other's intimate company.

"It was not what I would have preferred," Jonne added. "But it was what was available." He held Van tighter, as if to emphasize their present situation. "It was better that, than nothing at all." Jonne hoped that he didn't sound cheap; it was how he felt, and he assumed honesty is what Vanyel wanted.

"Then I suppose I must consider myself fortunate, to have had Tylendel as long as I did," Vanyel said, with only a hint of sadness. "This is Sowan. The anniversary of his death."

That was his lifebonded, Jonne thought. The one he lost. The pain must have been. ... He searched, but could not find the words to describe what he though Van might have felt.

"It was a long time ago, but it still feels like a part of me left when he did. I don't expect to replace him—"

"But you don't have to be alone the rest of your life either," Jonne blurted, uncertain where his words were coming from. "I don't know what the gods have in mind for me, but I do believe we were meant to be together tonight, and perhaps tomorrow night as well."

"And after that?"

Jonne carefully turned Vanyel around and looked directly into his eyes. "Does anyone know?"

Afterward they slept, and when they woke Yfandes had returned well fed from another trip. The enemy had left the area, as near as she could tell, but Van was uncertain. The brief time he'd spent with Jonne had helped him recover more energy than he said he'd expected, and he appeared to be ready to take on the entire Karsite army.

"As you are a mage, there is something I must give

you," Jonne said, pulling on the last of his clothes. They had made temporary repairs to Vanyel's Whites, but he would still have to replace them as soon as they got back to the camp. "But you must promise to tell no one about this place, because this mine is a family secret, and needs to remain that way. If Karse knew what was down here, they would have invaded in force long ago."

"Mine?" Vanyel said absently, but Jonne had already ducked back into one of the dark tunnels. Moments later he reappeared, concealing something wrapped in cloth.

/ don't know if I'll ever see him again, Jonne thought, even though he doubted last night would be a one night stand. The Fates can be tricky sometimes.

Vanyel opened the cloth, revealing a massive, perfectly formed rose quartz crystal the size of his fist. The Herald-Mage stared at its perfection for a long time before saying anything.

"This is the largest rose quartz crystal I've ever seen," he said. "Are you certain you want to part with it?"

Jonne beamed with pleasure. "I'm certain, Herald-Mage. Just, whenever you see it, think of me, would you?"

Vanyel looked like he was about to cry. Instead, he took Jonne's hand in his own, then wrapped his arms around him in the tightest embrace yet.

"I will never forget you, Guardsman," the Herald-Mage whispered in his ear.

Sword of Ice

by Mercedes Lackey and John Yezeguielian

Hailing from the Chicago area, John Yezeguielian began his writing career at 14, when an article of his was published in a local paper. Since then he's written a music review column and various other pieces of journalism. This short story marks his first published fiction. Previously he has worked in fast food, owned and operated three businesses, trained animals, programmed computers, and been a bodyguard to celebrities and princesses. His hobbies include sailing, scuba diving, motorcycling, aviation, Aikido, and falconry. (Yes, he's a real-life Hawkbrother.) Prose and music, however, remain his highest passions. He lives near Tulsa with a cougar, a bobcat, two German shepherds, and, of course, a mews full of hawks and falcons.

:Downwind,: the voice in Savil's head demanded, and Savil followed in the direction of the falcon as it changed trajectories. The huge bird pulled its wings in tightly now, an arrow slicing through the sky.

:Hurry!: the raptor pleaded, and Savil felt the urgency in the falcon's mental message.

If only it could give me more than vague concepts. Savil mumbled imprecations under her breath as she scrambled over yet another boulder in this miserable craggy landscape.

All at once, as if in answer to her unspoken wish, Savil's mind flooded with images. Sensations of speed overwhelmed her as her vision was superseded by the bird's point of view as it twisted and gyrated, plummeting recklessly from the heavens. Vertigo swept Savil's footing from beneath her. She scrambled blindly now, her fingers clawing desperately at the granite face, struggling for purchase as she slid down the side, dangerously close to a ledge.

