Sun in Glory and Other Tales of Valdemar

Santar could only stare incredulously. "Why?"

:I needed to know you were up to the job, someone who can push himself to his limits, who will do so for the good of a sick or injured stranger.:

:Why?: Even as he asked the question, Santar understood the answer. :Your Herald-:

:My Herald,: Orrin repeated, then added, :is you. I Choose you.:

"Me?" The reply was startled from Santar. :Me.: he repeated internally. :Herald Santar?: He shook his head to awaken himself from what had to be a dream, then looked into the blue eyes of the very real, dazzingly gorgeous white stallion in front of him. He had aspired to owning a horse half this fine, and now he had a Companion as a lifelong friend, so much more than a possession or a mount.

"Thank you," Santar breathed. "Thank you for Choosing me."

Orrin lunged like a striking snake, caught Santar's britches, and hurled him into the air. Santar barely managed to twist before he found himself, once again, unceremoniously dumped, belly first, astride the Companion. :Come on,: the horse sent. :Let's go home.: Turning toward Valdemar, he trotted into the forest.

Mounted on "the best there is," Santar scrambled onto the stallion's withers and forgot to worry about demons.

IN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER

by Josepha Sherman

Josepha Sherman is a fantasy novelist and folklorist, whose latest titles include: Son of Darkness; The Captive Soul; Xena: All I Need to Know I learned from the Warrior Princess, by Gabrielle, as translated by Josepha Sherman; the folklore title Merlin's Kin; and, together with Susan Shwartz, two Star Trek novels, Vulcan's Forge and Vulcan's Heart. She is also a fan of the New York Mets, horses, aviation, and space science. Visit her at www.sff.net/people/Josepha.Sherman.

Toward the end of the second day of struggling her way through the forest, Marra was certain she was being followed.

The question was, by what?

I don't need this. Really, I don't.

Marra was not exactly young anymore, not exactly slim and heroic in shape or manner. Just an ordinary woman, she thought wearily, not anyone to be followed by, well, whatever. A four-legged predator would already have tried an attack, and a two-legged one, the bandit sort, would have had no reason not to have done the same. As for Lord Darick's men...

Marra bit her lip. That was done and over. She was the last survivor of what had been a peaceful village, and if she hadn't collapsed after burying...what she could...she wasn't going to break down now.

She couldn't afford to collapse. Someone had to deliver the story of that unprovoked raid to whatever authorities she could reach, even if it did mean pushing on through she had no idea how much wilderness.

Marra was doing her best to keep heading in the right direction. If she could only reach the shore of Lake Evandim, she could, hopefully, follow it along to civilization, or at least a real road. At least, Marra thought, she knew woodcraft and could forage for food easily enough. And at least Darick had had the...good taste to attack in warmer weather, so she didn't have to worry about freezing to death.

Damn him. Damn him and his men and his idea of-of burning down a village over an accidental insult-ha, no, he burned it down for fun!

For a minute she had a flash of imagined satisfaction, seeing white-clad Heralds declaring Darick's guilt, hearing him proclaimed a criminal and punished as a murderer...

Might as well imagine herself a Herald while she was at it, with one of those snowy-bright Companions, or maybe-Marra whirled, hands clenched on the branch she was using for a walking staff. "All right, whoever you are, I know you're there. So stop being childish and either step forward where I can see you, or get the hell away from me!"

Oh, smart. You've just announced where you are to anyone in earshot.

She waited, heart pounding. The forest had gone utterly still, shocked into silence by her shout.

Then a male voice, low but so musical it gave her a little shiver of delight said, "Your pardon. I shall bother you no longer."

"Who-what-"

No answer. Marra waited, but whoever had been following her really must be gone now, because the birds were resuming their cheerful noise. Warily, wondering, Marra moved on.

But night fell swiftly in the forest, and even though a glance upward told her that the sky was still bright with sunlight, down here it was already twilight. She'd better start thinking about stopping for the night.

Another glance upward, and Marra froze, wonder-struck. Far overhead, two gryphons were sporting in the air, so high in the dazzling blue that they looked small as birds. The sunlight glinted off their golden coats and wings, and for a moment more, she stood motionless, holding her breath.

Then they were gone, soaring down the wind, and with a sigh, she began hunting for a place to camp till morning. It really was growing dark-and in a hurry, too Suddenly, a...thing was on her with a roar, hurling her to the ground under a mass of dark fur.

Fangs glinted, and Marra, gasping, managed to get the staff up in time to have them clash together on the branch, splintering it, as she struggled to get free before sharp talons could rake her or-Suddenly the thing roared again, in pain this time, and the suffocating weight was gone from her.

Marra caught a glimpse of a man-no, not a man, not with those curling horns, or those clawed hands. But whatever he as, he was fighting the creature, saving her, and Marra looked wildly about for some way to help him. Pebbles, twigs, nothing like a good solid rock.

She grabbed the largest branch she could find, and whaled the creature over the head with it. The branch broke, and the thing whirled to her, snarling. Marra thought wildly, Wonderful, now it's really mad!

But she'd given the-the man the chance he needed. He had other weapons than claws, evidently, because a blade glinted, then stopped glinting, red with the thing's blood. The creature lunged, the man-whatever he was-cried out in pain

Then the creature fell, twitching, and then lay still. Over the crumpled mound of dark fur, eyes golden as a gryphon's stared at her for an instant.

Then the man, too, had crumpled.

Oh, no, you don't! Marra thought, and hurried to his side. I've seen enough death lately.

But then she froze, looking down at him. His face was finely drawn, almost thin, handsome in its own way, but rimmed with russet...fur. The tips of sharp fangs showed between human lips, and the tips of pointed animal ears poked through the tangled russet...hair? The horns she'd noted rising from his forehead were elegant, like twin spirals of ivory maybe a hand's breadth long, definitely not what one expected to see on a human head.

Marra swallowed dryly. His hands were such normal hands-but they ended in powerful, curving claws. Yet the rest of him seemed utterly human, clad in tunic and trousers that were tattered but clearly of fine weave. And he-And he was going to bleed to death if she didn't stop maundering and did something to help him. A slash crossed his chest, and as Marra pulled the torn tunic aside to get at the wound...it was no longer bleeding. In fact, it was no longer there.

A clawed hand caught her own. Before Marra could pull away, the man's eyes shot open. They were that brilliant gold, wild and confused, and Marra said hastily, "It's all right. You killed the-the thing."

The wildness faded, and suddenly those were purely human eyes despite the odd color, the eyes of someone who has lived with despair so long that it has become a companion.

"Yes," he said. "I remember now."

Releasing her, he sat up in one fluid movement. That voice! That musical voice-

"You were the one following me! Why?"

"I wanted to be sure you came to no harm."

"Oh, please. I'm not some fine lady with a noble protector." Marra closed a hand about a rock, just in case. "Why were you following me?"

The...man sighed. "If you must know, I was lonely. I...don't get to see too many of my kind these days."

"Your kind?" she echoed warily.

"Human, lady! I am-was a human, even as you!"

"Of...course."

He stood, shuddering. "The night is almost here. Come, I'll lead you to a safer place to camp."

Marra glanced about, wrapping her arms about herself. Forest, forest, and more forest, and all of it growing dark. With a sigh, she followed him since there didn't seem to be much of a choice. Besides, he had saved her life...for whatever reason.

"Who are you?" Marra asked suddenly.

"No one."

"Oh, don't be cute! If you really are as human as you claim, you have a name."

Was that a reluctant chuckle? "I can see that you have scant patience for fools. I am Albain Tandarek," a slight, ironic bow, "at your service."

"Ah." That was clearly a noble's name. "I'm Marra."

He glanced back at her, as though about to ask what a village woman was doing wandering in the wilderness by herself, but said nothing.

They walked on through the growing darkness in silence. But then he-Albain-whatever he was, stopped suddenly. "This looks like a good place for you to camp."

With that, he vanished into the gloom.

"Hey! You can't leave me like that! Hey! "

Albain returned in only a few moments, his arms full of wood. "Surely you wish a fire?"

"Surely I wish to know what's going on. Who are you? I mean, really, not just a name. And why were you following me?"

He sighed and squatted down, making a big show of arranging the firewood just so, clawed fingers neatly snagging stray tinder and putting each bit in place. "The second part I already told you: I was lonely. Besides, I didn't like the idea of a woman alone, not here."

He clearly didn't mean in an ordinary forest. "The, uh, thing?" Marra paused in the middle of lighting the fire. "The one you killed?" She heard her voice rise. "There are more of those?"

"Very possibly."

"But then, but then," Marra stammered in a rush of sudden, desperate hope, "officials, warriors, Heralds, someone's bound to be coming to investigate!" And I won't have to go so far to tell them about Darick!

"How would they know?"

"Wouldn't you send word that...oh." They'd think him a monster, too, and probably slay him before he could convince them otherwise. "They would. Magic, or..."

Marra clicked flint and steel together once more in fierce determination. The fire burst into life, tinder first, then branches. As the light blazed up, Albain shrank back into the shadows, an eerie figure in the night.

That was the final strain on Marra's already over-worked nerves. "You enjoy being mysterious, don't you?" she snapped. "Or is it that you're busy feeling sorry for yourself?"

He lunged forward with a snarl, fanged face clear in the firelight. "Shouldn't I be?"

Marra refused to flinch. "Look, I just lost my whole village to a bastard who thought it would be fun to wipe us out."

"Oh. I didn't realize..." He sat back, staring. "I am sorry, truly."

"I wasn't married, or anything like that, but, but..." Marra fiercely wiped her eyes. "I don't know what happened to you, but I don't think you have the corner on self-pity."

"It's not self-pity to mourn for others." But then his voice hardened. "Who was it? Who led the attack?"

Surprised, Marra said, "Lord Darick." Damn him. "Why, do you know him?"

She saw the faintest of flinches before he caught himself. "No," Albain said, a second too late to be convincing. "But then, I've been alone in this forest long enough to be doubtful about a good many things."

"You do know him!"

He sighed. "Put down the rock. I'm not his ally. The very opposite, in fact. Much to my disgust, he and I are related. And yes," Albain added sharply, "I meant disgust. When I last saw him, he was a sadistic boy."

"And now he's a sadistic man."

"Ironic that he's the one who's human."

"Self-pity," Marra prodded.

"Don't I have the right? I don't belittle your loss, truly. But at least you are not a monster."

She sniffed. "And you are?"

"What do you call this?" A fierce sweep of clawed hands took in fangs, pointed ears, horns. "Just a few blemishes?"

"Look, whatever happened to you, you clearly started out human." She paused. "Which brings us back to my first question: What did happen?" When he looked at her in what might have been annoyance or surprise, Marra added honestly, "I know I'm prying. It's none of my business. But, well, you're not the only one who's been alone and lonely."

"Ah. understandable." Albain shrugged, not meeting her gaze. "The worst of it is that what happened was my own damned mistake. I'm not a wizard or a sorcerer, or anything so grand, but I do have some tiny powers. I...well, when the creatures started to appear, the result of a greater mage's battle or experiment gone wrong, I thought I could be a hero. I thought I could take on some monstrous powers that would help me defeat the things.

"As you see, I succeeded far too well."

"You can't change back."

He snorted. "I can't even kill myself. You saw how quickly my wounds heal."

"You didn't answer me. There's no way for you to change back?"

Albain gave a sharp little laugh. "Oh, there's one. Someone has to want to take on this appearance. Not very likely, is it? Never mind, Marra. On my word, which at least is still wholly mine, I'll see you safely through the forest, and that's the end of it."

No, it's not, Marra thought with a touch of pity. You're not the first man to make a mistake while trying to do the right thing. And I've never yet seen a mistake that couldn't be corrected.

One way or another.

It was startling to realize that she cared. It was even more startling to realize that she still could care.

Albain caught them dinner-rabbit, which Marra was secretly relieved to see he ate cooked. After that, well, after that, she was just too tired to stay up all night worrying about what he might or might not do. Curling up, she slept.

She woke with a start in the first dim light of morning, a clawed hand over her mouth. Before Marra could struggle, she saw Albain frantically gesture with his free hand. Silence! She relaxed ever so slightly, and he removed the hand from her mouth, whispering, "We're not alone."

"Monster?"

"Humans. We're near a trail."

She sat bolt upright, mouthing, Darick? At his nod, Marra scrambled to her feet, suddenly so overwhelmed with rage that she was blind and deaf to all reason. She rushed forward, hardly aware of Albain trying frantically to stop her. They crashed out of the underbrush together, out onto the trail, right in front of men on horseback-Darick's men, who were fighting horses gone mad with terror at Albain's nonhuman scent.

Good! Get them out of the way!

It was only when she was looking up at Darick, who had managed to stay on his horse, that the truth penetrated Marra's mad rage-she was trying to attack an armed man with nothing but her bare hands. He couldn't have recognized her as one of the villagers, just as a madwoman trying to tear him apart, and Marra saw the glint of the sword that was about to cut her down-

"Oh, hell," said a voice.

Clawed hands pushed her out of the way. Albain lunged at Darick, Darick's horse decided enough was enough, and suddenly Albain, Darick, and Marra were on the ground. She grabbed the first weapon that came to hand, another rock, and started beating at Darick with it. His flailing arm caught her a sharp blow to the head, and she lost her grip on the rock. She heard Albain...roar, no other word for it, and saw those clawed hands rake at Darick.

Yes, but his men-if they have bows-

Only a few had managed to stay on their panicked horses, but those few did, indeed, have bows.

Marra struggled to her feet, shouting wildly, "Shoot and your lord dies!"

"The monster's already slain him!" one of them shouted back.

Marra whirled. Albain had drawn back, shaking, clearly horrified at his own brutality. No, Darick wasn't dead...yet. But Albain's claws had done some ugly work on his throat and chest.

He won't be in that body much longer.

And then the idea hit her with a force that nearly staggered her. Marra threw herself down beside Darick, snapping, "Do you want to live? Well? Do you want to live?"

A pain-filled, terrified glance flicked her way. Darick managed a nod.

"Would you be invulnerable? Would you be immortal? Wait, watch this!"

Marra clawed the startled Albain's hands, drawing a few beads of blood. Darick gave a choked cry of wonder as the scratch neatly sealed and disappeared. Then the wonder turned to a frantic gasping, as his lacerated throat couldn't get in enough air.

"Choose!" Marra cried. "Take this immortality, or die! Which? Life or death-and the ghosts of the villagers you slew? Choice!"

"'mortl'ty. Chos'n."

The words were barely understandable. But-

-it was enough and-

-there was mist everywhere and-

Suddenly the mist was gone. Marra heard the men gasp and stared at Albain, terrified that she might have done something wrong. But he...he was human, fully, normally human.

The monster that had been Darick snarled its shock, clenching its clawed hands, then scrambled up and raced off into the forest.

"Did you see?" Marra cried to the men. "Did you see your lord? He is a monster!"

They couldn't argue with her, not after what they'd just seen. With shouts of horror, they crashed off through the forest after him.

Albain...stood. Just stood.

"Are you all right?" Marra asked carefully.

He looked down at his human hands, flexing them in wonder, then turned to give her an equally wonder-struck look. "You-he-Powers, oh Powers, lady, I would never want to be on the wrong side of your anger. But thank you, thank you, and thank you."

"You're welcome," Marra said, and to her utter embarrassment, burst into tears. She felt Albain's arms go about her, and thought, A village woman and a lord?

Well, stranger things had happened.

Indeed they have, Marra thought, and shifted position so that Albain could kiss her more easily.

TRANCE TOWER GARRISON

by Fiona Patton

Fiona Patton was born in Calgary Alberta in 1962 and grew up in the United States. In 1975 she returned to Canada, and after several jobs which had nothing to do with each other, including carnival ride operator and electrician, moved to 75 acres of scrub land in rural Ontario with her partner, four-now six-cats of various sizes and one tiny little dog. Her first book, The Stone Prince, was published by DAW Books in 1997.

This was followed by The Painter Knight in 1998, The Granite Shield in 1999, and The Golden Sword in 2001, also by DAW. She is currently working on her next novel.

The Ice Wall Mountains were ablaze with color. The pink-and-orange glow of the setting sun crowned the tops of the pine trees and feathered across the foot-hills and plains like wisps of fire. It settled over the slate roofs of Trance Tower Garrison, the northern-most outpost of King Valdemar's young realm, and gleamed off the pikes and helmets of the surrounding force which had poured through the mountain passes at the first hint of spring.

Standing on the eastern ramparts, Corporal Norma Anzie of Gray Squad, one of Trance Tower's senior sentinels, spat toward the ground.

"That's one big friggin' army," she noted sourly.

The gray-haired man standing beside her gave a brief nod. "Yep."

"And it looks like they're plannin' to stay."

"Yep."

"A long time."

"Me'be."

She glared over at him. "Don't be strainin' your voice box now, Ernie."

He shrugged. "Me'be not so long," he elaborated after a moment.

"How do you figure?"

"The King'll send help."

"Only if he gets word."

"Bessie got through."

"You don't know that."

His eyes narrowed. "She got through," he growled.

Raising her hands, Norma dropped the subject. After the first trickle of soldiers had come over the mountains, the garrison commander had sent his lieutenant galloping for the capital. As the trickle'd become a flood, he'd sent half a dozen more. All but one, Ernie's niece, Bess Taws, had been returned to them as a headless corpse thrown down before the gate-including the lieutenant. Bess was their only hope but, after nearly a month with no sign of aid, only Ernie still believed she'd made it through. Her expression grim, Norma squinted southward.

"How long do you figure it takes to get to Haven?" she asked.

Ernie shrugged. "Ridin' hard, eight, me'be nine days."

"Less if she could get a boat down the Terilee River."

"Yep."

"How long to raise a relief force?"

"Dunno. Depends."

"A couple of weeks?"

"More like a couple of months, me'be."

With a scowl, Norma peered up at the tiny line of enemy troops bringing supplies over the mountains. With the harsh northern winter just past, Trance Tower's own stores were low. If it took another month, it wouldn't matter if Bess had gotten through or not. The garrison would be out of food.

"You'd think there'd have been a paymaster or a supply wagon or somethin' come from Haven before now, anyway," she snarled.

"Me'be there has been," Ernie answered in an ominous voice.

As one, they glanced toward the main gate. Neither could see the dark, fly-covered bloodstains from where they stood but that didn't stop them from looking.

"How long before they'd be due back do you figure someone might go lookin' for them?"

"Dunno. A while, I guess."

Returning her attention to the force below, Norma shook her head. "With a friggin' army that big,"

she muttered, "you'd think somebody would've noticed it by now."

Ernie just shrugged.

The sound of shouting pulled their attention back inside the garrison.

"What the...?"

From their vantage point they could see a knot of people behind the west barracks, shouting at-cheering on-Norma amended, two struggling figures. There was a glint of golden hair as one had his head knocked back from a well-placed blow, and Ernie swore.

"Garet!"

"Blast! You know that means Andy."

Ernie was already halfway to the stairs.

"Little . . . I told him . . . come on," he puffed angrily.

* * *

Andy ducked a wild swing, drove his fists into the other youth's unprotected right side in a quick flurry of blows, then danced back with a tight smile. Although Garet was older and larger than he, no one at Trance Tower was faster. Around him, the growing crowd began to chant his name, and the smile snapped off. Time to finish this before the noise drew the wrath of the sergeant-at-arms down on them.

He pressed forward.

Sixteen-year-old Ander Harrow had been born in the garrison. His mother had died in childbirth and his father and three others had been caught in a rock-slide when he was nine. Jem and Karl Harrow's remaining squad-mates had raised the boy together, bringing him into the Guard at twelve, protecting him, teaching him, but mostly just trying to keep him out of trouble.

