Under The Vale And Other Tales Of Valdemar

Lenar might be the Lord here, but he was also Garrad’s son and Jem’s father. True, he’d lost track of Jem when Jem was just a baby, leaving poor Jem to grow up as a street urchin. But he’d not done it with intent, and he loved Jem in his own gruff way. Besides, the two were so alike in temper and look that they might rub wrong but couldn’t avoid loving each other. The three of them treasured their time together, even if it almost always–at least until this last year and Garrad’s illness–had ended in all of them shouting at each other at the top of their voices.

On the first few visits Lenar’s wife, Loylla, had been uncomfortable, but now she either hid it or mostly forgot that this was a plain farm and not the kind of manor she’d spent her whole life in. She was a cheerful daughter-in-law to Garrad, and though she wasn’t so crass as to try to mother Jem, who was little younger than her, she behaved to Jem and Ree as an older sister might. Their little boy, a sturdy two-year-old, played happily with Meren whenever the family visited, and Lenar sometimes grumbled that the boy asked every day if he could go play “wif Mewen.”

Ree thought that Lenar didn’t really understand why little Garrad couldn’t come over every day, either, because it wasn’t Lenar who had to haul the little imps out of—among other things—the chicken coop, the water trough, the barn feeding trough, and every mud puddle they could find. That enviable task fell to Ree. There wasn’t a fence, tree, or building on the farm that Meren couldn’t climb, and if he could help or carry little Garrad with him, he would.

Which was why this warm summer night, while Amelie and Jem laid out the table and Garrad talked with Lenar and Loylla, Ree watched Meren play-wrestle with little Garrad, and made sure he was between the two little boys and the fence. At least today the worst they’d suffer was grass stains on their oldest clothes—worn, patched clothing that was kept just so the two of them could get themselves dirty without ruining good clothing.

A blur of movement at the edge of his vision caught his eye, and he reached out, catching Damncat before the gray-and-white menace could join the fun. “Oh, no you don’t.” He held the cat close and made eye contact. “You want to play with them, I get to trim your claws.”

The cat might not understand the words, but he understood tone and scrambled for Ree’s shoulder instead. One of the other damncats—another gray and white, with the lanky build of an animal partway between kitten and adult—took great care to groom itself. As if, Ree thought with a wry smile, it hadn’t been considering joining in the play fight a little before. One of Damncat’s siring, of course—Damncat sired most of the kittens at the farm these days. He sired smart, troublesome kittens, the best hunters and mousers in the region.

Ree suspected some of them had thumbs, although he’d never quite figured out which ones. There were just too many damncats.

The warm weight of Damncat leaned against his head, and the cat started to purr. Ree reached up to scratch the animal without looking away from the rolling, squealing little boys. I make a terrible wild beast, standing here petting a cat while minding two little boys. Not that anyone from outside the valley would realize that was what he was doing. They’d think I was watching my dinner and playing with my snack.

“Ree!” Jem called from the back door. “Dinner’s about ready.”

“I’ll get the boys in,” he shouted back.

He and Jem shared all the farm chores between them these days, what with Amelie spending each morning at the manor, learning how to be a lady, and Meren too young to help much. But when it came to herding small boys, Ree had the advantage over Jem, lacking the family’s quick temper.

Moving carefully so he didn’t throw Damncat’s balance off, Ree bent and grabbed the straps of a small pair of overalls, and hauled the wearer out. Little Garrad, halfway through a pretend “wild animal” growl.

Meren started to protest but stopped when he saw where his playmate was, safely held in Meren’s Papa’s arms. “Time to wash up and get into your good clothes, boys. Come along now.” Shepherding two little boys was a lot more difficult than dealing with the goats or the cows, Ree had learned. It got worse the older the boys got; he hoped they’d start getting more sense before he couldn’t keep up with them. Having to climb to the farm roof once or twice a day was one thing. Having to do that and save the goats from boys who wanted to ride them and race them was something else again.

Still, he got them washed and into their good clothes—pants and shirts, although they both went barefoot. It wasn’t worth trying to keep Meren in his shoes in summer, and trying to get little Garrad to do something Meren wouldn’t . . . Well, that one had the full measure of his father’s stubborn streak.

He even managed to get the two sets of blond curls tamed and turn the pair of them over to Jem with time to get himself changed.

Everyone else was at the table when Ree entered. They’d set it up with the best tablecloth and the best plates and all, and Melie had arranged some flowers from the garden in a bright blue vase she’d bought at the Three Rivers fair.

It might not be a proper feast, but it looked right homey to Ree. He smiled and took his seat, nodding to Lenar and Loylla. “Did anything come of that last message you sent back east? About being confirmed as a Lord?”

Lenar chuckled. “Either I’m not that important, or some clerk is having fits.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter that much, so long as the taxes go in. I’ve got the records and the receipts from Karelshill, so any investigation is going to look someplace else.” He covered his wife’s hand with his much larger one. “The Empire’s pretty flexible, Ree. If it works and the taxes keep coming, no one’s going to argue with my position.”

Ree nodded and didn’t argue. Lenar had been a soldier before coming back to his old home with enough gold to build himself a manor, and he knew how the nobles and all did things. It would be nice to know Lenar was properly the local Lord, but if he didn’t think it mattered, it wasn’t Ree’s part to argue.

Conversation ebbed and flowed while they ate, Loylla mentioning how fast Amelie learned and how eager she was to know everything she needed to know, and Ree giving Jem a look that said he knew Amelie was learning as fast as she could so she didn’t have to be at the manor house. Not that she disliked Lenar or Loylla but she loved being at the farm, looking after her flower garden, feeding the animals, and milking the goats.

Lenar lamented how fast little Garrad was growing—he’d learned to feed himself well enough that he didn’t need someone to help him, and he didn’t even get too much on his face, although the food on his plate was mostly cut small enough for little fingers and didn’t have any gravy or sauces a child could smear himself with—and Jem agreed, complaining that they’d had to let down the legs of Meren’s overalls again so they were long enough to be decent, and he didn’t think they’d last until the tailor came through to take orders for the next year’s clothes.

“Oh, there’s been some bad hobgoblin problems in Karelshill,” Lenar said after Ree had taken both boys upstairs to sleep; it might still be full light outside, but small boys needed a lot of sleep.

Jem raised an eyebrow. He was looking more and more like his father: a bit less weathered, and without the beard, but still. “Attacks or just sightings?”

There weren’t as many hobgoblins these days, but the ones that could breed did, and some of them were vicious. Ree still needed to patrol the forest, although since he’d had to start patrolling on his own, he never went out without a weapon. The snow bears and dire wolves were the worst.

Lenar sighed. “Attacks, son, bad ones.” He nodded in Ree’s direction and got the frown that said that he was worried about Ree. His voice boomed, too, which is how you knew that Lenar cared. He cared enough to yell at you. “You be careful out there, you hear. Don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea about you being like them. What I hear is that something’s organizing them, using them to attack. Maybe softening them up for something else.”

Ree winced. “That would take magic, wouldn’t it?” His tail twitched and whipped against his leg. Most of the time his tail was just fine down one pants leg, but when he was worried, it tried to lash and made it look as though he had a snake trapped in there.

Lenar scratched his beard. “That’s what I hear. I’m not so sure . . .I mean . . .no offense, Ree, but say someone like you, only with bad intentions, got hold of some cubs. You could raise yourself a hobgoblin army that way.”

Jem made a sound of protest but stopped at Garrad’s soft, “He’s right, Jem. Ain’t nothing that says being mostly human means being good.”

Ree nodded. “Yeah, I know.” There had been too many nights when he’d lain awake wondering whether he was human and what part of him made him fit to be with full humans. And some nights he was sure he wasn’t. Sure he wasn’t good enough to deserve someone like Jem, who could have had anyone he wanted.

“It wouldn’t even have to be a hobgoblin,” Garrad said. “It could be someone who didn’t have any reason to care about other people . . . You wouldn’t even need to be a hobgoblin to do that, although it would be harder. Humans can stop being human too, you know? I think I might have, a bit, before you and Jem came,” he added, quietly.

Ree’s claws unsheathed, and he tapped the tablecloth with them. “How much damage was done?”

“No one dead yet,” Lenar said. “There’s been some stock taken and a few injuries.” He didn’t look happy. “The problem is, there are plenty of people who remember a ‘Hobgoblin King’ who came from up this way.”

Damn. That ruse, a trick Ree had used to frighten soldiers away, had come back to bite more than once. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t been able to think of any other way to get the soldiers to leave and not come back—and they hadn’t come back, so Ree supposed he’d scared them good. It had worked. But he’d still left himself with a nasty mess that didn’t ever go away.

The warmth of Jem’s hand on his didn’t help. Sometimes he had to remember there were other people and other places outside their special, protected relationship. “I don’t suppose you could tell them the Hobgoblin King isn’t happy about this but these creatures aren’t his or in his territory.” It wasn’t a question—Ree knew very well Lenar wouldn’t be able to convince anyone of that.

“I’ve tried,” Lenar said, making Ree blink with surprise. Lenar had tried?

Lenar laughed a little at Ree’s expression. “Of course, I tried, son. I want to keep you from trouble if I can, and Jem too, of course. Only I’m not a diplomat. I’m just an old soldier who got into more than he planned for.”

Ree nodded. Well. Life, like raising children, was trouble, wasn’t it? But it had his compensations. He squeezed Jem’s hand, gently, making sure his claws weren’t unsheathed.

The sun was setting when Jem climbed up to the attic bedroom to fetch little Garrad. He returned soon after, grim-faced. “They’re not there.”

“How . . . They never came through here!”

“No,” Jem said, his mouth set. “They opened the roof hatch and got out through it. You know Meren did that last week. Down the rain pipe to the shed roof.”

And down the shed roof to the chicken house, where he’d tried to collect the eggs, only got the wrong ones. The poor broody hen would never recover from the shock.

Ree swallowed. He half stood before he even thought of the words. His mouth was dry. the trouble those two could get into . . . It didn’t bear thinking. If he was lucky he’d just find them trying to ride one of the goats or driving the cow to distraction.

If he wasn’t lucky . . . “I’ll check the outhouse. Maybe one of them had to go.” And at this time of year neither of them would use the chamberpot. Not that Ree blamed them. He preferred the outhouse even in the cold of winter. He wouldn’t blame them for not coming through here, either, because Garrad was as likely to yell at them as not, in the mood he’d been.

He doubted he’d find either child in the outhouse, truth be told. There were much more interesting things to do and places to go than the outhouse. But they might have gone there first, and there was a good chance of catching a scent. Besides, he didn’t want to see Lenar’s expression or hear anything Lenar said. His face had clouded when Jem said that Meren had got out that way before. Ree didn’t want to know if he was mad at them for not telling him or mad at Meren. And he didn’t want anyone to be mad at Meren.

Meren was no more mischievous than any other four-year-old, but taking little Garrad with him . . . that was new. Normally when they were in bed, they stayed in bed, talking and giggling in half-intelligible baby-language, until they fell asleep.

Ree snatched the belt with his hunting knife and the slingshot on his way out the lean-to, then paused to scan the ground. There wasn’t anything obvious, but he hadn’t expected anything. Neither child was heavy enough to leave much of an impression on thick grass.

The outhouse was empty, with no trace of either child’s scent—or at least none that Ree could determine under the overpowering outhouse smell. From there, he circled the house, to where the air hatch on the roof was propped open. They’d open that in summer, to let breezes through and keep the house from getting too hot during the day, but it was closed at night to keep insects out.

Ree had closed both the hatches when he’d put the boys to bed. His throat tightened, threatening to choke him. And realized Lenar was keeping pace with him.

“I’ll tan that boy’s hide so hard he won’t sit down for a week,” Lenar growled. “He knows he’s to stay in bed once he’s put there. And following that damn hobg—” He stopped, but his glare said everything his voice didn’t.

Ree didn’t say anything. How could he? Lenar had to be as worried as Ree. Maybe more: sometimes Ree caught Lenar looking at Jem as though he’d never really forgiven himself for losing Jem. Rather than worry at Lenar’s anger, Ree traced the line of the roof with his eyes, to the lean-to and the stone wall butting against it. Oh, yes, an agile little boy could get to that wall without any difficulty. And walk along it, too, until he got to one of the trees with branches hanging over the walls, where he could climb to the ground. The question was, which one?

Ree hurried over to the wall,and jumped up. He bent to the stone to sniff. “They came this way.” Neither boy had been wearing shoes—for once Ree blessed their dislike of footwear. Once, Ree wouldn’t have hesitated to drop to all fours to scurry along that wall, but he wasn’t agile enough for that any more, and besides, he tried to set the right example for Meren. He tried not to think about proving to Lenar that he was more human than animal. If he said anything now, he wouldn’t like the answer.

Lenar walked beside the wall, cursing in language fit to raise the dead. It certainly made Ree’s fur want to stand on end.

Jem joined his father, quiet but just as grim-faced.

Ree walked so he wouldn’t miss seeing anything, even though he wanted to run. If he ran like he wanted to, he could take the wrong fence, because he didn’t know which way the children had gone.

A cat screamed in the forest.

Ree didn’t make any conscious decisions. In the time it took for the sound to fade, he was running along the wall, aware of Jem and Lenar sprinting alongside him on the ground and damncats converging from every direction.

The cats moved ahead of them in a multicolored furry tide, responding to the distress of one of their own. Where the wall ended, Ree jumped off and followed the cats into the forest. Jem and Lenar didn’t take long to catch up with him.

They didn’t say anything, not that they’d be heard over the caterwauling that echoed up ahead. And under it . . . growls. Not Meren’s growl. And no human screams. Did that mean the boys were already . . . Ree’s stomach lurched, and he wrenched his mind away from the thought.

The damn boy knew the forest was dangerous! Why had he come out here?

A cat’s death scream, then Meren’s growl, shrill and childish, but dangerous too. He’d growled like that when he’d saved Amelie from a dire wolf.

Ree raced around a massive oak and all but ran into two snow bears, one batting ineffectually at the snarling cats attacking it. The other . . . It was covered with cats as well, as though every damncat on the farm had come after the bears. Meren clung to the tree, his weight held by the claws of one hand and both feet. Little Garrad was wedged into the space between Meren and tree, while Meren clawed and snarled at the attacking bear. The bear that seemed to be fighting its own body as it reached for the child.

Ree caught the first bear’s fur and used that to swing himself between the other bear and the children. If the bear hadn’t been injured—or if the other one hadn’t been trying to fight off the damncats the way this one should have been—both boys would be dead.

Lenar pushed him out of the way, practically crushing him against the tree. “Get the boys out of here.” Ree didn’t argue. He scrambled up the tree trunk to the first branching, far enough above the bear’s reach to be safe, then leaned down, extended one hand. “Garrad! Come to Uncle Ree.” It took an effort of will to keep his claws in, with the bears and the cats and the smell of blood.

“Come on.” Neither child seemed to notice. A bear screamed, dying. Ree dug his toe claws and the claws of his other hand in and leaned lower, and lower, until he could get hold of Garrad’s shirt. “Come on, little man, hold onto me.”

He pulled, praying that the shirt wouldn’t tear, that he wouldn’t lose his grip. Another bear roar and hot breath against his arm. Ree didn’t dare try to look.

He wasn’t entirely sure how he managed it, but a flurry of small limbs and some needle-sharp little claws later, Ree sat on the branch with his back against the bole of the old oak and Meren and little Garrad trembling in his arms.

He didn’t try to move or look, just held the boys close. There was a meaty sound, then something hit the ground, hard, and Ree heard scurrying and distressed meowing. The lament in the cats cries made Ree’s eyes burn.

“Well.” Lenar sounded grim. “Now we know something is using magic.”

Meren whimpered and tried to bury himself in Ree’s shirt.

It took a while to get the boys calm enough that Ree could hand them down to Lenar and Jem. By then, Lenar had dragged the dead bears far enough away that they wouldn’t attract any unwanted attention, and Jem had lined up the sad little bodies of three of the damncats.

More than a few of the other cats were hurt, but they weren’t letting Jem get close. Getting back to the farm just gave Ree more reasons to worry: Little Garrad was acting like any small boy who’d just had the fright of his life, but Meren didn’t seem to be . . . well, there.

He wasn’t crying, wasn’t screaming, he just lay limply in Jem’s arms and stared at something no one else could see.

It was full dark by the time they got in, and Loylla was pacing the kitchen looking pale and frightened, but she’d boiled up water and had bandages out in case they were needed, and she didn’t hesitate when she saw Lenar and little Garrad, just ran to them and embraced them both without a care for the blood spattered over Lenar’s shirt.

“No one’s hurt.” Jem hastened to reassure her. “Is Granddad all right?”

“I’m perfectly well, and you needn’t treat me like an invalid.” Garrad’s voice was strong enough, coming from the main room.

“It was the damndest thing, Father.” Lenar shook his head. He strode into the main room and let everyone else trail after him. “All of them headed for the forest, straight for the boys, and they all attacked two bears.”

The old man paled. “Two . . . They never come this close in summer.”

“Something was controlling them.” Jem said.

Ree didn’t want to hear this discussion. And he was worried about Meren. He pulled the boy from Jem’s arms and said, “I’ll be outside with Meren.”

No one argued. Ree spoke softly as he carried Meren outside. “We’re just glad you’re safe, Meren. That’s all. You two scared us, running off like that.”

Meren’s hands clenched tight into Ree’s shirt, and he shuddered. The damncats—it looked like all of them—waited outside.

Ree found himself needing to sit and was cross-legged on the grass before he realized that he hadn’t decided to sit down. Cats were nuzzling Meren, making the little chirp-comfort sounds mother cats made with their kittens. Meren’s sounds were sadder, remorseful.

Ree would have sworn the cats were reassuring the boy, telling him somehow that dying happens, and the cats who’d died had died well. Whatever it was, it seemed to help, because Meren shuddered again, then started to cry. With words.

“Ree?” The sound came from behind Ree, and for once Lenar sounded uncertain. “I guess I owe Meren an apology. It was little Garrad who opened the air hatch and climbed out. Meren followed him but didn’t catch up until he’d gotten to the oak . . . and then the bears came.” He made a sound Ree couldn’t interpret. “He’s too scared to say more, but . . . I’m sorry. I said harsh things I didn’t mean. It’s just . . . you know, I lost Jem for all of his childhood, and so many bad things happened to him. Losing little Garrad might kill me. I can’t watch him all the time.”

Meren’s body relaxed a little but not all the way. He couldn’t understand all the words, Ree was sure, but he’d understand Lenar’s tone, and he almost for sure would understand the hand on his head and Lenar’s voice saying softly, “Thank you for saving my boy.”

Ree waited till Lenar left. He was thinking of the cats, running like a furry tide, attacking deadly foes to save the boys. He didn’t know much, but he knew that Meren didn’t have the woodcraft to follow anyone. Yeah, he could follow a scent, but he didn’t have enough experience to do it like that, in the woods. If he’d been that far behind little Garrad . . .

“The cats told you Garrad was going to the forest, didn’t they?” he asked.

“No,” Meren whispered, but it was a wavering no, lacking conviction. “They can’t talk to me. I’m not an animal.”

Ree held him tighter. “You’re not an animal,” he said “Some humans can talk to . . . creatures.” Ree had read something about it, once. “The cats told you?”

There was a long shuddering sigh and then, “Yes. I was asleep. Damncat told me. In my mind.” A long silence. “I didn’t want to . . . but . . .”

“You’re scared we won’t want you because of it?” Ree knew that feeling too well—and if Meren could understand the damncats that way without words, then . . . he could understand Ree, and that . . . that wasn’t something Ree wanted to really think about. If he knew how scared Ree was, all the time, it would be hard for Ree to appear calmly confident.

