Sword of Ice and Other Tales of Valdemar

Caith crouched down, dragging Treyon to the ground with him. Motioning the other bandits closer, he whispered hurriedly, "Here's our chance to make up for losing the runt. A horse like this 'un will hopefully make Ke'noran more forgiving. Toren, circle round that way, yer brother will take the other side, and get yer lariats ready."

The two scouts looked at each other, then at the horse, nodded, and slipped into the brush like ghosting deer. Despite his fear, Treyon wondered for an idle second what kind of ability the brothers had that let them communicate without speaking like that. His attention was quickly drawn back to the ambush before him.

The brothers made no more noise than the slight breeze rustling the leaves, and Treyon quickly lost sight of them, so well did they blend in with the trees and bushes.

The horse was munching a thick clump of grass, seemingly unconcerned about the huddled group of ragged men nearby. Treyon couldn't help wondering what it would be like to ride such an animal, sitting on its sleek back as it raced full out across the plains. It would probably be the closest thing to pure freedom he could imagine. Thinking about what Ke'noren would do to it made him almost ill. At that moment, Treyon knew he had to warn the horse somehow.

Looking up, he saw Caith was watching his two men who were almost in position. His dagger, although still under Treyon's chin, had relaxed its pressure a bit, allowing him to swallow without feeling the scrape of cold steel.

Noticing a large dead branch next to him, Treyon subtly shifted his position until he had moved the branch under him. Pretending to overbalance, he stepped directly on it, bearing down with all his weight.

The branch snapped loudly, causing everyone to freeze for a moment. The horse's head jerked up, looking directly at Treyon, who wanted to scream at it to run, get away, escape. He remained silent, however, locked into the animal's stare, watching as it did a very strange thing.

It winked at him.

Before Treyon could wonder what this meant, he was rocked by a blow that came out of nowhere. Already overbalanced after stepping on the branch, he swayed dizzily after the punch, held up only by Caith's grip on his shirt. Looking up again, he saw Caith glaring at him, his mouth curled in a feral snarl.

"By the Gods, boy, if you cost us that horse, I'll take it out o' yer hide."

Treyon just hung there limply, knowing the brigand didn't make idle threats.

The two turned their attention back to the horse, Caith keeping a tight hand on the boy's shirt. The bandit waited patiently, knowing the brothers would spring their trap with perfect tuning.

And so it would have been, if not for their target. As one, the two men flicked out their loops of tough woven rope, their hands steady, their aim true, both lassos flaring out to settle around the neck of their quarry.

Or would have, if the horse hadn't danced out of the way of the snares with a graceful ease, as if it had known exactly where they were all the while. Treyon exhaled in relief. Caith, noticing the boy's reaction, cuffed him again.

The horse neighed, the noise sounding like laughter in the silence, then turned and slowly trotted off through the trees.

Caith stood up, grimacing, and called out "By the Hells, I want that horse! Toren, Soren, take two men and run it down, damn it. Don't come back without it." Another fool's errand to send them off on, just like finding the boy, he thought.

The twins stood, one of them pointing to two other men, and the foursome set out after the shrinking white figure. Caith put his back against a tree as he waited with the last two bandits. He looked around, then snorted, "Don't know why that horse is here when our own horses wouldn'a come in. Haunted forest, my arse."

One of the other men, a newer arrival whom Treyon didn't know, spoke up, "Maybe it's a Companion."

"Oh? Is it? Where's the bleedin' Herald? Hells, no," Caith snorted again, "Just got a little more horse sense than usual. Living in the wild'll do that to an animal sometimes. What better place for a horse to live than here, eh?"

"Breeze's dying down." the other bandit remarked.

Treyon had been standing as well, pulled to his feet when Caith had risen. Looking around, he also noticed the lack of wind. Which made what else he saw even more unusual, easily passing into terrifying.

With barely a rustle, the trees around the bandits were slowly bending their branches down toward each of the men's heads. Treyon remained motionless, not wanting to attract any attention to himself. Caith and his men continued their idle conversation, unaware of the movement until Caith looked again at Treyon.

"Here now, what are you lookin—" His voice trailed off as he followed Treyon's gaze to the surrounding foliage, which quivered, then suddenly lashed out.

Caith, his reflexes quicker than the other two, released Treyon and dove to the ground, thinking to find safety there. When he hit the ground, thick roots erupted all around him, completely wrapping his body in brown tendrils and drawing him slowly underground, his screaming face the last thing to vanish.

The other men, caught completely by surprise, fared just as badly. One never got a chance to move, impaled by a thick limb that burst from his stomach like a third arm. The other managed to get his dagger out before several tree branches wrapped around his neck and jerked him, struggling and strangling, into its leaves, his knife arm flailing uselessly as he disappeared from sight. A few seconds later, the dagger skittered down the tree trunk and fell to the ground underneath it.

Treyon watched all this without moving, without even blinking. He just stood there, until the screams finished echoing through the woods. Finally, all was silent again, the only sign of disturbance being the impaled bandit's body still standing grotesquely upright. Treyon straightened up and took a hesitant step forward, then another, then another, and took off again, running through the forest until his legs would carry him no farther. Sinking to the ground under another large tree, heedless of the cursed forest and what might happen to him, Treyon fell asleep almost before he hit the ground.

The cracks and pops of a fire slowly woke Treyon. The first sensation he had was of pleasant warmth surrounding him. The second was the unmistakable smell of something cooking, making his stomach clench with hunger.

Treyon slowly blinked the last bits of sleep away, aware that he was still tired, but too concerned with trying to figure out where he was to rest any more. He flexed his hand slowly, feeling the mat of dry grasses he was laying on. Overhead, a canopy of trees blocked out the sky.

Meaning I'm still in the forest, Treyon thought. Moving his head slowly to the side, he looked first at the trees which surrounded him, trees that grew so close together they made natural walls encircling the small clearing, although here and there small gaps of darkness showed through. Treyon shuddered as he remembered the attack of the forest again.

The only opening was a small break on the opposite wall of trees, past the fire in the middle of the room and the cloaked form crouched in front of it.

Treyon gasped in surprise, for his bandit-trained senses hadn't noticed the figure until just a few seconds ago. Sitting upright, he tensed to bolt for the small exit. A few steps and a dive and he would be free.

"Finally awake, I see?" the indistinct shape said in a clear, gentle voice, still facing away from him. "If you wish to leave, by all means, there is no one here to stop you. Of course, there is no one here who wishes you harm, either."

Treyon flattened himself against the tree wall, his eyes still upon the figure who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. The bandit part of his mind was still screaming that this was a trap. The being continued, apparently unmindful of Treyon's fear.

"Of course, I'd rather you stayed a bit and dined with me. It has been far too long since a stranger found his way to my doorstep, such as it is. And it would be a shame to waste most of this stew."

At the mention of food the rich stew smell floated into Treyon's nose again, reminding him how painfully hungry he was. It had been so long, if ever, since he had eaten a meal that was more than scraps and leavings from the brigands. The part of his mind that was still wary of a trap was quickly being overpowered by the demands of his stomach, but, Treyon thought, if—whatever it is—had wanted to, it could have done anything to me while I slept. I should have woken up bound or held somehow. Hells, even if this is a trap, it II be worth it for a full stomach.

Summoning up the scraps of manners he knew, gained mainly from watching the bandits beg and scrape to Ke'noran, Treyon got up from the bed of grass and stood. "Can I have some food, then?"

The figure turned toward him, pushing back its hood and Treyon saw a man, his face unlined yet somehow

looking very old, framed by a mane of fine silver hair. The ageless face smiled gently, and the man extended an already full wooden bowl. "Of course, child."

Snatching it away, Treyon hunched over the bowl protectively and tried to scoop out a handful, only to yelp in pain as he burned his fingers. The man winced as Treyon blew on his injured hand and held out a spoon-shaped piece of wood, not carved, but looking like it had been naturally formed. "Try this."

Gingerly Treyon took the spoon, scooped up some of the stew and blew on it for a few seconds, then popped it into his mouth. Chewing fast, he sucked in air to further cool the hot food. All the while, his arm was curled protectively around the comfortably warm bowl.

The stranger said nothing, just watched him eat and refilled his bowl when it was held out. After Treyon had finished his third helping, he belched and asked for something to drink, receiving another bowl already filled with clear spring water.

His stomach full and ready to face whatever was asked of him, knowing it would be easier to take if he was prepared, Treyon squared his shoulders and looked at the man. "What do you want?"

The man looked up from stacking the bowls in a corner, the question clear from the expression on his face.

Treyon continued, "For the food and shelter. Work, or anything else you want. It's all right, I'm used to it. Just tell me."

The man's head lowered again, his shoulders shaking silently. Treyon thought he might have been laughing, but when he raised his head again the tears on his cheeks gleamed in the firelight. "By the Gods, boy, you're only twelve or thirteen at the most. What has been done to you?" Taking a deep breath, he wiped his face. "I don't ask anything of you other than your company." Seeing the look on Treyon's face, he added hastily, "Just talk, that's all."

"Oh." The word turned into a yawn as his comfortably full stomach and the warmth of the fire made Treyon sleepy.

"Why don't you rest some more, and we can talk in the morning." The man said quietly. Treyon found himself growing sleepy just listening, but he wasn't convinced of his safety quite yet.

"What about the trees?" he mumbled as his eyelids drooped.

"Nothing will harm you, not while you're with me." the man replied, turning back to the fire.

Feeling he had nothing to lose anyway, and now wanting to sleep more than he ever had in his life, Treyon crawled over to the grass mats and was soon curled up, breathing rhythmically in slumber.

The stranger stood, stretched, and walked to the wall near the small opening. He looked back to ensure that the boy was sleeping soundly. Satisfied, he walked straight through the trees, his body encountering no resistance from the wood. Once outside, he looked up through a break in the trees at a small patch of night sky.

"Over thirty years in the forest now, and I'm still finding boys in trouble."

Treyon awoke to dappled sunlight streaming in through the small gaps in the trees. He blinked several times, unsure if he was awake or still dreaming. When no coarse shouts or heavy kicks jerked him out of bed, he relaxed a bit, remembering where he was.

Breathing deeply, Treyon felt the bite of the crisp morning air on his face. The rest of his body, however, was comfortably warm, mostly because of the gray woolen cloak covering him. Throwing it aside, Treyon got up and stretched, trying to get moving before the cold could soak into his bones. He walked toward the opening to the small tree-shelter and crawled out, freezing in place as soon as he was outside.

Directly in front of him, the white horse was grazing contentedly. Even though Treyon thought he hadn't made a sound, the horse raised its head and looked at him. Caught in its gaze as he had been the day before, Treyon felt like the animal was reading his mind. He didn't move a muscle, content to hold its eyes with his own steady stare. He felt proud that he wasn't compelled to look away in fear or submission. It was almost as if the horse were evaluating him, and apparently liking what it saw.

The horse looked beyond him for a moment, then neighed, wheeled around, and cantered off through the woods again, only this time with no bandits in pursuit.

A noise behind him made Treyon whirl in a defensive crouch before he could stop himself. The silver-haired man held his hand up in a calm gesture. "Good morning."

Straightening, Treyon mentally cursed his reflexes. "Hello."

The man gestured toward the horse's retreating back. "What do you think of her?"

Treyon turned to look at the horse again. "She's beautiful. Yours?"

"Not exactly. We're very good friends, though."

"I'd give anything to ride something like that."

"Well, I don't know. You'd have to ask her. Her name's Yfandes."

Treyon looked up at the man who had come up beside him, and was now watching him without a trace of humor on his face, as if talking to horses was something he did every day. Not knowing quite how to respond, Treyon kept silent. There was a not-quite-awkward silence for a few seconds until the man spoke again, "Are you hungry? I'm afraid all I can offer is more of the same as last night, if you don't mind."

The memory of the savory vegetable stew brought a smile to Treyon's face, "Fine, if you have enough."

"Always." The man started to go inside, then paused, "I'm sorry. I've fed and sheltered you and I don't even know your name."

Treyon paused before heading back into the shelter. "It's Treyon."

The man nodded. "And you can call me Van."

Treyon's head snapped up. "As in Vanyel Demons-bane?"

The man smiled as if he heard that question a lot.

"The name is similar, but the Herald-Mage Vanyel has been dead for over thirty years. He died around here, as a matter of fact."

"You know of him?"

Van grinned. "Bits and pieces I've heard here and there. After all, I haven't lived my whole life here. Come inside and I'll tell you more over a hot meal."

Treyon hurriedly scooted through the break in the trees. Van started to follow, but stopped for a moment as a familiar voice carried clearly in his mind.

•.Don't embellish too much while telling your "bits and pieces" now.:

:'Fandes, I'm shocked you would even accuse me doing something like that. If he wanted embellishment, he should talk to Stefen. But I do think he should get his information straight from the "legend's" mouth, don't you?:

:As long as I get to correct you on parts you may be a bit fuzzy on. Deal?:

Van smiled. :Deal. Except I wish I had his gift with children. He's much better with them than I am.:

:Well, dear, if wishes were Companions, then everybody would have one. You'll just have to make do.:

:Yes, yes, but... I have the feeling that this boy is a harbinger of something evil to come. You sensed him, didn't you?:

:Of course. Why do you think I went after him?:

-.All right, all right, Van grinned again, Pardon me for trying to figure out your mind.:

Van could almost see Yfandes' smile. :Over five decades together and you're still learning, dear. Are you going in? That boy needs to talk:

•.Right away. Keep watch for anything unusual, particularly from the North. This may take a while.:

Understood.:

". . . and that was how Vanyel earned the name "Shadow-Stalker." Van leaned back against the wood of the shelter, watching Treyon finish the last of his meal.

"Boy, it sure must have been exciting." Treyon said after he had swallowed the last mouthful. "Riding all over Valdemar, protecting those who needed help, battling evil wherever it appeared."

A wry grin appeared on Van's face. "I don't know. I doubt it was all adventure and romance. I mean, you're from around here, right?" Treyon nodded. "So you know how cold it gets at night, how hard the winters are. I'm sure Vanyel spent many days cold, hungry, and tired while he was protecting those who needed him."

"Yeah, but he was the most powerful magician of all. He leveled armies, battled hundreds of demons at once, cut through mountains like they were soft butter. He could do anything. Why would he be cold and tired when he didn't have to be?"

.-Funny, that's what his Companion said more than once.: Yfandes Mindspoke, along with a gentle laugh. Shaking his head at both of them, Van continued.

"Treyon, it wasn't, and still isn't, that easy. Often times Vanyel was probably battling other mages, with power as strong, or even stronger, than his. Sure, he could have used magic to keep himself warm and fed, but that would have been just like sending a signal to the other mages, telling them where he was, like a torch on a dark night."

"Oh. You seem to know a lot about magic." The statement was meant as just that, but Van inferred something more behind it, as did Yfandes, who commented, :The boy's quick.:

"Well, before I settled down here, I picked up some training in it. But times changed, and I ended up here, where I've been ever since."

"Oh." Treyon stared into the fire for a time, then said quietly, "It's too bad Vanyel isn't still around. But that's just wishful thinking, I guess. I mean, why would a legend concern himself with one person?"

Since Treyon was still looking at the fire, he didn't notice Van stiffen at his tone, or the pained expression on his face as he replied.

"Well,. Treyon, I'm sure if Vanyel was still alive, he would still be helping those who needed him."

At those words Treyon looked at the older man sharply. Seizing the moment, Van continued, "Treyon, why were you in the forest?"

After a long silence. "I was running away."

"From whom?"

"Bandits. I was sold to them a long time ago, I don't even know who my mother and father are." Under Van's level gaze, Treyon felt compelled to tell him as much as he could.

"So you didn't want to be a bandit?"

"No, of course not. Running and hiding all the time, never sure where your next meal is coming from, always in fear of your life." Treyon paused as a thought struck him. "Maybe Vanyel and I had more in common than I thought."

The boy is quick, Van thought as Treyon continued. "But I didn't see any way out of it. I mean, I don't know anything other than banditing. Sure, I could go to a city, but what would I do there but end up stealing to eat again. So I thought banditing was what I was gonna do forever, till Ke'noran came along."

"Ke'noran?"

"Yeah, she's a wicked Woman if'n I ever saw one. Knows lots 'bout magic, too. She took over the group by killing Trold, who'd been the leader. She appeared one night, said she was leading us now, I mean, I was still with them then. Trold got up and started walking toward her, talking 'bout how no woman was taking over his band. She just looked at him, and he started bleedin' everywhere, his eyes, nose, ears, and mouth. He ran into the woods, 'n we never saw him again. She's led ever since, and now most of the men actually respect her. Not just because she could kill anyone who opposed her, but she actually made life a bit better for us. We even ate pretty regularly after she took over.

"Did she make you leave?"

"Yeah, but she didn't kick me out or nothing. When she first saw me, it was like she was looking into my head. She always gave me the creeps. Well, one night I had a dream, and in it I was tied to this big rock, and

Ke'noran was standing over me with this sharpened stick with strange marks carved on it. She was leaning over me and saying something, bringing the stick closer to my head, and then I woke up. I don't know how to explain it, but I knew that if I stayed there any longer, what I saw was gonna happen to me. So that night I headed for the border, hoping to get to a town or city somewhere. Just as I got out of the mountains, they caught up with me. I ran for the woods, and here I am." Treyon said, omitting the part about the trees.

:Did you catch all that, dear?: Vanyel asked.

:Yes, Van. Sounds like a textbook blood-magic sacrifice to me, just as Treyon's dream sounds like ForeSight. But what's puzzling is why she would take him so soon. I mean, Treyon has the potential for two, maybe three Gifts, but he hasn't even been trained in them yet. What could she want with this boy, when an ordinary peasant would power the blood-magic just as well?: Yfandes replied.

:There must be a reason. Perhaps she's found a way to tap into the magical energy of another's mind and use that as her own, as well as the life forces. It would be a powerful augmentation,: Vanyel thought worriedly.

:Hmm, that's very possible. But what you said about augmentation gives me an idea. What if she's found a way to take untrained Gifts into herself, and use them as if they were her own?:

:Which could only be accomplished by the sacrifice of the victim, ensuring the magic is released for her to absorb at the moment of death. Yfandes, I think you've got it.: Vanyel was careful to keep his face calm as the conversation continued.

:Well, I guess we'll know soon enough. We didn't get all of the bandits. One of the group that was chasing me managed to get away, and I'm sure is warning his leader by now.:

:Why didn't you tell me this before?: Vanyel asked, a hint of anger coloring his thoughts.

:Vanyel, dear, we've had bandits crawling around the borders of these woods for so long, another group just didn't seem very important However, once this came to light. . .: 'Fandes trailed off.

:Of course, 'Fandes, I'm sorry. Well, that means she'll probably be on her way here. Good. To be perfectly honest, fighting the same bandits all the time gets rather boring.:

:It sounds as though you miss the old days.:

Vanyel thought for a few seconds before answering. : I don't know, sometimes it just doesn't feel like we do enough for Valdemar here. I mean, I don't regret my choice, but after the Battle of the Ice Wall, there hasn't been much of anything from the North, even in the past few years.:

Yfandes sent an image of herself snorting in amusement. .7 don't think I would try anything, even years after word of what happened got back.:

:Anyway, if we're right, and this Ke'noran can do what we think, then she's a threat that must be dealt with.:

:Vanyel, a mage-battle could destroy a large part of the forest. While bandits may be boring, they also don't have the power to level acres of trees. It could get out of hand if you're not careful.:

:True, very true. Well, we'll just have to contain her as much as possible. Most likely she's more educated about the "legends" of the forest, and will be more loath to come in here.: Vanyel replied.