Shut it down. Center, she reminded herself. This is novice stuff. Regain control. In an instant, Savil was back in charge of her perceptions. Then she slowly let the bird's sendings back in, until they were vaguely superimposed on her true sight.

She couldn't see a man yet, but from the bird's eyes she could see what lay over the next rise. Rock scorched and molten, trees burst, their trunks still smoldering. The scene was one of rampant havoc, implying power turned loose to run wild in a way that sent atavistic chills up her spine. And then the falcon swiveled around one last boulder. Kicking its feet out before its body, the bird flared its long, pointed wings and set down gently upon firm ground.

Or what? In her mind's eye, Savil could see the falcon looking in what must be her direction, the raptor's sure, steady gaze finding her amidst the mass of upthrown debris, still quite some distance off. But the bird's vision was wavering, rising and falling. And then the falcon cast its gaze downward, and Savil saw the burned face of a man.

The rising and falling must mean she's perched atop his chest. He's alive and breathing, though the gods only know why.

Her resolve hardened, Savil reached out with her special Gifts, locating the man and probing swiftly and delicately at his mind. Gently, she pulled back a layer of unconsciousness, moving deeper, and pulled back as if stung. This man, this strange one somehow linked with a hawk, was able to function while the full, raw power of a major node of magical energy flowed in and through his body. Though still young, Savil was decidedly a master, a full Herald-Mage, and she could not do that for even an instant. He must be like a sword of ice to channel such power and still be alive, Savil thought to herself.

Still wondering what peculiar sort of being it was which she was being called to aid, Savil scrambled across the tops of the last few boulders and began climbing down into what used to be a mountain glade.

:Tayledras, beloved,: Savil's Companion spoke into her mind. :This is a Hawkbrother.:

Until Kellan had Mindspoken, Savil had all but forgotten her Companion amidst the excitement and shock of a bird's-eye view of flight. As she was reminded, Savil realized Kellan's voice had been conspicuously absent during the usurpation.

.7 was blocked,: Kellan pouted, feigning a sulk, :by your whirlwind rapport with that bondbird creature.:

Oh? Really? And just how did that come about? Savil thought to question her Companion further, but the descent was over and she had other concerns now. Before her were the charred, breathing remains of the only Hawkbrother she had ever seen.

So badly wounded was he that Savil was barely certain where to start. Something had ripped down the Hawk-brother's side, scorching and cauterizing flesh as it apparently continued from his shoulder to the ground. It seemed to be a lightning strike, but that was simply not possible. No man could have survived even that one blow, let alone the other tears and rips in this man's flesh and the agonizing burns across his skin.

As Savil's hands cleared his clothing from the wounds, her mind sent him energy—healing energy essential to his survival, though she was no Healer. The going was slow as she gingerly pulled the fabric from the Hawk-brother's devastated form. The power was still flowing through him somehow, and Savil knew better than to attempt to touch him or his fragile, dangerous mind again.

Without warning, the bird let out a scream from deep within its throat. Startled, Savil pulled away and turned to look at the huge falcon. When she looked back again, the Tayledras' eyes were open, breathtaking ice-blue eyes surrounded by a mass of seared flesh which was healing, changing right before her eyes. The Hawkbrother's gaze met hers for a brief moment, then his eyes closed again. Through the aura of pain which she now realized she'd been feeling from him the entire time, she could have sworn she'd felt the faintest of smiles.

A myriad of sendings from the bird confirmed what Savil had begun to suspect—that the Tayledras could heal himself better if she'd just remain to protect him and continue to transfer energy to him.

"Well," she said aloud, looking down at him. "It looks as though you and I are going to be together for a while. At least I was ahead of my schedule and there won't be anyone missing me for a couple of weeks." Then she waited for Kellan to catch up with her, picking his own way through the rocks, and prepared for a long vigil.