Another nod, a bit shakier this time. Ree pulled Meren closer, hugged him tightly. “It’s just something you do. Not something you are. Being human is here—” He touched Meren’s chest over the heart and tried to believe that, as hard as he could, to believe that Meren having this strange Gift was just . . . well, it was like Mages had their Gift, that was all. Maybe it was an odd kind of magic, but it didn’t make Meren less human for having it.

“Having Gifts is all on how you use it. This one saved you and Garrad tonight. That makes it good.”

Finally, Meren relaxed. “Fank you, Papa.” The words were mumbled around a fiercely sucked thumb.

Damncat strutted over. He gave Meren a headbutt, then rubbed against Ree’s leg.

“Yes, you and yours did well, too.” Ree scratched the cat behind the ears, and smiled. Everything would be all right. These vessels he’d put his heart into would break it again and again and again, but somehow, it would emerge stronger from each break.

Human hearts did.

Chapter 13 - Heart’s Place - Sarah A. Hoyt

Ree watched, and tried to keep his stomach from knotting up, while Lenar’s Mage examined Meren.

The Mage was a decent enough fellow, and he wasn’t going to do anything like denounce the boy, not here. It was just . . . after the magic circles, Ree had never really trusted magic.

Magic had made him a hobgoblin, after all, complete with a coat of sleek brown fur and claws that retracted like a cat’s. And a ratlike tail, which was wrapped around one leg inside his pants.

That same magic had given Meren a coat of sparse tabby fur in addition to his white-blond curls, and who knew what else. And that, Ree reminded himself forcefully, was why the Mage was here.

You couldn’t pretend that something like being able to broadcast what you were feeling to all the damncats was just a coincidence, and with the controlled hobgoblins attacking more often . . .

It was better to have Lenar’s Mage make sure that his Lord’s adopted grandson couldn’t possibly be controlling the hobgoblins, and never mind that those same controlled hobgoblins had attacked the child last summer.

Scared people didn’t think about things like that. They got themselves worked up and went after anything that was different. That was one of the reasons Ree didn’t go down to Three Rivers village much—while people respected him, and knew he’d help them whenever they needed, and get hurt for them, too, it was better not to remind them just how different he was.

The Mage leaned back with a sigh, and his eyes focused again.

Meren drooped; whatever the Mage had been doing had tired him out.

“I’ll just get Meren to bed, then I’ll be with you,” Ree said. With Jem walking Amelie to the manor to spend the night there—ostensibly to keep little Garrad company, but more because Lenar’s wife was near to term and not really able to keep up with her son—and old Garrad barely able to move, Ree was the only able-bodied person on the farm right now.

The Mage nodded. “Thank you.”

A little later, with Meren not even protesting about being put to bed for a daytime nap, and asleep before Ree had pulled the covers over, Ree returned to the kitchen and filled a bowl with the stew that was always warming on the stove.

“Here.” He handed the bowl to the Mage. “I heard tell you get hungry after magic.”

“Thank you again.” The Mage—Ree could never remember his name—was one of those people who looked so ordinary you forgot them as soon as you met them.

Not that Ree would have been surprised to find that the Mage “helped” that impression a bit with magic; it had to be a powerful advantage to a Mage to be overlooked and even forgotten.

“Well,” the Mage said after he’d eaten some. “Your son isn’t a Mage, nor will he be. He does have an unusual Gift, something I’ve seen only once before.”

If the man had seen it before, that was better than completely weird. Ree told his stomach to untie itself, and he made himself ask, “When was that?”

The Mage smiled faintly. “Oh, that was long ago, in the army. I was posted down south a way, and the tribes there had these people they called ‘beastmasters’ who they claimed could speak with any animal without words.” He shrugged. “The way our horses behaved around them, I got to thinking it wasn’t just one of those myths that grow up when someone knows animals really well.”

Ree nodded. He knew about those, since he was at the center of a fair few of them, him and the damncats—who maybe weren’t quite as ordinary as he’d thought.

“After I’d got friendly with one of their beastmasters, we each looked at the other with our Gifts—it’s a sort of compliment, to actually open yourself to someone else’s probing that way—and . . . well. What he had was just like what your son has.”

“So it’s a human Gift, just very rare?” Now Ree had to throttle hope. Something human, something a Mage had seen before . . . that meant that Meren was human enough to maybe be accepted that way, even if he didn’t look it.

The Mage finished eating before he nodded. “Exactly. It’s probably not fully developed yet; these things usually don’t start showing up until puberty, although they can manifest early under enough stress.”

Meren had seen enough stress in his short life for something like that to happen, what with being born to parents who couldn’t keep themselves fed much less their baby—and had gotten desperate and raided the village fields, getting themselves killed in the process—not to mention two near-death encounters with hobgoblins.

“Is there any way to teach him how to . . . well, not get caught in it?” Teaching a little boy to use something he couldn’t feel wasn’t exactly Ree’s idea of fun, but it had to be done. Meren needed to be able to tell what was inside his head and what wasn’t.

Even if Meren didn’t want to learn.

The Mage smiled. “Oh, that’s part of why he’s so tired. I took the liberty of giving him some basic shielding and showing him how to use it. It’s close enough to the way magic works that it should keep him out of trouble—well, out of too much trouble—for a while.”

Ree couldn’t help smiling. You couldn’t keep a child Meren’s age completely out of trouble. At that age, they attracted it like flies to honey. “Thank you. I appreciate that.” What the Mage had left unsaid—that Meren would need to learn more about his strange Gift when he got older—was something Ree figured could wait for a while. There was no point borrowing trouble when trouble came to visit regularly anyhow.

“Oh, it’s my pleasure.” The Mage stood, and extended his right hand. “I’ll be happy to testify for you or your son, if there’s ever a need.”

That offer was enough to make Ree blink so his eyes wouldn’t blur. Hobgoblins were killed on sight, unless they had a license and were properly controlled—which usually meant a cage or a leash. Here, he and Meren were exceptions, but that was mostly because of Lenar. Lenar being old Garrad’s son, the local Lord, and Jem’s father meant that Ree was family, and he’d made it clear he considered Ree and Meren equal members of that family.

What would happen without that in the future . . . Ree didn’t want to think about it. “I really appreciate that,” he said softly. “Thank you.”

If it came to a court, him not being human meant he couldn’t say anything to defend himself. Meren, too. It was something Ree mostly pushed to a dark corner of his mind, even forgot about for a while, but sometimes, especially with Garrad the way he was . . . His and Meren’s situation was so precarious, so different from anything else, anywhere in the world, that any major change in the arrangement of their life could be a disaster.

No one dared defy Garrad, and Garrad had Lenar’s ear. But if that were to change . . .

This farm, and the valley, were home now. Ree didn’t think he could bear it if he had to leave.

With the shorter days of winter, Lenar had taken to making his weekly visit around the middle of the day, so he need not ride home in the dark. That suited Ree just fine; the chores were mostly morning and evening work this time of year, with the days he wasn’t patrolling the forest spent either repairing things that had been set aside to be fixed when there was time, or helping Garrad move from bed to chair or chair to pot.

The outhouse wasn’t an option for the old man anymore, not when it hurt him so much to take the few steps between his bed and the chair in the main room.

He only came into the kitchen for meals, but if anyone but Ree tried to help him, they’d get their head bitten off for being “damn busybodies.” Ree suspected it was because he didn’t offer sympathy, and he didn’t make a fuss of the old man. He just . . . did what had to be done.

Garrad might be sick and his body failing him, but that didn’t mean he didn’t still have his pride.

That pride was very much evident when he received his son this morning. Garrad was sitting in his chair in the main room, combed and shaved and wearing clean clothes and keeping the pain out of his face as much as he could. And doing his best to pretend Jem wasn’t hovering anxiously around the room, pretending to straighten things that didn’t need straightening and looking anxiously at Garrad, out the corner of his eye.

Garrad would not acknowledge his grandson’s anxiety. He would keep his dignity till the end. “Good to see you, boy,” he told Lenar. Then he turned to Ree and said, “Ree, there’s a rolled paper in the drawer beside my bed. I’ll be wanting that now.”

Ree just nodded. “I’ll be right back.”

The paper was where Garrad had said, new paper carefully rolled and tied with a scrap of bright yellow fabric Ree recognized as the stuff they’d used for Amelie’s best apron this year. He closed the drawer, and returned to the main room.

At the door, Ree paused, struck by the resemblance between Garrad, Lenar and Jem. They were grandfather, father, and son, but they could have been the same man at different ages, looking at them like this.

You had to look closely at Jem to notice his eyes were rounder in shape and his mouth slightly softer—at least, when he wasn’t in full family stubborn. Lenar’s hair was darker than Jem’s, but not much, and Garrad’s was all white, and thinner now.

Ree’s heart tightened when he looked at Garrad like this and saw something else shadowed on the old man, something you couldn’t fight and couldn’t beat. One day, Jem too would be like this. And the only longing in Ree’s heart, unbearable and demanding, was to still be allowed to be near then. To spend his life with Jem. He didn’t think he could stand to leave, to lose Jem.

Garrad nodded when Ree gave him the paper. “Lenar, you’ll be wanting to keep this safe. I reckon you’ll be needing it afore spring.”

Lenar blinked, looking blank, as though he had no notion what had gotten into his father this time. He untied the fabric, and unrolled the paper. His face went slack for a moment, then–when he looked up–he looked much younger. Younger than Jem, even. “Oh, no, Dad. You’re too damn stubborn to die.”

Ree didn’t want to look at him, to see the hurt, the realization that his father was human, and fading. That Garrad, and Lenar, and Jem too, weren’t going to go on forever.

Garrad chuckled. “Don’t you pull that with me, boy. I ain’t some fool woman to be soothed by pretty words.”

“Granddad—” Jem didn’t get any further. His voice broke in a way that said he was fighting tears. “There are Healers that—”

“Father, I . . . Is there anything that can help? Is there any . . .” Now Lenar sounded lost, that big booming voice faint and almost childlike.

“None of that, now.” Garrad wagged a bony finger. “I’m old. Ain’t no Healer can fix that, nor no Mage, neither.” His expression softened, the fierce light in his eyes fading a little. He looked back at Lenar. “I’d have been ten years gone if not for Jem and Ree. They’ve been good years, I ain’t denying that. But I can feel them as went before calling for me, telling me it’s my time.”

Ree nodded slowly. He’d tried to pretend otherwise, but he’d known for a while now, somewhere deep down, that Garrad didn’t have long. He hadn’t wanted to believe it, either. Lenar’s stricken look cut Ree deep. He might have been a soldier for the Empire, led his men in more than one battle, and seen enough death to make Ree cringe, but it was obvious that Lenar had never once thought his own father might be dying.

“Just read it, son. Read it, then keep it safe until it’s needed.” Garrad got that odd light in his face, and chuckled. “I figure you can argue better once you know what I’ve got there.”

Beside Ree, Jem’s hand clenched tight into a fist, and his face went stony. “It’s a will, isn’t it? Why didn’t you say anything to us? To me? Why didn’t you tell us you were doing this? Why?”

It wasn’t—quite—an accusation, but Ree could hear the hurt under it. He set his hand on Jem’s, but he didn’t say anything. This wasn’t his argument. What Garrad wanted to do with his property was Garrad’s business. He supposed it would go to Lenar and, in the fullness of time, to Jem. Meanwhile . . . Ree didn’t want to consider that. He wondered if he and Meren could claim a corner of the forest and build a willow shelter.

Garrad all but crowed. “That’s one for me, lad. I ain’t said anything cause it’s got to be done proper, and I wasn’t going to get anyone’s hopes up.”

So . . . no hopes up. Which meant Ree and Jem . . . He wouldn’t, couldn’t finish the thought. He wouldn’t resent Garrad, either. After all, the man had given him shelter and home and family. More than anyone had ever done for Ree.

Garrad nodded in Lenar’s direction. “That’s why it’s got to go through your father first.”

Lenar set the paper down again. He looked troubled. There were vertical lines between his eyes. “It can’t,” he said in a strained voice. “Imperial law . . . you can’t leave anything to Ree. Or Meren.”

“What?” Jem about exploded across the room, glaring at his father. “Imperial law can go hang itself. If Granddad wants to leave this whole place to Ree, he can.”

Ree was too shocked to think. He stared, unmoving, waiting for Lenar’s roar.

It didn’t come. Lenar made an odd, distressed sound and hunched into himself like a child caught with his hand in the honey. “I’m sorry, Jem. I don’t like it either, but . . . I’ve been confirmed here—the message came yesterday—and I have to follow Imperial laws.”

“Even when they’re wrong?” Jem demanded.

Lenar only nodded, looking miserable and . . . lost, even.

Ree cleared his throat. “Look, you . . . no one needs to. Why . . . why can’t you leave the place to Jem, and Jem . . .”

“Jem is my heir,” Lenar said, booming the last word. His gaze told his son that he wasn’t going to hear any argument on that, and Jem, though his lip curled as if to make a scathing remark, kept quiet. “The farm . . . He can inherit the farm, but he’ll have a lot more to look after. He’ll have to do his army duty or go to court, or—”

He stopped, but Jem didn’t say anything, nor did Ree. They’d both assumed for a while it would be that way. If Jem was the son of a Lord, he’d need to get known as such in the outer world. Ree understood what wasn’t being said. Ree could not go with Jem when he went–not unless he was willing to go on a leash or in a cage–and lots of things could happen when people were separated. Even as-good-as-married people. Hell, even married people, like what had happened with Lenar and Jem’s mother.

As though to underscore it, Lenar said, softly, “You’re both so young . . .”

Which Ree took to mean that they couldn’t possibly know what they wanted for the rest of their lives.

Garrad made a clucking sound that usually meant he’d just heard something nonsensical, which Ree took a little comfort in, but not too much, because Garrad said, “Life is unpredictable and things happen. Look at me, with two boys and a wife, and then left all alone, all those years. If anything happens, I want Ree to be safe. And Meren. They can’t go to the army or to court. They can’t find their own ways. They have to know there will always be this.”

“But, Father—”

“No buts,” Garrad said with more than a hint of his old strength—and all of his stubbornness. “This way, no one can argue about Jem and Ree living in the same house.” His eyes gleamed, warning Ree he was going to tease someone. “Ain’t anyone else’s business whether they’re sleeping in separate beds or not.”

Jem groaned and blushed fiery red, and Ree tried not to wince.

Lenar didn’t react at all—which was so unlike him he had to be really worried. “Father, the law says I can’t—”

“I could be wrong here, but . . .aren’t you allowed to make extra laws, for things that affect just your lands?” Ree tried not to look appalled at himself. He’d just blurted out something he’d half thought about, and now. . .

It wasn’t just Lenar who stared at him. Garrad and Jem were both looking as if Ree had had a litter of kittens or grown an extra head.

His face heated, and he fought the urge to curl up and hide. It was just as well his face fur hid his blushes. He fell silent.

“Go on, Ree,” Lenar said, in the kind of grave voice that could give way to an explosion at the drop of a hat.

Ree tried to collect his thoughts. What was the saying? But he’d heard something about what was called Particular Laws. The Empire was so big no one person could know what was needed in every little pocket of it at any given time. And Lenar might think Ree was daring too much, and taking his inheritance and Jem’s too. But Lenar didn’t look upset and . . .

Might as well hang for a cow as a chicken? Ree figured he was headed for the whole herd. “I thought the Lord gets to make extra laws, so long as they don’t break the Empire’s laws. So . . .you can’t make a law that says Meren and me don’t have to be listed as safe hobgoblins. But, you can make one that says if we—or any other hobgoblin—pass some kind of test, we’re human in your lands and get to be treated that way.”

Ree couldn’t remember where he’d learned all of that, but he thought it was maybe bits and pieces he’d heard over the years. Lenar and Jem talked sometimes—and Garrad too—when Ree was clearing the kitchen or putting the children to bed. And given the family’s tendency to shout, he’d heard just about everything. He was pretty sure Lenar was the one who’d mentioned the Particular Laws, though, although he hadn’t been talking about anything to do with hobgoblins then.

Lenar looked as though he’d been hit and hadn’t got to falling over yet. “You know,” he said slowly, “That just might be possible. I’d have to speak to a few people about it, but . . . it could work.”

“You do that.” Garrad wasn’t making suggestions. They were orders. “I ain’t changing a thing.”

Lenar sighed and shook his head. “Wait and see, Father. I don’t know if this will work, yet.” He turned to Jem and Ree. “This damn fool old man wants to leave you two the farm—both of you.”

“But . . .” Jem frowned. “Shouldn’t it be going to you? I mean, you’re Granddad’s heir and all that.” Ree squeezed Jem’s hand. It was so like him, to argue for Lenar and against himself. Ree felt tears prickle in his eyes.

“Your father’s got more than he needs,” Garrad said with a chuckle. “Besides, he can take his pick of anything he wants that was here before you two arrived, so long as he can carry it out.”

In other words, the things that might mean something to Lenar, like the portrait of the family, painted back when Lenar had been young. That made sense to Ree.

Jem stopped bristling quite so much, although the set of his jaw said there’d better not be anything else upsetting in Garrad’s will.

“I’m glad the farm is going to you two, actually,” Lenar said. “It might have been home once, but . . . it’s your work that’s made it what it is now. And Dad’s right: I do have more than I need.”

He chuckled softly. “Besides, I think it’s a good idea, what he wants.”

Which meant there was more in the paper than Lenar had revealed so far.

“It seems to me that a place where the folks as haven’t got anyplace else can be welcome is a good thing,” Garrad said into the silence. He gestured to Jem with a bony hand. “You and Ree took a hell of a risk, coming into the farm when you did. Ain’t no doubt if I’d been well, I’d have met you with a pitchfork.”

His expression softened, and he smiled. “You two showed me there’s more to good than being human. Seems to me there’s others out there as could use the same chance.”

Ree swallowed and ducked his head to hide the way his eyes burned. He’d wondered more times than he wanted to count if Meren’s parents could have been saved, could have learned to be human again. After all, Meren was as human as Ree, or more. Maybe all they’d needed was somewhere that gave them a chance to be human. And maybe not, too. That was the hardest thing: Ree didn’t know.

“After you two, it goes to Meren,” Lenar said softly. “If he doesn’t have any children—adopted or otherwise—the farm comes back to my family, but it’s got to stay a sanctuary.”

He smiled, and Ree realized that Lenar’s eyes were too bright, too shiny. “If I can get the two of you able to own property, I’m all for it.”

Ree didn’t go to the manor often—he kept himself to the farm and the forest, mostly, so he didn’t unnerve people. Today was different.

Today was the ceremony Lenar had concocted to make him human. Not that Ree had any illusions about it: He’d still be killed on sight anyplace outside this valley, but here he’d be officially human and able to do all the things any other man could do, at least unless Lenar’s Lord, or his, or further up all the way to Emperor Melles himself said otherwise.

To hear Lenar tell it, that didn’t happen unless a Lord started abusing his people.

The important thing was, once something like this started, it was hard to take it away. People would get used to the idea that hobgoblins could take a test and become officially human—although Ree didn’t have any idea what was in the test. Lenar had said it was better that way, and for official things, it was better to trust that Lenar was right.

Which was why Ree walked up to the manor in his best clothes with his tail wrapped tight around his left leg and his stomach wrapped even tighter into knots that made him wish he hadn’t eaten before he left the farm.

The thick wooden gates stood open, with two men watching the stream of people coming in. It looked to Ree as if everyone in the valley had taken advantage of a fine winter’s day to come see what would happen. That was a good thing. It was just that Ree’s stomach didn’t agree.

He recognized both the guards; they’d been village boys once, among the one’s he’d helped free from rogue soldiers years ago. Now they looked every inch the real soldier, but they both waved to Ree and smiled.