:We'll see. You had better warn Treyon about this. He's not going to like it.:

:No doubt. By the way, beloved, I'm sorry for referring to you as a horse in front of him, but it seems easier than trying to explain what we really are.:

Yfandes smiled in his head. .-Understood and accepted. He's waiting, I think.:

The Mindspoken conversation had only taken a few seconds, so Treyon hadn't even guessed at what was going on. Van looked at him again, smiled, then began speaking calmly.

"Treyon, Ke'noran is going to come after you here. Apparently one of the bandits got away and has most

likely warned her by now. If she Gates in, she could be on the edge of the forest already—"

"No, no, she'll kill me! Please, you've got to hide me, help me get away from her!" Treyon was frantic with fear, looking around as if they were already surrounded by her men.

Realizing he had said too much too fast, Vanyel tried a different approach. "Treyon, I'm going to help you. She's not going to take you back, I promise."

But now fear had taken hold of Treyon completely, and he stared at Vanyel wildly. "You, you're just one man. She's got a dozen with her. She's skinned them alive for failing her, or burned them to ashes. I've seen it happen. What can one man do against that?"

"And a horse, don't forget."

The statement was so ridiculous that it broke through Treyon's fear and made him look at Vanyel as if he wasn't sure which one of them was crazier. Vanyel broke the silence.

"She won't take you, Treyon, I swear it."

The words hung in the air, Vanyel's silver eyes meeting Treyon's brown ones, with the promise between them. Finally, he slowly sank to the ground and nodded. "I believe you. I don't even know why, but I do."

"All right. You should know why she wants you so badly. First, you have potential for Gifts in you—"

"Me?" Treyon's incredulous snort interrupted Vanyel, who nodded.

"Everyone has it, buried deep inside their minds, but not everyone has the ability to bring the power to the surface and use it. Your powers, as I said before, lie in the area called Gifts, which are more or less mind-powers, contacting people with your thoughts, bringing objects to you just by thinking about them moving, and so on. Ke'noran wants those untapped abilities, we—I think, to use for herself. And that's why we have to stop her."

"Because if she does that to me, she could do it to others?"

:When this is done, this boy's Haven-bound,: Yfandes thought.

Nodding to both statements, Vanyel said, "Exactly. I think the safest thing to do will be to keep you here while I go find Ke'noran—" He trailed off, seeing Treyon shake his head.

"I don't want to be left alone if she's anywhere nearby."

"Treyon, I can protect you much better if you're in the middle of the forest—"

"What if she does this Gate thing into the forest and grabs me while you're someplace else, huh?"

Vanyel started to reply, then stopped, aware that he couldn't answer the question in a way that would satisfy the boy. Or himself, now that Treyon had exposed the flaw in his plan. As long as he had Gift potential, she could eventually find him. And a mage would have ways around the forest's defenses.

:Most probably starting by burning the place to a cinder,: Yfandes Mindsent.

Sighing in defeat, Vanyel turned his attention back to the conversation. "All right, you're coming with me. But you must do exactly what I say. Yfandes and I should be able to shield you magically, but if she has those brigands or constructs looking for you, it's vital that you stay hidden, exactly where I place you, understand?"

Treyon thought for a moment, nodded, then asked, "Constructs. What're those?"

"Cruel mockeries of life, created by magicians and fueled by magic. They can be given limited powers by their creators, but are still dangerous." Vanyel fell silent as he remembered one of the few he had ever seen, the raven-beast that had killed his Aunt Savil decades ago. The form of that particular monster was still clear in his mind, as if he had seen it yesterday. His thoughts were interrupted by Treyon.

"I ... think Ke'noran has one."

"Oh? Have you seen it?"

Treyon shrugged, trying to put what he knew into words. "I'm not sure. Sometimes, when she's talking to the men at night, I catch a glimpse of something behind her, in the shadows. Man-sized or a little shorter. It never comes into the light and she never refers to it, but something's there, all right." A sudden thought occurred to Treyon while they were on the subject. "Van, what if she's got things huntin' in the woods right now?"

Vanyel shook his head. "Don't worry, there aren't. If there were, they'd have been dealt with long before they got here. My guess is that she wants to be here to recover you personally, since the bandits couldn't finish the job. No doubt she probably also wants to investigate the forest, to see if there is anything here she can use for herself."

:Man-sized, eh? This one must have a fair amount of power, to keep something that big alive.: Yfandes thought worriedly.

:Yes, I know.: Vanyel thought back distractedly.

"But you're going to stop her, right?" Treyon asked, a familiar light in his eyes.

Vanyel smiled. "Yes, I promise."

The sun was just below midpoint among a scattering of clouds when Vanyel, Yfandes, and Treyon reached the northern edge of the forest. From their vantage point in the treeline, they could see up and down the border of the forest. As expected, there was a contingent of men waiting about a hundred paces away. Most were dressed much like Treyon, in ragged shirts and vests, tattered and patched breeches and wearing shapeless, well-worn boots, rough sandals, or nothing on their feet at all. The force of men was split into two groups, about half a dozen on each side of the central figure, who had to be Ke'noran.

She stood at least a hand-span over most of her men, more in some cases, less in others. Unlike the bandits, she was dressed well against the cold fall afternoon, in dark gray robes and a dazzling white fur cloak, complete with the claw-studded paws of whatever animal the pelt had come from holding the cloak in place on her shoulders. Her skin matched the tone of the fur, stark white, with red-irised eyes like ruby chips glittering in a snowdrift.

She was standing near a cairn of stones piled long ago by someone who had buried another while traveling in or out of Valdemar. As he looked at the scene before him, Vanyel hoped he wouldn't have to make another smaller pile before the day was out.

:A Cheldaran.: he heard Yfandes muse, / didn't think they came down this far.:

Vanyel squinted, trying to examine her more closely. -.I've never seen anything like that before. What do you know of them?:

Just that you should be wary, beloved. She may be more formidable than you think.:

Vanyel focused his Mage-Sight on the tall woman for a minute, than replied, -.Actually, I don't think she's formidable, I know she is. Look for yourself.:

Yfandes silently stepped up beside him and stared for a second, her blue eyes widening in disbelief. :Does she have what I think she does?:

Vanyel nodded. .-She's found a way to tap the Mage-Gift as well. She's connected to a node out there.: He tried not to think of what else she could have waiting and addressed Yfandes again. :Do you know anything else?:

Just rumors, that's all. Supposedly one of the many barbarian groups to the far north. But it's said that of outland magicians, these white-skins are more closely attuned to their powers than most.:

:Thanks for the confidence builder.: Vanyel groaned in his mind.

As if she could hear their conversation, the pale woman called out, "Spirit of the Forest, hear me. One of my own has become lost in your woods. I know of you and what you are. Return him to me, and the forest will be left unharmed. Hide him from me, and I will find him, no matter what it takes. I will not wait long upon your answer, for I know you are nearby."

Her gaze swept the line of trees, pausing for a moment as her eyes passed over the three figures in the treeline, invisible to all save her. A humorless smile creased her

mouth, then disappeared as she crossed her arms and waited.

Vanyel contacted Yfandes. :I'm going out.:

:Van, you can't. What about Treyon?: :

:Someone has go out and give her what she wants, or she'll make her threat real. You're going to have to stay here and watch over him. 'Fandes, you're my back-up. If that construct is out here, you'll have to guard Treyon while I deal with her.:

:Well, what if something gets by both of us?:

:Then we'll just have to play it by ear, I guess. This could take a while, she's stored up a lot of power, both in blood-magic and from the node.:

:Worried?:

:No, just angry at all that destruction.:

:Vanyel. . . be careful.:

:Always.:

Turning from them, Vanyel started to step around a tree, but was stopped by a hand on his arm.

"Where are you going?" Treyon whispered.

"To face her."

"Alone? Are you crazy? You're one against more than a dozen."

"No, this will be between me and her. Stay here with Yfandes."

"What do you want me to do if ... something bad happens?"

Van looked at him. "I don't suppose you can ride?" Treyon shook his head. Vanyel thought for a moment, than continued. "If something does go wrong, I want you to run into the forest as fast and as far as you can. Yfandes will stay with you as long as possible, but you should be safe enough until I can find you afterwards, just keep moving. And no matter what happens, I'll make sure Ke'noran can't come after you, all right?"

Treyon nodded, looking past him at Ke'noran and her brigands, "Van, I don't see the construct anywhere."

Van nodded, pleased the boy was still able to think clearly, even when so obviously frightened. "I don't either, but I don't sense him anywhere as well. Either she's not using it for this, or it's shielded so well I can't sense it. Either way, trust Yfandes to protect you, for she will, with her life if necessary."

Treyon nodded silently as the silence of the forest was cut by the sorceress's voice. "Spirit, I grow weary of waiting for you. Return him, or I will begin the search. And I will leave no rock unmoved, no tree living where I look."

Vanyel winked at Treyon, then stepped around a large oak and disappeared. Treyon looked for him walking through the forest, but in vain. A gentle touch on his cheek from Yfandes' warm nose brought his attention back to the plains and the bandits before him.

Suddenly, there he was, standing just outside the forest's boundary, the sunlight making his silver hair flash and glitter. All was quiet save the two magicians, so their conversation easily carried to Treyon and Yfandes.

"I am here." Vanyel said.

The Northern sorceress' ice-blue eyes narrowed for a moment, then she smiled again. "You are not a simple forest spirit. There is much power within you. But I am sure neither of us wishes for conflict, so I will be blunt. You have what I want, forest-walker. Give him to me and I will leave in peace. Deny me, and be destroyed."

Both Treyon and Yfandes watched silently, hanging on every word. Vanyel was impassive. "If I give my life in defense of another, so be it. What you want from this forest you shall not have, for he is under my protection."

"Then once you and this forest fall, he shall have no protection." With that Ke'noran swept her arms outward and a wall of mage-fire appeared, not anywhere near Vanyel, but for dozens of paces on either side of the two mages. Driven against the wind into the forest, the blue-green flames began to grow rapidly as they licked at the trees and underbrush.

Surprised by the unorthodox attack, Vanyel hesitated a bit before beginning his defense. Quickly he weather-magicked the nearby clouds to grow, making them suck up the water vapor in the atmosphere, swelling into gray thunderheads that covered the sky. With a flick of his hand, the water poured down, drowning the flames in the forest. Fully on guard now, Vanyel went on the offensive, calling all of the power at his command and sending it at the woman before him.

As soon as Treyon saw the flames appear at the forest's edge, his bandit's intuition knew that a trap had been laid and they had walked right into it.

A whinny of alarm turned his head toward Yfandes, just in time to see a dark, blurry shape, all claws and teeth, leap out of the surrounding woods at him.

:VANYEL!:

"Van!"

Until he heard the mind-cry and shriek of terror simultaneously, Vanyel had actually been enjoying the battle. Ke'noran was extremely strong, but it was the strength of blood-magic, easily gained and stored, but not so easily replenished once used. Eventually, if he and Yfandes had read her right, the Mage-Gift she had Siphoned from some unfortunate soul would eventually be exhausted, and he could make her forget all about using blood-magic forever. That had been the plan, but Ke'noran had seen fit to change the rules.

Boosting his shields enough to hold off Ke'noran's next assault, Vanyel turned at both cries, one of alarm, one of pure terror, and saw something explode out of the forest in a spray of leaves and branches. It would have been as tall as a man, save for its hunched back. It moved as fast as a wyrsa, but on two legs, and appeared to be a mix of human, bear, and wolf, with ursine features and thick, gray-brown fur. What was most frightening was what it carried in its mouth. Treyon, the collar of his shirt tangled in the beast's teeth, was being borne toward the battle with magic-fueled speed.

Behind the beast, but at a safe distance, galloped Yfandes. Vanyel thought he had never seen her look so frustrated.

:Vanyel, she's going to get him.: she sent angrily.

:Can't you stop it from reaching her?: Vanyel asked.

:No,: came the fear-tinged reply, .7 can't even get close to it. She's laid a trap-shield on the construct, and now Treyon's inside, so it's around him as well.:

:Trap-shield?: In that instant Vanyel realized just how ruthless Ke'noran really was, remembering that if any magical or physical attack was directed at the construct, the shields would react instantly, destroying whatever they surrounded by lethal backlash. .-Great good Gods, maybe I can Fetch. . . :

:No, Vanyel, any Gift will set it off, even mind-magic!: Yfandes sent.

:Hells, that thing moves fast. Come to me then. She may have the ability to steal these powers, now let's see if she knows how to use them:

In the time the two had Mindspoken this much, the construct had already reached Ke'noran, and had been admitted inside her shields. Vanyel bit his lip in frustration and he saw Ke'noran take the boy as she snapped a guttural word at the construct, causing it to sit back on its haunches, its hooded eyes becoming glassy. With his Mage-sight, Vanyel saw the sorceress' shields flare even brighter now as she added the power the construct had been using to her own protections.

By this time, Yfandes had swung away from her pursuit and ran over to Vanyel, coming around to stand behind him. Vanyel put one hand on her mane as he watched the barbarian.

:Get ready to give me power on my signal,: he sent to her.

.7 hope you know what you're doing.:

:Now that she has him, it's the only way. I just need a little more time

Ke'noran slammed Treyon down on the cairn, knocking the wind out of him and effectively preventing any struggle. Holding him down with one hand, she reached underneath her cloak with the other and brought out a dagger-sized wooden wand covered in rough runes and glowing brightly with power. Ripping open Treyon's shirt, she touched the focus to Treyon's chest, outlining his heart, the wand leaving a glowing trail wherever it touched the boy's skin. Looking up, Vanyel once again saw her feral smile as she said, "Spirit, you have defied me, and for that you will be destroyed. Once I have taken this one's Gifts, I will take everything else you hold dear."

"Ke'noran, hold!" Vanyel threw out his hand as if offering it to an unseen person. Recognizing the gesture, Ke'noran looked down at Treyon, who was still lying motionless beneath her. Her head snapped up to look at the silver-haired mage before her. At that moment she felt her shields actually buckle as the impact of Va-nyel's magic hit them. For a moment, everything stopped as the two mages' gazes met. Vanyel smiled as he saw the sorceress' eyes widen as she realized what was about to happen.

Ke'noran recovered quickly, however. Raising the wand about her head, she screamed the final word of the spell out as she plunged the stake down at Treyon's unprotected chest.

The wand ripped through the empty air where Treyon's body had been a moment before to shatter on the rocks of the cairn. Now uncontrollably released, the magic contained by the wand surged back though Ke'tt-oran's body. Held in by her shields, it redoubled in intensity, arcing and snapping as it contacted the restraining magic walls. Ke'noran didn't even have tune to scream. In seconds the wild energies had destroyed everything in the area of the sorceress' shields. As her protections vanished, all that remained was a circle of burned ground and two small piles of ash and bone.

Vanyel watched, unblinking, cradling Treyon to his chest, burying the boy's head in his chest to prevent him from watching. When it was over, Vanyel just held him while glaring at the brigands, who had watched the fight at a safe distance. Under his stare, they quickly broke and left for the hills, and silence once again fell over the Forest of Sorrows and the small plain.

"Vanyel... I can't breathe." Treyon gasped from his shirt. Standing up, Vanyel slowly let go of Treyon, watching all around him as if waiting for Ke'noran to suddenly appear from the grave and wreak more havoc. When nothing happened, his shoulders slumped as he relaxed, slowly fading into translucence.

Seeing this happen, Treyon quickly stepped over to Vanyel, meaning to hug him. But when he tried to wrap his arms around the other's slim body, he met nothing but air. Off balance, Treyon just managed to avoid falling over. Before Vanyel could speak, Treyon waved an arm through the middle of Van's body, watching it pass through the misty form as if there was nothing there at all.

Treyon was hesitant to say it, but he did anyway, "What happened ... I thought you defeated her." His eyes overflowed with tears again as he thought he realized what had happened.

Vanyel, realizing what Treyon was thinking, was quick to correct him. "No, no, Treyon, that's not what happened. Using so much power so quickly can drain even a legend for a time." Seeing Treyon's expression as comprehension dawned, he added, "Yes, I am the Vanyel of the legends and songs. I have been like this," he pointed , a hand toward his insubstantial body, "for decades. I have been a part of this forest for over thirty years, guarding the northern border against bandits and mages like Ke'noran. In a way, I am the forest around me, every tree, every plant, every gust of wind that moves through the brush, I feel it, react to it, as far as I can see. And to things that enter the forest. Ke'noran couldn't kill me or Yfandes, not without destroying every last bit of the woods around us, and that, I think, is next to impossible. But she almost got you, and that was something I never wanted to happen. I had no plans to put you hi danger. You deserve better than that."

"Why?"

"Why? Just because of who you are."

"What, I'm just a boy, that doesn't make me anything special."

"Well, then, how about what you can give back to Valdemar."

"As what, a brigand? Vanyel, how can I help Valdemar?" Treyon was growing more and more exasperated.

"As a Herald," came the soft reply.

"What? A Herald? Me?" Treyon's mouth was gaping like a fish.

For the first time since the battle had ended, Vanyel smiled. "Don't you remember me telling you about your Gifts? You need training to use them effectively, and, as you happen to be about the right age to begin, you should get started right away. There's a way station about a half-day's journey from here. Usually a Herald passes by every few days, on patrol for the outlying villages, and he can take you to Haven."

"Training? Haven? Gifts? But I don't know anything about anything. How can I be a Herald? Who's going to believe that I can be anything but a brigand?"

Vanyel let his hand drop to Treyon's shoulder, and for several seconds, the boy actually felt the older man's hand steadying him. "I do. Treyon, you can't stay here, not with us," he said, cutting off Treyon's startled protest. "You need to be around others, to learn all that Yfandes and I don't have time to teach you. Besides, Haven is the place where you're needed, not here."

"That's all well and good, but what about my needing someone?" Treyon said, sniffing back his tears and looking away at the ground.

Vanyel knelt down beside him, catching the boy's downcast stare with his own gaze. "I'm not going anywhere. Granted, Haven is far away, but if your Gifts manifest like I think they will, pretty soon you'll be able to Mindspeak with me as if I were standing beside you. And by that time, maybe you'll have been Chosen by a Companion of your own."

Treyon was silent for several seconds, then raised his head again, feeling truly hopeful for the first time since he had entered the forest. "I guess we'd better get going, then."

"Let's not rush off quite so quickly. You'll stay with us another night, and we'll set off in the morning." Vanyel said, smiling.

Treyon smiled in return, and the trio walked into the forest, leaving the charred patch of dirt, and the new leaves of grass that were already sprouting behind.

Vkandis' Own

by Ben Ohlander

Ben Ohlander was born in Rapid City, South Dakota, and has since lived in eight states and three foreign countries. He graduated from high school in 1983, after spending a period of time in military school for various infractions. He enlisted in the Marines, where he served for six years as an intelligence analyst and translator in such places as Cuba and Panama. He has since completed a degree in International Studies, been commissioned as an Army Intelligence Officer, and works as a freelance writer. His hobbies include chess, rugby, fencing (the kind not involving stolen goods), and politics. He has coauthored novels with David Drake and Bill Forstchen for Baen Books, as well as several short stories. He is currently developing several independent projects. Author's Note: This story takes place after the events chronicled in Arrow's Fall and before Storm Warning.

Colonel Tregaron, commander of His Holiness' Twenty-First Foot, was hot, tired, and very pleased as he surveyed the long line of marching infantry. The regiment had made good time, in spite of a sun hot enough to boil a man's brain inside his skull, thick clouds of choking dust that rose with every step, and short water rations. It pleased him that he had yet to lose a single trooper to the heat, even after nine days crossing the badlands, and another twenty trekking from the Karse-Rethwellan border. Most caravans, fat with water and rich food, couldn't make that claim. He shook his head, grimly amused that His Holiness would transfer regiments in High Summer when "Beastly" was the gentlest adjective useful in describing the heat. Still, when the Son of the Sun called, the army marched.