Throughout the rest of that day and the next, she remained close to the stranger, imparting as much healing energy as her own reserves would allow. She left his side only to gather wood for the nighttime fires, and to step behind a boulder to relieve herself.

She could see a gradual but marked improvement over that first day. By the end of the second, she sensed he had recovered enough for her to bathe him. Savil's gentle hands lifted the Hawkbrother's head and washed his neck and face with the meager supply from her water-skin. Even more carefully did she move his body from side to side to wash it, removing his tattered garb and replacing it with a clean set of Whites of her own. At no time during those two days did the Hawkbrother make movement or sound, and his eyes remained shut, as if he were locked in a very deep sleep.

Early in the morning of the third day, Savil's routine of preparing breakfast was interrupted once more by the falcon's scream. When she looked over at the Tayledras, he was struggling to rise to his elbows. Savil rushed to help him.

:Thank you, but you have already done more than enough,: the Tayledras said to her in clear and coherent Mindspeech. Then, though not entirely steady in his movements, the Hawkbrother rose carefully to his feet. His bondbird began chittering pleasantly at him. His eyes closed again for a moment, and he nodded, a warm smile upon his lips.

:My friend has been telling me of your vigilance these past few days. It would seem that I am in your debt. . . .: It was a question phrased as a statement.

The Tayledras were reclusive by nature, even hostile toward strangers. That she knew, though little else. Even though Savil had helped him, and perhaps she had even saved his life, he would probably be suspicious of her motivations.

By the customs of some of the strange people who dwelled in this wilderness, the fate of one not of one's own tribe was usually left to the gods; it was not for anyone else to interfere or concern themselves with what happened to strangers. That might be the case with the Hawkbrother. It could be that while he was grateful for her assistance, he would also wonder why she had done so, and be suspicious of her motives.

Savil noticed his wary mood, and was quick to recognize the skepticism in his tone of voice.

:You may start your repayment by telling me the name by which I am to call you,: she said, smiling, knowing that to some folk, asking for a personal name was tantamount to asking for a weapon to use against them.

.7 am called Starwind,: he said with much dignity, :And the falcon you have been in rapport with is my bondbird; you might refer to her as my familiar.:

Savil stole a quick glance in the direction of the bird and thought to herself that she wished she'd had some bit of meat to offer the hawk. As if it had heard her, the bird launched itself from the stone it had been perched on, taking to the sky with swift, powerful beats of its wings. Soon it was circling high above them. Then, all at once, the bondbird dropped its head, folded its wings, and fell, scorching straight downward from the sky toward the quarry its powerful vision had spied. Excited by the hunt, the impressions the bird sent were intense. Once again, Savil was swept up in the bird's aerial pursuit.

But not enough so that she was unaware of her companion. Starwind, too, appeared caught up in the bond-bird's sendings. His eyes narrowed, a hint of fiery temper behind the hooded lids, as he watched through the bird's keen eyes. When the falcon made impact with the prey, Starwind's fingers clenched just as the bondbird's talons closed on the duck's neck. For another few moments, Savil knew that she and Starwind were sharing in the bloodlust the falcon felt in the kill. She found she was salivating along with the bird, in anticipation of the rich, red feast quivering beneath the falcon's talons.

This was such a unique experience, that Savil allowed herself to remain caught up in it a little longer. Starwind was first to break from the trance, and as she slowly disentangled herself, she noted by his reaction that he had suddenly realized that Savil had been linked with the bird during the kill as well as he. At the same time, his knees gave out, and he sat down abruptly on the boulder beside him.

She made no move to help him, as it was possible that such a movement could be misinterpreted. He stood up again, slowly, clearly taking stock of himsetf. Then, as though he'd decided something of great importance, Starwind gathered himself and faced Savil directly.

:// I may trouble you a bit more, Sister,: Starwind said, looking deeply into Savil's eyes. .7 fear I am yet too weak to return to my ekele without help.:

:That's hardly surprising,: Savil said gently as she looked back, awestruck by the strange beauty of this man. :I'm more than a little amazed that you are able to stand at all. And I'd be happy to help you get to your...?:

:My ekele? My home.: Starwind confirmed her guess.