Inside, the manor’s Great Hall—a big, low-ceilinged room that could fit everyone in Three Rivers with space to spare—was filling up fast.

Ree couldn’t help wondering how many had come to see “Garrad’s hobgoblin” perform and how many actually cared about him. He didn’t let any of that show; he just walked through the crowd to the front of the room, where Lenar had a solid chair, a chest to hold important documents, and a guard watching the people.

The guard nodded to Ree—he was another of the young men Ree had helped save—and gestured to a spot to the right of Lenar’s official chair; it was far too plain to be called a throne. Ree took his place there and tried not to let his nervousness show. This was all he’d been told, to come to the hall and stand where he was told.

He should have worn a hat; at least then he’d have something to do with his hands. He couldn’t have said whether it was better that he couldn’t hear the words in the buzz of whispered conversation, but at least this way he didn’t hear anything he didn’t like.

Ree hadn’t tried to find out what Lenar was telling people about today’s ceremony. He figured it would be enough to get people to come to see without letting them know too much. The more people who saw this, the better, according to Lenar. That way they’d be talking about it as a good thing before the official documents started their long trail through Imperial bureaucracy.

Fortunately he didn’t have to wait long. Lenar must have been watching for his arrival, because he walked out from a side door. He’d obviously chosen to make a point: He was wearing a red silk shirt and a cloak of snow-bear fur. His cloak pin was the Imperial crest, and it glittered as though it was worked in gemstones and precious metal. People fell silent, the hush cascading through the hall as people who’d noticed him elbowed their neighbors and pointed.

The ceremony itself went by in a kind of blur for Ree. He read a passage from a book he’d never seen before, then swore an oath of loyalty to the Empire and its local representative—namely Lenar. The rest of the test was to explain what the oath meant. Ree thought he managed that well enough.

After that, Lenar’s Mage came forward, and Lenar announced that the Mage would examine “the applicant.”

That made sure no one’s attention went wandering. Three Rivers had never been big enough for a Mage even before the magic storms, and most people had never seen a Mage actually do magic. The thought didn’t make his stomach rest any easier.

The Mage smiled and whispered, “Relax. This is going to make you feel strange, but it won’t hurt.”

That wasn’t what Ree was worried about. What if he didn’t . . . if he wasn’t . . . No. He’d deal with whatever the Mage found when he found it. He took a deep breath and nodded. “I’m ready.” He spoke loudly enough for his voice to carry, and if it shook a bit, well, that was to be expected for something as important as this.

The Mage must have been waiting for him to speak, because he made a complicated gesture, and everything went . . . odd. The hall and everyone in it seemed to be a long way away, or maybe it was Ree who was a long way away, and there was a pressure on his mind, not really doing anything there, just looking. He fought down the instinctive desire to push that pressure away and make it leave him alone. It had to be the Mage, doing . . . whatever it was he was supposed to be doing.

The pressure moved, and Ree found himself remembering things he’d thought long forgotten. The smell of Jacona in the summer, clutching his mother’s skirt at a fair and watching a Mage make lights spark from people’s fingers, the cold and hunger and fear that never went away when he’d lived on the streets of Jacona, running from larger boys, hiding and hoping they wouldn’t find him, hating that they were bigger and stronger than him . . .

The magic circle, with its blur of pain and the screams that had started as two animals and him and became just him. And the fur that kept him warm after that, the claws that made it so much easier to catch food and escape gangs, at least until the searches started and the street rats got rounded up and taken away. Losing what it was to be human, bit by bit, until he found Jem, and Jem brought him back to life, made him human again.

Then the weird distance went away and the pressure was gone, and he was back in the hall, with the Mage saying something to Lenar that Ree’s ears rang too much to hear. His face fur was damp.

Whatever the Mage said, it must have been good because Lenar smiled and came over to shake Ree’s hand. “Welcome to the Empire.” He gave Ree a parchment certificate that had to have been done up before the ceremony.

The certificate didn’t say anything about whether Ree was human or not; instead, it said that Lenar had examined him and made him a “citizen of the Empire,” There was other legal-type wording there that, as Ree understood it, gave him the same rights—and responsibilities—as someone born and still human. “Thank you, my Lord.” That wasn’t a title Ree usually used, but here, now, it felt right.

He heard a soft harumph of approval from behind him and, turning around, saw that Garrad was there. He’d had two sturdy lads carry him up on a litter, and he was sitting straight on the chair in the litter, holding his stick. His eyes glittered.

When Ree went to him, he found himself pulled into an embrace by the elderly man’s frail arm. “Welcome to the family, heir,” the old man said, softly.

They buried Garrad on a bright day when the snow crunched underfoot and the wind was quiet. Ree, Jem, and Lenar had spent the day before digging beside Garrad’s long-dead wife’s grave, sharing memories and being grateful that in the end he’d gone peacefully, in his sleep.

Ree didn’t say, but he figured the old man had held on until he knew his home would pass on the way he wanted it to, then stopped fighting the call of all those who’d passed before.

When you’d outlived most of the folk you’d known, it must get lonely. He wanted to find a quiet corner to grieve, but with Jem and Lenar both barely holding together—oh, they were being strong, and family-stubborn about it, but Ree could see how brittle their control was—it fell to Ree to arrange everything and make sure Jem was too busy to let go until after the burial, when they’d have a bit of time to themselves to sort out life without the old man.

He suspected Loylla would have helped, only she wasn’t able to get about and wouldn’t be for a while yet.

It was the people that surprised him. People he’d once told off for ignoring that an irritable old man’s chimney had been smokeless for days, people Garrad had once had no use for . . .

Men stopped by the farm with wrapped pots of stew or haunches of beef, and helped with the chores without anyone saying anything, then wouldn’t let Ree or Jem thank them. And now, they trudged up the path to the farm, men, women, and children, all of them in their best clothes, even the mayor, and they seemed to Ree to be . . . well . . . to mean it.

Lenar’s priest gave a short speech, mostly asking any gods that might be listening to help Garrad’s soul get where it was supposed to be. Ree supposed that was the way the army priests did it because there were so many different religions and gods in the army that you couldn’t pick any one set of them without offending most of the men you were ministering to.

After, they lowered Garrad’s body—wrapped in an old sheet Ree and Jem had sewn into a shroud—into the ground, then all the men helped fill the grave. Ree tried not to look at the soil falling, tried not to think about Garrad down there. It felt as though they must be hurting Garrad, as though they were suffocating him in the black loamy dirt, but it wasn’t true. Wherever the old man was, he wasn’t there. That was just . . . a shell, like summer scritch-bugs left when they grew. Garrad had grown and gone elsewhere, with his wife and his brother. And there, hopefully, all the hard binding of the old shell was gone, and he was free and young again.

The men packed the soil tight, tamping it down with the backs of their shovels, then everyone helped to clean up before they left, and that was that. It was quiet, and simple, and there wasn’t any fuss, but somehow Ree was comforted by all those people coming to help.

The house seemed terribly empty after everyone had left, with just him and Jem and Amelie—sniffling a bit, but not actually crying—and Meren.

No one said anything, just . . .they all wanted comfort, and they all held each other, standing in front of the fireplace.

“Don’t think I don’t know what this is doing to you,” Jem said roughly. “Don’t you ever think I don’t appreciate you.”

Ree hadn’t even considered that. He’d just been doing what had to be done. That Jem wanted him, preferred him over any of the village girls, that was a daily miracle.

Meren tugged at his pants; Ree bent to lift the boy and set him against his hip. Meren’s face fur was so wet it lay flat against his skin. Amelie tried to wipe her eyes with a soaked handkerchief, then gave up and rubbed her arm against her face.

Ree held them all as tight as he could, feeling the weight of his family even more now. Not that Jem didn’t do as much as he, but right now . . . Well, that was how it was. If he wasn’t fit for something, Jem carried the weight.

Shared between them, it wasn’t that much.”Come on,” he said in a voice that only shook a little bit. “We should get dinner. There’s enough left from what folks brought that we needn’t cook.”

They’d get better. After a while it wouldn’t hurt so much to look at the spot where Garrad wasn’t, and maybe they’d even be able to laugh again and smile when they remembered him.

Later, in a month or two, he and Jem would move into Garrad’s room and give Amelie their old room. She was getting too old and too much of a lady to sleep in the attic, separated by only a thin partition from Meren’s room.

Later, there would be other challenges. The children would grow. And perhaps there would be other children who didn’t have any place to go. Later, Jem would go away to do his duty by his Emperor, in one way or another, and he would come back. Ree looked between his lashes at Jem. Yes, he would come back, one way or another, because this was his heart’s place. Maybe his affections would change, who could tell that, but he would never deny Ree this place they’d built together. And if he did, Ree would make him see he was wrong. And if someone, enemy soldier or courtier, tried to keep Jem away from home, Ree would go and get him, no matter what the peril or the suffering.

Garrad would want that. He’d want them to be his family, stubborn beyond reason and too damn pigheaded to give up when they were beat, and loving and caring for those who needed it, too.

It was a good legacy to leave.

Chapter 14 - Family Matters - Tanya Huff

“As there’s no need to wait for a reply from Verain, you’ll have time to stop by and visit your grandmother before you head back to Haven.”

Ryal Verain’s holding wasn’t far from the forest settlement where Jors had been raised and where most of his extended family still lived, but the Dean of the Herald’s Collegium did not assign Heralds the task of visiting their grandmothers. “Sir?”

“She’s not likely to live forever, you know.” The Dean’s lips twitched, the movement nearly, but not quite, hidden by his beard. “And at her age, she’d rather not go another two years without seeing you.”

“Sir?”

“She was quite insistent I do something about that in the letter. Also, your cousin . . .” He pulled a much folded and ragged-edged piece of vellum off a pile on his desk, held it at arm’s length, and frowned. “. . .your cousin’s daughter at any rate, Annamarin, could benefit from your experience. What particular experience, she doesn’t say.”

“My grandmother . . .” Jors shook his head, trying to get the words to settle into an order that made actual sense. “My grandmother wrote you a letter?”

“Herald Jennet picked it up when she stopped by on her last Circuit.” The vellum flopped limply as the Dean waved it, and Jors thought he saw the faded lines of old accounts on the back. “From the sound of it, quite insistent is a fairly good general description of your grandmother.” Sitting back in his chair, the Dean looked measuringly up at Jors, his dark eyes narrowed. “Is there a reason you haven’t been to see your family in almost two years, Herald Jors?”

“It isn’t . . .I mean, I don’t . . .I’ve just . . .” Jors ran a hand back through his hair. “I’ve been busy?”

“Are you asking me? No? Good. Because I’m aware of how busy you’ve been and while the country certainly couldn’t survive without you . . .”

Jors could feel his cheeks flush. He hadn’t meant to imply he’d been busier than any other Herald but, in all fairness, he hadn’t just been hanging around the Collegium. Since he’d last been on Circuit, he’d taken every courier run he could get, and on those days he’d been stuck in Haven, he’d helped the Weaponsmaster teach the archery classes, run the Grays through a few basic tracking exercises, and had his butt handed to him consistently in the practice ring.

“. . .but you have a responsibility to your family as well. Things are quiet right now, and we can find you if we need you. I think seven days should be long enough to sooth your grandmother’s justifiable irritation.” A raised hand cut off Jors’ barely formed protest. “And I’m sure she’ll inform me if you cut the visit short.”

:But you don’t like Haven,: Gervais reminded him as they made their way through the city toward the gate. Head up, neck arched, he pranced a little as a group of children called enthusiastic greetings. :I thought you’d be happy to stay away for a while.:

:That’s not the point.: Jors forced a smile and waved at the children. :The point is, my grandmother wrote Dean Carlech complaining about how long it had been since I’d been home.:

:Perhaps she misses you..:

:Also not the point. My grandmother wrote the Dean!:

:And because she did, we don’t have to return immediately to Haven.: Gervais turned his head just far enough that he could fix Jors with one sapphire eye. :If you had been to see your family, she wouldn’t have had to write.:

:We were busy!: It was a weak defense, and Jors knew it. :You have no idea how embarrassing this is, do you?:

:Nerial didn’t believe her Herald was angry with you. She said he seemed amused.:

Jors gave serious thought to standing in the stirrups and beating his head against the sign they were passing under. The Dean’s Companion thought the Dean was amused. The legendary, mystical protectors of Valdemar gossiped like a flock of crows, and, given the isolating nature of the job, there was nothing Heralds like to talk about as much as other Heralds. He was never going to hear the end of this.

Ryal Verain’s expression matched that of the small, black sheep jostling about in the pen behind him–not distrustful but definitely wary. The scent was similar as well, but Jors was careful not to let that thought show as he handed over the oilskin packet.

Pale eyes narrowed, Verain cracked the seal. “Well, that’s that then,” he grunted as he finished reading. The wariness had vanished, replaced with satisfaction, so Jors assumed the news was good. “I can’t deny the news takes a load off, but I admit I’m surprised they sent it out with a Herald.”

My grandmother wrote the Collegium.

When it became clear Jors was not going to explain, Verain nodded. “I’ve no reply needs sending, Herald, but if you can give us time to finish this pen, we’d be pleased to have you share a midday meal with us before you go. Where are you going?”

“Forest settlement, out from Greenhaven.”

Verain’s eyes narrowed again. “You’re Trey Haden’s nephew.”

Jors fought the urge to remind Verain he was a Herald–his instinctive response to being his uncle’s nephew, his father’s son, his grandmother’s grandchild–and said only, “Yes.” Verain had, after all, only made a statement, not the first move on an emotional battlefield. Lagenfield, the village closest to Verain’s land, was close enough to Greenhaven that his family might have supplied wood had a closer forester not had what was needed.

“Well, then, you’ll have time to reach the Greenhaven Waystation after you eat and no time to get much farther if you don’t.”

He was still speaking to a Herald, not to Trey Haden’s nephew. No one with sense rode into the forest after dark. “I’d be happy to stay and share your meal.” Jors shrugged out of his jacket. “If you’ll let me share in your labor.”

The half dozen men mixed in with the sheep, every one of whom had stopped working when Gervais trotted into the compound, shared a reaction Jors couldn’t hear above the bleating, but, given the laughter, he assumed it was at his expense. Speculative laughter, though, not dismissive.

Heavy brows rose until they disappeared under the thick gray curls. “Thank you for the offer, Herald, but we’re nearly done. Just this lot to send out to join the rest.”

The rest were dotted over the hillside behind the compound, like a spatter of ink against the new green, surprisingly sleek without their fleece. He had had no idea that lambs actually gamboled.

“You settle your Companion, Herald Jors.” The oilskin crinkled as Verain’s grip tightened around it. “You’ve done what you do.”

:You knew he was almost finished, didn’t you?: Gervais asked as they headed over toward the stables.

:Hillside covered in shorn sheep, only a few left in the pen—it wasn’t hard to work out.:

:So it was an offer without meaning,: Gervais snorted.

:Nothing of the kind. I made it to acknowledge the value of his work; in turn, he acknowledged the value of mine.:

:Your family values you.:

Hand up under Gervais mane, Jors paused mid-scratch. :We weren’t talking about my family.:

Gervais snorted again.

:I think that could be arranged.:

“No, they’re tougher than those sheep of the Holderkin. They’re hardy, ours. Can forage on their own all over these hills, even though the land’s rougher than a . . .” Cheeks flushing, suddenly becoming aware of who he was talking to, Raymond, Verain’s eldest son, cleared his throat and continued without the profanity he’d been about to add. “They don’t need supplemental feeding and they may be small, but I saw a ram take down a wolf once. Well, a young wolf. They’re not much for goring, not with their horns turned back so . . .” Grinning, he sketched the ram’s horn’s curl over his own ears. “. . .but they’ve heads like rock, and if they charge you, you’ll know it. We don’t have a lot of trouble with wolves; they tend to stay clear where there’s people about, and these sheep, they’re smart enough to stay out from under the trees for the most part, though they head for the highest ground about if they can. Expect to be chasing them down from the High Hills some season. You saw how they didn’t have wool on their faces or legs, Herald? That’s to help them move through brush,” he continued before Jors could answer. “They don’t get caught up so easily. And their fleece . . .ah, the fibers are fine and soft, not so long and coarse as those of the Holderkin. We shear them twice a year, spring and fall. Give us a few years to get this flock well established, and the finest woolens at Court will be from our sheep.”

“Are they all black?” Jors wondered.

“You’re thinking it’s wool that won’t take dye much.” Rodney nodded. “True enough, but they throw gray on occasion, and I’ve a mind to breed to white. Still, nothing wrong with black woolens is there, Herald?” He waved a hand at Jors’ Whites, then back at his own dark clothing. “Black’s slimming, they say.”

“Husband! Did you just say Herald Jors looks fat?”

Rodney turned to look up at his wife, opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again, although no words came out. Just as Jors was about to protest for him, her lips twitched. Rodney roared with laughter, caught her around the waist, and dragged her down onto his lap, where he kissed her soundly. “I said nothing of the kind, and well you know it,” he declared when they parted long enough for speech. “Now, did you actually have something to say, or are you just interrupting our talk to cause trouble?”

Twitching her tunic back into place as she slid off his lap, she nodded across the great room to where Verain stood talking to a younger version of himself. “Ryan came in to say that ewe you’re so fond of has led another revolt. If you want to keep her out of the stew pot, you’d best get over there and mount a spirited defense.” When Rodney–who’d surged up onto his feet at the news–glanced down at Jors, she tugged him back to her lips by his beard and murmured, “Go. I’ll entertain the Herald.”

For a big man, Rodney could move quickly when he had too. He was almost across the room, already gesturing at his father and brother, by the time his wife dropped into his chair. She shook her head at the crusts left behind by his empty bowl, then turned to Jors and said, “Elane. I imagine you were introduced to a dozen people all at once, shoved into a chair, and told to eat up, so I don’t expect you to remember.”

He didn’t actually. “Your husband is the younger son?”

“Middle. Ryan is older and Ricard . . .” Elane pointed to where a young man walked up and down by the windows, a squalling infant on one shoulder. “. . .Ricard is two years younger. The family runs to boys, but I’ve five sisters so I’m hoping . . .” Her hand dropped to her belly. “. . . to even the odds.”

There was only one thing that could mean. “Congratulations.”

“What?” Her gaze dropped to her hand. “Oh. Thank you. I haven’t known long; it’s still so new. We haven’t been married a year yet.” She half-turned in the chair to smile at her husband, and when she turned back, she frowned. “Are you all right, Herald Jors?”

He schooled his expression before she could define it, hurriedly raising his mug. No one would ever smile across a room that way at him.

:My lips do not move in such a way, Heartbrother.:

A moment later, ignoring the smug, self-satisfied reaction from his Companion, Jors accepted the cloth Elane offered and coughed out an apology.

She waved it off. “Please, you got very little on me. And besides, we were almost relatives, you and I. My father is Dominic Heerin . . .”

Jors nodded in the pause. Heerin owned the mill his uncle brought their logs to.

“. . . and your cousin Hamin was courting my sister Tara. Came to nothing, though. I remember when we heard you’d been Chosen. It was all anyone could talk about. I’d just turned twelve, and I spent all that summer out by the track with flowers braided into my hair hoping another Companion would come by and Choose me. Eventually, my eldest sister dragged me home by the ear and told me Companions preferred useful people over those who shirked their chores.”

Elane shared her husband’s fondness for monolog-ing, Jors noted, and he wondered what their conversations with each other must be like. “This must have been different for you,” he said. “From a house full of sisters and lumber to so many men and sheep.”