An infantryman, seeing him grin, hawked and spat. "You like eatin' dust, Colonel?"

Tregaron raised his hand, one soldier to another. "It can't be any worse than your hummas, Borlai. I'm surprised your squadmates haven't strung you up as a poisoner." The troopers around the luckless soldier laughed as he mimed taking an arrow in the chest. "I'm struck!" Borlai cried.

Tregaron made a mental note to eat with First Battle that evening, the better to ensure no lasting insult came from his ribbing. Morale had remained high, in spite of the miserable conditions, and he had no desire to see even a small wound fester for want of tending.

He glanced over each rank as it passed, looking for the small signs and minute sloppiness that marked declining morale or increasing fatigue. Some pikes sloped a little more loosely than the prescribed thirty-degree angle and an occasional head drooped, but that was to be expected, considering each soldier carried, in addition to a full fifty-pound kit, three days' extra field rations, water, extra throwing spears, and either a mattock, pick, or shovel to dig fortifications. It was no wonder Karsite soldiers called themselves "turtles," for they all carried their houses on their backs.

Several veterans, seeing Tregaron, raised their fists in salute as they passed. A weak cheer rose from the ranks as he doffed his plumed helmet and returned the gesture.

"Aye, lads," he said. "Save your wind for the walk. We've a bit to go before you can laze about." That drew a laugh. There was trouble on the Hardorn border, bad trouble, and even the rawest recruit had heard the rumors of massacred caravans and slaughtered villages. He knew, sure as night followed day, that there would be hard fighting along the frontier before the fall rains swelled the Terilee River and blocked passage. Vkandis willing, he thought, we'll make the Terilee by nightfall and be dug in before the bastards know we're there.

He unrolled the grimy travel map he used to plot their daily course. Its scale was too small for any real detail now that they were close to their destination, but the scouts had provided good reports of what lay ahead.

He ran one dirty finger across his short, pointed beard as he studied the map. The Terilee River, hardly more than a stream this time of year, marked the border between beloved Karse and Ancar's Hardorn. It had seen its waters colored red more than once in the past year as the Usurper's bandits raided across its brackish waters. Bodies from those fights were said to have floated as far as Haven, in distant Valdemar.

His staff, walking alongside the regiment, joined him as he rerolled the small map and bent to pick a stone out of his sandal. Cogern, the Twenty-First's Master of Pikes and responsible for the order of the regiment, stopped beside him. Tregaron saw backs stiffen and pikes straighten. They might respect him, but they feared Cogern.

It was well they did. The sergeant had a truly horrible , visage. The Pikemaster had been lucky his helmet's gorget and bar nasal had deflected the Rethwellan's blow, or he'd have received more than a maiming and a harelip. Tregaron, then a green lieutenant, had fully expected the Master to feed the sacrificial Fires. He remembered his quiet amazement when the old soldier had not only recovered, he'd returned to duty.

He shook his head. That fight had been almost twenty years ago. He would never see the south side of forty again. Cogern had fifteen years on him, yet the older man did his daily twenty miles, hit the pells, and led the charges with more energy than men half his age. Tregaron had no doubt that twenty years after he was worm-food, Cogern would still be offering tithes to Vkandis Sunlord and defeating Karse's enemies.

The Commander and the Pikemaster stood silently together a long moment, while the staff waited patiently. Their horses, led by cadets, shifted and fidgeted in the hot, dry air.

"They look good," Tregaron ventured.

Cogern spat and grinned. "They'd better," he lisped, "if they know what's good for 'em." He took off his helmet and ran his hand over his scarred head. Runnels of sweat, trapped by the helm's padding, ran down his face, cutting tracks in the caked dust. Drops fell from his chin to stain his rich scarlet sash. "What idiot moves a regiment across the northlands in summer?" he asked scornfully.

Tregaron smiled. "When the Son of the Sun says 'March,'" he started.

Cogern snapped his fingers. "Bugger the Son of the Sun," he snorted. "The fat bastard's lapping up chilled wine and making doe eyes at the acolytes while we grunt along out here."

Tregaron laughed at the aptness of the blasphemy. "You'd best lose that notion before a priest hears you."

"Bugger them, too," Cogern repeated, but softly and with a quick look around.

"How are the recruits holding up?" Tregaron asked, moving the conversation back onto safe ground.

Cogern rubbed his forehead. "This stroll's melted the city fat offa'em faster than drill and pells." He paused, weighing his words. "Their weapons drill ain't upta' par, but it ain't bad either. Not for pressed troops, anyway."

Tregaron didn't envy the "recruits" who filled out the Twenty-First's ranks. They'd used their victory parade through Sunhame to "volunteer" some of the capital's less wary citizens into Vkandis Sunlord's service. Many of the newest lambs had lost their stunned expressions and had settled into the regiment's training routine, which for them included fighting drills and weapons practice after marching a full day and after building the night's camp and surrounding fortifications.

Two lambs had keeled over dead so far, and Cogern had reported they'd probably lose another before they got to the border. The press-gangs were supposed to only draft hale men and a few women, but were also given quotas and limited time. Occasionally, they cut corners, placing the burden on the trainer. The training process usually weeded out the hopeless cases before the

fracas started. It pained him to lose troops for any reason, but having them die due to sloppy recruiting rankled him.

One cadet holding the horses mumbled to another. They laughed together. Tregaron stared at him a moment before he remembered the lad's name. The boy, Dormion, was the son of a southlands freeholder sent to the army to avoid the Tithe and, very possibly, the Flames.

"Eh?" Cogern snapped, "what was that?"

"Urn, I said," said the lad, visibly unhappy to have drawn the Pikemaster's undivided attention, "that they don't, uhh, have press-gangs in Valdemar." He paused uncertainly. "Sir," he concluded lamely, after the silence lengthened.

Cogern feigned a look of utter surprise. "How would you know anything about Valdemar?" He stared at Dormion with the horrified intensity of a man watching a large and potentially deadly insect crawling up his arm.

The other cadets sidled away, leaving Dormion, gulp- , ing and pale, alone. "I read it, Pikemaster, in the Chronicles."

"In Val-de-mar," Cogern said, drawing out each syllable sarcastically, "they don't have to fight. That gives them certain luxuries we can't afford." He looked disgusted. "A reading cadet. What will they think of next?" The old sergeant glared at the boy with an expression fierce enough to cow the bravest veteran. "This ain't Valdemar, boy, and you'd best get that through your head! Now get back in your place."

Dormion, pleased to have escaped with little more • than a tongue lashing, scuttled away to rejoin the other cadets.

"I'm surprised you let him off so easily," Tregaron said softly. "Usually you just cuff them flat."

Cogern scratched his nose with one ragged nail. "Most of 'em 'are fish. Not real bright, and just waitin' for hooks in their mouths and knives in their guts. Once't a while you get one who sees beneath things. Them's worth keepin' an eye on." He sighed. "I just wish't I

could keep him out of the damned books. He's got too much to learn in too little time for that folderol."

He met Tregaron's eye. "I saw the same thing in another lad some years back. Even took a sword for 'im, just to give 'im a chance't grow up."

Tregaron, embarrassed, took the worn rope reins from the cadet and led the gelding toward the standards that followed the lead battle. The regiment's flags marked both the commander's location in the formation and the relics that were the unit's pride.

The lacquered ivory boxes contained the femur of the regiment's first commander, a lock of hair from Torlois the Prophet, and a finger bone from Vkorion, who, before he had become Son of the Sun three centuries before, had struck off his own hand as a tithe for Vkandis. Each relic box also contained a certificate of authenticity signed by a senior priest. Tregaron suspected one pedigree was more the result of bribery than accuracy; Vkorion would have to have had at least a dozen fingers on the severed hand alone to accommodate all of the "verified" relic bones.

Pride stirred in his chest when he saw the regiment's stained and tattered banner. The standard, a gold sun bursting on a scarlet background with the number 21 in blue thread stitched across the center, was flanked by the smaller gold, scarlet, and blue guidons of the regiment's three battles. A fifth bearer carried the pole to which the tokens and names of the Twenty-First's thirty-odd victories had been affixed.

Behind that, by itself, came the Oriflamme, the cloth-of-gold standard that was the mark of His Holiness' favor. The regiment had paid hi blood for the right to carry the 'Flamme, but it was a distinction that Tregaron would just as soon have forgone.

Beneath Vkandis' Stainless Banner clustered three flint-eyed Sun-priests, the Oriflamme's guardians when it went into the field and the source of Tregaron's worries. Two were from the capital, sent as much to counter Hardorn's magic as they were to protect the flag from dishonor. They wore full priestly regalia, their golden

Sun-in-Glory medallions glinting against their black court robes.

The third was a woman, a fact itself of some note in Vkandis' patriarchal priesthood. She wore the simple red cassock that marked her a common parish-tender, even though she was alleged to be at least as powerful a mage as the Black-robes.

Tregaron knew little about her—only that she had been a provincial prefect drafted when the third member of the capital's troika had died of apoplexy. Darker campfire rumors suggested he had died while demon-summoning, a common enough practice among the Black-robes, even if Tregaron didn't believe the story. The Black-robe Priests had warded the northern borders with summoned creatures until Ancar's magi had driven them back.

The tension between the woman and the Black-robes from Sunhame was thick enough to slice and serve on flatbread. He knew the church hierarchy was rife with factional strife, but seeing it made him nervous. All three were above his authority, and he had no doubt that each , had the clout to forward a report that, if bad, could cost him his regiment, if not his life.

His worst nightmare was that if the woman reported well of him, the others might speak poorly, to spite her, or vice versa. In either case there would be a black mark against him with His Holiness, and no amount of military skill or booty would erase the stain. He hoped they would judge him only by how he did his duty, but he couldn't be certain their acrimony wouldn't affect their judgment where he was concerned.

He nodded to the three. The woman pleasantly returned his greeting, making a small gesture of blessing. He found her handsome, though with a mannishly square jaw and sharp features. Her eyes, though not as soft as liked, were warm and friendly, and her generous mouth seemed more given to smiles than frowns.

The Black-robes, by contrast, looked stonily forward, their expressions set in harsh disapproval. Tregaron kept his face expressionless. In small things could big things be judged. The provincial had been arguing with her

counterparts. Again. Great, he thought dryly, and I thought the army would keep me OUT of politics. Fool. He felt like the man in the proverb who, when caught between fire and flood, ran back and forth, unable to decide whether to bum or drown.

"I still don't see how all of this skulking and sneaking benefits Karse," the woman said waspishly, continuing what Tregaron was certain was a long-running argument. "Ancar's troops raid us at will, and we do nothing!"

The Fighting Twenty-First isn't "nothing," lady, Tregaron thought, even though generally he agreed with her. Hardorn had been testing them, and their response so far had been tepid. It seemed a bit inconsistent that a raid from Rethwellan merited a six-month campaign by a dozen regiments while Hardorn earned-—one footsore command.

The older Black-robe made a rude face. "His Holiness predicted peace, Solaris," he said to her, as though addressing a small child. "So peace there shall be!"

"You know as well as I that Lastern couldn't scry for a sunny day, much less Ancar's intent," Solaris replied, her voice dripping scorn. "It's a meaningless augury and a meaningless peace. Ancar's eventually going to conclude we're too timid to fight—and then you'll have a full scale war. Try to hide that under a proclamation!"

"You go too far!" Havern hissed. "Continue your blasphemy and I'll have you before an Ecumenical Court."

Tregaron, overhearing more of the exchange than he wanted, blanched. She had spoken treason, and his life might very well stand forfeit for it. She could have him killed to cover her lapse, or Havern might order him executed to snuff the chance he'd repeat what he'd heard. Fire and flood indeed, he thought grimly, flaying and the rack is nearer the mark. Cogern turned away, mumbling something about adjusting the trumpeters. Tregaron followed, but wasn't quite quick enough to miss Solaris' quiet laugh.

"I'm sorry, Havern," she said, her voice quiet in what might charitably be called contrition had her voice not

dripped scorn. "I overstepped myself." Her speech changed, becoming singsong as she recited the liturgy of the Word and Will of Vkandis. "His Holiness is His Holiness, anointed by the hand of Vkandis, and is the Son of the Sun, and His avatar on earth." Tregaron guessed her retreat to the liturgy had more to do with survival than religion. Still, the very effusiveness of her recitation argued that even in this, she was poking fun.

Havern appeared unconvinced. He peered at her a long moment, as though trying to see inside her soul. "You country priests have had it too much your own way for too long. I see that certain, ah ... distortions and baseless rumors have taken root in the provinces. Come to my tent this evening and I will instruct you in the methods by which you might return to orthodoxy."

Solaris shook her head ruefully. "I'm sorry, Havern. I've already promised to minister to the Third Battle this night. I gave my word to the Colonel."

Tregaron wasn't happy she had brought up his name, especially as she had promised to do no such thing. He sighed to himself. No matter how hard he tried to remain neutral, it seemed they were determined to draw him into their feud.

Havern shrugged. "Well," he said easily, as if the matter were of no importance, "I'd like to be reassured of your orthodoxy before I make my report to His Holiness. Perhaps we can work something out." Tregaron backed away, trying to put distance between himself and the three priests. Vkandis' servants were under no obligation of celibacy, but hearing what amounted to extortion embarrassed him.

Solaris flushed, two spots of color forming high on her cheeks. She opened her mouth to speak when a distant shout and pounding hooves drew their attention.

Tregaron, relieved at the distraction, trotted toward the regiment's standards. The mounted scout galloped down the line and reined in his horse with such savagery that stones and grit sprayed from beneath its hooves and flecks of foam flew from its lathered sides.

"Report!" Tregaron snapped, pleased to turn his attention to a problem he could handle.

"Cavalry, soir!" the scout replied, his upcountry accent emphasized by his stress. "Two full regiments, soir, less'n half an hour north of here, 'an movin' toward us."

Tregaron took a single deep breath, calming himself and giving him a moment to order his thoughts. "Do they know we're here?"

The scout looked chagrined. "Aye, more likely than not. We tripped over three o' their outriders while we was on our way back. We got two. The third gave us the slip."

Tregaron sucked air though his teeth, a southlands expression of disapproval. "Well," he said, "what's done is done." He ignored the excited chatter as word of the approaching enemy made its way along infantry column. His staff clustered close, eager to hear the report. "Did you see who they were?"

"One regiment had a boar's head mounted on a pole, soir, with ribbons hanging from its tushes. I din't see the second."

"That would be Reglauf's lot," Cogern said. "He led a regiment under Ancar when they made their try against Valdemar. Word has it he didn't do much except plunder farms."

It didn't occur to Tregaron to question Cogern. The sergeant was supposed to know such things. "Word also has it," the old man lisped, "that he cut out early, before they'd properly lost."

"How many troops?" Tregaron asked the scout.

The man pulled a string out of his tunic and counted the knots. "Five battles, soir, about three hundred riders each. I'd guess about the same in the t'other regiment."

"Three thousand cavalry," Cogern spat, "two-to-one, or thereabouts."

"Just like Selenay in Valdemar," Dormion chirped, earning a black look from Cogern. "From the Battle of Border, in the Chronicles. Ancar had them two-to-one as well, and they whipped him."

Cogern sighed, the air of man beset by fools.

The brat doesn't know when to shut up, Tregaron thought

Cogern growled something obscene and crooked his finger at Dormion. "Come here, child. It's high time I took a personal interest in your education."

Dormion swallowed heavily, his mobile features still. "Um, Pikemaster ..." he began. He looked at Tregaron.

"You tickled the bear, Ensign," Tregaron laughed. "Now you dance with him."

"Selenay," Cogern said with heavy dignity as he ticked off points on his fingers, "had the advantages of Mindspeaking Demon horses, superior terrain, time to pick her battlefield, better-trained troops, and Ancar for an opponent. Not to mention her troops were defending their homes and were backed by a substantial number of defectors, including Hardorn's best Guardsmen."

He paused to switch hands, having long since run out of fingers. "Ancar only had numbers. He needed at least three to one to beat her on open ground, and probably six to one to best them on that turf. He had, maybe, three to two, and most of them were rabble, not real soldiers a'tall. Hell, only about half his force even had the gumption to attack."

He closed his fist an stuck it in Dormion's face. "Ancar," he finished, "didn't have a prayer. So don't draw false comparisons, especially ones gleaned from books written by the winning side." He exhaled heavily. "Here endeth the sermon. Now get back to your units. All of you."

The cadets scattered.

Tregaron looked at Cogern. "Do you think he heard you?"

"Damn that Bard-written tripe," the Pikemaster replied, "Selenay could have held that hilltop with a company of recruits and a detachment of washerwomen. Demon horses, magic, and good writing don't make up for sound tactics and superior strategy."

"I don't know," Tregaron said, "Selenay's done all right for herself, by all accounts."

"Not you, too!" Cogern snapped, his expression torn

between shock and betrayal. He crossed his arms across his chest, muttering about tyros who read more books than was good for them. Tregaron, laughing, mounted his horse and scanned the field for a good place to make his stand.

"There's a shallow stream up ahead, soir," the scout said, pointing. He had wisely kept his mouth shut while Cogern ranted. "It's about five-hundred paces from here."

"Do you want to form behind the water course?" Cogern asked, his voice and manner now all business.

Tregaron considered a moment before answering. "No, I don't want to give them any excuse to go toward our flanks. A nice long feature like that might encourage them to get creative."

"You're expecting them to come right for us?" Cogern asked in a neutral voice.

"Yes," Tregaron answered. "When Ancar assassinated his father, he put Alessander's generals to the sword as well He lost anybody he had with troop-handling skills, and the rabble he recruits aren't much for the discipline that goes with good tactics." He smiled sourly. "Not that they've needed it. They've been riding right over the local militia for a while now. I'm betting it's been a while since they've faced regulars. They'll go straight for our throats."

He straightened his shoulders. "We'll put the stream hard by our right and use it to anchor our flank on that side. We'll assume an open field defense and meet them in that high grass over there." He pointed to the open area beside the streambed.

"All right," Cogern said, turning to the cluster of runners and trumpeters, "what are you waiting for?"

The staff members scattered to execute the orders. Horns blared. Under officers shouted as the lead battle, company by company, shifted their pikes and picked up a clumsy trot. The regiment's company of mounted skirmishers thundered past, their riders adjusting bows, quivers and heavy sacks. They disappeared in a trice over a low brow to contest the Hardornans' passage.

Tregaron knew a hundred archers weren't enough to stop the invaders by themselves, but he hoped they'd be enough of an irritant to make Reglauf deploy his forces prematurely.

The vanguard had just drawn even with the streamlet when a single horn blew in the distance. Tregaron followed the sound and saw a thin dust plume rising above the bluffs. "That would be our guests," Cogern said, his flat voice calm. Tregaron studied the thin brown column. Infantry dust tended to spread as it rose, making a ground-hugging haze rather than a rising tail. Yes, definitely cavalry.

He turned in his saddle to address the trumpeters. "Play: Form line of battle—left."

The horns skirled. Trumpeters farther down the line answered the calls, acknowledging the orders.

"Front Northwest!" Cogern shouted, his bass voice cutting the din. In such moments all hint of his lisp vanished. "Debouch by companies!"

The battles' officers and sergeants amplified the commands as the regiment dropped its packs and began to smoothly deploy into the serge alongside the dusty road. Tregaron heard the crack of a whip and snapped his head around to see one sergeant coiling his badge of office back into his hand. He rode over as the man raised it for another How. "You are a fine sergeant, Gren," Tregaron said through clenched teeth, "but you are no longer in the Seventeenth. If you raise that starter to another one of my lambs without good cause, I'll have you flogged back to your old regiment. Is that clear!"

The sergeant, his face pale, nodded silently. Tregaron jerked his horse's head around and rode to take his position with the standards, by then positioned on the left-center of the line. The battles' guidons had long since returned to their units.