:Your ekele, then,: Savil continued,/ and you need not call me "Sister" to convince me to do so.: She flushed a little, wondering how he was reacting to her. :ln fact, I'd rather that you not. . . think of me ... as your sister.:

Though hardly innocent, Savil had never been so forward with any man before. But there was something about this one, something exotic and compelling about this Starwind that had her heart beating fast, her palms breaking a sweat. She supposed she'd seen it in him the first time he opened his eyes, but she'd been too busy tending to his wounds then to pay it any heed. Now, though, his face all but healed, his elegant movements, those ice-blue eyes, and that mane of snow white hair combined to make an irresistible package.

Or perhaps it was just that she had been out on circuit for a very long time. Or perhaps—

Starwind seemed very well aware of her reaction. :It is the fever of the bondbird, Sister,: he said gently, but firmly. :And I would call you otherwise, if I had your name.:

She sighed—but made a little resolution that the game was not over yet.:/ am Savil, Herald-Mage of Valdemar, Chosen by Kellan . . . and at your service-Over the next couple of days, Starwind and his bond-bird, Savil and Kellan wove their way carefully through the mountains back to Starwind's home, the place where his Tayledras clan lived. When they finally arrived, they were met by a small group of Tayledras, Starwind's people, all similarly exotic, most with the same white hair and ice-blue eyes. They greeted Starwind with warmth and relieved enthusiasm, obviously glad for his safe return, but kept Savil at a goodly distance. Starwind spoke with them in a light, musical language at once similar and different to the few words of Shin'a'in she knew, apparently explaining how he'd come to be hurt and how Savil had rescued him. At one point in his telling of the tale, he must have said something shocking, because all of the welcoming party turned at once to look at her, their eyes wide in disbelief. The group then quickly disbanded, leaving the four of them alone again. On the way to Starwind's home, Savil had explained the nature of the relationship between Heralds and Companions. Starwind had not seemed overly surprised, explaining that his people had stories of Valdemar and even kept some fluency in the tongues of other peoples. Accordingly, Starwind directed Kellan toward a meadow rich with herbs and grasses for him to eat before accepting Savil's assistance in the monumental ascent to the Hawkbrother's home.

That home! It was lodged somewhere up in the branches of a tree so huge she could hardly believe her eyes, and to reach it, one had to clamber up a contrivance that was more ladder than staircase. Savil's one real fear was of heights, but somehow she managed to put on a brave front, showing no signs of her fear in climbing up into the ekele. After only one look out the window though, she decided she'd prefer to seek lodgings on firm ground. The vertigo she experienced while in the lofty ekele was simply too much for her.

Starwind chuckled quietly, but unkindly.

:You have the Tayledras' ability at rapport, but not our love of the heights? It is merely foreign to you. Remain here a few days, and you will come to cherish the here-above as we do.:

The mere idea was appalling. :A few days? If I remain here a few days, I'll be in worse shape than you were when we met!: Savil was already quite dizzy from the climb, and getting more nauseous by the moment. She could not help it; now that she was no longer moving, she felt a jolt of fear each time the ekele moved with the wind. Starwind took pity on her, probably because although she could conceal the more obvious signs of fright with jokes, she could not conceal her increasing pallor.

:As you wish, then. I would not care to dwell in a deep cave below-ground either,: he said. :The hertasi keep some rooms here-below, and you are welcome to make your stay in one of them. There are some matters I must attend to—affairs of my people.:

With that, Starwind guided her back down from the ekele and to an oddly constructed building surrounding the trunk of the huge tree, which somehow incorporated a warm spring and much green foliage. As they walked, Starwind explained to her about the hertasi, and how the sentient, elusive lizard-people tended to the Tayledras' needs in exchange for protection. Then he left her to er own devices, promising to return within a couple of candlemarks.