“A little different, yes. But not so hard to get used to. Rodney loves this land, for all its rock and hills and the dangers of the forest so close. At first I loved it for his sake, but I’m growing to love it for its own. And the sheep, well, you’ve already noticed their main failing, but he’s determined to breed to white–that ewe he’s defending threw gray twins this season–and he admires them for their toughness as much as the fine wool of their fleece. My sisters say when they see me now, I’ve nothing to talk of but sheep and Rodney. Well, Rodney and sheep.” Her laugh drew her husband’s head around, and he paused in his argument long enough to toss a smile in her direction. “It’s always the way, though, isn’t it, as you move between birth family and found family. This is what made me . . .” She held out one hand palm up and then the other. “. . . and this is what I am. And I’ll tell you this much, Herald Jors . . .” She winked and stood as her father-in-law approached. “. . . shepherds have much softer hands than men who toss lumber about all day.”

The waystation was empty and quiet–although Jors supposed that, given the former, the later went without saying. Hands cupped around a mug, he sat in the doorway and watched Gervais grazing, his coat gleaming silver in the twilight.

Beyond the Companion, in under the trees, it was already night. At the settlement, the gates would be closed, animals and people penned in safely; the youngest and the eldest would be preparing for bed, and everyone else would soon follow. Lamplight might extend the day in Haven, but out here sunrise and sunset still defined people’s lives.

Not so different from where he’d just come. Barring the differences between trees and sheep. And the difference between Herald Jors and Jors with a Companion.

:There is no difference between Herald Jors and Jors with a Companion. They are both you.:

“My grandmother would agree. Although she’d think they both mean Jors with a Companion.”

Gervais lifted his head and turned to stare. Jors wished, not for the first time, he could pick up his Companion’s thoughts as easily as Gervais picked up his. Finally, the young stallion snorted and bent back to the grass. :If you are still annoyed with her about the letter, tomorrow you many tell her it was inappropriate.:

“Yeah.” Jors drained the mug and set it to one side. “Like that’ll happen.”

He didn’t recognize the girl running down the track toward him until she skidded to a stop, bowed elaborately–one plait surrendering, spilling her dark blonde hair down over her face–looked up, and grinned. “Herald Jors. Wonderous One.”

:I like her.:

Jors returned the grin and swung out of the saddle. “Annamarin.”

In the time he’d been gone, she’d crossed from child to girl. She’d be eleven now, almost twelve, the same age Elane had been when she’d spent the summer with flowers in her hair waiting for a Companion. Instead of flowers, Annamarin’s hair held a trio of feathers stuffed into the top of the remaining braid.

“You weren’t waiting out here hoping to be Chosen, were you?” Grandmother’s letter had said Annamarin could benefit from his experience.

“No! No offense,” she added quickly to Gervais, dipping into another elaborate bow. “Companions Choose as Companions will, and Companions will as Companions please.”

:I really like her.: Gervais said as Jors worked that through.

“May I give you greetings, cousin?”

“May you what?”

She sighed, a simple exhalation defining her as the most put-upon creature in these woods. “Can I hug you?”

“Why couldn’t you?”

“You’re a Herald! In Whites! And I’m tragically soiled, though tis naught but good clean dirt.”

“Tis naught?”

Annamarin rolled her eyes. “It means it isn’t. Sort of. Wait . . . my pipes!” She pulled a set of reed pipes out from behind her waistband. “I don’t want them to be tragically crushed! I made them myself,” she continued after an emphatic hug that rocked Jors back onto his heels. “Well, Lyral–she got stuck here for almost a week during fall storms, when the mud was up over her boots–she showed me how. But I made them. Mostly.”

“Lyral?” As they walked toward the settlement, Jors ran through the names of the Bards he knew and came up short.

“She’s a minstrel. She travels. She sings. She’s the best. I wanted to go with her when she left, but Mama said no. Papa said good riddance.” Annamarin blew across the top of the pipes and back. The rise and fall of the twelve notes sounded like a giggle. “He was kidding.”

“What did Lyral say when you said you wanted to go with her?” It wouldn’t be the first time a “minstrel” had discovered a talent in a child and made promises in order to lure that child away. If Lyral was one of those predators–however unsuccessful this time—Jors needed to find her. He’d be in and out of the settlement so quickly his grandmother would no doubt feel herself justified writing another letter to the Dean. Beside him, Gervais had both ears flicked forward.

“Oh, then.” This time, the twelve notes sounded resigned. And a bit annoyed. “She said she didn’t travel with children, but she’d be back this way in a year or two, and if I still wanted to go, we’d talk.”

“About what?”

“About me going with her, I guess. I dunno.” She shrugged a skinny shoulder, then bent back to the pipes and blew out a string of birdsong that drew answers from the surrounding trees.

“Did Lyra teach you to do that?”

The look Annamarin shot him reminded him chillingly of their grandmother. “It’s a calling bird song, Jors. You spend way too much time in the city. It’s tragic.”

“Can’t argue with that.” So, since she couldn’t have known they’d be arriving today . . . “Shirking chores?”

“No.” When he glanced down at her, she grinned. “Maybe a little. Sometimes . . .” She turned in place and walked backward, staring down the track. “I just want to know what’s out there. You know what I mean?”

He’d never given the world beyond the forest and the settlement any thought before he’d been Chosen. On his first trip to Greenhaven and the mill, he’d found himself falling into sapphire eyes and hearing an emphatic :Finally: in his head. Now he thought about it, Gervais had sounded a lot like Annamarin.

:I was tired of waiting for you. Most of those who are to be Chosen find their way to Haven.:

:If I’d known you were out there, I’d have met you halfway.:

“Jors?”

He smiled down at her. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

As they came out of the trees and into the clearing in front of the palisade, Jors found himself studying the area with a professional eye. The settlement’s grant allowed a certain area cleared for living space, and it looked as though his uncle had recently expanded out as far as he was legally allowed. The edges still looked rough and there were two new buildings inside the palisade.

His mother’s geese saw them first. Heads low, necks extended, the current flock charged out through the open gate, hissing, wings beating at the air. When Gervais lowered his own head and struck the ground with his right hoof, they wheeled neatly to the left, circling the willow fencing around the vegetable garden as though that had been their destination all along. A familiar voice shouted from the garden. As Jors and Annamarin drew even with the opening, their grandmother emerged, threw her cane at the geese, spotted Gervais, and rocked to a stop.

“As I live and breathe! The boy is back!” Less considerate of his Whites than Annamarin, she stumped forward and dragged him up against her generous bosom, leaving a smear of rich black earth across his tunic and down one leg. Given the amount of dirt on her hands, he didn’t want think about the places she’d gripped him.

It was the same possessively affectionate hug he’d always had from her, and it made him feel seven, ten, fourteen . . .

“You’ve filled out,” she clucked as she pushed him back out to arm’s length and looked him up and down. “Well, you couldn’t have stayed all arms and legs forever, I suppose, could you? Never mind,” she cut him off as he opened his mouth. “How long can you stay?”

“Seven days, unless I’m needed.”

“Needed.” Gran rolled her eyes. “I think they can manage without out you for so short a time. Annamarin, get my cane would you, sweetheart. Had her head turned by a minstrel,” she added as the girl cautiously approached the geese. Either his grandmother had gotten a little deaf or she didn’t care if she was overheard. Jors leaned toward the later. “Fool woman put foolish ideas into the girl’s head. I want you to tell her that it’s one thing to have a Companion suddenly appear and declare you special . . .” She nodded to Gervais, who nodded back. “. . . and another thing entirely to declare it yourself. Now, come on.” Hand tucked in the crook of his elbow, she tugged him toward the gate. “It’s bread day. Your mother can’t leave the kneading.”

His mother dusted him with flour and clucked at the length of his hair, then spun him around in time to have his brother’s wife, Tora, catch him up in a hug redolent with the scent of the first wild strawberries.

“Oh, stop making such a fuss over him,” Gran snorted. “He’s just come home; he hasn’t saved the country single-handed.”

Seven, ten, fourteen . . .

When he tried to step away, he discovered he had a toddler wrapped around each leg. They held him in place long enough for Annamarin’s mother to appear, and while she was exclaiming over his appearance, Jor’s cousin Tomlin, Uncle Trey’s youngest . . .

“Took an ax to the thigh last fall, poor thing.”

. . . limped into the summer kitchen followed by the rest of the settlement’s children, four dogs, and a goat.

He only managed to free himself from their welcome by reminding them he had a Companion to tend to.

Jors set the saddle aside and let his forehead fall to thump against Gervais’ withers.

:They’re glad to see you.:

:I know. And I’m glad to see them.:

:But?:

:But I’m Jors with a Companion.:

:You are my Chosen.: Gervais’ mental voice was matter-of-fact. :Why do you need to be anyone else?:

:I don’t . . . That isn’t . . .: He turned to rest his cheek against the warmth and ran a hand up under Gervais’ mane. :Am I a terrible person?:

:No. You are a Herald. You cannot be a Herald and a terrible person. Therefore you are not a terrible person.: Responding to a nonverbal prompt, Jors scratched along the arc of his neck. :It is not terrible for you to want your family to see you as you are, not as you were.:

“See lo, where yonder Herald stands!”

Jors turned to see Ammamarin just inside the lean-to, barely visible over an armload of hay.

“I know it’s tragic,” she said, “but this is the best of what’s left. There’s not a lot of grazing yet, but Mika’s been taking the goats to the south clearing if the Wonderous One doesn’t mind sharing.”

“His name is Gervais. Have you forgotten?”

“He’s too beautiful for a name.” She spread her arms, the hay dropping into the manger. “He is a song walking above the mud we less lovely creatures tread upon.”

:Have I mentioned that I like her?:

:You have.: Jors pulled his brushes from the saddlebag. “Trust me, he walks in plenty of mud.”

“Can I help?

“You could play something for me.”

“I only know three real songs.” But she perched on the edge of the manger and pulled out her pipes. “Mostly, I just twiddle, you know, make stuff up.”

Jors draped his jacket beside her, then bent to brush the dirt from Gervais rear leg. “So make stuff up.”

He didn’t know what he’d expected, but her twiddles were just that; random notes strung together. Not unpleasant but not exactly music either.

:You know what you expected.: One hoof up on Jors’ knee, Gervais rested his weight against Jors’ shoulder. Jors grunted and pushed back.

“Annamarin!”

The twiddling stopped. Jors dropped the hoof and straightened. Their grandmother looked between the two of them and snorted. “That woodbox won’t fill itself, child. And no one will be pleased if the bread is baked only half through. Don’t look to him!”

“He’s a Herald!” Annamarin declared as she jumped down.

“Am I blind now? Woodbox!”

“If this labor ruins my hands and I can tragically no longer play, you’ll weep with sorrow at the loss!”

“If that woodbox doesn’t get filled, you’ll be sorrier. And you,” Gran added as Annamarin ran off. “Did you think I wanted you to encourage such nonsense? I will smack that minstrel if she returns. Filling the child’s head with clouds. You need to tell her what comes of running off, away from one’s family in search of adventure.”

“Gran, I . . .”

“You didn’t run off, did you? You rode. It’d be different for that one, wouldn’t it? There’d be no pretty white clothes and a sense of self-importance for her. She needs to know what’s out there, doesn’t she? And she needs to know what’s here. Safety, security, no one goes to bed hungry–your grandfather and I created this from nothing, I’ll thank you to remember. You missed a spot, there on the left leg above the hock.” Shaking her head, she met Gervais’ eyes. “I’m sure he does his best. He never was much for chores either, always off in the woods with a bow. Still, I’m pleased to see you don’t look like he’s been neglecting you. He missed another spot there . . .”

His Uncle Trey, his father, and his older cousins came home at twilight. They’d spent the day marking trees to be cut when the ground dried, those that had been winter-killed and those topped off in spring storms. Jors was astounded to see that Uncle Trey, a mountain of a man with more energy than any other three combined, was now almost entirely gray and his broad shoulders had begun to stoop.

“We’ll put you to work tomorrow, lad!” Cheeks flushed, his uncle clapped him on one shoulder; he looked a little surprised when Jors didn’t so much as sway and added, “I’m sure you’ve forgotten what hard work’s like.”

Breakfast the next morning was porridge and berries–the berries offered slightly squashed from his nephew’s fingers. The boy shrieked with laughter as Jors pretended to eat the fingers too. When his mother ruffled his hair as she bustled past the long table, he realized too late he was becoming the Jors that was. The Jors they all still believed him to be.

“You’ll work with your father and me,” Uncle Trey declared on the way out of the common dining hall..

Jors paused, half into a borrowed jacket. “With both of you?”

“Is that a problem?” Gran demanded.

“I imagine you’ve forgotten most of your forest craft,” his uncle said.

The day would be a test.

Jors didn’t tell them he’d tracked harder quarry than pheasant and deer over the last few years–mostly because he couldn’t figure out a way to do it that wouldn’t sound like bragging. And while he’d done plenty of hard work as a Herald, he’d forgotten how hard this work was, so, as the day went on, he kept his mouth shut.

“Let it go, Trey,” his father laughed at last. “My boy’s still the best tracker in the family for all he spends most of his time with his ass in a saddle.”

“Wasted skills,” Uncle Trey sighed.

When they stopped at midday, they’d nearly reached the western edge of the grant. Sitting together on a rock shelf, they divided up the food they’d been carrying and, when they were settled, Jor’s uncle smacked his arm with the side of his fist and nodded toward a stand of beech, four good-sized trees that had all been topped off. “What do you think, lad?”

“No point saving them,” Jors noted, accepting a biscuit. “Best to take them down and open a hole for new growth. It’s beech. The mill will take them for short boards if you stack them now and come back when the ground is dry enough for the sled and the oxen. And there’s enough limb wood there to keep the ovens going.”

“Well done,” his father crowed. “Couldn’t expect a better answer than that, Trey.”

The other man snorted, straightened, and stared into the distance. “Pity we can’t see if you’ve remembered how to shoot,” he said. “Look at the size of that stag.”

Jors stood up on the rock to give himself a better angle. Frowned. The distant silhouette was off slightly. “I don’t think that’s a stag. I think it’s a dyheli.”

“Don’t be daft. We’re too far north. Puts on a pair of white trousers and suddenly everything’s got to be all mystical. You need to keep your head in the real world. Off you go and track it then.”

Jors raised a hand as the dyheli disappeared into the trees and turned to see both men watching him expectantly. “No,” he said.

Uncle Trey began a protest but stopped when Jors met his gaze.

His father suddenly directed all his attention to the packs.

“Well . . .” His uncle sounded as uncertain as Jors had ever heard him. “. . . we’d best be starting back then . . .”

Hands wrapped around his empty mug, Jors watched his brother and his sister-in-law carry the sleeping twins out of the large family room in the settlement’s first building, his brother more than willing to leave their conversation when Tara beckoned him home.

“Why are you sad?”

He made room for Annamarin on the bench. “I’m not sad.”

“You don’t look sad,” she said frowning up at him, “but under how you look, you’re sad.” Head cocked, she studied his face. “Is it a tragic love story?”

A dying bandit girl and the knowledge that he was hers and always would be. He started to say it was more complicated than that. Started to say their time had been too short for a story. Watched the door close behind his brother and his brother’s family and said only, “Yes.”

Annamarin nodded with all the wisdom of nearly twelve. “I thought so.” Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a honey candy, picked off a bit of lint and held it out to him. “My mama makes these. When I had my heart tragically broken by Ternin at the mill, they helped.”

“Thank you.”

She dropped it in his hand, although it stuck for a moment to her fingers, and ran to join the children being herded off to bed.

The candy melted on his tongue, so sweet it nearly made his eyes water. If it didn’t help, it didn’t hurt.

Although, he realized, other parts of him did. Jors grunted as he stood, stretched out his back, and tried to work the knots from his right arm. Hard to believe he’d only been walking and using a hatchet. He hadn’t hurt like this since he’d first learned to ride.

“Used muscles you haven’t for a while, lad!” Uncle Trey laughed. “Not so easy keeping up with an old man, is it?”

“Leave him be, Trey; there’s a trick to walking on uneven ground,” Jors’ father called out. “I expect he’s lost the knack of it.”

“He needs to come home more often,” one of his cousins called.

“A few more days of honest labor, and he’ll be his old self again,” laughed another.

:There’s someone coming.:

A moment later, the geese sounded the alarm.

“He went out yesterday looking for that damned ewe he’s so fond of. She’d slipped the dogs, late afternoon, and headed for the hills with her lambs.” One of Verain’s men sagged against the hands that held him as his horse, sides wet with sweat, stumbled and nearly went to her knees just inside the gate. “When the sun went down, he didn’t come in. Nearly had to tie Elane to the chair to keep her from heading out to find him. But he’s smart, Rodney is, and he’d have found a safe place for the night, yeah, and then he’d be back by day we told her, back with that damned ewe.”

“But he wasn’t.” Jors stepped aside as Annamarin’s father pushed past, heading for the horse.

“No. We looked, Herald, but we couldn’t find him, not even a body or sign of a struggle or the damned sheep, and Elane sent me to find you, and I damned near killed the mare but Elane . . .” He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, and when he opened them again, they shone with reflected pain, obvious even in the light of half a dozen flickering lamps. “She’s taking it terrible hard.”

Jors closed his hand around the man’s shoulder, felt the fine tremble of exhaustion through shirt and jacket, felt the tension relax as he squeezed. Pivotting on one heel, he headed for the Herald’s Corner, not needing a lamp to find the way to where Gervais waited.

“Jors!”

Habit stopped his feet at the sound of his grandmother’s voice.

“Where are you going, then?” She stood in the door they’d left open when they’d rushed outside, her hair, unplaited for the night spilling around her shoulders.

“I’m going where I’m needed: to find Rodney.”

Heads pivoted as the men and women in the courtyard turned their attention back to the old woman.

“I understand you want to help, Jors, but it’s forest trail all the way. Wait till day and go then if you must. There’re men already searching for young Rodney who know the ground. What can you bring to the search that they can’t?”

“Hope.” Bare feet sticking out from under her nightshirt, Annamarin moved to Jors’ side and swept a steady gaze over her family. “When a Herald of Valdemar rides, hope rides with him. Yes, they have men who know the ground, but with one of theirs lost in the forest for going on two nights now, what they need is hope.” She paused, then, just before the silence stretched to the breaking point, she spread her hands and added, “And they need the best tracker this family has ever had.”

A further heartbeat’s silence, then a cheer.

Jors bent and kissed the top of her head. :Heartbrother . . .:

:I am well rested. We can be there before dawn.:

“Oh, it’s so horribly tragic that one of the lambs died!”

Jors sighed. “I tell you a story of a gallant ride through the night, beset on all sides by terrible dangers, finishing, with the sun barely up, in the kind of tracking that one person in thousands could do in order to save a man’s life, and you’re upset about a lamb?”

“It died.” Annamarin released her grip on his sleeve to fold her arms. “And it was tragic.”

Rodney had been returned to Elane from the bottom of a crevasse with a broken leg, the ewe and her remaining lamb had been returned to the flock, and Jors had returned to Trey Hadden’s settlement.

Annamarin had met him on the track.

:It seems that you want your family to behave in ways you do not wish to behave yourself.:

:I don’t know what you . . . :

Gervais gave a little buck. :The girl has Talent. Speak to your grandmother on her behalf.

“A Bard?” Their grandmother swept a narrow–eyed gaze from Jors to Annamarin and back. “Are you certain?”

“A certain as I can be, not being a Bard myself.” Jors watched her expression change, her hand begin to rise, and knew she had just asked herself, What would Jors know about Bards? “Gervais,” he added quickly, “is certain.”

“Well . . .” She nodded slowly. “. . .that’s different then, isn’t it?” Reaching out, she took Annamarin’s hand and tugged her close. “Are you sure you want to be a Bard, child?”