Front-rankers aligned the regiment into four neat rows, using pikestaves as guideposts. The pikemen in the first two ranks took their intervals, setting their shields between them to provide cover if the cavalry stormed them with arrows. The rear ranks, composed of swords-

men each equipped with two heavy javelins, marked off their running distances and prepared their gear.

The javelins were cunning weapons. The swordsmen wrapped lanyards around the middles, which, when held between the casters' fingers when throwing, imparted a spin on the spear. Spinning spears flew farther and more accurately than straight-thrown, though no one knew why.

The javelins' heads were attached to the shafts with weak glue or brittle pins. When the weapon hit, the glue usually failed or the pin broke, making the thing useless for a return throw.

The regiment's longbow company moved quickly out in front, ready to act as skirmishers and contest the ground in front of the regiment with long range fire. Two scouts galloped across the field, plunging whitewashed stakes into the ground at hundred-pace intervals to mark the boyers' ranges.

The farthest scout turned, and using his last stick as a goad, pounded back toward the readied regiment.

Cogern cantered up beside him. "As for tactics, sir," he asked, "butterfly wings?"

Tregaron nodded. "If they let us. Have Luhann double her leftmost companies. If they try to turn our flank, her side'll be the most likely place they'll try."

Cogern passed the instruction to a runner. Most battlefield situations were too complex for trumpets. Runners gave more precise messages, but were slow and often got lost or were lost.

Cogern smiled the easy grin of man with a secret. Tregaron rarely saw the Pikemaster as happy as he was before a fight. Vkandis knew his guts always knotted up beforehand.

"Your horse, sir," Cogern said. Tregaron dipped his head and dismounted. Mounted officers made easy targets.

They gave their animals to an orderly to take behind the line.

"Where's the damned Oriflamme?" Tregaron snapped. "It should be here."

"Here, Colonel," Solaris said, stepping through the ranks to join them. Tregaron saw she wore no mail and carried no weapon.

"Where are your cohorts?" he said, a little more harshly than he'd intended, but only a little.

She made a wry face. "They've decided to support your fight from back there." She pointed toward the area behind the regiment, where the horses, gear, and a few noncombatants waited.

"That'll do 'em no good a'tall if n they get behind us," Cogern said. He looked at Solaris. "Do you have a weapon?"

She held up the Oriflamme. "I have this."

Cogern looked closely at her a long moment. "Then what are you waitin' on, girl?" He pointed to the Stainless Banner. "Show 'em what we're fightin' for."

She grinned and hefted the pole, raising the 'Flamme high above their heads. She waved it about, swirling its swallowtail in a gentle arc. The center battle cheered. The shouting built as each battle fought to outdo the , others.

The skirmishers' reappearance quieted the noise. The horsemen paused at the hill crest to fire one final volley at their pursuers, then fled across the open ground. They opened the sacks tied to their saddles and tossed handful after handful of small black objects into the grass behind them.

"What are those?" Solaris asked, lowering the 'Flamme and grounding the haft.

"Caltrops," Cogern said with malicious glee, "four sharpened pieces of iron welded together. No matter how they fall, one prong always points up—a little dainty for a horse's hoof."

The first mass of Hardornan cavalry crested the hill, a black tide that quickly covered the facing slope. Tregaron heard the thin voice of the archers' commander. "Take your aim—four hundred paces. Loose!" A thin iron sleet rose and fell. Some arrows struck home, here and there felling a horse or rider. The range was a bit long for accurate fire, but Tregaron hoped the harassment would goad the Hardornans into leaving.

The mass reacted by spurring their horses and charging.

"They've got no order at all!" Cogern sniffed, sounding offended. Tregaron knew he hated inefficiency, even when displayed by an enemy.

"Three hundred paces!" the archer leader yelled, timing his fire so the riders would cross the stake just as the arrows arrived. "Loose!"

The toll grew heavier as arrows found their marks or pierced armor. Horses pulled up and fell, screaming and thrashing, as the cruel iron caltrops pierced their hooves. Most riders scrambled to their feet, but here and there one lay still, either knocked witless or themselves victims of the spikes hidden in the grass.

"Two hundred!" More riders fell. The Karaite horse archers added to their toll with their shorter-ranged bows as they moved to the flanks to cover the ends of the formation. Here and there a Karsite fell, arrowstruck, but the Hardornens' volleys were erratic and largely ineffective. The cavalry's thunder grew louder as they galloped down onto the waiting Karsite line.

"One hundred!"

Cogern turned, cupped his hands around his mouth, and bellowed. "Set to receive cavalry!"

With a wordless shout, six hundred pikes came down in a single glittering arc, their bitter edges bright in the noonday sun. The rear ranks gave way a pace, ready to hurl their javelins on command. The archers scampered for the rear.

Cogern grabbed the regimental standard and raised it over his head. At the instant he dropped it, the battles' commanders dropped their swords and six hundred javelins smashed into the onrushing horses. The cavalry slowed, their charge blunted by the heavy spears. A second volley crashed home an instant later, cutting down the lead ranks like a scythe through wheat. The rear

ranks piled over the dead and dying and pressed home the attack.

The crash of the horsemen hitting the readied pikes roared over Tregaron like a tide of sound, a breaking wave of iron-shod hooves and slashing, cursing soldiers. His world retreated to a circle five yards across. A Hard-ornen, her horse gutted by a pikeblade, bowled over the front ranks and plowed into the command party. One orderly slashed the animal across the knees, bringing it down and throwing the rider. Two officers plunged their blades into her before she could rise, the second twisting his weapon to gore her before withdrawing it She collapsed, dead, blood fountaining from her mouth and nose.

The lead Hardornen was dead, but the gap she'd forced in the line filled quickly with other horsemen, slashing and stabbing as they tried to widen the breach. Horns blew in alarm on either side of the command party as squads detached from the flanking units to help seal the break in the line. Tregaron, looking for more troops to throw at the Hardornens, whipped his head around and saw Solaris using the Oriflamme's staff to fend off one horseman while Cogern moved to his flank. The Pikemaster stabbed deep, driving his sword deep into the horse's barrel, dropping it in its tracks. He then brained the rider with his sword pommel and ran him through with a quick thrust as he tried to rise.

Karaite swordsmen flooded the area, surrounding the horse troops and attacking from all sides. Their grim intensity and lacquered red-and-black armor made Tregaron think of ants swarming a moth.

Distant horn calls announced the arrival of the second regiment. He craned his head toward the sound and saw it advancing over the hill crest in slightly better order than the first. The newcomers made a token effort to dress ranks, then charged across the caltrop-littered ground. A few fell to the hidden spikes, but the charge went home almost unblunted.

Pikemen fell, lanced through or scattered like ninepins as the horsetroops plowed into the center of the Twenty-

First's line. Swords slashed and stabbed. The din drew louder and the center units, beset by the fresh Hardorn regiment, sagged under the pressure. Trumpets blew frantically as under officers fought to hold the line. The battle hung in the balance, a race between whether the pikemen could reknit their formations or the Hardornens could split the regiment and roll it up.

Cogern took half the remaining swordsmen in the command party and went to shore the line where the fighting was thickest. Solaris followed, keeping the Ori-flamme aloft. The soldiers, seeing the woman and the banner, both now stained with blood, fought harder. The pressure intensified, the battle growing more desperate as units lost cohesion. The thick, coppery smell of blood, mixed with the stink of loosened bowels and horsedung, threatened to overwhelm Tregaron, as did the clouds of dust as thick as smoke that obscured much of the field.

Twice the pressure on the command party built, and once Tregaron himself had to swing his sword against the enemy. More horncalls sounded from the right, calling for assistance. Tregaron looked around frantically. The entire right half of the line was engulfed and all reserves on that side were already committed. He had to launch a counter, something to take the pressure off the beleaguered center and right before it cracked under the Hardornens' hammerblows.

"This'll have to work," he said to himself as he summoned his remaining trumpeters. Most were dead, killed defending the relics. He pointed to two. "Go to Captain Luhann. Tell her to prepare to attack en echelon. She's to commence when she's ready. Don't wait for a signal. We're counting on her to take 'em in the flank and grind 'em into powder. Repeat."

The runner cleared his throat. "Attack en echelon when ready. Don't wait for signal." Tregaron checked the message with the other runner, then sent them to the left. He repeated the same message with two more and dispatched them to the right, though he doubted that wing of the regiment could comply.

He fretted in the minutes that followed, afraid his order had come too late, or that the Hardornens would break the line. He peered anxiously to where he could see the Oriflamme, still bravely waving. He worried about what was going on there even as a Battle or two of horsetroops made another try for the regiment's banner. More blood and more dead followed in a sharp little fight.

The Hardornens finally broke, driven from the standards by a volley of arrows fired from across his line of sight. The dust cleared and he saw the archers on the extreme left complete the echelon movement that gave them a clear shot along the regiment's long axis. Each pike company stepped off in turn, marching forward a few paces, then wheeling to the right. In the distance, Luhann made it look like a parade ground maneuver. He distantly heard her voice through the din, using a leather megaphone to yell orders to her troops. Her voice didn't have Cogern's carrying power, but she compensated well.

He considered Luhann his best triumph. The army, the fighting arm of a very male god, was as thinly populated by women as the priestly ranks. He remembered the laughter of his counterparts when he'd accepted her as a cadet. The crisp precision of her troops was all the proof he'd ever need that he hadn't been daft in appointing her to command.

A runner panted up to him. "Pikemaster Cogern sends 'is respects, sir, and asks if you're ready to close the wings yet? He says he's hanging on by 'is teeth."

Tregaron gathered his thoughts a moment before answering. "My compliments to the Pikemaster. Tell him the left has already started. He's to lure them deeper, if he can." The runner repeated the message and scampered away.

Tregaron had little to do but fret. Victory and defeat looked a lot alike in those moments, while the center remained vulnerable and the flank attack developed. His smaller force was strung out around three-quarters of the compass while a numerically superior enemy held the center. His regiment could be easily shattered and there was not a damned thing he could do about it.

He sent several squads he couldn't afford to give up to back Cogern, who had began a slow retreat in the center. The Hardornens pressed forward, sensing victory. Just when he thought the battle could get no louder, he heard a crash and clatter on the far right. The sounds of fighting there intensified. A slight breeze stirred, moving the thick dust, but not clearing it. Had the Hardornens broken through? Was all lost?

Distant trumpets sounded. The trumpeter beside Tregaron closed his eyes, listening intently to the distant signal. "First Battle reports: Attacking en echelon, Left Wheel, sir." Tregaron tried not to whoop with glee.

More trumpets blew, this time on the left. Luhann's entire battle, pikes in hand and its blood up, finished pivoting on its right heel, paused, aligned its ranks, and charged.

They crashed into the disordered Hardornens, crushing one side of the mass and working a fearful slaughter as the cavalry tried to flee. The horse archers, briefly visible though the murk, rushed to seal the trap, covering the opening between the two wings like a lid on a pot.

The bulk of two regiments were trapped. Tregaron knew his own forces were spread much too thin to hold the enemy inside, so it was time to kill as many as they could before the Hardornens broke free.

"Sound General Advance," he yelled at the remaining trumpeter. The boy nodded, blatted into his horn a few times, then sent the final command in pure ringing notes. The troops on either side of Tregaron advanced, carrying with them their standards and cheering. They smashed the weakening resistance, killing horses and riders with equal abandon.

A portion of the rear regiment cut through the thin screen of horse archers and burst out of the trap. The Hardornens scattered like wind-blown leaves as each rider fled to preserve life and health. A hot gust of wind swept the dust away, giving Tregaron a glimpse of the carnage. The entire field before him was littered with dead and dying horses and soldiers, piled three deep in some places. Hardornens cried for succor in a dozen languages.

He saw, as he walked forward across the torn and bloody field, that the leading regiment had gotten trapped between Cogern's and Luhann's units. Badly weakened by the javelins, robbed of its momentum and best fighters, it was caught in the jaws of an implacable foe. He looked at the trumpeter. "Play: No Mercy." The boy looked grim, but complied.

Ancar took no prisoners in Karse and showed no mercy. Now the favor was returned. Luhann gave the final command and Reglauf's regiment vanished under a wall of pikes.

Later, Tregaron walked among the troops laid out in groaning, screaming rows where the regiment's hedge-wizards labored to save as many as they could. He adjusted his turban, his one concession to the heat, while his helmet hung from his belt. Many of the soldiers, busy tidying the battlefield or finishing the wounded Hador-nens, had also removed their helms. Even Cogern, who normally would have blistered the troops for such a lapse, kept his silence. He also, Tregaron noted wryly, kept his helmet.

He glanced back at the wounded. The regiment had suffered three hundred casualties, a twenty-percent loss. It was a light butcher's bill considering the desperate nature of the fight, but still far too heavy. Tregaron took each dead and wounded soldier as a personal failure, his losing Karse's most precious resource.

The Hardornens had lost much worse than he, at least five times his numbers killed, one regiment destroyed, and another scattered. Still, Hardorn recruited the scum of five countries, and such losses were easily made good.

He bent to help one man who begged for water, taking his own canteen and holding it to the man's lips. Tregaron held the man's head while he sipped. He caught a whiff of punctured bowel. This soldier would never recover. His end would be agonizing as his own waste poisoned his body cavity.

"Do you wish mercy?" Tregaron asked, his voice gentle.

The soldier, perhaps only then realizing what he faced, sobbed once and nodded. "Hagan," the dying man whispered, "send Hagan. Third Battle, fifth company. He'll do it." Tregaron stood and summoned an orderly who sprinted to fetch the man's friend.

Havern waited at the end of the row. He seemed positively cheerful as he looked around at the long rows of gored and wounded soldiers. "Can I help you?" Tregaron asked, realizing as he looked at the man just how bone tired he felt.

"We'll have the Fires ready within the hour, Colonel," the Black-robe said.

"Must it happen now?" Tregaron replied.

"The Word and Will calls for a victory sacrifice as soon, as the battle is won, Colonel. You know that."

"I know that the Battle Tithe plays merry hell with morale, sir," Tregaron said wearily. He held up his hand. "You may have the mercied men for your Fires, but only after their friends have released them from their pain."

Havern's face fell, falling into the mask of disapproval he wore when debating Solaris. "What the priests do in Rethwellan is one thing, Colonel, but here we follow the Word and Will literally. Those men too wounded to travel or otherwise unlikely to survive will go to the flames. Alive. Vkandis takes no pleasure in cold flesh."

"I never understood why Vkandis took pleasure in any flesh," Solaris said pleasantly.

Havern rounded on her. "Your deviance from the Word and Will has been repeatedly noted. After I'm through with you, Solaris, you'll be lucky to preside over an outhouse, much less an abbey."

Tregaron, recalling her rallying the regiment with the Oriflamme, felt his temper heat. "The Sun-priestess held her place and inspired the regiment. What did you do?"

Havern didn't bat an eye. "We got out of the way. We were the wrong tool for the job. You were the right one. We deferred to you on the matter of how best to conduct the fight. Now," he said maliciously, "you will defer to us on how to conduct the Fires. The army was given its dispensation to sacrifice those who would die anyway, rather than the hale. I will accept no compromise on that point."

Solaris quietly slipped away and knelt by the gut-stabbed man, who still begged for water. She uncorked Tregaron's water bottle and gave him several small sips. Tregaron listened to the Sun-priest's tirade about duty and responsibility while trying vainly to hold onto the scraps of his self-possession.

Solaris stood and walked to the next soldier, who bled her life away from a gaping thigh wound. It wasn't until the gutted man sat up and felt his middle that Tregaron realized something bizarre had happened. Something far more important than the Black-robe's prating.

He turned his back and walked away from Havern as Solaris stood and went to the third man. The woman, who moments ago had been unconscious, moaned weakly and sat up. Tregaron caught a glimpse of Solaris' eyes as she knelt and placed her blood-covered hands on the man's exposed skull. Her gaze was far away, locked on a distant horizon, and she whispered to herself as she healed. Each time she knelt, her pupils shone with a golden glow and her hands were suffused in a warmth that looked like fire, but brought health, not hurt. Soon a dozen of the regiment followed her, whispering in hushed tones at the miracles as she healed each of the dying.

The story spread like wildfire through the regiment. By the time she finished, a thousand men and women were crowded around her, eager to see the prodigy. They stood silently, giving her space to work as she knitted flesh, healed bones, and restored health. After what seemed like an eternity she stood from beside the last. The silent regiment gave way, opening before her to let her by. A few, braver or more foolhardy than the rest, reached out tentative hands to touch her cassock as she passed. Tregaron, trailed by the stunned and silent Black-robes, followed her as she took shaky steps toward the more lightly wounded.

She placed her hands on a man's slashed and splinted arm. Nothing happened. "It's gone," she said in a confused voice, "it's gone now."

"It's all right, mum," said the trooper, who looked old enough to be her father, "I saw what you done for the others. I'll heal all right by m'self."

She turned back toward the regiment. Tregaron saw the glow had faded from her eyes. Her self-possession seemed to return and she looked at Havern. "Now you have none for your Fires," she said in a weary voice. "The dispensation protects the rest."

Tregaron, overcome by the miracles and the restoration of those he thought he would see consumed, drew his battered sword and knelt before her. The regiment, following his cue, knelt as well.

"Command us, Lady," he said, "we are yours."

"No, sir," she replied with a soft, sweet smile. Her expression seemed transformed, as though she were in ecstasy. "You are not mine. You are Vkandis'. If He has chosen to work through me, it is through the worthiness of the cause, not of the vessel."

Havern cleared his throat. "Ahmmm . . ." he began, "I know we all think we saw something. .. ." He trailed off as a thousand hostile faces focused on him. "Um, yes," he concluded and retreated.

"Please rise, sir," Solaris said, her expression still beatific, "I am not the Son of the Sun."

Not yet, anyway, Tregaron thought as he rose. Not yet.

A Herald's Honor

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

Mickey Zucker Reichert is a pediatrician whose twelve science fiction and fantasy novels include The Legend of Nightfall, The Unknown Soldier, and The Renshal Trilogy. Her most recent release from DAW Books is Prince of Demons, the second in The Renshai Chronicles trilogy. Her short fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies. Her claims to fame: she has performed brain surgery, and her parents really are rocket scientists.

Rain pattered to the roof of the way station, rhythmic beneath the low-pitched howl of the winds. Herald Ju-daia stared into the hearth, watching twists of flame flicker through their collage of yellow and red. Though her eyes followed the fire, her mind traced every movement of her mentor, Herald Martin. Already, he had curried his Companion, Tirithran, till the sheen of the stallion's white coat rivaled the moon. His sword and dagger held edges a razor might envy, and he had soaped his tack until Judaia feared he might wear the leather thin as sandal bindings. The image made her smile through a longing that had sharpened to pain. She imagined him struggling to buckle a back cinch the width of a finger and mistaking Tirithran's bridle for a boot lace. Judaia turned. For an instant, her dark eyes met Martin's gray-green ones and she thought she saw the same desire in him that goaded her, as burning and relentless as the hearth fire. He glanced away so quickly, his black hah* whipped into a mane and every muscle seemed to tense in sequence. Movement only enhanced his beauty, and the sight held Judaia momentarily spellbound. Her mind emptied of every thought but him. The rigors of her internship faded, insignificant beneath the more solid and cruel pain of Martin's coldness. Unable to resist, Judaia glided toward him, loving and hating the feelings his presence inspired.

Apparently sensing her movement, Martin tensed. Suddenly, he took several quick strides toward the door. "I'm going to check on Tirithran and Brayth." He fumbled with the latch, uncharacteristically clumsy. The door swung open, magnifying the drumlike beat of rain on the way station's roof. Beneath an overhanging umbrella of leaves, Tirithran and Brayth enjoyed the pleasures of stallion and mare, their grunts punctuating the sounds of wind and rain. Caught between Judaia and an even more obvious passion, Martin froze in the doorway.