Savil used the time to rest and think, to take in and shelve away all of the strange wonders she'd discovered in the past few days. She Mindspoke with Kellan about it all. While he carried on a lively conversation with her, Savil made note that her Companion didn't seem unduly surprised by any of this.

:There are a great many things we know of, my love, which we are not at liberty to share with you before it is time to do so,: he said, in that infuriatingly patronizing tone he very occasionally used with her. It reminded her of her father and brother—and how they used to pat her on the head and tell her that she would be told about something "when she was old enough." And then, of course, having dismissed the mere female, they would go on about their business and never tell her anything' at all.

Savil was about to send Kellan a scorching retort when all of the exertions of the last few days caught up with her. It seemed like far too much effort to go to, and besides, she wasn't in the mood for an argument. So instead of retorting, she ignored him, even to the extent of partly blocking him out of her mind while she searched for a place to lie down. It didn't take long to find a kind of couch, built among all the leaves and foliage, and she fell into it, and then into a deep and sudden sleep.

The meeting of the Tayledras clan had been going on for hours. Starwind had been severely chastised for having brought Savil into the midst, not only of k'Treva's holdings, but into the very heart of the Vale. Outsiders were never brought this far; at the most, one allowed them a little way into the fringes of Clan territory before dismissing them. It had caused no small commotion when Starwind had argued that he'd done no such thing since Savil was not an outsider, but one who deserved the title of Wingsister. The elders had called it nonsense, and accused Starwind of making up such an outrageous claim to justify his actions, claimed his desire for this Herald was the true cause of his behavior.

While Starwind did have strong feelings for Savil, it was not the lust the elders suspected, although he himself could not have explained the insistent feeling that he must bring this stranger into the very center of k'Treva. He could only feel it, and without facts to bolster the feelings, could only rely on thin logic to convince the others.

"I bring this woman," he cried out defiantly, "because she is one of us. Have I not told you of her rapport with my bondbird? What greater testimony can there be than this? Tell me, when has such a thing happened before?"

There began a quiet murmuring amongst the elders. Though relatively young, Starwind had proven himself and his worth on numerous occasions. He could only hope that they would decide that it would be unfair to take his word lightly.

"It is not that we do not believe you," one elder finally confessed, "but that we have no precedent for such a thing. We are an ordered people, as well you know. Never has anyone who was not of our cousin-Clans, the Shin'a'in, ever been granted the title of Wingsib. This woman has not even a drop of shared blood with us!"

He set his jaw. "Do we share blood with hertasti? With tervardi or kyree? With dyheli? Yet all of these are welcome here!"

The elder sighed. "Starwind, you are young and eager for a change that you see as a clear necessity, but we are not comfortable when someone wishes to make things change so suddenly. This makes us unwilling to accept that which brings changes, and ... it frightens us to think of how different we may one day become."

The honest wisdom of the elder held them all in silence for some time. Starwind's mind was running the whole while. He had seen inside of Savil, knew her good heart. How could he convince them of this, or even get them to depart from the strictness of their ways long enough to look at her objectively? The silence was deafening. Starwind knew if he did not speak up, convince them somehow, that they would retreat back into the safety of their routines.

"Savil should be—no, is!—Wingsister to k'Treva. She has proven her worth with her rapport with my bond-bird, and earned her place by the acts of charity she performed for this member of the clan. I speak for her hi claiming that place, and challenge you to examine her spirit and say why this should not be so."

How could he tell them the things he only felt, but had no reason to feel? That he knew, without doubt, that this stranger would be important to the future of k'Treva, and that k'Treva would be instrumental in shaping, not only her future, but that of many, many people outside of the Hawkbrother lands, people that Starwind would never see and who would probably never even dream that Tayledras were anything but a fable. He had never shown any trace of ForeSight; never been able to look into the future without the aid of one who did have that talent. He knew he was taking a chance that all of his actions for many years to come would be regarded with suspicion and mistrust if he could not convince them. But he knew what he was doing was right, and trusted in the wisdom of the elders to overcome their fears.

