Shenanigans
Author: Mercedes Lackey
Date: 2022-12-13 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Anthologies; Fiction; Short Stories; Science Fiction Fantasy
Description: This sixteenth anthology of short stories set in the beloved Valdemar universe features tales by debut and established authors and a brand-new story from Lackey herself. The Heralds of Valdemar are the kingdom's ancient order of protectors. They are drawn from all across the land, from all walks of life, and at all ages—and all are Gifted with abilities beyond those of normal men and women. They are Mindspeakers, FarSeers, Empaths, ForeSeers, Firestarters, FarSpeakers, and more. These inborn talents—combined with training as emissaries, spies, judges, diplomats, scouts, counselors, warriors, a

Raves for the previous Valdemar Anthologies

“Fans of Lackey’s epic Valdemar series will devour this superb anthology. Of the thirteen stories included, there is no weak link—an attribute exceedingly rare in collections of this sort. Highly recommended.”

—The Barnes and Noble Review

“This high-quality anthology mixes pieces by experienced authors and enthusiastic fans of editor Lackey’s Valdemar. Valdemar fandom, especially, will revel in this sterling example of what such a mixture of fans’ and pros’ work can be. Engrossing even for newcomers to Valdemar.”

—Booklist

“Josepha Sherman, Tanya Huff, Mickey Zucker Reichert, and Michelle West have quite good stories, and there’s another by Lackey herself. Familiarity with the series helps but is not a prerequisite to enjoying this book.”

—Science Fiction Chronicle

“Each tale adheres to the Lackey laws of the realm yet provides each author’s personal stamp on the story. Well written and fun, Valdemarites will especially appreciate the magic of this book.”

—The Midwest Book Review

“The sixth collection set in Lackey’s world of Valdemar presents stories of Heralds and their telepathic horselike Companions and of Bards and Healers, and provides glimpses of the many other aspects of a setting that has a large and avid readership. The fifteen original tales in this volume will appeal to series fans.”

—Library Journal

DAW BOOKS BY MERCEDES LACKEY:

THE NOVELS OF VALDEMAR:

THE HERALDS OF VALDEMAR

ARROWS OF THE QUEEN

ARROW’S FLIGHT

ARROW’S FALL

THE LAST HERALD-MAGE

MAGIC’S PAWN

MAGIC’S PROMISE

MAGIC’S PRICE

THE MAGE WINDS

WINDS OF FATE

WINDS OF CHANGE

WINDS OF FURY

THE MAGE STORMS

STORM WARNING

STORM RISING

STORM BREAKING

VOWS AND HONOR

THE OATHBOUND

OATHBREAKERS

OATHBLOOD

THE COLLEGIUM CHRONICLES

FOUNDATION

INTRIGUES

CHANGES

REDOUBT

BASTION

THE HERALD SPY

CLOSER TO HOME

CLOSER TO THE HEART

CLOSER TO THE CHEST

FAMILY SPIES

THE HILLS HAVE SPIES

EYE SPY

SPY, SPY AGAIN

THE FOUNDING OF VALDEMAR

BEYOND

INTO THE WEST

BY THE SWORD

BRIGHTLY BURNING

TAKE A THIEF

EXILE’S HONOR

EXILE’S VALOR

VALDEMAR ANTHOLOGIES:

SWORD OF ICE

SUN IN GLORY

CROSSROADS

MOVING TARGETS

CHANGING THE WORLD

FINDING THE WAY

UNDER THE VALE

CRUCIBLE

TEMPEST

CHOICES

SEASONS

PASSAGES

BOUNDARIES

SHENANIGANS

Written with LARRY DIXON:

GRYPHON IN LIGHT*

THE MAGE WARS

THE BLACK GRYPHON

THE WHITE GRYPHON

THE SILVER GRYPHON

DARIAN’S TALE

OWLFLIGHT

OWLSIGHT

OWLKNIGHT

OTHER NOVELS:

GWENHWYFAR

THE BLACK SWAN

THE DRAGON JOUSTERS

JOUST

ALTA

SANCTUARY

AERIE

THE ELEMENTAL MASTERS

THE SERPENT’S SHADOW

THE GATES OF SLEEP

PHOENIX AND ASHES

THE WIZARD OF LONDON

RESERVED FOR THE CAT

UNNATURAL ISSUE

HOME FROM THE SEA

STEADFAST

BLOOD RED

FROM A HIGH TOWER

A STUDY IN SABLE

A SCANDAL IN BATTERSEA

THE BARTERED BRIDES

THE CASE OF THE SPELLBOUND CHILD

JOLENE

THE SILVER BULLETS OF ANNIE OAKLEY

Anthologies:

ELEMENTAL MAGIC

ELEMENTARY

*Coming soon from DAW Books

Copyright © 2022 by Mercedes Lackey and Stonehenge Art & Word.

All Rights Reserved

Cover illustration by Jody A. Lee

Cover design by Adam Auerbach

DAW Book Collectors No. 1936

DAW Books

An imprint of Astra Publishing House
www.dawbooks.com

DAW Books and its logo are registered trademarks of Astra Publishing House.

All characters and events in this book are fictitious

All resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

ISBN 978-0-7564-1850-2 (paperback)

ISBN 978-0-7564-1851-9 (ebook)

First Printing, December 2022

Contents

Raves for the previous Valdemar Anthologies

Also by Mercedes Lackey

Title Page

Copyright Page

Tricks And Traps

Jennifer Brozek

A Brother’s Promise

Kristin Schwengel

Causing Trouble

Dylan Birtolo

All Around the Bell Tower

Stephanie Shaver

Reminiscent

Paige L. Christie

Life’s Little Pranks

Ron Collins

Fool’s Week

Anthea Sharp

The Companion Sting

Charlotte E. English

Love, Nothing More, Nothing Less

Brigid Collins

A Cry of Hounds

Elisabeth Waters

Fowl Play

Fiona Patton

The Boy Who Cried Kidnap

Dayle A. Dermatis

Trap Spell

Louisa Swann

One Trick Pony

Diana Paxson

Companion’s Lesson

Brenda Cooper

A Bouquet of Gifts, or The Culinary Adventures of Rork

Michele Lang

Of Ghosts and Stones and Snow

Phaedra Weldon

Pranks For the Memories

Dee Shull

Shin’a’inagins

Mercedes Lackey and Larry Dixon

About the Authors

About the Editor

Tricks and Traps

Jennifer Brozek

The two hertasi watched the courier Change-Child with anticipation as they went about their chores of cleaning up the campsite. Tersen stifled a giggle as Kitha shena Tale’sedrin reached for her boots. Serta gave him a look, but he was too young to care. Forewarned, Kitha looked into each boot before she put it on. A boiled egg rolled out of the second one.

She held it up and looked at the hertasi.

Hadara, the large gryphon Lifebonded to Kitha, spoke for her, “A boiled egg in my boot? Rrrrreally?”

Tersen erupted in laughter. “Funny, yes? Raw would have been mean.”

“And wasteful,” Serta added as she plucked the egg from Kitha’s hand. “At least now we can still eat it.”

Kitha shook her head and whistled in annoyance. Caught in a Mage Storm, Kitha, once of the Dhorisha Plains, had been melded with a hawk within a Change Circle. She was now part human, part bird, and no longer able to speak. Instead of hair, her head was covered in the mottled feathers of a young red-tailed hawk from brow to neck. The left side of her face from cheekbone to brow had the feathered face and golden eye of a bird. Her right half was of a lovely young woman with a green eye the Tale’sedrin was famous for. Her nose and mouth were a blend of beak and lip. These, and other internal changes, prevented her from speaking.

She had been rescued from the Pelagirs Forest by Hadara, who had heard her distress call in Animal Mindspeech. Somehow, Kitha and Hadara had Lifebonded at that first mind-touch. Through their bond, Hadara, blinded by a magical trap, could see with Kitha’s eyes. Their mental link was strong enough that Hadara could speak for Kitha as needed or wanted between the pair.

Right now, the gryphon did so because Tersen was still learning the sign language Kitha used.

Hadara spoke as Kitha signed. “Even if I had put my foot on it?”

Serta eyed Kitha. “I don’t think you’d walk around with an egg in your boot. Also, you aren’t that dirty. We see to it. We discard the shells anyway.”

Hadara laughed, her tongue lolling out of her beak. Kitha glared at her bondmate and signed to her. Serta, still watching, understood. Why do the hertasi prank us so much? I don’t remember this happening in the Vale. What is it about this trip?

“They did back in the Vale too,” Hadara said. “They werrre jusssst kind to you.”

Amused, Serta turned away, knowing that unless you were hertasi, you would never understand the skills trained into the young by challenging them to prank each other and the Vale inhabitants. The ingenuity, planning, and improvisation these tricks imparted. Skills that could and would be used in other parts of life. This was a time of learning for young Tersen.

This trip from k’Leysha Vale to k’Veyas Vale was the perfect time to instill some good instincts into the young, using the natural surrounds of the forest. It was fortunate that she was the one who set him the challenge. He hadn’t yet thought to prank her. That would be an interesting day indeed. She looked forward to it.

• • •

Kitha always took the lead with Hadara right behind her. Serta and Tersen walked alongside, sometimes close by, sometimes farther out. Tersen had more energy than the rest of them combined. Letting him wander in the Pelagirs was both necessary and dangerous. It was why Serta paid attention when he called to her.

“Serta! I found something. You should see it.”

The elder hertasi turned back and wondered if this was the day he tried his hand at fooling her. She didn’t think so. Something in the tone of his voice said not. It was both curious and wary, as though he had found something interesting but didn’t know what it meant.

Moving from the path through the underbrush toward where he’d called from, Serta came upon an odd scene. Tersen stood in the middle of a patch of broken and split branches. It was clear they had not occurred naturally. He held one branch, looking at its end. “It looks like it was cut.”

Serta looked back and forth, her experienced mind picking out details. Broken branches, cut bits of twine, torn leaves . . . Everything pointed to someone having created some sort of trap designed to be camouflaged by the forest surroundings. Alerted, she turned back to the path. “The Feathers!”

The two hertasi took off running, but from the sound of something snapping and the cries of alarm, Kitha and Hadara had been caught in the trap. Serta grabbed Tersen and motioned for him to follow her as silently as he could.

Weaving through the forest and staying off the path, they heard the humans before they saw them. Rough laughter accompanied by jeers of triumph froze her heart. Bandits. Their charges had been captured by bandits. They peeked out of the forest to find Kitha and Hadara tangled up in a net that hung a good ten feet in the air.

“Well, bless my hairy ass,” a red-haired man said. “We set a trap for a kyree and got a gryphon and a . . . whatever you are.”

A short, squat man peered up at them. “Suppose we could sell the gryphon’s feathers instead of a kyree pelt.”

The third man, bearded and tan, stroked his beard. “What about the other one? You anyone special?” He paused, waiting for an answer. When she didn’t respond, he poked her with his staff. She gave a bird’s cry of surprise and indignation. “What the hell?” he exclaimed and jumped back.

Serta, who had dubbed the three as Red, Shorty, and Beardy respectively, whispered “Meek. Mild,” to Tersen, whose hackles had raised. Then she ran out from the underbrush, her hands raised, calling out. “She cannot speak. She has no voice.”

The three bandits reacted like stung cats. Jerking in surprise, they pulled weapons on the little hertasi and shifted into fighting stances. They relaxed a little when they saw who had spoken. They relaxed more when Serta gave an exaggerated squeak of fear and cowered.

“Please, sir. Please.” Tersen mimicked her, cowering by her side.

“Who are you?” Beardy asked.

“Servants to Lady Kitha.” Serta peeked out from behind her raised hands. “She is valuable. More valuable alive than dead.”

Red’s eyes widened. “I know ’em. They’re the ‘Lifebonded Couriers’ from that song. You know, “Feathers in love . . . the girl who became a hawk, the gryphon who saved her life.” You’ve heard it. What were their names. . . . ?”

Beardy scowled. “You’ve gotta be kidding.”

Red looked at the ground. “Head . . . something and Kitha . . . something.”

“The Feathers, Hadara and Kitha,” Serta supplied. Knowing Hadara and Kitha hated the songs the Bards had made up about them once they began their work as couriers who were willing to cross borders, she kept her amusement to herself. Also, now was definitely not the time for laughing.

Shorty narrowed his eyes. “What do we do with ’em?”

Beardy gazed up at the captive pair, greed dancing in his eyes. “You heard her. That one’s valuable. We ransom ’em.”

“What about those two?” Shorty nodded at the little lizardfolk.

Tersen spoke up. “We are hertasi. We are servants. We will serve you.”

Serta straightened. That was what she had been about to say. Her young charge was learning fast. It was important that they not be killed or sent away. They had to remain close to the Feathers to keep them as safe as possible.

• • •

It had taken a little more discussion between the bandits for them to come to the conclusion that their best bet would be to ransom the pair back to k’Leysha Vale. The problem was how to do it without the Tayledras killing them outright before they could make their ransom demand.

Kitha and Hadara had been taken down from the net trap, but both had been bound, with Hadara’s beak tied shut and Kitha blindfolded. Serta and Tersen had made themselves useful at the bandit’s camp, which, in Serta’s opinion, wasn’t much more than a piece of flat ground that didn’t have adequate protection from anything. Still, she did the best she could. As she worked, she listened.

The bandits couldn’t come to an accord. Who was going to take the ransom note to the Vale? She sent Tersen to clean up nearby, right in the line of sight of Beardy, the one she considered the smartest of the bunch. With luck, an idea would spring to mind.

“Hey. Hey, you, hertasi. C’mere.”

Wide-eyed and fearful, Tersen scampered toward Beardy and waited. Serta set herself within his eyesight so she could give him cues if needed. His eyes flicked over the bandits, then to her, then back to Beardy’s face. She thought he was overacting, but doubted these humans had the skill to read hertasi as well as any of the Tayledras.

Beardy loomed over Tersen. “Do you know the way to k’Leysha Vale?”

He nodded.

“How many days from here?”

Serta held up two fingers. It was three, but she thought the bandits might be too impatient to wait any longer, and they needed time to save themselves.

Tersen knew this as well. He said, “Two days, sir.”

Beardy nodded. “Can you read?”

Tersen shook his head even before Serta could cue him.

“Good. I’m gonna give you a letter to deliver to the leader of the k’Leysha Vale. You have four days to get back to me . . . or I’m gonna start plucking feathers . . . from both of ’em.”

Tersen gasped in only partially feigned horror and nodded frantically.

“I will get him prepared for the run,” Serta said. She walked up next to them, looking at Beardy in the face. “If I may?”

He waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll let you know when I have the letter written.”

Serta took Tersen out of the camp. They didn’t speak until they were out of earshot and she was certain they hadn’t been followed.

“I’m not actually going, am I?” Tersen asked, looking stricken.

She shook her head. “But they have to believe you are. So, we need to get you ready. You will leave but not go. You will hide until nightfall and meet me here.”

“And then?”

Serta smiled a feral smile. “Then we will get to work, and you will learn a thing or two. In the meantime, I have tasks for you . . .” She leaned in close and began whispering to him.

• • •

Hours later, after the sun had set and a sliver of moon had risen, Serta made sure the bandits were asleep before she snuck out to the meeting spot. Tersen was already there and waiting. She resisted the urge to startle the young hertasi, but she wasn’t sure if Shorty would remain asleep. He was supposed to be on watch duty.

Instead, she rustled leaves as she crept up. He still twitched in surprise and whirled about. By the dirt covering him from head to toe, he had done the job she’d asked him to do, and looked exhausted from the effort. Not only that, but it also seemed he’d done it in near silence.

She raised her hand in a calming gesture. “It’s me.”

“I know. I heard you.” He paused at his snappish tone. “I’m sorry.”

“No need. Is it done? Everything I asked?”

Tersen nodded.

“I never heard you at all. I’m impressed. Well done.”

He puffed up at the compliment, some of his tiredness leaving him. “Wait until you see it! It’s huge.”

Serta cocked her head and listened to the night sounds. They seemed muted. Perhaps it was their movement that quieted the forest. Perhaps not. Perhaps there was something large on the prowl. You never knew in the Pelagirs. “I will. Soon. I put sap in their drinks tonight. They will all sleep. Even the guard on watch. I will wake him, and then we will see.”

• • •

Serta shook Shorty’s arm. “Quick. Wake up. Quick. I’ve found an ahtik egg. Quick, before it is hidden again.”

Shorty blinked bleary eyes at her. “Wha . . . ?”

Keeping her voice low, she repeated, “I have found an ahtik egg. Rare and valuable. We must get it before the ahtik parent comes back.” While Serta knew there was no such animal as an “ahtik”, this was the Pelagirs, and Shorty had no way of knowing that.

He struggled to his feet, still not quite certain what was happening, but the urgent note in the hertasi’s voice urged him on. That and the word “valuable.” That word got his attention. “Lead the way.”

Serta moved fast, but not too fast. She wanted Shorty to keep up with her. She led him through the forest toward the trap. Stopping at the edge of the small glade, something that looked like an egg wrapped in leaves sat on the other side. “There. Ahtik egg. Rare. The Tayledras will pay a lot for it. Quick, before the ahtik returns.”

Shorty blinked at her as if his drug-addled brain was trying to make sense of what she was saying. She didn’t want him to realize something was wrong here or that the “ahtik egg” was nothing more than a small boulder wrapped in leaves. She put a hand on his lower back and pushed, hissing, “Hurry!”

Spurred on, Shorty staggered into the clearing, his eyes on the prize. Halfway there, Tersen, now disguised as the ahtik, burst into the glade from the left. Smeared in glowing fungus with large leaves attached to his back that fanned out like an angry lizard, he howled a full-throated challenge. Although he was young, he had a mighty roar.

Shorty took one look at the monster, screamed, and ran in the direction of away. Which was to the right. He pelted into the forest and didn’t see the giant pit trap just beyond the edge of the glade until it was too late. He crashed to the bottom with a great thump, and he didn’t make another sound.

Tersen and Serta scurried to the edge of the pit and looked down. She was impressed with the thing. Large enough to catch a gryphon if it were unawares, the pit was the size of a small barn and as deep as two men. At first, she didn’t understand how Tersen could move so much earth in such a short time; then she saw the signs that this had once been a large creature’s den, and Tersen had carved off the top, hauled away the dirt, and made the whole thing bigger.

At the bottom of the pit, Shorty sprawled on his back, unmoving.

“Is he dead?”

Serta listened then shook her head. “No. Sleeping. Or knocked out. Or both.”

He giggled. “That’s one. Rawr.”

Serta chuckled with him. “You were fearsome and smart. Tomorrow we get two and three. Now is the time for rest. Go clean up and sleep. I’ll lure the next one here tomorrow.”

• • •

Waking as the sun touched her, Serta woke to find Red already awake and agitated. He must not have drunk as much of the drugged wine as the others. Or perhaps he had a better constitution. She uncurled from her bedroll and stretched. “Would you like breakfast?”

“Where’s Lazlo?”

She tilted her head in a moment of puzzlement, then realized Lazlo was Shorty’s actual name. “I don’t know. Morning water things?”

“My ass.” He glanced at the sleeping Beardy on the other side of the camp then turned away.

Serta knew Beardy did not react well when things were not done to his liking. Thinking quickly, she asked, “Do you want me to scent for him?”

Red eyed her. “You can do that?”

While hertasi had a very good sense of smell, and humans occasionally reeked, being a bloodhound was not one of their skills. “Yes, of course,” she lied. “I need to see his bedroll.” There was more than one way to cook a turnip. She had planned to trick Red into the pit another way, but this would do.

The bedroll was over where Shorty—Lazlo—had been on watch. She made the motions of taking a deep whiff of the cloth. Whiff it was. Then she scented the air as she walked around the edge of the camp until she reached a spot and declared, “This way.”

Knowing she could not take him straight to the pit trap, she took him in a roundabout way toward the river. She led him through the forest, bent to the ground, scenting the air. Based on how cautious Red was, she didn’t think she could trick him into throwing himself into the pit. The best she could do on short notice was lead him there and push him in. Hopefully with Tersen’s help. Thus, she was not being quiet at all. Which might account for the silence of the Pelagirs this early morning.

By the time they got to the river, Red’s face was as red as his hair. She sniffed the earth by the river, then pointed upstream. “There.”

“You’re lying.”

The words were spoken with such quiet menace that Serta stopped and looked at the bandit. “Sir?”

“You’re lying. There’s no trail. I ain’t seen a single boot print, broken twig, or torn leaf. Lazlo is good at what he does, but he ain’t subtle.” He advanced on her. “Why are you lying to me?”

“I’m not! I swear I’m not.” She cowered, not faking her fear this time.

Red grabbed her arm and shook her hard. “What have you done to him?”

“Human!” Tersen’s voice came from somewhere impossibly high in the treetops. “I got something for you right here!”

They both looked up and something round and oblong came pelting toward them. Serta realized what it was before Red did. She yanked herself from his arm and dove into the river just as the wasp’s nest crashed at Red’s feet.

Keeping everything but her eyes and nose under the water, she watch Red run in panicked circles, shouting and flailing his arms as he was stung by dozens of furious wasps. By the time he thought to hide in the water, he was covered in angry welts.

It took at least half a candlemark for the wasps to leave, but finally, Serta clambered out of the water. Red was in the shallows on his back, half-unconscious. She watched as Tersen climbed down the tree to her. He had a few ugly welts himself. “You are well?” she asked.

He nodded. “I was so scared for you. I could see him getting madder and madder, and I didn’t know why.”

“I’m fine.”

Tersen bared his teeth at Red. “We should turn him over and let the river take him.”

She shook her head. “He needs to answer for his crimes. We take him to the pit.” Seeing his quizzical expression, Serta also bared her small, sharp teeth. “If you think Hadara and Kitha have done nothing to free themselves, you are sorely wrong. They have listened to us work. Hadara’s Animal Mindspeech is legendary. I’m sure she’s contacted someone by now, and k’Leysha Vale has warriors on the way.”

Tersen looked like a hertasi who had just realized something important. “OooOooh.” Then he looked at Red. “Do we have to? He looks heavy.”

She eyed him, but she didn’t say a word.

He sighed. “All right, I’ll make a pull-sled.”

• • •

Knowing Beardy was the smartest of the bunch, Serta knew she needed to get him reacting rather than thinking. She left Tersen at the pit trap, then ran all the way back to the bandits’ camp. She didn’t have to fake being out of breath or tired.

She stumbled into the camp panting, with her clothing askew. Random leaves stuck to her clothes. “Sir,” she panted. “Sir. They’re in a trap. They’re in danger.”

Standing and prepared for attack, Beardy watched her with a keen eye. “Who’s in a trap? Who’s in danger?”

“Lazlo and the other one.” Serta fought to calm her breath, but her heart beat fast at the look on his face.

“Regis?”

Serta shrugged. “The one standing guard. He wasn’t here in the morning. The one with the red hair—”

“Regis,” Beardy confirmed.

“He wanted me to find Lazlo for him. I did. He was in a deep pit. So big. I think bandits might have dug it.”

“How did he get there.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“And Regis? How did he get in the pit?”

“Wasps. Something disturbed a wasp nest, and the wasps came after him, and he fell when he got stung.”

Beardy’s voice was calm, the kind of calm before the storm. “Wasps stung him. Why didn’t you get stung?”

Swallowing hard, Serta answered in a whisper. “I ran.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry. I ran. Wasps stop following after a bit.”

“Can you find this pit again?”

From the look on his face, Serta knew the answer needed to be yes. Fortunately, it was, and the pit was exactly where she wanted him to go. She nodded. “Yes. My path was clear.”

Beardy didn’t say anything for a long time. Then he checked on Hadara and Kitha, making sure their bonds were tight. After that, he turned back to her. “Lead me there.”

Serta turned and hurried into the depths of the Pelagirs Forest once more.

• • •

This time, Serta didn’t attempt any sort of subterfuge. She walked through the trees and the fallen foliage, following her own running footsteps. Once they got to the small glade—the “ahtik egg” was gone, leaving a lone boulder in its place—she stopped and pointed. “There. Just beyond that border. It’s huge.”

“Let’s go around then,” was all Beardy said. He didn’t have the same menace in his voice as before, but the danger was still there.

Serta did as she was told, slipping through the bushes and branches with ease, knowing Beardy had to break a trail for himself. The noise alone would be enough to alert Tersen. And, as it turned out, to alert Lazlo and Regis as well.

“Hey! We’re here!” Lazlo shouted.

“Help us!” Regis joined him. “Someone!”

Beardy walked to the edge of the pit and looked in. “What the hell’re you two doing down there?”

Serta was already drifting back and away from the pit. She didn’t want to be seen by the captive bandits. Nor did she want to be within arm’s reach of Beardy. Besides, she and Tersen still had a couple of tricks up their sleeves. With luck, they would only have to use one more. She whistled softly for him.

“Get us out of here, Jordan!” Regis demanded.

He put his fists on his hips. “Not until you tell me how you two got in there.”

Lazlo shook his head. “I don’t remember. My head’s all muddled like I’ve been drinking for days. But I haven’t. I swear.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“That little hertasi shaking my arm, saying something . . . about . . . an egg?”

Regis butted in. “Yeah, it was the little lizard. She said she could find Lazlo. But she wasn’t following a track. I could tell. She led me to a river then . . .” His face clouded over. “A wasp nest fell on me. I remember two of them dragging me from the river to here.”

Beardy pulled a large hunting knife from his belt. “Two of them—” He turned to throw it at Serta, but she wasn’t where he’d left her. Instead, a large log on a rope barreled into him at chest height, knocking him into the pit. He landed on his back with a great whoosh, the impact knocking the breath out of him. His knife landed on the pit’s edge, out of reach.

• • •

“And that’s when Serta came back to me and we pulled on the ropes that held the log in place.” Tersen looked tired but proud. “Boom! Right in the chest, and over he went!”

The four of them—Hadara, Kitha, Serta, and Tersen—stood near the pit trap talking. The bandits had given up shouting for now. Serta had claimed the bandit’s knife, and it hung at her waist like a miniature short sword.

Kitha signed to Tersen with Hadara translating. “That was brave of both of you. Thank you. But next time something like this happens, perhaps you should let us in on the plan?”

Serta shrugged. “There wasn’t time or opportunity. We did what we needed to do.”

Hadara fluffed her white crest feathers. “Theirrrr trrricks arrre good for sssomething. Rrrright, Kitha?” She gestured to the pit with a wing.

Kitha nodded, and they all looked at the pit. Tersen, still puffed up with pride asked, “What are we gonna do with them?”

Hadara and Kitha looked at each other, but before either of them could answer, Serta said, “We have company.”

A large kyree slunk out of the forest, padding toward them on silent paws. :Excuse me, might I have a word?: the great beast asked in Mindspeech that they all heard. Looking like a wolf in the head, but larger, with a rounded forehead and huge jaws, its body was sleek like a large cat’s, and its tail bushed out like a wolf’s. :My name is Nwara, and I would like to interview your prisoners. With your permission?:

Hadara clacked her beak with amusement, then nodded. “Greetings, Nwarrra. My terrrvadi friend let me know that the Tayledrrrassss from k’Leyssssha Vale arrre half a day away. We will put them in yourrrr cusssstody until they arrrrrive. Thus, you may have yourrrr interview. Agrrreed?”

:Agreed. Thank you. I’ll take good care of them.:

Hadara and Kitha turned from the pit, the bandits, and the kyree and headed back toward the relatively safe path through the Pelagirs Forest. Tersen didn’t move. His eyes were huge and wide as he watched the kyree. Serta just smiled and waited.

The kyree approached the edge of the pit and stared down at the bandits within. :Hello, humans. I’ve watched what occurred over the past couple of days with great interest. I would like to know your thoughts on how things played out. But, more importantly, I’m here to discover why you thought it was a good idea to attempt to kill a kyree and skin them for their fur . . . :

That explains the uncanny quiet in this part of the Pelagirs, Serta thought. Kitha whistled for the hertasi to catch up. As much as she wanted to see this interview happen, they had a Vale to get to, a package to deliver, and a long way to go.

Serta grasped Tersen in a gentle hand and pulled him away. The last thing they heard the kyree say was, :—and I would like a lot of detail. As my famous cousin, Rris, once said, ‘Details matter.’ You’ve heard of Rris, haven’t you . . . ?:

A Brother’s Promise

Kristin Schwengel

“Well, if’n it ain’t high-an’-mighty Herald Rinton, come t’ hobnob wi’ th’ lesser folk.” Despite the snide tone and the fact the voice had dropped a register since last he’d heard it, Rinton knew it at once.

“Menkil?” He turned to see a slight figure in faded black garb, the unofficial livery of the boys who ran the streets of Haven. “What have you been doing since you left—” He was stunned by the sullen resentment written over the young face, lank blond hair half covering the sharp blue eyes.

“Ye left us. Ye got yer pretty horse an’ ye left us. Left me. Ye promised.”

Taken aback, Rinton faltered for words. “But . . . I got you as close as I could. Pages are—”

“Nobodies. Jes’ another errand-boy, ’cept now I seen up closelike how good th’ other folks have it. But nobodies don’t get t’ live like that. Nobodies don’t get nothin’.”

Rinton bit back the urge to snap that the younger man—still a boy, really—had chosen not to take advantage of the opportunity being a page at the Palace complex in Haven afforded him. He could have had a thorough education and arms training, and he could have formed connections that could lead to more; but he’d gone back to the streets while Rinton had been on his Trainee Circuit six years ago.

:Maybe you should point it out to him,: Linx offered. :He wasted what you gave him because he wanted what you had.:

:And now I have even more, not that he knows I’m to be a Herald-Mage. Most folk don’t realize that there are more than Elspeth.:

:I wouldn’t call yourself a Herald-Mage quite yet,: Linx replied, humor coloring his mind-voice. :Even if you are weather-working at a distance under Hydona’s supervision.:

“I did what I could, as a barely Chosen Trainee, to get you better prospects than you’d ever have running with Dee’s crew.” By all the gods, he sounded pompous even to himself.

Menkil raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that, Herald Rinton,” he sneered. “Dee has her fingers in a lot of pies, an’ some of ’em turn up real good. Ye watch an’ see.” He turned and slipped away, his nondescript clothes blending into the crowds of the square, vanishing as only a street urchin could.

:Ought I to worry about that? Dee didn’t have the crew doing anything outside of the usual when I ran with them.:

Linx was silent for a long time as Herald and Companion turned to make their way back up the hill to the Collegium. :I don’t think so.: He paused. :Yet.:

Rinton ran his hand through his hair, short brown strands nearly standing on end. “As if I needed any more to keep track of.” On cue, an enthusiastic mind-voice interrupted his thoughts.

:MindFriend! Red-robe comes!: Rinton braced himself for the plummeting weight of Kiyan dropping onto his shoulder, glimmering blue-black wings opening wide at the last possible moment, brushing his cheek and fanning his hair.

:I swear he does that on purpose,: he complained privately to Linx.

:Of course he does. Especially now that he’s seen the size of the Tayledras Mage’s forestgyre. He’s no longer the only Bondbird seen in Haven, nor is he the largest. Nor yet the prettiest, with that white Firebird, too. The others may not be here now, but folks remember them.:

:So he’s compensating by being the most outrageous?:

Linx had no reply to that.

:SeeSeeSee? Red-robe comes looking for you!: Kiyan’s head pivoted to point with his beak, and Rinton saw one of the priests of Haven’s Temple of the Sunlord Vkandis striding through the market crowd toward him. He leaned against Linx’s shoulder and waited.

As the older man neared, Rinton smiled in welcome. He hadn’t had many dealings with Brother Sethen in the last few years, not since those incidents when the young Karsite Mindhealer Mirideh had been new to Haven and the Collegium.

“Greetings, Brother,” he called as soon as Sethen was near enough. “What brings you from the Temple of Light?”

“The Sunlord’s warmth to you, Herald Rinton,” came the formal reply, softened by the smiling sparkle in his pale blue-gray eyes. “It is long since I have seen you, but Trainee Mirideh suggested I should bring my questions to you.”

Rinton raised his brows. “Do you wish to talk here, or up at the Collegium, or should we return to the Temple?” Inwardly, he groaned. As though training his newly discovered Mage Gift, preparing for who-knows-what on the Hardornen border, and now worrying about what Menkil and Dee’s crew had gotten themselves into weren’t enough, was Brother Sethen about to pile more into his already full hands?

Sethen thought for a moment, then nodded decisively. “If we may, let’s go up to the Collegium complex, where we will not be overheard.”

Rinton’s inner groan grew louder. He was definitely going to have new worries. Raking a hand through his hair again, he turned and walked by Brother Sethen’s side the rest of the way up the hill to the Collegium gates, chatting idly, Linx pacing behind them.

• • •

“So you see, it’s not big enough to call in the Guard, but it’s enough to concern me, that these young ones are into some mischief that might grow beyond what they can handle.”

Rinton frowned. Brother Sethen didn’t know names, but the descriptions sounded very like Dee, one of the other older members of the crew he used to run with, and Menkil. Menkil had been the youngest of them, barely five years old when Rinton had been Chosen, and that was ten years past. Most of Dee’s new crew were younger and unknown to him, as many of the others he knew had moved on to other occupations or found new territories. Each group of urchins had their own section of Haven’s streets in which they ran most errands and messages and sometimes engaged in less legal activities to keep themselves fed.

But if what Brother Sethen suggested was true, Dee was trying to consolidate, to create her own little empire of runners to cover a larger territory, bringing her a larger cut, and expand into the better neighborhoods, where there was more to be made. So far, it was just tricks between the crews, trying to scare each other off a certain street or get others to join up with her.

“The Guard generally leaves the street kids alone,” he murmured, “unless they get too bold in picking pockets.” He remembered a time or two when a Guardsman turned a blind eye to a shoplifted loaf of bread or even paid off a complaining seller. “Especially if they know who’s running what. Better the evil you know . . .” He let his voice trail off while he considered the implications of Dee expanding her territory. And what activities she might have expanded into, given Menkil’s hints. He wondered if their earlier encounter had been, as he’d first thought, a chance meeting in the market, or if the boy had sought him out in order to brag about Dee’s ambitions.

“Well,” Brother Sethen said, rising and folding his hands together with an air of finality, “I trust your judgment if it needs attention. I know you used to run in Haven, so you would understand.”

Rinton stood as well, smiling at the older man. “Thank you, Brother, both for your trust and your information. I will see if I can learn more.”

The priest nodded and turned, moving from the quiet garden corner where they had conferred toward the main gate of the Collegium grounds. Rinton watched him depart, silently groaning. He doubted this was what the gryphon Mage Hydona had meant by “taking a brrreak and rrresssting hisss mind.”

• • •

Distracted by thoughts of his Mage studies, Rinton let his feet wander through Haven without conscious guidance, moving from the Collegium past the estates of the nobles until he found himself in the merchant district, idly scanning the wares in a leatherworker’s shop window. Even without Linx beside him, his Herald’s Whites meant most Valdemarans left him a respectful personal space.

Turning away from the window, he glanced around. A quick flick of his eyes skyward confirmed that Kiyan had found a nearby rooftree. He was about to retrace his steps back up the hill when the crow Mindspoke him.

:LittleBrother comes. Worried. Afraid.:

Rinton raised his eyebrows. :LittleBrother?:

The reply came not in words but a brief picture: Menkil. Somehow, the bird had picked up on the protective urge Rinton felt for the boy, very much like that of an older brother.

What was Menkil doing here? Looking for you, he answered himself. He let his eyes wander over the crowd until he saw the blond head and slight body moving with concealed purpose toward him. He waited. Why was Menkil afraid, and why then was he seeking out Rinton when he had made his resentment and disdain clear?

At last Menkil edged up sideways near Rinton, who had leaned back against a convenient sun-warmed wall as though to enjoy the fine weather. He studiously did not look at the Herald but tilted his head back to share in the sun.

Rinton glanced over at him but kept his silence, turning his gaze back to the square. Strain showed around Menkil’s eyes, and he chewed on his lower lip.

“Rinton, I . . . I . . . can we talk?”

The Herald turned again to face him and raised one eyebrow.

“Away from here, I mean. I . . . I need your help.”

Rinton pushed away from the wall. “Back to the Collegium grounds, or will the Temple of Light be acceptable?”

“The Temple is closer, and the side courtyard is less occupied. I’ll meet you there.” The boy drifted away, pausing to study the wares in a nearby cart, then another shop window, before vanishing into the crowd.

:Now this should be interesting,: Linx commented. :Should I come down the hill and meet you as well?:

:Not visibly. But be close.:

• • •

Rinton surreptitiously eyed Menkil as he sat beside him on a bench in the tree-lined side courtyard of the Temple of Light. All street urchins were underweight—there was no such thing as a regular meal for them—but Menkil looked dangerously thin. At his age he should be putting on some muscle mass, and height as well, but he clearly was not getting enough to eat.

As if to confirm his suspicions, the lad’s stomach growled, audible in the quiet of the courtyard. From the front, Rinton could hear the subtle hum of lessons recited by the small children raised in the Temple’s care.

“Dee’s bin taken up by th’ Guard,” Menkil said, shifting his weight nervously on the bench. Gone was the anger, the sullen attitude, the resentful young man of a few weeks ago, and in their place was a hungry, fearful boy. “She’s bin coolin’ her heels in th’ cells near t’ two weeks. Giff an’ Tack’ve gone t’ground, I dunno where, an’ th’ rest of us . . .”

“The rest of you are starving,” Rinton finished, his voice flat.

“Dee’s contacts won’t work wi’ us low ’uns, an’ there’s not near ’nuff penny jobs t’ go ’round.”

Rinton frowned. It seemed Dee’s plans for expanding her territory had failed in spectacular fashion, and now her hapless crew was paying the price.

“Since you left the Palace employ once, I don’t know that I can get you back in. And for the rest, I don’t have the resources . . .”

Menkil shook his head. “We jes’ need a little help, what ye kin find. ’Til Dee gets out an’ things’re better.”

Digging in his belt pouch, Rinton handed over the handful of coins that he’d brought to the market, meaning to buy a pair of Karsite scented candles as a congratulatory gift for Mirideh, who was to be formally presented with her Healer’s Greens in a day or two. “It won’t go far, but it’ll at least keep you decently fed for a few days until I can think of something else. Trust me, Mennie, I promise.”

Bobbing his head in thanks, the boy stood and hurried out of the courtyard.

:He’s heading straight for the nearest food stall. You haven’t bought yourself much time, not if he eats like most young lads his age.:

:If he shares with the rest of the crew, even less. But Heralds don’t have much coin; our living expenses are paid for by the Crown, and we don’t get that much beyond. Certainly not enough to keep a bunch of street urchins fed. Being from the streets myself, I don’t have any valuables to sell for them.: Idly, he scratched the soft feathers under Kiyan’s beak.

:And there’s no telling how long Dee might be held.: Linx’s comment sent Rinton’s mind down other paths. With the uncertainty of the preparations for whatever new assault might come from Hardorn, many of the routines of life in Haven had been disrupted, including the regularity of the courts. And if Dee had ventured into acquiring and selling information, she might be cooling her heels in a cell at a Guard station for a long while indeed.

• • •

“Rinton, what’re we t’do wi’ th’ extras?”

Rinton blinked. He had come to the market square where Menkil had previously found him, intending to pass on a few more coins from his stipend and apologize that he hadn’t yet come up with a more solid plan.

“What do you mean?”

“We can’t move everything th’ crow brings us at once. An’ most’s too flash.”

“What are you talking about?”

Menkil squirmed under the Herald’s sharp gaze. “I figgered ye’d tol’ ’im t’bring ’em t’us.” Rinton wasn’t surprised by the boy’s reference to him talking to Kiyan. Before he had been Chosen, most of the crew knew he could communicate in some way with animals—no one ever wondered why they never had mice nibbling at any food they might have tucked away.

Rinton glanced up at the nearby rooftree where Kiyan perched. “Ah, take me to your hideout and show me. I think the crow has been too enthusiastic in his . . . collecting.”

:You are to steal no more,: he sternly told the bird, who ducked his head and hunkered low to the building at the obvious displeasure in Rinton’s mind-voice.

:Kiyan help LittleBrother,: the bird replied, his own mind-voice small and pleading.

:Later,: Rinton responded, turning to follow Menkil down one of the narrow, half-hidden passages into the darker corners of Haven.

• • •

Rinton stared at the small pile of treasures; these were indeed things that street urchins would have a hard time disposing of in their usual manner. He reached out and picked up a single gold earring with a dangling emerald, a half-heard conversation from Court pricking his memory.

“Well, there must have been a thief, if it’s not in your bedchamber. Or that cat of yours likes emeralds and ate it.”

“The room was locked, so unless the thief can fly, I think not! And what kind of thief takes only one earring? Besides, Liserl has never shown interest in any of my jewelry. String, on the other hand . . . I can’t have a tassel or a fringe on anything, or she’ll shred it to bits playing with it!”

“We have to get them back to their proper owners. This was not at all what should have happened.” Better to let Menkil think he had given the crow some direction, rather than that the bird had acted on his own. The crow had meant well, but he didn’t need more complications.

:And you have to get them back without getting yourself or Kiyan in trouble, too.:

Rinton frowned. At the Collegium, the Heralds and their staff had become accustomed to Kiyan’s “thieving.” Like all crows, the Bondbird was attracted to shiny objects and collected them, but Rinton had told him to keep his gathering to the Heralds’ Wing and the Collegium grounds. Rinton knew for a fact that one of the seamstresses purposely left broken buttons in various places for Kiyan to find. If anyone was missing anything truly valuable, they came to Rinton, who would check the ceramic tray that housed the bird’s collection. If it was known his bird had been stealing jewelry from the Court and elsewhere in Haven, it could cause serious problems for them both.

:Kiyan take back!:

:No! Too risky. Talk later!:

“How much have you sold off already?”

“Jes’ a few silver pieces, th’ easy ’uns. None so flash as these.”

Rinton nodded, evaluating the remaining dozen or so pieces with an appraising eye. In the seedier parts of Haven, where an urchin crew could sell valuables, even the most uncurious of buyers would have questions about these.

• • •

Rinton settled into his chair in his quarters, a lap desk and paper across his knees. He always preferred to be seated when he shared Kiyan’s eyes; it made the disorientation of vision easier to bear when his body was solidly framed by furniture. The huge crow was perched on the sill of his open window, looking out over the Collegium gardens.

Closing his eyes, Rinton sank into a light trance, following the silvery thread that connected him to the Bondbird, the back of his mind feeling the stronger bond he shared with Linx anchoring him. With a small shift, he aligned his mind with that of the bird until he Saw the bird’s view in his mind’s eye. It was easier now than that first time in Karse, as he and Kiyan had done this often over the last few years.

:Go fly over Haven, and show me where you took each piece.: The crow hopped to the edge of the sill, and Rinton clenched his stomach muscles to control the response of his guts as the crow dropped from the windowsill and opened his wings.

No matter how many times he did this, Rinton never ceased to be awed at the sudden brightness and crispness of the world seen through the crow’s eyes. Surfaces that would be flat to his human eye were dynamic and filled with subtle change to Kiyan. The tiniest of movements leaped out to this expanded awareness as the crow soared over the streets, sailing on strong thermals from the sun-warmed pavement and rooftops.

The crow’s memory supplied an image of each pilfered item as he circled around the buildings he had taken them from, his gaze focused on each window he had gained access through. In his room in the Collegium, eyes still closed, Rinton used a lead stylus to scrawl brief notes on the paper before him. He only hoped that he’d be able to read them later.

• • •

Sitting cross-legged in the tiny makeshift space in the back of an abandoned warehouse that was Menkil’s current hideout, reviewing his rewritten notes, Rinton went through the stolen treasures one by one, listing off where each was from.

Menkil leaned forward and gathered a few items from the small pile between them as he spoke. “I kin take back these three. I know th’ houses.” His voice was full of excitement, an anticipation that Rinton hadn’t heard since the two had re-encountered one another.

Rinton raised an eyebrow, but he nodded. “As long as you can do it discreetly and keep yourself safe.”

The boy rolled his eyes. “If’n Tack kin get summat out o’ these places, I kin get summat back in.”

:I now see why he knows these homes, if the crew has targeted them for theft in the past.: Linx’s mind-voice was dry.

:If they’ve been stolen from before, you’d think they wouldn’t leave valuables visible.: He was pleased, though, that Menkil was volunteering to take the risks of restoring what Kiyan had stolen. The boy understood, where many of his peers would not have, that it was one thing to steal and pawn a small item to get by, but quite another to be excessive. In the best of times, those who ran the streets were blamed for more than their share of the ills in Haven. In times like these, they were the unfortunately convenient target for tempers unable to vent on the true problem. A low profile was best for all concerned.

“The crow can safely return these—” Rinton separated out another pile of jewelry “—and then that leaves just these four I will take care of.” He gathered the emerald earring, a brooch, a necklace, and a bracelet into a third pile. “Two up at the Palace, one in the merchant’s district, and one among the noble houses.”

“Alone? Y’sure?”

“Certainly for the two Palace items. I’ll work out a plan for the other two and see if I need more than myself, the crow, and my Companion.”

Menkil eyed him. “Th’ horse can’t sneak anywhere!” he scoffed.

“You’d be surprised how sneaky they can be, if they want to be. But he’d be a distraction, to draw attention away from the real action.”

The boy was thoughtful for a moment. “Y’know, it jes’ don’t feel right, sneakin’ about t’return summat.”

Rinton nodded, remembering their long-ago exploits. “But it’ll make being successful feel even better.” His eyes met Menkil’s, and the same light of adventure glowed in both.

• • •

Stepping away from the small group of Heralds who still forced themselves to attend Court events, Rinton glanced up at the Palace wall, gauging the position of the windows he knew belonged to Lady Elsara, she of the missing emerald earring. The afternoon garden gathering had seemed to be the ideal time to make his “show” with Kiyan. Court life still went on to some degree, as if in defiance of Ancar, and enough of the courtiers were here to notice, including the Lady Elsara. And none of the Herald-Mages-in-training, which reduced the odds that his use of magic would be identified.

:The smaller shrub,: he told Kiyan, who leaped into the air from his shoulder with all the flair he could.

“Oof!” Rinton said, his voice just slightly too loud, “What are you up to, you great lout?”

With much fluttering and flapping, Kiyan landed on the smaller shrub, and hopped from branch to branch, his hoarse caws drawing much attention.

Rinton walked over beside the bush, the emerald earring tucked just inside the wristband of his Whites. “Too big to get behind there, but you see something, eh?”

A few courtiers nearby gathered in a half-circle around him as he slid one arm behind the branches, groping along the base of the wall. He drew on a small ley-line to build a tiny illusion of a pile of leaves, disturbed by his hand as he eased the earring from his wrist to his fingertips. “What’s this?” he said, dragging the emerald through the mud to soil it as he stood back up, letting the illusion drift back to nothing. “An earring?”

Rinton brushed the dirt over his palm as he turned to the group. “The bird has good eyes—look!” He held out his hand, and one of the ladies gasped.

“That’s Elsara’s emerald earring! She thought it was stolen a week ago!” She turned to a nearby group. “Elsara! Come see what the Herald’s crow found!”

A petite brunette separated from the others and came over, then stared. “That’s my earring, but how did it get down here? I had the pair in my jewelry tray before this one vanished, I know it.”

Rinton looked up at the windows above. “If your room is one of these—” he gestured “—it might have been knocked off the sill and never been seen until someone with sharper eyes than most came by.” On cue, Kiyan hopped off of the branch, two broad wingbeats enough to bring him to Rinton’s shoulder, where he preened.

“See, Elsara?” the first lady said. “I knew it was that cat’s fault. You know how cats are about pushing things off the table. Or the windowsill, apparently.”

The nearby courtiers tittered at her jest, and Rinton made his escape, avoiding as much as he could of Lady Elsara’s effusive thanks.

:One down, three to go.:

:Quiet, you,: he replied to Linx. :This is item number nine, thank you very much. It’s just the first that needed special treatment.:

• • •

Rinton inched a few steps farther to his left. His bare toes ached from gripping the narrow ledge that ran around the entire second story of the merchant’s house. The beams were supposed to be purely decorative, but they were just wide enough that an agile individual could sidle along them. Agile—and ideally smaller than Rinton.

:I’m getting too old for this.: That, and the beam had definitely looked wider when he had seen it through Kiyan’s eyes that afternoon.

:Menkil is younger, and smaller, and he’s returning some of the other items.:

:He couldn’t do this one. This wall is too exposed, and he can’t use—: A very faint sound caught his attention, and he turned his head slightly so his ear could pick up more of it: a hint of a step, and then another one.

:The house guard. He just rounded the northern front corner and is moving to the south.: Linx had stationed himself outside a nearby tavern, one that was of a quality a Herald might patronize, and was playing the role of lookout.

Meanwhile, Rinton was edging along the shadowy south side of the house. It had been a long time since he had run the roofs of Haven, but his body had not completely forgotten the art. And now he stood, caught midway between two windows, with a guard coming around the building.

Reaching with his Mage Gift, he found a ley-line and gently tugged a few threads from it, weaving them into the shadows around him to thicken them. Not so thick that there was a strange blackness against the night-blurred grays of the building, but just enough that his shape in his dark clothing and his soot-darkened face would blend and be better obscured.

He held his breath and flattened even more against the wall as the guardsman rounded the corner to his right, moving with the relaxed purpose of one who doesn’t expect to encounter anything. Rinton ignored the cramping of his toes and calves, his slitted eyes the only things about him that moved, tracking the guard as he passed below, then headed toward the back of the house. Only when the man had rounded the far corner, the soft echo of his step diminishing to nothing, did Rinton allow himself a shallow breath, and then another.

Still holding the shadow-illusion around him, he eased his feet the last distance to the second window, the one Kiyan had found was open, and moved from one shadowed darkness into another.

The bracelet in his waistband had come from another room in this house, but he didn’t dare further exploration. Kiyan had stolen it during the day, when windows were open and rooms were unoccupied. At night, when folks would be seeking their bedchambers, every second he delayed increased the danger.

His eyes now adjusted to the thicker gloom of the indoors, he found what he sought: an alcove with a small armoire that stood on legs. He took the bracelet, tucked in a loosely crumpled handkerchief, and placed the packet underneath the wardrobe. He stepped a pace or two back, studied the armoire, then moved forward again and pulled one corner of the fabric out just a little further. The next time one of the chambermaids dusted and swept this room, it would be found.

:And one of the maids will get a scolding for not sweeping thoroughly the last time.:

:I can’t be responsible for protecting everything and everyone. I just need to get myself out of here.:

Making sure his shadow of illusion was still woven around him, he reversed his steps, sliding out the window onto the too-narrow ledge, his feet protesting after the relief of standing on smooth, flat boards.

:The guard hasn’t come around to the front yet. If you move quickly, you might make it to the corner to climb the roof drain before he gets back.:

:Move quickly, says the one with all four hooves on solid ground.: Nevertheless, Linx’s assessment hastened Rinton along, edging his way down the beam with as much speed as he could, reaching the corner and scaling the pipe far faster than his descent had been.

Once on the relative safety of the rooftop, he took several deep breaths, willing his heartbeat to slow down after the tumultuous surge of danger and exertion. Getting to the next roof and over to the tavern, where his Whites and a bowl of soap and water were waiting in the attic room he’d taken, was a simple traverse compared to the sidelong progress on the beam.

:This would be so much easier if I had Fetching Gift instead of Animal Mindspeech,: he grumbled.

:Didn’t you tell Menkil that the challenge makes the success more worthwhile?:

:I lied.: Even so, Rinton had to admit the exhilaration of undoing what Kiyan had done without anyone being the wiser did have its own peculiar kind of merit.

• • •

The tapping at Rinton’s door was so faint he almost thought it was more rain spattering against the glass panes of his window. Then it was repeated, a tiny bit louder, and he sighed as he put his book—one of the tomes Herald Elspeth had found that told of the Herald-Mages—aside and went to the door. On a dreary rainy evening, he preferred the coziness of his room and a book to nearly anything else in the world, and any interruption could only be counted a bad thing.

His visitor was a young woman, cloaked but dry, so she must have come through the halls from the Palace. But why concealed with a cloak?

“Please, may I ask you a favor?”

She spoke as quietly as she had knocked, her voice so muted that Rinton had to lean down to hear her. With a brief, longing thought for the quiet solitude of reading, he opened the door further and stepped back, gesturing for her to enter.