Judaia brushed back a strand of her shoulder-length hair, wishing it looked less stringy and unruly. Its sandy color seemed out-of-place framing dark eyes nearly black. Still, though not classically beautiful, Judaia did not believe herself homely either. She had kept her body well-honed, even before the rigors of Herald training. Her features, though plain, bore no deformities or scars. Other men had found her attractive enough. Yet other men had not mattered to Judaia since she had met Martin at the Collegium three years past. They had begun their training together, year-mates, yet Martin had passed into full Herald status and gone out on circuit a year before her. Now, she learned from him. And maybe, if he could turn his eyes and mind from preparations for an instant, she might teach him something as well.

Martin remained still and silent for some time, seemingly oblivious to the rain that slanted through the open door frame and left damp circles on his Herald whites.

Judaia studied Martin in the moonlight trickling between clouds and over the threshold. The first half of their circuit had passed with routine ease, yet the Martin she had seen direct tribunals, chastise embezzlers, and calmly settle disputes seemed to have disappeared, replaced by an awkward child scarcely into his teens. The transformation seemed nonsensical. She had never heard of a chaste Herald. She had lost her virginity even before Brayth had spirited her from Westmark to begin her training. A handsome child of local nobility, Martin surely had had his share of women, and Judaia had heard Lyssa, one of the Seneschal's granddaughters, bragging about Martin's prowess in bed. Why, then, has he spent the past five months finding every excuse in the Sector to avoid me? This night, Judaia decided, she would find her answer, one way or another.

"Ah," Judaia said, her soft words shattering a long-held silence. "I didn't know staring at love-making Companions could turn a man to stone."

Martin startled, suddenly and obviously aware of his lapse. He closed the door with clear reluctance and turned to face Judaia. Rain plastered black hair in ringlets to his forehead, and water dribbled along the crest of one eyelid.

Martin looked so atypically undignified, Judaia could not suppress a laugh. "I considered us lucky to get in before the rain. I should have known Martin would find another way to get himself soaked."

Finally, Martin smiled. He flicked away the trickling raindrop and raked dripping locks from his forehead. He headed for the fire, his wet Whites brushing Judaia's dry ones as he passed, leaving a damp, darker line that the warmth would quickly dry. He sat in front of the capering flames. Judaia took a seat beside him.

Martin fumbled dagger and whetstone from his pocket, sharpening the blade for the twelfth time since its last use. "Are you tired?"

"No. You?"

"Not yet," Martin admitted. The conversation seemed to have come to an end, and he abruptly steered it in another direction. Among strangers or while riding Companions, they always chatted with an easy fluency that seemed to mock the choppy nervousness that characterized their more private moments. "You're doing well, so far." He scratched stone over blade.

"Oh, yes," Judaia said, not bothering to hide her sarcasm. "I've gotten pretty good at riding around watching you work. I'm probably the Heraldic expert at observing Martin."

Martin glanced at the stone and steel in his hands as if noticing them for the first time. "I'm sorry. I guess I haven't been giving you much responsibility, and you are ready for it." Again, stone whisked over metal with a scraping hiss that set Judaia's teeth on edge. "Next time, you get to check the tax records."

Judaia had learned to care for her gear, too, and she put the appropriate amount of time and effort into the task. Martin's tending had become clearly excessive. "Tax records? Tax records be hanged. Hellfires, Martin. I want to make a judgment. By myself. No interference from you."

"A judgment?" Martin considered, whetstone scouring steel a dozen strokes before he spoke again. "All right then. The next judgment's yours and yours alone. I'd better warn you, though. We're getting toward the Borderlands, and those people have a different idea of justice and a woman's place."

"I can handle it." Though excited, Judaia could not keep annoyance from her voice. Martin's long closeness had fanned her desire from a spark to a bonfire. There could no longer be any doubt about the source of that need. Lifebonded, no question. Yet Martin seemed as oblivious to the ultimate sanction as he was to her readiness for a more active role in their Sector patrol.

Another long silence followed, interrupted only by the ceaseless gallop of the rain and the slash of stone against steel.

Judaia could avoid the need no longer. She clasped a hand to Martin's arm to halt the sharpening, staring directly at him. Martin stiffened, then ceased his work. His eyes darted from floor to dagger to fire. Finally, he met her gaze.

AH of the emotion Judaia had suppressed came welling up at once. She did not waste words on caution or euphemism. Pent up frustration burst forth at once, and she no longer cared if she hurt or offended him. "What's wrong with you?"

"What?" Martin parted damp strands of hair from his eyes. Startlement at her outburst quickly faded to apology. "Look, I'm sorry. I guess I've been overprotecting you, but it is your first patrol and—"

Judaia interrupted, "That's not what I'm talking about, and you know it." "What are you talking about?" "I'm talking about you so free and confident out there." Judaia gestured vaguely northward, toward Haven and the towns and cities they had policed. "Then, every time we're alone together, you're currying Tir-ithran bald. Or you're cutting enough wood to fill six way stations summer to summer." She released his arm so suddenly, the whetstone tumbled from his fingers.

Now, Martin echoed Judaia's anger. "Well excuse me for being thorough."

"Thorough?" Judaia leaped to her feet. "Thorough! If you get any more thorough, you're going to whittle, that dagger to a toothpick. You're not just being thorough; you're avoiding me."

Martin sheathed his dagger and put away the whetstone. "Yes," he admitted.

A blatant confession was the last thing Judaia expected to hear, and it completely arrested her train of thought. "What?"

Martin rose, again meeting Judaia's eyes, candor clear in his green-gray stare. For a moment, his shielding slipped, and she caught a glimpse of deep struggle, honor against need. Then, he hurriedly rebuilt his defenses. "Yes. I am avoiding you."

"Why?" Surprise dispersed Judaia's anger, leaving only confusion in its wake. "I feel ... I mean we both know . . ." Words failed her, and she discovered an awkwardness as petrifying as Martin's had seemed. "That we're lifebonded? Yes, I know." Judaia could do nothing but stare, jaw sagging gradually open without her will or knowledge. At length, she managed speech. "You know? Then why are you avoiding me?"

"Because I made a vow to Lyssa that she would be my one and only, that I would never sleep with another woman."

Judaia did not know which shocked her more, her own disappointment, the tie to Lyssa, or the promise like none she had ever heard before. "Are you lifebonded with her, too?"

"No."

"Then why would you make such a promise?"

Martin shrugged. "She wanted me to, and I did. Life-bonds are uncommon enough I never expected to form one."

Judaia saw the hole in Martin's logic at once. Lyssa, she knew, had slept with many others, as recently as the night before Martin left to patrol the Sector. "Did she make a similar vow to you."

"Yes."

Judaia considered a tactful way to inform Martin of Lyssa's deceit and found none. Though she hated herself for the cruelty she might inflict, she chose a direct approach instead. He deserved to know the truth. "I'm sorry, Martin. Lyssa hasn't kept her vow."

Martin took the news too easily for it to have been a surprise. "Lyssa is not a Herald."

Judaia stared, not believing what she was hearing. More than anything in the world, she wanted Martin, and she knew now that he felt as strongly for her. Yet, the pledge that shackled him had become one-sided and the integrity of a Herald his undoing, as well as her own. "But it's not right!" she shouted, the agony of the thwarted lifebond writhing within her. "It's not fair."

Martin's eyes went moist, the green-gray smeared to a colorless blur. " 'Fair' is not the issue." Once again, he looked away, and this time Judaia applauded his decision to dodge her stare. "A Herald's vows," he said softly, "take precedence over desire. Honor always over right."

Suddenly, Judaia felt very tired.

Stormy night passed to crystalline day, free of humidity. Rainbows scored patches of sky and pooled along spiders' webs, but their beauty did little to raise Judaia's mood. She rode at Martin's side in silence. Overtended buckles and bridle bells reflected silver fragments of sunlight; clean whites and curried Companions shed the brightness until it seemed to enclose them like a divine glow. Birds flapped and twittered from the forests lining either edge of the roadway, feasting on insects drawn by the warm wetness following a gale.

Martin whistled a complicated tune written by his Bardic brother. He seemed to have forgotten the events of the previous evening, returning to his usual brisk confidence and grace under pressure. The normality of his routine only amplified Judaia's pain. The lifebond, already a noose, now felt like a noose on fire.

Brayth sensed the Herald's pain, Mindspeaking with a tone pitched to soothe. .-What's troubling you, little sister?:

Judaia sighed, loath to inflict her sorrow on another, yet glad for a friendly ear. .-It's Martin.:

:What about Martin? He seems happy enough.:

Judaia patted the Companion's silky neck. .-That's exactly the problem. How can he be so oblivious when I'm so miserable? Can't he feel the same pain, the same thwarted need?: In explanation, Judaia opened her shields fully to Brayth, showing the mare the conversation in the way station and the mass of conflicting emotions it had inspired, at least in Judaia.

:The lifebond is as strong in him as you. He feels it, too. But his honor is stronger even than the bond.:

Frustration made Judaia sullen, and her next words came from superficial anger. :Lady take his damnable honor. I hate it.:

:Do you truly hate his honor or the situation to which that honor has fettered him?:

Uncertain of the question, Judaia gave no reply; but she did feel guilty for her lapse. Companions chose only

those pure of intent, and devotion to duty came with the first Heraldic lesson.

Brayth continued questioning, :Do you love Martin because of his honor or in spite of it? If he had made a similar vow to you, would you expect him to keep it?:

The last, Judaia felt qualified to answer. :Well, of course. But I'd never ask for such a vow. Or, if I did, I would keep my vow as well. Blind loyalty to one who deceives is simply slavery. Honor it may be, but an honor without justice.:

Brayth shook her head, her frothy mane like silk on Judaia's fingers. :Tell that to Martin.:

.7 already have.:

:Ah.: Brayth glanced back at her rider, a light dancing in her soft, sapphire eyes. .-Next time, sister two legs, you'll have to convince him.:

As the Companion's words settled into Judaia's mind, the approaching pound of hoofbeats drew her from deeper consideration. She glanced at Martin, and the intensity of his focus on the road ahead cued her that he had heard as well. He signaled Tirithran to a halt, and Brayth stopped at the stallion's side. The broken pattern of the oncoming hoof falls and lack of bridle bells told her, without the need for vision, that the horse and rider were not Companion and Herald.

A moment later, a stranger appeared from around a curve in the roadway. He rode a stocky Border pony, its dark hooves drumming hard-packed roadway and its chestnut tail streaming. The thin man on its back wore a well-tailored cloak and tunic of plain design. As he drew closer, crow's feet and a shock of graying hair showed his age, and his carriage revealed high breeding. The pony slowed to a walk as he came within hailing distance. "Thank the Goddess, I've found you! Greetings, good Heralds."

Judaia nodded and deferred to her mentor. Anyone seeking would certainly have found them. They traveled the main roads. Their circuit, so far, had remained tame and routine; and they had lost no days, arriving in each town, village, and city at the expected time.

"What can we do for you?" Martin asked, apparently sensing the man's distress.

Judaia exercised her Gift, though weak compared with those of her year-mates, concentrating on the man's abstraction. She Saw a birthing room filled with clean straw pallets. She found four women in the picture. One clutched an infant tightly to her breast, gaze focused so intently she seemed not to notice that two others argued vehemently, clothes torn and arms waving. Another baby wailed, apparently frightened by the noise, though both combatants took clear and obvious caution not to harm the child. The fourth woman lay still on the straw, clearly injured; and two more infants sprawled limply near a corner. Stung to action by what she saw, Judaia Sent the image to Martin, bypassing the need for the stranger's slower, verbal description. Martin had a strong Communication Gift, which made the Sending easy, though he had little Sight to locate the knowledge for himself.

Still, though she formed an image, Judaia's Gift brought picture without sound. The need for haste drove her to request the important details first. Ordinarily, she would let Martin handle the situation; but he had promised her the next judgment. Though he could not have guessed the urgency that would accompany their next decision, Martin would not go back on his word. Now, Judaia cherished the honor she had cursed moments before.

The stranger had already begun his story. "... all giving birth on the same day—"

Judaia interrupted, delving for the necessary. "The women's fight. It's over what?"

The man broke off into a startled silence. Then, apparently attributing her understanding to Heraldic magic, he addressed the question. "The argument is over who gave birth to one of the babies, Herald."

Martin drew breath, but Judaia overran him. "Doesn't the midwife know?"

"She apparently got hurt in the struggle, Herald. She's unconscious, but alive. We have people tending her, but she might need a Healer. I'm afraid this can't wait until she's well."

Anger rose in Judaia against the bitterness that motherhood could inspire, every bit as strong as the bond of love so many lauded between woman and child. Horror touched her then, along with a possibility she did not have to know now but she asked for the sake of her own conscience. "Did the babies get caught in the battle as well?"

"No, Herald." The stranger seemed as horrified by the prospect. "Two stillborn."

Judaia had heard enough. "We'll meet you there." She signaled Brayth, and the mare launched into a gallop toward the Border Holding from which the stranger had come.

Not bothering to compete with the wind, Martin Mindspoke with Judaia as they rode. :You took that over nicely.:

Judaia sensed a touch of displeasure, though she could not feel certain. He hid it well behind a sense of pride at her budding competence. :This one's my judgment, remember?:

Now, Martin's discomfort came through more clearly. :Are you sure you want this one? Something less serious might do for a start.:

Brayth flashed around the curve in a stride and a half, neck stretched and head low for the straightaway. :Are you breaking a promise?:

:Never.: Martin recoiled from the possibilty, Tirithran matching Brayth stride for stride. :Just giving you an out.:

:I don't need an out. I can handle this, and the midwife needs you. The best I could do is carry her to a Healer.: Brayth whisked around another bend, and the Borderland came into sight, a patchwork of large but simple homes to accommodate the men with their multiple wives and myriad children. Crops and pastures dotted the areas between homesteads, and a small but ardent crowd surrounded a single building set off from the rest. Though Judaia's Sight had shown her only the inside of the cottage, she knew this had to be the birthing room. :With your Gift, you might draw the midwife back to consciousness or stabilize her enough that a Healer isn't necessary. I can't do that.:

Either Martin saw the wisdom in Judaia's words, or he simply bowed to his promise. Eyes locked on the approaching building, he did not bother to reply.

As the Companions' silver hooves rang over stone and earth, a few members of the crowd glanced over. These nudged more, until every eye eventually turned toward the Heralds. A mass of voices rose in question, conversation, or attempts to inform, the whole blending into a din Judaia did not bother to decipher. Some slunk away, whispering among themselves. Judaia knew that many of the Border Holdings considered Heraldic Gifts unholy or the work of demons.

Judaia and Martin dismounted together, leaving the Companions to tend themselves beyond the crowd. Ignoring the huddled mass of comments, Judaia pushed through, the citizens parting to allow a path for the Heralds to get to the doorway.

The midwife sprawled just outside the door; apparently they had taken her from the crisis but feared to move her far in her current state. Two men and a woman hunched over her. These moved gratefully aside as the Heralds came forward. "Head wound," one said unnecessarily. "Can you help her?"

Martin replied. "If I can't, I can get her to help quickly." He gestured Tirithran vaguely, then inclined his head to indicate that Judaia should take care of the problem inside.

Judaia reached for the portal, apprehension finally descending upon her as she tripped the latch. In the heat of defending her need to judge, she had found no time for self-doubt. Now finally on her own, consideration of her weaknesses came unbidden. She had only the experience of watching Martin when it came to justice. Her Gift of Sight would help her little here; it would take a Communication Gift to delve into the complications of situation and intention. Unlike Martin, Judaia could cast only the first half of the Truth Spell; she could tell when a subject lied but could not force honesty the way he and the more strongly Gifted could. She would have to rely only on the first stage and on her own instincts, and the price for a mistake might prove the breaking of family and the severing of a bond between mother and child.

Too quickly, the door swung open. Again, Judaia saw two women arguing heatedly, their screams drowning one another's words so that the Herald could understand only a few broken phrases. The one nearest the door looked robust, her brown hair neatly combed despite the turmoil of childbirth. The other had curly locks hacked short, a hint of russet amid the darker strands. A naked baby boy curled, asleep, in the straw, clearly the object of their dispute. It pleased Judaia that they had taken care not to let their blows go wild enough to squash or harm the child. Against the far wall, a third female, more girl than woman, cradled another infant. The two stillborn lay hi a corner near the door.

"Stop!" Judaia said. Though she did not shout, the authority in her voice silenced the women. She seized on the hush. "My name is Herald Judaia, and I was sent to settle this dispute."

"The boy is mine!" the curly-haired one shouted.

"Liar!" The other lunged toward her, fist cocked to strike.

Judaia snatched the descending wrist in midair, wrenching the woman around to face her. "Rule one, no fighting." She hurled the arm away, and the woman staggered several steps. All three fixed their gazes on Judaia, the would-be attacker glaring. "Rule two, no one speaks unless questioned by me. You may call me Herald. Politeness has never displeased me." Judaia studied the women, guessing she would get the most unbiased story from the satisfied observer. "You there." She faced the quiet woman against the wall.

"Me, ma'am?" The youngster shook back mousy looks, keeping a firm grip on the baby that supported its head. She rose.

"What's your name?"

"Lindra, ma'am. Thirdwife of Salaman." She avoided Judaia's eyes, keeping her gaze low, at the level of the Herald's mouth.

"Is this your first baby?" Judaia hoped Lindra would answer in the affirmative. She seemed no older than fifteen, and Judaia hated to think the Holderkin stressed their women any younger.

"First live baby. Yes, ma'am." Apparently Lindra finally absorbed Judaia's words, for she corrected. "I mean, yes, Herald. I lost two others early."

"And you gave birth to the baby you're holding?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am . . . Herald. I'm certain of it."

The other two women fidgeted, obviously fighting the need to hold their tongues. Lindra's response bothered Judaia. The mention of certainty suggested exactly the opposite. A simple "yes" seemed far more natural, so Judaia prodded for details. "What do you remember?"

Now, Lindra met Judaia's gaze directly. When it came to defending her child, she could clearly gather the gumption and fire she otherwise lacked. "I carried twins; Herald. The first came out easy, but he was dead." She gestured the bodies in the corner, tears turning her muddy eyes moist. "She had to push around for the other. The stress of the first, and the pain . . ." She winced. "I fainted. I didn't actually see her take out my little girl, but I know she's mine, Herald. A mother can tell." She hugged the child closer.

The nearby fight stole all veracity from the latter statement, but Judaia let the observation lie. She saw no need to use the Truth Spell here. She had more obvious subjects for it.

The curly-haired woman had picked up the baby boy, clutching it with all the fierce tenderness that Lindra showed the girl. The other woman balled her fists, obedient to Judaia's rules though she clearly wanted to reclaim the child by violence.

Judaia placed a hand, both comforting and warning, on the woman's empty arms. "I speak for the Queen now. My decision here, no matter its end, will stand.

Who holds the baby while we speak will have no bearing on the judgment."

Judaia's words seemed to soothe the angered woman. Her fingers uncurled, and her manner softened. Still, the took she turned her curly-haired neighbor held venom.

Though she released her grip, Judaia kept her attention on the empty-armed Hold woman. "Speak your name."

"I am Keefhar, Firstwife of Kailer."

While the woman spoke, Judaia closed her eyes, focusing on the verse she would need to run through nine times. She pictured a fog with blue eyes, shaping the Truth Spell with a bent toward muting it. Gradually, a blue fog took shape about Keefhar's head and shoulders. As all subjects of the spell, she remained oblivious to it. Lindra seemed too fixated on the baby girl to notice. The third women squinted, rubbing her eyes, as if to blame the magical vapor on her own vision. Surely, none of them would have seen such a thing before nor known its purpose. "Keefhar," Judaia watched the blue fog closely. She had kept it sparse, which would make its comings and goings more difficult to evaluate. She relied upon her Sight to gauge the status of her spell. "Which baby did you bear?"