Garet Barns had joined the garrison two years before, and although they were not friends, at eighteen he was the closest to Andy's own age, which meant that when Andy was bored or just itching to cause mischief he either sought Garet out to manipulate him into some scheme, or goad him into a fight.

Garet had a quick temper that could always be counted on to flare up with the right words and Andy always knew the right words.

Now, his blue eyes narrowed, Garet watched the other youth weave back and forth in a parody of feints and counter feints, then struck out. His fist connected right where he planned. Andy went flying into the crowd.

The blood on his face gleaming as brightly as his dark eyes, Andy showed his teeth to his opponent in recognition of the blow, then leaped up, only to be jerked off his feet once again.

"What the blue blazes do you think you're playin' at!"

Her fist wrapped in the back of his shirt, Norma shook him like a dog with a rat in its teeth.

"Haven't we told you half a hundred times, no more fightin'?"

Behind them, Ernie stepped in front of Garet, who simply wiped the blood from his nose with an even expression. Andy gave Norma a disarming smile.

"It was just a boxing match."

"Bollocks!"

"Really. Something to pass the time and keep fit, right Garet?"

Andy turned his wide-eyed gaze on the other youth who just shrugged. "Sure, whatever."

"I'll show you fit, I'll toss you off the north wall. Then we'll see how bloody fit you are with half them bastards out there chasin' you."

"Now there's an idea."

All eyes turned to see the sergeant-at-arms leaning against the barracks, his expression dark.

"Don't you lot have somewhere else to be?" he asked with dangerous politeness.

The area was suddenly empty of spectators.

He turned back to the two combatants. "Barns, K.P. Harrow, latrines. Don't," he held up one thick finger as Andy made to protest, "even think about speakin', just git."

When the two youths were out of earshot, Norma gave the sergeant a sideways glance.

"That was kinda lenient for you, wasn't it, Lom?"

He shrugged. "There's little enough to keep up morale these days, might as well make use of what distractions we've got. Keep him outta my sight for a while, though, I might have a change of heart."

"We'll put him on night watch," Ernie answered. "That should tire him out some."

"Good idea. Barns can take a turn as well."

* * *

That night Andy stood on the north wall staring out at the nearly full moon. The afternoon had been a partial success, he'd blown off some steam, satisfied himself that Garet was no better a fighter than he, and stirred up everyone's blood a bit. Since the enemy had bottled up Trance Tower, the entire garrison was walking around like they'd already lost. The air of doom and gloom was getting thick enough to cut with a knife. Eyes narrowed, he glared down at the surrounding campfires. So they were temporarily cut off from the rest of Valdemar, so supplies were tight. Bessie would be back any day with an army at her back and then they'd send this lot packing back over the mountains double quick.

His stomach growled, and he rubbed it in rueful acknowledgment of its point. All right, so they were in a tight spot-the quartermaster already had them down to half rations- but they weren't beat yet, not by a long shot. The enemy wasn't so tough. If they were, they'd have taken Trance Tower already instead of just sitting out there with their thumbs up...a movement below the wall made him stiffen. He stared into the darkness for a long time, but eventually relaxed. It was probably just a night-bird. He returned his attention to the enemy.

Nobody knew who they were. The standards and banners they carried were unfamiliar and the language their single envoy had spoken was gibberish even to the commander; although the body he'd brought with him had spoken his message clearly enough: surrender Trance Tower.

Andy spat over the wall in unconscious imitation of Norma. Not in this lifetime or any other, he swore silently. His parents had died for this garrison and no bunch of pike-wielding sons of whoevers were going to defile their memories. They could sit out there until moss grew over them. Trance Tower would never surrender no matter how hungry they got.

His stomach rumbled mournfully.

"Aw, shut up."

Leaning against the parapet, he stared out past the dark bulk of the surrounding army. The moon was low in the sky, shining down on the lightly wooded foothills. He'd hunted rabbits in those hills with Phen Royn and Harn Anzie every year since he was ten years old. They should have been out half a dozen times already this spring instead of standing on the walls watching the enemy move about like they owned the place. Andy grimaced. Their hunters had probably already stripped the hills of rabbits. They were probably sitting around their campfires right now eating roast rabbit and rabbit stew and rabbit pie and...

Something white flashed in the distant trees.

He frowned.

Ground lightning?

It flashed again and, risking arrow-shot from below, he leaned forward. Something was moving in the hills beyond the enemy, moving fast.

He saw it again some twenty yards west of where he'd spotted it the first time. Then again a few moments later farther still. It sparkled in the moonlight for just an instant., its half hidden form vaguely familiar, then it disappeared again.

"What'cha you doin', boy?"

He jumped. Spinning about, he shot a glare at Phen, who held out his canteen with a chuckle.

"Lookin' at somethin'," he growled back.

"What? Someone takin' a piss?" Phen risked a glance over the edge.

"No. Somethin' strange. There." He pointed. "Where?"

"Past the troops to the west. Somethin's movin' out there like it's circlin' around us."

Phen peered into the darkness.

"I don't see nothin'." He turned with a grin. "You imaginin' mountain cats again?"

Three years ago Andy had been certain there'd been a mountain cat stalking the garrison flocks.

He'd even found tracks, but they'd turned out to belong to a particularly big jackrabbit. Phen had never let him forget it. Of course, now the enemy had the flocks as well.

"This was no mountain cat," Andy replied hotly. "It was white."

"Late snow drift."

"Snow drifts don't move. There, in the underbrush. Tell me you didn't see that?"

Phen leaned forward again. "Maybe." He shook his head. "It was probably just an owl or somethin'. Anyway you're relieved, go get some sleep."

"Shouldn't I report it?"

Phen shrugged. "Go ahead, if you want everyone to say you're seein' giant, sheep killin', jackrabbit mountain cats again."

"Drop dead."

"Just givin' you a friendly warning."

"Yeah, sure." With some reluctance, Andy turned away but, as he did, the flash of white caught his eyes again, another twenty yards to the west. Something was out there, it was circling them, and it wasn't no owl.

* * *

He spotted it again the next night, this time to the east. Throughout his shift he watched it wink in and out of the trees, moving incredibly quickly, east to west and back again. Then, just before Phen relieved him, it crested the top of a small hill, rose up, and pawed the air with its forelegs, silver hooves gleaming in the moonlight.

* * *

"It's a horse."

Andy made his announcement to Phen as they lined up for chow the next morning.

"Not a mountain cat, then."

"I said it's a horse."

"Probably one of theirs set out on a hobble to eat grass."

"It wasn't hobbled."

"Maybe it escaped, then."

"I don't think so."

"Then I guess it musta been a ghost horse."

"Aw, shut up, Phen."

* * *

Ernie was no more help when he told him that afternoon.

"Mountain pony," he pronounced.

"Aren't they usually brown?"

"Yep."

"Have you ever seen a white mountain pony?"

"Nope."

"Then it can't be a mountain pony."

"Must be a ghost horse, then. Or me'be a mountain cat, eh?"

Andy gave up.

* * *

He watched the horse pace back and forth from west to east for another full shift, then finally reported it to the sergeant-at-arms.

* * *

The older man frowned thoughtfully.

"How long you been seein' it?"

"Three nights now."

"And you're sure it's a horse?"

Andy clamped his mouth closed on an imprudent reply. "Yes, Sarge."

"Hm. Garet Barns thought he saw somethin' white to the east last night as well."

"Garet?"

"Yeah. Your fightin' partner's been on the south wall these last three nights now." He stood. "Well, there's nothin' for it. I'd better go see for myself. You're sure it's not a mountain cat this time?"

Andy snapped his teeth together. "No, Sarge."

* * *

That night the sergeant stood watch beside him as the white horse flashed between the trees.

Finally it crested the hill again, pawing the air in agitation before disappearing once again.

"It`s so fast," Andy whispered in awe. "I've never seen anything move so fast."

"Hm. Funny how the enemy hasn't spotted it," the older man mused.

"You don't figure it's really a ghost horse, do you, Sarge?" Andy asked, trying to mask the uneasiness in his voice.

"No."

"So, it wouldn't be there to..." He trailed off.

"To what?"

"Well...my da, he died in the mountains. Maybe it...you know."

"Maybe it's come to take you off to join him?"

"Maybe."

"No." The sergeant gave him what amounted to a reassuring show of teeth. "Your da was a good man and a brave soldier, but he'd have rather faced that lot down there single-handed than get up on the back of a horse, ghost or otherwise. And he sure wouldn't have sent one for you. No, that there's something else altogether."

"What?"

"Well, that remains to be seen." He turned. "Keep your eyes on the enemy," he ordered tersely.

"They're a lot more dangerous than...whatever that is out there. You understand?"

"Yes, Sarge."

His jaw tight, the sergeant headed for the south ramparts.

* * *

By the next morning everyone wanted to hear about "Andy's latest mountain cat." Finally he'd taken a swing at Mac Rellden and they'd backed off a little. Leaving him in the tender care of Norma and Ernie, Phen took their bowls to the chow line.

* * *

"So, what's this slop s'posed to be?"

Norma's brother Ham glared at his bowl. The garrison cook shot him a resentful look back.

"It's beans, mister, and you should be glad to get 'em. Stores are running low. Pretty soon you'll be looking at yer boots and wondering how to I can cook 'em up."

Phen laughed. "That would break the siege double quick. We all die from the fumes."

Ham glared at him as everyone about them laughed.

"Hey, heads up, the Commander."

There was a hushed silence over the chow line as Commander Dravin strode across the parade ground. Those seated made to stand, but he waved them down again.

A tall man in his late twenties, Dravin had been the late Commander Beckwin's lieutenant for four years before an infected tooth had taken the old man to his reward. He was not an imposing officer, but rather one who carried an air of practical confidence that inspired the same confidence in others. Today his eyes were shadowed with fine worry lines, but he smiled easily as Phen and Harn saluted.

"How's the food?"

"The same, sir," Phen replied. "Have some?"

"No thank you, Mister Royn, I've already eaten. The last of the turnips I'm afraid, privilege of rank.

But ask me again tomorrow."

"No sign of relief column yet, sir?" Ham asked bluntly.

"None as yet, Corporal, but Bess Taws got through. King Valdemar will be here any day now.

And then there'll be roast lamb and fresh bread instead of beans and turnips," he said loudly his voice pitched to take in the gathered soldiers. They grinned back at him, raising their spoons in salute. "Have you seen Ander Harrow?" he asked in a quieter tone.

Phen nodded. "Yes, sir. Andy!"

When the youth came forward, the commander indicated the north wall with a turn of his head.

"Walk with me."

* * *

"It's a Companion."

"Sir?"

"A Companion, Mister Harrow. One of the Saviors of Valdemar who came in answer to the prayers of the King himself."

Andy squinted up at his commander. "I've heard stories of 'em, sir, but don't they always travel with Heralds?"

"They do."

"I didn't see no Herald, sir."

"No."

"Do you think...they killed its Herald?"

"No. If its Herald had been killed, it wouldn't be pacing the garrison. It would have returned to the Companion's Field if it hadn't died as well. No, I believe it's here to choose a Herald, Mister Harrow. It just can't get close enough to do it." The Commander stared into space for a moment. "Did you get any kind of feeling when you first saw it?" he asked finally.

"Sir?"

"A feeling, like it was calling to you or trying to draw you away from the garrison?"

Andy glanced up at him in alarm. "No, sir."

"No sense of familiarity or purpose?"

"No, sir."

"Hm." His gray eyes cleared. "Never mind. I'm sure we'll find out who it's come for soon enough.

Thank you, Mister Harrow."

"Sir."

"Well, if it's come to choose a Herald out of this garrison its got bloody poor timing," Norma pronounced a few minutes later.

"And bloody poor taste if it wants Andy here," Phen added with a laugh.

"No one said it wanted me," Andy snapped back with unusual vehemence. "It could want anyone."

"They usually Choose the young," Ham answered thoughtfully, digging a grubby bit of wood from behind his ear. After a moment's scrutiny, he began to pick his back teeth with it. "And you're the youngest we've got," he finished.

"There's Garet. He's even seen it. And Tara's only two years older'n him."

"None of them have your sparkling personality, though."

"Shut up, Phen."

"Hey, really. It'll look into your eyes, then carry you away from all of this to Haven with its soft beds and clean sheets and you'll forget all about us."

"I said, shut up!"

Ernie shot him a curious glance but Norma just shook her head. "Don't you wanna be a Herald, boy?"

Andy jerked to his feet. "Want's got nuthin' to do with it," he almost shouted. "It's not me, all right!"

Norma made to answer, but Ernie laid his hand on her arm.

"Sure, lad. It's all right."

* * *

He sought him out an hour later. Andy was sitting with his back against the west barracks, stropping his dagger hard enough to raise sparks. Hitching up his pants, the older man squatted down beside him.

"So, what's what?"

"Nuthin'."

"Bollocks."

"Really, nuthin'. I just don't want everyone on my back when it turns out it wants someone else."

"Why would it want someone else?"

"Because there's dozens it could want: Garet, Tara,Mac, maybe even you." His tone was challenging, but Ernie just snorted.

"Doubt that, somehow."

"Still. For all we know it might even want one of them." He jerked his head past the wall.

"None of them's from Valdemar."

"So?"

"So, it matters. No boy, it's one of us. An' if it's you, it's you, and you go."

"Why?"

"Because that's what your folks'd want. Neither one of them ever shrank from their duty, and you'll not either. We'll miss you and you'll miss us, but you'll go."

Andy glared at him resentfully but didn't debate the unusually long speech. He just dove the dagger into its sheath and stood up.

"Doesn't matter anyway, does it? I can't get to it and it can't get to me."

Ernie gave him a neutral look.

"Me'be."

* * *

The next night everyone wanted to see "Andy's Companion." They crowded the walls and betting was brisk with two to one odds on Andy, three to one on Garet, five to one on Tara, and ten to one on Mac. Someone even placed a bet on the garrison cook with the hope he'd be taken away. Finally, the sergeant chased them off. Betting continued in the barracks and across the parade ground and discussion was heated on how to bring the Companion and its new Herald together. Most favored a break-out fight with the four hopefuls in the middle, some wanted to sneak out in the middle of the night, and Phen suggested building a catapult and throwing first Andy, then the other three, over the walls, one at a time.

Both Tara and Mac took the teasing well, and even Garet unbent long enough to reply, that as long as Andy went first, it was all right with him. Andy, however, refused to be drawn into the joke.

He'd been quiet and withdrawn all day, spending much of his time alone. At supper he answered Norma's questions with grunts and ignored Phen completely. When it came time for his shift, he took the stairs like he was climbing to the gallows. As the moon rose, he watched the illusive creature that might turn his life upside down flit back and forth through the trees, then turned away.

The next morning, Norma and Ernie went to see the commander.

"It's about that Companion, sir," Norma began. "Yes?"

"Well, sir, we was wondering..." She glanced at Ernie who widened his eyes expectantly at her.

"The thing is, sir," she continued, "the sergeant-at-arms, he says they, the Companions, are smart, that they can talk to each other and to their Heralds like."

"Yes."

"So we was wondering why, if it is a Companion and all, and if it's so smart, how come it's been pacing around the garrison for four days instead of high-tailing itself off to get help. We could sure use the help and that would bring it to its Chosen a lot faster."

Commander Dravin leaned back thoughtfully. "As I understand it, Corporal, the Companions are extremely...single-minded when they search for their Chosen. It would likely be totally abhorrent to it to leave once it had located that Chosen, even to get help."

"Right, sir, that's what we figured. Also, the sergeant-at-arms, he says that they're magical, that they know things, so maybe, it knows something about us."

"Meaning?"

"That maybe it knows we're gonna bring its Chosen to it."

The Commander's eyes narrowed.

"Go on."

"Well, sir, the thing is, we know it's here for one of us, and most of us figure it's Andy, him or one of the other three under twenty-five. Also..." she glanced at Ernie.

"Also?" the Commander prodded.

"Also," Ernie answered, "though I'd like nuthin' more than to believe my Bessie got through, the truth is she'd have reached Haven long before now, and the King would have got word back to us somehow, if only to keep our spirits up."

"Don't you think, sir?" Norma prodded.

The commander looked away for just a moment, then back, his expression weary. "Yes."

"And we're running out of food, sir. This time a month from now, we'll be in a desperate place, and they'll be that much stronger. So," Norma's eyes brightened. "We had a thought, see. The garrison's at full strength now, decently fed and itchin' for a fight. You won't ever find us more determined than right now. We've got it into our heads, all of us, to see this Companion and one of our own matched up. So, we take the fight outside, all of us, in one mad rush, and we bring that Companion its Chosen. The enemy'll never know what hit 'em."

The commander smiled faintly. "You realize they outnumber us at least five to one, Corporal? That most of us would never survive this mad rush?"

"At least we'd go down fightin', sir, and we know, too, that even if we do beat 'em this time, they'll be back with reinforcements. That's why it's so important to get word to King Valdemar. We figured a Companion'd have the best chance of anyone to get through, I mean It's been dancin' about their perimeter for nearly a week now and they ain't noticed it yet."

"True."

"And besides," Ernie added, "a Herald'd be a fine legacy for Trance Tower, don't you think, sir?"

Commander Dravin glanced from one old veteran to the other, then nodded slowly.

"Yes, I do."

The Commander sent for Andy, Garet, Tara, and Mac an hour later. He came straight to the point.

"We're going to attack the enemy at dawn tomorrow," he said bluntly. "With everything we've got.

Once outside, the four of you have one objective only, regardless of who might fall around you, to find that Companion. When you do, I don't care which of you is Chosen, you're to make for Haven at once, all of you. Obviously the one riding will quickly outstrip the others, but I want you all heading south at double time, is that clear?"

The four glanced hesitantly at each other.

"But shouldn't the others join the fight after one of us is Chosen, sir?" Andy asked. "You'll need all the swords you can get."

"Maybe so, but those are my orders, Mister Harrow."

"But...sir, what if it doesn't choose any of us," Tara asked.

"Then it's up to the Companion to find its Chosen on its own. We can't line up for it, can we?" No, sir."

"Whatever happens, the four of you are to make for Haven, period. Someone has to get through."

"Yes, sir."

That night the five remaining members of Gray Squad stood on the north wall together, watching the future of Trance Tower flit gracefully between the trees. Is movements were blindingly fast, one minute appearing to the east, the next to the west, but somehow it seemed less agitated tonight, as if it knew the decision they'd made.

Word of the morning's attack had spread quickly and all along the walls, the garrison watched the Companion move in reverent silence. Finally Phen stirred faintly.

"Is it my imagination or has it come closer than it was?"

Ernie nodded. "It has."

"It sure is pretty."

"Yep."

"Think we should give Andy here a bath first thing tomorrow? We can't hardly have a grubby little scrub like him representin' Trance Tower like that, now can we?"

"Leave him be, Phen," Norma admonished. "To-night's not the time for teasin'." She turned. "You got the drink, Ham?"

"Yeah."

"Get it out, then."

Ham pulled a dark, brown bottle from his pack. He uncorked it in one swift motion, then passed it over. Norma held it up and the smell of brandy wafted out on the breeze to tickle against their nostrils.

"Compliments of the commander," she said. "Now, to us, eh? For years of loyal service, every one of us, and to Jem and Karl. They'd have been proud of the job we did on their boy whatever happens in the mornin'." She took a deep drink, then passed it to Ernie.

"To duty. Ham?"

"To Ander Harrow. Phen?"

The younger man smiled. "To mountain cats, and to Companions."