She glanced around, clearly taken aback by the small size of his room, but stepped daintily forward and seated herself on the chair, perched at the edge of the cushion.

Rinton took his own place on the end of the bed. The low height of the bed meant his head was about level with hers, and he smiled. “I am Herald Rinton, but I presume you knew that already, Lady . . . ?”

“Viraniel.” She nodded. “Lady Viraniel Demmisk. I . . .” her voice trailed off as she caught sight of Kiyan on his perch in the corner. “He’s so big! I’ve never seen a crow so big!”

Rinton breathed a silent sigh of relief. Her reaction to Kiyan seemed to have emboldened her, for her voice was fuller and more clear.

“I’m hoping you can help me,” she said, looking down at her hands, her fingers twisted together in her lap.

“What can I do for you, Lady Viraniel?”

“Lady Elsara keeps talking about how your bird found her missing earring in the underbrush, and I hoped . . .” her voice trailed off; then she took a bracing breath and continued. “I’ve lost my grandmother’s brooch, and it’s the only thing I have to remember her by, and I wondered if you might come to my chambers, and bring your bird, to see if he can find what I and my maidservant could not.”

Rinton fought back the twin urges to laugh and groan. Buried in the bottom of the chest at the foot of his bed at this very moment was an antique brooch, the other item Kiyan had stolen from a room in the Palace.

“We can certainly look, but I don’t know that his eyes will be as useful indoors as out,” he prevaricated. “Did you last have the brooch in your rooms?”

“I . . . I think so. At least, I remember putting it on before the last party I attended, and I know I touched it in the carriage coming back to the Palace . . . for good luck . . . but when I went to put it on the next time I was going out a few days later, I couldn’t find it.”

“Have you talked to the coachmen to see if it was found in the carriage at all?”

“Yes, of course. And my maid and I have swept out all the corners of my room looking for it. Please, can you help?”

Rinton thought fast. “Well, he’s a daytime bird, so we’d want to look in the daylight, of course. And maybe check the whole path, from where you got out of the carriage through the Palace up to your chambers.”

The young woman nodded slowly, frowning. “I understand why, but I didn’t want anyone to know I’d lost it.”

“You wouldn’t need to be with us unless you really wanted to be,” Rinton assured her. “Just describe it to me, so I’ll know it if I see it.”

:It would be easier if she weren’t—you could just bring her the brooch with a tale of finding it ground into the dirt near the carriageway.:

:Precisely what I’m hoping for.:

Lady Viraniel described her missing brooch—an enamel of a flower with intricate silver work surrounding it. As Rinton expected, it was the piece Kiyan had stolen. “And if you didn’t find it outside, then you’d come to my room to look there?”

Rinton nodded. “I assume you’re in the wing with the rest of the Queen’s ladies?”

She smiled. “My room is the smallest one on the corner, overlooking the carriageway. That’s why I couldn’t believe I couldn’t find it, it’s such a small room. How could something be lost in so small a space?”

:Well, now you’ll have to at least pretend to search. You never know if she or her maid might be watching.:

She stood, and Rinton rose from his seat at the edge of the bed. “If the weather clears again, I will take the crow out in the next day or so. If I find the brooch, should I bring it to your room or send a page?”

Lady Viraniel blushed slightly. “It would never do for you to bring it to my room, and I don’t want even the pages to know. I’ll be at the next garden social the day after tomorrow—maybe you could meet me there and let me know? If you don’t find it, I’ll have to make arrangements for my maid to show you my room when I’m not there.” Her blush deepened.

Rinton resisted the urge to roll his eyes at her so-particular concern for her proper reputation as an unmarried lady-in-waiting. If there was one sort of person in all of Valdemar a maiden was safe with, it was a Herald. Instead, he gave her the half-bow of a courtier as he opened the door. “I will find you there, then, Lady Viraniel.”

She inclined her head, pulling her hood to conceal her features before scurrying down the hallway back toward the Palace.

• • •

The next afternoon found Rinton, Kiyan on his shoulder, slowly walking up and down the carriageway, until Kiyan hopped down and scratched a bit in a likely looking patch of mud. Rinton bent over and scooped up a handful of dirt, brushing most of it away before closing his hand over the last clump, smiling and walking briskly back to the Heralds’ Wing with his “prize.”

• • •

At the garden gathering the following day, Rinton waited until the smaller groups of courtiers began to circulate, moving forward as Lady Viraniel separated herself from a knot of ladies.

He gave her a slight bow. “You look lovely today, Lady Viraniel, but I do not feel that your brooch quite complements your outfit.”

She glanced down at the simple silver pin holding the delicate shawl around her shoulders, then looked back up at him, a question in her eyes.

“You need something rather . . . older . . . than that piece.” Smiling, he handed her the small fabric pouch he’d used for her grandmother’s brooch.

She blushed as she took it from his hands. “Thank you,” she said, her soft voice vibrant with relief. “I don’t know how to thank you, and your bird, for your help. I don’t know what I would have done if I’d lost it forever—my maid said she saw you find it by the carriageway?”

Rinton nodded. “It made sense that it might have been trod unnoticed into the dirt. But it is restored to you, so you can carry your grandmother’s memory again.”

“I shall be sure to fasten it more securely now,” she said, tucking the pouch into her pocket.

“I doubt you shall lose it another time,” Rinton replied before bowing once more and taking his leave.

:At least, she won’t have it stolen again by a well-intentioned crow.: Linx’s mind-voice was dry. :You’ll have to be careful, or you and the bird will get a reputation as finders of all lost things.:

Rinton shrugged. :It’ll only be an issue when we’re in Haven. On Circuit, it won’t matter. Now, if Menkil was successful, we’ve got just one more to return.:

• • •

“I got all three back in,” Menkil said, his voice filled with the same exhilaration of success, the same pride that Rinton had felt after the dangerous nighttime return of the bracelet to the merchant’s house. “All right an’ clear.”

“Good on ya, Mennie,” Rinton replied, reaching out and ruffling the lad’s blond hair just as he had when Menkil was five and he was fourteen, when they’d been running the streets together before he’d been Chosen. Menkil ducked his head away from his hand, just as he always had, grinning. “I’ve figured out how to get the last piece returned, but I’ll need you to get inside to let me in. Lord Agravel’s house is too well-guarded and too far away from any other buildings for anyone to clamber in from the rooftops.”

“If I’m on th’ inside, can’t I jes’—just take care o’ it myself?”

Rinton hid a smile at Menkil’s conscious correction of his speech.

“No, because I’ll need to use my Animal Mindspeech to keep her Ladyship’s birds quiet.” Lady Agravel had a trio of brightly colored songbirds caged in the outer room of her personal suite, and they were notoriously noisy during the day. Her ladyship’s servants complained about the shrieks and chattering when they cleaned the apartments, and surely a stranger’s entry would cause them to set up an unholy commotion.

Reaching into the satchel he had brought with him, Rinton produced a set of dark livery garb. “These are better quality than the hand-me-downs Dee’s provided you, and a better fit. By looking better and being near Lord Agravel’s, you should be able to get yourself called upon to run an errand. I’ll have Kiyan watching, so I’ll know when you come back. The most dangerous part for you is to pick the lock on the back storeroom and unlatch the window that looks out to the west.” That window was close to a topiary arrangement that would provide Rinton’s cover, and the storeroom was right near the back servants’ stairs. “Then you’ll get out. Clear?”

Menkil nodded, but he was frowning. “What if ye—you need help?”

:The lad has a point.:

:Not you, too,: he grumbled at Linx.

“I’ll be fine.” As long as no one comes along unexpectedly, he thought. Through Kiyan’s eyes, he had observed the household of Lord Agravel, and he knew the usual routines of the day. If they timed it right, he and Menkil would both be in and out in less than a quartermark.

• • •

:Sssh, sssh, sssshhh, my pretty birds,: he Mindspoke the three birds, putting as much soothing as he could into their heads.

:??!!??:

:Shush now, shush now,: he repeated, placing one hand on the door latch and slowly easing it open.

:!!: A slight twitter of curiosity, but no shrieks, met him as he slid into the room and eased the door closed again.

:Sssshhh, pretty ones,: he said again, expending a little of his personal Mage energy in an attempt to press silence upon them. Looking over at the cage, he saw the three birds watching him closely. :Ssshh, sssshhhh, ssssshhhhh.:

First one, then the second, then the third bird’s head drooped, their eyes half-closing as they watched him approach the cage, the jeweled pendant between his fingers.

As he had seen through Kiyan’s eyes, the bottom of the large cage was actually two parts: the heavy wires of the cage itself, and a flat base below that, which was covered with a layer of oiled tent-fabric and shredded hay over it to catch the birds’ droppings. Reaching between the wires, he scrunched up the fabric in one corner and nestled the pendant at the edge, building a small pile of hay over it. As would be the case with the chambermaid sweeping at the merchant’s house, whoever next cleaned the birds’ cage should find the pendant in the corner.

:It’s also a test of the honesty of the servants, if they bring forward their findings or not.:

:If not, it’ll be them who get caught up trying to fence a stolen piece of jewelry, not Mennie,: Rinton replied. :And if the servants are such fools to not realize that these are “flash” pieces that will raise a lot of questions, they deserve to be taken up for theft.:

His task complete, he gave the birds a final “ssshhh” and edged out of the antechamber, slipping down the hall to the back stairs to reverse his entry.

A heavy tread coming up the stairs sent dread into the pit of his stomach. He had worn nondescript servant’s clothing much like Menkil’s for this exploit, the same dark clothing that had concealed him climbing into the merchant’s house, but there was no way an unknown hireling would be in these rooms, the family’s personal chambers.

He glanced up and down the hall, then darted into the nearest room, an unused sleeping chamber, closing and locking the door. Plastering his ear to the door, he listened to the grumblings of an approaching maidservant.

“Clean up the extra rooms, Steward says,” the woman muttered. “Overnight guests this evening, he says. An’ how’m I to get all that done with m’other duties, I says. Make do, he says.”

Rinton looked at the room around him in dawning horror. He was clearly in one of the extra rooms the maid was coming to clean. Even as he realized, the latch jiggled once, then again.

“An’ then he don’t even send me up wi’ the keys!” The grumbling faded away, and through the door he heard the faintest echo of steps receding down the stairwell.

:Can you think of anything for a distraction, long enough for me to get down the stairs?:

:I’m outside and certainly can’t get in without raising a lot of questions,: came Linx’s short reply. :Unless . . . : his mind-voice trailed off, and there was silence.

Reasoning that staying put was more dangerous now, Rinton took the course of action. Moving as quickly and quietly as he could, he unlatched the door and scuttled to the stair. Just as he approached the top, he heard a cacophony of shrieks and cries from the courtyard outside the building.

:Kiyan help MindFriend!: The crow’s mind-voice was jubilant, and now Rinton could identify the caws of what sounded like a whole mob in the courtyard.

:I asked Kiyan to get some friends involved. It looks like they’re dive-attacking the steward, and from the outside guards’ reactions, half the household is coming out to see.:

Rinton flew down the stairs, listening to the chaos as he headed to the back storeroom. He pushed on the latch, but it didn’t move. He tried again, a little more firmly, but it still stood fast. Locked. He groaned and was about to try another room when he heard the faint snick of the latch opening from the inside. The door opened a crack, and Menkil’s blue eyes grinned at him from the darker room.

“Thought as how you might still need a bit o’ help. You go out th’ way you came, an’ I’ll go out th’ front.”

The two slipped past each other, and Rinton locked the door once more behind him. From the sound of it, the mob of crows was keeping the household well occupied and distracted, and he made use of the moment to get out of the window and into the shrubs.

:Menkil’s out, watching the crows like all the rest. No one’s paying him any regard.:

Keeping to the cover of Lord Agravel’s elaborate wooded garden, Rinton worked around to the edge of the courtyard, where he eased forward and joined the astonished householders and onlookers. Several of the other servants were brandishing brooms and sticks, and the cloud of black wings had multiple targets beyond the steward.

:Enough, Kiyan,: he told the bird. :We’ll be safe now.:

With shrieking caws, the mob took off, one of the juveniles carrying a boys’ cap in his claws as they flew out over Haven. From what Rinton had seen, Kiyan had cleverly kept himself into the middle of the mob, where his unique size was obscured by the wings around him.

As the birds disappeared, Rinton shook his head as if in amazement and retreated into the streets, moving away without looking about for Menkil. Trusting the boy would meet him either at the Temple or the market square, he went first to the stable where Linx was now waiting for him, quickly changing back into his Whites before heading for the Temple of Light.

A shrieking “caw!” was all the warning Rinton had before Kiyan plummeted out of the sky to land with his usual dramatic flair on the Herald’s shoulder.

:Kiyan good? Good attack, friends help?:

:Yes, Kiyan was very good. Good friends help.: He reached up and absently scratched the base of the bird’s skull. The huge crow chittered in pleasure, a trill that approached a purr, and he relaxed into Rinton’s shoulder, leaning against his ear.

Rinton almost sighed himself. Yes, it would be good to relax, knowing he had kept his promise and neither Menkil, nor Kiyan, nor Rinton himself would be endangered by Kiyan’s enthusiastic aid. And if Menkil was willing, a few days ago Rinton had found a City Guardsman who would take on a former street urchin to train to be a Guard himself. It would get the boy off the streets, and no one could watch for trouble so well as one who had been there himself and understood the life from the ground up. Dee was still under arrest, and her crew had broken apart, so Menkil would have a hard time of it going alone on the streets anyway.

:Not the life he wanted, maybe, nor yet what you had thought for him, but still a better life.:

:LittleBrother happy, MindFriend happy, Kiyan happy.: The bird chittered again, and Rinton smiled. Despite everything that faced Valdemar and her people, in this moment, yes, he was indeed happy.

Causing Trouble

Dylan Birtolo

Ari stood in the opening to the stables looking at the grain scattered across the dirt floor, giving the appearance of seeds during planting season. Several had been crushed into the packed dirt, revealing the massive weight and size of the perpetrator. Not that Ari needed any proof to know who was responsible. It always was the same. With a resigned sigh, he left to fetch the broom in an attempt to salvage what he could of the feed. While sweeping up the remains, he found the sack in the corner, still half-full of grain and missing a corner, with ragged edges marking where it had been torn open.

As he scooped up the pile of grain and dumped it back into the sack, he heard the snort that sounded suspiciously full of amusement. To others, it might have just been a snort, but Ari had spent enough time around the animals on the farm to read the subtle emotions carried by their noises and body language. The more time he spent with them, the more he understood, and this one seemed to always require more time and attention than any two other residents of the farm combined.

Ari stood up and turned, approaching the gate for Laya’s stall. Her long neck let her reach her head out into the main path so she could watch him approach. She let out a strong exhale when he drew near, blowing his dark hair out of his face for a moment before it settled back into place just at the edge of his view. She shook her broad head back and forth in what Ari would swear was a laugh.

“Pleased with yourself, are you?” he asked the horse.

In response, she turned around and drank from the water trough. He reached the gate and rested his arms on the top of it. Somehow, it was latched shut. He could’ve sworn Laya stopped drinking as he examined the latch, but discarded the thought as her loud slurping continued.

Ari chewed on the edge of his lip as he watched her drink. She was a bit short for a horse, making her poorly suited for many of the tasks around the farm. However, what she lacked in size, she made up in strength, particularly in the hindquarters. With her chalky, coarse coat, she wasn’t to everyone’s liking, but there was something about the way she looked at him that made her antics tolerable.

As if she could read his mind, she lifted her head and came over to nuzzle his shoulder. The sheer weight of her head forced him to take a quick step to avoid being knocked over, but he recovered quickly and wrapped an arm around her neck. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, savoring the scent of horse mixed in with the dirt from her latest roll.

And then she dumped the mouthful of water across his back, soaking his shirt and making it stick to his skin.

“Laya!” Ari jumped back and shook his arms out to either side, but the damage had already been done and no amount of movement could shed the water.

She pulled back and pranced around the stall as much as she could in the limited space.

“I swear. Sometimes I wonder what my mother saw in you.”

With a resigned sigh, he went back to picking up the area before setting the horses loose in the paddock. By the time he opened the back doors to the stables, the sun was a full hand’s width above the horizon. As usual, dealing with the aftermath of Laya’s antics made the entire process take far longer than he anticipated.

The small herd of horses trotted past him, eager to get out to the fresh grass and have a chance to stretch their legs. Most of them ignored his presence after they passed by. Only Laya stopped and turned to give him a final glance before joining the others. That moment tugged at something inside of him, like a memory reaching out with thin strands to his soul.

He went back into the stables and started the grueling but necessary task of mucking out the stalls and spreading fresh straw. By the time he finished, his hair was slick with sweat and every breath was filled with a thick combination of dirt and horse dust. As used as he was to the smell, it was too potent to slip out of his notice.

His feet dragged a bit as he trudged back to the house, but the temptation of food and water was too strong to slow his steps. As he entered the building, he heard his Aunt Torene in the kitchen, chopping something in preparation for dinner. The sound reminded him that they anticipated a guest that night, a traveler who had been all over Velgarth with stories to share in exchange for a good meal. He had already been to some of the houses in town, and his reputation preceded him. As owners of one of the largest farms in the area, they had a position with enough prestige to warrant a personal visit. Ari looked forward to hearing the stranger’s tales. They didn’t often get visitors, and stories of faraway lands reminded him of the tales his mother used to tell.

Ari crept into the kitchen, but it didn’t matter how little noise he made, his aunt always knew when he entered. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear she had a Gift that warned her of his presence. She stood by the counter in front of the window, wearing one of her few dresses reserved for when they had visitors or trips into town. She was tall, with dark hair like his—a trait that ran in their family. Hers was braided and tied back to rest between her shoulder blades.

“You can have one of the apples on the table, but don’t touch the bread. That’s for tonight.”

She paused her chopping of vegetables and wrinkled her nose before she glanced at him over her shoulder. “Laya up to her antics again?”

Ari walked to the table, scooping up an apple and biting into it so that he had to talk around a chunk when he responded, juice flowing down his chin. “She dumped water down my back. And that was after she got out and spilled grain all over the ground.”

His aunt shook her head. “Sometimes I think that horse is more trouble than she’s worth. She’s well past her breeding age, and she’s useless on the farm. How much of the grain did she eat?”

Ari swallowed, coughing a bit as he discovered the piece was a bit too large. “Pretty sure none. She just spread it around everywhere. I was able to pick up most of it.”

Torene paused in her chopping, resting her hand on the edge of the table. She muttered under her breath too soft for Ari to hear what she said, but he did catch her say something about her sister. They didn’t talk about Ari’s mother much, ever since she had fallen in combat, and Ari showed up at Torene’s farm on Laya’s back with a handful of belongings stashed in the saddlebags. She and her husband had been welcoming enough, eager to have an extra pair of hands to help, especially since they had no children of their own, but certain topics were deliberately avoided.

“You should clean up in preparation for our guest. You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

“No. I just wanted a quick bite first.”

“After you change clothes, fetch the good plate settings.”

That more than anything else was an indicator of the importance of this mysterious visitor. They had a set of metal plates and spoons made of silver. If his aunt wanted to use those, it meant she wanted to make an impression; they were reserved for only the most prestigious of guests. They weren’t even kept out in the open where someone might happen upon them.

Ari finished his snack and went to his room, removing his sweat-stained shirt as he did so, taking a moment to grab a towel and wipe off the lingering sweat before putting on his good tunic. He only had the one, but it was a beautiful piece made of green leather with a fur trim around the edges that felt smooth against his skin. Even just putting it on gave him the impression of slipping into a different world, if only for a moment. Grabbing a handful of water from the washbasin, he splashed it on top of his head before running his fingers through his hair, attempting to tame it as much as possible with the quick ministrations. At the least, he hoped it looked less chaotic and disheveled.

Deemed suitable for their honored guest, at least by his own judgment, Ari went to his aunt and uncle’s bedroom. Along one of the walls, Ari knelt down and pried up part of the floor. The revealed cavity contained a small chest. Inside were the valuable plate settings, a few treasured family heirlooms, and small pouches filled with coins that amounted to years of profit. While they had a comfortable life now, that was not always the case, and some habits refused to go quietly into the mists of the past. Ari took out the table settings and placed the chest back in the hidden compartment, making sure the grain patterns in the floor lined up once the cover was put back in place.

Carrying the treasures, he entered the main room and approached the large table in the center that took up most of the space. An empty hearth stretched along most of one wall, only an arm’s reach from the bench. It was close enough that Ari was very glad they wouldn’t need a fire. Otherwise, he’d most likely have to take the seat directly in front of the flames.

The walls were bare, but Ari thought that made the place more comfortable. He once attended dinner inside the mayoral Palace, and found the paintings on the wall unnerving, like they watched every bite he took with judgmental stares. Then again, perhaps that was the atmosphere the mayor wished to create.

Satisfied with his dressing of the table, Ari went to check with his aunt to see what else needed doing before their guest arrived.

• • •

The sun was getting close to setting, and their guest could arrive at any moment. Ari stood in the front doorway, staring down the road that led to the center of town, hoping to catch a glimpse of the traveler on the horizon. He heard his uncle’s heavy tread on the floor behind him before the older man said anything.

“Best get the horses in now, it’s getting dark.”

Ari turned and saw his uncle also dressed in some of his finer clothes, wearing the tunic and cloak embroidered with a raven sitting on a branch. Rotger was not a tall or large man, but his arms and legs were as solid as tree trunks. He gave the impression that bumping into him was similar to running into a stone, a fact Ari could vouch for from experience.

“Do you really think he’s been all the way to the Terterine Empire?” Ari asked. He hadn’t heard much, but some rumors had reached his ears.

“I think you’ll be able to ask him yourself, if you get those horses in before he has to leave.” His uncle’s stare made it clear the task was not to be delayed any longer.

Ari sprinted out to the paddock, placing both hands on the top bar of the fence and vaulting over it rather than working his way around to the opening. Even before he landed on the grass on the other side, he called out for the horses. Those who didn’t see his arrival recognized his voice and came trotting over. They knew the rewards that awaited them in the stables and came willingly, just at different speeds.

As he led them into the stables one at a time, he ticked each one off the list in his head. It came as no surprise that Laya was the last one in. He stuck his head out of the stables into the paddock, and she stood at the crest of a small hill, farther than a stone’s throw away.

He sighed and marched out after her. “Not today, Laya. Come on.”

She stood there until he was a few strides away, then spun around and sprinted to the far corner. She turned and whinnied at him, loud enough for him to hear it over the intervening distance.

This was a game Ari knew well, and he didn’t have the time to play it tonight. He went back to the stables and grabbed a rope to help him get control of the animal. When he went back outside, she had crept closer, back near the crest of the hill. Once again, as he approached, she retreated to the far corner. Ari approached her, holding the rope between his hands and spreading them wide so the strands were taught.

She watched him approach and lowered her head so that he could more easily loop the lead around it. As the top of the rope touched the back of her neck, she jerked back, pulling it out of his hands and warming them from the friction. She whinnied and ran back to the center of the area, the rope dangling down on both sides of her neck. She stood there, waiting for him to get close.

“Laya, I do not have time for this.” The words came out as a growl, his patience reaching its limit.

She lowered her head and approached him, the rope trailing through the grass. He reached forward with the utmost care, expecting her to pull away once again. Instead, she pressed her nose against his shoulder, giving it a nudge so soft that he didn’t have to struggle to keep his footing. He reached up and rubbed her face.

“Sorry. I know you’re just playing your games. Just not tonight. I want to get back before the traveler arrives.”

Her head snapped up and a moment later Ari heard the telltale creaking of a wagon rolling down the road. Twisting around, he saw the light hanging off the front corner of a large wagon, making it easy to notice in the fading light. Two people sat on top of it, one of them directing the pair of horses pulling it along. The other traveler sat swaddled in a cloak, his hands tucked inside. The back of the wagon was filled with crates and chests, the details impossible to make out at this distance. Ari turned and sprinted toward the stable, pulling on Laya’s lead.

He jerked to a stop as the rope grew taught and he pulled on a statue. Turning back, he took the rope in both hands and yanked, but Laya didn’t budge. Only the twitching of muscles in her neck gave any indication that Ari’s motions had any effect. Her nostrils flared and she snorted, her gaze firmly fixed on the wagon and following it as it pulled to a stop in front of the house.

“Laya, come on! What’s gotten in to you?”

Ari had never seen anything like this from her before. He dug his heels in and tried to force her to take a step, but only succeeded in digging a few shallow furrows in the dirt. After the passengers on the wagon stepped into the house, only then did Laya take a step. She picked up her pace, forcing Ari to jog next to her if he wanted to maintain control of the lead rope and not get dragged along behind her.

Rather than heading toward the stable, she veered toward the wagon. Ari realized she was heading right toward the fence, a simple barrier he’d seen her leap over before. Desperate, he jumped in front of her and pulled down on the rope, putting his full weight into the motion.

That finally snapped her out of her determined gait, and she planted her front feet before she risked running into Ari. She looked down at him and snorted again. This time it lacked the warmth he’d grown accustomed to.

“Come on,” he said as he picked himself up, grumbling as he noticed the dirt on his tunic. He yanked on the rope, leading her to the stables. She went with the motion, but so reluctantly he practically dragged her with every step.

At the entrance to the stables, she gave one last look at the wagon and stamped her foot a couple of times, but Ari didn’t want to deal with her games anymore. She bowed her head and followed him into her stall. He latched the door shut, making sure it was held solidly in place.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you tonight, but I’ve had enough of it. I just hope I haven’t missed the best stories.”

Laya reached out to nibble the edge of his shirt, a maneuver he had seen multiple times. Ari jerked back, out of range, and stormed out of the stable. He slammed the door shut and leaned his back against it, taking several deep breaths before he went back to the house. As eager as he was, he didn’t want to make a bad impression.

Pausing before the front door, Ari smoothed out his tunic with his hands before going inside. His parents sat at the main table along one side, while one of the travelers sat in his uncle’s seat at the head. The man was thin, with angular features and hair almost light enough to be white. He had a smile on his face that did not reach his eyes, and something about him made the hairs on Ari’s neck stand on end.

“Do come in, Ari. Have a seat and join us. Let me tell you a story.”

The traveler’s words sounded like music, with a lifting and falling that carried Ari away on its soothing waves. A warmth spread over him that made him double check the hearth, but it was still empty. The warmth radiated from the traveler himself, making Ari know he was safe here. He shuffled across the floor to sit on the bench next to his aunt. She didn’t so much as look away from the traveler to acknowledge her nephew’s arrival.

“Good. Now that we’re all here and we all trust each other, let’s play a game. You tell me a secret, and I’ll share a story of my adventures.”

• • •

Ari stood in front of the house with his aunt and uncle, all three together as a group. They had come to see their guest off, and Ari was glad for the time they had together. He couldn’t remember the stories the man told, but he remembered how they made him feel. It was more than worth the price of opening their home for an evening.

“Travel well!” Rotger said, waving as he beamed.

“You are welcome back any time,” Torene added.

As the traveler climbed into his seat, there was a harsh scream from the stables. Ari shook his head, recognizing Laya’s voice, even if he had never heard her make such a sound before.

She burst through the stable door, scratching herself on jagged wooden shards in the process. She galloped toward the fence, clearing it as easily as Ari could step over a line drawn in the sand, and rushed at the wagon, causing the horses tacked to it to rear and kick in the air despite the driver’s attempt to control them. The driver cracked a whip, first at his mounts, and then at Laya.

“Get her under control!” Rotger shouted, stepping forward to help with the process. Ari joined him.

Laya pranced out of their reach, continuing to snort at the wagon, or more to the point, the people on it. Ari paused, thoughts coming slowly to his mind like after one first wakes in the morning. He saw the traveler on the wagon and realized he had never caught the man’s name, nor could he remember a single story the man told. The last several hours formed no specific memories he could recall, just a vague sensation of warmth and comfort that grew more uncomfortable with each passing second that Ari couldn’t identify a source.

His uncle continued to chase Laya, trying to get close to her, but she evaded him, the two of them circling the wagon. The traveler was shouting something, but his voice didn’t carry over Laya’s screams or the panicked shouts of the wagon’s horses. When Laya came around again to Ari’s side, she reared, her front hooves striking the side of the wagon with enough force to shatter the wooden side. Several crates and chests spilled to the ground, some of them smashing open from the impact.

Including the family’s chest where they kept their silverware.

For a moment, it seemed as if everything stood still. As Ari’s eyes traveled up, he saw one of the portraits in the back of the wagon that he recognized from the mayor’s house.

As quickly as the moment of stillness descended, motion exploded out of it. Torene rushed forward and headed the horses pulling the wagon, preventing them from going any further. With a single heave, Rotger pulled himself up onto the seat of the wagon where he stood towering over the two travelers still seated. Laya calmed down and eased her head onto Ari’s shoulder.

“I can explain—” the traveler started to say before his mouth was covered with Rotger’s rough palm.

“I think you’ve said enough for one evening.” Without turning from the traveler, he called out to Ari. “Get on that beautiful horse of yours and ride to the mayor. Tell him to come quick with the constable. I think he’ll be mighty interested to see the rest of the contents of the wagon, and hear all about how this one’s been using his Gifts.”

Ari swung up on Laya’s back, not needing a saddle or even reins. He trusted her as she took off, heading toward the center of town. Leaning forward, he wrapped his arms around her neck, both for the comfort of her physical touch, and to get close enough to ask a question.

“My mother asked you to take care of me, didn’t she?”

He struggled to hear her snort over the wind whistling in his ears, but he caught the meaning nonetheless.

All Around the Bell Tower

Stephanie Shaver

I am shattered across the past and future.

—I am in the belfry, clutching my mother’s memories, sketches of buildings and bridges, arches and trusses, aged pages half legible as dawn breaks.—

—I am playing hide and seek in the fields of Reeveshald, laughing with my family, sunlight glinting off the golden sheaves of wheat.—

—I am racing through moonlight, barely keeping up as we escape Ancar’s death squad.—

Amidst the swirl of future-past-present, I see her, the warrior on the white horse. She is framed in pink and white flower petals. Her smile centers me. I do not know where in time she is, but I want what she is—her composure, her calm. Even the mare fills me with unspeakable joy. I run toward them—

“Boy!”

Now I am here again, no longer adrift on the rivers of time. I am staring stupidly at the man in dark blue—no, Blue. I have been told in Valdemar these are Guards, their army.

The tears come without warning, rushing down my cheeks, and the man in blue—no, Blue—looks confused and ashamed, until my mother rushes over and draws me back to our campfire.

“Please forgive my son,” she says. “It’s been a long journey. Are we safe now?”

“Yes’m,” he says. “We’ll sort you out when the fighting is over. This far inside Valdemar and behind the Army, you should be fine.” He looks at me oddly. “Did they—hurt him or—”

“His father and brother were killed,” my mother says bluntly. She strokes my hair, all the way to the tip of its short ponytail, in the style of my people’s boys.

Safe in her arms, my mind returns to the memory of Reeveshald’s wheat fields. My brother practices sword work under the approving eye of our father and uncle. I too am pushed to practice, but I do not love it like I love other things—weaving baskets, practicing archery, studying the equations in my mother’s notebooks. Still, I am given a belt and a knife, and my father promises me when next he returns from Crown City, I will learn to fight.

I don’t know why it troubles me.

We are so proud of my brother, and on the night of his Naming throw him a feast, for he is to be sworn to King Alessandar’s personal guard. He chooses to leave behind his boyhood name and take Tyrold, his great-grandfather’s name. A good name. We weave flower crowns for him and cook sausage and kashendoff. He leaves that week to go with my father back to Crown City, and for the first time in my life I sleep alone.

Perhaps this is why the Sight comes to me then—nightmares of endless running. It does me no good, and my mother thinks I merely miss my brother. Then my uncle Urich arrives in the village on a half-dead horse, screaming we must go—

The compact we struck with Hardorn’s kings has been shattered. The safety we sought—the safety Reeve’s son forged centuries ago, after we fled tyranny in Karse—the chance to love and live as we wish—under Ancar’s rule, it is all gone.

And so we pass over the Border, and try again in Valdemar.

My mother loves me, but she loved her husband and her son, too. She pours her grief in her notebooks, losing herself in the study of the common things this new land has to offer. It leaves me to be devoured by visions.

One night, in a daze, I tell her the Valdemarans will win their first war with Ancar. She consults with Azel, the Eldest of Elders. He listens as I described the plot of land the Valdemarans will give us to settle, the bell tower my mother will design for Zevyn. I trace its lines in the air. My mind skips, and I describe the briars of our new valley, the sunlight glowing over its hollows and curves.

I tell him of the fruit trees we will plant, the flowers we’ll grow for the bees. I describe the kashendoff we will bake and share again. I can smell the toasting nuts and spices.

“Azel?” my mother says to him, worry in her voice.

“It could be something,” Azel says. “It could be a powerful imagination, warding against horror. We have not had one with the Sight for a long while.” He strokes my hair fondly.

“Will he be all right?”

“This young? We should be able to keep his mind intact.”

My mother kisses my forehead. I look at them both. Their concern is tangible.

“We will keep this to us for now, Nadja,” Azel says, “the time to share with the village will come if it proves to be more.”

Our new Queen grants us our village, as I said she would. In honor of my father, we name this new village “Hjoldhald.”

Azel buys me a small handbell from a passing merchant. Its steady ringing calms my mind when the visions threaten to overwhelm me, its notes settling over my mind like oil. At the center of them is the memory of the woman on the horse, smiling knowingly at me.

And for all that my Sight shows me, there are still blind spots.

When they catch me, they crush me.

• • •

“Holdhold?”

It still seemed like a joke to Wil as he and his traveling partners—the Bard Amelie and the Lord Healer Grier Baireschild—descended the valley toward a walled village. Mature fruit trees in full bloom lined the hills in tidy rows, their boughs heavy with white and pink blossoms.

The Herald kept trying to wrap his head around the name and failing.

“There’s a bit of an emphasis you’re missing,” Amelie replied. “Hjoldhald.”

“That just . . . can’t be the name.”

“I didn’t name it. The Zevynites did.”

“Has someone told them we have naming standards?”

“I wouldn’t argue with Zevynites,” Grier said.

“Why?” Wil asked.

Amelie and Grier shot him twin looks of horror.

“Didn’t you hear what they did to Ancar’s army?” Grier asked.

“Skull trophies,” Amelie whispered. “So many.”

“Surely not,” Wil said, disturbed. “Surely the Queen—”

“She . . . decided to be indisposed,” Grier said delicately. He indicated the top of the village bell tower. “It looks like they have kept up with the tradition, though.”

Wil squinted where he pointed and saw them: a shelf circling the tower’s belfry, upon which rested many skulls bleaching in the sun.

:Must admit it sends a message,: Vehs, his Companion, said.

As they advanced through the village gates, Wil heard a bell tolling rhythmically from the bell tower. It was attached to a large, steeple-roofed structure. If he had to guess, it was some kind of meeting hall. Maybe even a temple. The walls and shutters were decorated with paintings of—wolves? No, not quite wolves.

:Kyree,: Vehs observed.

A villager approached, flower crowns draped over her arms. Laughing, she threw the crowns around Vehs and Amelie’s mount Aubryn, the other, unpaired Companion accompanying them. Having festooned the Companions, she finished by handing a crown to Wil.

“Uh, thank you?” he said.

The stranger winked and wandered off, never saying a word.

:Any skulls in there?: Vehs asked, settling his crown with a shake.

:I don’t see any,: Wil replied.

:Damn,: said Aubryn. :I’d happily wear Ancar’s head around my neck. Hellfires, I’d get it gilded.:

:Are you going to put on your crown?: Vehs asked.

Wil grumbled, and then slowly put the crown on his head.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath.

:You look dashing.:

“What is this?” Wil said, directing the question at Amelie, the whole reason they’d even made this detour. “You’ve been here before, right? Are they having some kind of festival? But why just me and the Companions?”

“I don’t know!” Amelie said, flustered. “Last time I was here, they asked questions about Heralds and—oh!”

A Companion suddenly emerged from a crowd of people and galloped up. She had been bedecked in a riot of blue, magenta, and yellow flowers, from head to tail. Her sapphire eyes rolled as her mind-voice rang in Wil’s head.

:You have to help me!: she said. :These people are insane!:

• • •

The fruit trees are slender saplings, and I still have a short ponytail when the first Herald arrives. Despite her protests and our meager harvest, we welcome her with a feast, and she explains how taxation works in this new land.

I am too young to care about taxes, but when she is gone the Elders are abuzz because of something to do with Heralds and Companions.

“From time to time, a child may come through town on a handsome beast, like my Companion, Alrek,” she says. “Or a Companion may even come here searching for their next Chosen. If you help them, you have half taxes that year.”

When first we fled Karse, the flight where Reeve lost her life and named our village, the Zevynites had to choose where to escape to. Some argued for decadent Rethwellan, some wished to gamble with the east, and some had said “Why not Valdemar?”

The specter of Heralds—child-thieving Heralds—had hung over us, and ultimately it had swayed us toward Hardorn.

Now it seems children will suffer no matter where we go. Karse burns them alive, Ancar bleeds them for his wizards, and Valdemar steals them for their Heralds.

We talk of how to protect against the child-stealing but find no answers. It is Urich who reminds us, “Feed your enemy. Lull them with a smile, a flower crown, a thousand slices of kashendoff, and another thousand pounds of sausage. When they are so full they cannot move, then push the dagger into their belly—they’ll be so stuffed they’ll never feel it.”

But it is my mother who asks, “Are the Heralds really our enemy? What have they done but take us in and give us a new home?”

The Elders grumble when she says things like this. But she is an Elder herself, and they must listen to her.

“We feed them anyway,” Azel responds evenly and then smiles. “Just in case.”

“They do seem to like our cake,” my mother agrees.

Not long after the Herald departs, we build the bell tower. I measure the height—eighty handspans. My mother is impressed by this, and tells me it is five handspans taller than Reevehald’s.

I start to see numbers everywhere. The rows of trees. The cell of the honeycomb. The patterns comfort me when the disorienting visions do not.

The bell’s metal comes from rocks we dug up in the field and weapons that no longer have hands to wield them. The three statues of Zevyn—the Mother, the Father, and the Shifter—will be carved from wood by our best sculptor, Aevus, and painted by his husband, Corwyn. Our doors will, likewise, be hewn from local oak. We will have a proper chapel, and Zevyn’s voice will ring over us through the bell.

The woman-Herald creates another buzz—in me. We never sent women to Alessandar, because in Hardorn, the army had no women. But Valdemar is not Hardorn. At night, when I am on the verge of sleeping, the vision of the woman on the horse comes to me. She is not the Herald who came to our village, but she is someone. I wonder if Reeve was like her.

When I draw her visage up into my mind, it no longer calms me but instead makes my heart race.

“I am going to be her someday,” I whisper to myself one night, and the truth of it is so real I gasp out loud and wake my mother. She calls my name and asks me if I’m all right.

I tell her I am fine, and she goes back to sleep.

But I know someday I will need to tell her.

• • •

Wil sent Grier and Amelie away to the common house, creating a circle of himself and the three Companions behind the large building with the bell tower.

Everywhere he looked, revelers ate cake, drank steins of beer, and enjoyed themselves. The smell of roasted meat mingled with the perfume of flowers. Someone played a gittern loudly, competing with the bell with more enthusiasm than skill. People kept shoving cake at him, boisterously encouraging him to have a slice, and he’d finally acquiesced just to get them to stop bothering him.

Vehs leaned over his shoulder, shoving his muzzle toward the uneaten cake, his nostrils widening.

“Go on,” Wil said.

The Companion extended his lips and took a delicate nibble.

Wil turned to the new Companion, addressing her by name. “All right, Juny. Explain.”

:I didn’t make it two steps into this town before they surrounded me!: she said. :It’s like they don’t know how Choosing works. They shoved one of the villagers at me, and they want to send him back to Haven with me!:

“And then?”

:They started to . . . throw a party!:

:So they just . . . picked someone?: said Aubryn, confused.

:Yes!: Juny stamped her hoof to add emphasis to the thought. :I have been on search so long. And when I finally knew where to go, I came as fast as I could!:

Wil had no idea how Companions and Choosing worked, so he just had to trust her. But . . .“You’re sure this is the place?”

:Yes . . . they are close. I just—I can’t find them!:

“Okay, keep looking.” Wil rubbed his face. “I’ll see if the other two have talked to the locals.”

:Oh, yes, let’s try talking sense to the skull-collecting cake bakers!: Vehs said gleefully. :Juny, you really know how to Choose them!:

She glared balefully at him before trotting off.

“Incorrigible,” Wil told Vehs as he ate the rest of the cake.

:She’s the one Choosing lunatic dough punchers!:

“You know,” Wil said, “some people said things about you when you Chose the son of a Karse immigrant.”

:Well, those people were just ignorant. And you’ve turned out well. Though I still think you ought to dye your hair or something. The white is scaring the children.:

“A-a-and that’s the last slice of cake I’m giving you.”

:Tch. So heartless. Actually, cake might help you, too. You’re a skeleton. Your head could practically be one of those belfry skulls.:

“Vehs?”

:Hm?:

“Go stick your head in a cake.”

• • •

Visions of a winged horse flying through smoke plague me. A week later, a Herald comes to our village with a call to arms: Ancar has returned.

In a private Seeing with Azel, I try to divine who will live and who will die if we go. I focus on Azel, Urich, even my dear friend Oren, a few years older than me but already showing the first signs of a beard. But my visions remain stubbornly symbolic.

“Will we still go?” I ask.

“Of course,” Azel replies, snorting. “We are Zevyn’s children. We will bring the Mother back Her skulls.”

“Can I go?”

Azel looks—not just startled, but alarmed at the idea. “No—no, dearest. You will stay here.” He ruffles my hair. “Keep your people safe.”

I do not like the answer. I think of Oren and my uncle—I think of the warrior on the horse—I feel certain I will never meet her while I stay in the village. My heart longs to wander.

Most of our best warriors died with King Alessandar, but still we send Azel and a dozen others, Oren among them. Thus begins a strange season in the village, with more women than men. And for the first time I feel I can relax some boundaries. I take my hair out of the short ponytail and weave flowers through it. I loosen the belt from my waist. My mother seems on the verge of asking something—but doesn’t.

This time is also ideal for calamity. And indeed, with the Kingdom’s Heralds and Guards on the Border, the ruthless take advantage of the moment.

What they do not anticipate is me.

I tell my mother of the bandits I have Seen, and so we are ready for them when they arrive. She and I have calculated the angle of our arrows from the upper windows of the belfry and launch them in a relentless volley. Others, similarly armed, respond from the village fortifications. The rain of arrows and rocks drives them back, and afterward new skulls decorate the belfry.

There is no hiding my power now. It is celebrated. For a time, I feel I have purpose, but the victory is short-lived. Visions begin to overwhelm me, some familiar: the belfry at dawn, the Herald showered in cherry blossoms. Some not: a coil of rope, dried flowers tumbling through my fingers. I can make no sense of them. I do not see the danger.

When my mother dies, it shocks me like an endless plunge into icewater, leaving me utterly bereft.

• • •

A tower of sausages and cake marked Grier and Amelie’s table. He let them know what he’d gleaned from the Companions, and then asked, “What did you find?”

Grier raised an enormous, glazed mug of a kyree biting its own tail. “This . . . is a stein.”

Wil stared at him.

Amelie cleared her throat. “Just . . . a lot of devastatingly misinformed people. It’s like the Holderkin except—happy?”

“The Holderkin if the Holderkin wanted to send someone, just not the someone the Companion Chose,” Grier said.

“The Zevynites have barely been part of Valdemar a decade,” Wil said. “I guess they haven’t adjusted. It would make some sense that their first Choosing would cause some disruption. Juny should just abduct this one.”

Amelie blanched. “Wil, I think this is not the place or time for that.”

Wil looked across the room to where several men, all sporting thick beards and huge forearms, were sinking hand axes into a plank of wood painted with concentric circles. They laughed and clinked steins, chugging beer every time they hit the mark, which meant they were both overly boisterous and quite drunk.

“Forgive me for asking,” Grier said, pointing to the plank. The painted targets were heavily scarred toward the center. “Are they . . . good?”

“Yeah,” Wil said. “They’re good.”

• • •

Surely she oversleeps, I think.

I try and try to wake my mother, but she is a stone, and I know she will not open her eyes. My queries transform to wails, as others rush to my home to bear witness to my despair.

I become a recluse. My hair goes long and wild, and I withdraw from the earth—I climb into the belfry, alternating through sifting through her drawings—all I have left of her—and staring out over the valley, longing to fly away.

I am assaulted by the past—waiting in the darkness with bows drawn, running from death and her scooping me up when I could run no more—and what I know now is the future—the Herald on the Companion; a rope dangling free; flowers raining down; a field of endless blue like the sky; a man with white hair reaching out to me.

My mother’s death has stolen the voice of the village, for my mother rang the bells, and her absence claws at me. She reveled in the precise rhythm of the strike and the flow of pulling the rope, and I weep the first time I pull the sally and feel the vibration through my bones. But it also brings me respite from the visions that my little handbell has long ago ceased to help with. The harmonics clear my mind. No one stops me from taking up the ringings that mark the morning, afternoon, and evening.

It is more than her death that drives me away from others. I feel mismatched, out of phase, and my mother’s death has only thrown me further off kilter. I dig shapeless robes out of the temple’s chests and wear them. I vanish into the tower and speak to no one.

Our men return victorious, albeit diminished, the lucky ones bearing fresh wounds that will heal into old scars. One night I hear feet on the stairs and a voice calls, “A strange bird nests in Zevyn’s tower.”

I look down at Azel from my perch and reluctantly take his offered hand. He wordlessly draws me down to the chapel. The statues gleam in the lantern light. The Mother with a flower cupped in both palms, just under Her heart. The Father with a sword clasped point down in front of His chest. And in the center the Shifter with a kyree’s head, hands out before Them.

They are all Zevyn, for Zevyn strides between all things. Zevyn knows all spaces; all shades of light; all hues of color.

“I have been told you saved the village,” Azel says.

I shrug.

“What a brave boy you are.”

I flinch at the words. Everything is confusion and hurt, and this is another piece of it.

I think, I had always meant to tell her.

“You’re wearing robes,” Azel notes.

“They’re comfortable.”

Azel brushes my hair aside, dried flowers falling free. “Your hair has grown.”

“I like it long,” I whisper.

“I used to have long hair once.”

I look at him, surprised. “You did?”

“I cut my braid and took the name Azel on my Name Day.” He turns toward the Shifter. “We learned from Zevyn that there are some who are born to shift in life, whose souls do not match their bodies. I am one such.”

Of course, I knew of those who shift. I did not know Azel to be one of them. I tell him as much.

“Zevyn blessed me at a young age,” Azel says. “There are other peoples in other lands who also are Sworn to their gods in similar ways, though they usually end up as more they than he or she.”

I am thinking hard on his words because I am scared but also hopeful.

“I am not they,” I say.

Azel nods. “Nadja and I sometimes wondered.”

At the sound of her name, I start to cry. Did she know? Did I ever need to say it? “I am afraid to say what I think I am.”

“Nestling,” Azel says, gently. “Knowing yourself is not an easy thing, nor is it something you do once and are done with. If you are lucky, it is a lifelong task. But this I know too well: There can be no joy so long as you lie to yourself.”

“It just feels so . . . big.” I jam my fingers into my hair. “I wanted to tell her. And I can’t.”

Azel gestures to Zevyn the Shifter. “They carry messages to the dead, and They are listening. All I can assure you is that, in this moment, no one is judging you.”

I am a curtain of tears, unable to even see the statue as I say, “My soul is a woman’s. My mother had two children: a son and a daughter.” I am speaking past a boulder in my throat now. “Please tell her, please—I loved—I love—her so much—”

I feel as if something brushes my cheek, and I reflexively gasp. Did I hear the bell stir? With no one to ring it?

Azel puts his arms around me.

“We are why the warriors of Zevyn earn the admiration of kings,” he says to me. “The outside world can be unforgiving when we are discovered, and our warriors have learned to protect what is rare and beautiful. It is why I am always accompanied when I leave the village. It is the only safe way for me to traverse this world.”

His words bring to light a great many things, but also feel . . . ominous.

Azel makes a show of sniffing my head. “You’ve tried your best to hide the smell with the flowers, but can you please wash your hair?”

It earns a laugh out of me. “Yes, Eldest.”

“Good.” He kisses the top of my head, unkempt hair and all. “Go rest. Tomorrow you will begin as my apprentice.”

I look at him, startled. “I—are you sure?”

He lifts a brow. “At the very least, we’ll officially make you Hjoldhald’s bellringer.” His mouth moves in a lazy smile. “Someone has to do it.”

Before I leave, I ask, “Did Oren return?”

Azel hesitates. “He did not.”

My heart falls.

“But a young man named Durgan did,” he says, and my eyes light up with joy and relief. “Go find him, he has been looking for you.”

• • •

Wil approached the axe throwers. As he got close, one broke away, his face split in a big grin. He looked quite young, despite towering over Wil and having a bushy beard lousy with flowers.

The youth slung his arm around Wil’s shoulders and declared, “Hallo, Herald!” Then, leaning in he whispered, “Or should I say, fellow Herald?”

Wil stared at him for a long, drawn-out moment, his brain scrambling to understand anything happening at this moment. “Who are you?”

The youth threw his head back and laughed, then took a long gulp of beer. “Call me Durgan!” he said. “I’m the one Hjoldhald sends to Haven to be the new Herald!”

Wil suppressed a cringe. “Ah,” he said. “About that—”

Durgan slapped him between the shoulders. Wil had half-expected it and held his ground. “Go have beer, I’ll catch you later! Justav! Over here!”

He strode back to the target board, stein held high.

• • •

At my Naming before the village I tell them who I am, and before the Shifter I sacrifice my old name forever. My village knows me as Reeve. It is a good name for a good woman. I carry it well.

The hazelnut and cherry trees flower, bearing their promise after many years of growth. I share my first kiss—and more—with Durgan. The years are kind to my body as I grow, thanks to Zevyn’s blessings.

But I am not allowed to leave. Azel makes that clear. My life is the temple, gathering nuts and honey, and stolen nights with Durgan. It is just as well—without the bell tower, I cannot go far before the visions overwhelm me.

It is once again Heralds who disrupt our status quo.

They come to town late one spring day. I am sitting in the belfry with Durgan, sketching his face and telling him he needs to trim his beard or do something with it, and he tells me there is no way he is cutting even a single hair on his beard, when we see them arrive.

“What?” he says as I shoot down the stairs to go take a look.

As I approach to get a better look, their Companions both turn toward me and double take, as if seeing me again for the first time. Then one of the Heralds looks at me, turns to his partner, and nudges him.

My eyes dance strangely. I can feel a vision on the edge of my periphery. I lean against a wall. Durgan catches me, and takes me back inside the temple.

“Are you all right?” he asks, brushing my hair from my brow.

“Fine, I’m fine,” I murmur. But it’s a lie. Everything has changed, I can feel it, I just do not know how.

Later, after they have returned to their Waystation, the Elders come to gossip at the temple. We are again on edge. Something is different; they feel it, too. They are talking about Heralds and whether or not this time they’re going to steal our children.

Urich is adamant we will give them nothing.

To my surprise, it is Durgan, still at my side, who speaks up. “I can go.”

“No,” I whisper.

The Elders all turn to look at him. “What?”

“I will volunteer. Surely they would rather take a blooded warrior as tribute than a child unproven.”

The Elders confer on this.

“Perhaps it is time to swear oaths to our liege,” Urich says thoughtfully.

Azel appraises Durgan. “Are you sure? It will likely be a lifelong commitment.”

Durgan looks at me, and I gaze back, helpless. Then he looks away quickly and laughs. “I will teach the Valdemarans how to fight like a Zevynite! Next time we meet Ancar, we’ll plow him and his stupid wizards into the earth and plant flowers where their bones rest!”

“Let me go with you,” I say.

Now they all turn to me.

“No,” Azel says, with a hardness I am not accustomed to in his voice.

“Please—”

“Maybe if it were five Durgans going, Reeve,” Urich says. “But it is not. You must stay. That is our way.”

I drop my eyes to my hands, my eyes welling up. I feel Durgan’s hand squeeze my shoulder, his lips brush the top of my head. My throat chokes up—as much anger as sorrow—and I run away from them all, to the top of the bell tower.