"How can we know that you are not simply seeing what you wish to see?" the first elder asked.

"She sleeps, and she is too weary to awaken if you do not alarm her," Starwind said. "She trusts us. You may touch her mind now, and from there see into her heart. Read what you see there, see what it is she represents for her own great Clan k'Valdemar, and then tell me if she is not indeed worthy to be named our Wingsister."

"Even if we find it so," another elder spoke, "what difference will it make? Tell me, Starwind k'Treva, why we should bring her into our clan? She has people of her own, and the Heralds of Valdemar are different from us in more ways than they are similar. We do not eat the same foods, speak the same tongue—we do not even swear by the same gods!"

"She should be made one of us because she is one of us, she and her kind differ from us only in the names by which we swear, not to the spirit behind those names," he replied stubbornly. "And because we can learn much from each other, the k'Treva and this Herald-Mage. In many ways, our magic is much greater than theirs. Yet there are things they can do which we cannot. It is my belief that what we learn from each other—the combination—will be greater than any that we can each of us perform apart."

Another long silence followed. Each of the elders was considering what Starwind had said. Surely they knew he was right that the k'Treva could not live isolated in the Pelagirs forever. There had even been visions, Fore-- Sight some of them had experienced, which suggested that events in the future would require that they learn to broaden their ways. Finally, the first elder spoke.

"It will cost us nothing to look at this Savil you bring us. We must at least look before we judge."

Savil's sleep was interrupted by dreams, memories, and nightmares. In them, she relived experiences from the years since she had first donned Whites, the moment that Kellan had Chosen her, battles fought in the service of Valdemar, even passionate feelings for those loved and lost. Then came a dream of a test—a decision she was forced to make three times, one which left her frightened, exhausted, and drained. Countless hopeless scenarios presented themselves to her. Over and over again she was forced to decide how to react. Just as her decision was made, the scene would fade, and another would take its place. Each was progressively worse than the last, more hopeless, more futile, and in it she and those around her were suffering greater and greater loss. Only when the scenario required that she sacrifice Kellan, her Companion, did she wake from the nightmare, unable to make the impossible choice.

She woke with a start, her own voice screaming to be left alone, tears streaming down from eyes wide open in the darkness.

:It was only a dream, dearheart,: Kellan consoled her,

:A hideous, ugly, necessary dream. I am fine. Return to your sleep.:

She was too sleep-fogged to take in anything except Kellan's reassurance, too exhausted to question anything Kellan said. Relieved to have Kellan's voice in her mind, she fell back into the embrace of the strange bed, and slept until morning. If she continued to dream, she didn't remember any of it.

When she awoke, she found Starwind sitting beside her, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. She could feel the soft tingle of power as it flowed through him to her.

:Good morning, Wingsister,: he said cheerfully. .-Wind to thy wings.:

:Wind to thy wings, Starwind k'Treva," she answered automatically, her head throbbing. She wished, vaguely, that he wasn't being so damned cheerful. -.Gods, but I've one miserable headache!:

He sobered, and looked both contrite and a little guilty. -.Forgive me, Wingsister. The elders felt it was necessary.:

She frowned. :What have the elders to do with my headache?: Then she sat up, her own suspicions flaring. :Were your people messing about in my head?:

Starwind closed his eyes and spoke quietly into her mind. .-Remember all, little sister. There is nothing to fear.:

With that touch, Savil suddenly recalled the dreams and sendings she'd gotten after the nightmare of sacrificing Kellan, the knowledge slowing coming forward to her consciousness. In a single flash, she knew as much about the Tayledras as they knew themselves, as if she had studied them and their ways all her life.

The history of the k'Treva, their philosophies, their purpose as entrusted to them by their Goddess, their mysterious bond with their birds, everything given to her, including Starwind's own memory of the meeting last night, every newly gifted memory, all rose up and became a part of her. As they did, her headache dulled and then faded. Savil lay there unmoving, sharing Star-wind's loving gaze for quite some time. They may have lain there for hours longer, basking in the communion, if a hertasi had not crept in quietly to bring them some fruit.