Annamarin rolled her eyes. “It’s not something you do, Gran, it’s something you are.”

The old woman snorted. “It’s not something I am.”

“Well, no,” Annamarin admitted. “But it’s like what Jors is.”

“Please, child, he was Chosen. That has nothing to do with what he is and everything to do with his Companion.”

“With his Companion finding him worthy.”

“What?”

Sighing, Annamarin tugged her hand free so she could gesture expansively. “There isn’t a Jors before and a Jors after, Gran, there’s just Jors. And Jors is a Herald.”

:From the mouths of babes.:

“My point exactly.” Gran grinned triumphantly and whacked Jors on the shins with her cane.

When Annamarin frowned, Jors shook his head.

“Try again when you’re older.” he told her later when they were walking away from the settlement, down the track toward Greenhaven.

“It’s tragic she doesn’t understand!”

“It’s a little annoying,” he admitted. “But, in the end, I know who I am.”

:Outside the palisades.: Jors jumped as Gervais tail slapped against the back of his legs. :And staying away solves nothing,: the Companion added.

:Not every problem can be solved. Or needs to be.: Out loud he said, “There’ll be Bards visiting this summer.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m a Herald.” He grinned. “I know things. And, in a couple of years, I’ll see you in Haven.”

:You hate staying in Haven.:

:I didn’t say I was going to stay. I just said I’d see her there.:

:And then tragically abandon her?:

:Stop it.:

“You don’t look so sad when you talk to him in your head.” She planted her feet and struck a dramatic pose. “This is as far as I’m allowed to go. Can I hug you? I’m clean.”

“You could hug me if you were dirty,” he told her.

She shook her head, one plait falling loose. “That would be so tragically wrong.”

Hugging Annamarin had nothing to do with being seven or ten or fourteen. When he hugged her, as her cousin and a Herald, he hugged the future, not the past.

:You didn’t tell your grandmother she shouldn’t write to the Dean,: Gervais pointed out when Jors was in the saddle and there was nothing but open road before them.

:I know. I was afraid it would only encourage her.:

Gervais snorted. :You were afraid.:

:That too. But the last thing I need is Gran and the Dean starting up a correspondence.: Jors twisted and looked back toward the settlement. Annamarin must have reached the end of the track because he could just hear the geese protesting her return. This is what made me. He settled back in the saddle. This is what I am.

Birth family. Found family.

:Come on, let’s go home.:

Chapter 15 - The Watchman’s Ball - Fiona Patton

Although the winter solstice wasn’t for another fortnight, the nights had already turned cold, laying a tracery of frost over the streets of the capital like a veil of croqueted lace. Leaning against the counter of Ismy Browne’s saddlery shop, Sergeant Hektor Dann of the Haven City Watch sipped a mug of hot tea, noting the extra touch of honey with a smile.

“S’good,” he said. “Sweet.”

Ismy cast him a shrewd glance. “You looked as if you could use it,” she noted. “Late night?”

He nodded. “Stood the first watch. Would’ve stood the second, but Aiden made me go home.”

“Your brother’s a wise man,” she replied in a stern tone. “You can’t do a proper day’s work if you’re also tryin’ to do a proper night’s work.”

“They needed extra hands. It was the first night of the Watchman’s Ball.” When Ismy looked confused, he smiled apologetically. “Sorry. I forgot, only the Watch calls it that. It’s the first new moon’s eve before winter, an’ every year ‘round this time things . . .well, things happen.”

“What kind of things?”

“People runnin’ naked through the streets kind of things.”

“You mean like the Lightning?” she asked in an exaggerated tone.

“Like him, yeah.”

“Oh, please, Hektor, don’t tell me he’s actually real.”

“He’s real, all right. He’s been doin’ it for decades, but no one’s ever caught him. No one’s even got a good enough look at him to identify him, but every year we get dozens of reports of him all across Haven. The bet-tin’s four to one we’ll never catch him, an’ the Watch-houses bet each other on how many sightings we get every year, even every night. We had more’n seven on our patch this night last year alone. He’s a wily one, that’s for sure.”

“My granther used to say that he was as fast as a streak of lightning; that’s how he got his name,” Ismy noted. “He said he even saw him once at the bottom of Anvil’s Close. I used to peer through my bedroom shutters when I was a little trying to catch a glimpse of him, but of course I never did.”

“I did.”

Her eyes widened. “You did not? Really?”

He nodded, enjoying her reaction. “Once when I was first promoted up from runner to night watch constable. Uncle Daz an’ me saw him turnin’ the corner south of the Watchhouse, but by the time we got there, he’d vanished.”

“Anyway,” he continued, setting the mug down on the counter. “Da named these three nights the Watchman’s Ball on account of the Lightning leading us a merry chase all night long, you see?”

She nodded.

“Problem is,” he continued, “just the thought of seein’ him sends folk out into the streets, an’ some of ’em carry on and pull all kinds of antics an’ pranks in his name. It’s never been too much, but it’s getting a bit more every year, and the new Captain wants him caught.”

“Well, I should hope so,” Ismy agreed primly. “On a cold night like last night, he’d catch his death.

“And don’t you laugh at me, Hektor Dann,” she admonished as he gave her an amused look. “If he’s been doin’ it for decades like you say, he must be an old man by now.” She took up the mug, wiping the ring away with a flick of her cloth before pushing him toward the door. “Now, off you go to work. And no standing any night watch tonight either. You just leave that up to your younger brothers; that’s their job, not yours, Sergeant Dann.”

“Yeah, yeah, all right, I’m goin’.” He paused on the threshold. “Can I come by an’ see you after all this new moon’s nonsense is over?” he asked, suddenly hesitant.

She nodded, equally shyly. “Do you want to come for supper?”

“I’d like that.”

“It’s just stew.”

“I like stew.”

“And biscuits, you know.”

“I like biscuits too.”

“Good, well . . .”

They stood in awkward silence until the city bells began to toll the hour, then Hektor shook himself. “Good, well . . . supper. After. Yeah.”

He turned and headed quickly up the street, ignoring the older merchants leaning from their doors and windows. A few called out greetings, a few asked if he’d caught the Lightning yet, but most just smiled knowingly as Ismy watched until he’d turned the corner and disappeared from view.

There was a crowd of watchmen, both on duty and off, gathered about the night sergeant’s desk when he arrived at the Iron Street Watchhouse a few moments later. It parted for him eagerly, but Sergeant Jons took his time collecting his reports and putting them into two neat piles before glancing over at the much younger Day Sergeant.

“Sergeant Dann,” he said formally.

“Sergeant Jons.”

“The night’s incident reports are as follows. Four counts of fighting. One outside the King’s Arms. You’ll know all about that one yourself, I expect, what with you and Aiden bringing ’em in yourselves. They’re still here, and the report’s are still to be filed. I figured since the Day Watch Sergeant made the arrest, the Day Watch Sergeant could do up the paperwork.”

He glanced over the report at Hektor much as a schoolmaster might, but when Hektor gave him an even look in response, he retidied his papers. A ripple of annoyance passed through the crowd of watchmen, which he pointedly ignored. “Where was I? Oh, yes, fighting,” he continued. “Two domestic disturbances. No charges laid and no one taken into custody although Holly Poll did throw a chamber pot at Constables Jakon and Raik Dann.” He waited until the general laughter and ribbing at Hektor’s younger brothers died down before continuing. “But since it turned out that she was actually aiming at her husband, they let her off with a warning.”

“Decent of ’em,” someone at the back shouted.

“Only ’cause it was empty,” Jakon groused.

“Only ’cause you’re scared of Holly Poll.”

The laughter erupted again.

“One count of burglary at the Hillman Mill,” Sergeant Jons continued in a louder voice. “Caught in the act. Silly fool was trying to lead out two donkeys at once with predictable results. Apparently he’ll be in hospital for another day or two.” He gave an unsympathetic sniff before continuing.

“Five counts of public drunkenness. Two of the combatants became . . .” He lifted his head, lips pursed as if to find just the right word, “belligerent, so the charges were raised to resisting arrest.

“Three counts of public urination, one of which led to an altercation with Corporal Wright when the suspect made his opinion of the arrest clear by attempting to urinate on him . . .”

Again he paused to allow the laughter to die down. “One count of sleeping on public property. That would be old Ivar,” he said in a quiet aside to Hektor. “He’s in the back having a good breakfast. Turn him loose whenever you like. After lunch maybe.”

Hektor nodded, and Sergeant Jons set the first pile of reports down with great ceremony. All eyes followed his movements as he lifted the second. “So . . .” he began, settling comfortably against his chair back. “Let’s us see now, the Watchman’s Ball reports. What to get to first, eh? Ah, yes . . .” He glanced up as the gathered leaned forward, waiting with a stern expression until they fell back into a sort of loose parade rest. “Clay Marcher’s gran and granther were at it again this year.”

“Runnin’ amok were they?” the same person from the back shouted as Constable Marcher’s face flushed red.

“Running amok, no, not at all,” Sergeant Jons answered. “Dancing amok, yes. Without benefit of clothing, again, yes. But they came quietly after the dance was done and were escorted home without incident. Clay, you might want to head over there on your break and retrieve Constable Farane’s cloak.”

“Yes, Sarge.”

“Right, where was I?” the sergeant continued before he could be interrupted by more laughter. “Fourteen sets of undergarments retrieved from various trees and fences, some of which were quite . . .” Again he lifted his head and pursed his lips as if to find just the right word. “Finely made. That’s up from ten sets last year in case anyone’s keepin’ score.” He pointedly ignored a number of watchmen exchanging money. “As no one ever comes forward to claim their property, they will be donated as has become tradition. I’m not sure to which temple this year.” He glanced up with a rare smile. “I think we’d best leave that up to the Captain.”

His words were greeted with a ripple of snickering and a number of surreptitious glances toward the Captain’s closed office door.

“Seven people apprehended runnin’ through the streets without benefit of clothing,” he continued.

The gathered leaned forward again.

“Students, the lot of them,” he finished to general disappointment. “Two of ‘em Bardic Trainees from the Collegium.” Again, more money changed hands. “All reclothed, lectured, and escorted home again. These incidents are also up this year by . . .”

“Two, Sarge,” Watchhouse Runner Padreic, Hektor’s youngest brother, supplied.

“Two.”

“An’ it took some doin’ to get the last one,” Raik noted sourly. “He climbed right up atop the statue of King Valdemar and got his stupid self stuck. Had to go up and fetch him down. Took the better part of an hour.”

“Just about froze his manhood right off him, the silly bugger,” Jakon muttered.

“Just about froze mine,” Raik added. “Had half a mind to leave him up there.”

“If I might continue before the Captain returns from his morning meeting with the Breakneedle Street Watch Captain?” Sergeant Jons said loudly enough to quiet them. “Sightings of the Lightning . . .”

All eyes turned expectantly.

“None.”

There was stunned silence.

“What? None at all?” Corporal Wright asked.

“None at all.”

The gathered slumped as if the air had been let out of them.

The entire capital passed the day in an air of dejection and speculation. Even those who had declared their disdain for the Lightning in the past were seen standing about with glum expressions. Much of the talk was of his past antics, and most agreed that nothing—not storms, not fog, and certainly not the Watch—could have stopped him. He must have been “topped.”

As Hektor and Aiden headed for a local pie shop at noon, the older of the two Danns shook his head.

“I s’pose that’s it then,” he noted.

“Two rabbit, thanks, Jess. What’s it, then?” Hektor asked, handing a pie over.

Aiden accepted it with a grimace. “The Lightning.” he declared, shaking his fingers to cool them. “He’s been showin’ up on the first night every year for . . . years, and suddenly nothing. He’s topped, like they say.”

“Makes sense.” Hektor blew on his own pie with a reflective expression. “Ismy says if he’s been doin’ it for that long, he must be really old. He probably is topped.”

Aiden grinned at him. “Ismy huh? So that’s where you snuck off to so early this mornin’. Ma was wonderin’.”

Hektor shot him a dark look. “Liar. I told Ma where I was goin’.”

“All right, I was wonderin,” Aiden admitted still grinning.

“I just wanted to see her before my shift, is all.”

“And?”

“And what?”

Aiden shook his head in disgust. “If you have to ask me, you didn’t ask her. I told Suli you didn’t have the bollocks. She owes me a pennybit. Do you two even have a proper understandin’ yet?”

Hektor frowned at him. “I don’t know,” he answered slowly. “I think so. She asked me to supper after all this was all done.”

“Well, that’s a start. Maybe she’ll ask for you.”

“Jerk.”

“Coward.”

“Eat your pie.”

“You gonna stand night watch?”

Hektor shrugged. “Probably. Some of it anyway.”

“Waste of time. He’s topped.”

“The Captain still has the extra hands on just in case.”

“Waste of money.”

“Maybe, but it’s not like we couldn’t use it. Beside, there’s all the other idiots runnin’ amok out there to deal with.”

Aiden finished his pie with a grimace. “Well, they better get it outta their systems early then,” he growled, a martial light growing in his eyes. “ ‘Cause come midnight tomorrow, most of us are gonna be damned ugly.”

The rest of the day passed quietly, as if the entire capital were holding it’s breath, waiting for nightfall. Waiting to see if the Lightning would make an appearance or if he really was topped as most people believed.

Hektor arrived at the tenement house where he shared an upstairs flat with four generations of his family as the city bells tolled six. He figured he had just enough time to eat and catch a couple hours’ sleep before he was due back at the Watchhouse. Jakon and Raik, on regular night duty, should be up and out of the small bedroom they shared with him and Padreic by now. He took the three flights of stairs two at a time, already anticipating the bowl of his mother’s soup and his own warm blankets.

He met the local herbalist coming down.

“Sergeant.”

“Sir.”

“I’ve just been to see Thomar.”

Hektor felt himself grow still. “Oh?” he managed.

“Your granther needs to see a Healer,” the man said bluntly. “An actual Healer.”

“Why? What’s happened?”

The herbalist ran a hand through his hair in an impatient gesture. “He had a dizzy spell and a bit of a fall. Nothing too serious. A bump on the head,” he added as Hektor’s expression went from worried to alarmed. “Years of breathing in the droppings from those messenger birds of his has compromised his lungs, and a packet of herbs once a week isn’t going to be enough to set things right at his age. He needs to see a Healer, but he’s resisting.”

“He’ll say it’s too dear,” Hektor ventured.

“Rubbish. He’s just being a stubborn old fool. I say this in all respect, Hektor. I’ve known Thomar for forty years. He was friends with my own father as I was with yours, and I’ll tell you what I told him. He needs to see a Healer soon or he’ll die.” His voice dropped. “It may even be too late.”

He straightened. “I was sorry about Egan,” he added as he headed down the stairs. “I miss your Da, as I’m sure you all do.”

“Thanks.”

The flat was in an uproar when he arrived. Padreic was pacing the front room, squeezing the pig’s bladder ball he was forever mending in his hands, while their only sister, Kasiath, was sitting by the coal stove, her eyes red from trying not to cry. Jakon and Raik were standing beside her, clearly unsure of how to comfort her beyond their physical presence. Everyone looked up with relief when Hektor entered.

“Where’re the others?” he asked, casting a swift glance across the kitchen to the small pantry they’d converted for their grandfather’s use.

“Suli took the littles off to visit her mother,” Padreic answered. “Aiden’s not home yet, an’ Ma’s gone to the Healers to get someone to come by and see to Granther.”

“Granther don’t need no one seein’ to him!” Thomar’s weak but determined voice carried easily across the flat. “He just needs some blasted quiet!”

Padreic chewed at his bottom lip. “I thought I might go down to Rosie’s, Hek,” he said in a hushed voice. “If that’s all right. I can stay though,” he added quickly. “If you need things fetched, or somethin’ . . .”

Hektor shook his head. “No, you go. Just stay indoors so I know where to find you.” Both of them tried hard not to glance over at the pantry again.

“We’ll head out too now that you’re home,” Raik said.

“Where will you be?”

The two younger brothers shared a look. “Watchman’s Arms if you need us.”

Hektor nodded. “Kas?”

She looked up. “I’ll stay.”

“All right then.” Hektor made a show of screwing up his courage. “So, let’s go see if we can talk some sense into a cantankerous old man.”

The pantry was just big enough to house a narrow pallet down the center. Thomar lay propped up on a pile of pillows, wrapped in shawls and blankets, and looking as birdlike as one of his own messenger pigeons. He gave Hektor a narrow-eyed look as his grandson pushed the curtain aside. “Don’t start,” he wheezed. “It’s too dear, and it’s not necessary.”

“The herbalist says otherwise, Granther.”

“The herbalist is a . . .” Thomar paused as Kasiath pushed past her brother and tucked herself on the bottom corner of the pallet. “. . . nagging little fart,” he finished. “I know what’s what; he don’t. So . . .” He turned to Kasiath. “D’you tell him your news, girl?”

She shook her head. “There hasn’t been time, Granther.”

“So tell him now. It’s good news. News to celebrate.”

Hektor glanced down at his little sister. “I could use some good news,” he prompted with a smile.

She nodded gravely. “The Watchhouse Messenger Bird Master came by today,” she said. “An’ he offered me an apprenticeship.”

“That’s great Kassie. Another Dann in the Watch, sort of. Um . . . how much is it gonna cost?”

“That’s all taken care of,” Thomar snapped. “Me an’ Logan have an understandin’. About that, an’ about other things too. So, go on, tell him the rest.”

“That’s not for certain, Granther.”

“Nonsense.”

“An’ it’s too dear.”

“You let us decide on what’s too dear, you just tell your brother what Logan said.”

“He thinks he might be able to get me into some classes at the Collegium,” Kasiath relented. “He says he thinks I might have Animal Mindspeech, well, Bird-speech anyway. Maybe.”

“Of course you do,” Thomar interjected again. “Anyone with half a brain coulda seen that years ago.” He began to cough, waving off his two grandchildren as they leaned forward. “Now you get downstairs and tell Paddy to go chase your Ma down afore she wastes time and money on some high and mighty Healer what’ll charge more’n a month’s rent just to tell me to stay in bed.

“I won’t die afore you get back, I promise,” he added as she hesitated. “I wanna talk to Hektor alone. Go on now, there’s a good girl.

“An’ you don’t be frettin’ about any cost of Kassie’s apprenticeship,” he said, once he and Hektor were alone. “I’ve been puttin’ money aside with Logan ever since she were three years old. Like I said, it was obvious to anyone with half a brain that she had a gift with birds. An’ when I’m gone, I want what little money I’ve saved up to pay for those classes of hers. You understand?”

“Sure but . . .”

“Don’t you sure but me, boy. My time’s soon; I know it an’ so should you. I won’t have anyone’s hard-earned pay going to some Healer just to be told it. It’s a waste of money.”

Hektor smiled. “It’s funny. That’s just what Aiden said today about working a double shift on account of the Lightning.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Well, he never showed up last night.”

Thomar gave a disdainful sniff. “I’m not surprised,” he stated.

“Why?”

The sound of the door opening and Aiden’s feet clumping through the front room interrupted them. “Get your brother in here,” Thomar ordered. “I got somethin’ to tell you both.”

The night shift passed with the usual number of students running amok and sets of undergarments being laid out for the Lightning’s approval. Clay Marcher’s grandparents made another brief appearance, this time in their nightclothes as a concession to the cold, but once again there was no sign of the famous nude runner himself. After the Night Sergeant had made his reports, the four oldest Danns met in Hektor’s small office with the door firmly shut behind them.

Both Jakon and Raik stared at their older brothers with their mouths open.

“Granther was the Lightning?” Raik stammered. “You’re not serious.”

Hektor raised his hands. “Him an’ Great Uncle Daz, that’s what he says.”