I look out over the valley, seeking patterns. I am counting fruit trees; I am estimating the handspans down the bell tower walls from the window (sixty-four); I am doing anything but thinking about the pang in my heart.

Azel finds me, and puts my head in his lap. He strokes my hair in silence for a long time as my eyes leak.

“Nestling—” he starts to say.

The threatened vision comes suddenly, and for a mercy I am lying down. It grips my spine and twists me into an arc. I see the white horse on the road. I see her coming down the valley. I see her at the gates. I know her name.

“Reeve!” Azel holds me tight. “Are you all right?”

“A Companion is coming,” I say, dazed. “To the village. For one of us.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow, I think.” So soon? How did they make it happen so soon?

“Who?”

I look him in the eyes. I mouth, “me,” but then put my hands over my mouth and shake my head. His eyes study my face, and I cannot be certain what he understands.

He helps me down the stairs, and into bed.

I sleep, but in the morning I can barely make it across the floor before the wave hits again, and I am knocked down. The Companion. I see her. Every time I stand, I am being overwhelmed by her potential. And then when she subsides, I see the white-haired man as well, putting his hand out to me.

It happens again. And again.

I must get to the bell tower. I stagger into the familiar room my mother designed, put my hands upon the rope just as she once did, and play to bring my poor, shattered mind some respite.

The visions subside. And with them comes clarity. I know what the Elders want. But I also know what I want. I know it better than them. I am rare and beautiful, but I am not fragile.

But more: I know now who the Herald on the Companion is. I know why I have seen her all these years.

My mind made up, I go to the door—

But the door does not open.

I put my full weight against it, but something has blocked it from the outside.

I am trapped inside the bell tower.

In grief, I return to the rope, clinging to it, and drag it down over and over, begging Zevyn to help Their daughter.

• • •

If any of these children were Juny’s, she’d have Chosen them by now, Wil thought, scanning the people circulating around him. He closed his eyes to think. Distantly, the bell missed a few strokes, then resumed its clanging. If they were in the fields or grove, or tending the herds, likewise, she would have found them by now. Inside a house, she could stand outside until they came out—

What if something is keeping her from finding them?

He stood up, pushing away from the table so abruptly that Amelie yelped.

“What’s going on?” Grier asked.

“Shenanigans,” Wil growled, storming out of the public house.

Juny wandered slowly through a swirl of revelers, swinging her head. The bell rang and rang. Even for Wil, the droning felt like a blanket—one that settled over him and muffled his mind. What must it be doing to the Companion, he wondered?

He walked over to Juny and put a hand on her withers, pointing to the double doors. “There.”

Her eyes brightened.

Wil walked through the double doors and into a building he knew immediately to be a temple. Three large statues in three alcoves faced the entrance. Two could be described as a man and a woman, and one had what looked like a kyree’s head.

He walked toward the central one, as much driven by curiosity as anything—

Someone cleared their throat behind him, and he heard, “Can I help you?”

Wil turned to see a man in dove gray vestments. “Heyla.”

“Hallo,” the man said, in the lightly accented Valdemaran of the locals. He lifted a brow. “I am Azel. You are—”

“Herald Wil. I need to see your bell tower.” Despite proximity to the bell, he could still converse without raising his voice too much.

The man frowned. “I can’t—”

“Please.” Wil curled his hands into fists. “Someone’s in there who needs to meet a friend of mine.”

The man cocked his head, and then—sighed. He indicated for Wil to follow.

A short passage took them to a door. Wil saw someone had shoved a pew across the door to prevent it from opening, and for a moment his vision flashed white with rage.

“We just want to protect her,” Azel said.

Wil thought of his daughter, secreted away from those who would hurt her. He took a deep, calming breath and uncurled his fists. “I understand that.”

“Do you?” Azel looked over his shoulder at him. “She is special. And the world can be very cruel.”

“Look, I’m bad at this,” Wil said. “I have the tact of a waterlogged boot. I’m the kid whose dad dumped him on his Companion’s back, handed him a rucksack, and yelled, ‘Good luck getting to Haven in one piece!’”

Azel chuckled.

“That’s the kind of family I come from,” Wil continued. “But I’ll also tell you this—when I started, any Herald with Karsite blood was treated . . . differently. And it’s only because people like us were Chosen that things changed. How much poorer the country would be if my father had locked me up in a basement.”

Azel wiped his eyes. “I am not her father.”

“Could have fooled me.” Wil cocked his head. “Do you hear that?”

Azel’s brow furrowed, and then he, too, noticed it. Or the lack of it. “The ringing’s stopped.”

Together, they shoved the pew aside, and Azel opened the door to the bell tower. “Reeve?” he called. And then, more frantically, “Reeve?”

They charged the belfry together to find the bell tower rope thrown out the window, and Reeve with one leg already over the side.

She locked eyes with Wil, gasped, and dropped the rope.

“Hello.” Wil stepped forward, putting his hand out. “My name is Herald Wil. I’d like you to meet someone.”

• • •

The bell’s rope, accounting for losing slack due to having to stretch to the window’s lintel, reaches fifty-six handspans down the side. I would have probably sprained something and had rope burns on my hands, but it would have been worth it.

Comparatively, it is fifty-two steps from the base of the bell tower room to the entrance of the chapel.

Either way, I know you are there. I knew you would always be there.

Durgan is standing beside you with his hand on your back. You have looked in his eyes and let him know he is not your Chosen. He just wants to protect me. I don’t fault him for that. It’s how we earned the admiration of kings.

I meet your eyes, that endless field of blue, and I give you all, every shard of me: We are running through a field, through the dead of night; we are heartbroken in a belfry; we are speaking our name.

I want you to know what you are taking in, Juny.

:Oh, beloved,: you reply, as I rest my hands on your cheeks, as you breathe your soul into me. :I Choose you, Reeve.:

• • •

Reeve sat in front of the statue of the Shifter one last time. She’d been given a day to adjust to having been Chosen. Juny had done—something—to help her mind. The relief had been immediate and transformative. Wil had told her that when she got to Haven, there would be people there who would help her with her Sight—he called it a Gift!—further, and she’d nearly wept with relief at this knowledge.

Durgan had been the one to talk the Elders around.

“I am not Chosen,” he’d said, firmly. And then he’d pointed at Reeve. “But she? She is.”

Footsteps. She turned to find Herald Wil approaching slowly from the back of the temple. His hair glinted white in the morning light coming in through the upper windows.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he said.

“Oh, that’s all Heralds have done my whole life.” She laughed at his confusion and decided to change the subject. “Your Bard, Amelie—she said you used to have visions, too?”

He nodded. “If I hadn’t been Chosen, I doubt I’d be sane. Not sure how you held on so long without some sort of guidance.”

She looked toward the statues. “Zevynites are a tough breed. But you . . . lost your . . . Gift?”

“It’s a long story.”

“You’ll have to tell me someday.”

He smiled warmly at her. “Someday, when neither of us are headed somewhere.”

They walked out together to find most of the village waiting for them. A single flower crown had been tossed onto Juny’s head. Reeve mounted awkwardly—she’d never ridden a horse in her life—and as she looked out over the sea of her people, her eyes teared up.

• • •

“In Hardorn we were celebrated . . . until we were not. What will come of sharing her with Valdemar, Herald?” Azel asked, not taking his eyes off Reeve’s dwindling form.

“Not even Reeve’s Foresight can answer that,” Wil replied. “But I do think your people were always meant to be in Valdemar. Something just delayed your arrival.”

Azel grunted, but smiled.

Wil glanced up at the belfry. “Though . . . we really ought to talk about the skulls—”

“And deny those souls the chance to be purified by the Mother?” Azel said, flatly, “They stay.”

“Yeah.” Wil sighed. “Okay.”

Someone offered him a slice of kashendoff, and Wil allowed himself his first bite.

Oh, he thought. It tastes just like the wagonwheels from back home.

• • •

Juny moved with the gentlest of gaits, taking Reeve toward the grove of cherry trees Nadja had once calculated the rows for, maximizing the trees without overcrowding.

Framed amidst the flowering trees, Reeve reached up. Pink and white petals rained down over her, too many to count.

Reminiscent

Paige L. Christie

The hullabaloo echoed through every alcove as Kwell slipped past the gathered groups of students, all huddled to speculate on what was causing the shouting from upstairs . . . as well as the stench. When she reached the bottom of the nearest staircase, Dennil’s furious voice echoed down it like a bouncing ball. It took a lot to get the senior custodian that upset, which meant whatever was going on was either terrible, terribly entertaining, or both. She climbed the stairs, dodging a trio of skinny, pale-faced apprentices racing away from the shouts.

When she arrived upstairs, she couldn’t blame them for fleeing. She blinked hard against the sting in her eyes as the stink of fresh manure in too-tight-a-space filled her nose. Up and down the hallway on either side of her, cows lowed and shuffled, and one frustrated heifer let loose a stream of urine that splattered walls and soaked the floor. The normally pristine space was beyond rancid.

Dennil, beside himself with indignation, rattled through a stream of curses and lifted finger-spread hands in shaking frustration as he surveyed at the damage. “Ungrateful! Overprivileged! Thoughtless—”

The list of unflattering descriptives continued until Kwell raised a hand to cover her face. She shook her head and tried to hide her smile. Over the years, they had discovered many animals out of place within the Collegium walls—usually early in the term when new students decided that a ferret racing through a classroom or a passel of kittens curled up in a cloak room was an adorable prank. Once, she’d even found a donkey in the map section of the library—complete with harness and packs, as though ready for a long journey.

But an entire herd of cows in an upper-story hallway was a first. And between the cow patties, the puddles that were absolutely not water, and the scars on the walls from the occasional hard kick, she already hoped she would never see such a disaster again. Still, it was quite the achievement, getting a dozen cows up two flights of stairs without anyone noticing. And it was pointless and utterly . . . she grinned a little . . . udderly . . . ridiculous.

And it had Teig written all over it.

The young woman had been a wild card since the day, three years ago, when she had arrived in the unlikely company of Delvin. That beloved son of one of the Royal Guard’s most respected captains had told a wild story of betrayal and rescue that turned out to be all too true. And while his sponsorship, and his mother’s gratitude, had gotten Teig into the Collegium and on the path to become a member of the darkest Blue herself, it had not changed her mischievous nature. Trouble found and followed her like a dog chased squirrels. Only the stellar nature of her heart and her determination to keep people safe kept her place at the school secure. The girl had calmed down over the last months, leading in fact, to a discussion among the staff and instructors that she was finally maturing into her potential. Kwell remembered the pain of trying to be forcefully matured into something she wasn’t. She was glad Teig seemed determined to keep her spirit intact.

Dennil interrupted Kwell’s thoughts with the firm exclamation, “Teig of Sweet Springs again! We’re clearly terrible judges of character in our old age. So much for my agreeing with you that she’s finally growing up.”

Kwell was about to agree when she remembered something that made Teig’s involvement unlikely. Kwell slid her hand down her face, wiping her smile into seriousness as she did so, and letting her palm rest against the base of her throat. “Unfortunately, it’s not possible that she’s responsible. She’s been visiting in Sweet Springs for the last month. She’s not even due back until this afternoon.” Given Teig’s penchant for doing the odd and seeing the strange clearly, it was always smart to pay attention to her comings and goings.

A heavy sigh led Dennil’s response. “I can hardly believe that. If not Teig, then who?”

Cows stamped and shuffled in the tight space. One bumped into another as she tried to turn, and a swift hoof shot back and chipped another chunk from the wall. Dennil flinched.

Kwell spoke quickly. “I’ll check at the dorm and see if she came back early.”

“Do that,” Dennil said. “And see if you can find a few Fetchers to help me up here. And come back with a cleaning team.”

It was going to take a lot more than physical removal of the bovines, and a lot of soap, to repair the damage—or Dennil’s nerves. Kwell grinned to herself—his resentful moood. She headed downstairs. Glancing back, she swore new gray hairs were sprouting from her supervisor’s head as she watched.

• • •

She asked three Heralds and an army of Blues with buckets and mops to join Dennil—it had taken all her self-control to keep from laughing while explaining the situation—then went looking for Teig. No one she asked had seen the girl yet, but she was due back any time.

Years spent serving the Collegium meant certain things were understood by the staff. When in search of a student returned from travel, the first place to check was always the barn. In this case, not the Companion stables but the plain-old-barn where the regular mounts and pack animals were sheltered. If the appropriate trail-weary horses were there but no riders, then the next place to look was the meal hall, followed by the baths. Often, Kwell wished the order of the last two was reversed. Sometimes the reek of new arrivals was—she chuckled—as bad as what hung in the air in the offending hallway. Broadly terrible, she thought. Gads she had to stop. She was entirely too . . . amoooosed . . .

Kwell giggled as she rounded the corner of the barn and barely missed being knocked over by the bay mare that came trotting into the courtyard. The rider reined in her mount and the packhorse she led and had barely offered an apology when Kwell recognized a dusty, travel-worn Teig. Wild strands of her hair had escaped from her braids, and her gaze had the distant look of one used to searching the horizon.

Kwell smiled up at the girl. “Just who I was looking for. Are you just getting in?”

The girl’s eyes widened. “Uhh . . . yeah. Whatever it is, I didn’t do it.”

• • •

Kwell helped Teig unload her pack animal and sort the remaining supplies into travel bins for others to use, all the while explaining the bizarre situation in the upper reaches of the dorm.

“Cows?” Teig’s baffled expression as she put up her tack proved her innocence more than any promise of ignorance ever could. Tense and wounded by the half-made accusation of her involvement, she shook her head and looked at Kwell. “You really thought it was me?”

“Dennil did. I knew you were away.” She considered a moment, then said with as much seriousness as she could muster. “Once I took stock of the situation, I was half hoping it was you, somehow. It’s the kind of prank that will become Collegium legend.”

Teig starred at Kwell. “Did you just say . . . took stock?”

Kwell’s lips twitched. “I did.” She grinned. “But since it wasn’t you, I can’t think of any better prankster to steer the investigation in the right direction. If you’re willing to help investigate.”

Over the top though it was, the ridiculous pun had its intended result. Teig’s shoulders relaxed, and her face cracked into a grin. “Should I be flattered or offended that you think I can help with this?”

“Both,” Kwell said. “Depending on who’s asking for your assistance.”

“So since it’s you—”

“Exactly! I’m not Dennil.”

Teig laughed. “No, you’re much more ridiculous than he could ever be.” She bit her lip as soon as she spoke, realizing she might have offered offense.

Kwell remembered feeling that way all too often, worried that her odd nature would lead her to say something to get her dismissed, and all the while fighting her own natural sense of humor and who she was. She shook her head. “Best compliment I’ve had all day.”

Teig stared, then let out a nervous little laugh. “Lead the way to the scene of the crime.”

Kwell lifted both eyebrows quickly a couple times. “The site of the cowardly act.”

Teig put both hands over her face to contain a groan. “Oh, it’s going to be a long, long day.”

• • •

When they arrived upstairs, the cows were gone, transported out of the building by a skilled Mind-Gift, but the stink and the rest of the mess remained. Even without the herd in sight, Teig’s eyes widened at the extent of the chaos.

And Kwell quickly realized it was a very good thing she had seen Teig arrive. Dennil was so furious that without the assurance of Kwell’s own promise, he might have found a way to blame Teig for the damage regardless of her absence. But once he settled into the idea that the girl was the perfect choice to solve the mystery, he calmed down and went back to supervising the cleanup.

“Well, how would you have done it?” Kwell asked as she watched Teig pace the hallway, stepping gingerly to avoid both flattened piles of gooey brownness and those working to clean them up.

Kwell bit her lip, eyes narrowing. Teig seemed to take in everything, but she said nothing. Kwell had her own idea about what had happened in the night, and if Teig agreed with her . . . the truth was that the Collegium had a real problem. Because a Mind-Gift as powerful as this used for the wrong purposes—or even just for more frustrating pranks—could lead to mayhem. And while Kwell truly enjoyed mayhem, most others did not. Plus the mess alone . . . was a mountain of bull.

Teig walked the length of the space and back, examining every doorway, all the small side rooms that offered bunk space for any of the Collegium apprentices who might need to rest or even to spend the night. She measured windows with her arm span and turned a skeptical eye on three staircases before returning to Kwell’s side.

“How would I have done this? Not only is it true that I wouldn’t have. I couldn’t have,” she said. “There’s no way a cow could fit up those stairs, much less make the turn on the landings needed to get here.” She frowned. “No one saw anything?”

“It was the noise that woke us.” Kwell shrugged. “Herd, but not seen.”

“Oh, no. No!” Teig laughed and gestured at the filth filling the hallway. “This is awful enough without the puns.”

“Too bad.” Kwell spread her arms to encompass the mess. “I’m going to milk this for all I can.”

Teig groaned but grinned back. “Well, we’re looking for a Herald Trainee,” she said. “Because the cows clearly arrived here the same way you got them out.”

“Farsight and Fetching?” Kwell frowned. Just what she had been thinking. And that did not bode well. “Why would anyone with that powerful a combination of Gifts use them for something like this?”

“I suppose when we figure that out, it’ll help us find who did it.”

“Good grief, Teig. Are you growing up? Running on logic now, and not intuition and imagination?”

The girl shifted, rocked a little back on her heels and dropped her gaze. “Well . . . we don’t know which of those is going to make sense of this, so . . .”

Kwell nodded. That was exactly why they needed Teig looking at this. Why Valdemar and the Guard needed her, period. All her quirks and errors of judgment came from a place of deep caring, and a willingness to risk to help those around her. “Let’s go check the enrollment records for known combined gifts. Or those with a family history of them. That’ll help narrow down the possibilities.”

• • •

A good meal and a bath for Teig and several hours of them both scouring records led to nothing more than Kwell thinking up a dozen more terrible puns and bleary eyes for both of them.

As the lamps began to have trouble keeping back the moonless night, Kwell sat back and sighed. The shelves of the records room loomed as great shadows around the table. So many documents and not a clue among them. “So much for logic.”

“So, we get to do this my way?” The mischief in Teig’s voice held a dinner-bell-ring of joyful expectation.

Kwell drummed her finger on the table and eyed the girl. “You’ve been waiting since well pasture bedtime to say that, haven’t you?”

Teig dropped her head to the table and shuddered as though she had been physically wounded. “Oh, ugh! And so have you, it seems. Are you sure you’re twenty years older than me?”

“After finding that herd this morning, I’m not sure of anything.”

Teig straightened, then shrugged and sat back in the stiff-backed chair. She crossed her arms, and her gaze grew serious. “So you won’t mind if we wait and see what the morning brings?”

Now that was not at all the suggestion Kwell expected. Her mind refused to follow the leap Teig’s had clearly taken. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking a ‘prank’ this good is going to demand topping.”

The way Teig spoke held an undercurrent of thoughtfulness Kwell hadn’t heard from her before. Of course, Kwell hadn’t spent that much time with her before today—just enough to know that she liked her. “You think they’ll try again?”

“I’m not sure anyone’s trying to do anything.”

Kwell frowned. “What do you mean?”

Teig sighed and opened her hands in a gesture of frustration, then placed them palms down atop an open book on the table. “I’m glad to be in Haven and at the Collegium, but people here take everything even more seriously than back home. There’s a reason things happen, but it’s not always a reason people find easy to believe.”

“I seem to recall you had that same problem back home. That you were considered unreliabull.”

Rolling her eyes, Teig shook her head, the expression on her face twisted into resigned disbelief. “And yet that’s what got me here in the first place—ask Delvin.”

“Oh, I have.” Kwell laughed. “Why do you think I drafted you to help me?”

Teig smiled just slightly. “Then the best thing we can do is go to bed.”

Though Kwell had no idea what Teig hoped the morning would bring, the potential surprise of it was alone enough for her to cease questioning the girl. Seeing where this would lead was more fun than she’d had in weeks. She raised both eyebrows. “All right then. We’ll do this your way.” She summoned a groan with the whisper, “Before we get moooody enough to brood on our failures.”

• • •

Kwell awoke to shouts and pounding on her door. She half leaped from the bed, tangled herself in the blankets, stumbled as she yanked a foot free, and ripped open the door, all before she registered that she was actually awake.

A first-year Blue stared at her, jaw open. She tugged her sleeping gown straight so that the buttons weren’t slanted across her shoulder and yanked the hem back down below her knees. Blowing wild hairs from her eyes, she asked, “What?” And then laughed at the boy’s his wide-eyed expression.

“Uh . . . the . . . Dennil . . . the goats . . .”

Kwell half choked on her own laugh. What in the name of . . . ? “Goats? There are goats? In the same place?”

The messenger nodded, still staring at her as she whirled and reached for her sandals.

“Do you know Teig?” She glanced up to see the boy nod. “Go find her and bring her along.”

He backed away and ran as she charged through the door and headed back to the scene of the previous day’s mayhem, wondering how . . . baaaaad . . . it would be this time. Gads, her head filled with a whole new series of puns. She stopped and raced back to her room for actual shoes. After yesterday, sandals were not the safest footwear to don in the Collegium.

Five minutes later, she arrived in the hallway to find a stench that made yesterday’s foulness seem like apple blooms. Did anything at all stink like goats and their leavings? Goats upon goats, in a hallway still under repair, and—for the love of all things—would this place ever truly be clean again?

“Things have clearly goaten out of hand,” Kwell whispered as she stared at the romping, butting mob of creatures racing up and down the confined space. And while these animals were small enough to fit up the stairs, it was beyond unlikely that anyone had actually brought them that way, not with the whole Collegium staff on alert for the culprit.

Dennil stood at the end of that hall, shouting and beside himself with his even-grayer-than-yesterday hair sticking out in four dozen directions. Kwell gritted her teeth and flinched as a particularly fierce invective escaped him. Yes, they better solve this quickly. Whatever Teig had in mind had better lead to a solution.

No sooner had she completed the thought when the girl appeared at her side. “Oh—wow—well then—”

“No kidding,” Kwell said.

“No, please.” Teig laughed. “At least I was right?”

“Enlighten me.” With a glance at the frantic Dennil directing young Blues to round up the farmyard tribe, Kwell suppressed a laugh. “Before I have to take him to the infirmary.”

Teig grinned. “Well . . . no one can Fetch to a place they don’t know well or haven’t seen in detail, right?”

“True.” Kwell swept her gaze up and down the hall. It was generally much trafficked as a shortcut between certain classrooms by older students. But they had already eliminated all those . . . She furrowed her brow. “It’s not like this is a restricted area.”

“Yes, but to move so many animals at once to a place far from where they belong . . . the person who did this spends a lot of time in or near this hallway. Not someone who just passes through. And a Gift this powerful would not go unrecognized unless it awakened so suddenly that the person who has it doesn’t even know it.”

Kwell straightened and folded her arms. She was missing something. “I was with you until the last bit.”

Teig lifted her hands, both palms up. “Who uses this hall day or night? And the rooms along it?”

“Mostly the apprentices to the Collegium staff—” And suddenly Kwell remembered the three youngsters who had passed her on the stairs yesterday. And she understood exactly where Teig was going with her idea. “Oh! We have a newly awakened Gift along this hall! But why hasn’t he or she said anything?”

Teig tilted her head and looked back at Kwell. “Some people talk in their sleep. Some people sap other’s emotions. And some, maybe, Fetch through their dreams.”

“Fetch barnyard animals?” Why of all things, would anyone Fetch cows and goats? Why not gold or sweetcakes or even ale?

“Well, who’s new? Who’s far from home?” Teig shrugged. “Whose home is a farm?”

Once it was voiced, the answer was as obvious as sunrise in the desert. A new arrival, far from home and missing the familiar, the comfortable. If the usual age of apprentices held, this was a wild talent awakened by puberty and stress.

But why hadn’t any of the instructors or Heralds sensed it? Or the Companions?

Or . . . perhaps they had . . . but it was better for everyone that Teig be the one to bring it to light. Teig and her strange talent for working out strange situations. To show she had grown up, and prove to those who doubted her how useful her odd, playful nature and her tendency to . . . butt heads . . . could be. Just as everyone here had learned to tolerate, if not appreciate, Kwell’s own penchant for puns.

Kwell laughed. “Dennil!” she called. “Isn’t the young apprentice, the boy called Matson, from a milk-farm in Bell’s Valley?”

Dennil turned, impatience written wide over his face. “Yes! Go find him! He’ll be of use sorting this mess.”

“Oh, in more ways than you know,” Kwell replied, and flashed a grin at Teig. A new talent such as this discovered by the mostly unlikely of people. Kwell bounced a little on her toes like a happy kid. What a shock Matson was in for. And how much cleanup did they have to look forward to while he learned to contain a Gift so powerful?

She chuckled and glanced at Teig, smiled with pride. “And here I thought the cows would be legendairy.”

Life’s Little Pranks

Ron Collins

It was nearing high sun when Nwah and Darkwind stopped to rest at a spring filled with cool water.

A breeze ruffled fur across Nwah’s shoulders. The air was growing thick, and the riverbed smelled of the metallic heat peculiar to baking rocks. To the east, the forest grew dense with tall oak and majestic sumac. Behind them only a few clouds marked the sky, low on the distant horizon.

The end of their travel was drawing near. Oris, east of Valdemar, was less than two days out. They would find Maakdal’s pack soon, and then she would be at her new home. The idea, now so close, brought anxiety. Maakdal would take her in, of course he would.

But what if he didn’t?

Males are all so fragile.

The thought made her flash to Kade, who was back at his studies in Haven by now. Though he’d been supportive of her, Nwah knew her decision to leave Haven had hurt him. She could tell from the dour nature of the emotions that came over her whenever she focused on him.

She hoped he was doing better now.

Nwah lapped at the sweet water pooled in the dark eddy. The spring was cool against her tongue. She felt it all the way through her body.

Darkwind, who had been training her Gift as he escorted her, walked to the edge of a boulder that stretched an arm’s reach over the currents. He sat down to rest, drawing his knees up toward his chin as he unstopped a skin. Vree, his Bondbird, was stretching her wings and scouting ahead in the open sky. True to her word to the princess, Nwah had worked hard to learn from him as they traveled, and Darkwind had often praised her. Now he seemed unhappy, or at least disconcerted. She suspected he was disappointed in her performance in last night’s lessons.

It wasn’t her fault, though.

She could access the ley-lines and form magic, but her personality was not suited to deal with the delicate nature of the things Darkwind was trying to teach her. She had been working hard. Hard enough that she heard his lessons in her dream state, and woke up with echoes of his voice in her ears, but she told him again and again that the intense concentration required to control the eddies that remained behind as she opened and closed gates was just not in her nature. Nevertheless, he remained adamant that she learn these things.

:It needs to become reflexive,: he said late in the evening. :A Mage gets only so much time to concentrate, and in emergencies you can’t waste a moment on these fundamentals. Learn this, or larger magics will consume you.:

She had snapped then.

She blamed it on fatigue. Never in her life had Nwah attempted to learn so much so quickly—and that included days when she and her denlings were pups at her mother’s side.

:I am the one who called out the great horde!: she’d said too sharply, recalling earlier castings that had saved her life as well as Kade’s. :I think I know how to deal with big magics.:

Darkwind had been silent ever since, and she discovered she liked a silent Darkwind even less than a talkative one. The intensity of his disappointment strained her senses. Made her feel less comfortable in the forest, and as the forest was her home, that meant something bigger than she’d first thought. If she wanted to feel paranoid and insecure, she could have done that back in Haven.

She didn’t like feeling shunned.

:Are you all right?: she said as she curried her coat. The jaunt this morning had been brisk, and with her thirst now sated she felt a not unpleasant burn in the muscles of her legs and back.

“I am fine,” Darkwind replied. His communication, made aloud rather than through Mindspeaking, felt distant.

:You haven’t spoken all morning.:

“Perhaps you could learn something from that.”

:How can you teach me anything when you won’t even talk to me?:

:Why should I teach you when you refuse to learn?:

Nwah stewed, licking her chops in something that wasn’t anger so much as a sense of desperation. They were coming to the end of their trip, and he wasn’t finished. She guessed that was why he was driving her so hard.

Darkwind broke the moment by rolling to his knees, then reaching his skin down to fill it with water.

He teetered on the edge of the rock. His lanky arm reached down.

She felt the water then. Felt the smell of the current as a slow pressure against her tongue. Air current against the hair of her neck was sweet, and she recalled a day as a young kyree when she was playing with brother Edwan. Recalled a jump into a spring such as this, the cool water rising and splashing to her belly as she ran in it, yapping and playing, and the way time seemed to stand still in that most delicious way.

The urge came over her in an instant, and she could not resist.

The ley-line was so close and Darkwind’s brow was furrowed in such a serious manner.

The stream called to her, and Nwah answered, opening the flow and touching energy that tasted warm like those memories. She let it build to that perfect instant, then pushed against that water below Darkwind’s outstretched skin.

A rushing wave of the stream rose from the surface.

“Hey!”

Nwah came out of her spell to see Darkwind sitting back on his haunches, soaked, with rivulets of clear water rolling off his long hair. “What was that for?”

Despite herself, Nwah burst out laughing.

:I’m sorry!: she finally gasped. :I just . . . I just couldn’t help it.:

Darkwind glanced at the waterskin, which had been perhaps half filled, but was now losing its contents fast. His expression, at first dark, seemed to lighten as he watched her try to rein in her joy. Then he, too, laughed. :I’m sorry, too.:

:Sorry for what? I’m the one not learning fast enough.:

:You are working hard. I need to credit you for that.:

:It’s still not enough, though, is it?:

:No. It’s not. And it won’t ever be enough until you decide you can do something you’ve never done before.:

Nwah gave a confused whine.

Darkwind stood on the rock face and shook out his wet arms.

:You did just close the ley-line properly,: he said. :Without even thinking about it.:

A feeling of accomplishment crept over her. :I did, didn’t I?:

Her basking was interrupted by a wave of water that rose from the spring and suddenly splashed over her. She leaped aside, but was too late to avoid having her pelt soaked.

:What was that!:

Darkwind still stood on the rock, but was now grinning from ear to ear, the faint aroma of magic clinging to him. :You’ve still got a lot to learn,: he said with a wink that made her think of Edwan again, rainbow-tinted droplets dazzling from his coat in the sun. :At first I thought I was going to need to find a trainer in Oris to complete your progress, but now I’m not so sure. What do you say we dry off and talk about it as we head on?:

:That sounds like a plan.:

:No more silliness, though, all right? I need you to focus.:

:All right,: Nwah said. She wasn’t so sure about that, though. She liked this side of Darkwind. He liked it, too. Despite his protestations, she could tell.

As Darkwind dried himself, Nwah felt a new sense of power growing in her. A feeling of certainty, or rightness, she hadn’t had before.

He was right about her, though she most certainly could not have said why.

She had been afraid of herself. Worried she was somehow lesser, fearing, for example that the nuances it took to close the ley-line properly were beyond her ability. Before Darkwind came along, she had never had anyone dig into her Gift, so she had always been free to ignore certain truths. But there were things inside her Gift that scared her in ways she couldn’t describe. Things she worried might overpower her if she let herself release them again. It had happened before. When she’d called the horde, it had nearly drained her. She could feel that truth now.

And Darkwind was making her face these things. He was demanding she hold every piece of this Gift in her mind as if she could control them all, exposing her fears one by one as he worked through the many elements of this Gift with her.

Until now, fear of failure made it easier to pretend she couldn’t learn, but Darkwind expected more from her.

Accept her fears and deal with them.

The idea made her feel stronger somehow.

Standing there, drying in the heat of the sun alongside Darkwind, she understood him better—saw his distance at times as his own protective device, saw his insistence on her efforts as his way of helping her become the Mage she was born to become.

She felt good.

She had a goal now: do her best to make sure Darkwind didn’t need to find any other to train her. If she focused, she knew she could do it.

So, who knew what silliness the future might bring?

• • •

Kade was having trouble concentrating when the sensation from Nwah washed over him.

He was sitting in the shade of an old tree in a quiet part of Companion’s Field, with a heavy old book he’d taken from his history classroom on his lap. It was getting late enough in the morning that he was now sweating through his light greens. The tree bark was sharp against his back, and there was always a beetle crawling up his ankle or some noxious bug buzzing in his ear.

He was tired, too. He hadn’t slept at all last night, choosing to burn his candles down in hopes of somehow coming to understand the depths of intrigue between Valdemar and Hardorn over the ages—a topic that seemed twisted in as many knots as there were sharp spots on the gnarled roots of this tree.

He hadn’t slept much for several days, really. Ever since he’d returned from his trip to save Nwah, it was like every instructor at Collegium had made it their personal goal to drive him into the ground.

It was so bad he was falling asleep in classes and missing assignments.

Now his mind was popping like grease on a skillet.

He really did need to get a better understanding about the historical relationship between Haven and Hardorn—which was what all the other students were chattering on about. There was going to be a public challenge on the material tomorrow, and the more he studied on the subject the less he seemed to understand. He’d missed Herald Kath, who was teaching the course, give the assignment, probably because he was so tired from being up working on moss medicines the night before—which was another bit of schooling that seemed just out of his touch. He wouldn’t even have known there was going to be a challenge match coming tomorrow if he hadn’t overheard several others agreeing to meet to cover items they would need to know.

Which is why Kade was sitting at the base of a tree, studying now, rather than riding with Leena over the sun-draped Fields.

Sensing a rush from Nwah, however, he put his head back against the bark and let the moment settle. He breathed in the warm air, feeling the familiar comfort of the kyree’s touch, then let the breath out, fighting the losing game of trying to relax.

Nwah had been happy. That much, at least, was good.

Leena, his Companion, crossed from the grassy grounds of Companion’s Field to stand beside him. She’d obviously seen him take a break from his study and wanted attention.

She pressed her warm head against Kade’s shoulder and gave a gentle chuff.

:What was that?: she asked.

:What is what?: Kade responded sharply, shutting the thick tome with a dull thud.

:A moment ago,: she replied. :You smiled. What was that about?:

:It was nothing.:

She quivered the muscles over her neck to show she was displeased by his dismissiveness, then flicked her tail.

She’d made him come here today—though he knew he should have anyway.

The link between Companion and Chosen was the most important thing in a Herald’s life—certainly of greater priority than studying for a history challenge. But he couldn’t help himself. Every time he considered giving up and admitting failure, he saw the mocking faces of the other students—who had been hounding him for, well, for as long as he’d been accepted into the halls of the Collegium. He was from the forests, they were not. He was unschooled in society life, they held judgments—especially from those wearing the blue uniforms of the unaffiliated.

Leena told him not to worry over it and that it would pass. They didn’t really know him, and they were likely even jealous of the advanced nature of his Gift.

He tried, but he couldn’t do that.

Kade felt his difference every time he was around any of them, especially those Blue uniforms who were not afraid to let him know they were of higher standing. It didn’t stop there, though. He heard snickers all around.

Making fun of him was a joke everyone could share. If he didn’t study hard, the challenge would embarrass him even further. Which was exactly why he couldn’t take his mind off the challenge. It was bad enough to be ridiculed behind his back, but he couldn’t stand the idea of looking the fool in public.

He was now officially beginning to wonder what happened to Chosen who failed out of their Heraldic studies.

Still, Leena deserved better.

And it was true that simply being with her made the weight lighter.

He steeled himself and took an overly dramatic breath.

:It was Nwah,: he finally said. :She played some kind of trick on Darkwind, and it made her laugh.:

:What kind of trick?:

:I’m not sure. All I got was an image of Darkwind laughing and being soaking wet on the banks of a river of some kind. I’m guessing he was being his usual Darkwind self, and she threw water on him.:

Leena sounded a delightful tone that Kade knew as a laugh.

:I wish we’d been there,: she said. :I’d give up apples for a week to see Darkwind doused.:

:Yeah.:

Distant birdsong filled the moment of silence that passed between them. The sense of Darkwind’s surprise lingered on Kade’s mind and made him fight a smile of his own.

:It’s going to be okay, you know?: Leena said. :Your studies. They are hard now, but you’ll make it.:

:I wish I had your confidence,: he replied. :I dreamed of being here for so long, but it’s so much harder than I imagined it would be.:

His expression returned to a frown as he turned back to his book.

Rather than letters and maps on the page, though, he saw the expressions of his schoolmates as they laughed at him. He closed the book again and leaned his head back against the tree. They were all so quick. He was just a nobody from the forest.

He gave a sardonic laugh and returned to his work.

• • •

Behind Kade now, Companion Leena pawed at the ground of Companion’s Field.

In the weeks since they last returned to Haven, Kade had been particularly distant. He blamed it on his Collegium coursework and the laboratories they required—but she also understood there was more to it than overwork and academic anxiety.

Kade and Nwah were Lifebonded. This was the first time they’d been truly apart.

On top of coursework that seemed so suffocating, Leena felt his anxiety over Nwah in his every moment. Pain of loss takes its time to heal, she’d heard from the Queen’s Companion Caryo herself, but Kade was in no mood to hear the truth—that Nwah had not left him at all, but that she had instead left Haven, a place of business and progress that was anathema to a wild spirit like the little kyree’s.

At least she’d gotten him out of the House and the Library for a few moments.

The air was nice outside her stables, and it was warm in the sunshine. The nook was a good place to relax, open to the sky and set apart from the more hectic pace of life Haven, and the Collegium in particular, often provided. It was one of several such grounds built within Companion’s Field, but this was her favorite because it was sweet with budding cherry blossoms and alive with the buzz of bees.

Kade paid no attention, though.

The sight of him still focused so intently on that book—finger tracing positions across the page, legs crossed in the grass underneath, cascading locks of his thick hair hiding his gaze from the outside world—was enough to give a Companion a complex.

She huffed.

Again, nothing.

He needed a break.

The lighthearted moment between Nwah and Darkwind had lifted her own mood, though, as well as his. She opened her nostrils wide and took in a draught of cherry blossoms.

Yes, she thought. Her Chosen could work up his own Darkwind-like brooding. And like Nwah’s escort, perhaps he needed to adjust his manner, too.

Perhaps Kade needed one of those moments of his own.

She wasn’t so sure she could pull it off on her own, but luckily she knew a couple of coconspirators who could probably be convinced to help her out.

• • •

When the sun hit its high point, Kade decided he’d had enough frivolity.

“It’s time to go in,” he said, clapping the book shut.

At least this time Leena didn’t argue with him. Instead, she simply accompanied him back to the Collegium—which, since he took her silence as a form of condemnation, bothered him even more.

He wasn’t getting anything done here, though.

Too many distractions. Leaves rustling, birds flitting from branch to branch. Leena hovering over him like a worried mother. He wished she could see that.

Instead, she seemed particularly smug now. As if she had a secret she wasn’t going to share. He tried to sense her mood, but he got little in return.

Fine. If she was going to play scorned Companion, so be it.

:Study well,: she said when they arrived at the gate to the Healer’s Collegium, butting her forehead against his shoulder in the way she liked to do when they parted.

At first, he wasn’t sure if she was doing that just to make him think she was better than him, or to send some other message. But a moment later his better wits returned. He was going to apologize for his behavior, but by the time he’d come to his senses, she had already begun her return trip to Companion’s Field, and to chase her down would be more embarrassing than things already were.

Gods, but he was screwing up all over the place.

So instead of chasing after Leena, Kade stood at the doorway listening to the sound of her retreat as it rang over the grounds, feeling about as heavy as the tome in his arm. He shouldn’t blame her for being mad, but there just wasn’t anything else for him to do except face the fact that he couldn’t handle the coursework here. He couldn’t keep going like this. Studying in every spare moment, reciting facts while he prepared his part of the meals the cook was preparing that night, dozing in class. Everything was coming to a head.

He was so tired.

If it weren’t for the fact that he kept hearing of the assignments from other students as they were leaving the session, he wouldn’t even know he had work to do.

Everyone—including himself—knew he was dumb.

He just wanted to avoid proving it in public.

The flash of joviality from Nwah earlier in the day had reminded him of better times, but it also served to make things worse. He missed the little kyree more than he could say, but he didn’t want her to know that. Now the idea of Nwah out playing in the water and the sun made his own situation just that much more depressing.

Resigned, he closed the door and headed toward the library, trying to focus.

Hardon . . . he thought. Ancar’s treachery . . . Eastern Empire . . . Grand Duke Tremane. . . .

Politics was the worst.

Since it was between class times, the library was busy. Even Herald Kath, he saw, was toiling away in a corner he held all to himself. The sight of him made Kade want to hide away, so he skirted the area just to ensure the instructor wouldn’t pop a surprise question for whatever reason at him.

He took an isolated carrel in a far nook of the library floor as far away from his teacher as possible, and placed the tome against one of the thick walls built to provide focus—sliding it under a shelf that would hold other books and being certain to avoid jostling the can of quills and the well of ink that sat in the opposite corner. It was dark enough in the corner that he considered lighting the candle, but that could wait for now.

He then went to the shelves and found three others. Geography and Mathematics would be next, then would come an assignment on proper use of mints in medicinal applications. He didn’t have a moment to waste.

He collected a few other tomes and a loose manuscript on his way back, enough that they filled his arms and made it a bit awkward to fit them into the carrel.

He opened the geography book first.

He liked that subject, at least. It appealed to the way his mind held pictures, and he always enjoyed looking at maps because they made him feel somehow bigger than he was. For a moment he let his mind play on an illustration of the region—and let himself focus on the Pelagirs where he had come from, far to the south.

What was his father doing now? Farming still?

And his mother?

His gaze traced a path out of those woods and across the map to take in the path he and Nwah had traveled. It seemed somehow both longer and shorter than he remembered it.

Why was he here? He’d never had any plan. Simply to live in the forests and keep working with the liverwort and bloodroot there. Play with herbs and scents. Fix things. That was all he’d ever had on his mind. But he’d grown up, and now there were people and books and lessons to learn.

For a moment, he remembered the earthy scent of the forest and the feeling of Nwah out hunting in the woods.

“Master Kade?” a voice came from behind him.

“Yes,” he said even before he turned.

As he swiveled in his chair, he saw two youths he recognized as children of the Head Cook—the older a boy of maybe eight, the younger a girl—both wearing heavy pants that fell to their knees (good for playing in) and billowy shirts. He wished he’d remembered their names.

The boy’s expression seemed deadly serious, the girl’s wide-eyed and full of mischief.

Each held a large, open-throated decanter made of thin brass. The sound of water sloshing echoed from both.

“Hello there,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

The brother’s face took on a wily expression.

“You can tell Leena she owes us both a ride!”

Then, with the trilling screams and cackling laughter of youth, the brother and sister team reared back and dumped the water over him. In an instant he was soaked, and the children were running away, decanters clattering against the floor where they’d been tossed aside like so much ballast.

Kade got up to chase but tripped over the chair, which tumbled to the floor with a crash that stopped whatever studious activity that hadn’t already been stopped by the sound of the kids’ laugher. By the time he was back on his feet, the children were already turning the corner and leaving the library.

He stood there, very much wet and dripping, and feeling more embarrassed with every moment as the other students stared at him. As if simply appearing in his place, Herald Kath was suddenly there, too, stepping between tables near him.

A chill crossed over Kade’s skin that he could pretend was due to the movement of air across his wet arms. At least he wasn’t tired anymore.

“What was that about?” Kath said.

“I don’t—” Kade was about to say he didn’t know, but then he did know. The kids’ message and the idea of a soaking said it all. Kade shook off droplets that snaked down his arms, recalling the sensation of a drenched Darkwind. “I think my Companion was making a statement.”

Kath pressed his lips together. “Leena is a patient Companion. What have you done to warrant such a message?”

Kade shrugged. “I guess I haven’t been as attentive as I needed to be.”

“And why would that be?”

The air went out of him, and he felt the truth of the moment as starkly as the brace of water he’d received to the face. He couldn’t keep the charade up any longer. It was time to fess up.

“I needed to be ready for tomorrow’s challenge, Herald. But you might as well fail me because I can’t do it all. It’s all just too much for me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The challenge you assigned the class. I’ve been working on the material all week, but I just can’t do it.”

“Challenge?”

“Yes, sir. It’s tomorrow, isn’t it?”

The Herald’s face grew suddenly lighter. “I see,” he said. “And who told you there was a challenge tomorrow?”

“I thought you did.”

“No, Kade. I think you heard that from someone else, and I can make a few guesses as to who that might be. But rest assured, we’ll be having no challenge tomorrow.”

Kade’s relief was palpable.

Then came the burning chill of anger. All that work. He flashed on the collection of students, three Blues and a pair of Greens, whispering about the challenge. One had glanced his way, then given a nervous twitch of a lip as if he wasn’t supposed to have heard them. They had duped him. Muscles tensed up his back, and he felt heat in his cheeks.

“No challenge?” His voice trailed off, still filling with this new reality.

“Let me see your texts,” Instructor Kath said, looking over Kade’s shoulder to the pile behind him.

Kade righted the chair, then gathered the books.

Herald Kath sorted through them each, one after the other, snorting here and there, and making derisive noises that Kade worried were pointed at him. “Well,” the instructor finally said, holding up the last tome—a book on northern geography. “It appears your nemeses have helped you out.”

“Helped me out, sir?”

“The extra work you’ve been doing has been so difficult because it covers material you were likely to be assigned next year. That you were able to absorb it at all is a mark on your side of the ledger, I’d say.”

Kade took it in.

“I’ll give you a few days good rest, but I think an assessment is called for. Assuming you show you’ve mastered your learning—which I would guess you have, even though you don’t believe it—I’ll strongly consider advancing your training’s timetable.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Well, if you don’t then I expect you’ll at least fly through it when you get there.”

“That would be . . . marvelous,” Kade said, suddenly feeling his fatigue catch back up to him.

Kath put the books back onto the table. “You’re dead on your feet, boy. I’ll put these back where they belong. I’d suggest you get dried off and head out to the Field.”

“I’ll do that, sir. Thank you. But let me put the books back. I pulled them. It’s mine to return them.”

Herald Kath smiled. “You’re a good student, Kade. You’re going to make a fine Healer sooner than you think. And don’t worry about the others. You’ll outgrow most of them soon enough.” A touch of distance came to his gaze then, and his lips formed a comfortable smile. “In the meantime, I’m thinking we might just have a challenge tomorrow after all. It would probably do well if you were to read the twelfth page of that history tome you’ve been toting around before you go to sleep tonight.”

Kade smiled, then, too. “I’ll do that, sir.”

He picked up the books and got to work.

For the first time in weeks, he felt as though he might manage to make it through his training, and he couldn’t wait to see Leena giving the cook’s kids their rides.

• • •

Nwah was padding through a clearing in the forest when a sensation of warmth came from Kade—strong, and surprising enough that a small wheeze escaped her throat.

“What was that?” Darkwind said.

:Nothing,: she replied. :Just a thought.:

But it wasn’t nothing. It was Kade. Beautiful Kade, who she knew would always be with her even as she knew they would often be apart. She had been worried about him, fearful that he’d taken their situation too hard. He was human. Not kyree like Nwah. Though he’d lived his life in the wilds, he did not have the blood history of a family in the wilds running through his veins. Nwah understood Kade could not leave Haven, just as she understood she could not be there, but Kade would grapple with this truth for a long time, perhaps even forever.

Kade was finally happy today, though, and that was a start.

She came to the crest of a ridge in the woods, watching Darkwind climb behind her.

:I’m wondering,: she asked when he arrived. :How you manage times when you have to be away from Elspeth?:

:Poorly,: he said, smiling with an expression that let her see inside him. :But that’s a different kind of Gift, now, isn’t it? Sometimes life plays little pranks on us all. But we are who we are, and the times we can be together make everything else worth it.:

Nwah huffed.

Yes, she thought as Kade’s essence settled. That made sense.

Fool’s Week

Anthea Sharp

Spring arrived at the Collegium in a flurry of blossoms and an unseasonably warm streak of days that teased the promise of summer and made everyone restless. The halls rang with students’ laughter and ever-increasing admonishments by the instructors to stop running and frogs belong outside and throwing petals at each other may be fun, but who do you think is going to sweep that up?

“I can’t get my intermediate harp class to settle down,” Bard Shandara Tem said with an exasperated sigh as she sat with her partner, Healer Tarek, on the comfortable couch in her rooms. “They haven’t been able to concentrate enough to make it through the sonata we’re rehearsing even once.”

He slipped his arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “Same thing with my students at the House of Healing. Everyone is so distracted. Even the older ones. I had to stop Lyssa from adding double the amount of licorice root to the stomach tonic she was brewing.”

“What’s to be done? I don’t remember spring fever ever being this bad.” Not even when she was a student, which truly didn’t feel that long ago.

Tarek shook his head. “Wait for the weather to get worse, I suppose. Rain and clouds should dampen everyone’s high spirits. Meanwhile . . .” He grinned at her. “We should enjoy it while we can. Let’s take a picnic out by the Terilee River. You can serenade me while I make you a flower crown.”

“That sounds lovely.” Shandara had to admit a little escape would be nice. The students weren’t the only ones feeling a bit restless. “You know how to make flower crowns?”

“It’s part of every countryside lordling’s training,” Tarek said with mock seriousness. “We don’t have gold and silver, so blossoms must do for our ladies.”

She nodded gravely. “Then I look forward to this demonstration of your skills, milord. I confess, I’d no idea flower-weaving was among your Gifts.”

“Oh, I have many talents.” He waggled his brows at her. “Wait until you see my wood-chopping skills.”

“I imagine that’s very useful, out in the wilds. Too bad we live in Haven.”

He drew back and gazed into her eyes. “Someday, I’d like to take you to Strand Keep. It’s not as forsaken a place as you might think. And you could get to know my family better.”

“I’d like that.” Though she had her doubts about Tarek’s father, who seemed curmudgeonly at best. Anyone who believed that the Gifts didn’t exist, well . . . She’d try to be on her good behavior when they met.

Tarek stood. “Let’s go to the kitchens. I’ll get the picnic basket.”

Shandara grinned and went to put on her cloak. “Perfect. I’ll bring the lap blanket for us to sit on.”

They were almost at the door when a knock sounded. Exchanging a look with Tarek, she went to open it.

“Master Tangeli,” she said, surprised to see the grizzled Master Bard at her door. “Is everything all right?”

Judging from his expression, the answer was no, and worry spiked through her.

He frowned. “I’m afraid we have a bit of a problem. May I come in?”

“Of course.” She gestured for him to enter. “Is it urgent, or can I make you a cup of tea?”

“Tea would be welcome,” the Master Bard said, then nodded to Tarek. “Healer Strand, I’m glad you’re here, too. The more instructors know what’s afoot, the better.”

“What’s going on?” Shandara asked, taking off her cloak. It seemed their picnic would have to wait.

“As you’ve no doubt seen,” Master Tangeli said, “the Collegium seems to be infected with a rampant case of spring fever.”

“Unfortunately, the Healers don’t have a cure for that,” Tarek said with a rueful smile, pulling out a chair for the Master Bard then settling across from him at the small table.

Shandara set the teakettle on the hearth and joined them.

“I fear things will get worse before they get better,” the old Master said.

“Oh?” She and Tarek exchanged wary looks.

“Indeed.” Master Tangeli let out a heavy breath. “This morning, during his history lecture, Bard Alvee mentioned Fool’s Week. Unfortunately.”

“What’s Fool’s Week?” she asked.

“And why is it unfortunate?” Tarek added.

“Because the students hardly need an excuse to engage in more shenanigans.” Master Tangeli waved a scarlet-clad arm. “Fool’s Week used to be a Collegium tradition, back when I was a new instructor. For one week in the springtime, the various Collegia would play pranks upon each other. As you can imagine, very little useful learning happened during that time, and we finally put a stop to it.”

“It feels like the students are hardly paying attention now,” Shandara said.

“Yes,” her mentor said dryly. “Imagine how much worse it would be if all their energies were directed toward foolery.”

“Maybe that’s not a bad thing,” Tarek said, leaning back with a thoughtful look. “Get it out of their systems, as it were, and then they can get serious again, once the week’s over.”

“It’s a good thought,” Shadara said. “Depending on the type of pranks, I suppose. What kinds of things did the students used to do?”

“Well.” The old Bard’s expression softened slightly. “There was that time a group of Blues managed to get a cow onto the Palace roof.”

She laughed, then sobered. “Poor thing. I imagine that must have been messy.”

“There were messes aplenty, as I recall,” Master Tangeli said. “Which is why I’m not in favor of Fool’s Week starting up again. Though it may already be too late. I hear rumors that young Edwold is masterminding something—which is why I’m here. You’ve a bond with the boy, Shandara. Maybe you can get to the bottom of it before things get out of hand.”