"The boy, Herald." Keefhar rolled her gaze to the infant nestled in the others' arms. The blue haze dispersed, indicating a lie. "The stillborn was hers." She jabbed a finger at the curly-haired woman. The fog returned, as bright as at its casting. About this, at least, she had spoken truth.

"She lies!" The woman indicated screamed.

Judaia dropped the Truth Spell, swiftly placing another on her only remaining witness. As weak as her power was, the double casting would cost her a nasty overuse headache, but she pressed aside consideration of consequences. She could tolerate pain as the price for a competent first judgment.

"The boy is mine!" the curly-haired woman shouted, the magical fog disappearing with her words. In her rage, the Hold woman discarded Judaia's rules as well as her request for manners. "The dead one is hers." Keeping one hand looped protectively around the boy, she used the other to gesture disdainfully at her accuser. The remnants of the Truth Spell did not return until after she finished speaking. Clearly, she had spoken all falsely.

Judaia imagined the crisp, blue eyes of the fog drawing closed, and the Truth Spell winked from existence. She kept her own eyes open and alert for movement, not trusting the women to remain at peace until she rendered her judgment. Her thoughts flew, bringing understanding of the cause of the argument and why the girl-child had been spared from the tug of war. The answer came with Martin's description: "Those people have a different idea of justice and a woman's place." Others had told her that the parents of girls paid dowries while a son's possessions and holdings remained his own. Since men married many times, a son brought wealth to a family, while daughters cost them dearly in wedding price.

The door opened, and Martin stepped inside. "The midwife will live—"

Judaia waved him silent before he could continue. The three Holderkin looked noticeably relieved, though whether glad for the midwife's health or for escape from the punishment that would have come with a charge of murder, she did not know or try to guess. She reached for the baby boy, and the curly-haired woman relinquished him with obvious reluctance. Keefhar smiled.

Judaia spoke. "In the name of the Queen, I make the following judgment: The baby girl shall remain with Lindra."

The women nodded, all apparently satisfied. Martin stiffened, but true to his word, he said nothing.

Judaia continued. "As to the baby boy . . ."

All eyes followed Judaia's every movement.

"... he was born to Lindra and will remain with her." She handed the boy, too, to the youngest of the mothers.

Lindra smiled, cuddling the children, love making her dark eyes sparkle. "But I thought . . ." she started.

Judaia did not let her finish. "Many healthy babies are born floppy and blue." With no further explanation, she left the birthing room to announce her decision to the elder whose slower pony should have arrived in the time it took to hear and judge. She left Martin to reinforce the finality of her decision. They would obey the word of a man in a way they never would a woman, even a Herald.

The ride from the Borderland Holding commenced in a silence far deeper than the previous one, but this time Martin seemed the more pensive of the two. He did not hum or sing, and his eyes remained fixed on the mound between Tirithran's ears.

Scarcely able to suppress a smile, Judaia waited for Martin's inevitable assessment of her work. It did not come. In fact, neither Herald passed a word until Martin drew rein in a quiet clearing alongside the beaten track. He dismounted there, removing the bitless bridle and bells from Tirithran's head. Judaia joined him, releasing Brayth as well. The Companions grazed on the boughs and underbrush while Martin prepared a meal in the same thoughtful hush he had assumed throughout the ride.

Finally, Martin broke the silence. "I spoke in private with the midwife."

Judaia leaned against a thick, rough-barked oak, nodding encouragement for him to continue.

"You gave only one of those babies to its rightful mother."

Judaia nodded. "Lindra bore the boy. The girl was Keefhar's baby."

Martin stared. "You knew?"

"Of course, I knew." Judaia met Martin's green-gray stare that appeared even more muddled than usual. Familiarity made the eyes beautiful, despite their indeterminate color. Guilt twinged through Judaia for the pain his silence must have caused him in the birthing room; he alone could have reversed her decision. But he had promised not to interfere with her judgment, and his honor had held him to that vow as strongly as to the other.

Martin seemed incapable of blinking. "You intentionally gave a baby to the wrong mother? Are you insane?"

"Maybe." Judaia plucked at the bark beneath her fingers, studying the fragments she pulled loose. "If you find considering the welfare of the children insane. Having a womb doesn't make a good or worthy mother. Bloodline isn't enough. No one, Martin, no one can grow in the hands of a liar or in a home without honesty, loyalty, and trust. As far as I'm concerned, Keefhar gave up her right to motherhood when she knowingly traded her child for another." Once again, Judaia met Martin's eyes, and she did not blink either. "Sometimes, Herald Martin . . ." She grinned. "... sometimes what's right is more important than the truth or any vow. Sometimes justice over honor."

Martin considered the words for some time. Gradually, his lips framed a smile, and he pulled Judaia into a friendly embrace that might become so much more. And all the awkwardness, at least, was gone.

A Song For No One's Mourning

by Gary A. Braunbeck

Gary A. Braunbeck has sold over 60 short stories to various mystery, suspense, science fiction, fantasy, and horror markets. His latest fiction also appears in Future Net and Careless Whispers. His first story collection, Things Left Behind, is scheduled for hardcover release this year. He has been a full-time writer since 1992 and lives in Columbus, Ohio.

Sweat ran down the young man's back and his ankle hurt severely—he'd leaped from the window on impulse and landed badly after the scullery maid discovered him in the master's private chamber. She had simply opened the door and walked in, her servant's eyes taking in everything—the bags of silver coins clutched in his hands, the portrait set haphazardly on the floor, the exposed secret cache in the wall, the broken-locked, opened lid of the master's money box—before she thought to shout an alarm to the others in the manor-keep, but by then the young man had tossed a chair through the stained glass window, perched himself there like a raven for only a moment before hearing other loud voices and footsteps thundering toward the room, then jumped. Though careful to bend his knees, the impact was nonetheless painful. It was a miracle he'd to made it to his horse without losing more of the money, but make it to his horse he did, and Ranyart—as fierce and strong a horse as ever the young man knew—galloped swiftly away from the manor, through the streets, past the city gates where the guards and armsmen in the towers, too busy with their own private Harvestfest celebrations, were neither able to take up their crossbows nor lower the gate in time to stop him. He hoped they heard his laughter as Ranyart carried him away into the darkness of the forest road.

That had been several candlemarks ago, and now both he and Ranyart were weary from the chase—and the armsmen had given chase for a while before he lost them near the Westmark Hills. He was glad he had been alone this time, claiming to be a simple minstrel who wished only to entertain with song in exchange for a warm fire and a good meal; not only had his being alone enabled him to flee quickly without having to make excuses to anyone in whose company he might have been seen, but had such a disaster occurred while he was with a troupe, the other members would now be suffering for his actions.

And isn't that always the way, Father, he thought. Whenever the rich find they've been bested by one of a "lower" heritage, they vent their wrath on others whom they deem undeserving of mercy, or kindness or understanding, let alone a chance to prove their innocence— and forget about individual worth; in the eyes of the rich, we are all the same: valueless fodder, so much human flotsam for them to treat with as much disregard or contempt as they please. I remember the way Lord Withen Ashkevron of Forst Reach treated you after those damned Herald-mages from Haven showed him what a Gifted one could do with metalworking. I remember how the bastards all laughed at you, and you were a good enough man to pretend you didn't hear the laughter or see the smirks. But did any of the gentry, any of the courtiers ever bring their trade to you again after that? No. Gods, how they killed your spirit. Half my life you've been dead, and I miss you no less now than I did on the day Mother and I had to watch the gravediggers toss your body in that foul, disgraceful hole. Damn them! Damn then all!

The young man's name was Olias, a thief who secretly possessed a meager measure of both the Bardic and Heraldic Gifts. Often in his travels, when both money and food were running low, he would insinuate himself into the good graces of various traveling minstrel troupes, enchanting them with his storytelling and enviable abilities on the lute, rebec, and cornemuse (his fiddle- and pipe and tabor-playing, though not offensive to the untrained ear, left something to be desired in his opinion); inevitably, the leader of the troupe would invite him to travel and perform with them, which Olias was more than pleased to do, accompanying them from city to village to hamlet and hollow, playing for lords and ladies and peasants alike. Since he never wished to endanger the members of the troupes (who were always kind to him, despite their typically desperate circumstances), he took care to ensure his thievery would appear to be the act of someone with whom the victim was familiar. It seemed that every merchant and nobleman possessed their fair share of enemies, and it was surprisingly easy to discover who among them was the most envied or despised—as well as the names of those who harbored resentment—and thus lay the groundwork for his deception. Sometimes it was as simple as placing a few stolen coins outside the doorstep of his chosen scapegoat (always another member of the gentry or a successful tradesman, never one of the poor), making it appear that they, in their haste, had dropped some of their ill-gotten treasure as they ran from the sight of their crime; occasionally he would have to resort to more complex methods of duplicity in order to avert suspicion from himself or the other players—employing his mild Gift of Thought-sending to plant misgivings in others' minds—but the effect was always the same: None had ever accused him or any member of his temporary troupe of the robberies.

For Olias—lonely, angry, bitter, and distrustful—it was a good life.

Good enough.

The road he now found himself traveling was little more than a rutted tract of hard-packed dirt meandering through a skeletal tunnel of near-barren tree branches. This Harvest had been an usually cold one, and the trees, sensing this, chose to slumber earlier than many of the people in Valdemar were accustomed to. Tendrils of mist snaked from between the trees and lay across the road like a blanket of living snow, shifting, curling, reaching upward to ensnarl Ranyart's legs for only a moment before dissolving into nothingness. Overhead, the moonlight straggled through the branches, creating diffuse columns of foggy light that to Olias' frayed nerves became fingers of foggy light from a giant ghostly hand that at any moment would fist together and crush him. He was aware, as if in deep nightmare, of shadows following along from either side of the road—silent, misshapen things, spiriting along with the mist for furlongs until he snapped his head toward them. Then they would disappear in slow degrees, mocking his anxiety, melting back into the darker, unexplored areas of the night-silent forest. These shadows called to mind far too many campfire tales and old wives' stories of the outKingdom and the Pelagirs, with its uncanny creatures—which was not all that far from here.

Unhooking his armed crossbow from its saddle-catch (were some of those shadows moving even closer!), the young man wiped the sweat from out of his eyes, then leaned forward and whispered in Ranyart's ear. "I can't speak for you, old friend, but I don't much care for this stretch of road. I know that you're tired, but I promise you that if you'll just quicken your pace and get us the hell out of here, the small bag of sugar I have in my pouch is yours."

In answer, Ranyart broke from his amble into a trot, then a gallop, and soon they passed through a clearing to emerge on a more inviting expanse of road where the trees and mist and shadows were at a comforting distance, and the moonlight shone all around, crisp and cold and clean, forming no phantom fingers.

But there was in the air a strong stench of burned wood and straw, of fire-scorched stone and something more; an odd, thick, sickly-sweet aroma that—though it was not so mighty as to overpower the other smells— seemed to be inexorably entwined with all the others.

Ranyart chuffed, shaking his foam-streaked head.

"I know," replied the young man, wrinkling his nose. "But we're both too tired to go any farther tonight, and there is a mild wind blowing against us; at least that makes the stink less offensive. We'll stop here until dawn and hope that the wind continues to blow in our favor."

Beneath him, the muscles in Ranyart's back rippled, as if the horse were shrugging its reluctant consent.

"Good. Then it's settled."

They made camp quickly, Olias taking care to find a nearby stream so Ranyart could quench his thirst, then turning his attention to building a fire and killing a pair of squirrels for this night's meal. He arranged his ground-bedding under an imposing old sorrow tree (thus called because its like, rare in these parts, was usually found in the distant Forest of Sorrows), then lay the crossbow within easy reach before attaching his dagger sheath to his uninjured ankle. As a further precaution, he slipped a small stonecarver's blade beneath his sorry excuse for a pillow, then removed the sugar from his pouch and gave it to Ranyart, almost smiling as he watched his horse devour the brilliant-white chunks.

When Ranyart had finished, he stared at Olias as if. to ask, Is that all?

"I'm afraid there's none left, old friend. You'd think after all these years, you would have learned a little moderation."

Ranyart snorted once, loudly, then threw back his head as if quite insulted, and stalked off to the side of the road where he settled himself for the night.

"I'll remember this when you come begging for your morning oats."

Ranyart snorted again, but this time less indignantly— perhaps even with a touch of humility.

"You'll not charm me," said Olias. "I've known you far too long to—"

The rest of it died in his throat when he heard the sound of approaching hoofbeats, coming hard and fast from somewhere down the ghostly road he'd left behind not half a candlemark ago.

The back of Olias' neck prickled and his heart pounded against his rib cage. Somehow, the armsmen had found his trail.

"Hell to Havens!" he hissed, throwing aside his blanket and grabbing up his crossbow, then rolling quickly to the right where a small, downward-sloped patch of land created a furrow just big enough for a man to hide himself. It was only after he was in position that he realized the sound was that of a single horse, carrying a single rider (a sound he'd trained himself to recognize). Perhaps one of the armsmen, in an attempt to prove himself to the others, had stubbornly pursued him this far.

Olias looked at the crossbow in his grip, and at the deadly, sharp, shiny silver tip of the arrow.

No. He wouldn't hurt this armsman, not in a way that could either kill him or cripple him for life.

He held his breath, listening to the near-frantic hoof-beats getting closer, and was wrenched from his concentration when the campfire hissed, then snapped loudly, spitting sparks upward, a few of which danced out into the center of the road, all but announcing his presence.

A careless fool's mistake, not dousing the flames.

No time to worry about that now.

Pushing forward on his knees and biting down on his lower lip to fight against the screaming pain of his wounded ankle, Olias scrabbled on his belly like an insect up toward the campsite and grabbed the quiver, slinging it over his shoulder and its strap across his chest, then Sent a silent call to Ranyart, who was at his side in moments, bending low the bulk of his massive body so Olias could snatch a coil of rope from one of the saddle hooks. Craning to see if the rider was yet in sight, Olias quickly disarmed the crossbow, slipping the silver-tipped arrow into the quiver and removing a grapnel arrow in its stead. Tying one end of the rope to its stem, he loaded the grapnel arrow into the crossbow and rearmed the firing mechanism. That done, he took a deep breath, rolled twice to the left, came up on his elbows, aimed at a large stone near the base of a tree across the road, and fired.

The grapnel caught solidly, and from the middle of the road it would be well-nigh impossible to see it unless one were specifically looking for such a thing, which the armsman most likely would not be, for—gods willing— he must be as tired as those he was pursuing.

Olias wound the remainder of the rope around his right wrist, making certain that the portion lying across the road was flat in the dirt and would not be seen until rider and horse were right on top of it, and by then it would be too late.

Slipping back down into the cramped furrow, Olias held his breath as the hoofbeats grew louder, closer, somewhat less fierce and slightly slower than before; he wondered why the armsman wasn't digging heels into the horse, forcing speed.

Still, it was running swiftly enough that the rope, when he yanked it taut, should trip the horse and cause it to throw its rider without permanently harming either of them.

The horse's hooves clattered against some stones embedded in the hard-packed ground as it bolted from the forest and neared the campsite. Olias grasped the rope with both hands now, winding it once around his left wrist and threading it through his grip, then rose to his knees and readied himself to pull—

—when the horse, nearly upon the trap, stopped dead hi its tracks, hooves sparking against stones, one front leg in the air and bent at the knee—an almost absurd image, as if some wizard had frozen the beast in mid-motion—then slowly, mist jetting from its nostrils, began cantering backward.

The armsman had spotted the trap. Damn!

Disentwining his wrists from the rope as quickly as he was able, Olias pulled another silver-tipped arrow from the quiver and armed the crossbow, then struggled to his feet (Gods, the pain in his ankle was agonizing!) and limped into the road, taking aim at the rider.

"Let me see your hands, armsman, and may the gods help you if—"

For the second time that night, the words died in his throat.

The boy who sat upon the horse was no armsman; he barely looked human. Even from this distance it was obvious to Olias that the boy had been the victim of a brutal beating. Most of his face and chest was covered in blood and wounds, his lower lip looked to have been half-sliced away by a knife's blade, and one side of his face was so horribly swollen that neither his eye nor part of his nose could be seen.

Olias snapped the crossbow to his side, pointing the arrow toward the ground, and moved slowly forward, one hand extended in a gesture of peace so as not to alarm the horse.

It was only as he came up beside the gray mare that he saw the rest.

"Gods," he whispered. "Who did this to you, boy?"

The rider made no reply.

Not only had the boy been beaten, not only had he been cut and thrashed and (judging by some of the marks across his exposed stomach) whipped until nearly dead, but someone had burned him, as well. Clumps of ugly, flame-seared hair—looking more like pig's-bed straw than anything that should be part of a human being's body—hung limply from the boy's head, made all the more hideous by the contrast of its color against that of the sickening, glistening, crimson-raw sections where his scalp had been either sheared, pulled, or burned away from his skull.

Olias swallowed. Twice. Hard and loudly.

Over the years since his father's death, Olias had worked feverishly toward hardening himself against others' pain and misfortune. None had offered any comfort or sympathy to Father in his time of need—nor to himself or his mother after Father's death—so he vowed that none, no matter how pathetic, dire, or horrifying their circumstances, would ever touch him that deeply again.

The next thought he blamed on weariness, for this boy whom he had mistaken for an armsman nearly reached into his core to wrest some small measure of tenderness... but Olias, well-practiced in this particular art of self-defense, was able to quash the moment of vulnerability by concentrating on the skill that had gone into securing the boy to his horse.

His hands had been bound tightly together at the wrists and the bindings tied to the pommel of the saddle; there were no stirrup irons but the stirrup leathers had been left in place, used to tie the boy's calves to the saddle itself; he was belted thrice, two times at the waist—once to the pommel, once to the high cantle, using rings on the saddle meant for that purpose—and a third time around his neck. It was this last that threatened to move something buried deep in Olias' heart, for the opposite end of the leather strap had been split in two and each of the ends tied to the boy's ankles, as if he were a hog being bound for slaughter.

Olias leaned closer, sniffing the leather.

Beneath the coppery scent of blood and the charred aroma of flames and smoke, the scent of drenched hide drying was unmistakable. Whoever had bound the boy to this horse had soaked the leather straps, knowing damned well that as it dried it would shrink, tightening itself around the boy's neck and slowly crushing his throat.

Why didn't you just kill him? thought Olias. What did this boy—barely a boy, more child than boy—what did he do that was so unspeakable as to warrant this kind of sick-making punishment, this . . . torture?

Olias was still lost along such paths of thought when the boy turned his head downward—as much as the strap would allow him to—and opened his undamaged eye, which was so startlingly silver Olias felt a moment of awe tinged with fear.

"Ffrind-iau?" choked the boy. "Caredig ffrind-iau?"

Olias puzzled over the words. He'd traveled far

through Valdemar, and had (or so he thought) encountered all of its various languages—after all, Valdemar was a patchwork quilt of a dozen different peoples escaping from a dozen different unbearable situations, and each of them had their own unique tongue which naturally would undergo changes as the various clans began to intermingle, but this boy was speaking in a language Olias had never heard before. It might have been some kind of primitive hybrid of Tayledras—Hawkbrother tongue (some of the inflections were similar)—but he doubted it; Hawkbrother tongue didn't have so many guttural clicks, nor was it nearly as musical as this boy's language. Under other circumstances, he probably wouldn't have cared at all.

But despite his defenses, despite his not understanding the words themselves, Olias Felt the pain and loneliness and fear in the boy's plea.