“He’s pullin’ your leg,” Jakon declared flatly. “There’s no possible way. They were Watchmen.”

“He says they got a bet on one new moon’s eve walking the night beat when they were about your age,” Aiden said. “Uncle Daz dared Granther to run past the Watchhouse naked. That’s how it started.”

“He says eventually six other Watchmen from all across the city, all the same age . . .” Hektor started.

“Young an’ stupid,” Aiden supplied.

“Came on board. All sworn to secrecy. Granther says he’s the last. The two before him died last spring.”

Jakon scratched his chin. “I guess that would be why there were always so many sightin’s of him,” he noted.

“An’ why the Lightning never showed up this year,” Raik continued.

“An’ why he won’t never show up again,” Hektor finished for them. “Granther’s too old an’ too sick to carry on like that any more.”

The two younger brothers cast each other an equally speculative glance, and Aiden shot them both a sharp look.

“Don’t even think about it,” he ordered.

“Think about what?”

The looks turned to expressions of aggrieved innocence, and Aiden just scowled at them.

“You know what. Don’t. I mean it, both of you.”

“ ‘Course not,” Raik protested. “After all, Granther an’ Uncle Daz were the two oldest Danns in their generation. It’s hardly our place to take their place, now is it? It’s just a pity it’s over, is all.”

“A real shame,” Jakon agreed. “Folks looked forward to the Lightning all year. He was like a market fair all rolled into one man.”

“Eight men.”

“Yeah, eight men. It would take a lot to fill those shoes.”

“Yep, he was a city tradition.”

“A family tradition as it turns out.”

“So, let him be someone else’s family tradition,” Hektor replied. “An’ I don’t want this getting out, neither,” he continued. “Not to anyone, an’ that means the family too. The last thing we need is Paddy runnin’ naked through the streets in some fool quest to honor Granther. What with him bein’ so sick an’ all,” he added pensively. “Yeah, I guess it is kind of a shame, it’s over. Granther’s just not up to it, the silly old fool.”

Jakon cocked an eyebrow at Raik. “‘Course we won’t tell anyone,” he replied. “It’s Dann business, isn’t it? An’ Paddy’s far too young, anyway. No one’d ever believe it if they caught a glimpse of him.”

“He’d just get his stupid self caught,” Raik agreed.

“So, that’s it, then,” Jakon declared. “We’re sworn to secrecy.”

“All of us. Right Hek?”

“Right.”

“Aiden?”

The oldest Dann brother looked from them to Hektor with a deepening scowl. “I know what you’re tryin’ to do,” he growled. “But yeah, we’re sworn to secrecy.”

Satisfied, the two younger Danns sauntered through the door, leaving the two older Danns to stare silently at each other.

“So that’s it then,” Aiden repeated.

Hektor nodded. “That’s it.”

“Right. That’s it.”

Two nights later, Hektor sat in Ismy Browne’s small kitchen, wiping up the last of the stew in his bowl with a generous piece of biscuit. Ismy set a pie down in the center of the table before joining him.

“I was sorry to hear about Thomar,” she said solemnly. “It was just last night wasn’t it?”

“Early this morning.”

“How are the family doin’?”

He sat back. “Kassie’s takin’ it the hardest. And Paddy too, I guess. It’s only been a couple of months since Da died. But he had a chance to talk to us all, to pass things on afore he went, you know. It was a comfort.”

“Yes, I was pleased to hear about Kassie’s apprenticeship. Your Ma must be very proud.” She smiled at his confused expression. “There’re no secrets in Haven, Hektor,” she said. “Especially in the Watch. You lot gossip more’n a gaggle of laundrywomen.”

“I suppose that’s so. Sometimes anyway.” He stared into space for a moment, then shook himself. “The funeral’s tomorrow morning with a get-together afterwards at the watchhouse. Do you think you might be able to come?”

“Yes, I think so. Jen can watch the shop. It’s time she took on more responsibility.” Ismy busied herself cutting the pie into wedges. “She an’ Shea’ve come to an understandin’,” she said in a conversational tone. “You remember Shea? My late husband’s brother? He took over the saddlery workshop after Quinn died.” When he nodded, she continued. “They’re gettin’ married this spring. I’m thinkin’ they should move into the main room. It’s more appropriate for two. An’ of course they’ll want the whole flat when they start havin’ littles. It’s not really big enough for them an’ me.”

“Oh? Do you, um, think that might be soon?” Hektor asked, suddenly feeling too enclosed in the warm kitchen.

“Oh, yes. Like I said, they’ve come to an understandin’. Of course, she knew it long afore he did, but that’s often the way.”

She collected the bowls and took them over to the sink. “Suli tells me she an’ Aiden have taken the flat below yours,” she mentioned.

“Yeah. They move down in a couple of weeks.” He took a deep breath. “That’ll leave our main room free as well. You know, if there were maybe another understandin’ to come to. You know. Maybe.”

“Do you think there might be?” she asked without turning around.

“I think maybe, yeah. That is, if you do. Do you?”

She finally turned with an exasperated smile. “Like I said, it’s often the way.” When he continued to look uncertain, she shook her head. “That means yes, I do think there might be an understandin’ to come to. Honestly. Did you want a bit of cheese?”

“What?”

“Cheese. With your pie?”

“Oh, yeah, sure, thanks.”

She cut a large piece off a round in the pantry.

“That’s a bit?” he asked, bemused when she set it down in front of him with an equally large piece of pie.

“You look as if you could use it. You look tired. Again.”

“Yeah, well, it’s been a rough few days.”

“So I hear. They say the Lightning finally made an appearance last night.”

He started. “You heard . . . ?”

“I did. You didn’t see him?” she asked pointedly.

“Uh . . . why would I?”

She turned, hands on hips. “I know you stood night watch last night, Hektor Dann, so don’t try to deny it. I told you, there are no secrets in Haven especially in the Watch. So.” She folded her arms in a businesslike gesture. “Are you all through with this Watchman’s Ball foolishness for another year?”

Lifting a piece of pie to his mouth, he stared at it for a long time before looking up.

“Yeah,” he said. “For another year.”

Chapter 16 - Judgment Day - Nancy Asire

“So, Levron, are you looking forward to returning home?”

Levron glanced at the man who rode at his side. Perran was a traveling judge, representative of the justiciary of Karse, its eyes, ears, and judgment passed by one who rightfully upheld the laws of the Son of the Sun and, more importantly, the laws of Vkandis Sun Lord. Perran was all that Levron was not: tall, with dark, hawkish features molded from the classic Karsite version of male beauty that would stand out in any crowd, even if he did not wear the dark robes of a judge. Levron could only contrast his own looks with that of his companion. At best, he would become lost in the same crowd. He had no memorable features, though he was hardly ill to look upon. And this was his strength. He could move among people and leave no lasting impression.

He was, he freely admitted, a friend of sorts to Perran, and he had served the judge many times by riding ahead to the scene of a trial and losing himself in the town or village. From this vantage point, he had been able to gather information about the accusers and accused that might have become lost in a formal trial. The insights he gathered he passed to Perran, and, in many cases, that knowledge had swayed a decision that otherwise might have been erroneous.

“It’s been a while,” he admitted, flicking his reins at a fly determined to light on his horse’s neck. “But this time, I’ll be of no use to you at the trial. There’s a good chance some people in Streamwood will remember me.”

“Ah, well,” Perran said. “This case doesn’t seem, on its face, to need your talents. You might, however, know the litigants involved.”

Levron snorted. “I used to know them. Everyone’s aware how time can change people.”

“Time deals differently with us all. I’ll still need your observations, Levron. You know, or knew, these people at one time. Maybe they haven’t changed as much as you think.”

“Possibly. The two men involved were acquaintances years back. The woman . . . she and I also knew each other. Her reputation was well-acknowledged around town.”

“A bit of a flirt, if I have my facts straight.”

“Oh, yes.” Levron nodded his head. “From her earliest days.”

“So the two of you weren’t close, then.”

“At one time I fancied I could become more than merely a passing friend.” He laughed, though the laughter sounded a bit hollow to his own ears. “She came from a family far more important than mine. And she never let me, or anyone else, forget her status.”

“Well,” Perran said, “we’ll find out exactly how she fits into this case. I still think you might be of more use to me than you imagine. You say people in town will remember you, though, by your own admission, it’s been quite some time since you’ve returned home”

Levron briefly bowed his head. “As you know, both my parents have been dead for years, and I had no brothers or sisters, no extended family in Streamwood. That’s one of the reasons I left for Sunhame, thinking I could make something of myself in the capital.”

“And so you have. Assistant to a circuit judge is a respected position.”

The two guards following behind, fully armed and appearing quite able to handle any situation that grew out of control, laughed at some joke passed between them. Levron closed his eyes briefly. The road hadn’t changed since the last time he passed over it, only then riding in the opposite direction. The scents of the fields on either side were the same, the fall of the sunlight on those fields. A fleeting memory surfaced, taking him back to the days he lived in this region of Karse, of a childhood and young adulthood spent coming and going in the area. Despite his effort to remain unaffected, he admitted this would be no easy homecoming. His parents lay buried on the hill behind the chapel. The friends he left behind would not be the same. And he had changed as well.

Someone long ago said you could never go home again. Less than a candlemark’s ride ahead lay possible confirmation of that saying. He wasn’t certain what he would find, or even what he expected. If nothing else, his return to Streamwood would prove interesting, to say the least.

Perran stood in the center of the room he and Levron had been granted at the inn. It was obviously one of the best, reserved for those who could afford the price. Naturally, he would not be charged during his stay, which he hoped would not be lengthy. His two guards occupied the room next door, smaller but still more than accommodating. The citizens of Streamwood had gone out of the way to make his visit a pleasant one.

He settled in one of the chairs by the open windows, watching Levron unpack their belongings. Levron was trying his best to appear unconcerned, but Perran knew better. This journey wore on him more than he would admit. Not that Perran could ignore the significance of Levron’s return. Though he thought he would be of no help since he was known in town, Perran considered the benefits of having him as a companion.

“So,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Did you see anyone you know?”

Levron paused, shaking the folds from Perran’s formal robes. “A few,” he admitted.

“I thought so. I noticed several people look twice in your direction as we rode by.”

“When is the trial to begin?”

“Tomorrow, midmorning. Here is what I want you to do.”

Levron’s face went blank. “But I won’t be able to disappear into the woodwork; too many people know me.”

“That’s my hope. We have the rest of the afternoon and evening. Since it would only seem natural, I’d like you to go out and wander around a while. See what you can find. Surely, there are a few people you might want to contact since some time has passed since you left Streamwood. I don’t think anyone would find that out of place.”

An uncomfortable expression tightened Levron’s eyes. “I suppose. But they’ll all be aware I ride with you. That fact alone won’t loosen their tongues.”

Perran laughed quietly. “On the contrary. I think they’ll be interested in asking what you’ve been doing since you left and how you ended up in my company. Once you start talking, I’ll wager they’ll lower whatever guard they’ve erected out of sheer curiosity.”

And so it was that Levron entered a tavern he’d frequented before he left Streamwood. True to Perran’s supposition, several people nodded to him as he took his place at a table situated toward the rear of the room. He requested a cup of ale and sat quietly, nursing his drink. A few former associates stopped by, exchanged brief greetings, and questioned him as to his new station in life. But for the most part, he was left alone. It was apparent no one was overly interested in a former resident of the town, though he was certain word of his arrival with Perran had begun to spread.

“Levron!”

The familiar but strangely unfamiliar voice interrupted his thoughts. He looked up from his cup into the face of a tall man who stood by the table, a smile on his narrow face. For a moment, the features of the newcomer wavered between that of years past and that of the present; the man’s name, however, was all too familiar.

“Barro.” Levron indicated an empty chair. Memories flashed through his mind, not all of which were particularly pleasant.

“I couldn’t believe it when I saw you,” Barro said, waving to the barmaid for a cup of ale. “You’ve come up in the world.”

Levron made a dismissing gesture. “Perhaps. Assistant to a traveling judge is hardly an exalted position.”

“So you say.” Barro took a long sip of his drink. “You know I’m to go to trial tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“And do you know why?”

“Not really. Only in the broadest sense.”

“Well, let me give you the details. Perhaps you can offer some advice.”

“That,” Levron said, keeping his voice expressionless, “is the last thing I can do. I’m only a judge’s assistant. I don’t know the law.”

Barro’s eyes narrowed. “Not even for an old friend?”

“Not even for an old friend. As I said, I don’t know the law. I’d hate to give you advice that wouldn’t help and might harm.”

“Then hear me out and maybe you’ll change your mind. You know Trika?”

Know Trika? Levron managed a shrug. “Of course.”

“Here’s what happened. I’ve been half in love with her for years.”

“You and the rest of Streamwood,” Levron observed, uncomfortably aware he could count himself in that crowd.

“Hunh. I own a fabric shop and haven’t done badly for myself. I thought I might be of standing enough to court Trika.” His face darkened. “But she was already being courted.”

“Let me guess,” Levron interrupted, unable to stay disinterested. “Haivel.”

“Haivel. That coddled papa’s boy!” Barro swallowed the rest of his ale, his eyes gone hard. “He was always around her, pestering her father for more and more access to her company.”

“And you?”

“I kept my distance, making it obvious I was interested as well. In fact, I went out of my way to give her father discounts on any fabric his wife wanted to purchase. I was never overt in my actions and, as they say, patience pays off. After spending most of her time with Haivel, Trika decided she preferred to see me.”

Levron could tell where this was going. He knew all three individuals involved: Barro, the man who worked tirelessly to better himself; Haivel, whose parents had given him a small shop where he had set himself up as a scribe; and, of course, Trika, the beauty of Streamwood. Trika the Tease. Trika, the woman who, adhering to the customs of Karse, had been allowed to be courted by men her father deemed worthy.

“You know Haivel,” Barro continued, lifting his empty cup in the barmaid’s direction. “He didn’t take this well at all. The more time Trika spent with me, the more upset Haivel grew. I think he was eaten up with jealousy. And finally, he couldn’t accept the way things were and damaged my latest shipment of cloth.”

“Oh? And you saw this?”

“I did. He came around just before dark. I was finishing the last of my orders. I’d gone to the rear of the shop when I heard the door open. I came back to the front in time to see Haivel throw a bucket of paint over the latest bolt of fine cloth I’d ordered from Sunhame! You have no idea how much that cloth cost. It was ruined. Haivel laughed at me—laughed at me—and ran out of the shop.”

Levron leaned back in his chair. “I’m surprised. I didn’t think Haivel was that sort.”

“Well, he is. You haven’t been in town for years and haven’t seen the change in him. I immediately went to the authorities and made my report.”

“Did they arrest Haivel?”

Barro’s face darkened. “They talked to him. He denied everything. He said he had a witness who would swear he was nowhere near my shop that night.”

“And his father took his side?”

“Of course. Dear Haivel, beloved only son, who couldn’t have done anything so dishonest.”

“So you’re taking the case to court.”

Barro squared his shoulders. “I am. Now, old friend, any advice?”

Old friend? Levron all but laughed. Barro had never been a friend . . . an off-and-on comrade, but never a friend. In fact, when he and Barro had been young boys, Barro had been somewhat of a bully, with Levron taking most of the abuse when the two of them were together.

“No advice other than to tell the truth. Judge Perran is quite adept at knowing who’s lying and who’s not. As I’ve told you, I’m not a legalist. I do know a person who lies before him is in worse trouble than if he had not.”

“Some help you are,” Barro muttered. “I guess that’s all I can expect. After all, you aren’t the judge, your master is.”

Levron smiled, despite the veiled insult. “I wish you the best, Barro. Destruction of property is a crime and should be punished.”

“You’re damned right!” Barro shoved his chair away from the table, tossed down a copper coin, and stood. “I suppose I’ll see you again.” And with that, he turned and made his way toward the tavern’s door.

Levron’s shoulders slumped, and he relaxed somewhat, amazed that this meeting had made him so tense. Once again, he felt the pressure of memories from the past. Barro, Haivel, and Trika. He knew, or thought he knew, them all. And, he admitted, he was growing more than relieved he no longer lived in Streamwood.

Perran looked up when Levron entered the room they shared. From the expression on his assistant’s face, he had not spent a pleasant time out in the town.

“Well, did you see anyone you know?”

Levron frowned. “A few. No one I considered close. I did see one of the people you’re to judge tomorrow.”

“Oh?”

“Barro.”

“Ah, the fellow whose cloth was ruined, who reported it was done by Haivel.”

“Yes.”

“That’s interesting. A man by the name of Haivel came here looking for you. I can’t believe you didn’t pass him on your way in.” Perran watched Levron closely. “You might want to go out and see if he’s still around. What did Barro have to say?”

“What didn’t he have to say! He told me the whole story, how Haivel ruined a bolt of expensive cloth by dumping a bucket of paint on it. All out of jealousy . . . over, of course, Trika. The two of them are trying to court her. She’d spent all her time with Haivel and then started seeing Barro. He wanted advice, which I refused to give him. We didn’t part on the best of terms.”

Perran nodded. What Levron told him matched information he’d received before he had agreed to judge this case. However, a new twist had arisen when Levron had gone out earlier and Haivel had come looking for him, information Perran wasn’t yet ready to share. Let Levron find out himself, unprepared for what he would hear. Not being forewarned, his reaction would be unlikely to arouse suspicion of prior knowledge. This, in itself, could aid his observations later. If he could find Haivel.

And the way events had transpired so far, Perran was certain Levron would do just that.

It didn’t take long for Levron to locate Haivel. The inn sported a few tables and chairs to the side of the building where, when weather permitted, people could sit and drink or share a dinner. Agreeing with Perran, Levron was surprised Haivel had missed his recent arrival. He drew a calming breath as he approached another person from his past.

“Levron!” Haivel smiled and nodded his greeting. “Sit, sit. It’s been a long time.”

“That it has,” Levron acknowledged. “So how has life been treating you?”

“I’ve done well. You know I’m a scribe. There’s a good life to be made writing for folk who don’t have the skill.”

“I can only imagine.”

“So you’re assistant to Judge Perran, are you? You obviously made something of yourself when you left Streamwood for Sunhame.”

“I did, and I’ve never regretted it.”

“You know I’m going to trial tomorrow.” Once the polite pleasantries had passed, Haivel jumped straight to the point.

Levron briefly closed his eyes. “And I won’t give you any advice if you ask for it. I can’t.”

Haivel drew back slightly in his chair, his handsome face darkened. “And why is that?”

Fresh memories of his conversation with Barro surfaced, but he refused to let Haivel know the two of them had spoken a short time before.

“I’m slightly aware of the case, but,” Levron repeated, “I don’t know the law, and I can’t offer any advice save to tell the truth.”

Haivel snorted. “Well, let me tell you, if Barro thinks he’s going to have a judgment entered against me, I’m countering him with my own accusation.”

“Oh?” Levron blinked in surprise. “And what did Barro do that you’re going after him in court?”

“He came into my shop one afternoon, in broad daylight mind you, and took a knife to an entire shipment of paper sitting on the counter before I could stop him. Cut it into pieces! Do you have any idea how much paper costs?”

Or what the going price is for a bolt of fine cloth? Levron shook his head in disbelief. “I couldn’t guess, but it probably wouldn’t be cheap.”

“It’s not! I don’t have any idea what possessed him! He’s been acting strange ever since . . .”

Levron waited, refusing to lead Haivel to further explanation.

“Here’s the problem,” Haivel said, spreading his hands. “You know Trika?”

“I knew her,” Levron admitted. “Years ago.”

“I was courting her, seriously courting her. Her father evidently thought well of me. And then, for some reason, she dropped me like a hot rock and started seeing Barro.”

“And?”