“Maybe. He’s a prankster, that’s for certain.” Indeed, she suspected the recent army of salamanders let loose in the corridors had been Edwold’s handiwork. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d smuggled amphibians into the Collegium.

The kettle boiled, and she rose to make them a pot of tea.

“Maybe Lyssa can help, too,” Tarek said. “She and Edwold are friends, and her Empathy is very strong.”

“Anything you could do to help us nip this in the bud would be appreciated,” Master Tangeli said, with a long-suffering expression. “Sometimes I truly hate spring.”

• • •

The next morning, before Shandara even had time to speak with Edwold, it became clear Master Tangeli’s fears had been well founded. As Shandara and Tarek approached the Common Room for breakfast, gales of laughter erupted into the corridor. A Herald incongruously wrapped head-to-toe in her cloak hurried past them, and Shandara gave Tarek an apprehensive look.

“That doesn’t sound promising.”

A grin pulled at his lips. “But it sounds amusing. What do you think Edwold did?”

As soon as they stepped into the Common Room, the answer became clear. Every Herald in the room wore pink, ranging from rose-colored Trainee’s garments to the shocking fuchsia of what had formerly been Herald’s Whites.

Shandara tried to hide her grin behind her hand, and Tarek let out a laugh.

“How in Haven did they manage that?” he asked.

The Herald who’d passed them in the hall glanced back, and Shandara caught a glimpse of bright pink beneath her cloak.

“Apparently, some of the Bardic students colluded with the laundry staff,” she said sourly. “They hid our clothing, except for these. Do you know how hard red is to get out of Whites?”

Another Herald, this one actually wearing Whites, clapped her on the shoulder. “Amazingly, it washed right out, though wearing damp clothing isn’t the most comfortable. Dry Pinks might be better than wet Whites.”

“Still.” The first Herald frowned and glanced at Shandara. “You Bards had better look out. How’d you like to find a Companion curled up on your bed?”

“Speaking of Companions,” Tarek said, “why didn’t they alert you this was happening?”

The Herald in white shook his head. “Apparently, they thought it would be amusing. And temporary, so there’s no real harm done. It seems this sort of pranking is an old tradition called Fool’s Week.”

“So we’ve heard.” Shandara’s lips firmed. “On behalf of the Bards, I offer my sincere apologies.”

She glanced at the knot of russet-clad students at one table, Edwold among them, sporting a mischievous grin. For the rest of the week, she’d require that he take his meals with her and Tarek. Not that it would stop his mischief, but it might blunt it a little.

“Just wait,” the pink-clad Herald said. “I’m sure the Herald Trainees will come up with an appropriate response.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Shandara said. There was no way the younger Heralds-in-training would let the Bardic students off without pulling a joke of their own.

She led Tarek to the table of Bardic Trainees and cleared her throat meaningfully. Edwold jerked his head around to meet her gaze.

“Bard Shandara,” he said innocently. “Good morning.”

“Edwold, you look to be in the pink of health,” Tarek said, which made the whole table explode into giggles.

“Don’t encourage him.” She swatted her partner on the arm, then turned back to Edwold. “If there are going to be ongoing pranks, which I am not endorsing by the way, then there must be some ground rules.”

“Rules for Fool’s?” one of the younger students piped up. “Do those really exist?”

“They do now.” Shandara took a deep breath and pitched her voice to carry. She was aware that all the nearby tables were listening, and she wanted word to spread to the entire student body.

“One.” She held up a finger. “Nothing mean-spirited or dangerous. Nobody hurt. Two—nothing damaged or broken. And three—messes get cleaned up. Understood?”

Edwold and his friends nodded. Shandara turned, slowly surveying the now-quiet Common Room. Everyone was watching her. Oh, dear. Had she just given official approval for Fool’s Week?

On the other hand, things had already been set in motion. Better to make sure the rules were in place before the retribution pranking began.

“Understood?” she said again, more strongly this time.

A chorus of agreements reassured her.

“Only a true fool would break these rules,” Tarek said, his serious expression lending weight to the words.

She exchanged a look with him. Well, they’d done what they could. Fool’s Week would run its course.

“And Edwold,” she said, turning back to the boy. “You’ll be taking your meals with me and Tarek for the rest of the week.”

“Really?” His expression fell.

“We’ll ask Lyssa to join us, if that helps.” Tarek raised his brows.

Edwold blushed faintly. He’d had a strong case of hero worship for the Healer Trainee ever since she’d helped him during a difficult time the year before.

“Well . . . all right,” he said.

“Good.” Shandara knew Lyssa wouldn’t mind—the girl often took meals with them. And Haven knew, every bit of help they could get keeping an eye on the high-spirited Edwold would be appreciated.

• • •

Early the next morning, before the sun had cleared the horizon, a commotion outside woke Shandara. Yawning, she got up and belted on her robe, then went to the window to see what was happening. Pre-dawn light brushed the sky with silver, yet despite the unreasonable hour the courtyard below hosted an impressive number of Herald Trainees. Every one of them had a pot or pan in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other, and several Trainees were already clanging on them as they crossed the flagstones toward Bardic Hall. A few Heralds had also joined the parade, along with a half-dozen Companions glowing pearly-white in the rising light.

As she watched, shifting from foot to foot on the cold wooden floor, the lead Trainee opened the door to Bardic and led everyone inside. With a soft chuckle, Shandara slipped out of her room, nodding to the other sleepy-looking Bards who’d risen to see what was going on. She went down the stairs, lingering in the stairwell to watch while the corridor outside the Trainee’s dormitory rooms filled with gleeful Heralds.

“One, two, three!” one of them yelled, and they began bashing at their pots in earnest, creating a cacophony of mismatched rhythms.

Then they began to chant, yelling out the words.

“Bardic students up so late, early morning’s what they hate,

But if we have to wear pink, dawn will come with yell and clink!”

They began to stomp their feet, redoubling the clamor.

“Don’t think you can lie abed, pleasant dreams inside your head,

Not when there’s a score to settle, we’ll bang loudly on this kettle!”

And with that, they beat ferociously on their pots and pans, while their companions whinnied and stomped their hooves. Doors opened up and down the corridor as grumpy Bardic Trainees responded, rubbing sleep out of their eyes.

“Can’t you at least keep proper time?” one of them complained, their hair sticking flat to the side of their head.

“We cannot keep your time!” a Herald Trainee shot back.

“But we can certainly rhyme!” another one added, laughing, and their Companion snorted in amusement.

“About face!” the ringleader called from the back of the line. “Forward march!”

Shandara drew back into the stairwell as the parade clanked off, leaving a disgruntled dormitory of sleepy musicians in their wake. Even once they were out of Bardic, she could hear their pot-banging echoing off the stone walls of the Collegium. The Bards weren’t going to be the only sleepy ones at their classes that day.

The shenanigans weren’t over, however. At dinner that night, everyone suddenly found their lips and mouths tingling, and a few students launched into impressive sneezing fits. All except the Healer Trainees, who couldn’t help laughing at the general chaos.

“My mouth!” Edwold cried. “It’s on fire.”

“Nettlewort,” Tarek said, reaching out a hand to keep Shandara from taking a drink of water. “I think it’s in the pitchers.”

“Don’t worry.” Lyssa grinned at Edwold. “It’ll wear off shortly. Meanwhile, I’d take Tarek’s advice.”

After a few moments the meal returned to normal, although with a marked avoidance of the water pitchers.

• • •

A day passed without incident, but the next morning, Shandara discovered the corridor to the outside door of Bardic Hall blocked by students. Some were laughing, while others peered out the open door.

“What’s going on?” she asked, making her way to the threshold. Outside, a dozen pairs of shoes stood abandoned in the courtyard “Whose shoes are these?”

“Everyone’s,” said a girl in a rust-colored tunic stranded a few feet from the door. “Someone put glue all over the flagstones. It’s remarkably sticky!”

She bent to unlace her boots, and Shandara noted another sock-footed student hopping across the empty footwear like a frog over lily pads, trying to reach clear ground.

“But how are we going to get to breakfast?” another Trainee asked.

“Jaya crawled out her window.”

“Thom jumped clear.”

“What if we rolled a rug out, and everyone walked on that?” Shandara suggested.

They quickly acted on her suggestion and managed to get the rest of the students out of the hall unscathed. That problem solved, Shandara accompanied the students to breakfast, noting the collection of shoes stuck outside the Healer’s Hall as well.

In the Common Room, the Blues were looking inordinately smug—and all of them seemed to be in possession of their normal footwear.

“I hope you’ve concocted a glue remover, in addition to that impressively sticky adhesive,” Shandara said to one of the oldest students. “Otherwise you’ll be unsticking shoes from the courtyard for days.”

The young man raised one brow. “Don’t worry, Bard Shandara. We know the rules.”

Indeed, by lunchtime all the formerly trapped shoes were neatly lined up outside the doors, ready for their owners to claim them. Still, Shandara noticed the students were careful where they stepped—at least for the remainder of the day.

The glue made an appearance again that night, when Shandara and her friends discovered that all the utensils were firmly affixed to the wooden tabletops of the Common Room. Edwold doubled over with laughter every time a hapless diner sat down and tried to pick up their fork, but swore to Shandara it hadn’t been his idea. He’d had nothing to do with it.

“I still require your company at every meal,” she said to him.

“That won’t keep him out of trouble,” Lyssa said.

“Not entirely.” Tarek nodded. “But even a little bit might help.”

“You wound me.” Edwold tried to grab the nearest knife to make a show of plunging it into his heart, then looked sheepish when the utensil stayed firmly glued to the table.

“Ha,” Lyssa said. “Serves you right.”

• • •

The week went on, the weather balmy and the halls filled with foolishness. No one was quite sure who stuffed the pocket pies with onions, or how the Collegium’s bells could be tampered with to make such a terrible clanking sound, but the general hilarity rose with each incident. Shandara couldn’t count the number of times she had to remind the students of the rules of Fool’s Week.

Including Edwold.

Lyssa alerted her that the boy was up to something, so Shandara went in search of him. She discovered Edwold behind the House of Healing, leading four small goats with ropes about their necks. Well, trying to lead them, as the creatures clearly had minds of their own.

“Help?” Edwold said in a slightly strangled voice, his arms outstretched to either side as the goats pulled in opposite directions.

“I do not want to know where you were taking these creatures,” she said, grabbing one of the ropes and pulling a goat away from the new leaves of the rosebushes.

“They were taking me,” he said woefully.

“Well, put them back where you found them. And let me point out that goats brought indoors are both destructive and messy. A clear violation of the rules.”

“I’m sorry.” He sounded genuinely contrite. “I suppose I didn’t think that one through.”

“Think harder next time. Here, pass me another goat. I’ll help you return them to their homes.”

“Thank you.” He glanced up at her. “For a teacher, you’re not so bad.”

She raised one brow. “For a student, neither are you. Most of the time.”

They shared a smile and, goats in tow, headed back toward the gates of the Collegium, goatly disaster averted.

• • •

At the end of the week, the weather finally changed, clouds rolling in and the days turning chilly. The instructors breathed a sigh of relief. On Friday evening, the entire Collegium was summoned to the recital hall in the Palace.

“Are we all in trouble?” Edwold asked, glancing about as the students and instructors filed in and took their seats facing the stage.

“A little,” Lyssa said, tilting her head in the way Shandara recognized when the girl used her Mind Healing Gift. “I think the instructors are tired of Fool’s Week.”

“That’s too bad.” Edwold made a face. “There are so many more tricks we could play.”

“Too many,” Shandara said. “This is a school, in case you’ve forgotten.”

She glanced about, glad to see no one was sneezing or seemed to have amphibians hidden in their pockets. The meeting had been called unexpectedly enough that none of the students had time to concoct any mischief beforehand.

Master Tangeli strode onto the stage, accompanied by several other Masters in Scarlets and vibrant Greens. They were joined by two of the highest-ranking Heralds, their sparkling Whites showing not even a memory of pink.

“Students, friends, and colleagues,” Master Tangeli called, his Bardic-trained voice filling the room. “Your attention, please.”

The crowd murmured and settled, and when it was quiet enough for the Master Bard’s liking, he continued. “While these last few days have been somewhat amusing—” snorts of laughter rang out here and there, “—all good things must come to an end.”

He glanced at one of the Heralds and the woman stepped forward, an official-looking paper in her hand.

“By decree of the Dean’s Council and the Crown,” she read out, “this meeting marks the official end of Fool’s Week at the Collegium. Going forward, any pranks or foolery will have consequences, and further disruptions will not be tolerated.”

There were a few unhappy groans, presumably from students who had plans in motion, but all the instructors nodded. Shandara exchanged a look with Tarek.

“It will be good to get back to actual learning again,” she said quietly.

“True. But it’s been a memorable week, you have to admit. And it’s not quite over.” He winked.

“What?” Edwold looked at them. “What’s going on?”

“Shh,” Lyssa said.

All of the Masters stepped to the edge of the stage.

“Before we let you go,” Master Tangeli said, “there is one final thing. Instructors, please stand.”

Shandara and Tarek both rose, along with the rest of the Collegium’s teachers. Shandara’s fingers closed around the little bag in her pocket, and she smiled.

“Three,” the Master Bard said, reaching into his Scarlet robe. “Two. One.”

With the other instructors, Shandara pulled the bag out, poured the contents into her hand, and blew it up toward the ceiling. Glitter-infused thistledown filled the air, dancing and sparkling.

“Grand!” Edwold jumped up, laughing, and pulled Lyssa to her feet.

All around them students were grinning and exclaiming, even more so when the Heralds on the upper balconies added their own sparkling contributions. The room was filled with light and joy, a blizzard of shimmering iridescence falling over the entire Collegium.

“It’s going to be impossible to sweep up,” Shandara said, shaking shiny bits out of her long hair. “But worth it.”

“Yes.” Tarek scooped her into a one-armed embrace and kissed her.

And there, among the glitter and laughter, Fool’s Week came to its happy and fitting conclusion.

The Companion Sting

Charlotte E. English

Kari fought to hang on to her calm, but this was no easy task; not when her brother treated her to that arrogant stare, lips curled in a smirk.

“Adgen,” she said, meeting that glittering gray gaze, willing him to understand. “You can’t steal a Companion.”

“Can’t,” Adgen repeated, thoughtfully, turning the word over in his mouth as though he’d never tasted it before. “Why can’t I?”

“Because it’s—it’s ridiculous. No one’s ever stolen a Companion before. A Companion, Adgen.”

The grin widened. “That makes it the perfect job for me, then, doesn’t it?”

Kari let out an exasperated breath and slumped into a half-broken chair. She didn’t know why Adgen insisted on maintaining their old hideaway, tucked away on the top floor of an abandoned building on the distant outskirts of Haven. He’d stolen more than enough in his career as a thief to afford better digs, but he refused to trade; it wouldn’t do to get cocky, he said, as though it weren’t already far too late for that.

The furniture had all been scrounged from other people’s castoffs years ago, when she and Adgen first hit the streets. Adgen wouldn’t hear of replacing a single article. If Kari didn’t know better, she would have suspected him of sentimental attachment to the beaten-up rubbish. Yes, even the three-legged chair upon which she presently reposed, its once-bright upholstery a mess of faded red brocade.

“You know what I think the problem is?” she said, planting her elbows upon the table—clean, even if it was shabby, for she wouldn’t live in filth—and fixing Adgen with the look she thought of as ‘supremely unimpressed’. “You’re bored.”

Adgen’s elfin face wrinkled in disgust. “I’m far too busy to be bored. I stole a choice set of emeralds off a noblewoman’s neck only this week. Right off her throat, Kari! And she didn’t even notice. Come on, nobody’s that good.”

“And why do you turn your talents to thieving when you could be doing a thousand other things?”

“Like what?” Adgen’s restless fingers began beating a distracted rhythm upon the tabletop, a sign she knew. She’d lost his attention.

The boy was too cursed smart, that was the problem. Too bright, too lively, and he’d answered to nobody since he was nine years old. Seven years later, he really was as good as he thought he was. Mostly.

Abandoning a profitless line of argument, Kari tried another tack. “Who would want a stolen Companion, anyway? They aren’t chattel. You can’t just take one and put it to use.”

Adgen only shrugged. “My job is to get the goods. What happens after? Not my problem.”

Her wretched brother frequently stole for his own amusement, but he also took jobs from others. Challenges. Daring thefts nobody else would be arrogant enough to attempt or skilled enough to pull off.

“Come on,” Kari scoffed. “It’s not a real client, is it? You’re just bored.”

“It’s a real client,” said Adgen, with that dangerous glint in his eye. “If I was just bored, I’d pick something more difficult.”

“More difficult than stealing a Companion?”

“This’ll be the easiest job I’ve had in months,” Adgen said.

Kari rolled her eyes. “Don’t forget your promise.”

“Please. It won’t come to that.”

Kari smirked, mimicking the expression she’d so often seen on her little brother’s face. “You sure about that?”

Adgen stood up. “If you’re finished insulting my skills, I’ve got a job to do.”

He was gone before she could answer, clattering down the stairs with his usual restless energy. Not that he couldn’t be quiet as the dead of night when he needed to be.

Kari watched until his too-lean figure and tousled mop of black hair vanished from her sight, her heart heavy. Then she sat a while longer, staring sightlessly at the tabletop. She hadn’t expected to talk Adgen out of the job; the older he got, the less he listened to her.

But she’d tried. That counted for something.

• • •

That was the problem with Kari. One of them, anyway. She was loyal and capable, and she’d looked after him when he’d needed it. He’d been six years old when Father died, and when Mother had followed three years later, Kari was all he had left. He was grateful, of course, but she didn’t understand that he didn’t need looking after anymore.

Besides, several years out on their own had changed him from a vulnerable child into the best thief in Haven. He could out-thieve any adult any day, and Kari knew it.

She’d never consented to join him, which was a disappointment. She had talents of her own; together, they could have been an unstoppable team. But she’d never turned him in to the Watch, either, even if she did nag him about doing something else.

She didn’t understand. There was nothing else for him. He’d been born to steal; the proof was in his success.

And she didn’t understand about the jobs, either. Thinking that stealing a Companion was some kind of challenge? Please.

He stood at a little distance from Companion’s Field, surveying the scene. He was dressed as a groom, which permitted him to wander in and out without anyone taking much note. Now, concealed amidst a knot of trees, he drank in the perfect serenity of the morning. A pale sun glimmered over the verdure, setting the pure-white Companions glimmering like fresh snow. There were more than thirty gathered, clustered in threes and fours, or grazing alone. Though a burst of rain overnight had dampened the earth, not a speck of mud marred the pristine perfection of these creatures.

Adgen had no eyes for beauty, though. The smile that curved his lips had nothing to do with sunlight or verdure; he smiled over all the things he wasn’t seeing.

Kari had been right about one thing: Nobody wanted a stolen Companion. Nobody could use one; everybody knew that. So there was no trade in this particular brand of horseflesh, no black market, no price range. Nobody bothered to steal things that had no market value, did they?

Things with a high market value attracted a lot of attention—and a lot of security. Guards and locked doors; the watching eyes of people all too alert, ready to call for the Watch at any sign of trouble.

But the Companion’s Field? Not a bit of it. There were few people about so early in the morning, and not a one of them had the look of the Watch about them. No locked gates to get past, and the best thing of all? A Companion would walk itself out of the field. He didn’t even have to figure out how to transport it. All he had to do was disguise it enough to get it down into the city, and hand it off to his client.

Which, of course, wasn’t possible: nothing could dim the glory of those glimmering-white hides. So, he had a different scheme in mind.

Adgen began, slowly, to move. He had his eyes on a young Companion, only just full-grown. There were a few that hadn’t Chosen yet, which was preferable; that way he didn’t have to dodge irate Heralds. One stood by itself, cropping new grass, tail flicking absently as it wandered along. Perfect. He could hardly have asked for a better opportunity.

It was the work of a moment to adjust his disguise. He’d long since befriended a seamstress’s apprentice down in the city; she worked for next to nothing, but her nimble fingers were skilled and sure. In a trice, his groom’s togs, turned inside-out, became a fair approximation of the Grays Trainees wore. Up close, the illusion would never hold, but from a distance? He could walk right out of there with a Companion in tow, and nobody would question it. He was just another young Chosen wandering the city with his new Companion, and nobody would ever think to raise the alarm.

It was almost too easy. He had a length of rope, pure white to meld with the Companion’s hide. The grazing creature looked up as he approached, and Adgen flipped the rope over its head. He didn’t know if Companions would respond to the same clucks and clicks that charmed regular horses, but he tried them anyway.

The Companion whickered, and a gentle tug on the rope brought it ambling after him.

Away walked Adgen with his prize, failing to entirely suppress a triumphant grin. Difficult, was it? Nobody could steal a Companion, could they? Hah.

Wouldn’t Kari look sick with chagrin when he told her.

• • •

The handover was simplicity itself. The tavern nearest Companion’s Field had a rear yard, quiet this early on. Adgen fiddled the lock on the gate, took a cautious peek through—and there was his client. Or, more likely, some lackey employed by his client. The man was burly, shabby, and nondescript; if you passed him in the street you’d take him for a common laborer.

Adgen pushed open the gate, and offered a wary nod.

“You’re Adgen?” asked the man.

“That’s me.” He didn’t bring forward the Companion, not until he had the money in hand. A nice, heavy pouch, jingling with coin; Adgen untied it, glanced inside. Gold.

Only then did he open the gate farther, holding out the rope to let the Companion be led away.

As the sounds of ringing hoofbeats faded, Adgen permitted himself a wide smile. The pouch disappeared into his cloak; his Trainee’s Grays became, once again, a drab and unremarkable brown; and Adgen wandered off, whistling. It had been a slick, smart job with a rich payday—his favorite kind. Perhaps he’d even celebrate with a beer. He hadn’t got used to the bitter flavor, yet, but beer was a man’s drink. He’d start to like it any day now.

He hadn’t got ten feet down the street before he came to an abrupt stop, his way barred by somebody tall. Very tall. He looked up and up and met a pair of serious gray eyes under black hair, the grave face shrouded in a dark hood.

It was the man’s stance that set Adgen on the alert: feet planted, solid, unmoving. No accident, this. The man had purposely put himself in Adgen’s way.

“You’re Adgen.” The same words, but not a question, this time.

Adgen tried to run, but a strong hand snared the back of his tunic and hauled him back, legs kicking. Curse it. Another year or two and he’d grow again, he knew he would; but though he had a man’s wits, he hadn’t a man’s bulk. He couldn’t wrest himself free of his persecutor’s steely grip.

“Hold on,” said gray eyes, sternly. “You’re wanted for questioning.”

“I’ve done nothing,” Adgen insisted, attempting a breezy insouciance.

“Aye, and that Companion walked itself here, I suppose.”

Adgen ceased struggling. It wasn’t that the interception surprised him; only a fool imagined they could hold onto a Companion for very long.

But this was fast.

“How did you find me?” he asked, his quick mind awhirl with ideas. A mental review of everyone he’d glimpsed, passed on the street, turned up nothing. None of them had looked like the Watch, or a guard . . .

“I’ve ways,” came the short answer. Adgen was being dragged now, taken somewhere, and at last he began to feel flickers of panic. “You don’t look like the Watch,” he snarled, his belligerence rising along with his fear.

“I’m not.” His captor, by contrast, was horribly calm, and implacable. “I work for the Spymaster, and he’d like to talk to you.”

The Spymaster?

For once in his life, Adgen had nothing to say. He could only wonder helplessly how the King’s Spy had got wind of today’s job—and why he cared. They’d send the Watch, the Palace guard, the Heralds—he’d expect anybody but a spy.

As he was hauled around a corner, Adgen thought he caught a glimpse of a familiar tow-headed girl, her hair a messy wreath of flame around a pale face. His head turned, sharply; his eyes met her cool gray eyes, so like his own, and held.

Kari. What was Kari doing here?

• • •

SEVEN DAYS EARLIER

Kari sat with Niloh all afternoon and well into the evening. Being of a taciturn disposition, the Companion never said very much. He listened well, though.

Kari had met him weeks before, on her way back from the market with a basket full of bread. Niloh had been passing with his Herald-Chosen, Shendra; his voice in her thoughts had been bright with surprise and curiosity.

:A clear voice in the crowd,: he’d said, the words chiming in her mind. :Tell me. Who is this Adgen you think of, and why does he worry you so?:

It wasn’t the first time Kari had fallen, unawares, into such a dialogue, though it was the first time she’d spoken with a Companion. She didn’t know how she communicated with the creatures of Valdemar; she supposed she must be wandering along, broadcasting her most urgent thoughts to all who had the ears to hear them. She had done so since before she could form words in human speech, with lips and teeth and tongue.

My brother, she answered, drifting absently along in the wake of Herald and Companion. He’s a thief, and I wish he would be something else. Anything else.

Thus had begun a tentative friendship, one Kari had soon taken pains to develop. She’d gone up to Companion’s Field on more than one evening and sat with Niloh and talked. Some of the other Companions wandered by at intervals and put in a word or two; but it was Niloh who listened, and Niloh who sympathised.

It was also Niloh who’d betrayed her brother. Or so she had first thought. When Shendra, Niloh’s Chosen, had found her one evening, right around midnight, curled up in the grass near Niloh’s nose and halfway asleep, she’d already known all about Adgen and his thievery.

She’d also heard about Adgen’s latest job, the one that worried Kari the most: the theft of a Companion.

:He will not succeed,: Niloh had reassured her. :We speak together much as you and I do, we Companions. Nobody could remove one of us without our all knowing of it, and we would certainly scupper your brother’s plans.:

I think he doesn’t know that, Kari had said. And she hadn’t told him. She had never told him about her bond with animals, either, and she scarcely knew why, save that Adgen was so wrapped up in himself that he was no confidant for her. And she knew . . . she knew he’d use her talent for his own ends if he could.

:Then we will play a fine trick on him,: Niloh had answered, seeming amused.

And Kari had begun to think.

• • •

Three days later, she sat with Niloh once again but in no idle spirit. Niloh had spoken to Shendra, and Shendra had promised to talk to someone who might be able to help: the Companions—for whether Adgen succeeded or not, there remained a plot to kidnap one of them—and Adgen. For if Kari didn’t find a way to divert him, he would waste his whole life, all his talents, on thievery. And sooner or later, he would get caught.

Kari didn’t know who she was expecting to meet her out at Companion’s Field after nightfall, but the person who finally arrived was a mild-mannered man. He looked like nobody in particular, with brown hair and a trimmed beard, big shoulders, and plain blue garb. He was the age her father would have been, if he’d lived.

“Hello,” she said, scrambling up, wide-eyed. “I’m Kari.”

Niloh snorted with amusement.

What? she queried.

:This is the Spymaster.:

The . . . ? Kari’s eyes grew wider still, and she made a confused attempt at a bow.

The Spymaster’s dark eyes twinkled. “I see you’ve been made aware of my identity.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you for coming, sir, though I wasn’t expecting . . . you.”

He grinned at that and sat in the grass. Niloh hadn’t bothered to get up, and after a moment, Kari sank down again beside them both.

“I hear you have information about an unusual scheme afoot,” he invited, and Kari nodded, uneasy.

:Tell him everything,: said Niloh.

But—he’s the King’s Spy, and Adgen—

:Your brother won’t be harmed.:

So Kari talked and talked: about their parents’ death, about Adgen’s wildness ever since. About his thieving: petty pickpocketing at first but how quickly he’d grown bolder and bolder. Sometimes, she thought it was as though he almost wanted to get caught.

And she talked about his current job: the mystery client who’d ordered the theft of a Companion, a person whose identity she hadn’t been able to persuade Adgen to share.

“So you see,” she said, when everything had been told, “I thought that—that this scheme might come from outside Valdemar, from Karse maybe, or somebody who’d like to hurt us. Or even copy us, somehow; I know they couldn’t, but maybe someone else thinks otherwise. Niloh and Shendra said they’d bring someone who could help.”

The Spymaster nodded. He hadn’t yet commented on anything Kari had said. “But you are not here simply to turn your brother in, are you? You are concerned for him.”

Kari took a deep breath. Now for the long shot. “Yes, I was hoping . . . um, Niloh said he’d get hold of an agent, a spy, someone who could find out where this job came from. And I thought, maybe you might need . . . a recruit?”

The Spymaster’s brows rose. “You want a job?”

“Not for me! For Adgen. He’s smart, truly, and he’s almost as good as he thinks he is. His skills could be perfect for spying, and he could be doing some good that way. For Valdemar.” She paused, then added, “Mother would be proud.”

And if this soft-spoken man would only agree, take Adgen in hand, the way Father used to . . . he would be safe. He’d never be caught and punished for thieving, and he’d no longer use his skills to do wrong. It could all be so perfect, but the King’s Spy looked anything but convinced.

“By your account, he seems beyond reach,” came the dispiriting answer. “What makes you think he would submit to training?”

“I’d have to—persuade him,” she said, wincing, for this had always been the weak point in her plan. This man had seen it in an instant.

Silence fell, for a little time. When the Spymaster spoke again, he did not refer to Adgen. “You’ve been talking with Niloh some little time, I understand?”

Kari hung her head. “Yes, I . . . I hope I wasn’t wrong to. Only we met down in the market, and he’s . . . someone to talk to.”

Niloh nudged her with his nose, which comforted her a little, despite the Spymaster’s narrow-eyed stare.

“Do you know how rare it is for people to be able to communicate with Companions? And animals? People who aren’t Chosen, that is.”

“I . . . know that Adgen cannot,” Kari said. “I don’t know who else can.”

“It is an uncommon Gift.”

Kari didn’t know what to say. She only waited as the Spymaster turned the problem over in his quick mind.

At length he said: “I could use you, Kari.”

“Me? A spy? I don’t—”

“I could use you,” he repeated. “And I concede that some of your brother’s skills may be of use, also, if only he could be brought to . . . care. So I’ll make you this offer.”

Kari waited, holding her breath.

“I will give Adgen a chance—but not alone. I’ll need you both.”

“Both of us, or neither,” Kari echoed.

The Spymaster nodded and waited. He didn’t rush her, and neither did Niloh.

It didn’t take Kari long to decide. What would become of either of them, if she turned this down?

She lifted her chin. “I accept.”

That won her a smile and a brief word of encouragement from Niloh.

“Very well,” said the Spymaster. “Then let us decide what to do about this mysterious client.”

• • •

Niloh had taken charge of selecting a suitable Companion for the sting. He’d nominated Ayen, a sound, calm youngster who had yet to Choose. On the morning of Adgen’s job, Ayen had kept himself aloof from his fellows and made sure to stay on the fringes of the Field.

Kari had followed Adgen, staying out of sight. It never entered his head that she might tail him, so he’d taken little care; all his attention had been focused on the people up ahead of him, not those who might be following behind.

Also in attendance was Thom, a tall, gray-eyed young agent whose grim demeanor intimidated Kari. She hoped he might have the same effect on Adgen.

They had followed Adgen to the tavern and waited out of sight until the handover was complete.

Then Thom had snared Adgen, leaving Shendra and Niloh to keep in touch with Ayen as he was led away to the person who thought they had bought him.

Shendra and the Spymaster’s agents would take care of them. Kari remained behind—with Thom. And Adgen.

“Kari?” he gasped when he saw her. “How . . . ?”

He was too bright not to instantly grasp the situation. The betrayal in his face as he looked at her . . . Kari’s heart twisted. She stepped out into the cobbled street, hands outstretched, holding Adgen’s gaze. “It’s okay. Adgen—it isn’t what you think.”

“You’ve turned me in?”

“No. You aren’t in trouble.”

Thom shook the boy a little. “He’s in a bit of trouble,” he disagreed.

Kari sighed. “Adgen, I couldn’t just let you go through with it. Don’t you see? The Companions are—special. Their value is in everything but money. This could be part of a plot against Valdemar, and the Spymaster had to know.”

“You’re supposed to take care of me.” She had expected more of Adgen’s belligerence and bombast, but instead he sounded—small. Frail. Like the lost child she knew him to be, underneath the bravado.

She took a shaky breath. “I am looking after you. Adgen, you can’t go on stealing forever. It isn’t right, and you’ll get caught, and then what? What kind of a sister would I be if I just let you keep doing it?”

No answer. He watched her with hard, untrusting eyes, and said nothing.

“But you’re good at what you do. Truly good, great even, and you know what? Those talents would make you a great spy, too.”

Adgen did not relax, but she thought she saw a flicker of interest in his glowering gaze. “A spy,” he said neutrally.

“Think about it. Disguises, stealth, eavesdropping, running cons, gathering information—even a bit of thieving from time to time. All the things you love, that you’re good at. Only your targets wouldn’t be rich women with too many jewels. You’d be targeting those who want to harm Valdemar.”

He only stared at Kari, looking hunted. Or haunted. It took Kari a moment to realize why.

“I won’t be leaving you,” she added. “We’ll be going together. I’ll be a spy, too.”

Adgen still said nothing. Kari forced herself to wait, not to push; he needed to think. His face was flat, largely unreadable. She knew, though, that behind those hard eyes his bright mind was fast at work, putting the pieces together. Realizing how he’d been tricked. How would he react? With rage—or something better?

At last, he reached inside his cloak, withdrew a pouch, and tossed it to Kari. It settled heavily into her hands, clinking.

“I failed the job,” he said. “So that’s yours. The rest is under the floor at home. North corner. You know.”

If I ever fail a job, Adgen had once said, I’ll give up thieving forever. And I’ll give every coin I ever earned to you.

He hadn’t thought he would ever have to make good on this promise.

Neither had Kari, once.

She would turn the valuables over to the Spymaster. He might be able to restore them to their former owners.

“And the job?” she asked. A real job, at last; a real purpose.

Adgen sighed, and some of the fight went out of him. Then, to her surprise, he smirked. “If anyone could best me, it was always going to be you.”

Kari grinned, relieved. “If you’d just listened to me, I wouldn’t have had to trick you.”

“But that wouldn’t have been any fun, would it?” Adgen had the cheek to grin up at Thom, and to make him a flippant salute. “Lead on, agent. But you’d better look to your job. Me and Kari are going to make the best team.”

“We’ve always been the best team,” said Kari, softly, but Adgen heard. His cheeky grin blossomed into a real smile; watching that sun light up his thin face, Kari felt a surge of relief—and gratitude. That she’d had Adgen, after mother died. That they’d had each other.

And now they would have a purpose. A life, not just an existence.

They’d defeat every coming challenge together, as they always had. And come what may, Kari knew: Mother and Father would be proud.

Love, Nothing More, Nothing Less

Brigid Collins

The delegation from Areshinn had long since passed through the most squalid parts of Haven on its way up to the Palace, but the chill wind that swept along the pristine streets of the noble’s quarters still sliced cold and rank against Dreyvin’s unprotected face.

He wished he could have accepted Lady Areshinn’s invitation to ride with her in the carriage. The cold set the stump of his missing right arm aching. And though the inhabitants of Exile’s Gate had had too many of their own ailments and mutilations to fuss over his missing limb, the people who lived higher up on the hill were plenty ready to wrinkle their arch noses at him as he rode in the clattering wake of his lady’s carriage.

That, on top of the way the buildings seemed to press in and lean over him, left Dreyvin buzzing with nervous energy he hadn’t felt since his earliest days defending Areshinn Hold from bandits.

Bright Lady, he hated the city. Riding in the carriage would be nice merely to spare himself the oppressive view.

But he knew his place. Though Lady Areshinn dearly loved to treat him as a son-in-law, Dreyvin was the captain of her guard, and he couldn’t do his job from inside a carriage.

Even here in the noble’s quarters the traffic had grown thick and snarled enough to warrant him keeping his guard up. The season was a strange one for folk to be traveling to Haven, a month after Midwinter and well into the bitter cold and grimy gray snow piles of deep, lingering winter. By rights, Dreyvin, Lady Areshinn, and their entire entourage ought to be snug at home, waiting for warmer days.

But an unexpected joyous event had occurred soon after Midwinter: The younger princess had formed a Lifebond with a shocking young man from Exile’s Gate during her service in the courts there. And as the King, his heir, and all three of the royal family’s Companions agreed with this bond, a celebration was in store.

Still, Lady Areshinn and Dreyvin himself might have merely sent a polite refusal and stayed cozy warm at home, if the lady’s son hadn’t slipped his own short message in with the invitation.

“Please come,” it read in Simen’s hasty hand. “It’s been forever since we were all together, and the festivities are going to be so romantic.”

Dreyvin huddled deeper into his cloak. Simen. The thought of his bright, musical partner brought him both a measure of warmth and a piercing spike of cold. As a full Bard, Simen spent most of his time traveling the breadth of Valdemar, and Dreyvin got to see him only once or twice in a year. The distance made their relationship hard at times, but they tried to keep up their understanding via frequent letters and the occasional helping hand from Simen’s Herald friend, Marli. Yes, Simen had—more than once—invited Dreyvin to come traveling with him. But while the idea held a certain romantic appeal, Dreyvin couldn’t abandon his place at Hold Areshinn. The lady needed him.

And Simen . . . deserved better.

At the very least, he deserved someone who could look at the tangled mess of traffic amidst the dirty sludge of snow and see romantic festivities.

Dreyvin twitched his cloak tighter about his shoulders, then nudged his horse forward to see if he could find an alternate route for the lady.

Maybe the Palace would make a better show of the romance his lover described so vividly.

• • •

Once he’d seen the lady settled in her guest chambers satisfactorily, he was ready to admit to a certain levity in the air. And once he’d spent long enough checking the security of the rooms for the heat of the large, hickory-scented fire to thaw him out a bit, he might even have been prevailed upon to call the welcome “open-hearted.”

Still, he maintained his gruffness as he accompanied Lady Areshinn about the Palace.

“Do try to look as though you know what love is, Dreyvin,” she said with a laugh. The soft sound echoed delicately in the wood-paneled corridor like a bell.

“I know what love is,” Dreyvin muttered. He felt unbalanced without his sword at his side, but he couldn’t exactly carry arms about in the King’s own home. He’d have Heralds jumping on him every way he turned.

“But you don’t look it, and that’s what’s important to the people here, especially given the occasion.” Her warm smile reassured him she understood his grimace perfectly.

Luckily, before he could express his opinions on the judgmental nature of Palace-dwellers, a loud, familiar voice boomed along the hallway. “Mother! Dreyvin!”

And then Simen was there, and the muscles Dreyvin had unconsciously tightened relaxed. Simen looked more naturally disheveled than he had the last time they’d seen each other, back at the tail end of summer as the Bard had been about to embark on a research trip to Orchard Lake in search of true ghost stories to turn into songs. His hair had grown longer, and though he’d attempted to pull it back into a tail, several curled strands had made successful escape attempts. His skin had a windblown look to it, coarse and patchy with the ridiculous scruffy beard he grew when he was too caught up in songwriting to remember to shave.

He was beautiful, and so very worthy of having companionship year-round.

Dreyvin let himself smile while Simen hugged his lady mother. He couldn’t have stopped the corners of his lips from rising if he’d tied training weights to them. But the expression came accompanied by a sinking stone of despair in his heart.

And then Simen was throwing himself against Dreyvin with abandon, his wiry arms closing around Dreyvin’s shoulders and his lips pressing to Dreyvin’s in a shameless display of affection.

Even Lady Areshinn’s gentle laughter couldn’t raise more than a mild flush of embarrassment in the face of such a welcome.

“Oh, Drey,” Simen breathed. “Isn’t it all so wonderful?”

“I suppose it must be,” Dreyvin answered through the lump in his throat. “You certainly seem to find it invigorating.”

“Everyone finds it invigorating.” Simen’s laugh sounded like his mother’s, but richer.

The lady coughed. “Yes, even the unfortunates of Exile’s Gate appeared full of joy. One of their own is being elevated by this Lifebond, after all. Such mysterious things, Lifebonds, aren’t they? Simen, dear, you’ll have to sing us some songs about the phenomenon while we are here.”

“As if there were anything else on the bill! But that can wait a while yet. I’ve got some people I want you to meet.”

Simen tucked Dreyvin’s lone arm against his side, and Dreyvin found himself promenading down the corridor like a lord with his lady. It felt awkward, and it made that phantom itching swell in his missing elbow. But he endured it, quashed that sense of I-don’t-belong down deep inside. Simen was beaming up at him as he let his words flow cheerfully, and that was worth a little discomfort.

As they walked, they passed through the crowds of other visiting nobles. Unobtrusive servants moved here and there, offering tidbits of food and drink. Young pages dashed among the crush, weaving and dodging as nimble as any forest bandit. The blazing Whites of Heralds studded the gathering like a scattering of stars. But each face Dreyvin’s eye fell upon, whether high or low born, busy or idle, on guard or at ease, glowed with merriment.

Which made it almost jarring to find himself suddenly looking upon a pair of faces that did not convey much in the way of happiness.

Simen had brought them up to meet a woman in Herald’s Whites and a man who looked as though he’d been forcibly shoved into a fancy blue velvet doublet and leather trews. The instant the woman set her hard eyes upon him, Dreyvin recognized her. After all the times Herald Marli had used her Farsight to look in on him for Simen’s sake, he would know that sensation of being looked at any time. Though this exact moment didn’t carry the weight of Mind-magic being used, her stormy gaze still crackled with barely contained power.

The man beside her hardly presented less of a sturdy façade, though he lacked that special something that marked all Heralds. He looked rough around the edges, in the same way the bandits Dreyvin spent much of his time fending off did. He held himself like an impenetrable wall against anyone and everyone, and especially—Dreyvin thought—against Herald Marli.

From the way Marli’s face was drawn in taut lines, Dreyvin assumed she felt the same way about her neighbor.

Simen, ignoring the palpable storm clouds billowing around the two, beamed and spread his arms wide, as if to encompass everyone into one big bear hug.

“Friends and family, all together at last! Dreyvin, my love, this is my best friend Marli and her Lifebonded partner Kimfer, who is a bright ray of sunshine on the road, I can tell you. And if you don’t believe me, you can just ask little Lillia. Where is that scamp? I thought she was coming to meet my family.”

Dreyvin saw the tightening of Marli’s lips and the furrowing of Kimfer’s brow at Simen’s lighthearted ribbing, and in that instant, he knew near enough to their whole story as made no difference. These two didn’t relish their status as Lifebonded. And if Dreyvin’s assessment of Kimfer as bandit material was correct, he couldn’t say he blamed them. Who could envision a Herald Lifebonded to a hardened criminal?

Then again, who could have foreseen a princess forming a Lifebond with a poor man from Exile’s Gate? Marli and Kimfer must have been getting similar ribbing comments, as well as genuine well-wishes ever since the royal announcement had been made. Add in a child for the two to care for—a child who had already suffered abuse at the hands of her birth parents, according to Simen’s letters from this past autumn, which had detailed the story of how Kimfer had rescued Lillia from a trap made of her own untrained mind magic, and how the little girl had promptly latched onto Kimfer as her protector—and Dreyvin read a recipe for brewing antagonism.

But Dreyvin also saw the way yearning oozed off Simen as the Bard watched his friends. It didn’t matter if the Lifebond was unwanted; Simen could always see the good in every situation and, seeing it, could spin it into wild flights of fancy. In the heightened romance of the main event surrounding them, those flights were visibly becoming whole flocks of fantasies.

Dreyvin’s heart clenched. Simen deserved so much better than he could ever provide.

Marli’s answer broke through his melancholy. “This dinner is only for adults. Lillia is off playing with her new friends. I believe they’re having a snowball fight in the gardens.”

“Nothing so innocent,” Kimfer bit. “Those kids were licking their chops like she was fresh meat. They’ll make her a target just because she’s new.”

Marli rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. A little snowball fight is hardly torment and ridicule. She’ll be fine.”

“She’s already been through hell, Herald. I’d sooner see her settled and seeing to her lessons.”

“Right, because keeping her away from other children her age worked so well for her charming father,” Marli snapped.

The two bristled at one another, and Dreyvin’s fingers twitched with the need to reach for his sword. His sword, which was back in Lady Areshinn’s chambers, because a celebration of love in the very halls of the King of Valdemar was no place to be carrying weapons.

Someone should have made sure these two got the message. As it was, they were starting to draw attention to themselves.

Simen, unfazed by their open hostility, slapped both on the back. “So, the fair child won’t be joining us for dinner, then. A shame, but it’s good for her to get some fresh air. And come, Kimfer. How much hurt can come to her when there are hundreds of Companions just a field away, huh?”

Kimfer scowled as though he thought the proximity of Companions definitely made things worse.

Simen either didn’t notice this, or he ignored it. “She’ll get to her lessons soon enough, I promise. I even put in a word with the Dean of Bardic to let Lillia have a trial sit-in on some basic theory lectures alongside her Pastsight training. She’s young, but I’m sure I’ve never seen such a serious little girl. She needs some love in her life.”

“Love, yes,” said Lady Areshinn, her voice delicate and wistful. She swept her gaze around the gathering. “Such a beautiful thing, isn’t it? My lord would have found this celebration a great source of joy. What can be more wonderful than people from disparate worlds coming together to make something new?”

Simen’s grin softened, and he sighed. “Dear old Dad.”

Marli opened her mouth as if to argue, then closed it. Kimfer narrowed his eyes, but he also remained silent.

At that moment, the bell rang to signal the opening of the dining hall. The crowd became a crush as everyone moved to present themselves at once.

Dreyvin placed himself between Lady Areshinn and the press. Though he was down an arm, he’d long since learned to make the most of his remaining bulk, and he put that skill to use now to keep his charge from being unnecessarily jostled.

As the flow of people and fine cloth swept them along, Dreyvin realized the Herald who was announcing each guest was announcing them in couples.

Herald Marli wrinkled her nose. Kimfer twisted his lip as if he were suffering a pang of indigestion. But all around them, Valdemar’s high born were looking at the two with expressions of happy expectation.

“You know, once upon a time, I was supposed to marry a nice, sweet miller’s son,” Marli grumbled as she stepped over to Kimfer’s side. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Kimfer grunted, stuck his elbow out just barely enough for Marli to lay her fingers upon it, and marched forward like a condemned man climbing the scaffold.

The Herald announced them with a knowing grin. “Herald Marli and her Lifebonded, Kimfer.”

The announcement raised a swell of applause from those already gathered inside.

“Ugh,” Marli said before dragging Kimfer forward.

Now it was House Areshinn’s turn to step up and be announced.

Indecision gripped Dreyvin. He wanted to offer his arm to Simen, to escort his partner in the sweeping romantic style Simen would relish. He wanted to show the whole of Valdemar’s nobility that Bard Simen had full ownership of his heart. He wanted, truly, to revel in the spirit of the event, as much as his own dour attitude would allow, anyway. It wasn’t much, but it might brush close to the way all the songs described lovers acting in public.

Simen deserved that.

But he couldn’t abandon his lady. How could he? He was the captain of her guard, the person to whom she most often spoke about how very much she missed her lord since his death, the closest thing she had to family living with her now. He could not leave her to enter such a dinner unescorted.

The shame would be more uncomfortable than the phantom cramps in his missing limb.

And who was he kidding? He could never properly emulate those romantic heroes Simen sang about so often. He’d only make a fool of himself, and embarrass the one he sought to delight.

He bowed to the lady as they came to the door—too stiffly, he knew, and he didn’t miss the sparkle in her eyes as she held back her common refrain for him to act like he knew what the word fun meant.

“My lady,” he said, and held out the only arm he had to offer.

The sparkle in her gaze sharpened, and her lips thinned. But the Herald waiting to announce them lifted one eyebrow in subtle impatience, and the lady looped her arm through Dreyvin’s without further comment.

Dreyvin faced firmly forward and held himself tall as they approached the Herald. Simen would understand soon enough, but Dreyvin couldn’t bear to glimpse the moment of disappointment now.

“Drey . . .”

Dreyvin tightened his jaw at the soft laugh in that one syllable. He should turn around. He should turn around right now. But this was the way it had to be.

“Simen! You heartbreaker, there you are.”

Dreyvin turned his head and caught the swirling scarlet of a young woman in such a flamboyant, fluttering dress as could only be found on a Bard. She was grinning from ear to diamond-studded ear as she shoved her way, unladylike, through the crowd to reach Simen. She held the bulk of her skirt crumpled in one fist.

Simen’s greeting overflowed with surprise and pleasure as he reached out to take her in his arms. “Callia! You made it back home in time after all.”

Dreyvin thought he might be sick. The moment of doubt Simen’s soft laugh had made pulled away, and despair grew heavy as a boulder in the pit of Dreyvin’s heart.

The Herald’s voice set his head buzzing. “Lady Areshinn and her escort, Captain Dreyvin.”

No choice now but to move forward. He’d made his choice, and though he’d suffered a moment of acute regret, he knew it was still for the best. His lady needed him, and Simen deserved better.

Maybe that lady Bard wasn’t Simen’s Lifebonded, but she could surely spare the time to travel with him. Even half the year spent together would trump anything Dreyvin could offer.

“Stop squeezing so tight. You’re going to put pins and needles in my hand,” Lady Areshinn whispered as they approached their seats at one of the three long, white-cloth-draped tables laid out for the guests. The high table, where the King and his family would sit, looked over all the others and was festooned with such an array of out-of-season flowers that they must have fully depleted the Palace’s hothouses.

Dreyvin muttered an apology and held the lady’s chair out for her. Their seats were a few places away from Herald Marli and Kimfer, though on the opposite side. He could easily see them sniping at each other under their breath as they negotiated the close space. Whether Marli or Kimfer flinched harder each time their elbows knocked together or their fingers brushed, Dreyvin couldn’t say.

“Bard Simen and Bard Callia.”

The pair entered in a swirl of skirts and wide smiles, arms linked. But when Bard Callia tried to pull them off toward one of the other tables, Simen shook his head and pointed to where Lady Areshinn and Dreyvin sat.

He leaned in to kiss her cheek, and then the two parted ways as the next couple was announced.

Dreyvin tried to quash the way his heart swelled as Simen walked toward him but couldn’t quite manage it.

“You could have sat with her,” he said as Simen pulled out the chair beside him. “It sounded like you two have a lot to catch up on.”

Simen waved one hand as if wafting away an unpleasant smell. “Sure, I wish I got to see Callia more often. We were in all our Bardic classes together, and now we’re both always off doing our own things. But you’re the ones I want to spend this evening with. Besides, I invited you, not her.”

Oh, Simen. You’re making this so difficult. Dreyvin kept his jaw tight as a bear trap. But he couldn’t turn away from those bright eyes staring right into his very being.

Simen leaned in, just a little, just enough so his breath on Dreyvin’s cheek started a cascade of warm sparks at the knowledge Simen was choosing him, despite all the mounting reasons why he shouldn’t, why he deserved someone better.

Then Simen widened his soft smile into a grin and leaned around Dreyvin so he could see his mother. “I mean, what kind of cad invites his own mother to a banquet and then abandons her? Hardly a class act.”

Lady Areshinn shot him a knowing look. “Yes, I’m the lucky beneficiary of your graceful attentions. Now, hush!” She pointed with her chin at the door that had opened behind the high table.

“Oh! Here they come,” Simen said in a stage whisper. He grasped Dreyvin’s lone hand in both of his, twining their fingers absentmindedly as he watched the royal procession.

Dreyvin watched, too. First came the King, resplendent in his Whites and strutting like a proud papa. The Heir came behind him, alongside the King’s Own Herald. All three men stood behind their seats and turned to watch the doorway they had just come through, faces bearing identical expressions of joy.

The air hummed with anticipation. Simen’s fingers tightened around Dreyvin’s.

Then they appeared. The princess and her Lifebonded young man entered the dining hall as one, arms looped through one another’s, shoulders pressed together, heads bent toward each other as if they couldn’t keep from whispering secret nothings even at a dinner in their honor with all the nobility of Valdemar in attendance. The princess wore her Whites, too, but they were festooned with pale pink silk flowers, and a crown of them was woven through her dark hair. The young man wore a soft blue outfit and had pinned a cluster of the silk blossoms to his breast.

An audible sigh passed through the crowd, and Simen’s head came to rest on Dreyvin’s shoulder. “It’s so romantic, isn’t it, Drey?”

It was. In fact, the scene was so romantic it had caused a firm lump to lodge itself somewhere between Dreyvin’s throat and his heart. If he’d thought Simen was yearning for the closeness of a Lifebond while watching Herald Marli and Kimfer bicker with one another, he was seeing a whole deeper level of longing now, as his lover looked upon the princess and her young man with unrestrained awe.