Finally the bottle passed to Andy. He held it cradled in his hands for a log time until Norma nudged him.

"C'mon, boy, finish the toast."

Andy held the bottle up, feeling the liquid inside slosh about inside. "To Trance Tower Garrison,"

he said thickly. "I never thought I'd..." he stopped, his jaw working, "I never thought I'd have to leave it, but if I do, I will." He took an abrupt drink, then turned away so the others couldn't see his face.

"Good enough," Ernie answered.

* * *

The next day dawned cool and damp. The cook doled out the last of the potatoes fried up with the last of the mutton, then the garrison lined up, weapons ready, facing the main gate. Commander Dravin sat on his horse before them, his swords drawn. He didn't speak, just cast his gaze across the faces of his soldiers as if memorizing their features, then nodded once. The sergeant-at-arms gave the order, the gate was flung open, and Trance Tower Garrison attacked.

* * *

The enemy was surprised, but not for long. It rallied quickly and then it was hand-to-hand combat on the northern plain.

Protected at the center of the Gray Squad, Andy moved as fast as he could for the foothills.

Somewhere out there he knew the others were doing the same, ringed by a circle of swords and spears.

They made three hundred yards, then four, then five, before by sheer weight of numbers the enemy penetrated their defenses. Ham was the first to fall. Then Phen. When Norma went down, Andy leaped forward, but a great ax-wielding man jumped between them and, with a scream, Andy closed with him.

He never saw Ernie take the blow aimed for his back, but he heard him fall.

The battle raged unabated throughout the morning. Trance Tower had something to fight for now and they broke wave after wave of enemy troops sent against them. In the face of their ferocity, the enemy began to falter, and when a white flash entered the fray, kicking and slashing with hooves like silver lightning, they broke and ran.

The cry went up, "For the Herald!" as Commander Dravin led Trance Tower Garrison after them.

Two hundred yards from the foothills, Andy sank to his knees in relief.

It seemed like hours later than he managed to struggle to his feet and survey the damage though it was really only a few moments. Ham was dead, Ernie was dying, and Phen was so badly wounded that he probably wouldn't last the day, but what was probably worse, Tara and Mac lay together on the northernmost edge of the battlefield. They'd almost made it to the hills. Almost.

Breathing hard, Andy knelt beside Norma. Taking her hand in his, he squeezed her bloodied fingers until her eyelids fluttered open.

"Did we beat 'em?" she asked hoarsely.

He nodded, his gaze blurred by tears. "Yeah."

"Then...what are you waitin' for? Git."

"I can't leave you like this."

"I'll mend. Takes more than the likes...of them to put an Anzie in her grave. I said, git."

There was a whicker behind them and Andy turned slowly.

Twenty paces away the Companion stood, staring at him with its brilliant blue eyes. This close, it was dazzingly white in the sunlight and he could barely look at it without squinting. He moved forward.

The Companion and the Guardsman looked into each other's eyes for a long time, and then Andy's mouth quirked up.

"I told them it wasn't me," he whispered, his tone a combination of relief and disappointment.

The Companion turned its attention away, sweeping its bight gaze over the battlefield, clearly searching, then turned back to stare into Andy's face once again.

He nodded his understanding. "Yes," he said, laying one weary hand on its back. "I'll help you find that Herald of yours."

* * *

They reached Garet Barns a few moments later. He was lying on his back, his eyes wide with shock, his hands pressed tight against his side. Blood seeped through his uniform tunic to pool darkly beneath him. His face was ashen, but when he looked up into the Companion's eyes, a bit of the color returned.

Andy shook his head. "Shoulda known." He knelt. "C'mon, lemme see it."

His gaze still locked on the Companion's eyes, Garet allowed the other youth to examine the wound.

"It's not terrible," Andy pronounced after a minute. Taking off his own tunic, he used his knife to cut his shirt into strips, then bound up the wound. "All right, let's get you up. That lot won't keep runnin'

all day." Arms wrapped about the other's chest, he drew Garet to his feet. The Companion knelt and somehow Andy managed to get him onto its back. It stood carefully. Then, one hand holding the other youth by the belt, Andy nodded.

"Let's go."

They made their way slowly across the battlefield, careful not to step on any of the wounded.

Friend and foe alike watched them go in silence, and the ones that could, saluted as they passed.

They reached the south road without incident. Still shocky, Garet rode without speaking and, deep in his own thoughts, Andy hardly noticed his surroundings until a white blur flashed between them and a stand of pine trees. Looking up, Andy stared straight into a pair of brilliant sapphire eyes. The world fell away beneath the intensity of its gaze and all he could think to say was, "Oh. There were two of you."

The second Companion whickered softly. After a few moments it nudged him gently. Then it nudged him harder.

:Chosen?:

The first Companion pawed the ground and Garet stirred. "Andy? The garrison? We have to keep moving."

"Right."

Shaking himself out of his stupor, Andy carefully mounted up. They had miles to travel before he could pause to wonder at the sudden change in his life. They had to get to the capital, warn King Valdemar, and come back with an army to save what was left of Trance Tower, but suddenly it all seemed possible. Smiling down at...Lillia, he nodded.

"All right. I'm ready to go now."

Together, they headed down the south road toward Haven.

STARHAVEN

by Stephanie D. Shaver

Stephanie Shaver is a single twenty-something living in St. Louis, Missouri. where she works as a web-master for an online games company. She's been published in various anthologies and magazines over the years, and was one of the resident writers at Marion Zimmer Bradley's home in Berkeley in the early Nineties. When she's not making soap, studying aikido, or working on websites, she's writing a book about a girl who misplaced her soul. Her official web-site is at www.sdshaver.com.

She was dying, blood trickling down her side and legs into the grass. The mage's body was a crumpled, charred mess at her feet. But-his soul-At the instant she had killed him-the moment when she'd poured everything she had left at him-he had done the unexpected. He was tangled with her soul somehow-buried like a jagged black seed.

She was too weak to think clearly enough to destroy him. And even if she could have gotten back to the Vale-The seed inside her. Who would it bury itself in next?

She fell to her knees, her vision dimming as she fought death with the scraped-up dredges of her strength. Her teachers had always told her she threw herself too far into what she did-but how could he not? The mage killed her daughter-and her husband-In more ways than one, she had nothing left.

With the last of her strength she slipped the moorings of her body and plunged deep into the earth, dropping like an offering into the burning node of power beneath her-Vess writhed in his bed, screaming.

His body was on fire-his body was fire-locked in the process of agonized immolation. He arched in pain and horror as his skin and bones melted-And it was gone.

Vess sat up, soaked in sweat and breathing heavily. He was in a Waystation inside the village of Solmark. It was morning. He was not a woman dying alone in a forest; he was a Herald, here on business for the Crown.

That wasn't just a nightmare, he thought. That was-what the hells was that?

He was shaking as he dragged himself out of bed and dressed. He felt a curious emptiness within, as if someone had cracked open his chest and scooped out his insides.

As if a part of me just died, he thought, unsure of where the thought came from.

:Chosen?:

He paused, momentarily disoriented by Kestric's voice in his mind. :Yes?:

:Are you all right?:

He nodded. :I'm fine.:

:I felt something-a nightmare?:

:Something like one. I'll be okay. I need some air.: He straightened his collar, brushing out the front. :I need to do what I came here for.: He sucked in a deep breath, relaxing his shoulders on exhale.

:Right. After all those days of riding-to get so little rest. Are you sure you don't want to try to go back to sleep?:

:I'm sure. I don't think it'll get better with more sleep.: He rubbed the back of his neck. :It's the damn Pelagirs. I never have good dreams, this close to them.: Vess had no illusions of being the next Windrider-his Mage-Gift, in comparison to some of the other, real Herald-Mages, was pretty pitiful-but the sliver of active Mage-Gift he did have made him sensitive to local magic. It was more a bane than a boon-it was distinctly unpleasant to be able to simultaneously see magic and be completely helpless to affect it.

His other Gifts more than made up for where the supposedly superior Mage-Gift had failed him.

He was one of the strongest Mindspeakers in the Heraldic Circle-strong enough to use it as a weapon. A touch of Empathy coupled with a noble upbringing had also made him a viable member of the King's inner circle.

Viable enough that, for the last six months, he'd effectively been the King's Own, sans the title, the senseless attacks on his reputation, and Jastev, the Grove-born stallion. He'd been in that uncomfortable, ill-defined position of King's closest adviser ever since the real King's Own, Nadja, had stopped being able to get out of bed in the mornings.

Nadja...I hope you're not hurting, though I know you probably are.

:Chosen, are you dwelling?:

Vess shook his head, trying to disperse his brooding thoughts. :I am,: he said. :I should stop.: He opened the door, the cool hand of early dawn caressing his face. :Want to come along with me on my walk?:

He felt a pleasant surge of affection from Kestric-the closest the Companion could come to a hug.

:As if you had to ask:

* * *

The gate to the stockade was pushed up for the day, and in the light of the new morning Vess could see now why they'd needed to gather up five men last night to get it open. It was composed of entire tree trunks planed, caulked, and lashed together to form a formidable barrier that could be dropped at a moment's notice.

The Waystation was built inside the stockade-to put it outside amid the unpredictable dangers of the Pelagirs would have been suicide. Not to mention a constant hassle. Pelagir plants grew with preternatural quickness. The Waystation would have been overcome by greenery within a few short years.

...much the way Starhaven is, he thought.

They passed out from under the cool shadow of the gate and down the road leading away from Solmark. There weren't many people about-just one girl, who waved to them as they passed by, her smock pockets stuffed with herbs-and the weather was pleasant and cool.

The quiet was as pleasant as the weather. Vess had become accustomed to living in Haven, with the daily pressure of hundreds of minds pressing on his shields. He didn't usually notice it, but out in the hinterland it was strange to not have that sense of others around him.

Just me and Kestric, he thought as he and his Companion headed down a thin, overgrown trail.

What a change.

Of course, the Pelagirs had a presence all their own; something akin to a ghostly hand brushing the back of his neck. He had felt it even as a child, when his mother had sent him to Solmark to be fostered for a summer.

It had not been pleasant. And if Solmark was enough to give him nightmares, Starhaven was even worse.

As if cued-or possibly listening in on his surface thoughts- Kestric said, :So, where are you taking us? I assume you have a location in mind.:

:Starhaven,: he replied. :Or what used to be Starhaven. It was Solmark's sister town fifty years ago.:

:..was?:

:Was until everyone in it died. I've mentioned this before, haven't I?:

:You've mentioned being fostered in Solmark, but not Starhaven.: Patterns of sunlight and shadow dappled Kestric's pure white coat as they passed under the forest's canopy. The trail, for all that it surely wasn't used regularly by anyone anymore, was in remarkably good shape, easy to discern and unbroken.

:There isn't a lot to say about Starhaven,: he said. :Even without Mage-Gift, it's disturbing to visit a place if you know over a hundred people all died at once there. One night, no signs of struggle or violence. And I would imagine that's why the adults told us not to go there.:

:And exactly why you did.:

:Of course.: He smiled. :Boys will be boys. And something was waiting for us there, in fact.:

:"Something"?:

:As a child I thought it was a ghost, but my adult reason says it was probably just a wandering mage.: He shrugged. :He seemed amused-though I didn't realize it till months later, when I wasn't so terrified of the memory. All white robes, bleached hair with what I think were crow feathers in it-looked as much like a bird as a person.:

:Hunh.:

Kestric nodded, leaning forward in the saddle. :I think it might have been an outKingdom mage-some of them wear some strange costumes.:

:What's so strange about all white?:

Vess laughed aloud. :Aside from making me a walking target-nothing, really. Ah...the marker stone-: He looked down to where a crumbling stone lay to one side of the road, imprinted with the letters for STARHAVEN. :Here it is.:

The road emptied out into a clearing the size of Solmark. Green hulks that had once been houses shared space with saplings and tender bushes. The place was disarmingly cheery-birds sang in the trees, and there was ample sunlight.

Kestric stopped three steps "in" and turned his head about as he surveyed the scene. Vess considered dismounting, but decided against it. He didn't think they'd be staying long.

:I don't know why I picked coming here,: he said after a while. :It always struck me-the mystery and the sadness-so many people gone, without any reason, overnight.:

:You're infinitely silly, you know that?:

Vess blinked in surprise at the lighthearted tone in Kestric's mind-voice.

:I am?: he said.

:Sure you are. Vess, you're a Herald! Of course you want to know what happened here! Not that I think you'll ever know-these are the Pelagirs. Strange things happen all the time.: He nodded. :They do, indeed. Like girls who people think are goddesses...:

:Speaking of which, we ought to go find her.: Kestric tossed his head toward the road. :Neh?: Vess was about to give his nonverbal agreement when something pale caught the edge of his vision.

He turned his head, and there, off to one side amongst the trees that bordered the clearing, stood a pale figure in white.

For a moment Vess forgot to breathe as the vertigo-sensation of having seen this person before swept him. It was the figure from his childhood-the strange, pale man with feathers in his hair.

In the next moment, his training took over, and he unconsciously reinforced his shields while simultaneously slipping open his inner eye to look at the man with Mage-sight-Nothing.

Not the power pulses that signaled an illusion, nor the seamless invisibility that someone with very strong and specific shields would have just wisps of gray must sprinkled with pinpricks of light.

:What the hells is that?: he yelled in panic, throwing down the mental image of the man's seeming.

Kestric swung around and backed up. In the instant he brought his head about, the figure raised a hand and waved-And vanished.

The birds had not stopped singing, and the sun had not gone behind a cloud, but Vess could feel the bumps rise on his arms and a chill rise up his spine. He felt much less safe than he had a few moments ago.

:Gone?: he heard Kestric say.

:Damn,: Vess said. :Maybe Starhaven is haunted after all.: He took a deep breath. :And I have exactly enough Mage-Gift to be completely useless toward doing any good, if a Herald of any sort can even help-might be better to find a competent priest.:

:Might be better to get back to Solmark.:

:Good idea.: Vess looked around, reassuring himself that-to his eyes-they were still alone. :The sooner, the better.:

* * *

"Heyla-Herald-"

The voice came from off to the left of Vess as he walked around from the stable toward the Waystation. Looking over, Vess saw an elderly man crossing over to him, a girl in tow-The same girl we passed this morning, he thought. What irony, if she turns out to be the one who was the whole reason for my leaving off vacation to come out here.

"Greetings, sir," Vess said, bowing slightly. "How can I help you?"

"I heard you were looking for my granddaughter," the man said, coming to a stop with his hands on his hips and a grin on his face. "I'm Sevastan, and this is my famous Juni. You need Healing?"

Well, at least he's congenial, Vess thought.

"No, actually, I don't." He smiled. "I heard about your granddaughter while I was visiting my mother and-to be honest, I admit to being a bit concerned."

"Heh! Came all the way out to this backwater town out of concern? Now that's something, isn't it, Juni?" Sevastan looked down at his granddaughter, who was smiling slightly.

"Sir, if you'd like to talk in private with me?" Vess asked.

"Well," Sevastan said, "If you prefer. Juni?'

"It's all right," she said. "I have work to do." She stood up on her toes and kissed her grandfather on the cheek, then bowed to Vess before strolling off and disappearing behind a house.

Vess turned back toward Sevastan to find that the man's outward congeniality had vanished, replaced by a firmly set mouth and cold eyes.

This is a switch, Vess thought. "Would you like to adjourn to the Waystation?" he asked.

"No, actually, I want to make something clear," Sevastan said, all remnants of cheerfulness erased from his tone. "My wife is dead. My daughter died when Juni was only a few months old and my son-in-law died when she was five. I don't have any family-most of them got killed in Starhaven. Now, I know about you Heralds. You like to take children away from their homes and families. Juni isn't going with you. She isn't anything you'd want, and she doesn't want to leave anyway."

The faint smile on Vess's face felt forced, but he maintained it anyway. He could point out that it was the Companions, not the Heralds, who took away children-and he could point out that Healers weren't Heralds-but neither point would matter or help. Sevastan didn't want his granddaughter leaving him, and that was the real issue.

"You are assuming," Vess said, "that I have a choice in this matter."

"You could choose to leave."

"Only if I was assured she wasn't a danger to herself or those around her. Forgive me for not asking," Vess said sharply, "but am I perhaps mistaken? Has your daughter been trained by a Healer?"

"I taught her what I know about herbs," Sevastan said. "Setting bones, splints, wrapping wounds-"

"I'm sorry," Vess said. "That's not what I mean when I say Healer. What I have heard of your daughter's skills sounds like she is Healing with a Gift. It's not the same as applying bandages or ointments."

Vess firmed his mouth. "If it goes untrained, it could wind up killing someone. Wild Gifts inevitably twist in on themselves-they must be schooled. And since he is using hers-"

"Assuming," Sevastan interrupted, an edge of annoyance in his voice, "that she is using a 'Gift.'"

Vess resisted the urge to sigh. On one hand, he sympathized with the man over his lack of family-but on the other

I think the Crown would not approve of me smacking him upside the head, he thought with bland amusement. Though I'm sure the King would understand...

"You're right," Vess said. "I am assuming-because I haven't seen her Heal anyone yet. And when I do, I'll know. Which is why I'm here. Sir-" Vess crammed as much sincere compassion as he could into his voice, "-I don't want to take your granddaughter away from you. That's the last thing I seek. But you have to understand that this is for her own good. And I wager that once her training is done, the Healer's Circle would be happy to send her back here-especially since she seems to be needed."

"And if she does not have a 'Gift' at all?" Sevastan asked, one brow raised. "What if the gods have touched her and are working through her? Hm? Will the priests then be taking her away?"

"If that is the case-" And it's bloody unlikely, Vess thought, but I'll let you have your wishful thinking "-then it's a matter I will leave to the priests. I have no jurisdiction when it comes to religion."

"Very well, then." Sevastan nodded his head to Vess. "Come by my house at sunset. Marsi is bringing her son Garth by for Juni to attend to."

"I'll see you then," Vess said.

Sevastan snapped about, moving off with a stiff, unhurried gait. Vess waited till he was out of sight, then slumped against the Waystation door, pinching his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

:I'm sure you heard it all.:

:Oh, yes,: Kestric said with a mental sigh that gusted loudly through Vess' mind. :I think you did your best, considering that he wasn't here to listen. And he's not going to be happy when you confirm what we already know

:That's his problem,: Vess thought. :If he loves her so damned much, he should move to Haven to be with her.: He straightened. :I'm going to go take a bath.: His anger faded as he stalked off toward the public house, giving his mind room to ponder what he was going to do after this evening to get Juni out of Solmark.

Because just then, that whole idea of Heralds kidnapping children sounded damned attractive...

* * *

"It really is a shame you're the only one who can hear me," the woman's voice said,

"because you're the first person in decades to show up who can, and you aren't listening."

Vess blinked. Nothing but darkness and mist surrounded him and he realized peripherally that he must be asleep. "Hunh?"

"You still don't understand?" A sigh. "It seems this sort of naivete runs rampant with your people. Perhaps you should find one of your so-called Herald-Mages and call them here? The danger you are flirting with is not a normal one. I failed-with disastrous consequences. You cannot-"

Vess sat up in bed, his heart fluttering rapidly against his ribcage and his mind full of strange dreams. He was, thank the gods, not sweating too badly-so while he was a trifle jarred, at least he didn't smell like old socks.

:How was the nap?: Kestric asked.