“Someone vandalized cloth in Barro’s shop. He swears it was me and reported the crime to the authorities. But I have a witness I wasn’t near his shop. And, days later, he came into my shop and destroyed my paper.”

“That’s odd. In broad daylight, too. Do you have a witness?”

“Only my own two eyes. I can’t let him get away with this.” Haivel drew a deep breath. “Are you certain you can’t—”

“I can’t offer any advice except what I’ve already told you,” Levron said. “Speak the truth. Judge Perran will be able to tell who’s lying and who’s not.”

Haivel shrugged. “I understand, though I hoped you might be able to help a friend, for old time’s sake.”

Old friend again. Do the two of them truly believe we were friends?

“I’ve explained why I can’t. All I can do is wish you the best of luck. One word of caution, however . . . don’t dismiss Judge Perran as just another traveling judge. What I can tell you is this: he’s one of the best, and anyone who thinks otherwise makes a huge mistake.”

The transformation that turned Perran from traveling companion to circuit judge never ceased to amaze Levron, though he’d witnessed it many times. Seated a few paces away from the table Perran sat behind, Levron could see why people could become awed. Clad in his dark robes, the heavy gold chain of his office glittering on his chest, Perran exemplified the authority of the justiciary and, as every citizen of Karse knew, stood as the legal hand of the Son of the Sun.

After speaking with Haivel, Levron had related their conversation to Perran in exacting detail, his expected duty as Perran’s assistant. He had watched Perran’s face go still as all the legal ramifications of the two stories swirled about in his mind. And now, today, those thoughts would be turned into action.

Barro and Haivel had taken chairs before the judge’s table, neither meeting the other man’s eyes. From his vantage point at the front of the room, Levron had a good view of the people who had come to watch the trial. A few latecomers had arrived and, much to Levron’s dismay, Trika had entered the room accompanied by her father.

The years had been kind to her. She still possessed a breathtaking beauty, but Levron sensed something else immediately. The hint of coldness lurked in her eyes, a calculating expression she tried to hide by keeping her gaze modestly lowered. Ah, yes . . . Trika the Tease. Levron could imagine what had driven Barro and Haivel to their crimes. Trika was the source of those misdeeds. He was certain of it.

Perran rapped the table three times, and the room grew silent.

“This court is now in session,” Perran said, his face solemn. “What is said before me is seen and heard by myself as representative of the Son of the Sun and Vkandis Sun Lord. Every word spoken to me is given under oath. State falsehood at your peril.”

Unwillingly, Levron turned his attention to Trika again. Though she maintained her modest demeanor, she looked first to Haivel and then to Barro. In a flash, he knew what motivated her and felt a little sickened by the knowledge. His faith in Perran’s abilities as a judge was absolute: the truth behind Barro and Haivel’s quarrel would be brought to light.

And not a moment too soon, for the sake of everyone involved.

Perran studied the two men seated before him. Neither looked away, both seemingly assured their testimony would win the day. That, in itself, spoke volumes. He cleared his throat.

“I’ll question you first, Barro, since you brought the original accusation against Haivel. From what you’ve told the authorities of Streamwood, Haivel ruined a bolt of expensive cloth by dumping a bucket of paint on it. Now, tell me what you think could have caused a productive and respected citizen of Streamwood to do such a thing.”

Barro stood, bowed his head briefly in Perran’s direction.

“Jealousy, your lordship,” he said.

Perran leaned back in his chair, steepled his hands, and listened to Barro’s account of the vandalism of his fabric and the perceived reason for Haivel’s jealousy. He glanced once at Levron, lifted an eyebrow, to be rewarded by Levron’s nod toward a beautiful woman seated next to an older man, most likely her father. So that was Trika. The source of the trouble that had escalated to vandalism. He continued to listen to Barro’s tale, but he kept watching Trika as the man spoke. He could see how her eyes sparkled, how her face grew animated as Barro set forth his case against Haivel.

“And you saw Haivel throw the paint on your bolt of cloth?” Perran asked.

“Yes, your lordship.”

“Was there anyone else in the shop that night?”

“No, your lordship.”

“Did he say anything after ruining your fabric?”

“No, your lordship. He merely laughed and ran out of the shop.”

“I see.” Perran looked down at a piece of paper on the table. “You’ve tendered the court a receipt setting out the value of the cloth. It bears the stamp of Tabot House of Sunhame. Is this the merchant you deal with?”

“Yes, your lordship.”

“And the value of the bolt of cloth is set out here at ten silver soleri. And you say it’s ruined.”

“It is. The paint soaked through it since it’s an intricate weave.”

Perran motioned Barro to sit, then turned his attention to Haivel.

“And you, Haivel.” Perran motioned for the man to stand. “You’ve brought a claim against Barro for destruction of a shipment of paper to be used in your profession as scribe, is that correct?”

“It is, your lordship.”

“Now explain to me why you think Barro would do such a thing.”

Haivel shrugged. “I don’t know. I can only guess it’s revenge for what he thinks I did to his cloth. But I have a witness who will testify I couldn’t have been to his shop that night.”

“But he claims he saw you, and you laughed in his face.”

“Impossible, your lordship.”

“And where is this witness who can give proof you weren’t at Barro’s shop that night?”

For the first time, Haivel’s eyes wandered. “I’m not sure.”

Perran leaned back in his chair and lifted an eyebrow. “What do you mean, you’re not sure?”

“He left town shortly after the incident, your lordship.”

“Then why do you claim you have a witness who can assure me you weren’t at Barro’s shop?”

“Because it’s true! I wasn’t! And my witness would testify to that!”

Perran allowed a smile to touch his lips. “A witness who isn’t here can’t help you. Do you know where this person is?”

“No. He’s another scribe who travels in the area, serving those who can’t read or write.” Haivel’s face reddened. “If I knew where he was, he’d be in court today.”

“You didn’t think to find him when you knew you were coming to court?”

“I tried, but he doesn’t always take the same route.”

Perran lifted another sheet of paper. “You’ve given this court a receipt for the paper you claim Barro ruined by slashing it with a knife.”

Haivel nodded. “It’s from a traveling paper merchant. I get a shipment from him whenever he passes through town.”

Perran studied the receipt. “It says here the amount you paid the merchant for the paper was ten silver soleri. Is that correct?”

“Yes, your lordship. It was a large order. I have to stock paper because I’m never sure when the merchant will be passing through town again.”

“You may be seated.” Perran studied the two men. They returned his stare, faces set in expressions of total belief in what they recounted. But somewhere, in Haivel’s recounting, he sensed a lie. He straightened. “This court will adjourn for two candlemarks while I review the cases. I want you both back here then.” He looked across the room, briefly focusing his attention on Trika. “Please bear in mind that everything you’ve said I have taken into consideration. And I am, as you well know, an enforcer of the laws of Karse. My judgment here today is final, and your cases cannot be tried again.”

Levron stood outside the inn, well aware his next duty to Perran might be one of the hardest he had ever performed. Nonetheless, any information he could find would aid Perran’s decision in this case. Glancing up at the passing clouds, he made an effort to appear relaxed and calm, one more man enjoying the springtime sun.

He heard his name called, turned, and saw Trika coming his way, accompanied by her father.

“Levron,” she said, her smile such that any man would immediately feel flattered to be addressed by her. “You remember my father?”

“I do. Good day to you, sir.”

Trika’s father wore a somewhat preoccupied expression and merely nodded.

“So, you’ve become assistant to the judge.” She smiled again; this time the smile was more than inviting.

“Yes.” Levron squared his shoulders. “A position I’m rather proud of.”

“And you should be,” she said, stepping close enough so he could smell the slight hint of her perfume. “I’m confused as to why Barro and Haivel are in court. Perhaps you can tell me what will happen if they’re found guilty.”

“That I can’t. I don’t make those decisions.”

“Oh.” She pouted prettily. “I thought you might have witnessed cases like this before.”

“And why should you care?” Levron asked, keeping his voice even.

Trika lifted her chain and glanced off for a brief moment. “I don’t, actually. I’m merely interested. They were both beginning to bore me.”

“Trika!” This from her father, who now stared at his daughter. “That’s not a kind thing to say.”

“But it’s true, Papa. First Haivel, then Barro.” She tossed a strand of night-black hair over her shoulder. “You’d think I was the only woman in town.”

Levron cleared his throat. Much as he wanted to keep his opinions hidden, the time had come to reveal them. “You haven’t changed, have you, Trika?”

She appeared startled for a few heartbeats. “What do you mean by that?”

“I remember all too well how things stood when I left Streamwood.” Levron met Trika’s father’s eyes. “Your pardon, sir, I don’t mean any disrespect.” He returned his attention to Trika. “You always seemed to enjoy setting boys, and then men, at each other, simply to see how they would react. Isn’t that what you’ve done to Barro and Haivel?”

Trika’s eyes turned to black ice. “That’s unfair. I thought you and I were friends!”

Friends again. Why do they think we were ever friends? “Not so I noticed. You never paid me any attention at all.”

“I can see why I didn’t,” Trika said, her eyes narrowed now. “You’re nothing more than a—-”

“Trika!” This time, her father put a hand on her shoulder. “Be still!”

“I will not!” she fumed. “Why should I let Levron accuse me of—-”

“Because it’s true, and you know it,” her father interrupted. “I’ve ignored your behavior far too long. You’re aware of what they call you in town, aren’t you?”

For a brief moment, Trika’s haughty expression cracked. “Trika the Tease,” she said at last, her voice gone very quiet.

Levron bowed his head in Trika’s father’s direction. “I think it best I take my leave,” he said. “I’m fairly certain I won’t be back in Streamwood for a long time, if ever, so I wish the best of everything for you both.”

He turned and entered the inn, a headache beginning to pound behind his eyes. But the unfortunate meeting had been worth it . . . he now had the answer Perran wanted.

Perran couldn’t deny the emotional cost of Levron’s meeting with Trika. Levron had hardly spoken a word other than to recount the conversation he had shared with Trika and her father. Knowing how difficult that meeting must have been, Perran vowed, somehow, to set things right. Perran earnestly hoped a situation similar to this one would not occur in the future.

Court in session, he stared at the two men seated before his table and made a show of inspecting the receipts they had given him to prove their loss. Let them squirm a little, it certainly wouldn’t do them further harm. Finally, he motioned for Barro and Haivel to stand.

“What I have here are receipts for the goods you have lost. Once again, I ask, can either of you prove the damages created by the other?”

Barro darted a quick glance at Haivel. “I saw him ruin my cloth with my own eyes.”

“And I,” Haivel said, “saw Barro destroy my paper.”

“But neither of you has a witness. It’s only your individual accusations that this is what happened.”

“My cloth is ruined!” Barro exclaimed. “I saw Haivel dump the paint on it!”

“And I saw Barro destroy my paper!” Haivel growled. “Whose word weighs more here, his or mine?”

“Are you asking me a question?” Perran leaned forward in his chair. “I don’t answer questions, I ask them!”

Both men seemed to shrink slightly.

“My apologies, your lordship,” Haivel said quietly.

“So.” Perran studied the papers again. “You, Barro, suffered a loss of ten silver soleri for the destruction of your fine bolt of cloth, caused, you say, by Haivel upending a bucket of paint on it. And you, Haivel, suffered a loss of ten silver soleri because you claim Barro took a knife to your delivery of paper. All because you’re both acting out of a misguided sense of jealousy and revenge. You, Haivel, courted Trika for a considerable time, and when she started seeing Barro, you reacted.”

Haivel’s face turned red and he stared at his feet.

“And you, Barro,” Perran continued, letting his eyes stray to where Trika and her father sat, “reacted in anger because you claim Haivel destroyed your cloth. As you said, Haivel, it’s his word against yours and your word against his. Now how can I tell who’s guilty and who’s not? Since neither of you has a witness, and, Haivel, I’m not certain I believe your witness exists, I’m left in the unenviable position of having to decide a case that has no easy resolution.”

Silence gripped the room. Perran noticed several people glancing sidelong at Trika. If those gathered to watch the trial were any example, what Levron had recounted regarding Trika’s manipulations in the past seemed to be all too familiar to the citizens of Streamwood. And now he had to make a judgment. Both had suffered losses, but the reasons behind the vandalism of each man’s property could be left squarely at Trika’s threshold. Not that they were innocent. Perran believed each had told the truth despite Haivel’s story about his witness: Barro had seen Haivel destroy his cloth; Haivel had witnessed Barro shred his delivery of paper.

Perran gathered the two receipts and set them aside.

“Now hear my judgment,” he said. “By the authority granted to me by the Son of the Sun, whose rule of law emanates from Vkandis Sun Lord, I speak. Barro, I believe your recounting. Even with no witness, you have proved it more likely than not Haivel destroyed your fabric for which you paid ten silver soleri. Therefore, he will pay you that amount to recoup your loss.”

Barro’s face lit up and a smile touched his lips. Perran turned to Haivel, whose expression bordered on the shocked.

“And Haivel, you also have no witness, but you have proved it more likely than not Barro destroyed your paper, for which you paid ten silver soleri. Barro is ordered to pay you that amount to make you whole.”

Barro’s eyes widened and Haivel lifted his chin.

“And now,” Perran said, “I come to the portion of this trial that strays from the normal path I usually take. The two of you,” he continued, “have behaved poorly for men of your standing in Streamwood. Now I understand, or I can try to understand, feelings of betrayal on your part, Haivel, and the jealousy that followed. And you, Barro, you reacted in vengeful anger at the ruination of your property. Vengeance I can also understand. However—-” and here Perran stared directly at Trika who sat next to her father “—-there is someone in this court who is ultimately responsible for setting these actions into motion. Trika, will you and your father stand?”

Trika’s face froze into a pale mask, and her eyes darted left and right as she and her father rose.

“I find you guilty of playing petty, emotional games with these two men. Therefore, in my authority as judge, as penalty I fine you twenty-five copper soleri to be paid to Haivel and twenty-five copper soleri to be paid to Barro.”

A muted gasp rippled through the room. Barro and Haivel exchanged a glance, then looked away. Trika’s father glared at his daughter, who had lowered her eyes to the floor, no longer flaunting her beauty as a seductive weapon.

“And,” Perran continued, “I caution you, Trika, to think how your actions can influence others. Emotions are easily manipulated in certain circumstances. Perhaps this will teach you to be more considerate of those around you. And so, by the authority vested in me, I conclude my judgment. In the name of the Son of the Sun and Vkandis Sun Lord, so shall it be!”

Levron had never felt more relieved to depart a town after a judgment. He rode next to Perran, for the first time in two days feeling unburdened by what lay in the future.

“I want to thank you again,” Perran said. “I asked a great deal of you, and I hope you understand the need. What you told me illustrated in detail how people can behave so badly. It’s always a shame to see these things happen, but I’m willing to wager this won’t be the last such case I’m called to judge. Only next time, you won’t be so intimately involved.”

“It was my duty,” Levron replied, warmth flooding his heart at Perran’s apology. “Yes, it was draining. Yes, I wish I didn’t know the three of them. I will say this, your judgment was superb. I found it amazing to see how you dealt with Barro and Haivel. Fining Trika the fifty copper soleri to be paid half to Barro and half to Haivel meant each of them left court owing nothing to the other, and a bit better off besides.”

Perran chucked. “Do you think she will have learned anything?”

Levron thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Probably not. It will take more than a fine to change her, unless her father reins her in at last. Perhaps it might happen one day when someone she truly loves spurns her.” He lifted his head, took a deep breath of the fresh scents of the fields that stretched off from the roadway. “I will tell you this: I never want to return to Streamwood. If there’s another case to be tried there, I beg you . . . please find a substitute.”

Perran laughed and lifted the reins, urging his mount to an easy canter. Levron touched his heels to his horse and caught up, a smile touching his face warmed by the late afternoon sun.

Chapter 17 - Under the Vale - Larry Dixon

Misty and I are asked some very clever and insightful questions when we’re doing Q&A sessions at conventions. One thing I invariably say is, “A Star Trek™ writer once told me, ‘I have one brain to get it right, and the fans have a hundred thousand brains to find what I got wrong.’ ” There are fans and there are Fans, and the True Believers memorize every detail, and how it all comes together, and they make webpages, trivia games, and databases and keep track of all details. We love that. It’s awesome.

We put amazing levels of worldbuilding and research go into even the most casual mentions and tertiary characters. Well, it’s amazing to us anyway. We could be easy to impress. We might be weak compared to a lot of writers, especially role-playing-game writers, but it sure feels like a ton of development. Even when something gets just a passing mention or is glimpsed in the background, there’s been thought put into it. Plus, there are in-jokes, and meta-references, and braided or circular storytelling that have as much to do with stand-up joke framework (warmup, first callout, setup, gag, punchline, callback) as with screenplay or prose structure. Some person or building in the background might be important six books down the line. In one interview we laughed and said we always have four pages of notes for a two-line reference.

This essay shows a little bit of what that forethought is like. And you know what? This is our job, seven days a week, writing and drawing and researching every single day, and we still get things wrong all the time. But I promise you, we sure do our very best for you.

My specialty is the How and Why Things Happen Department. Here are some insights into the Hawkbrothers, the hertasi, and just what a Vale is—and what it’s for.

About 1150 years ago from the “current” point in the Valdemar/Velgarth timeline (circa Perfect Day and Transmutation), the paired disasters known as the Cataclysm occurred. And it was a mess. A deity-level, impossible-to-fix-instantly mess. The seventy-some years before the Cataclysm were called The Mage Wars, because Velgarth’s native magic fields had been harnessed like never before by cabals and individuals. In the centuries before, magic work had been at what might today be called journeyman level at best, and those who used sorcery had few, if any, mentors. Spellwork was mostly experimentation. Experimentation was often lethal. Magery wasn’t a career choice for a long life. Some of these early wizards did keep notes, though, and the ones that didn’t die in a flash of Mage-shaped embers passed their notes along. And so, schools of thought regarding magic and what could be done with it led to those that could eventually be called Adepts.

These Mages often became more than tyrants and more than leaders. They became strategic weapons. Alliances and one-time deals shaped the courses of tribes and nations alike. Just having the social favor of a Mage could be enough to stop a rivals’ invasion of your duchy or hunting grounds. A warlord of great strategic ability could employ a Mage for tide-turning battle tactics, and the Mage would be kept safe and comfortable by the warlord all the rest of the time. Everybody—and let me stress that, everybody—who understood any sort of civilization knew that those who worked magic were to be respected.

The next turning point after Adepts came very swiftly. An Adept could train others to do parts of spellwork and then combine their subworks into a Great Work. This was first used to enrich an eroded floodplain, while the baron’s men built levees to make use of the renewed soil. This historic Great Work used just under sixty journeyman-level Mages and a single Adept.

One of the journeyman Mages was a very young man named Urtho.

At this time, the “texture” of Velgarth’s magic was very rough. It took a brute force approach to cause something to happen, and Great Works nearly always resulted in serious injury for two-thirds of the magic users involved, because excess energy would manifest as light and heat. Very often, spellwork simply wasn’t worth the chance of losing a percentage of your Mage teams to blindness and burns. Magework was reserved solely for things that laborers, soldiers, and engineers could not replicate. And, not incidentally, wherever there was magic, something was going to explode. This was partly because no one had the slightest concept of static electricity, and magework would sometimes create a huge potential charge that would ignite materials and gasses nearby. That never helps. Other times, enchantment-prone materials would accidentally get charged up and detonate. This led to a brief and ill-advised fad of naked spellcasting, which ended not long after the first spate of full-body, smoking head and groin hair burns. Obviously comparing notes literally couldn’t hurt.