Simen might have chosen Dreyvin over the lady Bard this evening, but it still didn’t change anything. He would always want a Lifebond of his own. And how could Dreyvin blame him? From down here at the low tables, the splendor of love on display at the high table looked beautiful and desirable.

Dreyvin knew, in the deep, painful pit of his heart, he was going to have to let Simen go. Tonight, probably.

The couple of the hour had taken their seats now, still smiling secret smiles at one another for all the world to see. The King remained standing. He scooped up his goblet and held it aloft.

“My friends, tonight we celebrate love. Nothing more, nothing less. May this joining, unlooked-for and surprising as it has been, serve as a portent for the goodwill to come. Not just for the young couple, but for all throughout Valdemar.”

He paused as applause, and even cheering, swept through the crowd. The princess was so happy, she practically glowed. The young man beside her ducked his head in sheepish delight.

The King raised the goblet again. “I could not ask for a happier event to befall my daughter, and I’m sure everyone can—”

A gust of wind swept through the dining hall, chill and damp as a spring tempest. But while the gathered nobles squawked in indignation and looked around for an errant open window, Dreyvin stared at the candles between him and the person sitting at the place across from him.

The flames stood still, untouched by even a scant breeze.

“Gods, is that rain?” Simen asked. He held out one hand, palm up. Sure enough, Dreyvin felt fat drops spattering against his own brow. But the candles neither sputtered nor hissed in the sudden onslaught. Was the rain real? The wetness felt real enough trickling down his neck and into his collar.

A peal of thunder rumbled overhead. It echoed unnaturally within the vaulted ceiling.

Herald Marli leaped to her feet. “Everyone, out!”

Her voice boomed loud enough to rival the thunder, and with the authority of a bolt of lightning. When it came to weather watching, she was the authority. Everyone scrambled to follow her orders.

Dreyvin leaped to make himself into a barrier between the growing stampede and Lady Areshinn. Muscles tensed, he stood in the feet-apart stance that would let him stand his ground and used his single arm to guide oncoming courtiers away from his lady.

In the peripherals of his vision, he saw the Heralds working to control the exodus. Even Simen, Bright Lady bless him, was trying to help guide a pair of ladies whose fine dresses had become sodden weights upon their bodies.

But nobody could move fast enough to avoid seeing the apparition.

It appeared over the high table as the unnatural rain turned from a chilling downpour to a lashing affront. First, the apparition seemed to be an image of a building, tall and thin, with a bell at the top. But as the first flashes of lightning flickered in the hall, a figure appeared on top of that ghostly tower.

A young man, his face a wreck of anguish and loss.

Dreyvin’s heart froze at the sight. Dimly, he was aware that others around him were having similar reactions, but among the disheveled nobles, none were as stricken as the Heralds. The whole lot had turned pale as ghosts themselves.

Simen, at Dreyvin’s elbow, gasped. “Tylendel . . .”

The name slithered through the room on a wave of whispers.

Then a cry rang out, and the ghostly youth pitched forward to fall from the height of the tower.

All at once, the apparition evaporated. Ringing silence filled the dining hall.

Dreyvin struggled to draw breath, and instinctively, he reached his one hand out in search of Simen’s. Simen met him halfway. Once music-calloused fingertips touched sword-roughed palm, the bands around Dreyvin’s lungs finally loosened.

Up at the high table, the princess and her young man clung to one another, too, both clearly rattled by the apparition. They hadn’t been spared the drenching, though the candles on their table also burned placidly. The food on their plates looked just as fresh and appetizing as it had before the strange storm broke out. The same situation was evident at every table, and in fact, no puddles had formed on the floor. No water dripped from the hangings around the windows or the tapestries.

Dreyvin looked at Simen in bewilderment. If anyone understood ghosts, it was the Sovven Bard. But Simen squeezed his hand and jerked his head toward Herald Marli and Kimfer. The two were the only ones moving in a sea of shocked people, heading not for the high table or the large doors leading to the reception hall, but for a side door that looked as though it opened onto the gardens. For the first time since he’d met them, Herald and bandit looked to be completely in agreement with one another.

“Lillia . . .” Simen murmured, as if the single name served as a full explanation.

Remembering the little girl’s story—the way her untrained, unguarded Pastsight could bring such vivid images of the past to life as made people think the old mill where she’d lived was truly haunted—Dreyvin supposed it did. For all the tempest had felt real, it was only an illusion, an image projected into everyone’s minds by a little girl. Even Dreyvin’s clothes felt as dry now as if they’d never been soaked in the first place.

The princess broke the silence with a ragged sob.

“I . . . we . . . have a confession to make. Th-there is no Lifebond. We simply wanted to be together, and we thought this was the only way we would be allowed to marry. My Companion thought it was a good idea! But this . . .” She lifted a slim, trembling hand to indicate the apparition that had filled the room mere moments before. “This is too ominous an omen to continue the ruse under. I won’t allow it.”

She turned to her partner and clasped his hand to her chest. “Tren, I love you, and I choose to live my life with you of my own volition, even if I must give up my place in the royal family to do so.”

“Lara . . .” The King’s warm chuckle came like the calm after the storm. “I don’t see any need for exile from the family. Where’s the crime in finding love, whether its origins be mystical or commonplace?” He swept up his abandoned goblet and lifted it once again in toast.

But Simen was tugging on Dreyvin’s hand. “I’d better go after Kimfer and Marli. Lillia probably needs help. I can’t imagine that experience left the poor thing in good shape.”

Dreyvin’s first instinct was to send him on his way. His place was beside Lady Areshinn, where he could see to her comfort and safety.

But the lady was perfectly safe, her attention rapt on the King as he bestowed his heartfelt blessings upon the young couple once again. She sighed as wistfully as a girl fresh out of the schoolroom when the princess and her unlikely lover shared a kiss. Throughout the dining hall, nobles and Heralds cheered in relief. After the frightful panic the apparition had stirred, declarations of love served as a fine balm.

Dreyvin held his single hand out to Simen as he’d wanted to do at the beginning of this dinner. “Let’s go.”

Together, the two slipped out through the side door.

Snow crunched under their fine shoes, but the night air was still and silent in the gardens. Moonlight silvered the edges of a double line of hurried footprints, the only sign of Marli and Kimfer’s prior passage. Dreyvin and Simen followed these through the dormant garden beds, down the sloping training fields, and up to the grounds surrounding the fateful belltower.

A huddle of young children stood off to the side, cowed by whatever part of the apparition they’d seen. And yet, they were already recovering in the resilient way children had. They peered curiously at Herald Marli and Kimfer, who were kneeling side-by-side in the snow.

But what made Dreyvin’s heart clench was the sight of the little black-haired girl who knelt between the two, both her small hands clenched around one of each of theirs. Her face was blotched from crying, but her cheeks were dry now, and her eyes shone with utter trust as she looked up at her guardians.

She turned those shining eyes on Dreyvin and Simen as their footsteps announced their approach, and her faint smile grew stronger.

“Uncle Simen!”

“All right, Lillia?” Simen asked.

“Uncle Simen, guess what? My Kimfer and my Marli said we can spend the rest of the night together, all three of us! Isn’t that great?”

Beside her, Marli and Kimfer shared a glance. Kimfer shrugged. Marli tossed him a wry smile.

“Together, huh?” Simen said. He looked at Dreyvin, his lips curling in soft happiness. “Yes, that is rather wonderful.”

Dreyvin looked back to Simen and smiled his own small smile. Lady Areshinn would have teased him about it, told him to act like he knew what happiness was.

But Simen knew the depths of Dreyvin’s feelings. He always had.

• • •

“That poor child. She was only trying to impress the other children. She had no idea the ‘history’ they told her the belltower had was so . . . unsettling.”

Simen kicked the bedchamber door shut behind him and let out a long, tired sigh.

“I think you mean poor Marli and Kimfer,” Dreyvin said, pulling Simen close. “They’ve got to fast-track her training if they want to avoid another mass flashback like that. Not to mention your little Lillia is quite the expert manipulator, isn’t she? She’s got both of them wrapped around her adorable little finger.”

“Oh, yes,” Simen said as he leaned into Dreyvin’s one-armed embrace. “Though I wish it hadn’t taken such drastic measures to get them to promise to try to stop fighting all the time.”

He sighed wistfully and started working on getting Dreyvin’s collar unlaced.

Dreyvin watched his deft fingers work for a quiet moment, drinking in the rare closeness.

“You’re not jealous of them?” he finally asked.

Simen snorted. “Aggravated, more like. But also, sad. For them. I know they didn’t choose each other, and in Marli’s case, I think she still hasn’t quite got over the heartbreak she suffered way back when she was Chosen and had to leave her betrothed behind. But . . . but they could be good together! Under all his gruffness, Kimfer’s a good man. And Marli’s sweet. All they need to do is try a little.”

Dreyvin shifted so Simen could pull his tunic up and over his head. “I guess Lifebonds are more trouble than the songs would have us believe.”

“They make for good stories. But in real life?” Simen shrugged. “I’d rather be free to choose.”

“Even if you only see the person you choose once or twice a year?”

Simen pressed his forehead against Dreyvin’s and started unlacing his own collar. “Even then, my love.”

Together, they removed the remains of their outer clothes and fell upon the bed, exhausted, but still ready to find warmth and comfort with each other.

Simen pulled the blankets up over them. “Bright Lady, I’m tired. I couldn’t even think of a line of music now if I tried. All this romantic atmosphere has stifled my creativity for ghost stories! Then again, that apparition . . . Hmm. Perhaps I’ll wander up north to the Sorrows for a bit after all the excitement dies down here. There’s plenty of ghostly activity around there. Even if it has all been sung about before, maybe I’ll uncover something fresh. There is this story I heard a bit about, once—”

Dreyvin caught Simen’s gesticulating hand and tucked it under his chin. He loved seeing Simen in the excitement of a new song idea like this. It made his whole face light up and his eyes dance, just the way he’d looked the first time Dreyvin had set eyes on him.

“I’ll come with you.”

Simen stopped on a breath. “You will? Truly?”

Dreyvin brushed a kiss across Simen’s knuckles. “Truly. There are others within the household who can look after your mother, she’s pointed it out to me often enough. And you . . . I . . . we deserve some time together. Because I choose you, too. Maybe it’s selfish, but I don’t want anyone else, and I don’t want to just let you go anymore. That is, if you still want me tagging along. I understand if you’ve gotten used to a life wandering alo—mmf.”

Apparently, neither of them were going anywhere for the immediate future.

But that was fine with Dreyvin. Because no matter where they were, whether in the wild forests of the north, the lakeside orchards of the south, or even the uncomfortable crowd and grime of the city after Midwinter, he knew they’d both give each other everything they were. Not because they had to but because they chose to.

Simen deserved that. Dreyvin did, too.

A Cry of Hounds

Elisabeth Waters

Three riders, each wearing the habit of a Novice, clattered into the courtyard of the Temple of Thenoth in Haven. The two girls dismounted easily, and the younger one took their horses to be watered. The young man dismounted slowly and clung to the saddle while he got his feet firmly underneath him. Meanwhile the older girl was carefully lifting a dog out of a specially designed saddlebag. The Prior arrived just as the other girl came back and took the third horse for its well-deserved drink.

“Lady Magdalena, Lord Keven, welcome,” he said, giving Lord Keven a hand to the bench next to the chapel. After Keven broke both legs in a riding disaster that killed the horse, his father had sent him to the Temple and told people his oldest son had died. Keven had not only made a much better recovery than his father had anticipated, he had married Lena—in part to save her from the over-insistent courtship of his younger brother. His father had not been pleased, but he had already disinherited Keven, so Lena simply added him to the family she was expected to rebuild.

The Prior looked at the dog Lena was holding. “Is that Orson? You can put him down; he’ll be fine here.”

“Thank you, Prior.” Lena released Orson and joined the men on the bench, sitting on the Prior’s other side. “It’s good to see you again. Maja asked us to fetch the hooved stock you want moved to the daughter house—and the King insists that we appear at Winter Court and be Formally Presented.” Her face made it clear that she’d rather muck out stables.

“How is Maja managing at the daughter house—and why did she send Stina? I’ve never seen a more disruptive Novice.”

“Maja is managing much better than she thinks she is, and Stina has settled down. The boy-crazy routine was an act, and Maja got her to drop it.”

“Why would a girl pretend to be boy-crazy?”

“Sven-August’s mother.”

“I think, Lena, that I need a bit more of an explanation than that.”

“Stina and Sven-August were betrothed a few years ago. Unfortunately, her family lost their money—bad investments, I think—and then Mistress Efanya didn’t want them to marry. They still want to, and they’re determined not to marry anyone else.”

“Will you be staying here?” the Prior asked. “We will have to put you back in your old Novice cells, if you do.”

Lena and Keven sighed in unison. “We really wish we could stay here,” Lena replied, “but the King wants us at court. I’m taking Stina with me as a lady-in-waiting, but she will be helping move the stock when the time comes. She’s actually quite good at it.”

The Prior smiled. “I’m glad that the daughter house is doing so well. Maja is much better at handing young girls than I could ever hope to be, even under the Peace of the God.”

“We did notice that you sent all the girls with her, but it’s working out well. Of course, we now have everyone with Animal Mindspeech except for Arvid. I hope you still have him?”

“Yes, he is still fostered here.” The Prior sighed. “We rather need him at the moment, because the Heralds don’t have anyone with Animal Mindspeech available to teach a new Trainee, so they’re sending her here for lessons.”

“Do you mean Tansy?” Keven asked.

“That’s right; I had forgotten she comes from your estate.”

They were interrupted by the bell for evening prayers. “I didn’t realize it was so late,” Lena said. “Prior, the horses are tired, and so are we. Could we take you up on your offer of Novice quarters until we have to go to court?”

“Of course.” The Prior extended a hand. “Keven, come with me. Lena, you and Stina finish stabling the horses, wash up, and join us in chapel.”

Lena nodded and went to tell Stina they were staying.

• • •

The next morning, Lena and Stina were almost finished with morning chores in the stables when the clatter of a Companion’s hooves was clearly audible in the courtyard. “Can you finish up, Stina? I want to say hello to Tansy.”

Lena walked into the courtyard as Meri came to a halt and Tansy dismounted. “Good morning, Tansy; good morning, Meri.”

“Good morning . . .” Tansy trailed off, obviously either not recognizing her or not remembering her name.

“Good morning, Lady Magdalena,” Arvid said, arriving for Tansy’s lesson.

“It’s just Lena, Arvid, unless we’re at court. How are you doing?”

“Very well,” Arvid smiled. “I love it here.” He paused. “Do you have some time? We’re playing ‘pass the message’ today, and having a third person would be helpful.”

“What is ‘pass the message’? And, yes I’d be happy to join you.” As Stina came out, she added, “Stina, you remember Arvid.” Stina nodded, and Lena explained, “I’m going to help Arvid with Tansy’s lesson.”

“Have fun,” Stina said. “I’m done with the stables. Arvid, what else needs doing this morning?”

“Sven-August could probably use help with the birds,” Arvid said.

“Good.” Stina headed happily toward the mews.

“We’re working with the dogs this morning,” Arvid said, leading the way. “We decided that the best way for Tansy to practice was for one of us to use our Gift to tell an animal something, and then for the animal to tell the other one. Hence, ‘pass the message’.”

Tansy frowned. “Speaking of messages,” she said slowly, “Meri said to tell you that Lord Repulsive’s father is dead, but ‘repulsive’ can’t be right, can it?”

“You haven’t met him,” Lena said grimly. “Thank Meri for the warning, please.”

• • •

They spent the next candlemark or so passing messages back and forth through the dogs, several of which were part of Orson’s litter. The results were frequently hilarious as messages got garbled along the way, although Orson invariably relayed them accurately to Lena. So did an older dog Lena was sure she had seen before, but couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t until Arvid called her Greta that Lena remembered her.

“Greta, why are you here?” she asked both aloud and through her Gift. Greta’s answer was nonverbal. Arvid’s was not.

“She’s healing from broken ribs,” he said angrily. “Since her owner was the one who kicked her across the room, I hope he forgets she exists.”

Lena picked up a pretty clear picture of Repulsive—more properly known as Lord Ruven Crane—as he stormed around a room she was pretty sure was Lord Crane’s study, shouted at a man who was apparently the late Lord Crane’s steward about the lack of money in the estate, and got even more angry when the man said that “the young lord’s spending” was part of the problem. Then he kicked Greta, she hit the wall hard, and anything further was lost in a wave of pain and the struggle to breathe.

“He sent her here with a message that she could join the other useless cripples,” Arvid added. “I don’t know what he meant by that.”

Lena, knowing perfectly well that he meant her husband, forced herself to keep her voice calm. “It means he probably won’t come back for Greta.”

:Do you want to stay here, or do you want to go back to him.?:

The reply was quick and firm. :Stay here.:

After Tansy’s lesson was done, she and Meri left, while Lena and Arvid cleaned the kennels, gently and carefully shifted Greta to a fresh bed, and went on to the next job that needed doing.

• • •

They had put in a good day’s work, and Lena was ready to go to her cell and collapse, but as they headed that way, Stina silently pulled her arm and led her to an empty stall at the back of the stables. Lena was astonished to see both Keven, who was supposed to be resting, and Sven-August there.

“We have to talk,” Sven-August said. “Things have happened that you need to know about.”

Lena nodded. “Meri told Tansy to tell me Lord Repulsive’s father was dead. Does that mean Ruven is now Lord Crane?”

“Yes,” Stina said, “but that’s not the problem. He married Sven-August’s mother, and they’re living in her house.”

“And he’s claiming that, as my father-by-marriage, he has the right to arrange a ‘good’ marriage for me,” Sven-August said. “I’m tempted to flee to the country, get a job as a swineherd, and marry Stina.”

“I don’t think you have to be quite that drastic,” Lena said calmly. “I should be paying Stina for all the extra work I’m dragging her into, and I can certainly hire you. In the short term, I’d really like for Keven to have a bodyguard while we’re stuck at court, especially if his brother is going to be there. After that, we’ll figure out what you both want to do and what you’re good at. As long as you can support a wife, the Prior should be willing to marry the two of you. He’s known you for years, and I already told him you’d been betrothed to each other. You’re not highborn, so you don’t need the King’s consent.”

Fortunately, the Prior agreed with Lena, and Sven-August and Stina were married the next morning. Then, with all four of them still in their Novice robes, they rode up the Hill to the Palace.

The Palace Steward had known Lena for years, so he was not particularly surprised by having four Novices of the Temple of Thenoth arrive for Winter Court and a formal presentation. He found them a modest suite with two bedrooms where they could all stay together, told them where the nearest bathing rooms were, accepted that Orson was going to accompany Keven and Sven-August, and promised to have the rest of their baggage delivered to their rooms when it arrived.

:Let me know at once if anyone bothers them,: Lena told Orson as they dropped their things in their rooms and went their separate way to the women’s bathing rooms.

“Ooh, this feels good,” Stina sighed, leaning back in her tub.

“Yes, it does,” Lena agreed. “I like to travel quickly—”

“—with most of your things several days behind you—” Stina teased.

“—and it helps to have saddles you won’t fall out of even if you fall asleep, which didn’t occur to me until we had to design one for Keven back when he couldn’t walk, but it is nice to be out of the saddle, especially when it involves hot baths.”

“I’m surprised you don’t own a house in Haven—or rather that your family doesn’t.”

“We do, actually. I lived there before I went to live at the Temple. It’s been rented out since I was ten, but the last report from my agent said the family that’s been renting it for the last several years finally married off their last child, and doesn’t need it this year. We should take a look at it. It might be worth moving there instead of being stuck in a small space at court. We could also start shifting some of the stock we’re going to take to the daughter house to the stables there.” Lena thought about the idea and started wondering what the house had in the way of staff. Surely there was at least a small staff, even if the house wasn’t rented out at present.

“Does it have a bathing room?” Stina was obviously weighing advantages and disadvantages as well. “And how far away is it?”

“Yes, and not far; it’s in the first circle outside the Palace and Collegia.”

Stina gaped at her. “Just how rich are you?”

Lena shrugged. “Very. I don’t really care all that much. Money is a useful tool, but it doesn’t make me a better person than anyone else—despite what some of the rich and highborn seem to believe. Money lets me buy food for the Temple and let me set up a daughter house at my nearest estate. It also lets me hire people who need work, so that their lives can be better. Speaking of which, what can you do besides what you’ve been doing at the Temple? And what do you want to do?” The first question was the immediate one, but Lena thought the second was more important in the long run.

“Believe it or not,” Stina said hesitantly, “I can run a household in Haven. My younger sisters are bookish—that’s why they went to the Sisters of Ardana, while I came to the Temple of Thenoth—and my mother was always busy shopping and socializing, so I gradually took over running our household as I grew up. I wanted to be ready to make a good home for Sven-August when we got married.” She sighed. “When my family didn’t have much money anymore, I learned how to bargain and how to keep up appearances with very little—before everything finally fell apart.”

She got out of the tub and wrapped a towel around her. “Speaking of appearances, what are you and Keven going to wear for your formal presentation at Court? Isn’t that less than a fortnight from now?”

• • •

The next days were hectic—especially for the girls. Keven still had a limp, and the ride from the estate to Haven had been hard on him, so it was a good thing the Healers Collegium was part of the Palace complex. The Healer who had worked on Keven when he was first injured was impressed by how much he’d improved with the exercises he had been doing in the country, but she was able to do a bit more work on him, followed by stern instructions to rest as much as possible. So Keven spent most of his time relaxing in their rooms and keeping a journal to track the projects they were working on.

The most urgent project was clothing for the presentation, and Stina proved to have not only a real gift for design but also the ability to find lost items, such as the entire court wardrobe Lena had abandoned the night she fled out her bedroom window the previous year to avoid Lord Repulsive. Not having to make a second set of elaborate clothing for her in less than a year saved a lot of time and let them concentrate on the presentation outfits.

For Keven, they went with a simple ankle-length robe made of the richest fabric they could find. For Lena, on the other hand, Stina designed something so elaborate that anyone looking at them would look first at the dress, then maybe at Lena, and then possibly at Keven. Stina would be with them as well, because part of Lena’s dress was an elaborate train with embroidery interspersed with peacock feathers (the keeper of the King’s peacocks was a friend), and it needed to be carried—if only to make sure nobody stepped on it. Lena was just thankful it started at her waist instead of her shoulders and wasn’t as heavy as it looked.

In between fittings for The Dress, Lena went to see her agent, and they agreed she would move into her house for the season. She delegated hiring additional staff to Stina and Sven-August, met and approved the new hires, and left Stina and the housekeeper to discuss refurbishing, redecoration, and a possible party—“later in the season,” Lena said firmly before going to check on the stables and the mews. The head groom had been there since her childhood, when the stables had been her refuge, and he was happy to help with the plans to move animals from the crowded conditions at the Temple of Thenoth.

Lena, Stina, and Sven-August all kept Novice habits in the tack room, and whenever they had a spare hour, they would ride down to the Temple and bring back an animal or two. They went back to court each evening, got food from the kitchen to eat in their rooms, and the girls spent the evening embroidering while the three of them updated Keven and he recorded everything in the journal. It was a bit chaotic, but it was at least semiorganized chaos, and they did get the clothing finished in time.

• • •

The Greater Throne Room was full of people. Courtiers were ranged on both sides of the center aisle, where they could watch the people walk down it and make their Court bows to the King. Having a good view enabled them to gossip about what the people being presented were wearing, the quality of their bows—they probably lived for the times when some poor soul fell over—and whether the King showed special favor to anyone. When one’s position at Court is the most important thing in life, Lena thought, any newcomer could be seen as a threat.

Lena prayed that Keven wouldn’t fall and that the robe would hide his limp. Not that she cared what a bunch of empty-headed highborn thought, but she didn’t want Keven to feel any worse about this than he already did. They were first in line, so the people behind them wouldn’t be about to see them well, if at all. Also, it was the first Formal Reception of the Winter season, so a lot of people wouldn’t have arrived in Haven yet. Once Lena realized the King was determined that she and Keven be formally Received by him—regardless of the fact he had been her guardian since she was ten—she decided to attend the first possible Reception and get it over with.

Even so, Keven had been dreading this for the entire fortnight since they left their estate. He held the arm by which he was supposed to escort her down the aisle in a death grip, but Lena had planned for that. She knew he would need to lean on her, so she and Stina had designed her dresses with long flowing sleeves, which hid Keven’s hand now and would hide the inevitable bruises later.

“Cheer up,” she whispered to him. “A candlemark from now this will all be over, we’ll never need to do it again, and we can relax and enjoy the holiday.”

“What if I fall?” Yes, he was a nervous wreck all right.

“You’ll just get up and we keep going. I’ll help you. All we have to do is satisfy the King. We’ll probably never see most of the other people here again. It’s not as if you’re trying to impress the court so you can find a suitable highborn bride.” That actually got a smile from Keven, just as they were announced.

They made it down the aisle without incident, their bows were at least adequate, and the King congratulated them on their marriage in a voice that could be heard clearly throughout the entire room. Judging from the sudden increase in the noise of courtiers talking, their marriage really was a surprise to most of the court. Lena had arranged with the King beforehand that once they made their bows, they could go out a side door, meet up with Sven-August, and head back to their quarters from there. So as soon as the King turned his attention to the next people being presented, the three of them quietly slipped off to the side. Even before they reached the door they were behind at least three rows of courtiers. As they were going through the exit, however, they heard a familiar name.

“Lord and Lady Crane” boomed the announcement from the back of the room.

“What?” Keven said in surprise. “Is my brother being Received?”

“Probably with his wife,” Lena murmured back, “but I don’t want to see them. Stina, can you stay and watch?”

“Can you manage your train?” Stina asked, but she was already draping it carefully over Lena’s free arm. She wriggled through the crowd, while Lena dragged Keven along on her escape and transferred him to Sven-August when they reached the hallway.

“Back to our rooms, out of these fancy clothes and into something comfortable, and Stina will tell us all about it when she rejoins us.”

“Good plan.” Keven limped along at his best pace until she pointed out that they were no longer on display and could slow down.

They still had time to change and collapse into comfortable chairs before Stina joined them. Her eyes were the size of a barn owl’s.

“He introduced Mistress Efanya to the King as his wife, and the King congratulated them, so they’re definitely married. But he was also asking permission for his sister’s marriage to some old guy.”

“Over my dead body,” Keven snarled.

Lena sighed. “Legally, that’s sort of the case.”

“You don’t understand! Sara is twelve!”

That got horrified gasps from both girls.

Lena forced her mind to practical solutions. “We’ll talk to the King. She can’t marry without royal permission because she’s highborn, and I don’t think the King will allow her to marry at twelve.”

“What happens if Ruven goes ahead and marries her off without royal permission?”

“Well, the King would probably declare the marriage invalid, but we certainly don’t want it to get that far. Where is Lady Sara likely to be now?”

“She should be home with her governess!”

“I think we can assume she’s not. Maybe Greta knows; I can ride down to the Temple and ask her.”

“I think she might be at Mistress Efanya’s house,” Stina said. “Sven-August?”

“She’s there, but are you sure she’s twelve? She didn’t look that old to me.”

“If I were still her older brother,” Keven said sadly, “I could demand custody.”

“You are still her older brother,” Lena said. “It’s just a legal fiction that you’re not, and we can argue that Ruven is not a fit guardian for her. If we win that argument, the King might well consider us to be the best guardians she could have. Even if he doesn’t, he’ll pick someone decent, and we can visit her.”

“I didn’t realize Ruven hated her so much. How could he even think of this?”

“I don’t think he hates her,” Lena told her husband. “I think he sees her as a marketable asset, rather than a person he should care for. Look at what’s happened since your father died. First, the steward told him he didn’t have much money in the estate, and he got so angry he nearly killed his favorite dog. Then he married Mistress Efanya, who is not highborn but who is rich. And rich had to be the major concern, because a woman with a seventeen-year-old son is not exactly in her prime childbearing years. Then he moves into her house rather than bringing her to his. I wouldn’t be surprised if his prospective brother-in-law is renting the Crane house, probably for a good sum, and paying the servants as well. I’d say Ruven’s motivation is money, so I’m pretty sure he’s not paying a governess for a sister he expects to marry off soon. Was she living in town with your father?”

Keven nodded.

“That’s why she’s at Mistress Efanya’s. Unfortunately, Mistress Efanya doesn’t like animals, so I can’t do much spying there. Sven-August, however, knows every hiding place on the property. I bet Stina does too; her family used to live next door. So they can find out what’s going on with Sara, and I’ll go talk to the King.”

“While I just sit here and wait.” Keven pounded his thigh in frustration and winced.

“You’ve done a lot already today,” Lena pointed out, “and none of it was good for your legs. You will still be sore tomorrow, but you don’t have to do this again, so you can concentrate on getting better now. And you can pray. Prayer has much more power than most people realize.”

• • •

By the time she was ushered in to see the King, however, she discovered the problem was already unfolding.

“Lady Lindholm,” the King said using much more formal address than he usually did, “you are just the person we need. I believe you know Lord Crane.” He did not introduce the other man, although from his age, court dress, and proximity to Ruven, Lena suspected he was the prospective bridegroom. Perhaps the King didn’t think he was someone Lena should know.

Lena inclined her head to Ruven. “Yes, we met last year. My condolences on the death of your father, Lord Crane.”

“Unfortunately,” the King continued, “his sister Sara has gone missing, and I’m hoping your Gift can help us find her.”

“Of course I’ll do whatever I can to help. How did she go missing?”

“We believe she might have run away for some reason,” the King said. “We are waiting for one more person to report.”

The door opened and a tall, thin man entered. The dog with him walked at his left side as if held there by an invisible string, and sat in place when the man stopped to bow to the King.

“Any luck, Jervis?” the King asked.

The man shook his head. “It seems today is laundry day. Not only the girl’s bedding but every stitch of her linen went into the wash, and by now it doesn’t smell of her at all. Signy here couldn’t find a scent that went anywhere but to another room. I even had her smell the inside of the clothes chest, but . . .” He shrugged. “I can’t imagine how all the girl’s clothing wound up in the wash at once, and neither could the servants.”

“Hmm,” Lena muttered. :Signy.: She reached out to the dog. :What did the clothes chest smell like?:

Signy didn’t answer in words, but Lena had no trouble understanding the reply. “Was the clothes chest Lady Efanya’s?”

“No,” Ruven snapped. “It came from our townhouse. It was made for Sara to take with her when she married.”

“Why do you ask?” Jervis said, and then realized. “You’re the one with Animal Mindspeech, aren’t you?”

Lena nodded. “That chest smelled of Lady Efanya’s perfume.”

“They don’t use the same perfume?” the King asked.

“I wouldn’t expect a twelve-year-old to use that scent,” Lena explained. “Girls her age use rosewater, if they use anything at all.”

“What twelve-year-old?” the King asked. “I thought we were talking about Lady Sara Crane.”

“We are—or at least I am,” Lena said. “I am reliably informed that she is twelve.”

“Twelve,” the King said grimly, glaring at Ruven. “We will discuss her marriage later. Much later.” He turned to Lena. “I don’t care if you involve every animal in Haven. You find that child and bring her to me.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Lena said, with a deep curtsy. She paused, looking from him to Jervis. “May I borrow Signy? She may have picked up more than she realized.”

• • •

With the King’s permission, Lena took Signy back to her room and introduced her to Keven. She explained to Signy that Keven was Sara’s brother, and their scents might be similar.

“What happened?” Keven asked. “I get a bad feeling when you go to seek an audience with the King and come back with a strange dog. Where is Sara?”

“She apparently ran away from Lady Efanya’s house, she did it on laundry day, and every bit of clothing that could be used to track her went into the wash. What’s not washable smells of perfume. Smart girl.” She stroked Signy’s head. “When the King found out she was twelve, he was appalled. He told me to find her and bring her to him, not to Ruven. He’s not going to consent to any marriage for her now.”

“Good,” Keven said. “But where can she be?”

“The King tasked me with finding her,” Lena said, “but I need something from you. I don’t know what Sara looks like. Can you do some sketches for me?”

Keven nodded, turning to the back of his journal. While he produced several sketches, he answered every question Lena could think of about Sara’s friends (none), favorite animals (Greta), and any place she might go to hide. Keven didn’t know, but that meant Ruven would know even less.

• • •

Lena borrowed a horse from the royal stables, and she and Signy went to the Temple to talk to Greta. Lena was hoping “pass the message” would work for scent as well as words. It seemed to, but she was afraid a lot of information was lost when it was filtered through her human senses. Greta was also vague on when she had last seen Sara, but now at least Lena had a dog’s eye view of what the girl looked like. The odd thing was that Greta was absolutely sure Sara was safe. Lena tried passing the scent to the other dogs there, and they all recognized it. They told her Sara was safe, but they didn’t know where she was. They passed back scents/people they had encountered recently, and Lena was able to identify Arvid, Tansy, Sven-August, and Stina, but she knew all of them had been at the Temple in the last few days, so that wasn’t much help. She showed Keven’s sketches to Arvid, who thought he had seen the girl, but he also thought Sara was one of the Novices from the daughter house.

Lena took Signy up the hill to Lady Efanya’s. Fortunately she and her new husband were still at court, but the housekeeper, who remembered Lena from previous visits, after asking anxiously if Lena was sure that dog was the only animal she had with her, allowed her to search the garden. Apparently Sara had spent a lot of time at the far end of it; her scent was strongest there. They cast about on the street until Signy found the scent again. Oddly enough, it led to Lena’s stables. All of the animals were there, but her Novice habit was missing. Signy then led them back to the Palace, which didn’t make much sense to Lena, but if you worked with hounds, you needed to trust them to know what they were doing.

They arrived back at her quarters to find the King in the sitting room talking to Keven.

“Ah, Lena. Any luck?”

“Some, Your Majesty. I have a full cry of hounds assuring me that she’s perfectly safe—including Greta, who should certainly recognize not safe.”

“Greta?”

“Lord Ruven’s dog. She went everywhere with him, until the day he kicked her into the wall in a fit of temper. She’s at the Temple with multiple broken ribs. She can barely breathe and certainly can’t walk, but she does know what Sara smells like. I used my gift to get the scent from her and pass it to Signy and the other dogs at the Temple.”

“I didn’t know you could do that with Animal Mindspeech,” the King said.

Lena shrugged. “I thought it was worth trying, and it worked enough that Signy was able to pick Sara up outside Lady Efanya’s house and track her from there.”

“To where?”

“To my stables, and then to here. In fact . . .” She linked with Signy and followed her to Sven-August and Stina’s room. She and the King stood in the doorway and looked at Orson, who was halfway under the bed with his tail wagging vigorously.

Signy crossed the room, poked her nose under the bed, and then pulled back, sat in place, and looked at Lena. :Here.:

Lena walked over to pat her. :Good job, Signy.:

Lena knelt and looked at the child and the dog both trying to occupy the same space. “She’s here, Sire.”

“Thank the gods,” the King said. “But how did she get here unnoticed?”

“She’s wearing my Novice habit. If she came with Sven-August and Stina, nobody would give her a second glance, and they could get her past Keven by coming in and out multiple times. Knowing Stina, that’s exactly what they did.”

Keven sighed. “They were in and out all afternoon. I didn’t notice three at one time, but I wasn’t paying much attention.”

The King chuckled and shook his head. “They used her as the pea in a shell game. Clever of them. Lady Sara,” he added, “please come out from under the bed.”

“No!” Sara said hysterically. “My brother said he was going to get the King to give that horrible old man permission to marry me, and I don’t want to get married!” She ended on a wail.

“Lord Ruven,” the King said firmly, “does not have anywhere near the influence on me he thinks he does. Nor can I imagine why anyone would think I would consent to the marriage of a twelve-year-old to a man four times her age. Now come out from under the bed so we can discuss this rationally.”

Sara tried to wriggle away, but Lena reached out, grabbed a large handful of her habit, and pulled. The King lifted the girl to her feet, marched her into the sitting room, deposited her into a chair, and sat in another one. Lena joined Keven on the sofa.

“First, Lady Sara,” the King said, “I am not going to consent to your marriage to anyone for at least another four or five years, and the only way I would allow you to marry at sixteen or seventeen would be if you asked me to and I approved of your husband. Second, I really do not feel that Lord Crane is the proper person to have charge of a young girl. Do you have any thoughts on where you would like to live?”

“At the Temple of Thenoth with Greta and the rest of the useless cripples?” Sara asked hopefully.

“Not another one.” The King looked sternly at Lena.

“Not guilty, Sire. I never saw her before we found her just now. I think she’s repeating what Ruven said when he sent Greta there—or possibly what their father said when he sent Keven there.”

“Keven’s dead.” Sara shook her head firmly. “Father said so, and I saw what happened. The horse died too.”

“The horse died,” Lena agreed, “but Keven didn’t, though he did break both legs. The Healers said he would probably always be lame, especially when he walked too much and got tired, and your father . . .” She decided more detail was not a good idea. “Your father sent him to the Temple and disinherited him so that Ruven would be the next Lord Crane. I met him there and married him, and he took my name, so he’s Lord Keven Lindholm now.”

Sara looked at Keven, recognized him, burst into tears, and ran into his arms. Lena stood up to make room for her on the sofa and moved to sit next to the King. “I know that legally we’re not related, but would you allow us to foster her? It’s better than sending her to the Temple of Thenoth. We’re opening our house here and planning to stay in Haven through the Midwinter Fair. I may even let her go to a few afternoon parties if she wants. And I’ll make sure she learns how to run an estate as well as a household, because she may end up in my situation as the last member of her family. Lady Efanya may have married young the first time, but her only child is married now, so there’s no guarantee she’ll give Ruven an heir.”

“There never is a guarantee,” the King sighed, “although I certainly hope that you and Keven will have children. I’ll sign the guardianship order if Sara agrees to it, and I think we can safely assume she will. I agree there is probably no one better qualified to raise her than the two of you.”

• • •

A fortnight later, Lena had moved her extended family (Keven, herself, Sara, and Orson, Stina and Sven-August) out of the Palace and into their own house. All of them were enjoying the midwinter holidays.

As she browsed through the booths at the fair with Sara and Stina, with Sven-August along to carry packages, she realized that having a little sister had changed her life for the better.

“You know,” she remarked to Sven-August, “going to this fair is a lot more fun than trying to drag the Temple’s goats away from the highborns’ decorations.”

Fowl Play

Fiona Patton

The backside of the Iron Street Watch House was much the same as that of most public buildings in the lower parts of Valdemar’s capital; a small dooryard containing a privy and a woodshed, surrounded by a chest-high stone wall pierced by a stout wooden gate. The back steps were just wide enough for two men to sit without rubbing shoulders, and on most days, one or two members of the Watch could be found having a quiet pipe or a short nap in the sun away from the judgmental eyes of the local citizens.

This autumn afternoon was as warm as any summer’s day, and as Sergeant Hektor Dann finished his noon meal of sausage, bread, and short beer, he wondered how many such days would be left before the weather drove them back into the tiny Watch House canteen. Beside him, his older brother, Aiden, took a long draw from his pipe, then grimaced.

“Jess is comin’.”

Hektor frowned. “I don’t . . . oh,” he amended as the distinctive squeaking bump, bump, bump of Jess Cutter’s scrap cart could be heard coming along the back alley. A moment later her round, smiling face, covered by a mop of tousled brown hair, popped up over the wall.

“Well, what ’ave we got here?” she asked with a wicked grin. “If it ain’t two o’ Haven’s finest doin’ what they do best: sittin’ on their backsides in the sun like a couple tomcats.”

Aiden scowled at her. “If I checked yer cart, what would I find, Jess?”

“Scrap, dead bodies, an’ stolen goods, as ever, Corporal. You got any?”

“Not on me.”

She shook her head. “Pretty but useless. ’S always the way. How’re the family littles, Hek?”

“Growin’ like weeds.”

“Nice ta hear it. Maybe one of ’em’ll get a real job for a change.”

“We can only hope.”

She leaned her arms on the wall. “Speakin’ of honest jobs, when your lordships’ve finished yer banquet, do you think you could go check on Uncle Bertie for me?”

Both Danns sobered at once.

“Of course,” Hektor answered. “What’s goin’ on? He all right?”

“Oh, he’s fine, but there’s been some shopliftin’ in the street of late, an’ he figures he knows who’s doin’ it. He’s got ’is dander right up.”

“So, who’s doin’ it?” Aiden demanded.

She gave him a conspiratorial smirk. “Now, that’d be doin’ yer job for you, wouldn’t it, my old school chum, an’ I got my own work to be gettin’ on with. Scrap won’t haul itself, you know.” She turned with a wave. “Let me know how you get on, an’ give my love ta cousin Suli. I still think she’d ’ave been better off marryin’ my brother.”

Before he could reply, she disappeared with a loud laugh, and they heard the sound of her cart bumping back along the alley.

“Pleasant as always,” Aiden groused.

“Only ’cause you always react,” Hektor noted, closing the lid of his dinner pail and standing with a sigh. “All right then, let’s go see Uncle Bertie.”

• • •

Everyone in a five-street radius knew Uncle Bertie. Hektor wasn’t sure, but he thought they might be related somehow, but then everyone in that five-street radius thought they might be related somehow.

Uncle Bertie had lived in Poultry Row for as long as anyone could remember, his home wedged between a pub and a pillow and feather tick maker’s shop. Easily one of the smallest dwellings in Haven, it had been constructed by simply stretching a roof across a narrow close and adding a front and back wall built with what were probably the close’s own cobblestones. Above the front door, a brightly enameled metal sign depicted three hammers, one black, one red, and one white. Behind the house was a small privy and two locked sheds, and in front, cordoned off by a short wrought-iron fence, the ornate railings made to look like plant stalks and slender tree trunks, was a neatly graveled courtyard.

An old-fashioned wooden forge, thickly lined with clay, stood in the center, with several buckets and troughs lined up beside a kiln and an anvil affixed to a large kellwood log. A workbench took up one side of the yard, for Uncle Bertie liked to work outside as much as possible, and numerous raised vegetable and herb beds, embellished with delicate iron trellises and tall, brightly enameled tin flowers, filled the other. Along the front, attached to the fence, was a counter where Uncle Bertie displayed his wares.

The man himself was tall and wiry, with a thick head of white hair and a slight stoop, his habitual leather apron covered in scorch marks and burns. He could have been any age from fifty to one hundred. Most of his neighbors believed he had to be close to eighty, although none were willing to put money on it. Most of Poultry Row’s children and all the Iron Street smiths had worked for him at one time or another, drawing water, pumping the small double hand bellows or bringing him bits of scrap metal to trade for whistles or tops or the very, very occasional coin if the metal was of particular use to him at that particular moment. Usually of reasonable temperament, he had, however, developed the common habit of many of his . . . generation, of believing that anything he couldn’t find easily to hand had been stolen. Hektor assumed this was likely what had got his dander up today.

Even so, it was surprising to see him standing in the middle of the street shaking his fist at a burly man holding . . .

Hektor squinted. “Is Brody holding a chicken?”

Aiden shrugged. “Well, it is Poultry Row.”

Both men turned as the Watchmen pushed past the crowd of onlookers that had gathered to watch this latest bit of impromptu street theater.

“This’ll sort you out finally,” Uncle Bertie declared. “I want ’im arrested!”

Hektor frowned. “Brody? Why?”

“No, not Brody, that creature.” Uncle Bertie jabbed an outraged finger at the gray and blue bird in Brody’s arms. It stabbed at him with its beak, and he glared back at it. “It strutted across the street, bold as brass, and landed in a bowl of grommets and scattered ’em to the four winds. It’s been scratchin’ up my plants an’ poopin’ in my sand, and now it’s made off with a half-dozen seed packets an’ three brass buttons. I come back out from my tea to find my dooryard lookin’ like a storm had touched down.”

Hekor glanced around at the immaculate courtyard, not a feather or a scratch mark to be seen.

Uncle Bertie glared at him. “I cleaned it up,” he growled. “Can’t have that mess around my forge; it’d set half the roofs in town on fire if it caught a spark.”

“Right. Still . . . So, you, um, you didn’t actually see it in yer yard?” Hektor asked carefully.

“Didn’t need to see it to know it was there,” Uncle Bertie retorted. “Heard the blasted creature screechin’ ’is head off. He’d flown off before I could catch ’im in the act.”

“Her.”

“What?”

“Her,” Brody interjected with a grin. “Her name’s Jenna. She’s a hen.”

“I’ll hen you, boy.” Uncle Bertie’s eyes narrowed. “An’ before you two decide this is just the ranting of a demented old man,” he added, turning his angry glare on the two Watchmen, “mine isn’t the only place to get ransacked and robbed. There’s things missing from counters and workshops all along the street. You just ask ’em. He’s trained that beast to break an’ enter. An’ don’t you laugh at me, young man,” he added, shaking a fist under Aiden’s nose, “or I’ll have words with your mother.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Aiden answered easily. “I was just checkin’ out your new goods.”

“Oh. Well, have a look before you go, you might find something to take home to Suli and the littles,” Uncle Bertie said, mollified slightly. “You too,” he added, gesturing at Hektor. “I know Esme likes a bauble or two.”

Hektor glanced at the counter. Uncle Bertie was renowned for the eclectic mix of small and delicately wrought items he crafted. Some had obvious usages like rush lights, door knockers, and buttons; others were clearly fanciful objects made up of a hodgepodge of cast, welded, and riveted scrap. And he loved to talk about them. Hektor’s eyes fell on several small metal . . .

“Why’d you make iron . . . flies?” he asked, somewhat aghast.

Uncle Bertie’s mood darkened again. “They’re honeybees,” he growled. “Honeybee cupboard knobs.”

“Why . . .”

“Cause they’re stylish and pretty, you uncultured oaf.”

Aiden chuckled as, beside them, Brody laughed outright.

“And uh . . . what’re these, then?” Hektor asked, pointing at several brass clips attached to two fine springs each.

“They’re for hangin’ plates to the wall.”

Both brothers now frowned in confusion. “Why would you hang plates on a wall?” Hektor asked. “Wouldn’t it be hard to get ’em down when you needed ’em?”

“They’re for decorative plates,” Uncle Bertie explained with exaggerated patience.

“Oh. I see,” Hektor said weakly, though it was obvious he didn’t.

Uncle Bertie shook his head. “I don’t know why I talk to any of you,” he growled. Spinning on his heel, he banged his gate open and stomped back to his forge, “You jus’ sort this out, or I will. I catch that thievin’ creature in my yard again, an’ I’ll have it in my stew pot.” Picking up his tools with an air of a man planning to do serious damage to something, he turned his back on them.

Brody chuckled. “Doesn’t have a stew pot,” he noted, but not so loudly that Uncle Bertie might hear him. “Gets his meals from the pub.”

He turned an amused look on Hektor as he coughed. “Yes, Sergeant?”

“So, other businesses been robbed?”

“You should know they have. My cousin Fanny sent her youngest to the Watch House to report it last week, an’ Hydd Thacker came right out. Jus’ small things goin’ missin’, like a shoplifter or a snatch an’ grabber might take. Hydd wrote everything down. You didn’t read his report?”

“Yeah, well, let’s figure for the moment that his report’s also gone missin,’” Hektor answered, ignoring his older brother’s raised eyebrow. “Any strangers been about lately?”

“Nope. Not the season for it. An’ before you ask, no one here’s raised any thieves neither.”

“So, there’s uh . . .” Hektor colored slightly. “. . . no chance that yer um, chicken, might of done it?”

“What, strutted across the road an’ robbed my neighbors? No offence, but yer touched in the head if you think so. It’s a chicken.”

“No,” he added as Hektor waited for a proper reply. “There’s no chance I could train a chicken as a cat burglar, or any other kind. Yer lookin’ for a plain, ordinary thief, Watchmen. Now, good day to ya.”

With that, Brody turned and sauntered back across the street, tossing the bird up and over his yard’s high fence. It flew to a long strip of wood attached to the coop, ruffling its feathers before settling down with what looked to all the world like a smug expression.

“Well, that answers that question anyway,” Aiden mused with a smile.

“What?”

“Hm? Oh, they can fly.”

Hektor frowned. “’Course they can fly. They got wings.”

Aiden shook his head. “Never mind, you’re hopeless. So, we gonna toss Brody’s chicken yard for clues, or do you wanna go back an’ find Hydd’s report in last week’s pile first?”

“I wanna hear what Uncle Bertie’s neighbors have to say.”

“Where do you wanna start? Most of ’em’re in the street.”

“I’m thinkin’ the pub.”

“That’s good thinkin’”

The publican of The Bill and Beak chuckled when they entered the nearly empty common room. “Two chicken burglar specials, is it?” he asked with a wink at his son, a tall, gangly youth leaning on a broom by the main window.

“Bit of information, if you don’t mind, sir,” Hektor answered with grave formality, refusing to be baited. “We’re investigating a series of thefts in the area. Have you or any of your staff found anything to be missing?”

The publican scratched at his beard thoughtfully. “Not as such,” he said after a moment. “A few spoons here an’ there, but generally that’s when a customer’s had a bit too much to drink. They usually drop ’em back off the next day. Uncle Bertie made me a spoon return box. It’s there affixed to the wall beside the door.”

“But nothing else?”

“Nothing much else around to take. Tankards an’ bowls are harder to pinch than you’d think.”

“Doubt that,” Aiden noted.

“Have you or any of your staff taken note of anything suspicious or out of the ordinary?” Hektor continued.

“Like a chicken, you mean?”

“Chickens ain’t out of the ordinary, Pa,” his son pointed out before Hektor could answer. “They’s all over the street.”

“True enough, an’ not jus’ Brody’s neither, it has to be said,” the publican agreed. “An’ right ornery they are, too. There’s times you can’t walk along the pavement without ’em peckin’ at yer shoes or stabbin’ at yer shins. Loren here got chased all the way home by that blue an’ gray one jus’ last week.”

The youth nodded.

“Have you seen any people out of the ordinary, sir?” Hektor asked patiently. “Any strangers or folk actin’ suspicious?”

“Well . . . we draw a good crowd from other streets most evenings on account of my wife’s cousin’s a Bard, an’ she runs her new songs by us, but the thievin’s been in broad daylight. That’s usually our slow time, an’ we’re generally in the back. We’ve heard plenty of racket, but by the time we get out front . . .”

“It was gone.”

“It was gone. Sometimes there’s feathers scattered about, but sometimes not. It’s pretty cunning, that chicken burglar,” the publican added, winking again. “Though, all jokin’ aside, I reckon it probably isn’t really a chicken,” he allowed when Hektor’s expression remained serious, “But then again, I wouldn’t rule it out. But hey, maybe that’ll turn out to be the answer to that age old question, yeah?”

Aiden snickered, but when Hektor gave them both a blank look, the publican tucked his thumbs into the edge of his apron. “You know? Don’cha? Really?” When he didn’t get the expected response, He looked to Aiden who just shrugged. “Well, good luck catchin’ it, anyway,” he continued. “I expect you’ll need it.” He turned as two men, their smocks speckled with blood and pin feathers, entered the pub. “Two chicken burglar specials, is it?” he asked with a wink. As the men guffawed, Hektor and Aiden headed back outside.

• • •

It was much the same along the rest of the street. Most of the shopkeepers had found small things missing, most had seen feathers scattered about, most had heard the sounds of a chicken, but no one had actually seen one, and by the time they were able to investigate the racket, it was gone. No one really believed it was a chicken doing the stealing, of course, but no one was willing to rule it out either. Most were of the opinion it was too cunning to be easily caught, and most couldn’t help but speculate on its reason for crossing the road.

By the time they made it back to the Watch House, Hektor was feeling decidedly fed up. He tossed Hydd’s report across his desk with a grimace. “Says much the same,” he sighed. “No one’s actually seen a chicken pinchin’ stuff, so without any witnesses, we can’t make an arrest.”

“Please tell me we’re not actually investigatin’ a chicken burglar,” Aiden said with a grin.

Hektor scrubbed at his eyes. “Not as such. Still, it’s the only lead we’ve got. Could you train a chicken to shoplift?”

“Well, I couldn’t?”

“Really. I never would have thought it. Do you think it could be done, Corporal?”

“What, by Brody Drove? Not likely, Sergeant. You won’t find a more honest man.”