:Lousy,: Vess replied, sticking out his tongue. :Another weird dream.: He grasped at the fraying ends of the dream's memory, but it melted away. :Eh-it's gone. How are the apples?:

:You mean how were the apples? Excellent. The slightly mushy ones taste goooood. Tell the publican next time you see him that I really appreciate it.:

:My Companion, rotten apple eater.:

:I prefer well-ripened to rotten. And this from a man who likes tripe stew.:

:Just the one from that inn at Kettlesmith,: Vess said with a smirk. :And no other!:

:Did I mention it's nearly sunset, tripe-eater?:

:Crumbs. And I was so looking forward to a graphic description of rotten apples. Thanks for the reminder.: Vess rose from the bed. :Let's see what we see.:

* * *

He got back to the Waystation sometime after sunset and immediately walked into the stable-built for Companions, so it was wide enough for him and Kestric to stand in together-and sat down on the stool in one corner of the stall.

Vess put his head in his hands and curled the tips of his fingers in his hair.

:Are you going to talk now?: Kestric asked.

Vess took a deep breath, inhaling the dusty scent of hay and leather. :This day couldn't have been stranger if the gods themselves had tried.:

:What's wrong?:

:She's not a Healer.: Vess looked up at Kestric, meeting the faintly luminescent blue eyes of his Companion. :I looked at her while she was Healing the boy-and it's not Healing Gift she's using.:

:That doesn't make any sense.:

:Maybe this will help,: Vess said, drawing up the mental image of what he'd seen and tossing it down the bond. Juni-eyes shut, hand out and glowing faintly red to Vess's Mage-Sight. The edges of her patient's lacerations drawing together and sealing up, the trickles of sweat dripping down the sides of her face.

He followed up the wordless report with the "signature" of the power she had been using, exercising his limited Empathy to give Kestric the full experience.

Then he waited.

:That's...: Vess felt Kestric recoil in disgust as the Companion took a step back in the stall.

:That's blood-magic! She's using it to reshape the flesh!: Vess nodded. :I wasn't sure of it, but if you think so, too...:

:But she's not a blood-mage! We would have felt it!:

:She has the Mage-Gift-and it is active,: he said soberly. :She also has Empathy and Mindspeech-gods, she's just like me. Except her other two Gifts are dormant. She doesn't even have Healer potential, Kes. And worse...something happened to the boy after she "Healed" him.

It's like a bloodstain on his soul, and his mother's just the same. I took a look around the village before I came back. Just about everyone here has the same marking.:

:Oh, hellfires.: The Companion flared his nostrils. :We need a Herald-Mage.:

:I know.: Vess rubbed his nose. :It just doesn't seem to make sense, though. I don't pick up the least bit of malevolence from her. Something doesn't fit. How is she doing this? Why is she doing it? Is it possible to do blood-magic without knowing you're doing it? Or does she just have one hell of a shield around her?:

:That,: Kestric said, :is what I'd like to know.:

* * *

Vess opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling.

Something was floating there, hovering above his head-

And then he really woke up, and realized that his mind was once again playing tricks on him.

There was nothing on the ceiling but shadows, and no one in the room but him. He was alone.

And maybe that's my problem, he thought suddenly. Too many goddamn years in the court with an empty bed and fewer friends than a mean drunk. Just working day in and day out, waiting for the next crisis to strike.

And wasn't that the whole point of taking leave in the first place? I could have told Herald Becka to find another person with Mage-Gift to investigate Solmark, but no...I went instead. If it's not trouble finding me, it's me finding trouble. He grimaced. I'm pitiful.

He pulled himself out of bed and into his clothes. A brush to Kestric's mind found him to be sleeping, and Vess didn't see a reason to wake him. In the distance, he could hear the sound of the Solmark gate raising. He waned to walk, and think, and for once really, truly be alone. No people, no Companions-just him and the forest.

It wasn't healthy to go walking in the Pelagirs alone, but the same could be said for parts of Haven, as well. Picking up his sword from the table where it lay, Vess stuck it into his belt, and set off to be by himself.

It took longer to get to Starhaven on foot, and this time he approached it with the caution it deserved. He stood silently at the entrance, peering about once with his regular pair of eyes, then again with Mage-sight. When he was certain things were safe, he walked into the center, pulled the sheathed sword out of his belt, and sat down.

If I'm going to go looking for trouble, he thought, I might as well go all out.

But after a while, when the birds kept singing and the sunlight grew warmer, he found himself relaxing. He lay down in the grass, the sword on his chest, and stared at the one cloud in the sky above him, shaped like a fist.

How long, he thought, since I've just watched clouds?

The answer came easily: Since Nadja got sick. Since I started worrying the Companions might make me the next King's Own. Oh, gods-if there's one thing I don't want...I don't care if I'd be good at it, I don't want that job!

He sighed. But if I had to, I'd do it. And we all know it.

"Herald?"

He hadn't heard her walk up, but he knew the voice, and he recognized that it was close. Sitting up and letting the sword fall into the crook of his left arm, Vess looked over to see Juni walking toward him.

"Good morning," he said with a smile. He had acted as if nothing unusual had happened last night-making the (true) excuse that he needed to think about what he had discovered. He was pretty sure that she didn't suspect anything.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"I visit here a lot," she said. "Especially early." She paused, her mouth half open, then took a step forward, saying, "You seem...troubled."

He smiled. "A lot of things on my mind."

"About me?"

He shook his head. "No, not you."

She cocked her head. "What about?"

"The court. The King. My duty."

She widened her eyes. "You know the King?"

He nodded. "Sure. I'm one of his counselors-I know quite a bit about court life." He winked.

"That's my curse."

She smiled. "Is the Palace nice?"

"It can be."

She nodded. "This place must be strange to someone like you."

"It would be, except that I was raised not far from here. My mother is Lady Baireschild."

She widened he eyes again. "My Lord-"

"No." He raised a hand. "Dropped the titles when I got Chosen." He grinned. "Never liked them much, anyway." He felt the smile fade. "You're a very nice young lady, Juni."

She bowed her head, blushing a little. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." He stood, stretching, and brushed grass out of his hair and off his shirt. Then, dwelling on that last comment to her, he opened his inner eye and reached out to her-

-Maybe I was wrong

The red-black energy he had witnessed around her just last night was gone. He pressed further, delicately snaking past her natural defenses. Her three Gifts were still there, but now he saw that there was something more-something like the "bloodstain" he had seen on the people of Solmark-only deeper That's odd. Why would she have marked herself with her own stain?

Something slammed into him, an unseen force that lifted him into the air and threw him back down to the ground in a pain-stricken sprawl. He blinked stars out of his eyes and tasted blood in his mouth-before he'd been hit, though, he'd felt a surge of magic coming from nearby.

:Chosen!: he heard Kestric's panicked call.

:I'm not dead-yet,: he thought dazedly. :Get out here, quick. Something's not right.: He rolled over, shaking his head to clear it, and for a moment all he saw was a pale, frightened Juni-And then he saw Sevastan. Sevastan-but not Sevastan. Even when the man had been curt yesterday, he hadn't looked this-malevolent. The set of his mouth, the shape of his eyes, the way he held himself-little pieces that amounted to a startling, sinister change.

A different person was standing before Vess. One look in his eyes revealed that.

"It is unfortunate," Sevastan said, "but necessary. I meant it when I said I can't have you taking her away."

The blow had thrown off Vess' internal balance-he was seeing double, the physical world layered under his Mage-sight. Sinuous red tendrils wrapped Sevastan's arms, gathering in pools in his hands. A cord of red power, like a leash, dripped out of his left hand and connected to Juni, and from Juni spun out hundreds of thin red threads, pulsing in time with a heartbeat of their own.

Everything fell into place with painful clarity.

He's the blood-mage, Vess thought in shock. Not her. She has Mage-Gift-he's working through her and disguising it as a "Gift"-good gods!

Sevastan raised his arm and shouted something, and a black levin bolt cracked through the air toward Vess, who threw up his arms in a pitiful mockery of defense.

Inches away from him, it disintegrated in a shower of sparks as it hit invisible shields.

Vess blinked in surprise, then blinked again as a pale white form faded into sight beside him.

:I can't keep this up,: a vaguely familiar female voice said into his mind. :If you have a plan, use it.:

"Well," Sevastan said, his attention shifted off Vess. "This is unexpected. Didn't I kill you?"

Vess heard the female voice answer with flat emotion, :By your own hand we are entangled, mage. I do not die if you do not die.:

Sevastan laughed. "A complication I will swiftly amend," he said, raising his hands again-Vess didn't give him a chance.

Dragging up his mental energies, he split open his shields, threw his mind at Sevastan-And screamed inside his head.

Years of anger, frustration. and disgust broke out of Vess, his Empathy fueling the raw violence of his attack. Months of watching Nadja die by inches in her bed-months of sitting with the King as he quietly went to pieces with the agonized guilt of the latest Herald he'd had to send off to possible death or worse. Years of court deception, petty politics and subterfuge-deceivers and backstabbers with smiling faces and no concept of the pain they caused.

Tragedies. Sorrows. Pain. The struggle to keep from being beaten down by the very people he tried to help.

And past that, the certainty that the thing he was fighting was the same thing that had killed Starhaven, the thief of life.

The mind-blast broadened and changed to incoherent rage. Lost in the blinding power he had given himself over to, Vess's world dissolved into a solid sheet of fury, and evaporated.

* * *

"Herald."

Vess blinked, finding himself elsewhere. Not Starhaven, not Solmark-not the Palace or his mother's manor. He was somewhere where his Whites seemed to glow with their own light, and everything was the gray of twilight.

"Herald," the voice said again, "I want to thank you..."

Vess sat up, and saw a man standing over him, his face in shadows but his hand extended out to him.

"All my life, I've been that wizard's puppet," the man said. "He used me to destroy Starhaven, and when he realized that I wasn't a suitable vessel for his power, he worked through my daughter and grandchild for the same. I'm sorry, Herald. Please know that anything I said to you-the mouth and the voice were mine, but the words were his."

"Sevastan?" Vess said, reaching up to take the man's hand. "What-"

"Take care of my granddaughter, Herald," Sevastan said as his warm, dry fingers closed around Vess' hand. "Please let her know that even with that bastard's hand on my mind, I tried my best to love her."

:Chosen!:

Vess came around to too-bright sunlight. The aura of a reaction headache was building behind his eyes, and he tasted copper in his mouth.

:Chosen! Wake up!:

"I'm alive," Vess said, his voice feeble. "And sweet Kernos, how I wish I weren't."

A sob cut the air and, grimacing, Vess climbed to his knees, fighting nausea and dizziness. His hands were shaking and his skin felt clammy. He had definitely overextended himself.

Juni had thrown herself over her grandfather and was crying hysterically. Vess' mind was still painfully open to thoughts-Juni's grief-stricken regrets and stunned questioning of what had just transpired, and the telling silence coming from the body of Sevastan. I killed him, he thought, reaching out to pull the veils of his shields around his mind.

:No,: said the woman's voice in his mind. :I killed him. You broke his concentration long enough to give me the opportunity to throw the bastard into the node-which, thank the god of my fathers, actually worked this time.: A sad sigh. :Unfortunately-the trauma was too much for Sevastan himself-damnit.:

Vess turned slightly, looking in the direction of the ghostly mage, her arms folded across her chest and one slender eyebrow raised.

"What's a node?" he asked.

She rolled her eyes. :Naive outlanders. Never mind. He's gone.: Her face softened. :And you have done me a great service.: She smiled. :I knew, that first time I saw you, that you'd be something speciaL Farewell, Herald I'm off to the place I should have been long, long ago...: She dissolved before his eyes, reforming into a broad-winged white crow that launched itself upward, flying up toward the sun. He tried to watch her go, but the impending headache and his own physical weakness dissuaded the notion.

"Good-bye," he said. "Good rest."

And then there was just the matter of Juni.

Vess heard the muffled bell-tone of Companion hooves behind him. Kestric, no doubt-though Vess wasn't sure how he'd gotten behind him. The Companion came up alongside, and Vess grabbed hold of the saddle to pull himself up

Wait a moment. How did he get his gear on?

Vess really looked at the Companion now, and it gazed back at him with what seemed to be faint amusement

Hellfires, Vess thought, stunned. That's-the Grove stallion!

:Greetings, Herald,: he heard the contrabass voice of Jastev boom in his mind. :I Choose-Bright Havens, certainly not you! You've got a Companion!:

Vess lost his fine grip on upward mobility. He fell over and landed in a sprawl on the grass-bowled over not only by the fact that another Companion had just spoken to him, but had done so in order to tell a joke.

:He's got quite a sense of humor, doesn't he?: Kestric said dryly in Vess' mind. From the overgrown trail that led to Starhaven, the Companion galloped into view, slowing to a trot as he came up to Vess and stood before him.

"He's a bloody sadist," Vess gasped-and then the surprise faded, and he realized what was going unsaid. "Has Nadja-did she finally-?"

:Right after you left. I didn't want to tell you, but-yes. Peacefully, in her sleep.: Vess nodded, tears building up in his eyes and trickling down his cheeks.

:Poor Chosen. You've been through so much. Are you going to be all right?:

"It's a sadness," he said, watching dazedly as Jastev walked with exaggerated dignity over to the dead man and Juni. "I wish I could say it was a relief. It is-and it isn't. It is what it is."

He still wasn't completely all there, because he was still trying to figure out why Jastev was here and not looking for a new King's Own when the Companion bent his head down, touching the girl's forehead with his muzzle.

Juni raised eyes bright red from crying, and Vess felt a momentary shock as her eyes widened and her face brightened with amazement.

"Oh, thank the god!" Vess moaned.

* * *

Much later, when he'd done his best to explain the Sevastan situation to the people of Solmark-when he'd made sure they understood that Juni was neither demon or Healer-when he'd quaffed enough willowbark tea to stop an army-when he'd arranged for a Herald-Mage to visit Solmark and ensure it was free of blood-magic's taint-and when he was sure that Jastev was tending to Juni, newly Chosen but still in mourning-Only then did he find himself lying in bed, listening to the crickets and the crows at sunset-aching but alive.

:Juni will be a compassionate King's Own,: he thought drowsily to Kestric.

:And a good trainee for you to teach,: his Companion responded.

:I do know more about the job than anyone else.:

He subsided into silence then, finding comfort in the crows as they sang their harsh song to the sunset. He thought of the last glimpse of the white crow spiraling up to the sun, and he smiled.

He slept all through the night: dreamless and at peace.

REBIRTH

by Judith Tarr

Judith Tarr is the author of a number of historical and fantasy novels and stories. Her most recent novels include House of War and Queen of the Amazons, as well as the Epona Sequence: Lady of Horses, White Mare's Daughter, and Daughter of Ur. She was a World Fantasy Award nominee for Lord of the Two Lands. She lives near Tucson, Arizona, where she breeds and trains Lipizzan horses, of whom she says,

"They're white, they're magical, they bond for life to a single human, they don't think or act like horses-when I was asked to write a story about Valdemar, of course I had to write about Companions. That's called 'writing what you know.'"

Lord Dashant's forces had drawn off the battlefield, marching backward in ordered retreat. A ragged cheer ran down the line of what had, only moments ago, been a beleaguered army.

Mathias the Herald-Mage, from his place at the rightful Heir's right hand, found he could not share the army's celebration. Something smelled wrong. In point of fact, something stank.

His Companion raised her head and fleered her upper lip in a strikingly horselike gesture. She smelled it, too, although there was nothing earthly about it. As far as his nose knew, this was a battlefield like any other: reeking of blood and loosed bowels, rank fear-sweat, and the incongruous sweetness of crushed grass.

Beside him, Vera's own Companion shook his heavy neck and snorted. Vera stroked him absently with a gauntleted hand. The visor of her helmet was up; her eyes narrowed, studying the enemy's retreat.

He was the bitterest of all enemies that a royal Heir could have: her own half-brother, who had killed their father the King and claimed the throne of Valdemar. Dashant was a murderer and a traitor, but one thing he had never been, and that was a coward. It was not like him to abandon a battle before he was well and resoundingly defeated.

"It's a feint," she said. "He's laid a trap. But I can't see-"

Neither could Mathias, and that was not reassuring at all. Mathias had the gift of seeing through any wall or veil, and piercing any illusion. His wards were intact. His protection spells were undisturbed.

There was no magical threat anywhere, nothing, except that infernal stink.

He glanced to either side, down along the ranks that were beginning to waver. The commanders were doing nothing to stop them. One or two had had the sense to send parties in pursuit of the enemy, but the rest were acting as if the battle was over. None of them paid any attention to Vera at all. Even her personal guard, her squires who adored her, the messengers and pages who had stayed by her through exile and civil war, had turned away from her. As if they had forgotten her existence. As if-The spell was as strong as it was subtle. Mathias felt it creeping around the edges of his wards, seeking out chinks and weaknesses. It blurred his sight, so that when he looked at Vera, she seemed to shimmer like a reflection in a pool. But in his heart where she had been since the first day he saw her, long ago when he was a callow boy, new-Chosen, and she a curly-headed child, she was as clear and strong a presence as ever. He had never even asked if she loved him as he did her. It made no difference. She was the Heir and would be Queen. He was her servant-her Herald and her Mage.

He strengthened the wards, giving her all that he was, for her protection. She was not a mage of any kind, but she was a sensitive; she felt some at least of what he did for her. Her hand reached across the small space between them and clasped his, as warmly trusting as if they were both still children.

The earth boiled up with an army three, four, five times as large as the one that they had faced and, they thought, defeated. It swarmed over the Heir's weary forces. Its hordes of warriors were fresh and well-fed, with unscarred weapons and bright new armor. The spell that had concealed them was shredded and tattered, but still fuddled the minds and hearts of Vera's army.

They had forgotten why they fought, or whom they fought for. Swords dangled from slack hands.

Spears struck without force. Arrows flew wide of the mark.

It was all Mathias could do to hold off that mind-blurring magic from himself while sustaining the wards about Vera. The guards were useless; each of them was fighting for his own skin.

The enemy could see the Heir. The heart of her own forces' blindness was clear to Dashant's troops. They converged on her.

Mathias was beyond desperation. Lytha, his Companion, fought with every weapon and wile at her disposal. He dropped his sword and bow and raised his hands. The spell that rose up in him was a spell for the other side of hope. It would kill him, but it would break the spell on Vera's army and weaken and befuddle Dashant's horde, and maybe just maybe-give Vera enough cover to run for safety.

There was no time to explain. He had to hope against hope that both his Companion and his Queen would understand; that their hearts were close enough to let them see the sacrifice he had made-and that Vera, at least, would save herself.

He was not afraid. Fear was lost somewhere in the life that he was leaving. The spell was whole inside him. It was beautiful, a structure as intricate as a snowflake and as deadly as the track of a viper in the sand. It stirred and shimmered, tugging at the edges of his control, drawing power from the roots of his earthly self.

The horde was almost upon them. Vera held her sword in both hands, raised above her head, ready to fight to the last.

No grief. No hesitation. One more instant and the spell would be cast, and his life and magic with it. He let it go.

The world shattered. All spells broke-every one, except those which guarded Vera. Mathias' body was gone, and so was every enemy within a furlong of it. Vera's forces reeled, stumbling over the sudden dead.

He clung to the reality of them, and most of all to Vera. But the world was whirling him away. He looked down into her white, shocked face-and if he had still had throat or tongue, he would have cried aloud. He knew-he understood-he foresaw-so clear, so terribly, appallingly clear-

* * *

Long waves sighed upon a shining shore. The foam on their breasts was the color of moonlight and snow. The sand on which they rolled was dust of jewels, opal and moonstone, lapis, malachite, chalcedony. The sky was silver, and the sun was gold, fixed it in forever, never shifting, never changing.