Without conscious thought, she thanked the hertasi (who was already leaving,) in Starwind's own tongue. Then she laughed out loud of the pleasure and strangeness of it all.

Once before in her life she had known the incredible, indescribable joy of finding that she belonged somewhere, that there were people in the world who welcomed her as one of their own. That had been when she became a Herald—and now it had happened again.

"So this is what it means to be one of you," she whispered.

"Not entirely, shayana," Starwind replied, "but you now share the most of it."

Savil's eyes had been alight with the joy of the newfound knowledge and abilities of these strange and wondrous people she knew she could now call her own. She was overwhelmed by the all-pervasive sense of the peace of this place, of the serenity of those who lived here. After all the conflicts within and besetting Valdemar, k'Treva Vale seemed like a vision of paradise, and she. wanted to remain here forever.

And as soon as she had that thought, she knew it was impossible. For a moment, her eyes stung with tears.

"You know I can't stay. You must know that I'm a Herald first, and always will be so."

"Of course, ashke, of course," Starwind patted her hand to console her. "It was that which finally convinced the elders of the trueness of your heart."

"But I want to," she confessed desperately, as Star-wind's elegant fingers brushed a tear from her cheek. "I want to stay here, live here in this peace."

"We each have our duties, Wingsister. Mine is to the land, yours to your people. Neither of us can fully understand the other, yet it is so. But we can revel in that which we share. I believe that this sharing, this exchange between us, will be of great importance in times yet to come."

Savil nodded, understanding, remembering the certainty she held in memories now her own, shared with him. Neither of them knew why—but the certainty was there, as real as if they had absolute facts to prove it to be true.

"There is much yet to learn, Wingsister, and far too little time to learn it in. We are now your clan, as you are one of us. Every member of k'Treva will do what he can to help you gain the skills that are ours, and we know you will share willingly of your ways as well. And I feel this will not be the last time that those of k'Treva and k'Valdemar will share their wisdom."

She thought about her duty—but she had been far ahead of her schedule, and there was time. A little, but there was time. "Where do we start?" Savil asked. "With your lessons, or mine?"

He smiled. "Where both our powers flow from, at the nodes."

Then Starwind took her hand, guiding her to her feet, and their journey toward knowledge was begun.

In the Forest of Sorrows

by John Heifers

This story marks John Heifers' fourth fiction sale. Other stories of his can be found in Phantoms of the Night, Future Net, and A Horror Story A Day: 365 Scary Stories. When he's not writing or editing, he enjoys role-playing games and disc golf. He lives in Green Bay, Wisconsin, with his fiancee.

Treyon scrambled over the top of the small foothill and raced down the other side, never once glancing back. He could hear the sounds of pursuit behind him, the shouts of men and thuds of galloping horses growing louder.

The forest loomed before him, a thick green mass of trees and underbrush. Treyon ran for the treeline, his side aching. Seconds later, he heard a shout from the foothill.

"There! There he goes!" The hoofbeats started pounding again, and Treyon knew he was down to his last bit of luck. The brigands seemed to be right behind him, and that thought drew a bit more energy from his nearly exhausted body. The dull ache in his ribs grew as he increased his speed. With a surge of energy, he dove into the brush and started crawling deeper into the forest. Behind him, he could hear the horses panting and neighing with fear as they stopped short of the trees. The voices of the men were fading as Treyon extended his lead, but he could still hear them.

"What's the matter? Get in there after 'im!"

"The Hells I will, that's the Forest of Sorrows, ya stupe!"

"You idiot, it's just a piece'a woods. Nothing gonna happen in there except he's gonna get away. You know what Ke'noran'll do if we don't bring him back. Would'ja rather face her?"

"I'm telling ya, I ain't going in."