“Of course not by Brody. But there’s plenty of other chicken . . . mongers in Poultry Row.”

“So, we are investigating a chicken burglar then?”

“What? No. Maybe.” Hektor closed his eyes. “Let’s just try to eliminate the possibility from our inquires, all right?”

Aiden burst out laughing. After a few moments, he wiped his eyes and stood. “Little brother, you say the funniest things. All right, fine. How?” he added as Hektor glared at him.

“Find out if someone can actually train a chicken to steal. So, who do we know who knows about chickens?”

“Brody.”

“It’s Brody’s chicken we’re tryin’ to eliminate, sphincter-head,” Hektor snapped, reverting to his childhood insult for his older brother at Aiden’s new bout of laughter. “Who do we know,” he repeated between clenched teeth, “besides Brody?”

“Kassie?”

“Right.”

• • •

On the Watch House roof, fourteen-year-old Kasiath Dann stared at her older brothers. Her Bird Messenger uniform was spotted with dung, there were feathers in her hair, and under a patina of dust and sweat, her expression was unimpressed.

She set a pail of straw and droppings to one side and crossed her arms. “These are pigeons,” she said bluntly, waving one arm to take in the long line of cages still in need of cleaning. “Not chickens.”

“Well, sure, but you know about trainin’ birds,” Hektor began.

“Pigeons.”

“But—”

“Pigeons,” she repeated.

“Yeah, all right. Fine. You coulda just said no.”

Heading down the Watch House stairs, Aiden glanced over at Hektor. “You notice she’s been pickin’ up a bit of an attitude lately?”

“I did.”

“So, where to now?”

“Daedrus?”

“Daedrus.”

• • •

Tree-lined and refined, Breakneedle Street was a far cry from the raucous hubbub of Poultry Row. The retired artificer, friends with the Danns ever since Hektor had helped him home after a snatch and grab had sent him tumbling to the ground, beamed as his apprentice led them through the clutter of bookcases and bird cages that made up his hallway and front room.

“My dear boys, what a pleasure! Come in, come in! Mern, put the kettle on, it’s . . . oh, about here somewhere.”

“In the back garden, I think, Daedrus.”

“Oh, yes, I was trying to catch rainwater in it, but then it didn’t rain. How are you both, come in, please. What brings you here today, nothing serious I hope, sit down, sit down, yes, just drop those blueprints on the floor over there, oh, so that’s were that stylus went, I hope it didn’t stab you.”

Mern brought in a tray of tiny, porcelain cups and sugar-dusted biscuits, temporarily stemming the flow of words. Daedrus poured the tea as Hektor asked his question and explained the reason for it.

When he was finished speaking and Aiden was finished laughing, Daedrus shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t help you there,” he admitted ruefully. “I know it looks as if I’m well versed in all matters ornithological,” he said, waving at his myriad of tiny finches and yellow birds, “but I’ve only ever kept little ones, and as to that, Kasiath already knows far more about their habits and abilities than I ever did. Have you asked her?”

Hektor and Aiden exchanged a look. “Yeah. She doesn’t know either.”

“I’m truly sorry. I’m afraid I don’t even have a book on the subject that you could borrow. Do I, Mern?”

The boy shook his head. “You’ve one on The Engineering of Outdoor Enclosures for Domesticated Fowl, and two on The Geometrical Study of Eggs and Other Ovaloid Structures, but nothin’ on chickens themselves.”

“Sorry. Would you like another biscuit?”

Hektor sighed. “No thanks, we have to . . .”

“Continue with our inquiries,” Aiden added.

“Of course.”

• • •

On the way back to the Watch House, Hektor turned south.

“Where’re we goin’ now?” Aiden asked with a chuckle. “You know of some stool chicken willin’ to cluck on ’is boss?”

Hektor turned. “No. I’m goin’ to Sarah Fowler’s,” he said deliberately. “You don’t have to come.”

Aiden’s jaw tightened. “Good. Cause I’m tired of hearin’ about how I just about got you killed, stolen, or run over by an out-of-control egg cart for the four hundredth time.”

“It wasn’t my fault that you nearly did. You shoulda taken better care of me.”

“I shoulda tied you to the kitchen table.”

“Too late now.”

“Not so much.”

• • •

As a little, Hektor had worshipped Aiden, following him everywhere. One day, in a fit of childish rebellion after their mother had told him to “keep an eye on your little brother,” Aiden had run off with his friends. Determined to keep up, Hektor had followed and gotten lost, making it all the way to the end of Poultry Row before Sarah Fowler, a local baker, had found him, hot, tired, and furious at his brother’s abandonment. She had fed him the best tasting egg pie he’d ever had, washed the tears from his face, and after promising to never tell anyone about them, had taken him home, perched on the top of her father’s barrow.

Aiden had caught it good that day, something Hektor still remembered with a certain amount of righteous satisfaction.

Sarah now ran a pie shop about five blocks from Uncle Bertie’s. She chuckled as Hektor entered. “You wanna know if I think someone could train a chicken to shoplift,” she said shrewdly, guessing the reason for his visit right away.

“Yup.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be easy,” she mused, wrapping up two small pies for an elderly customer. “Chickens aren’t usually drawn to shiny things. Sounds more like somethin’ a crow would get up to.”

“True enough,” the customer chimed in. “Why, I did hear a story of a man who trained one to pick up dropped coins in exchange for food.”

“But could you even train a chicken to do anything?” Hektor prompted.

“Oh, yes,” Sarah replied. “They’re pretty smart. If you feed ’em the same time every day they get to know the time, and they certainly know their people and their home. Problem is, to train one to shoplift items they can’t eat an’ to do it when nobody’s lookin’ . . . that seems a bit past their range.” She grinned, but when Hektor gave her what was becoming a habitual blank look, she sighed. “You did say no one’s actually seen it happen?”

“Folks have seen it struttin’ about and they’ve heard it plenty of times, usually when they’re indoors or occupied with somethin’ else, but by the time they investigate, its gone.”

She chuckled. “Flew the coop, did it?”

“Sarah.”

“Sorry. I imagine you’re getting enough teasing without me addin’ to it.”

“I am.”

“Well then, my dear, I think Brody has the right of it. You’re lookin’ for an ordinary sneak thief, one that waits ’til no ones around, but how the chicken fits in, I couldn’t tell you.”

“Well, thanks anyway.”

“You’re welcome, sweetie. Give my love to yer mum.”

“I will.”

A few moments later, with orders to “not be a stranger” Hektor headed back to the scene of the crime. He suggested to Brody that he keep his birds in their pen, and promised Uncle Bertie he would increase the patrols along Poultry Row, then returned to the Watch House to discover word of the Great Chicken Burglar Caper had preceded him. To make matters worse, by the time he got home, he found that Aiden had also filled in the family.

“If it turns out that chicken really is pinchin’ stuff, I’ll have it in our stew pot,” he groused as Esme laughed.

• • •

A week went by with no reports of theft from Poultry Row—“Chicken must be layin’ low,” Aiden noted—but it wasn’t too many days later before the incidents of thieving and chicken . . . hearings began again.

Hektor observed the scattering of feathers across the street and turned a baleful eye on Brody Drove.

“Don’t look at me,” the man protested, trying to keep a straight face, “My chicken has an alibi.”

“What?”

“Sure. She was with her man all day; he’ll swear to it.”

“Her man?”

Brody raised an eyebrow. “My rooster. They was . . .”

“I get it. All day?”

“All day. He likes to . . .”

“I said, I get it.”

“Spends all night crowin’ about it too,” Uncle Bertie growled. “Randy little sot.”

“I’ll increase the patrols again.”

• • •

Three days later, Paddy, the youngest Dann brother, himself the Watch House Chief Runner, came bursting into Hektor’s office. “You gotta get to Poultry Row right away, Hek!” he shouted breathlessly.

“Now what?”

“Well, he, I mean, Uncle Bertie, he . . . it’s easier if you just come.”

By the time Hektor arrived in front of Uncle Bertie’s, there was a huge crowd of people and poultry in the street. Brody had one large hand clamped around the arm of the Publican’s son, and Uncle Bertie was holding the chicken which was squawking loudly and trying to stab at the youth’s hands and chest. Uncle Bertie was doing very little to stop it. The publican was yelling at Brody, Uncle Bertie was yelling at the publican, and the crowd were exchanging money and agreeing loudly that none of them had ever really suspected a chicken.

Hektor pushed his way thorough.

“It was us what caught ’im,” Uncle Bertie declared triumphantly. “I set up a trap, he landed right in it, an’ she caught ’im red-handed.”

Loren opened his mouth to protest, then jerked his head back as the chicken stabbed at his face.

Hektor raised both hands, waiting until there was slightly less noise around him. “Explain please.”

“Well, I got to thinkin’ maybe that chicken was patrolin’ the street, trying to protect my property, an’ runnin’ thieves off when they got too near, an’ that’s why no one’s saw it. So I had an idea. I made up some new buttons, an’ shined up to look like silver.” He waved his hand at a line of chicken-shaped objects on the counter. “I laid ’em out close to the fence, then went inside an’ waited by the window, out of sight.

“After a while this one here,” he stabbed a finger at Loren, “comes saunterin’ along an’ pops two in his pocket, quick as lightening, an’ that chicken went wild. She came flapping and screechin’ over that fence and went straight for ’im. Knocked ’im clean off his feet.”

“She went for him, all right,” the publican protested, “He was jus’ lookin’ at yer wares. That’s not stealin’, that’s lookin’, and she attacked him.”

“They was in ’is pocket,” Brody pointed out.

“He probably just shoved his hands in his pockets to protect ’em from its beak.”

“Like I said, I saw ’im put ’em in there before she nabbed ’im,” Uncle Bertie snapped. “Jenna, take ’im in.”

Hektor cast an exasperated look at Uncle Bertie before turning to Loren. “Right, we’ll sort this out at the Watch House. You’re comin’ with me. You follow.” He pointed at the publican and Uncle Bertie, then at Brody. “An’ you put . . . Jenna back in ’er pen. The rest of you can just get back to your own businesses,” he added in a stern voice that most of the onlookers ignored.

• • •

A week later, with everything sorted out to everyone’s satisfaction, Hektor headed to Poultry Row after his shift to thank Sarah Fowler and buy an egg pie. Passing Uncle Bertie’s, he paused to see Jenna sitting on a new iron perch welded to the front gate post.

As Hektor approached, the chicken gave him an appraising stare, then ignored him. He bent down, careful to keep his face away from her beak, to read a small, enameled sign affixed beneath the perch.

“Poultry Row Watchhouse: Day Sergeant’s Desk.”

He straightened with a sigh. “Well, good luck to you, Sergeant Jenna,” he said, taking note of the similar color of her feathers to his blue and gray uniform for the first time. “I expect you’ll need it.”

The Boy Who Cried Kidnap

Dayle A. Dermatis

It was a balmy summer night, the kind that reminded Nat of when he was younger, and had the freedom to run about and catch the fireflies winking in the darkness over the fields behind the tavern. The after-work crowd had wandered home, leaving behind the more serious drinkers, who would be joined later by even more serious ones.

The air was soft against Nat’s skin as he piled a table’s worth of wooden tankards on a tray and swiped the moisture rings and spills away with a gray cloth that he tucked back into his belt. From inside came a burst of raucous laughter, but out here he could hear only the crickets chirping and the murmur of voices from the three men at the far end of the back patio.

Nat didn’t recognize them, but that was no surprise. Though Greenburgh wasn’t a large city—nowhere near the size of Haven—he didn’t know everybody. These were day laborers, most likely, who came to work in the fields. They weren’t staying here, that much he knew. Made more sense they were at the bunkhouses for the itinerant workers, who spent the winter back wherever they lived.

Nat went around to the side door that led to the kitchen and dropped off the empties. The kitchen wasn’t much more than a sink and storage for the tankards, cups, and trays; the beer and cider and spirits were kept in the basement below. His cousin Rory flashed him a grin and a nod from where his arms were half-immersed in the washing water, and Nat nodded back.

He left the tray on the bar, then went out the door from the tavern to the patio and approached the men in the corner. They had their heads together, but one noticed him and nudged the other two.

They all fell silent.

“‘Nother round?” Nat asked.

They’d been nursing their beers for some time, but the level in their cups was low.

The one on the left, with a heavy beard and bushy eyebrows, took in the other two’s nods and said, “Sure thing, lad.”

They didn’t start talking again until he was almost at the door, their voices still too low for him to make out any words.

His sister, Cilla, was handling the drinks that night. Working in the two taverns and the larger inn and his father’s other businesses was a family affair. She put the full tankards on a tray, and he headed back outside.

Again the men fell silent, muttering only their thanks as he served them and not resuming their conversation until he was farther away.

But this time he was listening carefully, and he was sure he caught the name Tarita.

Well, wasn’t that curious?

“Those three men outside?” he said to Cilla when he got back inside. “I think they’re planning to do something to the mayor’s daughter.”

Cilla brushed a stray lock of her straight, honey-blond hair off her damp forehead and under her green kerchief. It was warmer inside the tavern than out. She sighed. “Oh, Natty. You know the agreement for you working here. You tell no tales, or it’s back to kitchen duty for you.”

Nat sighed, too, but knew better than to argue, or he’d really find himself up to his elbows in washing water.

He never meant to lie. He only ever meant to tell stories.

Was it really his fault he couldn’t always tell the difference?

• • •

From the time Nat could talk, he told stories. Wove tales. Spun yarns. At first they were rambling, unclear things, as all children’s stories are, and then they were often about things only children can see: a dragon in the garden, a ring of toadstools that talked, a herd of Companions in one of the barley fields.

People enjoyed his tales, praised him. His father had even stood him on a tavern table on more than one evening and made everyone quiet so Nat could entertain them.

Some thought he’d end up a Bard.

But at some point, different stories wove in. Stories that could be true.

The inn’s kitchen flooding.

A brawl at one of the taverns.

A message passed along that someone who Cilla liked, liked Cilla back.

Foxes in the hen house, blights in the fields. A huge find of a rare mushroom considered a delicacy, just there in the woods . . .

Unfortunately, these were stories that could have been true . . . but weren’t.

Maybe he daydreamed a Companion arriving to Choose someone—even if it wasn’t himself. Did that make it less real to him? Less true?

Maybe he was lost in fancy when he saw a wagon full of pumpkins overturn and block the main road into the city. Couldn’t it have happened?

Sometimes, what he said was a story he’d crafted.

But it had gotten to the point where sometimes, even he wasn’t sure.

Unfortunately, it had also gotten to the point that anyone who knew him barely believed a word that came out of his mouth.

• • •

Nat had been sure he’d heard the men mention Tarita. Cilla’s dismissal, however, made him question himself.

Had he heard it? Or had he heard something similar to her name?

Had he been, as so many people accused him of, woolgathering again?

So he slipped off his mostly white apron, stepped out the kitchen door and eased himself into the shadows under the eaves.

Ignore the sounds from inside, he told himself. Ignore the crickets.

Focus on what was really being said. Not what he thought, or what he imagined.

It wasn’t easy. Already his mind was whirling with ideas of what the men might be plotting and planning.

“House,” he heard. Was the word before that “mayor’s”? Or “manor”? There were manors on the outskirts of the city, owned by wealthy families.

“Have to find . . .” way in? Way out? And then, perhaps something about the Midsummer Festival?

Then the word that solidified everything: “Ransom.”

Nat was sure he wasn’t making up a story, just putting the facts together . . . the men intended to kidnap Tarita and hold her for ransom.

The man in the middle—whipcord-thin, with light hair and a shadow of facial hair—stood and headed to the privies on the opposite side of the tavern.

But at the last moment, he veered toward Nat.

So much for hidden in the shadows.

He considered darting inside, but the man could just as easily follow him, approach him in a dark corner of the tavern. That would make it even more obvious that he’d been listening, and right now, talking his way out and acting innocent was still possible.

Just then, Cilla’s voice pierced the summer night. “Natty! This isn’t the time to be shirking your duties.”

She stood in the doorway, waving his cast-off apron like a surrender flag or a Herald’s tunic. When she spotted him, she added, “There you are. I need you inside, please.”

Nat hurried up to her. “Did you see him? The man coming toward me?”

They both looked around. The man had melted away around the side of the building.

“Natty, I don’t know what’s with you tonight. . . . ”

Without looking at the table at the far end of the patio, Nat snatched his apron out of Cilla’s hands and ran inside.

• • •

Later, Cilla said she hadn’t noticed much about the men outside, other than they were the only ones on the patio for a while. She’d been looking for him, not for customers, so that didn’t surprise him. The next time Nat peeked out, they were gone, although they’d left their coins of payment on the table along with their empty mugs.

His tight shoulders finally relaxed. He and Rory helped Cilla clean up after the tavern closed, sweeping and mopping the hardwood floor, washing the last of the tankards and trays. Cilla gave them their coins for their work and went upstairs, where she lived with her husband.

Nat and Rory headed to their homes, jibing and sparring as boys do, their laughter ringing in the quiet night air. Most of the city was asleep; it was just them and the drunks staggering home, for the most part.

Nat kept an eye out in case the men were still around, but he saw nobody, and by the time they parted near Rory’s parents’ house, he had almost forgotten about them. He continued on toward his own, closer to the middle of the city.

He was feeling satisfied by the coin in his pouch and thinking delectable thoughts of the meat pie or sausage rolls his mother would have left out for him when he was yanked into an alley, an arm around his neck and the sharp prick of pain at his waist.

His mouth dried up, leaving behind a metallic taste. He smelled the tang of his own fear-sweat as well as the man’s earthier scent and the hops on his breath.

In the stories he entertained himself (and sometimes others) with, he’d imagined what it would be like to be caught by pirates or dragged into some other nefarious group. How he’d rise in their ranks and become their leader, or simply wait until they all slept to make off with their treasures.

How he’d carry the treasures? Well, he was still working out that problem. But there would definitely be treasures.

This was nothing like those flights of fancy.

This was real.

And it was terrifying.

“No screaming, yeah?” the man holding him said, his breath hot against Nat’s head and smelling of hops.

Nat nodded as best he could and squeaked out, “Yeah.”

The arm around his neck eased, but the knifepoint stayed against his side as the man took him by the arm and led him deeper into the alley, before turning to him. He blocked the exit, and made a show of flashing the knife before tucking it in his belt.

There was little light here, but he could make out the three men he’d seen at the tavern. The man who’d accosted him was the whipcord-thin blond man who’d almost approached him outside the tavern.

“So, here’s our little lurker,” the bushy-browed, bearded man growled. “What were you doing back there, skulking in the shadows?”

“Just . . . just getting a breath of air,” Nat said. “My sister was running me ragged.”

“Were you spying on us, lad?” the blond man with the knife asked. None of them looked anything close to happy.

Nat squared his shoulders, not willing to let them see his nervousness. He didn’t want to call it fear. That made it too real. “Not spying, no.”

“So you’d have us believe you were just getting a breath of fresh air while skulking in the shadows?” the third man asked. Nat saw he had a large, crooked nose with nostrils that seemed to be different sizes.

“I said I wasn’t spying, not that I wasn’t listening,” he said. All three men had tensed, frowning, and he quickly added, “I heard enough to know I could help you. I heard you mention Tarita, and if you were talking about the mayor’s daughter, I know her. So okay, that made me curious.”

Well, he’d met her once, during a Midwinter Fair.

The mayor had been talking to his father, since his father was a successful businessman. Tarita had come up to the mayor, who introduced her to Nat and his father.

She’d smiled and nodded at him.

If she’d smiled and nodded at others that day, he had chosen not to notice.

The bearded one, who Nat realized was the one in charge, raised his chin. “How old are you, lad?”

“Sixteen,” he said without blinking, projecting confidence.

Although he was still thin and wiry, he’d shot up in height over the past year. Surely he could be mistaken for well older than thirteen.

He tried to breathe normally as they assessed him in the dim light.

They must have decided to believe him, because the main man said, “Are you sweet on Tarita, then?”

He shrugged and shook his head. “Not particularly. She can be rude and snobbish.”

Could she be? He had no idea. He hoped not.

He just hoped his disinterest would cause them to let him go.

“What else did you hear?” the blond man asked, his hand on the hilt of his knife.

“Nothing, really,” he said, and immediately realized his mistake when they all frowned at him. They didn’t believe him.

If they didn’t believe him, they might just want to rid themselves of him. Not in a pleasant way.

“I-I mean, something about Midsummer Eve, because everyone’s talking about that, right?”

Their expressions still chilled him, so he blurted, “If you’re planning something that involves money, count me in. I get paid next to nothing for the work I do, and there’s a girl I would like to impress.”

Now the bearded man’s expression turned thoughtful. He glanced at the other two, but Nat was too frightened to look at their reactions.

He had no idea where his words had come from, and only a vague sense of how much of it had been true.

He’d be stupid to throw in his lot with these men, but if he didn’t, well, he wasn’t sure he wanted to think about that option.

He’d figure out a way to talk himself out of it afterward.

Getting out of this alley alive was the point right now. Worry about tomorrow later.

And what was it his father always said? “Better a business partner than a business rival . . . until they don’t know what hit ’em.”

“All right,” the main man said. “Say we believe you. You bring us information about Tarita’s schedule, especially on Midsummer Eve, and we’ll consider your assistance.”

He went on to describe the next day’s meeting spot, a clearing in the forest Nat was familiar with.

“But if you don’t show up, we know where to find you. . . . You show up, you don’t tell anyone about us, and we’re all good, right?”

The thin, blond man had his knife out and was cleaning beneath his fingernails with the needle-point, pretending the threat wasn’t completely obvious.

The bearded man jerked his head. “Get on with you, then.”

It took everything Nat had not to pelt away through the alley and down the street to his home. In fact, he took a casual, circuitous route in case they were following him, but he saw no one.

By the time he got home, he had to rush to the privy, his fear had affected his bladder so.

He ate a sausage roll that tasted like dust just to silence the noise in his belly, and then he lay awake most of the night before finally deciding he did have to tell someone, threats be damned.

He tried to tell his parents, but his story fell on deaf ears. He tried to get an audience with the mayor, but apparently his reputation preceded him. He wondered if he could get to Tarita herself, but by then it was time to meet the men in the forest.

Not meeting them would be a very, very bad idea.

• • •

No one would believe him—except the men who . . . well, Nat didn’t want to imagine what they’d do if they didn’t believe him.

He could imagine it. He really didn’t want to. Sometimes he made up stories to ease his own fears.

As he trudged through the outskirts of the city and the fallow fields to the woods, he thought about what he would say, to make them believe he knew what was going on and make them believe he wouldn’t go through with any of it.

It had rained overnight, and the leaves plip-plopped their burden of collected water, sometimes on his head or under his collar. Somewhere nearby, a squirrel chittered and a bird trilled.

The undergrowth was fresh, so his feet made little noise—except for the surprised cry he made when he stepped in a hole and twisted his ankle. Not badly, thank goodness, though the ache remained.

The clearing he sought wasn’t much more than a small space between a ring of trees, but there was a large hunk of granite, twice a man’s height plus a bit more nearby, which made the small space easy to find.

When he got to the clearing, he wasn’t surprised to see the three men waiting. Whether they were surprised to see him, they didn’t show in their expressions.

In the sodden-cloud grey of the day, they looked no different, and Nat saw the hilt of the knife at the blond man’s waist, and knew they were all armed, whether he could see the weapons or not.

Some kind of storyteller he was. His tongue lodged in his throat, and cold sweat dampened his pits.

Whatever he’d been planning to say fled. His mind went blank.

Then he squared his shoulders and said the thing that was bothering him most.

“You’re not going to harm Tarita, right? Promise me that. Because I’d rather die than see her hurt, and in that case you can just strike me down now.”

He wouldn’t help them if they were going to hurt her or kill her, no matter what danger that meant for him. He couldn’t go along with something like that, not even if it meant his own life.

The question was, could he believe any answer they gave?

Cold washed over him, more than fear.

This was how everyone viewed him.

Untrustworthy.

His own stories were japes, fantasies, not intended to hurt anyone. Even if children laughed at his silly tales, that didn’t give him the right to tell falsehoods when people expected truth.

Everyone he knew—even those he didn’t know, like the mayor—didn’t trust him, no more than they would trust common bandits.

Struggling through his shame, he realized that in this moment, he had to make a choice.

He had to trust these men at their word.

The leader’s bushy eyebrows rose, and he glanced at the other two before turning back to Nat. “She wouldn’t be any use to us harmed or dead,” he said. “Kidnap means asking for a ransom, and we can ask for more money with the promise she’ll be returned unharmed.”

The sudden rush of relief made Nat’s head swim. Before he’d truly recovered, he blurted out, “You know my name—I know you heard my sister say it. I don’t know yours. I figure you’ll probably lie, so just tell me what I should be calling you.”

Again, the man looked surprised. “You’ve got a lot of demands, don’t you, lad? Fine, then. I’m Scull, he’s Colley, and he’s Braddock.”

Colley was the thin blond man with the knife; Braddock was the man with the crooked nose.

Somewhere nearby, a branch snapped, and they all stiffened. Another rustle, and between the trees they saw the short brown fur of a deer that had stepped on the fallen limb.

“Now it’s our turn,” Scull said. “What do you know that’s of use to us?”

Nat remembered previous Midsummer Eve festivals and said, “She’ll be wearing a red, blue, and gold ribbon pinned on her sleeve, as will the rest of her family, because those are the colors of the city. That’s how you’ll recognize her. I mean, if you don’t already know what she looks like.”

Colley snorted. “Dark hair, this tall—” he held out a hand “—with a red, blue, and gold ribbon on her sleeve. She looks like that.”

Nat knew better. Two years older than him. Rich, dark hair, blue eyes, wide mouth. Mole on her upper lip. Crooked incisor.

Not that he’d been noticing.

“There’ll be a big dance in the square,” he went on. “Lots of people dancing. She’ll have many partners.” He swallowed. “You . . . you can ask for a dance, bring her to the edge of the square . . .”

He didn’t know how he’d convince anyone the men were going to kidnap her, no matter how hard he’d thought. This was the best he’d come up with.

The men guffawed. “As if any of us would be suitable for a turn with her,” Braddock said. “Naw, I think that’s where you’ll come in, lad. Twirl her right to us.”

Nat’s heart was in throat. He had to admit that was a better plan.

“What if she won’t dance with me?” he asked.

Colley snorted, cleaning beneath his fingernails with his knife. Nat knew the man’s nails were already pristine. He got the message.

“I suspect you’ll find a way,” Scull said. “You’re handsome enough to twirl her right to us.”

A silence fell among them.

“And if you don’t . . .” Scull added.

Nat, heart sinking, knew what wasn’t being said.

• • •

Adults might not have believed anything Nate said, but many of his fellow mates cared little about the truth when it came to a jape or prank, whether or not they believed his story.

It took little more than a few half-hearted insults and a half-hearted scuffle of fists before he convinced them of his plan for Midsummer Eve.

That, and a few precious coins from his wages at the tavern.

• • •

Midsummer was a bright and pleasant day, a few scudding clouds in a blue sky, leading into a calm, sun-kissed breeze of an evening.

In the middle of the city square, a makeshift wooden stage had been built for the festivities. Around it, stalls in all directions offered the first of the summer fruits, ale and wine (those probably owned by Nat’s father), and trinkets, ribbons, and toys.

After the mayor’s speech about prosperity—which raised an enthusiastic cheer—a piper and fiddler and drummer took the stage and urged the crowd to dancing.

Tarita immediately had multiple suitors, and Nat chewed on a fingernail as he watched them dance away.

Until, that was, he saw another girl who looked just like her, with dark hair and a red, blue, and gold ribbon on her sleeve.

He dashed into the crowd, swept her up, and danced her over to one side of the square, twirling her out into the watchers.

Then he spotted another, and did the same.

And the same.

And the same.

Each time, he plowed back into the crowd of dancers before he saw the looks of disbelief and then anger on the faces of the kidnappers.

Then there was a break in the music, and the dancers gratefully accepted cups of water or went to buy ale or wine.

From the edges of the square came screams. Shouts. Yells. Commotion unheard until the music ceased.

The noise came from girls—no, boys dressed as girls, but each and every one told the same story. A man at the edge of the square had grabbed them, clapped a hand over their mouth, dragged them away from the crowd.

Nat melted into the crowd, his stomach churning. Nobody would believe him. . . .

But there were enough of them, swearing the truth, that a call was raised.

And the boys all swore the same fact: the men who’d grabbed them had red wine stains on their clothes.

• • •

Nate lost himself in the crowd, his mouth dry, silent and still scared until he saw Scull, Braddock, and Colley being marched away by the city guards.

Then he felt a tug on his shoulder. Heart in his throat, he whirled around.

Tarita, the kidnapper’s target, stood before him. Close to his height, rich dark hair, blue eyes, wide mouth. Mole on her upper lip.

Wearing the town’s colors as a green and silver rosette on her shoulder.

She smiled, and he saw for a second her crooked incisor.

“Come with me,” she said, and how could he resist that? That she added, “My father wants to thank you,” was far less important than her smile.

• • •

Nat told the story until he was old, with great-grandchildren gathered round where he sat and enjoyed a fire in the grate and a sweet-scented pipe, while outside the summer fireflies danced.

Whether or not they believed him? Well, he no longer cared.

He’d married his childhood sweetheart, and lived a comfortable life writing stories that people far and wide read.

That, in the end, was the only truth that mattered.

Trap Spell

Louisa Swann

Roli thought he was alone. He was supposed to be alone. That’s what “solo” meant, after all. By oneself.

Right?

Then why was a wacky Tayledras boy who looked more tree than person standing at the edge of his—Roli’s—clearing?

Winterwind k’Vala either didn’t know the word ‘solo’ or he didn’t care. Likely the second. The Hawkbrother spent most of his time alone, after all. Was that why he couldn’t stay away?

After an entire day of searching the resin-scented, pine needle-carpeted paths that wound around and between evergreen trees so huge it would take ten hertasi, standing fingertip to fingertip, arms outstretched, to encircle one, seeking a space free of thornbushes and other not-very-friendly bushes and plants, Roli had finally found his clearing.

Chamomile was one of the many herbs covering the ground in the small clearing. He was fortunate it was blooming, sending its fragrance into the air with every step. Birds whistled and sang so high in the trees they stayed hidden from his sight. Insects buzzed among the wildflowers, while white and yellow butterflies danced joyfully from bloom to bloom.

Several of the enormous Peligiris trees grew strategically in a half circle from the cliff, branches reaching and stretching toward each other as did branches throughout the forest, at least the portion he’d seen.

But this spot, this one little clearing, didn’t have a roof—of branches or leaves or . . . anything. His view of the sky was unencumbered.

It was strange enough that he’d given the surroundings a thorough check before deciding this was indeed a safe space for him to camp. He’d stay for three days, contemplating his past, his future, practicing his Gift, and surviving anything the Peligiris Forest sent his way.

He’d scarcely had time to set up camp, get his fire going, and settle on the ground, leaning against a rock and contemplating his next move, when Winterwind k’Vala appeared beside one of the great trees bounding the clearing.

Silent as a shadow in the night.

Gone was Roli’s peace and serenity.

Gone was his solo adventure.

Even more gone was his sanity.

Had Medran set this up? Was the Hawkbrother’s sudden appearance part of Roli’s test? Had the Hawkbrother been sent to annoy and distract him?

Suddenly the clearing seemed much smaller. Winterwind k’Vala and the trees stood less than three paces away instead of a stone’s throw.

Roli groaned. With a cliff of hard granite against his back, a fire hot enough to cook and stay warm but not so hot you couldn’t sit close, and a bed of fragrant herbs, he thought he’d found the perfect base camp for his solo endeavor.

Perfection is a state sought by idiots and achieved by none. Medran’s words circled around and around in Roli’s mind.

Once again, his hertasi mentor and adoptive father was right.

Suddenly, it felt like someone had Roli’s heart in a death grip. If he passed this test, if he managed to somehow not mess everything up (as he generally did), Medran would take Roli to the nearest Valdemaran settlement and leave him there.

It was what Roli wanted—to be with his own kind. Partly to be with those who might share—and be able to control—the same type of Gift he had (what the Hawkbrother called “Fetching”) but to be with those who were as clumsy and awkward and as scent-deprived as he.

Roli never could smell things the way other hertasi could. He couldn’t hear things, either, not the way hertasi could. Add in his clumsy legs, long arms, and smooth skin, and the fact he had hair on his head . . .

Definitely not hertasi—

“Is that how hertasi greet each other? Say nothing and just stare?”

Startled, Roli glared at the Hawkbrother standing next to the enormous tree. What would Winterwind say if Roli told him he looked like a scrawny sapling next to that tree?

But Medran wouldn’t approve of such words. How many times had he reminded Roli: “The wrong words can be as hurtful as a thrown stone.”

“Hertasi don’t just pop out of the woods uninvited.”

Winterwind k’Vala grinned, his teeth a slash of white against the black mud smeared over his dark golden skin. Sky-blue eyes glowed beneath a spray of . . . some kind of leaves Roli didn’t recognize. Hair the color of raven wings had been braided with a variety of leaves, along with pine needles and feathers.

All for camouflage, or so the boy claimed.

More like Winterwind had been playing in the muck and didn’t want to clean up (to Roli’s way of thinking).

The Hawkbrother was all of fifteen summers—about Roli’s age—and training to be a scout. Which meant most of the time the Hawkbrother looked more tree than person.

And the smell!

Winterwind always bragged about dousing himself in muskoil in order to fool other animals, but to Roli’s nose he stank like a skunk.

Wood snapped as the night wind teased the flames of Roli’s fire, sending sparks dancing toward the blue-black sky. Stars winked down at him as if sharing the Hawkbrother’s joke, whatever it might be.

An enormous black bird—Winterwind’s Bondbird—cackled like an old hen from a branch far above the Hawkbrother’s head.

“Roli Hertasi-not-son!” Winterwind k’Vala held up a flask scarcely bigger than his hand and waggled it. “Prepare to die!”

Winterwind’s skill with the hertasi language was improving while Roli still struggled with the Tayledras language. Most of the time they spoke hertasi.

Had Winterwind really said, “Prepare to die?” or had he mixed up his words?

If Roli had been smart, he would have ignored the Hawkbrother completely. But he was curious. “Whatever are you on about?”

“The ceremonial potation contained in this flask serves one purpose: to welcome an outsider into the clan. It’s brewed by the dark of the new moon and blessed by the Star-Eyed herself. One sip, some shared words and mingled blood, and you’ll be a Hawkbrother forever.”

What on earth was a potation? Not a hertasi word, of that he was certain. Roli thought about asking, then decided he wasn’t in the mood to listen to one of Winterwind’s long-winded explanations that somehow managed to declaim the Hawkbrother’s heroic accomplishments during the process.

Roli had already decided the Hawkbrother could never have accomplished all that he claimed, heroic or not. He hadn’t been alive long enough!

“Is this another one of your tricks?” Roli asked, eyebrow raised. “I partake of this ceremony, drink your drek, and find myself squatting behind a bush in a most embarrassing way?”

Winterwind had the temerity to look surprised. “I would not do such a thing, not to you, not to anyone.”

Which was so far from the truth, the Hawkbrother could have been standing on the moon while the potation was made. One of the first tales Winterwind had spun after Roli came to the Vale concerned a certain powder he’d snuck into an unwelcome visitor’s meal and the—in Winterwind’s opinion—uproarious results that occurred.

The only thing Roli knew for certain about the Hawkbrother was to expect the unexpected. The more gross and embarrassing the results, the more likely Winterwind would find a way to create the experience for another.

No one in the Vale was safe. Roli was merely the Hawkbrother’s current project, or so Medran claimed every time Winterwind pulled one of his tricks—shenanigans, Medran called them—on Roli.

The air stirred and the Bondbird dropped from the tree branch into the clearing, settling gracefully on the large rock Roli had pegged for his seat. The enormous bird was black with a white belly and white stripes on its long, narrow tail as well as along both sides of its head. The bill was black and sharp and deadly.

Roli stifled a shudder. He and Medran had been in the k’Vala Vale for more than a moon, and he still couldn’t get used to the size of the Bondbirds. Each and every one was larger than birds had any right to be. Saire was at least three times larger than a normal magpie, and almost as intelligent as his bondmate—or so it seemed at times.

Not only was Saire much larger than the magpies that had lived around Medran’s burrow, he was three times more of everything—noisy and troublesome being only part of his skill set. As fond of shenanigans as his bondmate, Saire somehow managed to “find” things that had gone missing—clothes, fancy stones, sharp knives—though Roli had a sneaking suspicion the bird had a hand in their taking.

He had to admit the Bondbird wasn’t as messy as normal magpies. Saire took care where he dropped his feathers and other offerings.

The sweet smell of crushed chamomile teased his nose as Roli pulled dinner from his small pack and carefully set two packages—one of seed bread and one of jerky—to one side. He pointedly ignored the Hawkbrother, putting out only enough for one and not offering to share.

Would Winterwind get the point? Roli doubted it.

The Hawkbrother was one of the densest beings Roli had ever met. He and Medran had, quite literally, come across him during their quest to find Roli’s people. One thing had led to another, including a nasty encounter with the local wyrsa and almost being eaten alive. It was the first time Roli had used his Gift to help someone. Using only his mind, he’d managed to move rocks and an enormous tree branch in an effort to save Medran’s life . . .

Which Winterwind claimed full credit for—saving Medran’s life, that is.

Roli set water in a pot by the fire to heat, then went off into the woods to take care of business. When he returned, Winterwind was sitting on the rock his Bondbird had evidently abandoned, munching on something.

Quickly Roli checked his rations, but nothing seemed missing.

He poured the hot water into his travel cup where he’d already placed his favorite mix of herbs. The scent of mint mingled with licorice and other exotic herbs. Medran had created a wonderful tea that helped improve focus and concentration as well as ease the soul. Roli had brought an ample supply.

Or so he hoped.

Planning a trip was not easy. One had to think ahead. Consider what might happen, not just what was expected to happen.

Like gaining an unexpected companion.

Roli sipped his tea and contemplated his next move. The purpose of his solo adventure was to prove he could survive on his own on the road. Medran had taught him all the hertasi ways. Hawkbrother elders had taught him the basics of controlling his Gift. Now Roli had to use all his skills to survive.

“Tea smells good. Mind if I ask what’s in it?”

The tea was good. Extraordinarily so. Roli took another sip, ignoring the Hawkbrother.

The tiny flask Winterwind flashed earlier had disappeared somewhere within the folds of the Hawkbrother’s camouflage cape. With that cape, Winterwind really did resemble the trees he so loved, trees so big, the Hawkbrothers built their homes among the branches.

Being raised hertasi, Roli couldn’t even imagine living in a tree. Underground was best. Safest. Warm and cozy, that’s what a typical hertasi den felt like.

So what if the only view was that of dirt walls and your companion’s rough hide, long snout, and sharp teeth.

Roli took another sip of tea. Medran had really gone all out on this batch, he decided. He’d make sure to get the old hertasi’s recipe before they parted ways. If they parted ways.

Bright light streaked across the night sky, fading almost as suddenly as it appeared. A fallen hero? Sign from the ancestors? Roli wasn’t sure what he believed—

“I’m thinking we’ve been through a lot together,” Winterwind said, slurring his words just a bit. “Bonded through life-changing experiences.”

Had the Hawkbrother been sipping his own potation? Whatever was he talking about?

“All tha’ experience, tha’ bonding, makes us brothers.” Winterwind hiccupped.

Roli took another sip of tea, noting the way it warmed his belly and made his skin feel warm. He finished his seed bread and jerky. When the tea was finally done, he set the cup aside and stood to bank the fire.

The stars swam and his legs wobbled. He blinked, steadied his legs, and took long, deep breaths. Earthquake? Or . . .

“Looks like someone’s had a nip or two from my flask,” Winterwind said, his accent so thick Roli could barely understand him.

He frowned at the Hawkbrother. “I’ve had nothing but tea. Who knows what you’ve been drinking, though . . .”

His words came out distant, as though spoken by someone else. He stepped toward Winterwind . . . and fell on his face.

“What are you up to?” Roli managed to blurt out as he twisted onto his back and levered himself to a sitting position. “Did you put something in my tea?”

The Hawkbrother grinned. “Time for your . . . Honor . . . Honorary Hawkbrother ceremonies.”

“What if I—” Roli hiccupped. “What if I don’t want to be honor . . . honorar . . . honorary?”

“It’s not the honorary that’s important. You’d be a Hawkbrother, able to come and go from the Vales as you wish.”

While that all sounded fine, Roli wasn’t sure he wanted to be an honorary anything. He had a hard enough time figuring out who he actually was (Hertasi? Human? Hartman? Humasi?) without adding more to the mix.

Besides, he wasn’t convinced this ceremony of Winterwind’s was real.

“Fine. I’m fine.” The stars swam again and Roli’s stomach swam with them. “Did you put . . . that pota . . . that brew . . . that stuff . . . in my tea?”

Winterwind got to his feet, swayed a bit, then stumbled toward Roli. “Tole you. We habing a ceremoniessssss.”

If Roli had been a true hertasi, he would have lashed his tail. He had to settle for struggling to his feet. He ignored his heaving stomach and the swimming stars and lurched forward, intent on shoving Winterwind from his camp.

This was his camp, after all, and he did NOT want intruders.

“Solo mission’s ’bout bein’ solo,” he muttered. Dirt and stones danced at his feet, swirling as his stomach churned.

The Hawkbrother shoved back. “Are you refusing a Hawkbrother’s invitation?”

Dimly, Roli realized this might not be a good thing. Medran told stories about what the Hawkbrothers did to their enemies.

He did not want to be a Hawkbrother’s enemy. He actually liked most of the Hawkbrothers.

But Winterwind was such a pest!

And Roli had had enough! He growled and shoved again.

Winterwind shoved back.

A stone the size of Roli’s fist flew toward the Hawkbrother’s head. Roli stumbled away from the other boy, deflecting the stone with a thought.

He had to get hold of himself. Had to control his emotions. Control his Gift . . .

Winterwind staggered, reaching out for something to grab onto.

The entire sky flashed as though lightning had struck somewhere in the clearing. Roli froze, staring up at the stars. Stars.

No clouds. No storm.

No thunder.

Just the flash.

Roli gagged, then coughed, then choked as the air filled with the most horrendous stench he had ever had the misfortune of smelling. A combination of rotten eggs, rotting compost, and decaying corpse.

Good thing he couldn’t smell like a hertasi, or even like a Hawkbrother. He struggled to breathe, to draw in anything resembling air while not allowing the stench to creep down his throat. He coughed, eyes watering, nose dripping, and glared at the Hawkbrother. “What . . . did . . . you . . . do . . . now?”

The Hawkbrother’s eyes bulged in a face so red, it might have been part of the fire. He had one hand clamped over his mouth, as if that would keep the stench from getting in.

“What have I done? What have you done?” Winterwind gasped. “You puny hertasi wannabe!”

“Don’t know what you’re . . . watch out!” Roli swatted at a swooping bat, spun and swatted at another bat.

More than one or two, he realized. An entire horde of bats circled the fire. Bats that seemed made of fire themselves. The creatures glowed a deep red, the red of embers burning hot in a fire. Flitting about like giant mosquitoes, they certainly looked as though they could burn anyone who came close.

“Watch out for what?” Winterwind glanced around and shrugged. “There’s nothing here but us.”

“Bats! Swarms of them! Hordes of them!” Roli ducked, then dropped to his knees, hands over his head, protecting his hair from the tiny flaming demons. “They’re everywhere!”

“No bats,” Winterwind said. He sounded like he was moving around. No, not moving. Jumping or hopping or . . .

Roli peeked at the Hawkbrother, making sure he kept his head protected from the bats.

Winterwind hopped from one foot to the other, a look of disgust on his muddied face. “There does seem to be a lot of snakes.”

“Snakes!” Roli leaped to his feet. He didn’t really mind snakes—as long as they stayed on the other side of the stream . . . or tree . . . or—“I don’t see any snakes.” Lots of crushed chamomile, scuffed dirt, and tumbled stones, but no snakes.

He ducked as another bat dove at him, its flaming wings billowing a brilliant orange, red, orange as it passed. The bat shifted as it rose back into the air, and Roli found himself looking at his mentor, Medran.

With wings.

Fiery wings made of leather and flame.

“Argh!” Roli cried, turning to Winterwind. “What evil is this? Do you dislike me so much as to cast a spell guaranteed to drive me insane?”

He fell to the ground, wrapping his arms back over his head and pressing his eyes shut tight. The dark filled with moans, groans, squawks, and screams.

He wouldn’t lift his head, wouldn’t see whatever evils might be lurking.

“This isn’t right,” he mumbled, slowly realizing he was speaking out loud. Very loud. “Something isn’t right. That Hawk idiot—”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with me or mine,” Winterwind grumbled. Sounded like he was still hopping. “It appears someone set a trap spell.”

“A what?” Roli’d never heard of such a thing.

“A trap spell. A spell that’s set to spring closed, like a physical trap. I’m not sure what the trigger was—perhaps proximity—but once that trigger is hit, the spell is released.”

“How do we stop it?” Roli cautiously sat up, peering around with suspicion. The bats had flown off—or disappeared, which was more likely if he’d been hallucinating because of some spell.

“You know, there’s nothing special about the stuff in this little bottle,” Winterwind noted as if Roli hadn’t spoken. The Hawkbrother shook the bottle upside down and peered at the spout as if hoping to see more liquid. Disappointed, he tossed the bottle toward the edge of camp.

“Slob,” Roli said. He lifted his lip in a snarl, stomped over to the bottle and picked it up. “Are all Hawkbrothers as thoughtless and . . . and . . . and slobby as you?”

Winterwind snorted. “Is schlobby even a word?”

“’Course it is.” Roli choked back his anger—irrational to be furious with a Hawkbrother idiot—and waved at the grass bent by the weight of the bottle. “Throwing things one has no use for is slobby. Acting like a slob. Slob, slobbier, slobbiest. You, my dear Hawkbrother, are the slobbiest of slobby slobs.”

He caught sight of another stone flying toward Winterwind’s head and mentally forced the stone to the ground.

Winterwind snorted, blowing a lank of hair braided with grass and leaves from his face. “I’d rather be a schlobby slob than a freaky freak lizard wannabe.”

The Hawkbrother’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth as though he might . . . might . . . take the words back.

Instead he kept talking. “I don’t know what your problem is. I saved your scrawny not-lizard-hide from the wyrsa and welcomed you to my Vale, and all you’ve done is grumble and gripe since we met. I even planned on making you my blood brother, brought this special potation—”

“A brew you admitted wasn’t special at all. You just wanted to get me drunk!”

A hertasi song started going through Roli’s mind, a song he hadn’t thought about in ages. Not that he’d been thinking much at all since . . . since the Big Stink turned the world upside down.

“We’re just the little lizard-folk . . .” he sang without really thinking. “Who cook and clean and sewwwww.”

“Sheka!” Winterwind growled. “Your voice is as rotten as my Bondbird’s.”

Saire let out a screech that rivaled branches rubbing in the wind and flapped disapproval from his branch.

“Don’t get your feathers ruffled,” Winterwind said. “You know I love you, voice and all.”

Roli went on singing and stumbling until he finally crawled onto the rock the Bondbird and then Winterwind had abandoned, and plunked his hind end down on the slightly warm granite.

“. . . Never think that’s all we slice.” He put heavy emphasis on “slice,” “No, never think that’s all we sliiiicccceeee . . .”

He raised his eyebrows at the Hawkbrother and abruptly stopped singing. “You see, we slice other things as well. Hawkbrothers and Bondbirds and—”

“No need to explain,” Winterwind said. “Though I doubt a Hawkbrother would be frightened of a hertasi blade.”

“Why don’t we find out.” Roli felt around his tunic, seeking the blade Medran had given him in honor of his thirteenth summer. Blade and bow had been gifts made by Medran himself.

Tears burned Roli’s eyes. He swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. Didn’t realize he missed his mentor so much—

“You still seeing those bats?”

Startled, Roli glanced around. He squinted across the fire, glanced up at the stars . . .

And almost fell off his rock.

“No bats,” he said, closing his eyes and opening them again. “But the stars won’t stand still. Whatever did you put in that brew?”

“Not the brew.” Winterwind plopped on the ground and stretched out, the leaves and sticks of his cloak making it appear a tree branch had fallen into the herbs. For a brief moment, the aroma of chamomile filled the clearing . . .

Promptly chased away by the Big Stink.

“This was my solo test,” Roli said. He slid off his rock and stretched out beside the Hawkbrother, waving his arm at the dancing stars. His words seemed to dance with them. “Do you understand what ‘solo’ means? Alone. A. L. O. N. E. By oneself. The final test I need to pass before Medran will show me the way to my people. My real people. Valdemarans who have arms and legs and hair like me, who live with other Valdemarans in villages and towns and cities—”

“Not sure what so grand about that,” Winterwind said, scorn evident in his voice. “I’ve seen one of your ‘villages.’ People live in huts on the ground.”

“Hertasi live in burrows in the ground,” Roli retorted. “It’s cozy and warm, the natural order of things.”

“Ha! Things that creep and crawl live in the ground too. Snakes and spiders—”

“Spiders fall out of trees all the time! Right when you least expect them!” Roli shuddered.

“Our Bondbirds keep the trees free of spiders,” Winterwind said, slapping his hand on the ground at his side as if emphasizing his point.

“Really?” Roli risked a brief glance up at Saire, who shook her wings noncommittally. Or maybe she was just swimming with the stars.

“Something strange is going on . . . More to the trap spell than just smell . . .” Winterwind sounded more contemplative than Roli had ever heard him.

“The great one speaks!” A giggle started deep in Roli’s belly. He snorted and snurfed, trying to keep the laughter inside. For some reason, it didn’t seem like a good time to laugh . . . and then it did. Seem like the time to laugh, that is.

The giggle turned into a belly-splitting roar. Tears streamed down Roli’s cheeks, leaving cool trails in their wake. He pounded the ground with his fists. The stars jerked and wiggled in time to his laughter and his ribs started to ache.

“I’m serious,” Winterwind said, a note of humor in his voice. “We need to . . . figure . . . this . . . out!”

The Hawkbrother chuckled and snorted, then burst into laughter that should have startled his own Bondbird in Roli’s estimation.

The harder the Hawkbrother laughed, the more Roli laughed. The more Roli laughed, the harder the Hawkbrother laughed. They rolled on the ground, their bellowing laughter bouncing off the cliff and the trees.

Roli tried to stop, swallowed hard . . . but Winterwind bellowed another laugh and Roli exploded into laughter more furious than before.

Just when he thought he’d burst wide open, a shadow blotted out the stars and something plopped on his face. Something hot and gooey and extremely bad smelling (though not as bad as the Big Stink).

Roli sat up, gagging, and swiped the goo from his face, trying not to look at the white slime. His laughter dissolved faster than ice on a hot summer day. “Your bird just pooped on me!”

“Don’t think you’re special,” Winterwind gasped. “She had more than enough for both of us.”

That almost made Roli chuckle, but his aching sides and cheeks that felt stretched to tearing—combined with the slimy stuff on his face—kept the laughter at bay.

“I think we triggered more than a trap spell,” Winterwind said, his voice hoarse after all that laughing. “Not sure what was in it besides stink. Better if we get back to the Vale and let the elders know what’s happened. Maybe they can work out . . . everything else.”

“Maybe leave out the part where your bird pooped on us.” Roli sighed and struggled to his feet.

Winterwind chuckled.

“Stop that!” Roli said through clenched teeth. “No more laughing; no more pooping. But you’re right.” If they’d tripped some kind of spell (not that he knew all that much about spells), the elders should know. So should Medran.

“What did you say?” Winterwind asked.

Roli frowned at the Hawkbrother. “No more pooping?”

Winterwind shook his head. “No, after that. The part about me being right.”

“Never said such a thing.” Roli pressed his lips together so tight they stung. Not going to say anything. Not going to—

Something else occurred to him. “Is there a spell that makes people say what’s on their minds? Seems like ever since the Big Stink—”

“The Big Stink?”

“Yeah, didn’t you smell it?”

“Oh, I smelled it, but—”

“Fine. Since the Smell That Almost Choked the Life From My Lungs happened, you haven’t been able to keep your mouth shut.”

“I was just wondering the same thing about you. Hardly a word out of you since we met on the trail and now you’re all blabbermouth-gone-wild.”