Somewhere, in another heaven, were moon and stars, but not in this place. Here, it was morning for all eternity.

Luminous spirits walked in the jeweled sand or on grass the color of emeralds. Some wore the forms of men or women; others chose the shapes of moon-white horses, blue-eyed, silver-hooved, mystical and magical. They grazed on the eternal grass, or ate the fruits of paradise, or drank from springs that flowed supernally pure. Everywhere was a dream of peace.

The soul that had been Mathias stood on the edge between the sea and the sand. He still wore his human shape: a tallish man in Herald's whites, broad-shouldered, with curling brown hair, and green eyes more fit for laughter than for sorrow. But they had not laughed since well before he died. Here in the land of laughter, they knew no mirth at all.

A slender woman stood beside him. Her eyes were blue; her hair was long and silver-white, drawn back in a straight and shining tail that swung to her haunches. "My dear," she said, "you can't grieve here."

He kept his eyes fixed obstinately on the place where the horizon would have been if this had been an earthly isle. "Why can't I grieve? Is there a law against it?"

"Well," she said, "no. But-"

"Then I will grieve," he said.

"But why?" she asked him. "Your sacrifice ended the war. Your beloved is safe. The traitor's army is broken; she has marched in triumph to the capital, and taken her throne. She is Queen-and by your doing. You should be rejoicing."

"Yes," he said dully. "I should."

"Dear one," said the woman who in mortal life had been his Companion, "is it that you can't be with her? Your two souls are bound, you know that. In the fullness of time, you will both be reborn, and be together again. If I know the laws that constrain the gods, in your next life you will have her, and you will reap the reward of your sacrifice."

He shook his head. "No. That's not what it is. I know how the gods parcel out their favors. It's...I can't speak of it. Please, by the gods, don't make me try!"

She was relentless. She was a blessed spirit, he reminded himself, but she was not omniscient. She was not a god, or even a mage with a deathbed gift of prescience. She had not seen what he had seen.

"Tell me," she said. "Tell me why you grieve."

But he would not. After a moment or an age, she went away. Her sadness stung him with guilt, but he could not tell her the horror that he had seen. They were all the blessed dead here. They were all ended, done with, rewarded. Anything that they had left behind, was left forever.

Some would go back to the mortal world, yes, but never soon enough. Not within the lifetime of anyone they had known.

That was his grief, and the core of his terror. By the laws of the cycle of death and rebirth, he had withdrawn from earthly cares. He would return to them, of that he had no doubt, but the life he had given up was gone. He could never get it back again.

Yet what he had seen in the moment of dying, the vision that he had had, tormented him even in these blessed Havens. He spoke it aloud, though only for his own ears to hear, soft beneath the sighing of waves. "If I don't do something-if I don't take some action-she will never come back. There will be nothing left of her. Her self, her soul-gone. Never again. Never-"

He sank down in the sand, sobbing like a child. He did not even care that the blessed souls stared, or that the more compassionate or the more curious gathered to wonder and whisper.

One of them came to stand over him. It was not Lytha. This one he did not know: it wore Companion's shape, with some quality about it that made him want to bow low before it. The blue eyes were mild, the brush of its mind as soft, as gentle as sleep. :Little one,: it said, :what troubles you?:

"I can't tell you," he said, though the core of his resolve was crumbling fast.

The Companion bent its beautiful head. :Come to us,: it said, :in the Hidden Country.:

"The Hidden-but where-"

But the great one was gone. Only then did Mathias realize how very strange it had been: it had been neither male nor female, nor known any distress for its lack of gender.

He straightened slowly. The semicircle of the curious drew back. He looked from face to shining face. "Where is the Hidden Country?" he asked them. "What did the great one mean?"

No one knew, or would admit to knowing. Only one of them came forward to say, "Go inland.

Follow the light." She would not explain herself; perhaps she could not.

It was as good advice as he was likely to get. He would not have said that he had hope, but his despair was a little lighter. He was doing something. He had a place to go, a riddle to ponder. Maybe it was mere distraction. Or maybe it would show him the way to save Vera's soul-and with it the soul of Valdemar.

* * *

If he had still been in mortal flesh, he would have found this journey tedious, if not particularly exhausting. Inland away from the sea was a sea of grass, greener than any earthly meadow, rolling monotonously into the luminous distance. He began to think that he had been deceived, that this was a punishment for bringing grief into the blessed land: to be condemned to wander forever in the featureless green. Not a soul stirred there, not single sentient thing, living or blessed dead.

Then he realized that without knowing it, he had been following the light. Little by little as he went onward, the sun was brighter, the grass more vivid. He was never blinded, but he was inundated in light.

He came at last to a wall of living fire, pure white, without heat, rising up into infinity. Standing there, contemplating it, he realized that it was not a barrier. He walked toward it.

It took it to itself. It was somewhat like passing a veil of fire, and somewhat like ascending a mountain of living coals. The dead knew no earthly weariness, but certainly they knew pain. It scoured away all that was impure in him, and all that was of earth-save only those memories which he clung to with implacable persistence. That was the price of passage. He paid it as freely as he had paid with his life to save Vera-but in so doing, he had doomed her soul.

With this, the Powers willing, he would save her. He pressed on. It was more like a mountain and less like a veil, the farther he traveled; and little by little the pain faded. In time, it dwindled to nothing. He trod stones underfoot, following a path up a steep slope, rising into a bank of luminous cloud.

There were trees, impossible if this had been an earthly peak, but all things were possible here.

These were slender and tall. Their leaves were deep green; blossoms opened on the branches, pure white enfolding a spark of gold.

The scent that drifted from those branches was ineffably sweet. It tempted Mathias to delay, to slow, to drift and dream in this hall of trees. But he was armored in memory and armed with terror. He climbed onward and ever onward.

The heart of the wood was a space of light. The grass there was so dark a green as to be almost black. The flowers in it were stars.

The Companion was waiting for him. As he approached it, the circle widened immeasurably, expanding into infinite space. He stood in a field of stars, beneath the orb of a sun.

The great one was not alone here. There were others like him, legions of them, as numerous as the stars. All revolved around the sun, singing a song of pure praise.

Mathias' voice was a lone small dissonance. "Can you help me save my world?"

"Your world is safe," the great one said.

He shook his head. "Even you can't see. Before I died, I saw. Dashant works a spell to win back what he lost. That spell will destroy the Queen and enslave every soul in Valdemar. But her soul-her soul will be gone. Unless I do something. Unless I find some help, some hope for her."

"That is no longer your world," the great one said. "There is nothing you can do to save it."

He clenched his fists. "There must be! Where is the quality of divine mercy? Where is the care the light takes for its children?"

"It is where it has always been," said the great one. "All that is, is meant. Yes, child: even this."

"Then why did you bring me here?" he cried. "Why did you let me hope? What use is there in any of you?"

His outcry died into the silence of eternity. The stars shone undimmed. The sun's light burned as bright as ever. It was not mortal, to know pity, nor human, to know sorrow. It knew nothing but the glory of itself.

The great one said, "There is nothing that you can do."

"That is not the truth," said Mathias, almost spitting the words. "There are stories, memories, tales of powers-Avatars-"

"There is nothing you can do," the great one repeated. "This is ordained. You are forbidden."

"If I am forbidden, why was I allowed to see? Why, except to torment me?"

"Sometimes," said the great one, "in extremity, a mortal can see where no mortal eyes should ever see. That vision was not meant for you."

"Yet it came to me," he said. "I will save her. I must."

"Even if it costs you your soul?"

"If it saves hers," he said, "yes."

The great one bent its glimmering head. The field of stars shrank to a field of grass and flowers under a silver sky. Mathias stood in it with a creature like a Companion, surrounded by blossoming trees.

"You are forbidden," the great one said. But in its eyes was another word.

He held that stare for a long moment, lost in an infinity of blue. "What will they do to you," he asked. "if-"

The great one shook its head infinitesimally. "Peace is yonder," it said, "on the shores of the Havens."

But Mathias was listening to what it did not say. He looked around him and recognized this place, this circle of trees, this grass; this spring that bubbled forth from the great one's feet, just as it must have done in the morning of the world.

"Do not drink from this spring," said the great one. "Mortals who drink of it are doomed. The hounds of heaven will hunt them, and the Powers will condemn their souls."

"But you," he said. "You children of heaven who drink of it, what does it do? What powers does it give you?"

"That is forbidden," the great one said. "Go, seek peace. Forget this place."

Even as it spoke, it turned its back. The spring had bubbled into a pool. It seemed perfectly harmless, a pool of clear water, reflecting the sky. Mortal sky-blue as a Companion's eye, and mortal sun in it, looking down on living earth.

The great one's tail switched. Another instant and it would return to its guardianship. Mathias bent quickly and cupped water in his hands. It was cold, as spring water should be; it numbed his fingers. He did not pause to marvel at so earthly a sensation in this unearthly place. He lifted it to his lips and drank.

It was like liquid ice, like living fire. It was the wine of angels. His mortal spirit was not made to imbibe such potency. It rocked him with agony. It tore him, twisted him, rent him asunder. Darkness took him even here, in this land of perpetual light.

* * *

Mathias lay winded on bruised grass. But, he thought, grass did not bruise here. The dead did not breathe. He was notHe staggered up. His body moved strangely. His head was too heavy, his neck, his hands and feet-He had no hands. When he scrabbled at the grass, long white legs responded, and silver hooves.

His neck twisted about, impossibly long. White mane flew as he whirled; white body spun. When he cried out, a shrill whinny pierced his ears.

His forefeet tangled; he fell to his knees. It hurt. Earth was hard. He heaved himself erect. Through the whirl of confusion, still he recognized this place. He was in the Companions' Grove. He wore that all-too familiar shape, and it was not that of a newborn foal either. He, though mortal, had drunk from the well of the Powers. It had done to him what it must do to the great ones, the shining spirits: it had given him Companion's form.

Such a thing was forbidden to mortal soul-impossible, he would have said. He had defied the will of heaven. He wore flesh again, with full capacity of the body, and full memory of the life that he had lived before. And it was still-gods, it must still be the time in which he had lived.

As he paused to will his gratitude toward the one who had shown him the way, a shudder ran across his skin. Something was rising in the Grove, some force of wrath.

The hounds of heaven were coming to hunt him down. He must run with all his magical strength, and find her before they found him. Then it did not matter; the hounds could rip him into nothingness, he did not care. But first he must save her soul.

His body knew how to run. He had only to let it go. There was glory in speed, and joy-he had thought never to know joy again. Behind him the earth heaved and the spring boiled. He heard, faint but drawing nearer, the baying of hounds.

He ran for Vera's life. Companion's Field was full of white almost-horses and their Heralds in white, and the usual scattering of attendants, gawkers, and hangers-on. They were all gaping at him. He hardly needed to hear the word that ran even faster than he: "Grove-born! There's not been a Grove-born since-"

Since before his human life began. Intentionally or otherwise, they were gathering, clotting, blocking his way. He darted around and through them, and sometimes over them.

"But," said someone, who sounded young, "his eyes are green!"

That checked his stride and nearly sent him sprawling. He got his legs under control again. The road from the Field was not so crowded. The sight of a Companion at full gallop parted the stream of passersby and left them murmuring in his wake.

She was not in the palace. He had known it before he came there, in his heart that was like a needle quivering toward the lodestone. Yet he had to go, had to see-had to prove to himself that those halls, though full of people, were empty of her.

It was a long and desperate while before he found someone who could hear when he Mindspoke.

His throat would not produce a human voice, nor would his lips or tongue shape even the few words he needed to say. :Where is she? Where is the queen?:

The child in the servant's smock blinked hard. He was frightening her with his intensity. He tried to control it a little, but he did not succeed very well: she was very young and he was desperate. Thank the Powers, she mustered her courage and said steadily enough, "She's gone out riding, sir. With-with the Consort. The one who's to be, I mean. After the wedding."

.:Consort?:

She blinked even harder. "Yes, sir. Lord Terrell. Don't you know-you aren't-are you new here, sir?"

:Newer than the morning,: he said with a sudden wry twist. :Here, get on my back. Show me where they went.:

Her eyes went wide. "I? Ride a Companion?"

For answer he folded his long legs and knelt, pressing lightly against her, so that she had to swing her leg over his back and cling to his mane. He rose as smoothly as he could. She squeaked a little in alarm, but the fear was fading fast before incredulous delight.

Her weight was negligible, and she balanced well enough once he was upright. She knew how to ride. She guided him as if he had been a horse-odd sensation to be on the receiving end of it.

His mind was racing down too many tracks at once. He focused in on two: the child's guidance, and the news that she had given him. Vera and Terrell? If he could put aside the stab of pure, green, and completely unreasonable jealousy, he could see it, even force himself to approve of it. Terrell was not too young but not too old, his family connections were impeccable, and much more to the point, Mathias had known him to be an honorable man. He was both warrior and mage, and equally accomplished in both.

He had been loyal to Vera during Dashant's war; he had served her well. He would make a more than adequate Consort.

Mathias' young rider guided him out of the Palace and into the city. She held on tighter there, tensing when people stared. He soothed her as he could, and thought calm at her. Her gratitude was like a warm hand slipping into his.

The crowds of the city made their own joyous mortal noise, but he heard that other sound beneath, the baying that would pursue him until he was caught and made to pay for what he had done. He was tiring, a little; even the body of a Grove-born Companion was mortal, and its strength was finite. He slowed his pace a fraction. He was almost through the city. The gate was ahead, and open country beyond it.

"They can't be far," said the child on his back. "They only left a little while ago."

He resisted the urge to quicken his stride. The sun shone blandly down upon him. The road was level underfoot, until at his rider's urging he turned to follow a narrower track.

This had been Vera's favorite way when she was younger. It led up a long hillside to a stretch of wood, where there was fine hunting in autumn, and where in spring the ladies liked to go a-Maying. It was a pleasant ride on a warm afternoon, ending in a little lake beyond the wood, where a rider could stop to rest and water her horse, and swim if she were minded.

He left the child by the road, with such blessing on her as he had to give, and a word of warding that would bring her back safe to Haven. She did not want to be left behind. There was no time to explain; he bucked her off as gently as he could, pausing to see that she was unharmed, before he went on alone.

As he ran through the wood, his nostrils twitched. That scent beneath the scents of living greenery-he knew it from another life. In this body the senses were keener; the scent was stronger. It was cold, like the breath of graves, and all around it was woven the sick-sweet stench of death.

Dashant.

Mathias could not hold himself in. Not now. Vera was ahead, dismounted by the lake. He could see her in his mind's eye, walking along the shore, hand-in-hand with a tall, dark-haired young man. Her face had grown somber since Mathias had died, but it was as beautiful as ever. Lord Terrell bent his head to hear what she said. His smile was so warm, his glance so tender, that Mathias need have no doubt of it: this man loved this woman with all his heart.

Behind them, unseen and unnoticed, the waters of the lake had begun to stir. Darkness was rising.

The spell was keyed to this place, where her heart was. It would set hooks in her soul and draw her down into itself, and swallow her.

His lungs were burning. His legs were beyond pain. And still there was the last ascent to face, and the steep twisting track down to the lake. He would never come there in time. The thing in the lake, Dashant's conjuring, would rise and devour her.

Deep within, he found a last surge of strength. He sprang to the top of the ridge and skidded down the track to the lake. Its waters were heaving. The dark thing was close to the surface. The two on the shore were still oblivious, lost in one another.

There should have been an escort. Mathias could detect no sign of them. It was eerily like the battle in which he had died: the same cloud of deception, and the same utter abandonment.

This time Vera was warded. To his eyes it was like armor of light. But even that would no be proof against what rose to take her. Dashant had awakened something very, very old and very, very black. It loathed the light; living flesh, to it, was abomination.

The wards warned her-too damnably late. She turned in her lover's arms. Her eyes went wide.

It was like a towering wave. It was darkness absolute. It reached for her.

She did not cower-not Vera. Her only weapon was a dagger, but she drew it and set herself between the darkness and her consort. He was a fraction slower to understand, but his wits were quick enough once he saw what fell upon them. He summoned up a spell, a bolt of light against the dark.

It guttered and went out like a candle in a whirlwind, nearly taking Terrell with it. The darkness took no notice of him at all.

Mathias' whole heart and soul screamed at him to leap between his lady and the thing that would destroy her. But it only had volition through the one who commanded it. Dashant was near-he had to be.

Power of this magnitude needed a mage's fullest strength and focus.

There. On the far side of the lake, in a ruin from the older days. Legend had it that had been a sorcerer's tower during the Mage Wars. Mathias in this incarnation knew that for truth. Dashant was drawing up the dregs of power that had gathered there, feeding his own strength.

He had paid a high price for his ambition. He was skeletally gaunt; his face was twisted with scars.

One hand was a claw. His own spellmongering had done it to him, but in the darkness of his bartered soul, he held Vera to blame.

Mathias had no magic to match his, and next to no strength. He had only the weight of his body, driven at the speed of desperation. He hurtled over the broken wall.

There were wards, protections. His flesh charred and crackled at the touch of them. He ignored the pain, ignored the barriers, ignored the slow and excruciating dissolution of his mortal substance. He fell on Dashant.

Bones snapped like dry sticks. His own, the sorcerer's-it did not matter. Dashant screamed.

Mathias had no breath left for such a thing. Silver hooves battered the writhing body. His nostrils filled with the iron scent of blood.

On the edge of awareness, he knew that the darkness had collapsed upon itself. Terrell drove it back with a barrage of fire-spells.

This world would believe that Terrell had saved his queen from Dashant's last assault. That was fitting. She would never know who had broken the laws of heaven for her-would never suffer that guilt.

Mathias' knees buckled. He was dying, again. He made certain that when he fell, he crushed the sorcerer's remains beneath him.

The last of his sight saw the blue of the mortal sky, and the brightness of the sun, and a pack of pale gleaming shapes drawing in. The baying of hounds was painfully loud. They were almost upon him.

He let go. The world whirled away, sky and sun and Companions, all of it-even the hounds of heaven.

* * *

He knelt on grass that never faded, under a sun that never set. His form was a man's again. He was rather surprised to feel no pain; no broken bones, no bruises.

Not that it would have mattered if he had. His heart was as light as air. The grief was gone from it.

He knew, at last, the peace of this blessed country.

He knew also that he had no right to any such thing. Three judges stood over him. They seemed to be Companions: white horse-shapes, supernally beautiful. Their eyes were not blue but dark, like the night full of stars.

Their hounds lay at their feet, panting like mortal dogs. None seemed to bear him any malice for outrunning them. He was caught, after all. He had come to face his judgment.

"Whatever you do to me," he said to his judges, "let it be enough. No one else should pay for what I've done."

"No?" said the judge in the center, who was perhaps the chief of them. Its eyes flickered toward one who stood not far from Mathias: the great one, now much shrunken and its light greatly dimmed. It could have been a mortal horse, standing with head low, ears slack as if exhausted.

His heart went out to it. He rounded on the judges. "If that one has any guilt, let it be on my head.

Let me pay for whatever sins it has committed."

"You would pay a doubled and trebled price?" the judge asked him. "Even if that price should be the dissolution of your very self?"

"Even so," Mathias said without hesitation.

The judge stood motionless. There was no breath here, and no heartbeat to mark the passage of time; only the stillness of eternity. Mathias existed in it in perfect peace, without fear, without apprehension. Whatever sentence was laid on him, he would accept it. He had done what he was set in the world to do. The rest, as the singers sang, was silence.

After a moment or an eon, the judge spoke. "All things are possible under the eyes of heaven.