"Look, it's possible death in there, or death for sure if we come back without him. Now let's give the others a chance t'catch up and we'll go in together. Boy's moving so fast he'll leave a trail any moron could follow. We'll grab him and be gone before anybody even knows we're here."

The voices grew fainter as Treyon pushed deeper into the woods. It grew darker as he pressed onward, the trees dwarfing him and swallowing the available sunlight until it seemed he was walking in twilight. When he could hear no sounds of pursuit, Treyon paused for a minute to catch his breath, leaning wearily against one of the huge trees surrounding him. Looking around, he wasn't surprised to discover he had no idea where he was.

Better lost and alone than found by them, he thought, shivering as he remembered their conversation. Although he didn't know any more about the forest than the bandits did, he knew one rumor they didn't.

"Only those with no evil intention may enter the Forest of Sorrows and live." He repeated this to himself like a mental prayer, almost trusting his belief in the legend to keep him safe more than the legend itself.

"All right, Treyon, enough of this. Time to find your way out of here." Hearing his own voice, even whispered, heartened him. Looking up, he tried to find the sun to figure out which direction he had to go. Unfortunately, the trees were blocking most of the available light, making the attempt impossible. Shrugging his shoulders, Treyon found a suitable tree and began to climb. Well, at least I'm not scouting trade caravans for them anymore, he thought, that having been his primary job with the bandits, besides general whipping boy.

A few minutes later, he was among the topmost branches of the tree he had been leaning against, feeling the cool wind on his face and looking in every direction.

Once he had gotten his bearings, he started down. About halfway to the ground, his foot slipped and, as he was already committed to his next step, he started to fall. Suddenly, his feet landed on a thick branch, the jarring stop giving him enough time to wrap his arms around the tree trunk and stay there until his heart stopped threatening to leap from his throat.

Once he had calmed down, he looked at the branch he was standing on. Although this was the route he had used on the way up, he didn't remember this limb at all. Shrugging, he continued downward. The surest thing now; he thought, is to get my feet, as well as the rest of me, back on the ground and get moving.

Shinnying down the tree trunk, he jumped the last few feet—and landed to stare at the battered boots of Caith, the leader of the trackers who had been chasing him. The bandit had stepped around from his hiding place behind the tree and, before Treyon could move, grabbed his tattered shirt and drawn him close.

"Little coney sprouted wings and tried flyin' to the trees, eh? Not good enough. I've pulled the same trick myself a couple o' times." Keeping a tight hold on Treyon, he raised his head and whistled a series of notes twice. Within minutes, the rest of the brigands had rejoined their leader.

"Found the little bastard. Now let's go, Ke'noran ain't gonna be pleased with the delay." Making sure Treyon was in front of him, Caith pushed him forward and the group began retracing his path back out of the forest.

The forest was ominously silent, making everyone more nervous than they already were by just being in the supposedly cursed woods. They had been traveling for a while when Caith's advance scout held up his hand. The brigand group froze immediately, each hand on a weapon, every ear and eye alert for danger. Despite himself, Treyon craned his head to try and see what was going on. Soren, the bandits' best scout, crept back to Caith and whispered, "Horse in the clearing up ahead."

"What in the Hells is a horse doing in these woods? One of ours?"

"Not hardly. Snow white and clean as a stew bowl after dinner. Looked right at me."

"This doesn't sound right. Forest dead as a grave and now a horse comes out of nowhere? I want a look." Taking a stiletto from a sheath behind his neck, Caith put it to Treyon's throat. "One sound outta you, boy, and I'll open yer neck where ya stand. Now move." Pulling Treyon along, the bandit leader moved silently up to the head of the column.

In a small clearing about ten paces ahead was an animal that took Treyon's breath away. The scout's description did not even begin to do it justice. Its coat was the color of new-fallen snow, with a mane and tail that shone even in the wan sunlight. The horse's light-blue eyes regarded its audience with amusement, but it didn't take flight or move at all, except to lower its head to crop at the strangely lush grass.