He unsheathed his dagger and set about cutting the straps, then lifted the boy (who was much, much larger than he first appeared) from off the horse—and nearly collapsed to the ground when the extra weight caused the bones in his wounded ankle to snap.

:Ranyart!: Olias Called, trying to balance himself on his other leg.

Ranyart ran up beside him. Olias managed to drape the boy over Ranyart's saddle, then guided both horses over to the campsite where he promptly collapsed to the ground, clutching at his broken ankle and snarling with pain.

The boy lifted his head, then pushed himself up and slid slowly from Ranyart's back and stumbled over to Olias.

"Poen?" he asked, gently placing one of his scarred and bloody hands on Olias's ankle "Cymorth poen?"

"Don't touch it!" shouted Olias, throwing back his head and wincing. "Gods, please . . . please don't! I—"

The boy closed his good eye, then tightened his grip. A strange bluish glow appeared under the boy's hand, quickly spilling outward to encircle Olias' ankle. And before he could further protest or strike out at the boy,

Olias felt the broken bones and tendons instantly, painlessly mend themselves. Moments later the boy helped him to his feet and Olias was dumbstruck; the ankle was fine. The boy had healed him.

Looking up, he watched as the boy set to work on his own wounds, the same bluish light emanating from his hands as he touched first his head, then face, lip, throat, chest, and legs, finally grasping each wrist in turn to remove the bruises and strap burns. Each time his hands brushed over a different area, more of his body glowed with a shimmering soft blue light until, for a moment at the end, he was encased in a spectral luminance; but in an instant the light dissolved into his flesh and he stood there, just a boy, far too large for his age but looking healthy and unharmed . . . and least outwardly. Only time would tell how much damage had been done to the boy's mind and spirit by whatever filthy, sadistic cowards had unleashed their brutality on him.

No wonder they tied your hands so tightly, thought Olias. They couldn't chance your healing yourself before the horse had carried you far away from them . . . that is, if they even knew about your healing powers. Were they afraid of something else, odd one? Were they aware of your powers, at all? Damn! What does it matter and why should I care?

Still, the thought persisted: Why hadn't they just killed him? Didn't it occur to anyone that some other traveler might chance upon the boy and set him free? Wouldn't they know if that were to happen, the boy might come back to seek vengeance?

The boy lifted his cherubic, smiling face to Olias.

Gods, thought Olias, feeling almost silly: That was not the face of one who would go seeking vengeance.

"Th-thank you," said Olias, pointing down toward his ankle. "It feels ... feels fine. It feels wonderful, in fact."

The boy, his piercing, hypnotic silver gaze never wandering from Olias's eyes, simply smiled more widely and nodded his head.

"What's your name, child? Have you a name?"

The boy cocked his head to the side, the expression on his face puzzled.

Sighing, Olias stood up straight and patted his own chest with both hands. "Olias. I am Olios." He pointed at the boy. "What's your name?"

The boy grinned, then stood up straight, patting his chest with both hands, and said, quite loudly, "Olias!"

Olias groaned, shaking his head. "No, no, no! 7 am Olias. Me. That's my name!" He pointed at the boy once again and raised his eyebrows in silent question.

The boy looked at him, opened his mouth to speak but didn't, then snapped up his head, eyes widening with understanding as he pointed to his chest and shouted, "L'lewythi!" Pressing his hand against Olias's chest, the boy whispered, somewhat hesitantly: "Ffrind-iau. Chi, ti L'lewythi's ffrind-iau, ydhuch?"

"Urn . . . yes," replied Olias, nodding his head (for some reason, he sensed it was important to agree with the boy at this moment). "Yes, of course. L'lewythi's ffrind-iau."

L'lewythi laughed, then embraced Olias (nearly crushing his rib cage—gods, the child was strong!), patting his back several times in a gesture of thanks and affection.

"You're . . . you're welcome. I think," responded Olias, pulling himself away from the boy and checking himself for internal bleeding, then pointing toward the fire where the squirrel-meat was roasting on a spit over the flames. "Are you hungry?"

The boy furrowed his brow in confusion, obviously no more familiar with Olias' language than Olias was with his.

Sighing, Olias rubbed a hand over his own stomach. "Hungry? Do you want something to eat?"

The boy tilted his head to the side, then shrugged.

His frustration growing, Olias took a calming breath and said, "Rwy'n mynd / gael cinio. Gobeithio mai ty-wydd braf gown ni?"

Then gasped and promptly covered his mouth with his hand as the boy made a delighted sound, licked his lips, rubbed his stomach, and nodded vigorously.

Did I just invite him to join me in his own tongue? How in Havens could I do that—I've never heard this language before in my life!

The boy, perhaps sensing the other's confusion, touched a finger to his own mouth, then his head, then pointed toward Olias.

"You made me do that, didn't you? You ... you gave your language to me for that moment, didn't you?"

"Ydhuch! L'lewythi cymorth ffrind-iau." He made his way toward the campfire. "Bwuq!" he said, laughing as he pointed to the roasting squirrels.

"Y-yes," stammered Olias. "Bwuq." It seemed that was the boy's word for food.

He proved himself to be a most pleasant and courteous meal companion, not taking more than his share of food and making sure that Olias had all that he wanted. Though there had been only two squirrels, it seemed to Olias that the layers of delicious meat on their carcasses were enough to have come from ten squirrels.

A candlemark later, when both Olias and L'lewythi were so full they couldn't eat another bite, it still looked as if they had barely touched the food.

Adding more wood to the fire, then crawling into his ground-bedding, Olias looked at L'lewythi and said (in his own language), "I don't know where you came from or what, exactly, you are, but I'm almost glad for your company—and believe me, I've not said that to another human being in a long, long while. You're welcome to stay here with Ranyart and me for the night."

The boy snuggled up against one of the trees, folded his hands in his lap, and leaned back his head . . . but did not—or would not, it appeared—close his eyes.

"I guess that means you're happy to accept the invitation," whispered Olias under his breath, then lay back, lute in hands, and strummed an old tune while staring up at the clear, starry night.

From time to time, Olias would chance a quick glance at his guest, and always the boy seemed to be fighting against falling asleep.

Why do you not wish to rest? thought Olias. Are you

frightened that your dreams will force you to relive what they did to you? Or is it something else, something you cannot express to me so that I'll understand?

He held his breath, momentarily opening his senses to the night as the wind changed direction and the stench of fire, smoke, and destruction grew stronger.

Out there, somewhere in the night, a great violence had taken place. Olias was able to Feel the lingering resonance of the destruction and brutality . . . and unspeakable terror. Closing his eyes and focusing on the sentient threads, he Sensed the presence of something powerful in slumber, something Otherworldly—no, not Otherworldly at all, but something that came from beyond the Otherworld, something he couldn't quite grasp and bring forward so that he might See and Understand.

Whatever it was, it was beyond any power he'd ever encountered, and somehow it was connected to this boy.

What are you, my strange lostling . . . and what did you do to deserve such a fate?

Then: You're nothing to me, so why should I care?, Each of us must deal alone with our demons. Don't count on anyone's help, lostling, because you'll not get it. Tonight you were lucky, but as far as I am concerned, come the dawn you are on your own.

As if he had both heard and comprehended Olias' private musings, L'lewythi's face shadowed for an instant with a soul-sick hurt that made him look even more helpless and pathetic and so very, very sad.

Lest that look reach into his heart, Olias turned his face away, returning his attention to his lute.

Alone, lostling, we are all alone, from cradle to grave. Don't share your pain with me; I don't want to see it.

3

After a while—and without his being aware of it— Olias had begun to play "My Lady's Eyes", a sentimental song and one that he had always thought to be so much drivel, but it allowed a minstrel to show off his

fingering. It had been his parents' favorite song. They had danced to it at their wedding.

Unexpectedly, Olias felt his throat tightening as unwanted tears began to form in his eyes. Swallowing back the emotions that were trying to surge to the surface, he laid the lute aside and forced himself to think of his blunder earlier tonight in allowing the scullery maid to panic him. He could have easily gotten past her and the others. After all, he'd taken time to walk through the manor-keep and decide upon his escape route, but for some reason, being discovered like that had unnerved him, and that had never happened before. What did it matter, though? That fat, arrogant, disgusting slug the servants called m'Lord was a lot poorer now than he'd been before allowing the minstrel into his home. Though Olias doubted the man would remain poorer for very long, he at least had the satisfaction of knowing that the bastard was stewing in his own juices tonight, cursing everyone and everything because he had been taken in by a common thief.

He sat up, rummaging around for the bottle of wine, and took three deep swallows, then looked over at his companion.

L'lewythi, looking exhausted and desperately in need of sleep, was still awake and staring at Olias, his face betraying his concern.

Olias began speaking to the boy; he couldn't stop himself. It was as if the spirits wandering this Sowan-night were forcing him to talk.

"I was thinking about—" No, best not tell him what you were just this moment thinking about. After all, a thief is a thief in any clan.

"I was thinking about my parents. My mother was employed as an apprentice-seamstress at the manor-keep of Lord Withen Ashkevron of Forst Reach. My father was the village metalworker and blacksmith. I remember ... I know this may sound odd to you— assuming you understand a word I'm saying—but of all things, I remember his hands the best. They were so large and powerful that when I was a child, I imagined

that I could curl up in either of his palms and sleep there. They were rough hands, hard-callused and scarred, but his touch against my cheek was as gentle as angel's breath. I remember the way he would come home after a day's labors and scrub those hands until I thought he would scrape the flesh right off of them, and whenever my mother would say to him, 'Why do you wash so angrily?' he would show her one of his sad half-grins and say, 'It won't do for you to be touched by anything so dirty and hard,' and my mother would laugh . . . oh, gods, I miss hearing her laugh. If my father's hand so lightly against my cheek was the touch of angel's breath, then my mother's laugh was their song. And the love in their eyes whenever they would look at each other. . . . "Neither of them were Gifted in any way; they weren't what I suppose you'd call particularly bright. They weren't educated, but they were good people, fine people, decent and honest and loyal. Don't misunderstand, each had their faults—Mother was often a little too worrisome, which annoyed Father no end, and he, gods bless him, could never seem to pay attention to anything besides his work for very long—conversations with him were a test of your patience, trust me—the man didn't know how to listen, and at times he and Mother argued over my upbringing and how to manage their money well enough to keep the creditors at bay . . . but they made certain that neither of them ever went to bed angry at the other. I once asked my mother why, and she told me that Father had this fear that were they to go to bed angry, one of them might die during the night and the survivor would be left with unanswered questions and unresolved regrets. I used to think that was funny until Mother told me that my father had once exchanged harsh words with his father, then stormed out of the house only to return the next morning and find that the old man had died in his sleep. 'He never got the chance to apologize,' she said to me. 'He never got to take it back. He's carried that sorrow with him for many years, and he wants to make sure that none of us ever has to face that.' " Olias, shaking his head, snorted a humorless laugh. "I always wondered why I never saw him really smile. I don't think he felt he deserved to smile, not after what happened with his father.

"Mother understood that about him, and she accepted it as best she was able, and did everything she could to give his heart some small measure of... of peace. Theirs was perhaps the most loving marriage I have ever seen.

"Then one day some Herald-Mage-trainees came to Forst Reach with Lord Withen Ashkevron's sister Savil. I found Savil herself to be a remarkably kind and pleasant woman, but some of her trainees . . . bah!—a more self-centered, arrogant bunch of brats I hope I never see!"

Absentmindedly, Olias picked up a nearby stick and began tapping it against the neck of his lute. "Among those Savil brought with her was a young man named Gwanwyn, who took great delight in amazing the courtiers with his metalworking prowess—and as much as I hate admitting it, his skill was impressive. Lord Ashke-vron was suitably amazed that he called for a contest between Gwanwyn and my father. 'I wish for a new sword,' he said. 'One to rival even my armsmen's finest blades.' Until that night, my father had fashioned most of the swords used by Lord Ashkevron's soldiers, so few doubted that he would prevail. The only rule was that Gwanwyn could not employ any magic during the competition.

"I remember all the people. I was very young, so maybe there weren't as many as it seemed, but to my eyes half of Valdemar turned out for the contest. My father—he'd never been comfortable in large crowds— was nervous as a boy calling on his love for the first time, but Mother . . . Mother eased his anxiety as well she could, telling him that no matter the outcome, she would always love him. Dear, sweet, silly woman ... as if love could be enough.

"I'm not sure how it happened, but I'm certain Gwanwyn cheated—he must have! He bested my father's efforts by more than half a candlemark—no one could have fashioned a blade that quickly without the use of magic, it just wasn't possible. Toward the end, when he began to realize that Gwanwyn was winning, my father became careless, and pulled his blade from the fire before it was ready for the hammer, and the first strike snapped the metal in two. He'd never made that mistake before, and I saw him die inside at the sight of those two halves lying on the ground before him.

"The people watching all laughed. Gods, I remember their laughter. It was such an ugly sound. Until that moment, I'd never realized that people you called 'neighbor,' people you called friend,' could take such delight in your disgrace. Only the Heralds were silent. My father was not a small man—he was perhaps one of the tallest men hi the city—but I could see him shrink under the weight of that ugly laughter.

"When he walked away that day, he was looking at the ground. I don't believe I ever saw him look up again. They broke his heart and crippled his spirit. After that day, none of the gentry ever brought then' business to him again. By the time he died, he'd been reduced to taking groom duties at one of the local stables. He never spoke much, except to thank the stable-master for his position. Of all the pains that he had to endure toward the end, the worst of it—though he would never say it aloud—was the way people looked at "him. With such ... pity. Distaste and pity.

"Mother died shortly after we buried Father. The grief and loneliness was too much for her. I tried, the gods know how I tried, to fill the void left in her life by Father's death. I would play for her at night—I'd always had a talent for music—but every song reminded her of Father. There is some grief you never recover from, I guess.

"I took to thieving shortly before she died. She'd become very ill and I knew she didn't have long left, and I was damned if her body was going to be tossed into a pauper's grave like my father's, I managed to steal enough to pay for a proper grave and marker, but I hadn't enough for a new grave for my father. To this day his body still lies in that pauper's field, and enough time has gone by that—though I can easily raise the price asked by the grave-diggers—I have . . . forgotten the exact location of the spot where his body was buried. I can't help but think that his spirit must be saddened by that, for I know how much he wanted to rest by Mother's side."

He picked up the lute and stared at it. "I will never forgive any of the gentry, any of the wealthy or the highborn for what they did to my parents. Never. They think they are so far above the rest of us, safe in their mansions. They are all the same in my eyes, and I in theirs— who am I, after all? To them? No one. Well, damn them all to hell, I say! I'll take from them what was denied my parents in life, and I'll do with the money as I please. If I wish to spend it on food and drink and the price of a woman in my bed, so be it. If I choose to give it away to beggars hi the street, then that is what I'll do! And may the gods pity anyone who dares to try and stop me!" He angrily strummed the lute. "And someday, I swear, I'll make Lord Withen Ashkevron suffer for his betrayal of my father, and then I'll find Gwanwyn and I'll kill him. Slowly, so that he'll know the pain my parents suffered because of his pride." He strummed the lute once again, coldly and calmly, then lay the instrument aside lest he damage it in his anger.

He looked toward L'lewythi. "Damn you, as well, lost-ling. What is it about you that causes me to speak in an unknown tongue? What is it that made me want to tell these things to you?"

L'lewythi only stared in silence, looking more and more like some village idiot.

Olias groaned in frustration, then flipped onto his side, facing away from his guest.

Gods! At times like this I wish there were another place, another land, another world in another time where I could be rid of them all, where I wouldn't have to look upon the faces of Valdemar and see the ghost of my parents in everyone, in every place.

I wish. Gods, how I wish. . . .

He awakened sometime later to the sounds of rustling, and immediately drew his dagger from his ankle sheath and whipped around, brandishing the weapon.

L'lewythi was standing by the tree, his eyes closed, his arms outstretched, the fingers of his hands extending outward, then curling toward him as if he were beckoning someone.

Olias watched dumbstruck as threads of thin silver light danced around L'lewythi's fingertips, then reached out to encircle a small bundle attached to the back of L'lewythi's horse. The ropes holding the bundle in place untied themselves, the covering fell away, and the silver threads wound themselves around something that looked like a glass pipe—only this instrument was much larger than a pipe, easily the size of a man's forearm, tapered at one end and open at the other. Inside, the glass had been blown In such a way that several spheres, some larger than others, had formed along its length. The instrument rose from the horse, cradled in silver threads, and moved through the air to land gently in L'lewythi's grip. Smiling, the boy sat down once again and rubbed his hands against a small patch of ice near the base of the tree until the heat from his palms melted the ice sufficiently to wet his fingers. Laying the glass pipe across his knee, L'lewythi placed his fingers on the surface of the instrument. The spheres within began to revolve and whirl, some slower than others, some so fast they could barely be seen.

Olias couldn't tell how this was possible. The spheres were obviously part of the pipe, yet each moved as if independent of it.

L'lewythi began to finger the glass in much the same way harp players plucked at the taut strings of their instruments, but as he moved his fingers up and down the length of the pipe, each of the spheres glowed—not any single color, but all colors, one bleeding into the next until it was impossible to tell the difference between gold and red, red and gray, gray and blue, and with each

burst of color and combinations of colors there came musical notes. The first was a lone, soft, sustained cry that floated above them on the wings of a dove, a mournful call that sang of foundered dreams and sorrowful partings and dusty, forgotten myths from ages long gone by, then progressively rose in pitch to strengthen this extraordinary melancholy with tinges of joy, wonder, and hope as the songs of the other spheres and colors joined it, becoming the sound of a million choral voices raised in worship to the gods, becoming music's fullest dimension, richest intention, whispering rest to Olias' weary heart as the light moved outward in waves and ripples, altering the landscape with every exalted refrain, voices a hundred times fuller than any human being's should ever be, pulsing, swirling, rising, then cascading over his body like pure crystal rain, and suddenly the rain, the music, was inside of him, assuming physical dimensions, forcing him to become more than he was, than he'd been, than he'd ever dreamed of becoming. Olias dropped down to one knee, the sound growing without and within him, and he was aware not only of the music and the colors and whirling spheres of glass but of every living thing that surrounded him—every weed, every insect, every glistening drop of dew on every blade of grass and every animal in deepest forest, and as the song continued rising in his soul, lavish, magnificent, and improbable, Olias Heard thoughts and Sensed dreams and Absorbed myriad impressions as they danced in the air, passing from spirit to mind to memory with compulsive speed and more sensory layers than he was able to comprehend, lifting everything toward a sublime awareness so acute, so alive, so incandescent and all-encompassing that he thought he might burst into flames for the blinding want underneath it all.

It was the closest thing to splendor he'd ever known.

L'lewythi lifted his hands from the pipe, but the music didn't immediately stop; instead, it faded away in degrees, one layer of sound absorbed into the next until, at the end, there was only the original note, pure and easy, sighing release like a breath rippling by.

Olias covered his face with his hands and took several deep breaths in an effort to still the pounding of his heart, then lifted his head and opened his eyes to daylight.

Daylight.

In a place he didn't recognize, barren of trees and bush. Ranyart was gone, as was L'lewythi's horse and the campsite, even the road.

"W-what . . . what have you done?" he croaked.

L'lewythi's only response was to smile, then turn and walk away, gesturing for Olias to follow.

The ground—mostly sun-browned mud covered in cracks—was much firmer than it appeared at first glance, though the terrain was far from level. They began ascending a hill and were met by a strong, steady wind soaring down, carrying with it the first stinging spatters of rain—yet the sky above was blue, the clearest Olias had ever seen.

He doubled his efforts to catch up with L'lewythi and continued climbing, blinking against the sea spray (not rain, after all) until the ground leveled off and he found himself standing at the top of a jagged overhang. Looking to each side, he was struck not only by the vast expanse of the cliffs upon which they were standing, but by their beauty, as well.