What you did, you were permitted to do by the One who is above the gods; and you did it for love of another. That mitigates your sentence. Yet sentence there must be, for you broke the laws that divide mortal from immortal, and did violence to the barriers between life and death."

Mathias bowed his head. "That is true," he murmured.

"You did it knowingly," said the judge, "and in full knowledge of the consequences. Therefore we grant you justice. Since the world of the flesh is so dear to you, we condemn you to return, and to live life after life in human form, each time anew, each time without memory of the life before-save only once in each life, in utmost extremity, when you will know what you are and why you have come into that life.

And because you would have surrendered your very soul for the Queen and the Kingdom of Valdemar, we charge you to serve it forever, in life after life, until with the passing of time you shall have atoned for your transgression."

Mathias sank down under the weight of that sentence, on his face in the undying grass. And yet his heart was incorrigibly light. To live for her-to live for Valdemar. He dared to speak, though it might damn him even further. "And she? Will I stand beside her in life after life?"

"In every life," said the judge, "you two shall be bound. You shall never have her as mate or consort, nor shall your love ever be requited."

"But we will be together," Mathias said. "That is enough."

The judge was silent.

Mathias did not care what any creature or Power might think. It truly was enough. His soul knew it, deep within itself, where joy was rising like a lark in the morning.

"Go," said that dreadful and merciful judge. "Live out your sentence, man of Valdemar. Serve it forever as you served it in these lives of yours, both that to which you were entitled and that which you stole in her name."

Mathias rose. He kept his head bowed in respect, but he could not keep the smile from his lips.

Maybe the judge saw it. If that was so, it said nothing-and that was divine mercy.

Already Mathias felt the pull of the living world. It drew him down out of the land of peace. It enfolded him in a scrap of flesh, the barest beginnings of a human being. Memory was too expansive a thing for this mote in eternity. All that was left was a spark of joy. It would grow as he grew, and fill him always, however dark the world about him.

The Queen of Valdemar bent over the cradle in which her son lay burbling softly to himself. She smiled-she could not help it; there was something so light about him, so irresistibly joyous. "Look," she said to her consort. "his eyes are changing color already. I think they'll be green."

Lord Terrell took her hand and kissed it. "Have you decided yet what you'll call him?"

She did not answer at once. Even as besotted with new motherhood as she was, she knew that this was an ordinary enough baby; he ate, slept, and filled his diaper as monotonously as any other of his kind. And yet sometimes she could have sworn that someone she knew and had loved before was watching her out of those blurred infant eyes.

She held her finger in front of them. His hand reached up to clasp it. Yes, those eyes would be green. "Mathias," she said. "His name is Mathias."

Terrell shot her an odd look, but he did not object. Not for the first time, Vera was glad of her choice of consort. She stood with him, looking down at this new Mathias, and knew in her heart that she had chosen the name well. And maybe...who knew? Maybe it was her dearest friend come back again, to be Heir and eventual King of Valdemar.

That was justice, she thought, and mercy, too. It seemed that he agreed. The nurses all said that he was much too young to smile, but a smile that certainly was, curving his lips as he slid contentedly into sleep.

BROCK

by Tanya Huff

Tanya Huff lives and writes in rural Ontario with her partner, six cats, and a chihuahua who refuses to acknowledge her existence. Her latest book, out for DAW in May of 2003, was the third in the Keeper Chronicles called Long Hot Summoning and she's currently working on the first of three books spinning the character Tony off from her Blood series (DAW spring 2004). In her spare time she gardens and complains about the weather.

"Id's just a code."

Trying not to smile at the same protest he'd heard for the last two days, Jors set the empty mug on a small table. "Healer Lorrin says it's more, Isabel. She says you're spending the next two days in bed."

The older Herald tried to snort, but her nose had filled past the point it was possible, and she had to settle for an avalanche of coughing instead. "She cud heal me," she muttered when she could finally breathe again.

"She seems to think that a couple of days in bed and a couple of hundred cups of tea will heal you just fine."

"Gibbing children their Greens..."

That was half a protest at best and, as Jors watched, Isabel's eyes closed, the lines exhaustion had etched around them beginning to ease. Leaning forward, he blew out the lamp, then quietly slipped from the room.

"Oh, she's sick," the Healer assured him, exasperation edging her voice. "What could have possessed her to ride courier at her age, at this time of the year? Yes, the package and information she brought from the Healer's Collegium will save lives this winter, but surely there had to have been younger Heralds around to deliver it?"

Jors opened his mouth to answer.

Lorrin gave him no chance. "If she hadn't run into your riding sector, she might not have made it this far. She needs rest and I'm keeping her in bed until I think she's had enough of it."

Jors didn't argue. He wouldn't have minded an actual conversation-Lorrin was young and pretty-but unfortunately, she seemed too determined to run this new House of Healing the way she felt a House of Healing should be run to waste time in dalliance with the healthy.

* * *

"Have you good as new. You see. Good as new. Soft and clean."

Jors stopped just inside the stable door and stared in astonishment at the young man grooming his Companion. The stubby fingers that held the brush, the bulky body, the round face, angled eyes, and full mouth told the Herald that this unexpected groom was one of those the country people called Moonlings. He wore patched homespun; the pants too large, the shirt too small, both washed out to a grimy gray. His boots had seen at least one other pair of feet.

He'd already groomed the chirras and Isabel's Companion, Calida-the sleeping mare all but glowed in the dim stable light.

:Gervis?:

:His name is Brock.: The stallion's mental voice sounded sleepy and sated. :Can we take him with us?:

:No. And how do you know what his name is?:

:He talks to us and he knows exactly-oh, yes-where to rub.: Companions were not in the habit of allowing themselves to be groomed by other than Heralds' hands. Jors found it hard to believe that they'd not only allowed Brock's ministrations but were actually reveling in them. He stepped forward and, at the sound of his footfall, Brock turned.

His face broke into a broad smile radiating welcome. Arms spread, he rushed at the Herald and wrapped him in a tight hug. Staring up at Jors, their faces barely inches apart, he joyfully repeated "Brother Herald!" over and over while a large gray dog leaped around them barking.

:Gervis?:

:The dog's name is Rock. He's harmless.:

:Glad to hear that.:

"Brock...I can't breathe ..."

"Sorry! Sorry." Releasing him so quickly Jors stumbled and had to grab the edge of a hay rack, Brock shuffled back, still smiling. "Sorry. I brushed." One short-fingered hand gestured back at the Companions. "Good as new. Soft and clean."

"You did a very good job." Jors stepped around the dog, now lying panting on the floor and ran his fingers down Gervis' side. There wasn't a bit of straw, a speck of dust, a hair out of place on either Companion.

:Better than very good,: Gervis sighed.

Jors smiled and repeated the compliment. :Did you say thank you, you fuzzy hedonist?:

In answer, the Companion stretched out his neck and gently nuzzled Brock's cheek, receiving a loud, smacking kiss in return.

"Okay. We go now." Brock bent and picked a ragged, gray sweater out of the straw and wrestled it over his head. "We go now," he repeated, placing both hands in the small of Jors' back and pushing him toward the stable door. "Or we come late and Mister Mayor is mad and yells."

"Late for...?"

:The petitions.: Gervis' mental voice sounded more than a little amused and Jors remembered he'd intended to merely look in on the Companions on his way to the town hall.

Heading out into the square, he realized Brock was trotting to keep up, and he shortened his stride. "Does the mayor yell a lot?"

"Yes. A lot."

"Do you know why?"

Brock sighed deeply, one hand dropping to fondle the ears of the dog walking beside him. "Mister Mayor wears the town," he said very seriously after a moment. "The town swings heavy heavy."

Okay; that made no sense. Maybe we should try something less complex. "Is Rock your dog?"

"He's my friend. They were hurting him. I...Wait!"

Uncertain of just who had been told to wait, Jors watched Brock and the dog run across to the town well where a pair of women argued over who'd draw their water first.

Ignored in the midst of the argument, Brock began to draw water for them. He had no trouble with the winch, but while pouring from bucket to bucket, he splashed the older woman's skirt.

Suddenly united, they turned on him. By the time Jors arrived, Brock had filled another bucket in spite of the shouting-although his shoulders were hunched forward and he didn't look happy.

The older woman saw him first, shoved the other, and the shouting stopped.

"Ladies."

"Herald," they said in ragged unison.

"Let me give you a hand with that, Brock. You bring the water up, and I'll pour."

"Pouring is hard," Brock warned.

"Herald, you don't have to," one of the women protested. "We never asked this..."

When Jors turned a bland stare in her direction, she reconsidered her next word. "...boy to help."

"I know." His tone cut off any further protests and neither woman said anything until all the buckets had been filled, then they thanked him far more than the work he'd done required. He'd turned to go when at the edge of his vision he saw one woman lean forward and pinch Brock on the arm, hissing, "Now that's a real Herald."

"HERALD JORS!"

Across the square, the mayor stood on the steps of the town hall, chain of office glinting in the pale autumn sunlight, both hands urging him to hurry. Well, he'll just have to wait! Lips pressed into a thin line, Jors turned back toward the well, had his elbow firmly grabbed, and found himself facing the mayor again.

"Mister Mayor is yelling," Brock explained, moving Jors across the square.

"Let him. I saw what happened back there. I saw that woman pinch you."

"Yes." He turned a satisfied smile toward Jors, never lessening their forward motion. "I made them stop fighting. Heralds do that."

"Yes, they do." They'd almost reached the hall and Jors had a strong suspicion that digging his heels in would have had no effect on their forward motion. "You're stronger than you look."

"Have to be."

I'll bet, Jors thought as he caught sight of the mayor's expression.

"Brock! Get your filthy hands off that Herald!"

"Hands are clean."

"I don't care! He doesn't need you hanging around him!"

"I don't mind." Jors swept through the door, Brock caught up in his wake, both moving too quickly for the mayor to do anything but fall in behind.

"Heralds work together," Brock announced proudly. He clapped his hands as heads began to turn. "Be in a good line now. Heralds are here."

"Heralds?" a male voice jeered from the crowd. "I see only one Herald, Moonling."

"Heralds!" Brock repeated, throwing his arms around Jors' waist in another hug. "Me and him."

O h, Havens.

:Trouble, Heart-brother?:

:I just realized something that should have been obvious-Brock believes he's a Herald.:

:So? You'd rather he believed he was a pickpocket?:

:That's not the point.:

But he couldn't let the townspeople chase Brock from the hall as they clearly wanted to do and Brock wouldn't leave because it was time for the Heralds to hear petitions, so Jors ended up sitting him at the table and hoping for the best.

He realized his mistake early on. Brock had a loudly expressed opinion on everything, up to and including calling one of the petitioners a big fat liar-which turned out to be true; on all points. Unfortunately, short of having him physically carried out of the hall, Jors could think of no way to get him to leave.

:Have him check on Isabel.:

:How... ?"

:You're worried. You're projecting. And I'm only across the square. If he wants to be with a Herald, send him to check on Isabel. She's sick and she needs company.:

:That's a terrific idea.:

Gervis' mental voice sounded distinctly smug. :I know.: It worked. Jors only wished the Companion had thought of it sooner. A Herald's office protected him or her from the repercussions of a judgment-no matter how disgruntled the losing petitioner might be, few would risk the grave penalties attached to attacking a Herald.

Brock didn't have that protection. Good thing he's safely tucked away with Isabel.

* * *

"No, Brock's not here." Healer Lorrin continued rolling strips of soft linen. "He left at sunset for the tavern."

"The tavern?"

"He's there every evening. He fills their wood box and they feed him-him and Rock."

"He works there?"

Lorrin nodded. "There, and the blacksmith's whenever there's a nervy horse in to be shoed-animals trust him. I tried to have him deliver teas to patients, but if he's carrying something, there's always troublemakers who try to take it from him."

"I'm surprised." Jors rubbed his elbow at the memory. "He's quite strong."

"Is he?" She set the finished roll with the others and picked up a new strip of cloth.

"He's bullied all the time, but I've never seen him defend himself. Did you know that poorer mothers have him watch their infants if they have to leave them? I'll tell you something, Herald. When I came here a year ago, I was amazed to discover this town has almost none of those horrible accidents that happen when a baby just starting to creep is left alone and burns to death or drowns-that's because of Brock."

"Where does he sleep?" This far north, the nights were already cold.

"In various stables when the weather's good. By someone's hearth when it isn't."

"Has he no family?"

"His parents were old when he was born, old and poor. They died about three yeas ago and left him nothing."

"Why doesn't someone take him in?"

"He doesn't want to be taken," the Healer snapped. "He's not a stray cat, and for all he can be childlike, he's not a child. He's a grown man, probably not much younger than you and he has the same right as you do to choose his life."

"But..."

She sighed and her tone softened. "There are those who try to make sure he doesn't suffer for those choices, but that's all anyone has a right to do. Besides..." One corner of her mouth quirked up. "...he tells me that Heralds never stay in one place so no one thinks they like some people more than others."

Simpler language but pretty much the official reason, Jors allowed. "How long has he believed himself to be a Herald?"

"As long as I've been here. I'm surprised you haven't heard about him from other Heralds. You can't be the first he's latched on to."

"He wasn't in the reports I read and I..." About to say he doubted Brock would come up in casual conversation between Heralds, he frowned at a distinct feeling of unease. "I should go now."

"There's no need to go to the Waystation tonight, I've plenty of room." Her smile edged toward invitation. "I doubt anyone will accuse you of favoritism if you stay here."

"No. Thank you. I need to..." The feeling was growing stronger. "...um, go."

He doubted she'd be smiling that way at him again, but personal problems were unimportant next to his growing certainty that something was wrong. Taking the steps two at a time, he hit the ground floor running and headed for the stables. :Gervis?:

:We can feel it, too. Calida says it's close.:

It wasn't in the stables or the corral, but when Jors opened the small door, a pair of huddled figures tumbled inside.

Brock lifted a tear-drenched face up from matted gray fur and wailed, "Heralds don't cry."

"Says who?" Jors demanded, dropping to one knee.

"People. When I cry."

"People are wrong. I'm a Herald and I cry." He stretched out a hand, keeping half his attention on the big dog who watched him warily. Herald's Whites meant nothing to Rock, and he didn't lower his hackles until Gervis whickered a warning of his own. "What happened? Did someone hurt you?"

"Heralds don't tattle!"

His various tormentors had probably been telling him that for years. "If someone does something bad, we do."

"No."

"Yes. If we can't make it right on our own, we tell someone who can. Bad things should never be hidden. It makes them worse."

Brock drew in a long shuddering breath and slowly held out his arm. Below the ragged cuff of his sweater was a dark bruise where a large hand had gripped his wrist.

"Is that all?"

"Rock came. The man ran away."

"Who was it?"

"A bad man."

No argument there. "Do you know his name?"

"A bad man," Brock repeated, wiping his nose against the dog's shoulder.

:You catch him and I'll kick him.: The Companion's mental voice was a near growl.

:Calida says she'll help.:

* * *

"It's a bad bruise, but it is just a bruise. Healer Lorrin wrapped it in an herb pack and she says he'll be fine. He won't stay, says he's not sick enough, but I can't just let him wander off into the night."

"Coors you cand."

"And I can't take him to the Waystation and I can't stay with him because that would be seen as losing impartiality. So, do you mind if he spends the night with Calida?"

Isabel managed a truncated snort. "Fine wid me, bud you'd bezd ask her."

Leading Gervis and the chirras out of the stable, Jors turned for one last look at Brock curled up against Calida's side. The elderly mare had been pleased to have the company and had positioned herself in such a way that Brock could pillow his head against her flank.

Rock had snuggled up on the young man's other side and although his face was still blotchy, Jors had never seen anyone look so completely at peace.

:Why do you two care about him so much?: he asked as he mounted.

:He believes he is a Herald.:

:Yes, but...:

:And he acts accordingly.:

* * *

The next day during petitions, the mayor tripped over Rock sprawled by the table.

Jerking his chain of office down into place, he snarled, "That dog is vicious and ought to be destroyed."

Jors pushed Brock back into his chair. "Who says this dog is vicious?"

The mayor's lip curled. "I heard he attacked a man last night."

"I heard that, too, Herald," called out one of the waiting petitioners.

"Brock, show everyone your arm." The bruises were dark and ugly against the pale skin. "The man Rock attacked did that and would have done more had the dog not come to his master's defense. This dog is no more vicious than I am."

"We've only your word on that, Herald. You can't truth-spell a dog."

"No, but I can truth-spell the man who made the accusation if he's willing to come forward."

No one was surprised when he didn't.

Mid afternoon, as Jors was returning to the hall after a privy break, the town clerk fell into step beside him and apologized for the mayor's earlier behavior. "It's just he feels responsible for the whole town, and it weighs on him and makes him short-tempered.

Believe me, Herald, he's a whole different man when he can take that chain off."

"Mister Mayor wears the town. The town swings heavy heavy."

Brock's explanation suddenly made perfect sense.

* * *

It had been arranged that Brock would spend another night with Calida.

"Companions need Heralds. Lady Herald is sick. I am not sick. I am here." He threw his arms around Jors. "I see you tomorrow, Brother Herald."

"No, not tomorrow, Brock. Tomorrow, I'm going to see the tanners." Tanning was a smelly business, tanners set up their pits downwind of towns, far enough away they could work without complaint but not so far they couldn't get skins or find buyers for their hides.

These particular tanners had chosen distance over convenience and had settled nearly a full day's travel away. The townspeople he'd spoken to about them had made it quite clear that the animosity was mutual. No one went near the place unless they had to. "I'll stay overnight, then go back to the Waystation the next day. The day after that, I'll be back in town. That's why I brought my chirras in today, so he won't be left alone at the station."

"No."

"It's okay. Gervis travels very fast, I won't be gone long."

"No!" Brock released him, stepping back just far enough to meet Jors' eyes. "Don't go!" Pulling the hair back off his face with one hand, he grabbed the Herald's wrist with the other. "See?" An old scar ran diagonally from the edge of a thick eyebrow up into his hairline.

"The tanners did that?"

"I bumped mean lady's cart. Don't go." His eyes welled over. "Mean lady is there."

Jors pulled free of Brock's grip and squeezed his shoulder. "I'll be fine. Really. The mean lady won't do anything to me." The sort of people who'd strike a frightened Moonling were unlikely to be the sort who'd strike a healthy young man in Herald's Whites. "But I have to go and check on them. They haven't been into town for a long time and it's almost winter."

"Not alone."

"Don't worry, I'll have Gervis." He gave the trembling shoulder another squeeze, then swung himself up into the saddle. "You stay with Calida, and I'll see you in two days."

He supposed he'd been half expecting it. When Jors came out of the Waystation early the next morning there sat Brock-which was the half he supposed he'd been expecting-on Calida-which was a total surprise. It wasn't often a Companion would choose to bear anyone but her Chosen-and those exceptions were almost always Heralds.

"Good morning, Brother Herald!"

Actual Heralds. "Brock, what are you doing here?" The young man's crestfallen expression insisted on better manners. Jors rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. "Good morning, Brock."

The smile returned. "It's early!"

"Yes, it is. What are you doing here so early?"

"I go with you. To tanners."

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I go with you."

"No."

"Yes."

Jors hated to do it, but... "What about the mean lady?" The smile faltered as Brock sucked in his lower lip. "You don't want to see the mean lady."

"Don't want you to see mean lady alone." He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "I go with you."

"That's very brave of you." And he meant that. Courage was only courage in the face of fear. "But even though I know you mean well, you can't just take a Companion."

Brock's eyes widened indignantly. "Didn't take!"