A handful of rocks rose in the air. “Blabbermouth? Me? Why—”

Saire shook his wings as if preparing to dive.

The rocks plopped to the ground, and Roli shut up.

So did the Hawkbrother.

For an entire heartbeat. Then two . . .

“I think . . . there was another spell within the trap spell.” Winterwind pursed his lips.

“Was that flash—like lightning—part of the spell, do you think?”

“Not sure,” admitted Winterwind. “I don’t know much about spell work. My focus has been scouting.”

Had the Hawkbrother just confessed to not knowing everything?

“Well, Mister Hawk Scout. What say we pack up our things and head back to the Vale. I’ll beg Medran’s mercy. Perhaps he’ll let me go solo again. By. My. Self!”

“Fine,” grumbled Winterwind. “I’ll take care of the fire. You take care of your things.”

He grabbed Roli’s water pot and stalked to the burbling stream, his steps still a bit wobbly and unsteady. “Just wanted to help the little wannabe. Hawkbrothers are the best people around, but does he want to belong to a clan? Noooo . . .”

The words faded as Winterwind knelt at the stream. Roli gathered his things, shoving food packets and cup into his pack. He hadn’t untied his blanket roll yet, so he was ready to go before the fire was fully out.

“It’s not that I don’t want to be a Hawkbrother,” Roli started.

“No problem. The ceremony was a fake. We don’t adopt outsiders. Nope, no way.”

Roli rolled his eyes, slid his pack on his shoulder, and tightened the straps. “Fine. Lead the way.”

He wanted the Hawkbrother where he could keep an eye on him.

Winterwind nodded curtly, kicked a bit of dirt over the smoldering coals he’d just doused with water, and headed toward the edge of the clearing.

Opposite where he’d entered.

And the path back to the Vale.

“U-um,” Roli stammered. Winterwind was a Hawkbrother scout. Was his next trick getting Roli completely and totally lost? “I think the Vale is the other way?”

The Hawkbrother stopped in his tracks and stood still as the trees he resembled. He slowly turned . . .“Whatever was in that spell has affected my sense of direction.”

What?

Saire dropped out of the tree, landing on Winterwind’s arm. Bondbird and Hawkbrother stared at each other for what seemed an eternity.

Then Saire launched into the night sky.

And disappeared.

“I sent him home. Told him to bring help. He could try to lead us, but it’s hard for him to see us through that heavy canopy. And flying through the trees . . . He’s not a night bird . . .”

“Don’t you know which way to go? You’re a scout!” Roli couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Then again, after the strangeness of the previous happenings, perhaps a scout losing his way wasn’t so strange.

“You are always so full of yourself,” Winterwind said. “Since you seem to know it all, perhaps you can lead us back. Pretend it’s one of your tests. That’s it. Your final test, Roli Wannabe Lizard. Get us back to the Vale.”

Sometime during their . . . experiences, the strange noises had faded to the normal crickets and night sounds. Roli tried to quiet his mind—no need to send rocks and stones flying—and focused on sounds and the ground. As long as he didn’t look up, didn’t look at the stars, the world seemed content to stay still.

How was he supposed to find his way back if a scout couldn’t do it?

Making a problem bigger than it is won’t help solve the problem. Another one of Medran’s favorite sayings that always drove Roli crazy.

How would he have gotten back to the Vale if he’d been on his own?

Likely not climbing through trees. Still, the process was the same, wasn’t it?

“You put out the fire,” he finally said. “How am I supposed to find my way in the dark?”

“I thought hertasi had good night sight,” Winterwind said.

“You know they don’t see well in the dark. You also know I’m not hertasi. I’m human. But that doesn’t mean I can see in the dark. Cats see in the dark. Coyotes see in the dark. Wyrsa . . . I don’t know what wyrsa see, and would rather not think about it.”

“Here.” Winterwind pulled a small box from his cloak and handed it to Roli. “Shake the box and it’ll glow. Magic enhanced dust. Not bright, but better than nothing.”

“Fine. Thanks, I guess.” Roli thought and thought some more. “Do you know . . . Perhaps we’ll . . . walk out of the spell? Don’t know how it works, but do spells travel with a person? Maybe we’ll just . . . leave it behind?”

“Definitely not my expertise, but I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“Guess we’ll find out.” Roli led the way across the clearing and into the woods.

• • •

Glowing boxes were almost—but not entirely—useless in the dark if one is trying to find one’s way. Roli could see most roots (though not all). Winterwind stumbled and swore, blindly following his steps. The glow wasn’t bright enough to allow the so-called scout to see the roots Roli managed to avoid.

Which gave Roli a small bit of satisfaction. “Wouldn’t be in this position if you hadn’t—”

“If I hadn’t what?”

Roli spun, glaring at the Hawkbrother. Winterwind’s cape had lost most of its feathers and a good portion of mud had flaked off his face, but the Hawkbrother glared back.

“If you hadn’t followed me. Hadn’t put me out of sorts. If we hadn’t tussled . . . maybe the trap spell wouldn’t have sprung.”

“And maybe you would have sprung it yourself. What would you have done then, huh? With no one around to whine to. To tell you what had likely happened? No one to question? No one to blame?”

Winterwind held up a finger.

Rather rude. Roli studied the Hawkbrother’s tired face and the vacant look in his eyes. Has he gone over the edge?

Winterwind blinked and seemed to come back to himself. “Saire says help is on the way. He talked to Tinderspark’s owl, who spread the word to the other Bondbirds. They woke their Hawkbrothers and got things going.”

The Hawkbrother’s face was pale. News of being rescued should bring color to one’s face, shouldn’t it?

“What else did he say?”

“There’s a pack of wyrsa directly in our path. They’ve evidently been hunting and are sleeping. But we have to get around them.”

Memories flashed through Roli’s mind like sparks from a fire, images of a wyrsa’s long, sinuous body more fitting to a snake than a four-legged creature, thick, black hides that resembled velvet shadows in dim light, razor-sharp canines longer than his own fingers, and eyes the color of dead eggshells.

Roli’s legs threatened revolt along with his stomach. He swallowed hard. “How can we get around them? Without being eaten.”

“We could go the long way. The very, very long way.” Winterwind thought for a moment. “And that wouldn’t guarantee we wouldn’t be eaten.”

The Hawkbrother glanced at the trees. “We’ll have to go over.”

“They almost got us last time. Up in a tree!” Roli’s entire body shook at the memory and his thigh ached where he’d been bitten. “We can’t see where we’re going . . .”

“And my sense of direction would have us going in circles.” Winterwind sighed. “I’ll let Saire know. Tell him to call off the rescue. Perhaps the spell—whatever it is—will wear off with time.”

“How long?”

“Hours, days, weeks, months.” Winterwind shrugged. “I told you—”

“This isn’t your area of expertise.” Roli finished for him. “Meanwhile, the wyrsa will likely find us come morning. It’s not like we tried to hide our scent or anything.”

Winterwind nodded.

Roli sighed. “I’ll need help up the tree.”

They’d been through this the first time they’d met. With Winterwind’s help, Roli struggled up the impossibly wide trunk, his feet fighting to find purchase on rough bark that somehow managed to be slippery while tearing up his hands. He made to the first immense branch, then kept going.

They’d didn’t stop until the branches began to thin.

“Can’t go up any farther, not when we want to cross from tree to tree. Branches are too thin which doesn’t make for a great bridge.”

Roli nodded. He’d kept the direction of the path—the ground path—in his head as they’d climbed. Taking a deep breath, he oriented himself in the general direction of the Vale (where he thought it should be) and started walking along a branch as wide as a moderately used path. Winterwind followed behind, clutching his pack tight enough he could feel the Hawkbrother’s pull.

It seemed the Hawkbrother was as nervous about this little adventure as Roli was.

He hadn’t realized how suited the trees were for this above-ground travel. Not only were the branches wide and easy to walk on, one branch led to another which led to a broad trunk and more branches, one of which grew in the appropriate direction.

Or so Roli hoped.

Crickets chirped somewhere in the dark, and the sharp scent of resin kept them company. Roli stayed on track as best he could, keeping his fingers crossed that—this time—he didn’t mess up.

He smelled what he thought might be wyrsa a full branch before he heard them—snoring?—far below.

The crickets went silent, leaving the world silent as a burrow in winter. He pictured himself a shadow in the night, carefully placing one foot in front of the other, gently stepping so not to make the bark crackle or snap beneath his weight. A light breeze brushed his cheek, raising cold bumps on his skin.

Winterwind moved as silently as Roli hoped he was moving.

They were directly over the wyrsa pack—as far as Roli could tell—when the silence was split by a scream. Roli’s heart skipped a beat, then thudded in his chest. He froze, certain the wyrsa would be on them fast as a fish after a fly.

Panic tightened his chest and dried his mouth. Fighting wyrsa in the dark suddenly seemed stupid . . . and fatal. He couldn’t see, couldn’t find projectiles—branches or stones or anything—to hurl or stab with.

Any moment, he’d feel wyrsa breath against his skin, hot as a fire and smelling nearly as bad as the Big Stink . . .

But nothing happened.

A rabbit, he realized as his heartbeat slowed from a hard run to a trot and finally to a quick walk. Something—not the wyrsa down below—caught a rabbit. The scream had been the poor creature’s death cry.

Hadn’t disturbed the pack at all.

Roli opened his mouth . . . and closed it before the words could pass his lips. He wasn’t sure what the wyrsa had eaten before falling asleep, but it had to be big. To have bellies so full they couldn’t be bothered to find what had killed the poor rabbit.

He offered a silent thanks to the creature who’d sacrificed itself, then took a quiet breath, and carefully moved forward.

• • •

They kept moving, putting one foot in front of the other. Reorienting at every trunk, cautiously revealing a bit of light so Roli could see where he was going, then choosing another branch and moving on.

His glow box dimmed until he couldn’t see, so Roli counted steps around the tree trunks, kept his fingers crossed and tried to cross his toes (which made walking hard), and they moved on.

One foot in front of the other . . .

After another eternity, he glanced up between steps, surprised to find light glowing somewhere ahead. His pack lightened as Winterwind let go.

Roli was relieved to find he didn’t need to comment. Content to travel in silence, he moved along the branch, one foot after another.

Winterwind moved to a different branch, and Roli half expected the Hawkbrother to move ahead, but he paced Roli as they worked their way toward the light.

Silent as shadows in the night.

Dark receded and light grew. And grew. And grew.

Dawn, Roli realized. They’d walked the entire night . . .

Which meant they should be close to . . .

The Vale.

Protected.

Safe.

One more time Roli’s legs threatened to fold. This time from relief, not drink or fear.

“We made it!”

Roli almost yelled at the Hawkbrother to stop shouting, but caught himself. Winterwind hadn’t shouted. They’d just been quiet for so long—

“There you be, son of my heart!”

Roli’s cheeks burned but not in embarrassment. They had made it. He hadn’t messed up!

But his adventure wasn’t over.

Roli hurried to his mentor, fell to his knees, and bowed his head. “I failed your test. It’s a long story. But I’m ready to go out again.”

There was a light pressure on his head.

“Don’t be a hatchling,” Medran said. “There’s much to be done. Time to get to the doing.”

“But the test?” Roli’s heart fell to his toes. He peered at his mentor, surprised to see a knot of Hawkbrothers gathered behind the hertasi. The gray morning light was enough he could recognize several of the elders, feathers from their Bondbirds braided into their hair.

“Son of my heart still lives.” Medran gave him a toothy grin. “Test passed.”

The elders nodded.

“But I wasn’t alone . . .” Roli couldn’t believe his ears. “How can I pass a solo test when I wasn’t truly ‘solo’?”

“’Twas a solo adventure. No one knows what trials Life will throw their way, what boon companions will cross their paths. You started on your own and you came back alive. You did much learning in the process.”

Roli nodded, reliving the moments traveling through the trees, silent as shadows in the night. “Can’t believe we made it past the wyrsa without waking the entire pack.”

“Wyrsa?” Medran looked confused. “Heard nothing about wyrsa close by.”

“A whole pack of them, according to . . .”

The elders looked as confused as Medran.

Anger burned deep in Roli’s gut. Was that whole “trip through the trees in order to save their lives” a joke?

Wind stirred the dust at his feet. He could get payback, could fling a stone at Winterwind and the Hawkbrother would never know where it came from.

He glanced around, looking for Winterwind. The Hawkbrother stood not far away, giant magpie on his shoulder, several Hawkbrothers at his side.

As if sensing his gaze, Winterwind looked his way. Their gazes locked, Winterwind’s blue eyes glinting with mischief. He wiggled his hand and something glinted in the light.

Something tiny. And silver.

Winterwind tilted his head in the direction of . . . his ekele?

Was he inviting Roli in for a drink?

He was surprised to find his anger fading. The dust settled along with the wind.

Roli chuckled, thinking about the trap spell. Winterwind needed to be taught a lesson, but there were other ways—ways that didn’t involve flinging projectiles—to get his revenge.

The chuckle grew into a laugh. He rose to his feet, looking down at his mentor (when had he outgrown the hertasi who’d raised him?).

“Much learning was done, but I’ll tell you about it later, if that’s okay.” Roli grinned at his mentor. “Right now I have to see a brother about a trap spell . . .”

One Trick Pony

Diana Paxson

As the sun rises, the chickens spread out through the garden, gabbling ecstatically as they find the insects hiding in the rich soil. Andry watches them, sharing their delight.

Then the dream changes.

Instead of a garden filled with busy chickens, he is looking at the Jay Song hills. In the sunset stillness, the grass poking through the rocky soil glows a deeper gold. It’s too peaceful, thinks Andry, shifting the tools with which he had been repairing the fence in the lower field. Goats should be grazing on that hill.

His gut twists. The hens are not pecking in front of the doorway, and no smoke is rising from the chimney of the thatched cottage below.

I have felt this before . . . I have seen this before . . .

He flings down the tools and runs.

The cottage door hangs open. Flies are buzzing. The reek of blood weights the air . . . A long ray of light from the declining sun illuminates the interior, and he sees . . .

“Rihanna . . . Dorin . . . Russilie . . .”

• • •

Andry’s despairing shout brought him upright, shaking. Clearing vision replaced the image of his desecrated home with that of a chamber barely big enough for his straw pallet, a chest, a small table, and a chair. Beyond a partition, the wall was hung with garden tools.

After his family’s destruction he had fled the farm, found a detachment of recruits from the Goldgrass Valley who needed a scout, and served them until a Tedrel ambush killed half and left the rest barely able to make it back to Haven. He was strong enough for gardening, and this hut by the gate that separated the Palace gardens from the Companions Field gave him a bed where no one would be disturbed by his nightmares. They had pronounced him healed.

Except for my dreams. At least he could still remember his family. In the House of Healing he’d known men whose wounds of mind or body had left them with no memories at all.

By day, an inner barrier kept his demons at bay. It was only at night that he relived his loss over and over, and lately that torment sometimes gave way to dreams of which he remembered only that they had made him laugh.

He opened the door and took a deep breath, gazing out over the meadow. The long grass shimmered with dew, but the fringe of woodland at the edge of the gully was still in shadow. A ghostly pallor moved among the trees. A Companion? So far as he knew they kept human hours, but surely they would wake if evil was near.

The air was still, but even just after the festival that marked the beginning of Summer it was cold enough to chill his bare skin. Andry poked up the embers in his little stove to make tea.

• • •

“Grow strong—” Andry eased the seedling gently into the hole he had made in the moist ground. He held his hand over the furled leaves. “Roots reach deep . . . leaves open to the sun . . .” He felt an answering pulse in reply. It made a nice change from the apologies required by the pruning he had been doing before.

To wrest a crop from the Jay Song hills had taken both love and labor. The river valley in which the first-comers had built Haven was fat land, its spirits awakened by all the magic it had seen.

“What are you planting?”

Two female shapes stood between him and the sun. Andry felt his heart constrict, for a moment seeing Russilie. Then his vision cleared. This girl was older, dark-haired like his daughter, but with very red cheeks and brighter skin, wearing Herald Trainee’s Grays.

“I’m sorry we startled you,” said her companion, a young woman with fair hair who was dressed in pale green. “You are Andry Denorsdale, yes? I helped to nurse you in the House of Healing. This is Bekka, and I am Selaine.”

Andry sat back on his heels, remembering how to smile. Her face had been one of his few good memories of that time. “This is Companion’s Eye—” he replied. “In another moon these seedlings will be making a border of blue along the path.”

“Or being used to treat sore eyes,” said Bekka. “I just finished a unit with the Healers,” she explained. “They want us to know what to pick when we are in the field.”

“And what not to,” Selaine added dryly. She let out her breath on a long sigh. “Oh, it is a delight to stand amidst all this beauty after the morning we have had.”

Andry raised an inquiring eyebrow. He had heard some noise from the other side of the House of Healing early on. Perhaps that was why he had seen no visitors today.

“Last night someone let all the chickens out of their coops and into the Director’s private garden. We were all drafted to recapture them,” said Selaine.

Andry twitched, an image of happy chickens surfacing in his memory. But these were glossy, russet-colored birds, not the wiry, gray-speckled fowl he had raised at Denorsdale farm.

“You should have left them there.” He found his voice again. “The fowl eat the bugs and improve the soil.”

“It was a useful prank, then,” observed Bekka.

“The Master of the Hospital didn’t think so,” said Selaine. “He is expecting an important delegation of Healers from Hardorn, and he’s frantic to get everything cleaned up before they arrive.” She sighed, then gestured toward a pile of branches laden with starry white blossoms below the hedge on the other side of the path. “What are you going to do with that whitethorn?”

“It goes back to the earth. The blooms are past their peak, and if I do not act, in a summer the hedge will block the path. In a few years, untamed, it would take over the garden.”

“Are you saying it can think?” Bekka asked.

“It is a community of beings,” said Andry, “that has a living creature’s goals and needs. Only it lives more slowly.”

“Strong together,” Bekka said thoughtfully. “Like Valdemar when the highborns stop competing and we stand against our foes.”

Andry levered himself to his feet, staggering as his bad hip protested and stiff from sitting still. He was not yet forty, but he was too thin for his tall frame, with silver threaded hair and haunted eyes. They must think him ancient.

“Well, they are too beautiful to end on a trash heap!” stated Selaine. “If you will trim some, we can take them to my mother. She is a weaver in the city, and on rest days she serves tea and cakes to me and friends who want a distraction from our studies. At first she did it to get me to come see her, but now she says seeing our bright faces keeps her young.”

As well it might, thought Andry. He was feeling better already.

“Why don’t you come with us?” asked Selaine.

“You can help us carry the flowers!” Bekka grinned.

• • •

“Oh, how lovely!”

The woman who took the flowers Selaine was offering was clearly her mother. Andry saw in the older woman’s face the girl’s fair looks burnished to a golden maturity. He let the tide of students flow around him, an old anguish waking as he recognized in Mistress Deira’s face a beauty his own wife had never lived to achieve. He took a deep breath, locking the feeling behind the barrier that protected him from the world.

As Selaine led their chattering procession into the city, their conversation had helped him to understand why they came. The weaving-woman’s home was a place where Trainee Heralds and Bards could forget how soon many of them would be fighting the Tedrels, and Healers could escape the smells and sounds of the hospital to which the survivors, if they were lucky, returned.

“Andry takes care of the Palace gardens. He was pruning the whitethorn hedge,” said Selaine. “He said we could bring some. In gratitude, we brought the gardener as well.”

Mistress Deira held out her hands. “You are very welcome.”.

• • •

By the time they had found pots for the whitethorn, Andry was beginning to feel more at ease. As the newcomers settled themselves around the worktable, their hostess passed a bowl of hard-boiled eggs, which started the Healer Trainees talking about the Director’s chickens.

“They didn’t find their own way into that garden,” said Selaine. “At night the birds are kept in coops on trestles. Before being opened, the coops were carried all the way from the chicken yard.”

“Does anyone know who did it?” asked little Donni, a Bardic Trainee.

“If Mical were here, we’d suspect him,” answered Bekka. “He’s the Heralds’ most notorious jokester. But he left for a visit home four days ago.”

“I expect this prank will soon be forgotten,” said Garvin, an older Healer Trainee, “Unlike the time he reconnected the pipes in the Boys’ bath house so that turning the hot tap gave you cold.”

“And the cold tap ran hot. We were lucky no one was burned,” said Selaine repressively.

Andry suppressed a smile. His son Dorin had been something of a trickster, though as a farm child he had known to limit his attentions to the human community.

“Ah, Mical has ambitions,” answered Lissandra, “but Elcarth says he’ll never match masters of trickery like Herald Lochri, who lived during King Roald’s reign. The chronicles say that when he was a Trainee, he dug up part of the maze the night before the party where the year’s crop of highborn maidens is presented to the Court, then switched the pattern to trap a dozen of them and their suitors inside. They say he died young, though, so we don’t know if he ever changed his ways.”

For a few moments, everyone was silent. A decade or so ago a surprising number of Companion foals had been born. Now, the Heralds’ Collegium was having to find beds for a bumper crop of newly Chosen. How many of the bright-faced youngsters Andry saw rushing from class to class, not to mention the surprising number of those Chosen when they were already grown, would live long enough to grow wise?

“The chicken riot is not the first odd thing that’s happened recently,” said Lissandra. “Last week I spent a whole morning in the Companions’ tack room, sorting everyone’s tack. The stable lad swore he had left them in order. He was practically in tears.”

“By the way, Donni, do you know when Bard Saren will be returning to town?” asked Bekka.

“Why,” asked the boy with a grin. “Does Ariana want to know?” Apparently Herald Trainee Ariana’s unreciprocated passion for the young Bard was providing the latest grist for the Collegium gossip mill.

“She will get over it,” said Lissandra. “You Bards sing as if every romance was a Lifebond. Children dream of finding a true love as they dream of becoming Heralds, but most humans can have many loves.”

“For Heralds and their Companions, except in special cases, there is only one,” added Bekka.

“It must be hard for the Companions,” said Deira. “A human child hopes she might be Chosen, but a Companion must Choose. It has to be as frustrating for them to wait for the right one as it is for humans to find love.”

From there, the conversation rambled on. Deira poured more tea and set out another plate of raisin cakes. Trainees from all three Collegia radiated energy, and they were always hungry. The babble of conversation was cheerful—perhaps, thought Andry, a little too determinedly so. He could not help seeing the faces of his own children in those around him. They did not need the extra stress. If someone was playing tricks, he hoped they would soon be found.

“Master Andry—besides flowers, what do you grow?”

He started, realizing his hostess was talking to him.

“I prefer to dye my own yarn,” she went on. “The war has disrupted trade, and prepared dyestuffs are becoming hard to find.”

Andry forced a smile. “On my farm, for food I grew barley. Now for beauty I grow flowers. If you come, I will show you what we have, and you will tell me if it may serve you.”

• • •

This day, thought Andry as he started digging in mulch around the roses, is as much a delight to the ear as to the eye. The steady rasp of his shovel driving through the soil provided a rhythm for the concert of birdsong. The climbing roses were just coming into bloom, and even the gray walls of the House of Healing seemed more cheerful as a backdrop for their splendor.

On his back, Andry could feel the warmth of the sun. Even his hip only gave an occasional twinge. He found himself thinking about the farm and shook his head, remembering how he had complained about the labor in those long-ago days when he had been young and whole and had never known pain.

A footstep grated on gravel and he turned, shovel swinging up like a sword. It was Deira. As their eyes met, he felt the blood run hot beneath his skin. He lowered the shovel and reached for the internal defenses he had dropped, seduced by the beauty of the day.

“I came to deliver bandages to the Houses of Healing,” she said quickly. “I collect rags in the city and wash and cut them into useful sizes. The Healers go through bandages so fast, and of course some of the dressings have to be burned, so they can always use more . . .”

Andry cleared his throat. “You wanted plants for dyeing? What do you need?”

“I can get three colors from that lilac bush alone. The bark from sticks and branches give a nice beige, from the leaves comes a bright yellow-green, and when the flowers reach their peak they give the soft green the Healer Trainees wear.”

“I . . . did not know,” said Andry. “There was no time for flowers on our farm.”

“Where did you live?” she asked.

“My farm . . . was . . . in the south, in the Jay Song Hills. The barley there will be well up by now.” Instead of the carefully tended beds before him, he saw the wind stroking across a ripening field.

He was beginning to feel too comfortable with this woman. He bent and scrubbed the soil off the shovel blade with a handful of weeds. Resting it on his shoulder, he led the way past a hedge of rosemary and down another path. Here there were more roses, their scent heavy in the warm air. Deira stopped in front of a bush whose long-stemmed blossoms transmuted deep pink into glowing gold.

“They tell me this rose was a favorite of the late queen—” said Andry. “It’s a tradition not to cut the blooms.”

Beyond the rose beds were stables for the horses belonging to the royal family, guests, and the Palace guards. Nearby stood a fenced oval where riders in pale gray were leaping and circling, transforming battle-movements into a deadly dance.

“They are beautiful . . .” said Deira. Together, they moved toward the fence.

Andry nodded, struck by the harmony of horse and rider. But, of course, these mounts were not horses. He had watched the guardsmen training here as well, and even the best horseman could not match the connection he sensed between the Trainees and their Companions. Andry had never ridden a trained warhorse, but his experience with riding-beasts had taught him though they might be prettier, they were not much brighter and rather less sensible than the nag that had pulled his plow. Horses, whatever their breed, were physically powerful but mentally limited and prone to hysteria when faced with things they did not understand.

The class came to an end, and as the others headed for the Companions’ stable, one of the riders trotted toward the fence. It was Bekka. Mounted, she seemed more mature. He felt he was glimpsing what she would look like when she was grown, and he felt a pang of grief for his slain daughter, forever a child in his memory.

“Mistress Deira, Master Andry! Weren’t we splendid?” Bells chimed as the Companion shook her head, and Bekka added quickly, “Oh, sorry—let me introduce Saradel—”

Deira dipped a curtsy, but Andry was struck silent as the Companion turned her head to look at him. Gazing into those cerulean eyes, he felt as though the Companion could see into his soul. What must it be like, he wondered, to have one’s spirit amplified by that kind of connection?

“She says you can bring her rose petals the next time you cut some.” Bekka grinned.

The Companion lowered her head, and Deira reached out to stroke the soft nose, tentative as if she were touching a butterfly.

“Rub where the hair grows in a whorl on her brow,” said Andry. Bekka looked at him as if surprised that he should know that, but Saradel whuffed in satisfaction and pushed against Deira’s hand. “You and Saradel looked very fine out there,” he said.

Bekka grinned. “I’ve worked for it. I’m not a natural rider, but I can stay on.”

“Did Saradel teach you?” Deira asked.

“Oh, some of the Companions need work too. These motions are all things that horse-shaped beings can do, but they have to learn how to use them.”

“I’ve seen that when I watch the foals playing in the field,” said Andry.

“Companions have to grow up just like we do, though some do it faster than others,” Bekka went on, “except for the Grove-born, and the only one of those we have now is Tavers, who is Companion to the Herald who is the King’s Own.” She paused, as if listening. “There’s still a lot we don’t understand. Companions don’t Choose until they are ten years old or more. They contain so much . . . I think they need time to integrate all their wisdom.” She sighed and patted the mare’s neck. “But you were never a foolish filly, were you? You were born wise.”

Saradel snorted, and Bekka leaned over her neck to give her a hug.

“That can be true of humans as well,” said Andry, remembering how he had watched his children. In those days, he had known how to laugh. “It can take a lifetime to understand what we truly are and what we can do.”

Saradel’s ears flicked forward, and once more Andry had that sense that he was being judged. The mind of his old plowhorse had been like a turgid ditch. Looking into the eyes of a Companion was like watching the flicker of light on a dancing stream.

“We must go now, or I’ll be late to my next class.” Without any visible signal from her rider, the Companion pivoted. Bekka waved as they trotted away.

“They almost persuade me that there is still hope in the world,” said Andry, turning back down the path.

“Why do you question it?” Deira hurried to catch up with him. “What happened to you?”

“Nothing!” he exclaimed. As if that moment with the Companion had unlocked some door, he was overwhelmed by memories. “This—” he slapped his lame leg, then traced the scar that ran from one eyebrow to his chin. “This is nothing! This—” He laid his hand on his heart. “—will never heal. They came—Tedrels . . . brigands . . . animals all the same . . . But no, animals have a reason for what they do, and this was mindless torment and butchery. They came, and I lost everything that gave my life meaning. My family needed me, and I was not there!”

He struck out at the shadow shapes that memory painted before him, and his palm smacked hard against a young linden tree. For a moment he stood still, feeling the trunk vibrate beneath his hand. Carefully, he let go, offering the tree a wordless apology.

“You told me that some of your dyes come from vegetables . . .” he said curtly. “The kitchen gardens don’t have enough to spare, but next week, if you wish, I can take you to the Home Farm.”

• • •

He is running, feet drumming a joyful thunder as they strike the ground. He exults in the free play of muscle, the way the wind whips back his hair . . . exults in freedom, knowing his power . . . then he slows, defeated, because there is so much need, and nothing he can do. . . .

Andry knows that compulsion to do something only too well. And then, somehow, the dream shifts and he is holding Deira, his frustration at last finding a release in her arms.

Birds were singing . . . Andry realized that he was hearing them with his physical ears. The bed creaked as he turned over. It was his own bed, and he was alone.

Roses . . . he thought as the dream began to fade. I should give her roses.

• • •

“Did you hear?” From the ripple of voices, one sounded clear.

Andry tossed another weed on the pile as a quartet of young Bards laden with instrument cases and notebooks came down the path.

“Saren’s back from the festival at Kettlesmith, and this morning Ariana found three roses on her windowsill!”

Andry turned back to his work, hiding a smile. Apparently he was not the only one thinking about roses.

“That’s good, then,” said someone.

“Not really—Saren swears he’s not the one who put them there.” The babble of speculation was still going strong as they opened the door to the Hall and trooped inside.

Andry’s amusement lasted until he reached the Queen’s Garden, where the angle of the sun through the trees set all the bushes aglow—all except for the golden rose, where three short stems stood where yesterday three glorious flowers had bloomed.

The stems had been cut at an angle, a little ragged, as if severed by a dull knife, not a pruning tool. He flushed with what he told himself was an irrational fury. Who would have done this? There was no warning sign, but the corner was fenced and set apart. That should have been enough to make people leave it alone. Nothing else had been damaged. The graveled path showed no marks, but there in the bed—clear in the morning sunlight he saw the curve of an elegant hoof imprinted in the soft ground!

The thief must be some highborn, thought Andry, who had needed his horse to reach the Herald Trainee’s window. He stifled his anger. If this was another prank, it was at least a benign one. Better this, he thought, than some Karsite sabotage.

The city was full of rumors. As he was eating his dinner two nights ago, a detachment of Palace guards had knocked on his door. Had he seen any strangers on the grounds, they asked, clearly not understanding why he did not take his meals in the Servants’ Hall. Andry had bristled, wondering whether he was suspected, but it was a reasonable question. From here he could see things that were not visible from the Halls.

When he had assured them that the only activity he’d seen was the Companions running in the field, they let him be. Surely by this time they were accustomed to dealing with men a little crazed by what they had seen in the wars. There was no need to explain that he ate alone because the only living things that needed him were the flowers.

• • •

The sun was already setting when Andry drove the wagon into the courtyard behind the Palace kitchens, its last light glowing on the old stones and flashing gold from the windows of the Halls. As he handed Deira down from the drivers’ bench, people swarmed out from the kitchens and began to unload his cargo. He smiled, listening to her arrange for a share of the spinach and beets to be delivered to her workshop. Soon the white strands that ran through her weavings would be joined by threads dyed Bardic red and Healer green.

It had been a good day—perhaps the best day since an army wagon had brought him to Haven, half-dead from loss of blood and half-crazed with grief for his family. Courage surged within.

He turned to Deira. “Will you eat with me?”

“In the Servants’ Hall?”

“Too noisy—but they let me take a share of whatever they’re cooking if I promise to bring the dishes back again.”

Soon they were on their way out through the gardens, carrying little pots of sliced pork and buttered barley and early vegetables packed in baskets lined with straw to keep them warm. The kitchen helpers had even included a bottle of wine. He had not missed the nods and whispers. They were wishing him luck, but he drew back from imagining how this evening might end. He and Deira had become friends, and if there were never more than that between them, this was still a gift that he could not have imagined a month ago.

• • •

“What was it like—your farm?” Deira’s voice seemed distilled from the shadows. She had been complaining about the noise in the city and the frustration of dealing with the rich but demanding highborn clients who bought her weavings, but for some time they had been still. Light from the lantern smoothed the curves of breast and thigh and restored her hair to its former gold.

Andry smiled. “Denorsdale is all rocky hillsides, not like this rich land, but it can be beautiful. And I could speak to every stone and tree.”

The evening was mild, and he had laid out their feast on a plank table beneath the oak tree. There was only one bench for seating, and he was acutely aware of the warmth of the woman at his side.

“Have you ever thought of going back?”

“Often. Especially when the earth begins to waken in the spring. To serve the land, to feed the folk, those things fed my soul. I was needed there. But there would be no point while we are still at war,” Andry said bitterly, and then, more softly, “There would be no point, alone.”

Before them, the rolling meadow and scattered trees of the Companions’ Field lay serene beneath the fading sky. In its center, the Grove and the top of the Bell Tower could just be seen. Only a few pale shapes still moved across the grass. Most of the Companions had sought the comfort of their own stable or bedded down beneath their favorite trees.

“Do you ever think of returning to Evenleigh?” he asked then.

“My daughter’s life is here,” she answered him. “There would be no point in going back . . . alone.”

In the windows of the Halls and the Palace, lights still showed, and from time to time, a shift in the light breeze would carry a burst of laughter or song out to them. Somehow, those hints of distant revelry intensified their privacy.

“But her life is not yours.” He turned to her. Surely she must hear his heartbeat. It pounded in his ears like a drum. The shell that had surrounded him was cracking as all his barriers came down. “When the war is over, come with me,” he whispered, “and we will make a life together. A life that is new . . .”

Their first kiss was clumsy, but his dream had been prophetic. Deira did fit into his arms.

• • •

Andry jerked awake at the sound of thunder, but the noise kept on . . . it was not a storm. Alarm shocked through his veins. That was the sound of horses, many horses, coming at speed. . . .

Raiders! He rolled out of the bed and grabbed for his sword, but there was no weapon there. As the sound faded, he forced himself to stand, to breathe, till the world came into focus once more.

This was not his home . . . it was not an army camp. This was his hut on the Palace grounds in Haven. The woman in his bed was Deira.

Memories of their loving warred with flashbacks of surprise attacks on the frontier. The frantic neighing he had heard came from horses. A Companion’s neigh was like a trumpet call. What were ordinary horses doing in the Companions’ Field?

The storm of hoofbeats grew loud again. He pulled on his trousers. Through the window he glimpsed a third quarter moon sinking behind the trees. From the scent in the air it was that still hour before dawn, but there was no stillness here. He flung open the door, Deira, still tugging down her shift, close behind.

A blur of motion swept toward them—riderless horses, their hides leached by the pallid light to shades of gray, horses of every color, and one white shape that flashed among them. Whether it was caught in the stampede or directing it he could not say. Every horse on the Palace grounds must be here! And now he could hear men shouting.

The stampede swirled around the Grove and back again, heading downhill. A sudden glitter of torches challenged the mishappen moon. These beasts were in the grip of full equine hysteria, and flames would not help them calm.

Waving his arms and shouting, Andry leaped down the steps and began to run.

“Where are you going?” Deira cried. “They’ll trample you!”

“Have to turn ’em! There’s a gully beyond those trees.”

The horses had lost whatever sense they ever had. From ahead came a crackle of branches, and then the gut-wrenching shriek he’d heard too many times in a fight when a horse went down.

The thunder of hooves was joined by a chiming ripple of sound as one white shape after another flashed by. One or two horses spun off in other directions, but a dozen Companions were driving the rest in a tightening circle. As the animals came to a plunging halt Andry scrambled aside. Torchlight flickered on lathered flanks and wild eyes.

Andry waited, feeling his heartbeat slow. “So . . . so . . . Let it go. . . . ” he whispered, reaching out with his spirit to calm them as he had soothed his own animals long ago.

“There he is!” shouted someone. A gaggle of guards and stable hands surged toward him. “There’s the one who opened all the doors and let the horses go!”

“Quiet, or you’ll spook—” Andry began. Hard hands closed on his arms. Before he could think about resisting, they had him fast.

A stocky, gray-bearded man in the blue of the City Guard stumped forward. “’Tis a strange time of night to be out wandering—” He tapped his baton against his hand. “And a strange place to find a half-naked man.”

Andry jerked his head toward the hut. “That is my home—”

“A likely story—”

“Let him go!” Deira strode forward like an avenging goddess. “Andry Denorsdale had better things to do than stealing horses. He spent last night with me!”

Someone smacked their lips appreciatively, but the tension began to ease. Behind her Andry glimpsed white uniforms. Heralds, at last! He saw Alberich heading toward the gully while Elcarth and Talamir strode into the circle of light.

“He has permission to live there,” said Elcarth.

“And Tavers is telling me to release him,” said Talamir. “For the culprit we must seek elsewhere.” He sighed.

Two Companions were pacing forward, a third trapped between them, smaller and mud-streaked, with a shaggy mane and matted tale. Andry’s captors let go.

Elcarth was staring. “It is not possible that a Companion could do such thing!”

“Even an ordinary horse can undo knots and open latches.” Talamir sighed. “If all he has is youthful memories, a young Companion might be unwise. Remember how Jasker threatened Alberich not so long ago . . .”

More Companions completed the circle, and the first two released their captive, who stood stiff-legged and trembling. Blue eyes, rolling wildly as he stared around him, found Andry’s.

The world stopped.

:I know you!.

There was no reality but those eyes . . .

Andry took a step forward. This was the Companion who had shared his dreams. With every moment the link between them was growing stronger, doors in his mind opening, empty places in his heart being filled.

:Lochren . . . The name was in his heart. That name had always been there.

:Chosen!

Andry took the last few steps and Lochren bowed his head and Andrey held him. For a long moment they were still.

:I thought I would never find you! Others found their Chosen and went off to fight, and I was still useless, still alone.

Andry’s grip tightened. A part of him was still shaken by the glory he had glimpsed when he looked into Lochren’s eyes, but another part remembered how he had comforted his own son when some grand plan failed.

:I did not know how much I needed to be found,: he replied.

:I just wanted to help them,: Lochren’s mind-voice was a wail. :The chickens and the horses . . . they wanted to be free . . . :

:But what use is freedom if they have not the wisdom to use it?: another mind broke in.

Andry opened his eyes. Day was coming. The torches burned pale in the growing light.

He saw Herald Talamir approaching, Tavers by his side.

“Harm was not meant, but damage has been done . . .” the Herald said. “Your other pranks did no lasting damage, Lochren, but a horse belonging to one of the Haldorn Healers has been injured.”

“The horse dead is.” Heads turned as Herald Alberich returned. “But no compensation should we pay. On the shoulder, marked it is with a Karsite brand.”

“An’ when we were lookin’ for clues about the horses,” piped up one of the stable boys, “we found swords ’n armor in those so-called ‘Healers’’ boxes of gear.”

“Let this be the one trick for which Lochren is remembered,” said Elcarth with a sudden smile. “We gain a new Trainee for our Collegium, and a conspiracy is foiled!”

Lochren, who had ceased to tremble, stood warm and solid against Andry’s shoulder. Just now he needed the support. His soul had been wrenched open, his barriers were gone, and he was picking up a mix of emotions—amazement, triumph—and a tangled swirl of loss and love.

Deira was making her way through the crowd, on her cheeks the shining track of tears. Their eyes met, and Andry felt the same moisture blur his own. He could hope they might still be lovers, but their dream of settling down on his farm was done.

“My first lover was a Herald,” she said softly. “He had to leave me too, but he gave me a child.”

“What can I give you?” Andry’s voice cracked. Without that night of love to banish the last of his defenses, could he have opened himself to the link with Lochren?

“You must always go where the need is . . . You are my gift to Valdemar.”

Companion’s Lesson

Brenda Cooper

Herald Marjom walked unhappily beside Herald Witman through Haven. Bright yellow daffodils and multicolored crocuses edged drives and doorways. These contrasted with the lathered horses, weary smiths, and messenger boys and girls rushing to and fro with news and preparations for the war with Ancar.

Marjom felt as trapped as a daffodil stuck in a pot. Even though Haven was beginning to grate less on her senses, her heart still missed the border and the leading edge of danger.

In the month since they’d both been forced into retirement by Talia, Witman and she had taught the Herald Trainees who were about to graduate for a few hours each day. The pair habitually strolled together and reviewed each day’s work. Today’s class had been a near-complete failure.

Breaking the long silence between them, she started with a meager positive. “Candry and Poll both noticed the ambush we set up for them.”

“Lilibeth would have been killed,” Witman countered. The creases time had etched into his forehead deepened.

Witman was shorter than Marjom, and at seventy, just a few years older. He walked slightly slower than she, but since both her feet hurt this afternoon, she didn’t mind. Much. “Maybe Lilibeth will do better now that she’s had a hard lesson,” she offered. “I think you frightened her when you jumped out of the hedge.”

He glanced at her, a flicker of amusement in his bright blue eyes. “It was kind of fun.”

Really? “I don’t think she thought so.”

“Maybe not. But I want to keep them alive.”

“I know.” She let her voice trail off, her thoughts lost in the problem. The war with Ancar had already started for those at the border. Marjom herself had fought in three early skirmishes. Most of the younger, stronger Heralds had already been sent to the front. Soon, only the older teachers like her and Witman, Debda, and limping Josten would be left. The Trainees’ Companions were helping where they could, but some of the youngsters didn’t have clear Mindspeech. . . .

Herald Witman broke into her thoughts. “There is a problem.”

She laughed. “A problem? Which one?”

He steered them to a bench in a little park surrounded by spring flowers between two merchant houses. “They are . . . too serious,” he said carefully, as if feeling his way through his own thoughts. “Too frightened.”

She settled down beside him. He had told her more than once that she was too serious. Some of the daffodils planted by the bench had faded to papery brown and pale yellow, but a few still held the bright sunshine color she associated with hope. “What do you mean?”

“Well, how do you think the students felt today?”

She leaned back and crossed her feet. “Tense.”

“How tense?”

“Well, everyone giggled when you frightened Lilibeth.” She turned what she hoped was a gently disapproving look toward him. “But it wasn’t funny.”

His hands twisted together in his lap. “It wasn’t. And?”

“And they’re so jumpy they’re making mistakes,” she continued. “Candry could leave next week, but if she were to arrive at the front in the mood she’s in now, she’d drive the seasoned Heralds crazy with her constant monologues.” Her voice hardened. “They’d never have a chance to give her any advice. She might get herself or one of them killed.”

“A little good humor might help take the edge off their fear.”

She bit her lip to keep from snapping at him. What did he know about fear? He’d never been at the front. Despite their differences, she liked him enough she didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

Hannra, Marjom’s Companion, Mindspoke to her. :Listen to him, sweet one. He has the right of it.:

Really? Laugh your way to a fight?

:Patience.: Hannra paused. :Give him a little credit. You just said your charges are too tense.:

Her charges? She took in a deep breath, realized how well the description fit. Maybe she was too serious. :So what can we do about it?: she sent back.

:I’ll confer with the others. We’ll see if we can help.:

:Thanks.: She turned her attention back to Witman. “What do you suggest?”

He watched her as if she might bite him. “I think we need to lighten the mood.”

Lighten the mood? Ancar was breathing down Valdemar’s neck, and just yesterday the Death Bell had tolled twice! They’d lost two Heralds at the border.

One of whom she had fought beside just a few months ago. She swallowed. Jules. He had made her laugh, and she could still remember the dark snap of his eyes and the funny turn his mouth made. Jules had loved lotions, and he often smelled of sage or comfrey. Their students were less prepared than Jules had been.

Witman tended to tease her when she offered sour thoughts, so she held her fears in. “What do you suggest?”

He reached over and took her hand, the touch both unexpected and light. “We should make them laugh,” he said gently.

Marjom tried not to snatch her hand back from under his, but after a few breaths she pulled away, despite her intentions. She wasn’t accustomed to touch. She had ridden with a lot of Heralds in the last few years, but she hadn’t been more than casual friends with any of them. Any deeper connection carried too many complications. Her voice came out sharper than she intended. “I’m not good at telling jokes. Or pulling pranks.”

Witman spoke softly. “You’re a good teacher. Maybe a great one. The young girls, in particular, look up to you. But you are also always serious, and I wonder if we shouldn’t be teaching them to laugh sometimes, if only to release anxiety? If they show up as tense as bowstrings, they’ll get plucked.”

A nervous laugh escaped her dry lips. The conversation and, frankly, the touch of his hand on hers, had left her as tense as a bowstring. He didn’t deserve her baggage, her worries. She braced herself, then reached for him, took his hand, and squeezed it. She released it quickly—she hadn’t held hands with anyone in twenty years—but it felt right to offer him at least a small physical touch.

She stood, quickly. “We should get back.” As she turned, she saw a slight hurt fade from his face as he forced a smile. Did he want to stay here? To keep her hand? To her relief, he stood as well, leading them toward Heritage Hall, where they shared quarters with the other older Heralds in Haven.

Hannra’s voice sounded in her head. :You know, you could do with a little lightening up too.:

:It’s not like you’re all sunshine and laughter either!:

:Being home is reminding me that maybe I should let go and kick up my heels.:

:You’ve never treated Haven like home!:

:I’m home wherever you are. But Companion’s Field will always be a place that feels like a home.:

Marjom hesitated, torn between saying something sweet and offering a snarky response. She finally just sent: :Have a good night, Hannra. I’m going to eat dinner and go to bed.:

Silence. She supposed she sounded stiff. But even though she was getting used to it here, she’d rather be fighting. The knife edge of focus and the rock of strength were fading away from her in all this comfort.

Hannra had one more thought to add. :I can recall you singing after more than one battle. Particularly when you were younger.:

Marjom thinned her lips.

• • •

Marjom took her usual place in the crowd of older Heralds gathered around the oak dinner table at Heritage Hall. The oldest of them, Chalena, was somewhere north of eighty. It was her iron will that kept them all eating together each night, the one who had forced this exile from their old responsibilities into something almost bearable.

Witman sat across from Marjom and down, talking animatedly about ideas for pranking the students. When the idea that, “We could hang bowls of colored paper above doorways to fall on student’s head when they walk through,” fell flat, he suggested, “Pillow fights.” While she felt proud of Witman for trying to fix what he saw as a problem, she kept shifting in her seat and biting her tongue. She didn’t want to poke fun at the students. There must be some other way.

She left the table to refill her glass and passed on a few thoughts to Hannra: :Witman’s looking for pranks, but I think they’re too silly.:

:Are they?: Hannra sounded genuinely interested.

:They sound like tricks you would play on children. But we should treat them like adults. But we do need to help them lose fear.: She sighed. :And me . . . I guess I need to lighten up, too.: She let out a long sigh. :What would you do, if you were me?:

They talked a little more, and before she returned to the table, Hannra got her to laugh not once but twice.

• • •

After dinner, Marjom found Witman in the common room. “Come with me. Hannra suggested we go talk to the Companions in person tonight.”

He raised a wrinkled eyebrow. “It’s nearly dark!”

She smiled. “Not for almost an hour. We’ll have to walk back in the dark, but we know the way.”

He retrieved his hat and boots. She stood beside him, tying her leather laces, and admired how neatly he kept his things. Field Heralds did that. He’d ridden Circuit, going from town to town, keeping peace, solving petty but crucial grievances, maybe even capturing or killing bandits. But he hadn’t been in any battles with outside enemies intent on destroying Valdemar itself. Did he really understand war?

Outside, the slightly cool air smelled of blooming trees. She asked, “How did you stay calm when you were scared in the field?”

“Well,” he admitted, “I wasn’t frightened often. On the road between towns, like of bandits. But I counted on Juniper to get me away. And I have a little Foresight. Not enough to tell what will happen, but I know if there is danger nearby.”

“Foresight must be handy.”

He grinned, the golden light of sunset making his white hair briefly orange. For a moment, she could see the boy he’d been half a century ago. “For example, I know when a girl likes me.”

“I’m not a girl.”

“But you like me.”

Her cheeks flushed hot. “I do. But does your Foresight tell you I’m nervous of relationships?”

“Your reactions do. You leaped away from my hand yesterday like it was on fire.”

The heat in her face increased. “I didn’t!”

He laughed.

She shook her head, trying to bring the conversation back where it belonged. “I don’t have any Foresight,” she said. “But I have a lot of experience in fights. I’ve been in real skirmishes thirty times. Or maybe thirty-one.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You counted?”

“There’s not a lot to do out on patrol. We kept tally. But that’s not the point. What I did was to sing. When I needed to relax.” She smiled at a memory of a night she’d been hiding just a few feet away from an enemy camp, trying to listen for clues to their plans. “Just in my head if I needed to be quiet. Sometimes, when I could, I moved. At night, especially when alone, I danced.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Dance with me sometime?”

“When there’s danger.” It almost sounded like she was flirting back with him. She roughened her tone. “Dancing kept me limber enough to swing a sword. That’s why I’m still strong.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice. “I could still be out there fighting.”

The rest of the walk resolved into a vaguely tense silence. She had been too abrupt again, too icy. She rubbed her tight arms against the cold, thinking maybe it would be warmer to walk hand in hand. But maybe he was going to have to take her the way she was. Or not.

• • •

Ten minutes later, they arrived at the edge of Companion’s Field farthest from the Grove. Hannra waited for her there with Witman’s Juniper, who was quite tall for such a short Herald. Also, Candry’s Blackie and a few others Marjom recognized as belonging to students. With such a ridiculous amount of ceremony it had to be a jest, Hannra and Juniper knelt in front of their Heralds.

Amused and a little apprehensive, Marjom swung her leg over Hannra’s withers. As accustomed to a saddle as she was, it felt quite strange to be bareback. She had been before, of course, but not for years. Maybe she’d even been young the last time, like thirty or so?

As soon as Witman was also mounted, the two Companions began walking around the field, then trotting, then galloping. Not at full speed, but in a rocking, steady gait that felt as smooth as a summer river. The Companions’ heads and tails flew and the very last of the light turned their white coats pale gold and filled the shallow puddles left after the afternoon’s light rain with brighter golds.

Bareback like this, Marjom felt Hannra’s back muscles ripple and roll. Never mind the cold, never mind the war; this moment was so beautiful she had no choice but to live inside it.

As they circled the large field, she blended more and more with Hannra, her seat melding with Hannra’s gait even when the Companion turned. Riding bareback began to feel even more effortless than riding under saddle. She glanced behind her at Whitman and Juniper. Whitman’s face seemed to glow with ecstasy, and Juniper’s blue eyes looked bright and merry. Marjom fell into the rhythm of the ride, light on Hannra’s strong back, her mood brighter with each moment. Slight movements provided direction, although Hannra didn’t always take her suggestions. She and Hannra weren’tMindspeaking. They were conversing with their bodies.

Marjom felt as if she and Hannra floated over the field.

Just as the last of the sunlight gave way to starlight, the Companions slowed and pulled up back where they had originally met. It had been what? Twenty minutes? Not long, but Witman looked as relaxed and happy as she felt.

:There,: Hannra told her. :We both needed that!:

:Yes. Thank you. That helped. Immensely.: Hannra bowed so Marjom could climb off, and when she did, she rested a hand on Hannra’s warm withers for a long moment. :That was a true gift.:

:Bring the students here tomorrow morning. We will help. Together, will make them more ready.:

“Did you hear that?” she asked Witman.

He furrowed his brow, indicating he hadn’t heard Hannra. He was still breathing fast from the night run. Maybe he was listening to Juniper. After a while, he shook his head. “My Mindspeech was never all that reliable. Now it comes and goes, and more often than not it’s quiet inside my head. Or I can get the sense of what Juniper wants, but not hear exact words.” He hesitated. Grimaced. “I think it’s part of getting old.”

She felt a sudden ache for him. Her Mindspeech wasn’t going, but her knees were, and her feet hurt every morning when she got out of bed and any day she stood or walked a lot. “They want us to bring the class here tomorrow. They want to give the first lesson of the day.”

He shrugged and smiled. “Think we’ll run again? That will make them all happy.” His breath was still fast. He stopped, breathed out slowly, straightened. His eyes shone, as she was sure hers still did. “That was a fabulous idea. Did you know they were going to do that?”