Silvery clouds rolled in above their heads, twirling and turning like banners in a breeze, moving quicker than any cloud formations Olias had ever seen, winding around one another and spinning in place. He opened his mouth to speak, and L'lewythi silenced him by placing a finger against his own lips. An odd noise caused Olias to shake his head: the sound of a million insects buzzing. Here atop the cliffs, the buzzing merged with the sounds of the sea and became clearer, more defined, not a buzz at all but the combined whispering of a million different voices speaking in as many tongues. Some were complex and excited, others low and monosyllabic, still others a combination of vaguely recognizable words that degenerated into animal clicks and whistling and yaps.

"What are those . . . those voices? Those sounds?" shouted Olias over the roar of the rushing waters below.

Again, L'lewythi raised a finger to his lips, then pointed out to sea.

The waters rumbled and churned, crashing against the base of the cliffs with the sound of shattering glass. The vibrations rocked upward through layers of stone and sand, shaking Olias to his bones.

Then, with stupendous force and thunderous volume, the spinning tower of silver clouds shot down into the sea, churning as it struck the surface and creating great, revolving waves of frothy spray before vanishing beneath the waters. The froth left in its wake formed a circle that spun around and around and around, its speed becoming frantic as it formed an ever-widening and deepening whirlpool.

The atmosphere crackled with power.

Olias covered his ears against the shrieking winds and watched as the whirlpool turned inside out, rising like a geyser. Atop the foaming fount appeared a shining white stallion with an opal mane, its front legs lifted high, heraldic, its belly the curve of the moon, the rest a silken fish scaled from chest to tail like a shower of silver coins.

The churning fount surged across the sea, the glorious creature riding the crest, its legs pumping, mane flowing in the wind. As it neared the cliffs, the fountain of water slowed and began to curve downward, the spray spinning off, lowering the creature until it hovered directly at the edge of the overhang.

Olias couldn't speak; the eyes of the creature demanded silence.

The creature threw back its head and opened its mouth. A soft, nearly imperceptible sound rose from deep in its chest, a clear, crisp ping! as if someone had flicked a finger against a crystal goblet. The sound—so much like the music L'lewythi had played earlier—grew in volume and, it seemed, even density, assuming a physical form invisible to the eye yet filling the air, enveloping Olias in a liquid-armor numbness, drugging him like a frosty sip from a Healer's herb cup but allowing him to maintain wakefulness as the geysering fount slowly shifted sideways, moving the creature until its face was inches from his own. The exalted sound, the wondrous lone crystal note sung in response to the call from L'lewythi's glass pipe, filled Olias' center, then suddenly split apart, becoming night stars that in turn became a symphony of musical notes even more unbearable in their purity than the music L'lewythi had created, and Olias realized that what he was hearing was the second verse to L'lewythi's song, a song of mourning, and rejoicing, a song meant for no one and everyone, but in that instant Olias chose to think of it as his, this chaste glory, this innocence, this music. A song for no one's mourning, sung only for him to honor the memory of his parents and all they had dreamed of. He hugged himself, dropping to his knees and rocking back and forth, the spuming foam covering him like lather. He was agonizingly aware of the swirling voices, the unknown languages shifting forward, dislodging themselves from his mind and themselves becoming tones. The first crystal note the creature had sung swam forward until it found its matching language-tone, and the two of them merged—a sharp sting in Olias' ears—and were translated—

—"Pwy fydd yma ymhen can mlynedd?"—

—into his own language—

—"Who will be here in a hundred years?"

Olias' torso shot straight up, his eyes staring into the unblinking golden disks of the creature's gaze.

"Gods" he whispered.

.•Greetings, Olias.: said the creature. :My name is Ylem. You should feel honored. L'lewythi doesn't bring many others to this place.:

:Where am I?: asked Olias silently.

:You are where you wished to be: another place, another world, another time. You are in a place that lies between Valdemar and the Otherworld, created by one who feels he has no place in either; only here can he feel some sense of home. You needn't worry about Ranyart. Were you able to cross through the veil that separates this

world from Valdemar, you would find him only a few feet away from you.:

:I don't understand.:

:Perhaps, in time. . . .: But Ylem did not finish the thought.

After the first merging of tones, the others happened quickly and easily. A note sung by Ylem would find its match in a language-tone, the two of them merging and translating in Olias' mind until he could not only hear the other languages spoken in their native tongue but understand them, as well.

Ylem leaned to the side, kissed L'lewythi's forehead, then whispered something in his ear.

Try as he did, Olias could not Hear what the creature was saying.

Ylem was in front of him again, hooves pressing against Olias' shoulder hi a gesture of blessing. Then, releasing a triumphant crystal cry, the creature spun around, its tail snapping in the air, and sailed atop the fountain back out to sea, diving downward and disappearing beneath the waters—

—but not before Speaking one last time to Olias.

:Take care, Olios, and realize if you can that you are not the only one in this place who has known soul-sickness and grief. Keep your anger near. You will need it—but not for the reasons you may think.:

For several moments afterward, Olias could only kneel there, shaking.

Then a voice, a small, quiet child's voice asked, "Are you all right?"

Olias looked up as L'lewythi placed a hand upon his shoulder.

"Are we speaking in my language, or in yours?" asked Olias.

"Can you understand me?"

"Yes."

"Then what does it matter?"

Olias struggled to his feet, gasping for breath. "Where are we?"

"In the Barrens of my world," said L'lewythi, pointing first to his head, then his heart, then spreading his arms in front of him. "I made it, I dreamed it. Do you like it?"

Olias rubbed his forehead. "I ... I don't know. But so far, what I've seen has been . . . gods. . . ."

L'lewythi, now looking more like an overgrown child than ever, laughed a child's laugh, grabbed Olias' hand, and led him away from the cliffs. They stumbled down a sharp slope toward a pampas of richly green grass leading to a field where tall corn stalks brushed back and forth through the air. To Olias, everything smelled like lavender—which to him had always been the scent of his mother's skin, left there by the soap she bought from a local tradesman.

They moved toward the entrance to a grove, but as they neared it, Olias saw there were no trees beyond the few dozen that rose before them, arranged in two opposing rows, between which stood a stained glass archway.

Olias slowed his steps.

Something about this was familiar, but he didn't know why.

The trees were as tall as a castle's tower, each with a thick black trunk. The branches of each tree were obscured by onion layers of bleak blue leaves which collectively blossomed into human faces, each one turned skyward and staring up through milky, pupilless eyes. Every face wore the pinched, tight expression of concentrated grief, and as the wind passed through the trees, the faces opened their mouths and moaned deeply, steadily, mournfully.

L'lewythi looked upon them as if they were old friends.

Olias whispered, "They sound as if they're in pain."

"They are, but they're used to it. They're Keening-woods, and this is what they do."

Keeningwoods, thought Olias.

And then: the Forest of Sorrows!

Looking backward, he began to see a pattern. L'lewythi had taken various parts of Valdemar and transposed them into this place the same way a skilled musician

would transpose one theme into another. The Barrens could very well have been L'lewythi's version of the Border—Ylem's uncanny form attested to that, and Ylem itself could very well have been based partly on the legends of the Border's creatures, and partly on the Companions, the sea taking the place of Companion's Field, and here the Keeningwoods replaced the Forest of Sorrows.

It both made sense and did not.

Of course a child like L'lewythi would have to build upon things he already knew, and who in Valdemar didn't know of the Companions or their field, or the Forest of Sorrows, or countless other beings and places? (Some part of him shuddered inwardly at the thought of what a child might do with the concept of the outKing-dom or the Pelagirs.)

Pointing toward the Keeningwoods, Olias asked L'lewythi, "Why do they make such an anguished sound?"

"To remind all travelers that there are only three things that really matter, people you love, your memories, and sadness." Such a wistful look in his silver eyes as he said this!

They passed under the Keeningwoods and through the archway, emerging on the threshold of a resplendent stone city where a raucous band of black-winged children flew past them, all smiling and greeting L'lewythi by name.

"They're my friends," said L'lewythi. "I like having friends. Even if I had to ... make them up. . . ."

Just outside the city, they came to an ancient bridge made of sticks and bones. When they reached the middle, L'lewythi stopped and pointed over the side.

Beneath the clear, stilled surface of the turquoise water was a series of evenly spaced, hollowed boulders, each with a transparent sheet of glass attached to the front Inside each of the boulders—which weren't boulders at all, Olias saw upon closer examination, but glass spheres like those within L'lewythi's strange pipe, only covered in moss and isinglass—sat a claylike lump. Some were shapeless blobs, others more human in shape, some were skeletal, others so corpulent their forms could barely be contained. Still others were merely hand-sized, featureless fetuses. All of the figures huddled with knees pulled up tightly against their chests.

None of them seemed complete. Their dark, sunken eyes stared blankly at the floating weeds and golden fish swimming by.

"You see them?" asked L'lewythi. "Don't they look safe?"

"No," whispered Olias. "They look imprisoned."

"Oh, no, no, I'd ... I'd never do anything like that. I don't like feeling lonely, and I know that they feel the same way, so I made sure that the water is filled with stories and music to keep them company."

"Why do you want them to feel safe?"

"Because it's . . . it's nice to feel that way. I don't want them to be lonely. Lonely is cold. I don't like the cold. There's so much cold, sometimes. Don't you ever feel cold?"

"Most of my life."

"That's sad."

"No, it isn't. It's just the way that is. Your Keening-woods weep; I feel cold."

"But not here?"

Olias shrugged. "No, this is ... this is fine." He looked down once more at the beings in the water. "How long will you keep them this way?"

L'lewythi stared down at his feet. "I guess ... I don't—I mean, until. . . ."

"Until when?"

"Until I decide what to make out of them."

Olias stared at his companion, then said, very slowly, very carefully, "How did you come by this power? I've heard of no Herald-Mage who possesses such abilities. What . . . empowered you?"

"I don't know. My dreams, I guess. I dream a lot. Sometimes ... I don't have a mother or father. If I ever did have, I can't remember. Mostly I live in the stables of my village. The grooms there are kind to me. They make sure that I have food and blankets." He stood a little taller, a little prouder. "I sweep up after the horses. I do a good job, the stable-master says so. I have a fine feather pillow. The stable-master's wife made it for me. She says I'm a nice boy, and it's a shame the other children won't. . . won't play with me."

Olias almost laughed at L'lewythi's referring to himself as a child. Perhaps in his mind, yes, but his body was that of the strongest armsmen. A child's mind in a warrior's body.

But ... a stable-hand? Gods! Were they in a place such as Haven, a boy with L'lewythi's Gifts would be treated with the deepest respect and awe. No one would dare think to make a Gifted one sleep among the horses.

"L'lewythi," said Olias, slowly and carefully, "why were you made to sleep in the stables?"

"Because no one would take me into their home."

"Even though they knew of your powers?"

L'lewythi stared at him for a moment, then looked down at the ground and shook his head. "I never . . . never understood why I could do some of the things I could—can do. I thought they might be bad things, some of them, so I never . . . told anyone. I never showed them."

"But certainly there must have been ..." Olias sighed, puzzling for a moment over how to say this. "There must have been people in your village who suffered, either from sickness or injury. Children, gods save us! Certainly there must have been children who fell ill and might have died if—"

"Oh, yes! There was one child, a little girl, who became so sick with fever that no one thought she would live if a Healer were not sent for. But I made her better."

"How, if no one knew?"

A bird—strangely metallic in coloring—flew overhead at that moment, and L'lewythi waved his hand toward it. Its wings went limp and its body began to plummet toward the ground, but a few seconds before it would have struck the earth L'lewythi waved his hand once again and the bird—wrenched from its trance—frantically flapped its wings and, screeching, flew away.

"That's how I did it," said L'lewythi. "I can make people sleep, or not see me. That's how I got into the little girl's bedroom and made her all better. Everyone in the village, they said it was a miracle, a blessing from the gods."

"And anytime someone in the village needed healing, you . . . you made them sleep or not see you?"

"Yes."

Olias nodded his head. "Did you cast this spell over only those you helped, or did you—"

"The whole village."

"Everyone?"

L'lewythi nodded his head.

"That way I'd be sure no one could see me."

"Ah."

"I like helping them and no one knowing. It gives me nice dreams sometimes, and sometimes when I feel lonely, I'd think about the little girl and smile. And it's nice in the stables, really, it is. I like it."

"I'm sure .you're a fine stable-hand." Surprisingly, Olias found that he meant it.

"But the other people in the village, they don't . . . they don't talk to me. The other children tell me that I'm too big and . . . and ugly, and no one wants to play with a foundling—that's what I am. It makes me feel... feel bad sometimes because I don't know where I came from or ... or anything. So when I finish sweeping at night, I like to dream, even when I'm awake. And if I dream hard enough, the dreams, they sometimes come out of my head and become real. And the people in my dreams, they're always my friends. Except for Gash— you don't want to meet him. He's mean. And he always wants me to tell him what he is. He says that if I can ever do that, if I can tell him what he is, then he'll go away and never come back. I try to guess, but I'm never right, and then he destroys things. Don't be scared, though, because he's never come around these parts."

Oh, you poor, simple-minded thing, thought Olias. Has the world treated you so wretchedly that even in your dreams you invent one who torments you, who makes you feel so alone and sad and worthless? Gods—did you do so out of choice, or has your heart been so brutalized that you simply think it's natural for someone to abuse you?

Unable to find the words which would adequately express what he was feeling, Olias reached out and placed his hand on L'lewythi's shoulder.

Smiling, L'lewythi placed his hand atop Olias' and asked, "Are you ... do you like it here?"

"Yes, L'lewythi. I think it's very nice. I think it's splendid."

The boy's face beamed at this mild praise. "Really? Would you like to see more?"

"Very much so, yes."

"Are you ... do you want to be ... I—I mean—"

"Yes," whispered Olias. "I will be your friend."

He could have swum a hundred raging rivers then on the memory of L'lewythi's smile. How strange it was, to feel an attachment after so many years done; how strange to feel some of the soul-coldness fading away.

But somehow, here in L'lewythi's odd world-within-a-world, it seemed . . . right.

How strange, to feel affection for another human being.

How strange, indeed.

Dear Father, dear Mother, what would you think of your boy now if you could see him? Lost in a place that doesn't really exist, befriending a simpleton in whose hands his destiny evidently rests?

What would you think?

Once over the bridge the land became flat and hard and dusty. As they walked beside one another, Olias and L'lewythi spoke of their childhoods, of games and tales and small wonders, of the animals they'd played with

and the places they'd seen, and it seemed to Olias that, as they spoke, some part of the world sang a song of rejoicing, of second chances and hope renewed, a Bardic ballad of two lifebonded friends meeting for the first time, and of the simple, untainted glory of learning to trust.

"I can see why you like it here so much," said Olias. "It must be difficult for you to leave."

L'lewythi touched his head, then his heart. "I don't leave, ever. It's always here, with me. Even when I'm gone."

The abstract wisdom in those words caught Olias by surprise. Could it be that L'lewythi was not as dim as people thought?

They came then to another section of the shoreline. The sea lapped at the edge of their feet, playfully, as if acknowledging their new bond and giving its blessing.

They came to rest on a large boulder, worn down by time, sea, and the seasons until its shape bore a humorous resemblance to a giant king's throne. Lying back, Olias allowed the sea mist to anoint his face, and felt even more at home.

"L'lewythi?"

"Hm?"

"Could you please tell me what happened to you—I mean, who . . . who hurt you? Who tied you to that horse?"

L'lewythi stared out at the sea, then looked down at his hands. "I... I don't know why I can do these things. I just know that I can. I play my glass pipe, and the music brings me here. It's so nice here, everyone's so good to me, they're . . . they're happy to see me. No one in Valdemar treats me this way, that's why I come here all the time, that's why I made this place, so I could go somewhere where people would be nice to me."

"I know, I understand that much, but—"

"/ didn't mean for it to happen!" he shouted, eyes filling with tears. The sudden violence of his emotion shocked Olias, who was so startled he nearly cried out.

As L'lewythi spoke, his voice became louder and even

more childlike. Beneath every word his pain, deeper than Olias had imagined, came snarling to the surface. It was the panicked voice of a child, lost in the night, hands outstretched in hopes that someone kind would take hold of him and protect them from the darkness and pain and make the fear go away, a pain that asked, in its own way: Please, please show a little kindness, a little tenderness.

"S-s-somet-times, when I'm asleep, sometimes the dreams, they come out of my head and I can't make them do what I want because I'm asleep and I don't know that they've come out I I d-don't mean for it to happen, but it just happens sometimes. It's never been a bad thing before, but the other night ... I was so tired! I'd worked hard and . . . and I was so tired! And when I fell asleep, Gash came out—and he's so mean! He hurt a lot of people in the village. He burned down some of the other stables and killed the horses, and th-th-then he, he started killing everyone. I woke up when I heard the screaming, but it was too late. 7 couldn't stop him from killing everyone because I was asleep! That's never happened to me before. When I woke up, Gash went back into my head, but he'd been so mean by then. And the people, they knew that it was me that had brought Gash into the village because a ... a Herald was there, and he said he sensed that Gash had come from me. He ... he tried to make them all understand, but they didn't. They all came after me and they . . . they hurt me! I mean, I've been hurt before— some of the other stable-boys, they like to hit me and call me names—but this time it w-was different. The Herald tried to stop them but there were too many. They hurt me for so long, and they screamed at me, and some of them even laughed like they were enjoying it. I tried to tell them that I'm not a bad boy, I'm not, I didn't mean for it to happen, but they wouldn't listen to me, they just kept hitting and spitting and then they burned me and ... and .. ." He doubled over, clutching at his stomach, the sobs racking his body—deep, soul-shattering sobs as the grief and fear and confusion dragged rusty steel hooks across his body all over again. Then he fell backward, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around his knees, convulsing.

Olias climbed over to him, taking L'lewythi in his arms as the boy wept even harder, his next words coming in broken bursts: "I didn't . . . mean to h-hurt anyone ... I d-didn't ... I didn't. . . ."

"I know," whispered Olias, stroking L'lewythi's hair. "I know."

"I j-just wanted them to know ... I wouldn't have ... have done any of it... I wouldn't have dreamed another world l-like this if ... if I could just tell Gash what he is, he'd go away, you see? And th-then m-maybe I could have a friend . . . just one, that's all ... just one friend____"

"You have one now. I will be your friend for the rest of our days, L'lewythi. There, there, take deep breaths, deep, there you are, hold onto me, that's it, hold on, I won't let go, I won't leave you alone, ever, I swear it on my parents' graves, / swear if! You'll never be lonely again, never—and no one will ever harm you from this day forward, not while I'm around . .. it's all right, shhh, there, there, go on, go on and cry, that's right, let it go, let it go ..."

He leaned down and kissed L'lewythi's sweat-soaked forehead, then brushed back his hair and held him even tighter, rocking back and forth, feeling strong—and it was good to feel this way for someone after so long. The sudden rush of affection was dizzying, almost overpowering, but he didn't care. He could protect this boy, this sad, gentle boy who wanted nothing more than acceptance, something Olias himself had secretly wished for since the day he buried his mother—but instead of trusting others he had foolishly chosen to hide his loneliness behind a scrim of anger and bitterness.

It was then that Olias looked behind them and saw the wall of stone, an ancient ruin nearly overgrown with moist red vines. Sculpted into the wall was a woman's face. Her eye sockets were empty, raven-black ovals, and her mouth, opened as if calling out for some long-lost love, was the entrance to a cave. It was a face which held so much unspoken pain and grief that her expression alone would have been enough to move even the hardest of hearts, but that is not why Olias' eyes began to fill with tears.

The face was that of his mother.