:Calida says if she hadn't wanted him to ride her, he wouldn't be here.: Gervis scratched his cheek on a post and added thoughtfully. :He's very bad at it.:

:At what?:

:Riding.:

:No doubt. What does Isabel say about this?:

:Herald Isabel trusts her Companion.:

:That's not very helpful.:

:It should be.:

One more try. "Brock, by taking her Companion, you've left Herald Isabel alone."

"No." He leaned carefully forward in the saddle and stroked Calida's neck. "Left Rock."

Jors reached for Calida's bridle, but the Companion tossed her head, moving it away from his hand. "Calida, you have to take him back."

The mare gave him a flat, uncompromising stare.

:She says, "make me.": Gervis translated helpfully.

:Yeah. I got that. What do you think I should do?:

:Help him down.:

:You think this is funny, don't you?: Jors demanded doing as the Companion suggested.

:I think this is inevitable, Chosen. You might as well make the best of it.: Even with Jors' help, Brock stumbled as he hit the ground, fell, rolled, and bounced up, declaring, "I'm okay!"

:Now, get ready. : Gervis shoved at Jors' bare shoulder. :We'll be moving slowly and Calida says it's going to rain.:

:And won't that make this a perfect day?:

:No. She says it's going to rain hard and I don't like to get wet. I want to be there before it rains.:

That began to look more and more unlikely as the morning passed and the clouds grew darker. Brock managed to stay in the saddle at a fast walk and Calida refused to go faster. Once or twice, Jors was positive he was going to fall off, but at the last instant he'd shift weight and somehow stay mounted.

:His balance is bad. But Calida's helping.:

:Why is Calida doing this?:

One ear flicked back. :So he won't fall off:

:No, I mean why is Calida allowing any of this? Why is she allowing Brock to ride her? Why is she allowing-insisting-he come along today?:

:She has her reasons.:

Jors sighed. He knew that tone. :And you're not going to tell me what those reasons are, are you?:

:He's very happy.:

:I can see that.:

Happy was an understatement. For all he held the pommel in a death grip, Brock looked ecstatic. This is really not helping his delusion that he's a Herald, Jors realized.

Something would have to be done about that and since the two of them were spending what was likely to be a full day traveling together, now would be the time to do it. Maybe that was why Calida had brought him.

There'd be no point in bluntly saying, "Brock, you're not a Herald." The townspeople said that all the time, shaded in every possible emotion from amusement to rage, and it had no effect.

"Brock, do you know what makes a person a Herald?"

"Heralds help people. Heralds can cry. Heralds tell when bad things happen." He beamed proudly. "I remember the new things."

"Yes, all those things make a Herald, but..."

"I'm a good Herald."

"...but there's other things."

Brock twisted in the saddle to look at him and Calida adjusted her gait to prevent a fall.

"Heralds wear shiny white."

"Yes..."

He looked down at his gray sweater, then looked back at Jors smiling broadly.

"Clothes are on the outside."

:And a Herald is on the inside.:

:I get it.:

A sapphire eye rolled back at him, distinctly amused. :Just trying to help.:

"Brock, all those things are part of being a Herald, but the most important part is being Chosen by a Companion. You don't have to be a Herald to be a really good person but you do have to be Chosen. Do you understand?"

Brock nodded. "Companions have Heralds."

"You don't have a Companion."

"Yes!" He bounced indignantly, lost a stirrup, and nearly went off. "Have Calida," he continued when he was secure in the saddle again.

"But she's Herald Isabel's Companion. Herald Isabel is letting you ride her."

"No. Calida is letting."

:He's got you there.:

Jors sighed. "Riding a Companion isn't the point, Brock. You're not Calida's Herald."

"Not her Herald," Brock agreed, his smile lighting up his whole face. "A Herald."

Between the less than successful conversation and the glowering sky, Jors had picked up a pounding headache. They rode without speaking for a while, Brock humming tunelessly to himself. Finally, more to put an end to the humming than for any real desire to know, Jors turned in the saddle and said, "So, you were going to tell me how you saved Rock."

"Kids were hurting him." Brock's placid expression turned fierce at the memory. "I made them stop." Although he wouldn't defend himself, he seemed quite capable of defending the helpless. "He was hungry. I counted his bones. One, two, three, four..."

"Where did he come from?" Jors interrupted, unsure of how high the other man could count and not really wanting to find out.

"Don't know. Now, he is my friend." The broad brow furrowed as he searched for words. "Some mean people aren't mean now because he is my friend."

That was hardly surprising. Rock was a big dog. Probably a hunting dog of some kind who'd gotten separated from his pack and managed to finally find his way back to people.

"Why did you call him Rock?"

"So when kids are mean, it doesn't matter."

"I don't understand."

Brock stared down between Calida's ears and chanted, "Brock, Brock, dumb as a rock." Then he grinned and turned just far enough in the saddle to meet Jors' gaze. "Rock isn't dumb. I fooled them."

He looked so proud, Jors found himself grinning in return. "Yes, you did. That was very smart."

"I am a smart Herald."

It was a good thing he didn't need affirmation because Jors had no idea of what to say. :And now,: he sighed quietly as large drops of cold water began splashing against his leathers, :it's raining.:

:I know. I'm getting wet.:

:So am I.:

:I'm bigger. There's more of me, so I'm more wet.:

In a very short time all four of them were so drenched there was little point in comparisons. Fortunately, as they crested a rise in the trail, the tanners' holding came into sight on the other side of a small valley. Neither Companion needed urging toward the river running through the valley center although they both stopped well back from the bank. The water was brown and running fast, the log bridge nearly awash.

:What do you think? Is it safe?:

Gervis stepped cautiously out onto the edge of the logs. :If we move quickly.: But Calida hesitated.

:What is it?:

:Calida says the river's already undermining the bridge supports. That the bridge is going to wash away.:

:Tell her that if it does, better we're all on the side with shelter. I'm half drowned and half frozen and Brock's got to be colder still. She's got to get him out of this weather.: Eyes wide, the mare stepped up beside Gervis who took her arrival as his cue to leap forward. One stride, two, three. As Jors watched anxiously from the other shore, Calida slowly followed, placing each hoof with care.

Wood screamed a protest as the bridge supports caved.

The huge logs dipped and skewed out from the bank, dragged by the river.

Calida half-reared as her front hooves scrambled for purchase in the mud.

Brock bounced over the cantle and disappeared.

"No!" Jors threw himself to the ground. Stumbling to the Companion's side, he grabbed the mare's saddle and heaved. Step by step, as she managed to work her way forward, he worked his way back until, to his amazement, he saw a very muddy Brock holding on with both hands to Calida's tail, his feet in the river. A heartbeat later, with solid ground, beneath all four of them, he dropped to his knees and gathered Brock up into his arms.

"Are you all right?"

He looked more surprised then frightened and returned the hug with wet enthusiasm.

"I fell."

"I know. The bridge broke."

Brock twisted around to look, and clutched at Jors' arm. "I'm sorry!"

"It's okay. It wasn't your fault." His heart slamming painfully against his ribs, Jors grabbed a stirrup and hauled himself onto his feet. "Come on, we're almost there."

* * *

The tanners' holding looked deserted as they stumbled up to the buildings. Jors called out a greeting, but the wind and rain whipped the words out of his mouth.

Brock grabbed his arm. "Smoke," he said, pointing to the thin gay line rising reluctantly from a chimney. "I'm cold."

"Me, too."

All thoughts turned to a warm fire as they made their way over to the building, the Companions crowding in close under the wide eaves.

:We'll be right back as soon as we find someone.:

:Hurry, Chosen.: Gervis sounded completely miserable. Covered in mud almost to his withers, his mane hanging in a tangled, sodden mass, he looked very little like the gleaming creature who'd left the Waystation that morning. Calida, if anything, looked worse.

Jors considered leaving Brock with the Companions, but the other man's breathing sounded unnaturally hoarse so he beckoned him forward as he tried the door. The sooner he got him inside the better.

The door opened easily. It hadn't even been latched.

"Hello?"

Stepping inside wasn't so much a step into warmth as a step into a space less cold. It looked like they'd found the family's main living quarters although the room was so dim, it was difficult to tell for sure. The only light came from a small fire smoldering on the fieldstone hearth and a tallow lamp on the floor close beside a cradle.

"No." Brock charged across the room, trailing a small river in his wake. "No fire beside baby!"

Remembering what Lorrin had told him about Brock and babies, Jors held his position by the door. The younger of two, what he knew about babies could be inscribed on the head of a pin with room left over for the lyrics to Kerowyn's Ride.

Squatting, Brock picked up the lamp. "No fire beside baby," he repeated, began to rise, and paused. "Baby?" Leaning forward, he peered into the cradle.

"Is it all right?" The lamp and the fire together threw barely enough light for Jors to see Brock. He couldn't see the baby at all.

Setting the lamp down again, Brock stretched both hands into the cradle. When he stood and turned, he was holding a limp infant across both palms, his broad features twisted in sorrow. "Baby is dead."

:Jors!:

Jors spun around as the door slammed open and five people surged into the room.

They froze for an instant, then the man in front howled out a wordless challenge and charged.

Bending, Jors captured his attacker's momentum then he straightened, throwing the other man to the floor hard enough to knock him breathless. The immediate threat removed, he faced the remaining two men and two women. "I am Herald Jors. Who is in charge here?"

"I am," the older woman snarled.

The hate in her eyes nearly drove Jors back a step. He didn't need Brock's whispered

"mean lady" to know who she was. It took an effort, but he kept his voice calm and understanding as he said, "The child was dead when we arrived."

"Dory came to say the babe was sick, not dead," she spat as the younger woman ran silently forward and snatched the body from Brock's hands. "The Moonling killed him."

"He did not..."

"You're here and he's there," she sneered. "You can't see what he did."

Spreading his hands, he added a mild warning to his tone. "And you weren't even in the building. I understand this is a shock..."

"You understand nothing, Herald." She placed a hand on the backs of the two remaining men and shoved. "Have the guts to support your brother!"

They sprang forward, looking like nothing so much as a pair of whipped dogs.

"Jors?"

He ducked an awkward blow. "Outside, Brock. Now!" If anything happened to him, the Companions would get Brock to safety.

"There's two of you and one of him, you idiots! Don't let him protect the half-wit!"

:Chosen?:

:It's all right.:

Fortunately, neither man was much of a fighter. Jors could have ended it quickly, but as they'd just suffered a sudden terrible loss and weren't thinking clearly, he didn't want to do any serious damage. After a moment, he realized that had it not been for the old woman goading them on, neither would have been fighting. Maybe I should have Gervis deal with...

He'd forgotten the first brother. The piece of firewood caught him on the side of the head. As he started to fall, he felt unfriendly hands grab his body.

"No!"

Then the hands were ripped away, and he hit the floor. Two bodies hit the floor after him, closely followed by the third.

"Never hit a Herald!"

"Get up, you cowards! That's a Moonling-not a real man!"

"But, Ma..."

"He killed my grandson!"

Hers. Jors thought muzzily. Not grief Anger. Anger at the loss of a possession.

"You never loved him!"

Apparently, the child's mother agreed.

"You always complained about him! You said if he didn't stop crying you were going to strangle him! If anyone killed him..."

"Don't you raise your voice to me, you cow. If you were a better..."

"ENOUGH!"

The doors slammed open again. Hooves clattering against the floor boards, the Companions moved to flank Brock. From Jors' position on the floor, it looked as if there were significantly more than a mere eight muddy white legs.

"Don't lie there with your idiot mouths open! They're just horses!"

"They're not just horses, you stupid old woman!"

:Gervis?:

:I'm here, Heart-brother.:

Jors felt better about his chance of recovery. Gervis was angry but not frantic.

"A baby is dead. Is time for crying, not fighting. A Herald is hurt. You hurt a Herald."

:Is that Brock standing up to the mean lady?:

:It is.:

:Good for him.:

"You will cry, and you will make the Herald better!"

"I will not."

No mistaking that hate-filled voice.

"Then I will."

Nor the voice of the child's mother.

For the first time, Brock sounded confused. "You will cry?"

"No. I will help the Herald."

:Out of spite...:

:You need help, Heart-brother. Your head is bleeding. Spiteful help is still help.: Jors got one arm under him and tried to rise.

:If you say...:

:Chosen!:

His Companion's cry went with him into darkness.

* * *

Jors woke to the familiar and comforting smell of a stable. For a moment he thought he'd dozed off on foal-watch, then he moved and the pain in his head brought everything back.

:Gervis!

:I'm here.: A soft nose nuzzled his cheek. :Just open your eyes.: Even moving his eyelids hurt, but he forced them up. Fortunately, the stable was dark, the brightest things in it, the two Companions. He could just barely make out Brock tucked up against Calida's side, wrapped in a blanket and nearly buried in straw. :How long?:

:From almost dark to just after moonrise. Long enough I was starting to worry.: He stretched up a hand and stroked the side of Gervis' face. :Sorry.:

:The young female made tea for your head. There's a closed pot buried in the straw by your side.:

The tea was still warm and tasted awful, but Gervis made him drink the whole thing. :I take it we're in the stable because you and Calida wouldn't leave me?:

:The old woman said the young woman could do as she pleased but not in her house. I do not want you to be in her house.: The obvious distaste in the young stallion's mental voice was hardly surprising. Even on short acquaintance the old woman was as nasty a piece of work as Jors ever wanted to get close to. :Brock told two of the young males to carry you here.:

:He just told them what to do and they did it?:

:They are used to being told what to do.:

:Good point,: Jors acknowledged.

:And,: Gervis continued, :I think they were frightened when they realized they had struck down a Herald.:

:They knew I was a Herald!:

:Knowing and realizing are often different. Had the blow struck by the child's father been any lower, they would have killed you and that frightened them, too. They were thankful Brock took charge. He saw you were tended to, he was assured you would live without damage, he groomed us both, and then he cried himself to sleep.:

:Poor guy. Good thing he was there. If he hadn't been, I wouldn't have put it past the mean lady to have finished the job and buried both our bodies.:

:The Circle would know.:

:We'd still be dead. Is this why Calida insisted on bringing him?:

:She has told her Chosen we need no assistance and convinced her not to ride to the rescue. The Herald Isabel agreed but only because she felt the townspeople would lay the blame on Brock.:

:That's ridiculous.:

Gervis sighed, blowing sweet, hay-scented breath over Jors' face. :There is already much talk against him taking a Companion.:

All of which he needed to know but didn't answer his question. About to ask it again, he stopped short. :Calida can reach Isabel from here? I couldn't reach you from here!:

:Nor I you.:

He sounded so put out by it, Jors couldn't prevent a smile. :Never mind, Heart-brother.

Calida and her Chosen have been together for many years; when we've been together for that long, I'll hear you if I'm in Sorrows and you're in Sensholding.:

:I'd rather we were never that far apart.:

Jors wrapped one hand in Gervis' silken mane. :Me either :

:Sleep now, Chosen. It will be morning soon enough.:

* * *

When Jors opened his eyes again, weak autumn sunlight filtered into the stable. An attempt to rise brought Gervis in through the open door. He pulled himself to his feet with a handful of mane and, throwing an arm over his Companion's back, managed to get to where he could relieve himself.

:The old woman made them bury the child this morning.:

:They're only a day's ride from town; they can't wait for a priest?:

:The bridge is gone. The priest cannot come.: He pawed the ground with a front hoof and added. :I don't think the old woman would send for a priest even if he could come.:

:Do you know where they are?:

:Yes.:

Jors took a deep breath and, holding it, managed to swing himself up on Gervis' bare back. :Let's go, then.:

The tanners had a graveyard in a small clearing cupped by the surrounding oak forest.

When Jors arrived, the three men had just finished filling in the tiny hole. As Jors stopped, half hidden by a large sumach, Brock wiped the tears from his face on Calida's mane and stepped up to the grave.

"There is no priest. I will say good-bye to the baby."

"I'm not listening to a half-wit say anything," the old woman snarled. She turned on one heel and started down the hill. "I only came to see the job was done right. Enric, Kern, Simen; back to work, there's hides to be sammied."

Two of the three moved to her side, the third looked toward the young woman and hesitated. "He was my son, Ma."

"He was my son, Ma." She threw it mockingly over her shoulder. "Look around you, Simen. I've buried a son, two daughters, and a husband besides, and it don't make hides tan themselves. Stay and listen to the half-wit if you want."

"Dory?"

She lifted stony eyes to Simen's face. "Better do as your ma says," she sneered.

"'Cause you always do as your ma says."

Scarred hands curled into fists, but they stayed at his side. "Fine. I'll go."

"I don't care."

"Fine." But when he turned, Brock was in his way.

Jors tensed to urge Gervis forward, but at the last instant, for no clear reason, he changed his mind.

"Stay and say good-bye." A heavy shove rocked him in place but didn't move him.

"Stay." And then gently. "Say good-bye to baby."

Simen stared down into Brock's face, then wordlessly turned back to the grave.

Brock returned to his place and rubbed his nose on his sleeve. "Sometimes," he said,

"babies die. Mamas and papas love them, and hug them, and kiss them, and feed them, and they die. Nobody did anything bad. Everyone is sorry. The baby wasn't bad. Babies are good. Good-bye, baby."

"His name," Simen said, so quietly Jors almost missed it, "was Tamas."

Brock nodded solemnly. "Good-bye, Tamas. Everyone is sorry." He lifted his head and stared at Tamas' parents standing hunch-shouldered, carefully apart. "Now, you cry."

Dory shook her head. "Crying is for the weak."

"You have tears." Brock tapped his own chest. "In here. Tears not cried go bad. Bad tears make you hurt."

"You heard Aysa. She buried a son and two daughters. She never cried."

"She is the mean lady," Brock said sadly. "You can't be the mean lady." He opened his arms and, before Dory could move, wrapped her in one of his all-encompassing hugs.

Jors knew from experience that when Brock hugged, he held nothing back.

It was a new experience for Dory.

She blinked twice, drew in a long shuddering breath, then clutched at his tattered sweater and began to sob. After a moment, Brock reached out one hand, grabbed Simen and pulled him into the embrace.

"Cry now," he commanded.

"I..." Simen shook his head and tried to pull away.

Brock pulled him closer, pushing Dory into his arms and wrapping himself around them both. Simen stiffened then made a sound, very like his son might have made, and gave himself over to grief. All three of them sank to their knees.

:These people need help.:

Gervis shifted his head. :It seems they're getting it:

* * *

With the funeral over, Jors pulled himself into something resembling official shape and sought out Aysa.

"Your son attacked a Herald."

"His son just died. He was mad with grief."

"You goaded his brothers..."

"To stand by him," she sneered triumphantly. "I never told no one to hit you. And now I'm givin' you and that half-wit food and shelter. You can't ask for more, Herald."

Given that he and Brock were trapped on her side of the river, he supposed he'd better not. "About the bridge..."

Without the bridge, there was no way back. The river wasn't particularly wide, but the water ran deep and fast.

"You come out here to stick your nose in on us, then you're stuck out here till we head in to town and we ain't headin' nowheres until them hides is done. We wasted time enough with Dory having that baby. You want to leave before that, then you and the half-wit can rebuild the bridge yourself."

"That's fair. I can't expect you to drop everything and assist me." His next words wiped the triumphant sneer from her face. "I'll have them send a crew out from town."

"You can't get word to town."

He smiled, hoping he looked a lot more confident of the conversation's outcome than he felt. "There's a Herald there and I already have. By this time tomorrow, there'll be a dozen people in the valley."

"Liar."

"Heralds can't lie, Ma."

"Shut up!" Aysa half turned and Kern winced away as though he expected to be hit. Lip curled, she turned back to Jors. "I don't want a dozen people in the valley! And it don't take a dozen people anyway. And the water won't be down enough tomorrow."