A bold tradition arose, by Urtho’s doing, that got Mages together in “salons” to share their information freely about spells and energies, regardless of their political leanings or ranks. It was against common law, even considered traitorous by some, but the fear of and respect for Mages were such that these salons were not once raided. Urtho was, to put it mildly, likable. Whereas so many colleagues were gruff or pained by old wounds or insufferably self-important, Urtho had kind eyes and a kind heart, to match his ability to maneuver socially. A knack for bribery didn’t hurt, either.

Urtho’s salons became a “movable feast” that would travel village to city, Mage school to secret cabal, and every year they became more lavish and the food much better. Mages were always wealthy. The salons advanced magical theory to a level that might have taken a century more, had they not flourished. Inevitably, these gatherings collapsed due to schism and war, but the world gained much knowledge (and fewer explosions) from them.

Urtho gazed at an oil lamp one evening and mused, “If it were a bowl of oil, touched by this fire, it would explode. But it is a lamp, and the wick is restricted, so only the wick burns. It gives just a little light and heat, and that is just what I ask of it.” Urtho wrote this in one of his many notebooks, unaware that by doing so, he had just changed the history of the entire world and the spirit realms above and below it.

Urtho’s great accomplishment in the years after the salons was to develop a set of “weights and measures” for magic use. It all began with that first observation from the oil lamp. His title, Mage of Silence, was because spellwork at the time put out a huge “signature” that could be detected even at long distances; but Urtho’s spellwork used exactly as much power as was needed and no more. Thus, “silence,” and others feared and respected the fact that Urtho could have operations going and operatives active right beside them that they simply couldn’t detect. It became the bluff that saved countless lives.

Magery, like anything, has its trends and fashions. Animal husbandry enhanced by magic came into fashion, and from that came something called “uplifting.” Creatures could be made stronger and swifter, yes, but also smarter. Adepts, by this time numbering in the scores and as influential as kings, became bored with being the era’s equivalent of field cannon. Several put their knowledge to work on improving horse breeds, and others toward creating giant versions of small but deadly creatures like ice-drakes.

The hertasi could be described as semisentient at the time Urtho picked up where a predecessor of his, Khal Herta, had left off. The wild hertasi were mild-tempered reptiles, available in large quantity, living fairly simple lives. After Herta’s experimental work, hertasi had simple structures, organized hunting and fishing, and rudimentary medicine. Several of the bands settled at Ka’venusho were former followers of Herta who adopted Urtho when Herta passed on. They brought Khal Herta’s notes and all of the hertasi with them, knowing that the Kyamvir’s unified tribes would easily subjugate the hertasi if any stayed in their native northern swamps.

Urtho took the approach of increasing the intelligence of hertasi social leaders, encouraging them to breed with their subordinates and then increasing the intelligence of their offspring. It created a surprisingly seamless acceptance among the hertasi, for those who were far smarter than any had been before were their own children, not strangers from an Adept’s lab.

Part of Khal Herta’s uplift process was instilling a mild compulsion in the hertasi to be appreciative for what they had become, and Urtho left that intact. This lives on, into the current timeline, as the unstoppable helpfulness the hertasi as a whole have. Even the grouchiest hertasi knows that they “owe” Urtho for having as good a life as they do. Interestingly, that compulsion did not carry through into the tyrill, the “bigger siblings” of the hertasi. Urtho constantly struggled with ethical questions of practicality and free will, and when the compulsion bred out of the tyrill, he simply let it go, almost as if he were making up for its presence in the hertasi.

It is also important to mention here that Urtho was but one man, but the work of uplifting a species was done by a small legion of lesser Mages working under Urtho’s direction. Urtho’s greatest work, the gryphons, took forty years of constant design and spellwork by nearly three hundred lower-ranked Mages, and each of them had a personal staff of helpers. Urtho’s Tower had as many sublevels as it had floors, plus scores of outbuildings. Every day Urtho made the rounds of the workrooms and directed the swarms of probability sprites that tested each organ and behavior of the species. Urtho is the Great Mage who got the credit, but thousands of others supported him, including the survivors who would become the Tayledras.

Kal’enel, the goddess revered by the Hawkbrothers is, like every other Velgarthian deity, a nonphysical creature of limited abilities. When the Cataclysm was on their horizon, the deities of Velgarth could see that it was much more than they could handle. Much as a ship’s crew cannot stop a storm but can choose a course and batten down the hatches, the deities that had genuine prophets knew the Cataclysm was coming and could only adjust their sails, so to speak. The most compassionate of deities made plans and worked great magics to preserve their followers. Some deities, to put it plainly, blundered, did not survive, and are only remembered in historical documents.

The Cataclysm was so horrible, even for the gods, because it consisted of one of Urtho’s weapons that they knew little about and could not counter.

Indeed, to attempt to counter it would only worsen it.

As you may remember, a “spell” is the use of magical and nonmagical physics, in a structure, to produce a desired effect. A “spell” is a process, not a thing. Its nearest analogy might be the construction of a simple arch bridge, where specially shaped materials depend upon each other both to stay cohesive as a bridge shape and to perform the task of being a bridge.

Urtho’s weapon was an “unspell:” a “self-sustaining disjunction,” in his words, and it was not some nuclear fireball one might imagine from something named a cataclysm. To continue the bridge analogy, it caused the pieces of the bridge to cease to have a hold on each other; the friction and pressure required to maintain an arch simply broke down into thousands of fissures, and the bridge ceased to be a bridge. Catastrophically. And then the debris from the bridge caused whatever it touched to disintegrate as the bridge did, and so on.

Like most things the Mage of Silence created, it began slowly, and it initially spread from its epicenter at a pace similar to a walk. Its wave peaks were higher and closer together at its epicenters, each lengthening out until their “bow wave” reached a level of equilibrium where the arcs between magical materials were simply too far apart to sustain the effect. The edges of Lake Evendim and the Dhorisha Plains resulted from the settling of debris pushed along by the waves when they reached this exhaustion.

The disjunction, most simply put, broke down the links between energy fields that sustained long-lasting spellwork. When a spell or item’s power was violently released, its “magical shrapnel” struck the next nearest one, and so forth. Therefore, the enchantment that helped a land barge float would not just collapse, it would fly apart in many thousands of “strands” that would “grasp onto” any other magical field or device in its path like chainshot. They, in turn, would lose their cohesion, and their own magical threads would fly out to latch onto the next device or Mage energy, and so forth, throwing off light, heat, and debris.

The gross effect of this during the Cataclysm was that raw strings of magic snagged onto enchantable material like, say, a good bit of hardwood or a sword with a well-made crystalline forging, and arced across them in heat and light while physically pushing them away from the disjunction’s epicenter. The ground lunged upward from magic-induced liquefaction, while under the surface, crystals and other enchantment-receptive materials snatched up bits of loose raw magic and then exploded, bursting from the ground at the next wave-peak. The ground level dropped by as much as two hundred feet as the disjunction wave spread outward, due to the sudden aeration and then collapse of earth; what was left behind was not only tightly packed, but in many cases, entire acres were fused into glassine plates, such as where a magical ax or bow once lay.

Urtho’s Tower itself, though, had been designed to collapse in on itself in a very specific way. Its hundreds of keystones were enchanted to project light. Most people thought of this as a mere convenience, but Urtho did this knowing that if the disjunction was ever unleashed—and odds were if things ever got that bad, it would involve the Tower—the Tower’s calculated implosion would safely entomb and preserve the chambers below it. This is why the Tower’s ground floor was so thick.

The southerly Ka’venusho/Dhorisha crater was wider and shallower than the Predain/Evendim crater because of the successful evacuations that took so much magical material away through Gates. The Evendim crater was far deeper. Due to the cruder, higher-powered magics used by Ma’ar and his followers compared to those near Ka’venusho, its disjunction effect was far more violent, enough so that the backlash from the expanding waves pushed up the earth behind it into what would eventually become the wracked islands at the center of Lake Evendim. The ash plume from the craters rose for weeks and spread mostly to the southwest, but over time they spread into a haze the world over, dropping global temperatures for years. The ash fallout took its toll, but ultimately it helped improve soil quality all the way to the southern seas.

Kal’enel’s closest friend, Vykaendys, took on all the people who gated into the area now known as Iftel and created what was known for centuries as the Hard Border, hiding them away from the world at large. When the schism between the goddess’ survivors happened, Kal’enel did what was within her power, sacrificing much and nearly disincorporating doing so. The seething, chaotic spell “strings,” already mutating or stunting what plant life remained in the crater, were effectively gathered up by her by the creation of the Dhorisha Shin’a (the Plains of Sacrifice) in a Great Making, and its excess energy bled into the Pelagirs. The Pelagirs hills and forests, already home to some very strange and deadly things before the Cataclysm, became a realm of terrors. The wild magic scrambled the genetics of even the most common of animals and plants, and it soon became clear to mortal and god alike that what would come out of the Pelagirs could eradicate anyone and anything left in the world if left unchecked.

Through spirit intermediaries the Star-Eyed Goddess, in agreement with the wisest and best-educated souls of the spell-favoring clans, developed ways to draw in the wild magic and apply progressively tighter forms of order upon it. Kal’enel then faded back for several centuries, leaving only her spirit representatives to help her followers while she recovered from the Cataclysm and reached accords with the remaining deities.

The culture known as the Tayledras arose, despite staggering odds against them. This can be attributed to an early, cautious “consolidate, fortify, and methodically expand” policy centered around Hawkbrother stations.

Tayledras stations became known as Vales after they adopted the practice of using ravines or narrow valleys for their foundation. The hertasi discovered that using a ravine meant less sheer mass movement to create the lower levels, and their cave and tunnel networks could be dug in sideways after shoring up the ravine walls themselves by compressing the stone. Erosion ravines became the sites of choice since a ready water supply could be channeled as needed and easily cisterned at the lowest level of the Vale. Ravines or valleys were also chosen based upon their orientation, so that the scattered-magic refinement would more easily create ley lines in desired directions, linking Vales and future nodes to create a “skeleton” to aid future work. This is why Vales tend have an elongated, ovoid shape.

In fact, there has only ever been one Tayledras station that was perfectly spherical, its fields and tunnels extending as far below as above in a perfect circle: k’Hala, the first Vale, long abandoned with its quiescent node intact, underneath what is now Haven, the capital of Valdemar.

Tayledras Scouts are known for being tougher than nails, and for good reason. Essentially, the Pelagirs wants to kill everyone and everything. The Forest will try to kill by poison, by gas, by infection and pitfalls, clouds of deadly insects or hordes of bugs that swarm and eat you while you’re asleep. Thorns scratch deep and leave toxins, deep canopy confuses direction and hides everything from giant spiders to hive-mind boring beetles. There are snakes, slime molds, decayed husks of house-sized trees serving as dens for diseased monsters, wolves, ankle-breaking vine twists, and bottomless pits, with possible packs of armored, carnivorous wyrsa to complete the joy of each mile’s travel. The most experienced Scouts can cover an average of four miles through the Pelagirs on their best day. The question concerning the reordering of wild magic, especially before the Storms, shouldn’t have been “that’s all they’ve done for a thousand years?” but rather, “They made it THAT far?”

Make no mistake, establishing a Vale is a fight, and not always a winnable fight. Expeditions have been destroyed or had to fall back and try again, sometimes as many as six times before a safe perimeter could be established.

The sheer mass of growth in the Pelagirs makes a Vale site hard to pick out, but once a Scout finds a likely candidate, he faces due north and then stares at it, committing it to memory; then he thinks back along the path he took to get there. Upon returning to his home, a dyheli stag will pull the mental images from him and share them with the senior Mages and hertasi builders. Cartographers sharing these visions make notes and later consult with the Scout to confirm the route. If the site looks viable, an expedition will go there, often with as many as forty in the mixed-species party. The expedition will always include a team of hertasi stonecrafters, with their powerful magical stone-shaping tools. The party travels two days, then stops for a night or two, whereupon the hertasi examine the ground and pull up a protective stone wall (still referred to as a palisade) of bedrock pulled up into flat, tall sheets about a foot at the base and tapering up to a few inches at man-height with two exits. The excess heat from the stoneshaping is bled off into a pile of usually wet deadfall gathered while they begin, and the heat dries the wood and then combusts it for the camp’s comfort fire. These palisade camps are left behind as convenient waystations.

When the new Vale site is reached, the hertasi use their instruments to map the topography and then probe into the underlying rock bed. If it is found to be of sufficient density, the very first stage of Vale groundbreaking is begun. This consists of a very large-scale version of the earlier camp palisades, drawn up through all the dirt and plant growth. One sharpened-top sheet of stone is pulled up each day, severing the root systems of the forest growth by punching upward, like a stroke by a giant ax blade. Scouts, dyheli, and hertasi reduce the downed trees into usable firewood and lumber and make a first clear patch. Sheet by sheet, these stone palisades create a wall around the eventual Vale site—a relative zone of safety to live inside. This invariably attracts creatures like wyrsa packs and anything starving and insane, which the Pelagirs never lacks.

Living, nontoxic trees within the palisade perimeter that can be cleared of dangerous parasites are left as intact as possible, to become the host trees of ekeles. Useful bushes and vines are similarly left in place, and this extends all the way down into the undergrowth of the Vale’s ravine. Ideally, a Vale should begin with a ravine at least ten stories deep, with a steady-flowing stream originating from mountain runoff or natural springs.

When the incipient Vale reaches a state of defensibility and the Mages confirm that it will be an effective site for the Cleansing duties, word is carried back to their origin Vale, and hertasi and others descend upon the trailblazed site in force.

The sides of the ravine are stonecrafted into a series of ramps, switching back between platforms that support terraced gardens. The ramps are for carts assembled on site (and for the ease of any gryphons who wish to walk up or down; gryphons are fine with climbing stairs but terrible at descending them, so, modern Vales always use ramps), but most especially for the incredibly swift-running hertasi dashing around. The level resting places of each outward-facing switchback is lengthened an extra ten feet or so to make landings easier for gryphons in modern Vales, while the inner-facing ones are covered by awnings.

The first stage of making hertasi burrows begins with creating “guest apartments” alongside the ramps. These are not just a courtesy for the humans; they are also where the hertasi stonecrafters get truly intimate with the rock around them. Probe spheres and spellwork imaging “soundings” are sent in from these locations, and once the native rock is mapped and found to be worthy, the apartments are given over to the humans, and the hertasi burrow tunnelling begins nearby. The burrow tunnels go level and deep in concentric circles around where the Heartstone will eventually be placed once the Vale is “roofed” at ground level.

A sturdy wooden bridge is built across the ravine, its center pole marking where the Heartstone will eventually be. Surveying lines radiate out from the pole, and at equidistant points tripods with pulleys are set up. From these the hertasi’s plumb bob drilling devices are slowly lowered. They “scoop up” earth and rock as they drop, increasing its plasticity and compressing it into the hardened sides of the shafts. Hertasi stand well back because the compression and tunnelling creates a lot of heat, which fires up out of the hole in a jet. When the plumb bob drill reaches a set depth, it is powered down and pulled back up. Then a homing crystal is lowered down into the hole after a day’s cooling period and left there. Eventually between thirty and sixty shafts are made on either side of the Vale, each shaft with a homing crystal at the bottom. These crystals are the targets that the sideways tunnelling will track on. The hertasi use a specialized set of magical digging and stoneworking tools that include a “cooler,” which comically looks like a spoon at the end of a polearm. The cooler sucks away the heat given off by the other tools; it is a vital tool as excavations increase in scale.

Hertasi diggers start in from the valley side and aim at the nearest homing crystal, then expand and reinforce the tunnel section once they’ve reached that crystal. Then the next crystal is aimed for, and so on, and eventually a circular ring tunnel is produced. This pilot tunnel is the reference ring and access for all the valleyside tunnel work that is to follow. It is from this main ring that the Vale’s water distribution, Heartstone cooling system, and the radiating underground magical tuning channels are built up.

Compressed, hardened stone is scooped out as a result of the tunneling process and is in turn either reformed into marbled brick or ground into concrete. One of the first durable structures built inside the guard walls at a new Vale site is a charcoal oven. One team splits, seasons, and stacks the local wood, while a second team makes a brick kiln. Brick and concrete work better than stonepulling in many applications, like pathways, and once the Tayledras scouts and the lesser Mages have secured the area, even the original palisade is ground down to make pathways. If the Vale site has good kaolin and clay in the area, ceramic bricks are the top choice; if there is a good source of lime nearby, concrete is preferred. If a coal seam can be mined, the fly ash is saved for a particular type of structural concrete. Cement and concrete have been used for thousands of years in Velgarth; Urtho’s Tower at Ka’venusho was a triumph of architecture and concrete use. Hertasi usually do the brickwork and pointing at a Vale site, but even among the Hawkbrothers there are human masons.

Depending upon the regolith of the Vale site, the upper rooms and corridors in the ravine’s sides could have either a glassy or a ceramic finish, caused by the compression effect of the devices firing the earth into a hardened crust. This could be used to great effect structurally, since the compression strength could be quite high once support ribs of a foot thick or more were formed. Convenient shelving is usually built between the support ribs.

The hertasi stonepulling devices of various shapes have the property of changing stone’s plasticity without creating a detrimental crystalline matrix. More accurately, stone pulling makes the stone draw like a pulled clay or molten glass into the desired shape, and then the crystalline structure that gave the stone strength does not form until the stone is “released” by the stonepuller. When stone is drawn out into its final shape, the large-area stonepuller, called the setter, aligns the crystallization inside the stone from all the previous, smaller pulls. This is why the soaring bridges and buttresses used to create rooms and floors underneath a Vale are effectively single-piece structures, since the setter fuses the subassemblies together into a contiguous form. The setter also smooths out walls, ceilings, and floors. Some of the small hills and mounds inside a Vale are actually hollow, with multiple rooms, created by stonepulling a dome and setting it, and then building a layer of soil over the dome for landscaping. Hertasi are experts at disguising structures.

The Tayledras’ famed bathing pools are stonepulled creations that make use of a network of heat-regulating formed-tunnel “pipes” that circulate water from the furnaces upward to the surface and to heat-sink cisterns down the Vale’s slope. Hot water is diverted to create artificial springs that bubble up to the highest level of the pools and then cascade over the sides to the progressively cooler pools. Bathing starts at the lowest, cooling levels, which is where the outright filth and dirt gets washed off; then the next higher levels are cleaner, warmer water, until the highest level is reached where the hottest water and most of the socializing can be found. The Pelagirs are brutal, and most of what sticks to a Pelagirs traveler also stinks and probably carries disease or toxins, so the hot pools are more than a hedonistic indulgence, they’re vital for health and hygiene.

It is important to remember, when you consider a Vale, that it is essentially a machine that houses a small city. The Tayledras Adepts in particular are technical and procedural in how they harness and refine the Pelagirs’ wild magic. This applies to their delicate spellwork as well. Subterranean workrooms are isolated from each other and put behind layers of physical shielding ranging from lead sheet to embedded crystal dust mats, so that subtle magic or “miniature” versions of Great Work spells can be laid out at low risk of interference. The floors are inscribed with diagrams and reference points, and their geometry act as an instruction set for what will happen during the course of a casting. Once the “model” is constructed, the spellwork is diagrammed, and hertasi scribes make records of every small detail, since when a Great Work is played out at full size, a “small detail” could affect an area the size of a city. These scribed accounts form a standardized reference for every Mage involved in the castings, much as architects have multiple sets of blueprints, and copies are eventually distributed to each Vale and Tayledras settlement.

Hertasi, being no strangers to magic use themselves and definitely no strangers to how Hawkbrothers do things, embed two or more of the main galleries of each Vale with the workrooms’ gridwork for spell construction, just in case some Pelagirs-wide catastrophe should need to be solved by a large-scale spell that, for some awful reason, could not be done above ground.