"Then I'll have them come when the water goes down."

"You won't have no one come. My boys'll rebuild."

"Then the townspeople can help."

"My boys don't need help. They ain't got brains for much, but they can do that. You let them know in town I'm hostin' you and the half-wit till then."

It was a grudgingly offered truce, but he'd take it.

Jors wasn't surprised that Aysa'd refused help. The last thing she'd want would be her sons exposed to more people, to people who'd make them realize they were entitled to be treated with kindness. Over the next few days, while they waited for the water to recede, she proved that by keeping him by her side, keeping him from interacting with anyone else at the holding.

Brock, she considered no threat.

Which was a mistake.

Because Brock treated everyone with kindness.

* * *

"You call that supple?! I could do better chewin' it! How could you be doin' this all your life and still be no damned good? You're pathetic." Enric and Kern leaped back as she threw the piece of finished leather down at their feet. "Pathetic," she repeated and stomped away.

"Mean lady calls me names, too," Brock sighed, coming out from behind the fleshing beam and picking up the hide.

Enric ripped it out of his hands. "We ain't half-wits."

"Mean lady calls me half-wit. Not you."

"You are a half-wit!"

"Are you pathetic?"

Kern jerked forward, face flushed. "You callin' us pathetic?"

"No. It hurts when people call names." Brock looked from one to the other. "Doesn't it hurt?"

"If your half-wit falls in a liming pit," Aysa snarled as Jors caught up, "my boys'll stand there and laugh."

"You taught them that."

"I'm all they got."

"They're terrified of you."

"Good."

"Dory isn't."

"You think one of my boys is stupid enough to pick up a weakling?" Aysa nodded toward the garden where Dory heaped cabbage into a basket. "But she does what I say like the rest. If she doesn't like it, she can leave any time."

While they watched, Dory lifted the basket, gave a little cry and let it fall.

Aysa snorted. "'Course that baby left her stupidly weak."

Jors took a step toward the garden but stopped as Simen came out of the chicken house and hurried across to his wife.

"Simen! You get back to work, you lazy pig."

His mother's voice froze him in his tracks. Then he shook himself, and began retrieving the spilled cabbages. "Simen!"

He ignored her.

"This is your fault, Herald. Turning a woman's family against her." Muttering under her breath, she strode toward them.

Dory looked up, saw her coming and stood, hands on hips.

"You think you can face me down, girl? Simen, get up!"

He stood.

"Now get back to work."

He took a step forward and put his hands on Dory's shoulders. "When I'm finished here, Ma."

Aysa's mouth worked for a moment, but no sound emerged. Finally, she spun on one heel and stomped away.

The corner of Simen's mouth curled. "You'd best help here, Herald. I wouldn't follow her right now."

* * *

The river was low enough the next day.

The bridge took only a day longer to rebuild and for the most part involved fitting the original pieces back into place.

Jors stared the completed bridge in amazement. "That's incredible."

"Nothin' incredible about it, Herald," Enric snorted. "Damned thing goes out every other season. Easier to build it so it breaks apart clean."

His bare torso red with cold, Kern shrugged into a sheepskin coat. "Supports slip out so they don't shatter, logs end up in the same place, we float 'em back and rebuild. Any idiot can do it."

"Trust me, I've crossed a hundred rivers-or maybe a couple of rivers a hundred times-but I've never seen anything like this."

"Ma says it's not..." Simen paused, frowned, and looked up at the Herald. "It's really good?"

"It's really good."

The brothers exchanged confused looks and Jors had the horrible suspicion this was the first time they'd ever been praised for anything.

* * *

The next day while Jors was checking Calida's girth strap for the trip back to town, Dory came out of the house with a bundle. "It's for Brock," she said, folding back a corner. "I want you to give it to him for me."

At first Jors thought it was white leather. Made sense; they were tanners after all. Then he realized the leather had been cut and sewn into a fair approximation of Herald's whites.

Dory had clearly taken the pattern from his and sized it to fit Brock.

"I saw he didn't have none of his own."

Oh, help. "Dory, you know he's not..."

"Brother Herald! We go now? What you got?" His hands and Dory's together closed the bundle.

"It's a surprise," Dory said, her cheeks crimson. "For later."

"Not for now?"

"No."

"Okay." He took Calida's reins and stood waiting patiently while Jors tied the bundle behind Gervis' saddle. :You seem upset, Chosen.:

:I can't tell her Brock's not an actual Herald while he's standing there. He'll say he is, I'11 say he isn't, and I'm not sure that in this place at this time, I'd win the argument.:

:You shouldn't argue.:

:Oh, that's helpful.:

:Thank you.:

* * *

The whole family went with them to the bridge. Jors didn't know why the rest came, but he was certain Aysa just wanted to make sure they were off her land. He wanted to say something, something that would convince them they didn't have to live inside the darkness of an old woman's anger, but before he could think of the right words, Brock hugged Dory.

And Simen. And Enric. And Kern.

Then he scrambled up into the saddle and, from the safety of Calida's back, took a deep breath, looked Aysa in the eye, and spoke directly to her for the first time. "Why don't you love your babies?"

Her lip curled. "I buried my babies, half-wit."

He nodded toward the three young men standing to her right. "Not them."

She turned, looked at her sons, looked back at

Brock and muttered, "Half-wit." But there was little force behind it.

Jors had no idea he was going to do what he did until he did it.

* * *

"Jors, you hugged mean lady."

"Yeah. I know." Although he still couldn't believe it. "Everyone else got hugged, I just..."

She'd pushed him away with such force that he'd slammed back into Gervis' shoulder.

"You are the bravest Herald. Ever, ever."

"Thank you."

Then she'd snarled something incomprehensible, turned, and stomped away.

He'd probably accomplished nothing at all by it. The bundle Dory had given him pushed against the small of his back.

* * *

The weather remained clear and cool and just as the sun was setting, they stopped outside the village. "Gate will close when sun is set," Brock warned. "I know. Brock, I think you should go back to Haven with Isabel."

"Lots of Heralds in Haven?"

"Yes."

Brock sighed and shook his head. "No. I have to stay here. I am the only Herald."

"Brock, you're not..." He couldn't say it.

Brock waited patiently for a moment then smiled. "Is it later?"

"Yes..."

"What's Dory's surprise?"

"Um...it's um..."

Both Companions turned their heads to look at him. Their expression said, this is up to you.

:He believes he is a Herald.:

:Yes, but..:

:And he acts accordingly.:

* * *

"I couldn't do it, Isabel. They're just clothes and I know that but if I gave Brock those whites, then there'd be fake Heralds showing up all over the place."

"A bad precedent to be sure," the older Herald agreed.

"There has to be a line and that line has to be the Companions. Sometimes it seems like we're barely keeping order in chaos now. I couldn't...No matter how much..." Jors ran both hands back through his air, he couldn't believe how much the decision, the right decision had felt like betrayal. "It wouldn't make any difference to Brock. He knows who and what he is, but for the others in the village, those who made fun and called him names..."

"Come here, I want to show you something." Isabel took his arm and pulled him to the window. "What do you see?"

Jors squinted down into the stable yard. "Brock's grooming Gervis again."

"While you four were gone, I talked to a lot of people. Seems that whenever a Herald comes into this village, the Companion manages to spend time with Brock. Even if it's only a moment or two." They watched as Calida crossed the yard and tried to shoulder Gervis away. Brock laughed and told her to wait her turn. "You were right not to give him the Whites," Isabel continued, "but you were also right when you said it makes no difference. He couldn't be Chosen because, as Heralds, we have to face dangers he'd never understand, but the Companions know him. All Brock needs from us is our love and support. Now, since Healer Lorrin has finally allowed me out of bed, what do you say you and I go down there and give our brother a hand with the fourfoots?"

Jors grinned as Brock gamely tried to brush both tails at once.

Heralds wear shiny white.

Brock wore his Whites on the inside.

TRUE COLORS

by Michael Longcor

Michael Longcor is a writer and singer-songwriter who recently wrote a dozen songs for the Mercedes Lackey album, Owflight. Aside from writing and per-forming, Michael has also been an insurance investigator, employment counselor, news reporter, fencing instructor, and blacksmith. His more exotic hobbies include donning medieval armor and competing in the bruising tournaments of the Society for Creative Anachronism.

He also once placed third in a cricket-spitting contest. He currently shares a 130-year-old farmhouse outside of West Lafayette, Indiana, with a variable number of pets and guitars.

It had worked again.

The sun was well up as Rin rode out of Goldenoak. Summer light filtered through the trees, dappled the white coat of his mount, and sparked off the hilt of the sword bouncing gently at his side. It also showed the grimy spots on his white tunic and leggings.

It had been a good visit. Good for Rin, that is. The take included four solid meals, road rations, several pots of the local beer, and a few kisses stolen from the hamlet's daughters.

There's something about a man in uniform, he mused. Fine-boned, even features, blond hair, and blue eyes helped, too. If you can't be big and burly, slight and handsome will have to do. Too bad I couldn't manage some coin.

But coinage was almost as scarce as Heralds among the tiny settlements scattered along Valdemar's Northern Border. Out here, the forest's dangers combined with distance to isolate the villages. Other than infrequent sweeps for brigands, people this far out never saw much of the Militia, let alone Valdemar's regular Guard, especially since the recent problems in the South. Even less often, they might glimpse a legendary Herald. They and their spooky-white horses were near-mythical heroes. Rin figured folks should get to meet their heroes on occasion, and show a little hero worship. It wasn't his fault if the real Heralds were too busy saving the Kingdom to take time to share a few meals, drinks, and kisses with the salt of Valdemar's earth.

Two months back he'd made his break from Torto's Traveling Show, a ratty handful of stickmen, peep shows, and crack-throated minstrels, ruled by the beefy, sadistic Torto. The show had about as much resemblance to a true traveling troupe of gleemen as a weed does a rose. In Torto's Show, you rarely saw the same town twice. After swindling and stealing everything that wasn't nailed down on one end, they packed up in the night and moved on to fresh marks. Rin ran shell games with the best of them, developed a healthy contempt for the townies, and never stopped hating and fearing Torto. The night he'd made his break they were between towns in western Iftel. Rin hoped he'd truly cracked the drunken Torto's head with that tent stake, but with Torto's thick skull, he doubted it.

Rin had started this Herald game less than a month back after crossing Iftel's border with Valdemar. It wasn't much, but it beat being a cup-and-ball man in the towns. With luck, it would get him somewhere more comfortable, where constables didn't know him and Torto couldn't trail him.

He didn't know a great deal about Heralds, but apparently neither did the locals. His story of being a "Special Auxiliary Herald" worked well enough, and explained why he only talked with them, took mysterious, coded notes, and moved on. Rin was sure his code was unbreakable. His scribblings were just that. As much as he'd wanted, he'd never learned to read or write.

The story also let him get food and other necessities from the villages, rather than the Waystations normally used by Heralds and other servants of the Crown. The Heralds rode regular circuits, and Rin simply made sure he was somewhere else. That wasn't hard, this far out.

He was safe enough, so long as he picked the right villages, and didn't stay too long or take too much. It was simple as games went, but not bad for an eighteen-year-old stickman. It kept him fed, equipped, and admired. Of the three, he liked the admiration best.

The morning warmed as he rode through patches of sunlight and shade. Scarlet flashed as a bird took wing, and a woodlark's song piped through the trees. He remembered the woods like this, out with his family hunting wild berries. It was one of his few memories of a time before brigands hit his village and took him, fourteen years ago this summer. He didn't remember the village's name, even though it had been somewhere in this region. He barely remembered the faces of his parents, but he remembered the look and feel of the woods.

Rin fingered a townchit, given him by Goldenoak's headman. The small brass plate was stamped with a crude, stylized tree, representing the village's name. He gathered they expected him to turn it in at Haven to get the village a tax break for feeding and sheltering him. Interesting, how trustful folks could be of a government. Maybe it came from not constantly pulling stakes and moving. He shook his bead, chuckling softly, and leaned back to slip it into his saddlebag, adding to the pile of townchits already there.

At midday, Rin stopped to rest the mare, watering her at a shaded brook before he took his own drink. He was as good to her as he could manage. She was a good horse and his only real friend in Torto's show; no prince's charger, but not a plug either. Rin thought of unsaddling her and letting her roll, but here he had to move fast if needful, so he only loosened the girth strap. She was white, mostly, but that was just good luck and the graying out of age. She'd been Torto's, but Rin was the one who cared for her. It didn't really bother Rin that he'd stolen her, though a slickman with pride in his craft wouldn't resort to outright theft unless there was no way to swindle for what was needed. Which was also why he'd later stolen the Herald's Whites.

The flashy sword was from Torto's prop box, taken with no thought of this particular game. He just liked having the sword, even though the slim, heavy knife in his boot top was probably a better weapon.

A sword made him feel more like a heroic servant of the Crown, and half of any game was feeling the part.

He dug into a saddlebag, and came up with a small cloth sack. Rin peered in, laughed delightedly and popped one of the golden brown slices into his mouth. He rolled his eyes and nearly cried. The taste of the lightly seasoned, dried apple brought back a wave of memory and feeling. For Rin that taste whispered of another time, and a loving mother's special treat for a small boy.

Rin munched road rations while the mare grazed. He drank deeply from the brook and topped up his water bottle. After a half-hour's rest, he cinched the mare's girth strap and set off again.

In late afternoon he rounded a turn and glimpsed two small figures perhaps a hundred paces ahead on the narrow, uphill road. The taller darted into the brush. The shorter seemed frozen, holding something. The taller figure reappeared to drag the other back into the bushes. They didn't seem big enough to be a threat, but this region was never entirely free of brigands.

With one hand on the reins and the other on his sword, Rin edged the mare on up the hill. Reaching the spot, he heard voices whispering fiercely. The brush rustled, and a small boy stumbled out onto the path. He was four or five, dressed in homespun tunic and breeches. The boy stared round-eyed up at Rin, clutching a battered toy stick horse. The head of the horse was cut from split wood, and painted white. Its eyes were blue.

"Valon!" the bushes behind the boy hissed. "Get back here!" More rustling, and a girl of about nine years came out on the path. She was dressed in the same material as the boy, with similar features, her hair a darker shade of blond; sister and brother, probably. She pulled the boy behind her.

"Natli!" piped the boy, peering around her. "He's a Herald!"

"May be," she said, eyeing Rin. "An' may be not. If you're a Herald, what's your name, an' how come your horse's eyes hain't blue?"

Rin gave the girl his warmest smile, feeling as if he were stepping onstage.

"I am Special Auxiliary Herald Rincent, m'lady, at your service." Rin let his voice ring with easy authority. Time for fast answers and distractions. "As for my Companion, the regular Heralds around the big cities have the ones with blue eyes. They don't all have blue eyes, you know. But Serena here can do other things. She can read minds."

"Read minds?" The girl looked less wary and more interested.

"And talk without words."

"Hmf!" the wary look was back in the girl's eyes. But Rin was on familiar ground here. The few tricks he'd taught the mare always came in handy. He cocked his head as if listening, and tickled the mare's neck on the side away from the girl. The horse snorted and shook her head slightly.

"She says, Natli, that you and your brother, Valon, shouldn't be out in the forest, especially with your family worried about you." The girl's eyes widened.

"But we had to run!" Valon had edged out from behind his sister. "We had to! We can't go back to the village!"

"You had to run?"

"That's right...Herald Rincent," said Natli. "Mum said to run an' run, an' not stop till the bad men weren't followin' us no more."

"Bad men?" Rin didn't like the sound of this. "What bad men?"

"The ones that came to our village. Mum said they wanted food an' gold an' people. Mum said to run till we found someone to get help."

Brigands; robbers and killers with a taste for slaving. They were hunting these children, if they hadn't given up. The same sort who'd attacked his home, killed his parents, sold him to be "adopted" by that greasebucket Torto. Rin was very sure he wanted nothing to do with these "bad men." He hadn't planned on returning so soon (if ever) to Goldenoak, but it was far better than meeting the outlaws. He hoped the kids could keep up. If not, he could tell the villagers they were on the trail, while he rode on to

"get help."

"You'll help us, won't you, Herald Rincent?" Valon's eyes pleaded along with his voice. "Won't you?" Rin had been about this boy's age when the raiders came.

"How far back are these bad men?" asked Rin. A shout snapped his attention up the trail, where the hill crested. A big, broad-shouldered man stood there. He stared at Rin and the children, then turned, shouted again, and waved behind him. It was too far for Rin to make out his face, but Rin could guess who and what he was.

"Not very far." said Natli gravely, pulling Valon back to her. She looked back up at Rin, staring eye to eye. "You have to help us. Now."

Rin looked back up the hill. Two more men appeared, one after the other. The last seemed to be breathing hard, leaning over to rest his hands on his knees. The outlaw catching his breath might give them a few seconds, the sight of the Herald's Whites and horse a few more. But these were hard cases, men marked and hunted by the law. They wouldn't be put off for long by the sight of one "Herald."

The brigands were here to steal him again. A dark, closed part of Rin's mind flashed a bright, jagged series of memories, racing with his panicked thoughts.

Got to get away. Just ride off. He smelled the choking reek of burning thatch.

The brigands will take the kids. They won't bother chasing me. He heard his mother's screams.

The boy and girl won't be killed. He glimpsed his father's bloodied legs sprawled outside the doorway.

They'll just grow up without parents, without lives. Like me. Inside Rin's mind, something broke free, stood up on its hind legs, and snarled.

No, by the Nine Hells, they will not!

"Hand him up!" He told Natli as he reached down. "Then get up behind me. Move!" As Rin hauled Valon up, an arrow hissed past his face. The mare jerked and danced, but Rin kept a taut rein and turned her to face downhill. He glanced back. The slow brigand at the hill's crest fumbled another arrow onto his bowstring. His two ugly partners were running downhill, the first well ahead of the second, closing fast. If Rin could get the girl up quickly, they should make it. Even the three of them would load the horse little more than a large man, and Rin had past experience running from angry people.

He shifted the reins and settled Valon with his right hand, and leaned down to help Natli up with his left. Another arrow whistled past the mare's eyes and nose. Frightened from the first arrow and the smell of fear, the mare's neighing sounded like a child's scream. She reared.

Rin fell with Valon atop him, the toy horse still in the boy's fist. The packed earth of the path was better than rock, but landing still hurt. The mare ran headlong back downhill, away from them all.

Rin had survived enough street fights to know you checked hurts only after getting clear. He untangled himself from Valon and lurched to his feet, cursing himself for choosing now, of all times, to be good and stupid. He put himself between the children and the oncoming brigands and hauled out his sword.

"Run," he said grimly, and faced his attackers.

The first outlaw, a big man with scarred face and matted hair, reached him and swung. Rin ducked a side cut to his head and jumped back to avoid the return slash to his stomach. No, they weren't awed by the uniform. He had to attack before the second thug reached him.

Rin put all his strength and speed into an overhand cut at his opponent's head. The man shifted fast and blocked the blow solidly. Rin's cheap show blade twisted and folded over the outlaw's tarnished steel.

Rin had one dismayed glimpse of the blade's right-angle bend before a kick caught him at the top of his stomach, just under the breastbone. It knocked him back to land butt-first, the air driven from his lungs, feeling like he'd never take another breath. Which was likely correct. He didn't know where his sword was, but it wasn't in his hand.

The second outlaw, a short man in dirty, gaudy clothes, arrived on the scene and looked down on Rin, who was making raspy, squeaking noises that were a poor substitute for breathing. The outlaw grunted, and grinned.