She grinned. “Nope. But I . . . I asked for help. I’ve never really done that when we weren’t in a fight. At least not since I was a Trainee, and I asked for something frivolous, and Hannra schooled me.”

“I can’t imagine you ever being frivolous.” He stepped close to her, grabbed her shoulders, and stood on tiptoe to brush his lips across hers.

The kiss was light and papery, soft, comforting. She didn’t pull away or lean in, but she smiled as he pulled back to search her face for a reaction.

He must have been unsure about what he saw. He mumbled, “Sorry.”

“I’m not.” She smiled at him, but didn’t offer another kiss or touch.

He looked away, seemed about to say something, then merely nodded awkwardly.

She walked closer to him as they went back, enjoying the warmth of him and trying to share some of hers back. They didn’t talk about the evening. She suspected he felt—as she did—that magic had been shared with them. This was not the first time of course—that had been when she was Chosen. Hannra had walked sedately into her life as a dairy girl and taken her into a brand-new adventure. Everything about Marjom had changed forever in that first gaze between her and her Companion. Moments of intense bonding had come in battle, again and again, but never since her Choosing had she felt the depth and intensity she had felt tonight. At least, not for so long. A little extra joy filled her heart, thrilled her, and lightened her step.

• • •

The next morning, she and Witman breakfasted quietly. They didn’t talk about the night before. Perhaps he felt as touched as she did. It was so easy to forget the magic they shared with their Companions, to get lost in the everyday parts of life, and forget how thrice-damned lucky they were.

Neither mentioned his kiss, either. He seemed a little shy around her, but that could be anticipation or worry about the lesson. She felt both.

After the students finished math with a different instructor, she and Witman herded them toward Companion’s Field. Their charges looked more apprehensive than Witman. Candry and Lilibeth bounced and jittered. Lilibeth looking sideways at Witman regularly, like a spooky filly. Sampil, Hanry, and Tormond didn’t speak at all, even to each other.

They look . . . tormented, she thought. Not by her teaching, or even Witman’s slightly less typical methods. More likely by the Death Bells earlier this week and the knowledge the war was starting in earnest.

At the edge of the field, only Hannra waited for them. She bowed, encouraged Marjom to mount, and started off toward the center of the field. Marjom shook her head in wonder. :Why didn’t you bow every time I needed to mount? It would have been so much easier.:

:This morning, I did it for our audience.:

:Oh?:

:Well, to impress them with the solemnity of the moment,: Hannra said dryly. :And for you. After all, your feet hurt.:

Marjom burst out laughing and slapped playfully at her Companion’s proud, arching neck.

Hannra pranced slowly, Marjom seated casually on her bare back. The students walking in a line after them, Witman at the end. Hannra led them to a stand of trees. Not, Marjom noticed gratefully, for the Grove where the Death Bell stood.

Marjom cocked her head. Was that . . . a flute? A harp? Music began to pour out of the trees. Cocky, happy, dancing music. The kind of music she might expect in a slightly bawdy bar after the main meal had been served. As Hannra took her round into the trees, she found a whole band of Bardic students, and not a few full Bards—probably teachers—playing together and laughing.

Platters of food had been set out on tables garlanded with sprigs of bright pink cherry blossoms that must have come all the way from town. :You set all this up last night?: Marjom asked.

Hannra tossed her head: :We started as soon as you two pointed out the problem. Nothing like a party to get people to relax a bit. Hop down and get a plate of food.: Hannra bowed again, so she could slide off without hurting her feet.

Devilled quail eggs, tiny as the tip of her thumb. Small sausages baked in crisp bread pockets. Stewed apples from last-year’s crop. The music had her sashaying over to a tree, eating quickly, and tapping the toes of her leather boots in the morning-damp grass while the students ate and talked and exclaimed.

Hannra came up to her, bowed, and nickered as she Mindspoke: :Now, let’s dance! I want you to narrate my moves, and my reasons for them.:

:Okay. Shall I tell the Bards to stop?:

:No. They know the plan.:

She stood. The Bards stopped. “Gather round!” she called. “There is still a lesson this morning.”

The students looked surprised. Sampil and Hanry frowned, almost resentful. Witman quieted the high-strung Candry.

Hannra stood and pawed the ground with her right hoof. :Tell them attention.:

“Attention!” Marjom barked.

Hannra reared slightly, maybe five inches. :Danger.:

“Danger!”

The Companion backed three steps. :Danger to the rear.:

“Danger to the rear!”

Hannra swayed. :All is well. Relax.:

The Bards began to hit notes with each one.

Danger. All is well. Relax. Attention. Danger to the rear. Ten different command sets, ten different movements. Six were warnings, four reassurances.

:Get everyone else up,: Hannra instructed her.

Soon all of the Companions were moving with their Chosen, cycling through the ten commands three times in a row and them mixing it up, so they had to pay attention. Then the Companions added complimentary moves for the Chosen, and repeated.

A break. More food.

:Let’s dance again!: Hannra instructed Marjom.

They spent an hour moving through the lesson, a single Bard with a gittern playing the exact notes of each move, and two others improvising a melody behind the flatter notes.

Two hours later, the students were exhausted but laughing, and sweat shone on the Companions’ coats. Plates of sandwiches and trays of fruit and cookies arrived, as well as buckets of grain and sweet timothy hay. Everyone stopped to eat. Candry and Lilibeth smiled and chattered about the notes. The young men ate together, laughing.

Witman sat beside her. “They’ll remember this moment happily.”

“And the commands,” she mused.

“I wonder why the sounds, though?” Witman glanced toward the Bards. “They are a good memory tool, but it’s not like the Bards will be out on the front line.”

She laughed, enchanted with the cleverness of it. “They can give each other clues with the notes, in battle. If Candry, for example, is near Lilibeth, and she calls out the retreat tone, their enemies won’t understand it.”

“Won’t they learn the tones?”

Marjom shrugged. “Maybe. Eventually. In the meantime, I think it will be up to us to seat this lesson, really ingrain it in their memories. We can dance again tomorrow. In the classroom.”

Hannra made an approving sound in her head.

:Thank you.: Marjom replied, :This was brilliant. And we all needed a bit of a party.:

She turned to Witman. “We can make the practices fun. Invite a Bard Trainee or two.”

He nodded, and his hand stole over to hers. “I think that will work really well.”

She left her hand in his, content to watch the students help clean up from lunch. He felt warm and sweet next to her. She swallowed, and Hannra, again, made an approving sound in her head.

A Bouquet of Gifts, or The Culinary Adventures of Rork

Michele Lang

It all started with the moonberry scones.

The lovely, delicious, Sparrowtastic scones. Sometimes great magics start with the littlest things. Rork’s moonberry scones, they were just ordinary pastries, but they had their own special hertasi magic also imbued within them.

Rork had gotten the news that his best friend in the world, Sparrow, was returning to the Vale from a Bondbird, who heard it from a long-traveling crow, who heard it from a singing Bard in a tavern on the royal road from Haven.

The news leaped to his heart like a frog’s tongue to a fly. Delicious!

How he missed his best friend; it was a secret hurt he carried every day. Just the thought of her coming back filled Rork with the purest of delight.

It was a visit to the Vale in honor of her birthday, and Sparrow planned to stay in her little family ekele for at least a week. Being a hertasi in good health and standing, of course Rork’s first impulse was to bake his best friend a batch of her favorite scones.

It would be the very least he could do to welcome his dearest friend home once again. After all, the darling lady was immersed in helping other people, and her beloved heartmate Cloudbrother. And she was dedicated to her son Thistle, her delightful little man who was now at the training Collegium for the Heralds himself. Sparrow traveled the ups and downs of all of Valdemar and beyond, on a mission to help those who were helpers.

In fact, his dear sweet friend was very like unto a hertasi herself. Or at least, Sparrow possessed strong hertasi-like tendencies. This, despite the fact that of course no self-respecting hertasi would wander the length and breadth of the kingdom the way Sparrow did.

Still and all, she loved home as much as any hertasi tending their hearth before moonrise. So Rork wanted to celebrate her return in the hertasi way. With beauty, and comfort, and warmth, and brightness, and joy, and peace, and . . . and . . . and . . .

Scones. As a start.

Moonberry, her very favorite.

The very morning he heard the news, Rork visited her ekele (he of course had an open invitation) and tidied up the already clean and orderly space. And then without any further ado, he started baking an enormous triple batch, more than she could ever eat.

And while he considered her visit and, with his iridescently scaled, wiry arm, whipped the moonberries into the great bowl of batter . . . that gave him a marvelous, irresistible idea . . .

Why not celebrate Sparrow’s return with all the people who loved her? She never realized it, but she was adored, by the local guild of Healers, by the members of her heartmate’s adopted clan, by her son, by her heartmate’s Companion, everybody.

Well, maybe not everybody . . . there once had been some elemental demons and other fell creatures who would’ve hated Sparrow if they had survived long enough to learn her name.

How surprised she would be by the celebration. How delighted (maybe). Perhaps she would be secretly overwhelmed by all the attention, but her shyness would certainly wear off. Besides, Sparrow had most decidedly come out of her maternal shell in the years since she had little Thistle. Now that he was a Trainee, she was downright unleashed.

So Rork contemplated, as he whipped the batter under his strong, webbed fingers, wielding the mixing bowl and the wooden spoon. The mouthwatering scent of moonberries overwhelmed the tiny kitchen of Sparrow’s tiny ekele as the first batch baked up perfectly.

By the time the second batch was done, Rork had hatched his audacious plan. And as he gathered the extra scones into a clean dish towel and plopped them into a wide wicker basket, he knew where he would host the party.

Sparrow would want the ekele, of course. But too many people would come to toast the prodigal Mom, there must be a space of size. Instead of a hall or an ekele of meeting, Rork would ask the local Healers in the Vale if he could use their Healing Temple near the hot springs.

The guests could dine, dance, sing, and jump in the springs under the silvery moonlight. It would be unforgettable, magical!

The scones would entice them, the Healers, they had no chance. The scent of the moonberries would seduce them into his plan. Without Sparrow, there was nobody to serve tea and scones in bed. And it caused poor Rork actual pain to go without the baking of moonberry scones. Rork would share the relief, share the joy, and the Healers, masters of shifting energies and balance restoration, would embrace Rork, his scones, and his marvelous, celebratory scheme.

• • •

Not so fast.

When Rork arrived at the Temple, all was in an uncharacteristic frenzy. Rork, who had his own hertasi methods of maintaining his health and immense beauty, was not a frequent denizen of the Temple. He had no need of their Healing arts.

But he was sure a madly swinging chandelier and a little dyheli running around on fire was not in the usual healing mode of the place.

:What in the actual what?!: Rork expostulated into the mind of the baby dyheli.

:AIIII!!: was the only answer he received.

Before he could leap to the little one’s aid, a curtain of water shot from a bucket directly over Rork’s head, slaking the flames before they could do more than singe the little one’s lovely, dappled white hide.

Rork caught the thrust of the dyheli’s flight as he sank his blockhead forehead deep into Rork’s scaly belly. His armor protected him from any harm, but he, and his basket of scones, sailed high into the air.

Before he could land, a strong set of arms caught him midflight. The basket kept going.

“Hail, Sir Hertasi,” Melia said. She was the senior Healer attached to this gentle place, and her clear baritone vibrated healing and calm. “I see you are unharmed.”

“Why yes, dear Healer, yes, yes. I am not sure of my gift to you, alas.”

Their attention turned to the basket, which was rolling around the perimeter of the round ekele-Temple of Healing. And rolling. And rolling.

They watched the circumnavigation of the wicker basket in silence. Clearly, this was not normal scone basket behavior. It kept going, flying in the face of all reason and science.

It was mesmerizing. It was some strange, bizarre little magic.

Fortunately, Rork had securely tucked the scones in with the dish towel before he had set out for his mission. But the tucked in towel would not hold the scones in forever . . . perhaps the centripetal force would be enough.

The dyheli, soaking wet, shook his head clear and trotted out the entrance to the temple, snorting. :Farewell!: he sang out as he left. :I am fine, I will dry in the sun! Good day!:

Melia gently lowered Rork to the ground. “What kind of Healing Temple are you running here, my dear?” he asked, only half-joking. “You certainly healed the little one. But who lit him on fire in the first place?”

“It was an accident,” Melia replied, but her broad, good-natured crone’s face was wrinkled in thought. “It was a freak accident. But we have been having many of these lately.”

She sighed and shook her head. “But never mind the oddities of my day, Sir Hertasi. Welcome, and we are honored for your presence. How may I assist you this beautiful day?”

Rork took in the sight of the Chief Healer with a long, approving glance. She wore the Valdemar Healer’s Greens, but Melia had taken the time and loving attention to embroider them with intricate patterns of leaves, fruits, flowers, and Bondbirds, an unspoken love letter to the Vale.

How he loved humans who loved the world as much as he did, and who celebrated their love with large and small acts of beauty and kindness!

“Dear Melia,” he replied. “I have brought you a gift, rolling and rolling still, a basket of fresh-baked scones. A healing for the Healers, please enjoy them in bountiful good health.”

And Rork went on to explain that Sparrow, friend of Healers and Heralds like, was returning to the Vale for an extended visit.

Melia enthusiastically endorsed Rork’s plan. Then, she galloped the perimeter, chasing the runaway scones, which still eluded her grasp. Rork finally ran in the other direction and cornered the wicker basket as it rolled into his arms.

It stopped with another butt in his well-protected belly, the wicker quivering and warm. “Uncanny!” Rork murmured. “I don’t think the scones are affected by their wild ride, dear lady. But you may want to examine them with your Healing arts to make quite sure of them.”

Melia burst into a deep belly laugh. “No, I am sure they are fine. In the last few weeks, we have had a rash of odd, unpredictable, and downright amusing mishaps going on in this place. We cannot figure it out . . . nothing has come to harm, and we forget about each incident until the next one occurs. Shall you join us for tea? We can share this nice big basket with all the Healers and the assistants too.”

Rork was all too glad to fortify them, a delightful band of humans, dedicated to the idea of bringing balance and peace to the world. The large ekele vibrated with the aura of deep healing and restoration. Clearly, the shenanigans permeating the place were not malicious ones. But they were certainly mysterious, beyond the reach of a hertasi’s understanding.

Melia swooped the large basket up, the large handle resting on her formidable forearm as she led the way into the Healer’s private chambers, away from their patients in need of healing. A spacious room served as both lecture hall and lunchroom, and this was the place Rork had envisioned as large enough to hold everyone he intended to invite to Sparrow’s party.

Melia knew Sparrow from her training at Haven; their time at the Collegium had almost perfectly coincided, so she was as happy to hear of her return as Rork had been and gladly agreed to the hertasi’s plan.

The midday meal was still cooking when they swept through the hall into the semiattached kitchen area. Delicious things simmered in a half-dozen pots arrayed around a stove covered by an awning in the open air. Above their heads, heavy pink and purple flowers swayed as the afternoon heat rose languorously around them. The cooing and squawking of birds, brightly colored as the flowers, provided improvisational background music to the culinary process that was unfolding.

An apprentice Healer, assigned kitchen duty for that day, stirred the different pots with an assortment of short and long wooden spoons, so intent upon his task he didn’t notice Melia or Rork until they had come up directly behind him.

“Mr. Rork has brought dessert for tea,” Melia said, her voice low and gentle.

Despite this, the apprentice jumped, and a wooden spoon shot into the air like a dragonfly. He whirled, his eyes wide, his hair sticking out. “My bells and whistles!” he said, his voice shaking. “My nerves are worn to a frazzle . . . never mind me, Healer Melia. I’m not my best self.”

“Peace,” Melia replied, her eyes twinkling. “No fear, not here in the kitchen or anywhere else. Zan, you are set to a hair-trigger today.”

“I can hear the leaves growing today, the caterpillars climbing the trunk of the passionflower tree over there. I am so alive my nerves are on fire!”

Melia’s brow furrowed. “That sounds like too much of a good thing, Zan. Take a candlemark to restore yourself, my love, and I will complete the lunch. You took it nearly to the finish, I can just babysit it until it’s ready. Thank you.”

“Oh, no, I am sorry, Melia, I am really okay. I didn’t mean to complain!”

“Zan, now I am speaking as your chief. Something is going on here, something I need to figure out. Please, go lie in your quarters, in the dark if possible, and see if you start to feel better.”

Gratefully, Zan nodded, and slipped away. Rork watched him go, wondering at the deep strangeness of humans. They were so social . . . and yet, so limited in their ability to communicate with one another. So individualized, so out of touch. And so busy all the time!

As he often did, Rork gave thanks for being a hertasi while watching the antics of humans, especially his favorite ones.

“Please, join us for lunch, Sir Rork. We can plan for the celebration of Sparrow together.”

Watching the hapless Trainee had settled Rork’s mind. “No, thank you, dear Melia. This food for humans does not suit me well, excepting my scones, but of course. I am so appreciative of your hospitality and kind ways. Instead, I will go home to Sparrow’s kitchen now and plan her menu. Many different creatures will attend, and I will need to plan a menu all will enjoy. I am thrilled!”

Melia smiled, and another of her deep, satisfying laughs rumbled deep in her chest like happy thunder. “Let me send you an assistant, at least. That is a heap of cooking and planning for one person. We can help!”

“I don’t know . . .”

Before he could commit, Melia rang a little bell that she wore on a necklace chain. “Rose, dear.”

And quick as a whip, out of nowhere a little wiry girl appeared in the kitchen. It was as if she were a lizard that had scurried out from behind the outcropping of rocks near the back entrance to the ekele.

Rork loved this girl immediately. She had a wild, untamed energy to her that reminded him of lightning, of a rushing creek, of gusts of wind. Rose was a little lizard of a girl . . . so quick, so alert, quicksilver darting alive.

“Rose, are you a hertasi?” he asked.

The girl chuckled and shook her head no. “I’m just Rose,” she said, her voice surprisingly husky and low.

Melia reached her ample arms out to give the girl a big hug. “Listen to you!” she said, so lovingly Rork blinked his eyes to keep back a surge of emotion. She hugged the girl close and gazed over her head directly at Rork.

:She has been through a lot,: Melia said to Rork’s mind, the words blurry, almost incomprehensible. :She just came here. She usually doesn’t speak.:

Clearly, the Healer had sent her message with a great deal of effort and was not adept at the art of Mindspeech. It had been important to keep her message between the two of them, so as not to embarrass the child.

:That is my favorite kind of person,: Rork replied, his Mindspeech crisp and clear compared to Melia’s wavering blurriness. :I’m sure she will be a fine assistant. Thank you, Melia.:

“Rose, Rork here needs some help in his own kitchen. We are planning a big party for our friend, perhaps you could go back and assist him?” Melia’s voice was casual, almost too casual, just tossing off the idea.

Rose wiggled out of Melia’s arms, looked back and forth between Healer and hertasi. “No, nothing’s wrong,” Melia hastened to add, and she smoothed the girl’s tangled chestnut hair gently back out of her wild hazel eyes. “You are not in trouble, please don’t think so. Quite the opposite . . . Rork needs a good, strong helper. I’m picking you special.”

A low blush worked up from Rose’s bony chest up her throat and into her cheeks. Her lips curled in a small, perfect smile. Rose swallowed, nodded. And she reached her hand out to shake Rork’s own. He was careful to keep his sharp claws well out of the way of her little palm.

“Rose, let’s give you some lunch here, then I will tell you where to find Rork and you can meet him after.”

Rose didn’t let go of Rork’s clawed, scaly hand. Instead, she gently squeezed, and her smile broadened.

Rork didn’t want to let go, either. “Or how is this, I will get her some lunch at my headquarters,” he said. “I get the sense this child loves the quiet the same way I do. We will have a quiet time first, and then we will get started.”

Rose nodded, her eyes sparkling now. “Thank you,” she said, her voice scratchy and warm.

“It’s decided then,” Melia said. “You are doing a great good deed, Rose. The party is not for another day. You may stay with Rork if you prefer, or come back to the Temple at night when your work for the day is done.”

“I will stay,” Rose whispered.

The girl was a mystery. Rork loved mysteries, as long as they stayed that way and didn’t trouble him about his daily business. The world was full of these delightful, inexplicable beauties. Why did the flowers open in the morning, then close at night? Why was there a moon? Rork did not want to destroy the mystery by taking it apart. He enjoyed the not-knowing tremendously.

And now this lovely, shy, mysterious, little lizard girl was coming to stay. Rork would be happy to spend some time with her, and unlike the strange mayhem in the Healer’s Temple, their time together would be peaceful, uneventful, and entertaining.

That was his plan. But, oh, how wrong he was.

• • •

They traveled through the Vale in the heat of the midday. A large yellow and white tufted squirrel with blue eyes followed them as they went, swinging low, staring at them then running away into the looping vines overhead.

“Do you know him?” Rork asked.

Rose shook her head. So the squirrel was a stranger. But quite an attentive one. He disappeared for a while, as they followed the blue path east toward Sparrow and Cloudbrother’s ekele. But once they turned to the red path, going north, the squirrel reappeared.

He clambered down from the trees and stood directly in their path. Most unsquirrel like.

:May I help you?: Rork Spoke, his aura a touch droll.

:I LOVE YOU!: the squirrel shouted back, giving Rork an instant, gigantic headache.

Rork and the squirrel stood across from each other on the path, blinking at each other. It was as if Rork were looking into a squirrel-shaped mirror at a tiny, furry, very loud, and insistent version of himself. It was uncanny, unlike any experience in his life.

Rork shook his head impatiently. “I have important business to conduct, little furry one,” he said, knowing that in all likelihood the little fuzzball would not understand his common speech. “If you would like to join us, be my guest, but we have a busy couple of days ahead of us. Kindly step aside.”

The squirrel blinked, scratched his fuzzy little underarms, but didn’t budge.

With a sigh, Rork advanced upon the squirrel, Rose closely in tow, and gently they sidestepped the squirrel blocking the way. The girl paused as she drew up alongside, and with a careful pointer finger she traced down the squirrel’s tufted little back.

“Good day,” Rork said, a little nervously. He hoped the squirrel wasn’t ill.

The squirrel yawned, stretched, then started marching alongside them, imitating Rork’s bowlegged stride almost perfectly.

Rork’s headache deepened. “Oh, dear. Oh, little squirrel. If you must . . .”

His voice trailed off as he admitted the squirrel couldn’t understand him, and probably didn’t care to understand. Oh, well. He didn’t mean any harm, and certainly there was more important business afoot than an over-friendly rodent.

They drew close to Sparrow’s ekele, and Rork forced his mind to consider the menu for the impending festivities. He would need fish, a goodly haul of fish, and bread, and fresh fruit, and a nice roast, and sweetmeats, and . . .

A little sneeze interrupted his musings. It was Rose, scratching the head of the squirrel and smiling quietly to herself.

Her smile sparked a sudden surge of happiness inside Rork’s hertasi heart. “We must see to a little delight of something for your lunch,” he said, his spirits brimming with happy solicitude. “What could be more important than lunch, and a little visit?”

Rose nodded and smiled more broadly, and right at him. “Would you teach me how to cook?”

“Why, yes! And how to make it beautiful too, that is the most fun part.”

• • •

After a lovely lunch taken outside, Rork and Rose decided upon a short nap in the midday heat. Rork found a sunny spot to bask in, while Rose took a sleeping mat from the ekele into the shade. The squirrel, who had feasted upon grapes and moonberries at lunch, nestled into the crook of the little girl’s neck, and in a trice both had fallen fast asleep, the leaves casting dappled shadows over their peaceful faces.

Rork basked, his eyes half closed against the midday glare. And he considered this girl, this Rose growing in the shade near Sparrow’s ekele.

He considered her mystery.

And then he fell asleep.

• • •

An elaborate smashing sound called Rork out of his slumber. “Rose?” he mumbled, and snorted salt from his nostrils.

Rork cracked his eyes open. And awoke to minor chaos.

The sun had moved from high in the sky to hanging in the trees like a massive golden ball. A cacophony rose from the depths of the ekele in the wake of the crash. It sounded like a multispecies chorale combined with a cattle stampede.

With a groan, Roark stretched his spine in the stimulating heat, flicked his tail in the dirt until he came to full consciousness. He stood to his full height, flourished his pointed snout in the air like a trumpet, fanned out his dewlap, admired the shine of his scaled forearms.

He was Rork. He would indeed prevail. No matter what mayhem he was about to find.

Much restored by his sleep, he turned his attention to the interior of the ekele, though inwardly he braced for the scene that would match the commotion. After a few moments adjusting his eyesight to the relative darkness of the ekele, the setting within filled him with amazement.

Clearly, a lot of somebodies had started helping. “Helping.” They had started by decorating in the main living area, rearranging the comfy chairs and sofas into a massive pillow fort, feathers everywhere, pawprints all over the floor.

The pawprints and bird footprints were multicolored. Red, purple, white, green. Very pretty, until you remembered you were looking at your best friend’s living space, and not a patchwork quilt stitched together by wild beasts.

“Rose . . .” Rork called, his voice unsteady.

He followed the trail of creature prints from the living area into the kitchen set at the back of the ekele. And here he stopped, and could not help laughing. It was either that or scream and run away.

In addition to the squirrel, a gryphon, a baby dyheli (probably a different baby dyheli than the one on fire at the Temple, but Rork wasn’t sure), a murder of crows, and a couple of young humans had joined the party. While Rork had basked, and slept, the small army had gotten into Sparrow’s ekele kitchen and expanded on their “helping” project.

Pots and pans had been flung everywhere. The baby dyheli’s little nubs of twirling horns were decorated with long, limp strands of egg noodles, festooned with wild abandon all over his tufted dappled white hide and angled head. The crows flapped around the half-enclosed space, periodically whapping into the woven palm frond roof and squawking madly. Their feet were dyed with multicolored, vivid rainbow hues, and streaks of color streamed down their backs and over their wings.

Giggles from a small pack of children abruptly stopped when Rork cleared his throat.

“Rose?” his voice was conversational, casual even, but Rork’s nostrils flared and his head bobbed rapidly up and down, the movements of an aggravated male who was agitated and ready to fight.

A small stream of grubby, barefoot human children, the local young inhabitants of the Vale, slipped silently out of the kitchen enclosure and into the thick forest undergrowth obscuring the flagstone path leading to the black stone way.

One of them, a little blond boy Rork recognized, rubbed glittery streaks of some kind of liquid out of his eyes and onto the back of his hands.

“Sorry,” he mumbled under his breath as he sidled away.

Only Rose was left, her face furiously blushing as red as her flower namesake. The baby gryphon sat next to her, contentedly warbling to itself, completely oblivious to the widespread scene of destruction he reposed in.

The little squirrel had completely disappeared.

“What is going on here?” Rork asked.

Rose’s eyes widened into alarmed, lash-fringed circles.

“I-I don’t know,” she stammered in reply. “You went to sleep, and I woke up, and the squirrel and I decided to surprise you by getting started early. The squirrel got very busy, so did I, and somehow, all of a sudden, all of these . . . friends showed up to help.”

Slowly, very slowly, Rork closed his eyes. Took a deep, cleansing breath, cracked his knuckles and swished his tail.

He opened them again. Looked around.

And he just couldn’t help himself for one minute longer.

He burst out laughing, great belly laughs that he hadn’t felt to laugh since his best friend went away, to be a Great One doing Great Things in faraway, unknown, probably life-threateningly dangerous lands.

It was a huge relief. It was a gift.

“If Sparrow could only see you now, oh my goodness!” he finally spluttered, blinking tears out of his great amber eyes, wiping them with the back of his ornately clawed, slender hands.

“I’m sorry, truly, I’m so sorry!” Rose burst into tears. “Why am I such a troublemaker!”

That ended Rork’s flight of merriment dead in its tracks.

Despite his fearsome, toothy appearance, Rork had a huge soft spot for humans in emotional trouble; small, helpless humans the most of all. This little one misunderstood his outburst, and he suspected her tears had a deeper source than their current predicament.

Without a word, Rork drew the girl into his arms, hugged her gently. The murder of crows wheeled around them at high speed, sending dead leaves and spices into the air, whirling like a small dust devil as they funneled up and away.

:We’ll be back for the party!: they collectively Called into Rork’s mind. Crows reminded him of hertasi, in that they spoke in Hive as well as individually. Rork had but recently come to understand the vast majority of humans, even Mages, did not know how to do this themselves.

:We will bring gifts!:

He beamed at his multicolored, madcap visitation of corvids with delight. They, at least, understood the chaos Rose had helped to unleash was fine, because nobody had been hurt, and it was nothing an enterprising hertasi couldn’t set to rights again.

Rork watched them go, the top of the girl’s head tucked securely under his chin, draped in his soft dewlap. Her tears poured out, a tiny bubbling spring of sadness.

Once they were gone, and the gryphon squawked a friendly goodbye and set off as well, Rork drew her gently out. She sniffled and tried to stop crying, but failed.

“You are not a troublemaker, Rose,” he said, his voice soft. “You are a mystery. A magical one, and no mistake. But you do not mean to make trouble. Anybody with eyes in their head to see, can tell.”

“But trouble likes to . . . chase me.”

“Trouble likes to chase everybody. We all have a shadow, my dear, nobody can wish it away. And, honestly, who would like to lose such a constant companion? Trouble has the most to teach us, love. No fear. We will whip this festival of Sparrow into shape. And there will be a great celebration, a great bouquet of gifts. And you and I, we’ll be the chief givers.”

That seemed to do the trick. Rose sniffled, sneezed, and the tears dried up and faded away. Her eyes were puffy, but she was going to be all right.

“And another thing,” Rork said. “If ever you do face a shadow, a trouble, remember you never need to face it all alone. Your friends will help you, even if they are far away.” He thought of Sparrow and sighed fondly. “Your friends are always traveling with you, in your heart. And if you ask for help, you will always receive.”

A low hum interrupted him, and he smiled, Rork’s great, toothy, terrifying smile. “Exhibit A . . . my lovely, lovely Hive. They are here to help. Just like your friends the crows, and the squirrel, and the dyheli, and the gryphon, and the little boys and girls. I called to my clan in my delight and need this morning, and they have come.”

Suddenly, the glade in the Vale was filled with a veritable living gallery of hertasi. Sparrow would have gasped to see them . . . she had never seen so many in one place, and Rork would dare to say that very few humans in the Vale, or anyplace, had ever seen such an assemblage of hertasi appear together, in all of their glorious greatness.

There were his Burtle cousins from the far Purple Swamp. Murk and Burble from the Heartstone Rock crumble. The mighty-tongued Great Blue Skink from the Raven Clan’s great meeting house. And so many more.

Their collective voice sang in a great harmony in Rork’s mind, so perfectly that his forked tongue flickered with pure emotion.

:Dinner! Dinner! Lovely, lovely! Celebration!:

Rork had all the helpers he needed, they could clean and decorate Sparrow’s ekele, then source the food, cook it, plate it, and present it at the Healer’s Temple, in plenty of time for the Great Celebration to proceed.

Now he could relax. And so could Rose.

• • •

It was Sparrow herself who solved the mystery of Rose. Well, not solved, but set to rights, the mystery held securely in a prong like a gem set in a gleaming ring.

The banquet was magnificent, legendary. Acrobats, dancing crows, mischievous squirrels (their friend had brought some of his friends to crash the party), singing hertasi (nobody there had realized how beautifully they could sing, like tropical frogs), feats of Magery, japes and riddles, lots and lots of delicious Sparrow-inspired treats.

And moonlight swimming in the springs.

And at the end, during the party after the feast, Rork introduced his young assistant Rose to the guest of honor. Sparrow was charmed by the girl, of course. And Rork told the story of their culinary adventures, and Sparrow listened gravely, her lips only occasionally tickled with a smile.

“And it all came off perfectly,” Rork finished.

“I am still a troublemaker, but Rork says that’s a good thing,” Rose added helpfully.

Sparrow considered her, smoothed a runaway lock of hair back behind her rosy little shell of an ear. And then she laughed.

“It is indeed good, Rose. You are not beset by many troubles, don’t think of it that way, no. No you have a Gift. A veritable bouquet of Gifts, my girl. You came to the Healers by no accident. Mages have their magics, as do hertasi, as do crows.

“I see it clear,” Sparrow continued. “Your magic is to make the magic of others more. This is a rare and mysterious Gift, one I have never heard of before. Please, come back with me and Cloudbrother and his Companion Abilard to Haven . . . for you truly have a Gift. For Healing, or Magery, or something else, I am not sure. But it is a beautiful mystery. It is uncanny.”

Sparrow did not have to set the gem of Rose’s Gift any more than this, for there was a sudden hush in the merry company of the feast. Rork glanced at the wide-open entrance to the Temple.

There stood Abilard, Cloudbrother’s Companion.

Along with another, smaller Companion, with twinkling eyes and a lush, curling mane.

:Merry!: Abilard Spoke in introduction, clearly into Rork’s nimble mind.

:Welcome Noble Companions!: Rork replied. :I take it you seek a little Rose to adorn your mane, Merry? Look no farther.:

And Rose was Chosen, before all the gathered company. Now, the celebration was not just for Sparrow’s homecoming, but for Rose being Chosen, as well. At long last, Rose would begin the process of coming home to herself, as a Herald.

Not a bad conclusion to a hertasi’s triple batch of moonberry scones.

Of Ghosts and Stones and Snow

Phaedra Weldon

“A ghost . . . stole a necklace.”

“Yes.”

Herald Reyes nodded slowly, the sounds of the tavern softening to a dull roar. “A ghost.” The fire’s crackle and snap took center stage, the background becoming foreground.

Herald Viessa looked down at the table. “I knew this would sound silly.”

“No . . . no . . .” Reyes took a deep breath. He’d finished his bowl of rich stew before he and Viessa began this conversation. He thought of the garlic butter potatoes and the stew and wanted another helping. He moved his bowl and plate away and made them invisible. It was a simple trick, given his Gift of Illusion.

Viessa didn’t seem to notice, until the servant brought another bowl of stew and potatoes to him, apologizing for serving the young female Herald and neglecting his own serving.

That’s when Viessa noticed the first set of dishes were missing, and then they reappeared as the server vanished in the crowd.

Her eyes were the size of chicken eggs as she watched him dig into his fresh bowl with gusto. “Your Gift is Illusions.”

He swallowed and sipped his glass of water. “And yours is definitely not investigative work.”

She banged a delicate fist on the table, the sound and gesture barely registering to anyone except Reyes. Viessa’s short dark hair curled around her oval face. “Don’t make fun of me. This entire town is nuts! They literally believe the dead descendant of a founding father stole from his own wife!”

She was fierce, but that fierceness reminded him of a kitten showing its tiny teeth for the first time in an act of defiance. What he picked up from her, was her sincerity. No lie lurked in her mind, or in her heart.

:Eshenesra . . . do you sense any ghosts in this town?:

His Companion’s laugh echoed like bells in his mind. :I’m not sure what a ghost would feel like. But something feels . . . odd.:

:Odd?:

:It’s hard to describe . . . Hidden, perhaps?:

He sighed as he reached across the table to put his hand on Viessa’s fist. The gesture startled her. “Calm down. Your report . . . surprised me, that’s all. And after two years on Circuit, that is a rarity.” He removed his hand. “Now,” he continued between bites. “Are there any flesh and blood suspects?”

She shrugged. “Ah . . . well, the mayor accused the blacksmith’s son, and the blacksmith accused the mayor’s son.”

“Old rivalry?”

“Sir?”

“Because the two of them accused the other’s offspring, could there be history between the two fathers and not the children?”

“Mothers.”

Reyes blinked. “What?”

“They’re women. The mayor and the blacksmith are both women.” She smirked. “Looks like I surprised you again.”

“Yes, you did. But that was just my bias, I suppose.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You are not what I expected when I asked for help.”

“Is it because I’m not much older than you?”

“Well that was a surprise, given your reputation. It’s just that . . . to see your Gift is Illusion, and yet you root out deception . . .”

His brow arched into his forehead. “This is a problem?”

“Isn’t Illusion deception?”

Eshenesra snickered.

:Quiet you.: He sat back and wiped his mouth and his hands with a napkin. “This is why I do not use my Gift when I settle claims.”

She shrugged. “Why not?”

“Because it would be deceptive.”

A terrible roar sounded in the space between them, and Viessa’s eyes widened in panic. “I’ve never heard a stomach growl like that before.”

“It is one of my many gifts. It often frightens small children and sends animals fleeing.”

Again she stared at him, and then put her hand to her lips to stifle a laugh. “Please, eat, Herald Reyes—”

“Call me Reyes.”

“Reyes. And I’ll do my best to tell you what little I’ve learned.”

• • •

Little was the exact word for what she’d learned. Viessa had learned nothing more than what she said. The ghost in question was that of Bishop Warren, a descendant of the founding families of the town. He’d died less than a month ago, and the town had mourned his passing. He’d held no position of power in the town and had only stood as a figurehead. One of the two squares in the town held a statue of him. Fresh and dead flowers rested around the monument.

Reyes found it creepy.

He needed context because the idea of a town believing a ghost stole something material was . . . alarming. He made the decision to pay the widow a visit, though Viessa insisted the woman wouldn’t see them.

“She refused to talk to me.”

Before setting out, Reyes checked into the inn, unpacked his satchel, and hung up another set of Whites in the closet. When he stepped into the common area between his and Viessa’s rooms, he held up a finger. “Ready to use our five senses to get to the truth?”

“I’m not following. I thought all you needed to settle a dispute was a keen mind.”

“And clues, Viessa. Tells. People and their motives reveal themselves eventually, but sometimes I find it quicker to rely on my five senses to speed things along.”

“If you say so,” she said as she followed him out the door.

The widow’s house was down a path just outside of the town’s south entrance. The snow had ceased since his arrival in town, though the day remained overcast, and cold. It was an impressive home. To Reyes it was the size of many inns he’d visited during the past two years. Snow blanketed the shrubs and yard and clung to the window seals like rich cake icing. “So, where do you think the Warrens sit in social standing relevant to the town?”

“Sit where?”

“The Warrens have wealth,” he said, gesturing to the house. “Which means influence, and sometimes a bit of entitlement.” He knocked on the door.

The widow Warren invited them into a warm and cozy living area, fussing over Reyes as she looked up at him with large, expressive eyes. A tall, young, blond man came in carrying a tea service that gleamed against the flicker of a just stoked fire.

“This is Quill,” the widow said as he set the service on the table between the chairs and sofa. “He’s our local doctor. He owns the Apothecary.”

“Well, I inherited it from Bishop Warren,” he said and offered his hand to Viessa and then to Reyes. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“I’m Herald Reyes and this is—”

“Oh, we met,” Viessa said and beamed at Quill. “Would you like to join us?”

“Oh, no, thank you.” Quill bowed to everyone. “I have to get back to the shop.”

But Viessa grabbed his hand and said under her breath, but loud enough for Reyes to hear. “Please stay. I feel like that piece of carrot top that gets shoved to the side of the bowl.”

Quill agreed.

Once they were seated and tea was served, Reyes said, “I’d very much like to know if you have seen this ghost of your late husband.”

He could see Viessa cringe at his blunt question, but the widow’s answer was very matter of fact. “Well of course. Many people in town have seen Bishop. You’ve seen him, haven’t you, Quill?”

“I’m afraid not,” Quill answered.

“He’s waiting for me.”

“Waiting for you?” Reyes asked.

“To join him,” she clasped her hands together in her lap as she leaned into Reyes on the sofa. “But he knows I’m not ready to die just yet. I have many things I’d still like to do.” She smiled at him.

Viessa coughed, but Reyes caught the laugh buried inside. “That’s nice, widow Warren. But I am also curious as to the history behind the necklace? And did others know about it?”

“Well yes, everyone in town knew about it. Apparently, it was supposed to be a surprise for me.”

“How was it supposed to be a surprise?” Viessa asked. “You found it before he could give it to you?”

The widow Warren answered her, but never took her eyes from Reyes. “My love traveled so often. He brought home three beautiful sapphires. I found them hidden in the house and commissioned the jeweler to make me a beautiful necklace! I kept it in that box,” she pointed to the mantle above the fireplace, where a nice warm fire crackled and snapped. “I kept it there.”

“You didn’t tell him you found the sapphires?”

“Oh no!” She looked horrified. “And spoil the surprise?”

Reyes opened his mouth, then closed it. “M’lady,” he began and set his teacup on the table between the chairs. “If you took the stones from a hiding place, and then never told him you took them, then it might be that Bishop Warren believed he’d lost them . . . so he never spoke of them.” He watched her expression and saw enlightenment. A little, anyway. “How long after he arrived home did you find them?”

“Oh, I found them after he’d left on his last trip.”

Reyes glanced at Quill who gave a slight shake of his head. “When you say last trip—”

She looked at the fire. “The trip that killed him. Something spooked his horse along a treacherous road on the way and threw him into a ravine. The landing broke his neck.”

“And you are sure—” Viessa said.

“Oh, yes.” She looked at Viessa, as if seeing her for the first time. “We found the horse and his body. Two weeks passed between the trips . . . and I felt such guilt. I wore the necklace to his funeral, and I was the talk of the town. I endured such scathing looks from so many of the womenfolk that I came home that day and placed it in that box.”

Reyes looked up again at the silver box on the mantel. “And you found the box empty when?”

“Just a few days ago. I wanted to look at it when the one-month anniversary of his death came . . .” she trailed off into a sob. “But he’d taken it from me . . . oh, Herald Reyes,” she put her hands on his shoulder. “You must implore him to give it back to me, please. It is all I have left.”

Viessa looked around at the large house, and at the nice furnishings, and then looked at Reyes. “Too bad all he left her was a necklace,” she said under her breath.

Quill cleared his throat, disguising a laugh.

Reyes gave her a disapproving look and carefully removed the Widow’s hand from his shoulder. He stood and approached the fireplace. “May I look at the box?”

“Yes, please. I haven’t touched it since I found it empty.”

With as pleasant a smile as he could muster, given the weird circumstances, he nodded at Viessa, who stood and walked over to stand beside him.

“It’s very ornate,” she said. “What’s that on the bottom? That mark?”

Reyes glanced at the mark before he turned the box over again. Something felt wrong. He knew what silver should feel like when touched, and though the metal did have the vestigial heat from the fireplace below it, and it also had a very silky texture. Not like silver at all.

“Run your fingers over it,” he held the box out for Viessa.

She did as he suggested and she looked back up at him. “It’s smooth . . . like silk.”

He nodded to her hand and held out his own fingers. “You see the residue?” He rubbed them on the cuff of her Whites.

“Hey,” she protested, but together they studied the grayish smudge left behind. “What is that?”

“I don’t know.” He noted the lack of a lock on the box or the prongs for one before he opened it. Red velvet lined the interior. A shadow disturbed that bed of luxury and for a second, Reyes wasn’t sure what it was.

Until it unfurled its many legs and jumped on his hand.

He screamed as he dropped the box and flicked his wrist to remove the creature. He saw it jump onto the widow’s arm. She saw it and screamed even louder as she jumped up and ran around the house.

It took him and Viessa a few moments to catch her and calm her down. He convinced her to sit down and drink her tea while Viessa looked around for what he believed was a spider.

But she didn’t find it. She didn’t even find a carcass, in case it had been trampled by the widow’s stomping feet. That’s when he and Viessa realized Quill was gone. If the widow noticed, she didn’t say.

“It was him, I tell you!” She grabbed Reyes’ arm and yanked him down to her, where he nearly fell face first into her bosom, prevented only by Viessa grabbing his other arm and pulling him away. “He’s angry! He knows I stole it! He knows what I did and now he’s taken it and he’s toying with me! He knows how much I hate spiders!” She wrung her hands. “He needs to be put to rest . . . is it fire that cleanses?”

The woman was hysterical. Quill reappeared and quieted her down with a special brew of tea he just happened to have with him. Once she was in her bed and resting, Quill joined them in the living room.

“Thank you for staying,” Viessa said.

Reyes turned the box over and over and opened it. “I don’t see how such a thing could have survived inside this box. The seal is quite solid.”

“This prank was as mean spirited as the others. Widow Warren is quite afraid of spiders. Any spider,” Quill said.

“You think the spider was a prank? Is her seeing this ghost a prank?” Reyes looked at him as he placed the box back on the mantle.

“There are those in town who are jealous of her. Others believe she was responsible for Bishop’s death. As for the ghost . . . I believe she believes it,” he said, and crossed his arms. “I believe the town believes it.”

“Did you see the necklace at the funeral?”

“I didn’t attend. If you’ll excuse me, I really must get back to the shop. Nice to meet you, Herald Reyes,” he turned to go. Then, he half turned back to both of them. “Herald Reyes?”

Reyes turned. “Yes?”

“You plan on investigating this to its finish, I suppose? Discover who stole the alleged necklace?”

“If you mean I plan on exposing the truth, yes. I don’t believe in ghosts. If such a necklace existed, then a solid, living individual stole the necklace. My job is to discover who did it.”

Quill smiled tightly at that. “Good evening, Herald Reyes.”

Reyes and Viessa left through the front door. Snow fell lightly around them, quiet and beautiful under a monochromatic sky. They were a few feet from the front of the house when she looked up at him and spoke as they followed the path back to the square. “You don’t like him.”

“I don’t dislike or like him. I don’t know him.”

“So . . . where now?”

They entered the square with the figure of Bishop Warren in its center. Snow had begun accumulating on Warren’s shoulders and head. “What we learned from the Widow is that she had the stones by deception, and commissioned a necklace. The town allegedly saw the necklace at the funeral, and that is very important. Do you know why?”

“Nooooo . . .”

“Because seeing comes before wanting. You have to know a thing exists before you can develop the desire for it. We also learned someone with odd gray silt on their hands last handled that box. That is a clue.” He looked around. “Did you question the residents?”

“About what?”

“The necklace. The Warrens’ marriage. His death. Any number of things.”

She looked embarrassed. “No.”

“Then that is where now. And I think we should start at the Apothecary.”

“You just want to know more about Quill.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

He pursed his lips. “Because he feels . . . deceptive.” He motioned for her to follow.

• • •

The Apothecary was locked up tight, so they decided to try a few other places. Not many of the townspeople wanted to talk about the necklace or the ghost.

Reyes suggested they split up. As Viessa disappeared around a building, someone yelled out his title and name. He spotted a group of people standing near the statue of Bishop Warren. One of them waved to him and then pointed to a group of buildings on Reyes’ right. “We just saw the ghost go down there!”

He didn’t believe them. But he would make an effort to humor them in hopes they would speak with him. Reyes moved along the walkway in front of a bakery and a clothier.

“You better hurry! He’s running!”

Reyes half smiled at them as he turned the corner. He faced an alley, but he saw little detail as his feet went out from under him and he landed painfully on his right side. The ice beneath his boots had been hidden by snow, and once cleared by his fall, revealed old mud mixed from melted snow beneath. It splashed on his Whites, and some got on his face and in his hair.

The group laughed at him and the one who spoke yelled again. “Seems them Whites of yours ain’t as white as they should be. Need to leave things alone.”

“Andrea, Jason, Marc, Ronald!”

The little group scattered.

Reyes tried twice to stand and found his boots beneath him again. The ice wasn’t as easy to see in the shade of the building. A square-shouldered woman with an equally square, if not handsome face approached him. Curls framed her face, having escaped an otherwise severe ponytail. She held onto a nearby post, offered him her hand and hoisted him to his feet.

Looking down, he was pretty sure this pair of Whites was ruined. He knew his mood was.

“That’s the runoff from the masonry,” she said and pointed in toward the widow Warren’s home, and then up on the hill behind it. “It used to settle in the middle of town, until Bishop rerouted it to this alley.” She looked in the direction of the statue. “Those kids tricked you, knowing you’d slip and fall in it.”

Reyes heard her, but he was looking down at himself at the gray mud drying on his boots, pants, hands . . . everywhere.

Gray mud. Fine, soft, and somewhat viscous gray mud.

“By the way, on what authority do you have to question all these good people?” She was a bit loud, and a few townspeople stopped and looked at the two of them.

Reyes stared at her. As she brushed her hair back from her face, the glint from a blue stone caught his eyes. It was a ring on her left hand, a small polished sapphire set in silver on her middle finger. Something very delicate and incongruous with the rest of her appearance. “I am Herald Reyes, and I have been called in to speak for the Queen.”

“So?”

He didn’t bother wiping himself off. “And you are?”

She pointed to herself. “I’m Rose Jacks, blacksmith.”

Ahhh . . . Interesting. “Well, then. It is your son the mayor has accused of stealing the widow’s necklace.”

“My son stole nothing because there’s nothing to steal. That old woman is lying.”

“You mean there’s no actual necklace?” Reyes asked. “The widow Warren insisted everyone saw the necklace at her husband’s funeral.”

“Simmer down, Rose,” said a much calmer woman’s voice. A woman with striking red hair pulled away from her face approached on Reyes’ left. She wore a tunic and trousers and boots of leather. There also followed a smell . . . an acrid aroma that came with her. It made his eyes water.

“He’s just doing his job.”

“How dare you speak to me after accusing my son,” Rose said.

“And you accused mine.”

“You must be the mayor,” Reyes blinked rapidly as tears came to the outer corners of his eyes. He wanted to rub them, but didn’t dare with his hands caked in mud. “I’m Herald Reyes.”

“Lucy Danbury. And this is my son, Lucien Danbury.”

She introduced a pale skinned young man with a freckle-covered face and wiry red hair. He wore clothing similar to his mother’s, but his boots were caked with gray mud . . .

The same mud.

“Nice to meet you,” he said in an awkward huff and bow.

Lucy turned her attention back to Rose. “You know my Lucien wouldn’t steal anything.”

“Well, you don’t really believe Bishop’s back as a ghost and stealing necklaces, do you?” Rose said. She looked at Reyes and reached out a hand to his shoulder. “Herald . . . are you ill? Your eyes . . .”

He stepped away and nearly slid onto his arse again. “That smell . . . it’s burning my eyes and my throat . . .”

Rose snorted as she guided him to the post she’d used earlier as a support and he wrapped his hands around it. “It’s Lucy and that solvent they use at the masonry. We’re all accustomed to it.” She looked at Lucy. “Maybe you should go away so the Herald can actually see and breathe.”

“Ladies . . .” Reyes coughed a few times before a welcome breeze took the aroma away. “I’m fine, really. Please, call me Reyes.” He coughed again. “Neither of you believe in the ghost theory?”

“Or course not,” Rose said. “Annie Warren’s daft.”

“She claims to have seen him.”

“Aye, she claimed on the day of his funeral she saw him at the gravesite, and then at their home earlier that morning. Nothing new.”

“She wasn’t wearing this sapphire necklace she claims was stolen?” Reyes looked at each of them through tear-filled eyes. He desperately wanted to rub them but didn’t.

“No,” Rose said.

“Never,” Lucy said.

That’s when he saw the sparkle on the side of Lucy’s cheek. Their brilliance pierced the stinging veil of tears over his eyes and he realized she wore a pair of beautiful sapphire earrings. The stones were just as brilliant as the one in Rose’s ring.

He couldn’t help himself. “Your earrings are very similar to Miss Jacks’ ring. Did you purchase them from the same vendor? Or were they presents?”

To his surprise, the women looked at each other, turned, and walked away. Lucien shrugged and followed his mother.

And Reyes took a lingering look at himself.

“That went well,” Viessa said as she and Quill came up to him. “What happened? Those Whites are ruined. Oh no.” She put a hand on his upper arm. “Your eyes are red.”

Quill stepped close. “The solvent is making his eyes water. Is your throat sore? You might be somewhat allergic to it.”

He coughed. “Or I’m just not as acclimated to its smell as everyone here is.”

“Oh, that smell,” Viessa made a face. “I didn’t have that reaction.”

“Quill, I have a question for you.”

“Yes?” he said.

“Did Bishop Warren have a reputation for being somewhat less than . . . faithful?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Did he cheat on his wife?”

Quill stepped back, his jaw working back and forth, pivoted and walked away.

“You are really doing badly.” She pursed her lips. “This five senses thing . . . you think the smell of that awful solvent is important?”

“It might not be important, but it is notable. What is it used for?”

“Quill said they use it for cleaning stone and brick and other things. He mixes it for them. The mayor’s own recipe.”

Reyes clasped his hands together. Large tufts of snow stuck to Viessa’s hair, and he was sure it was decorating his own. “Interesting. I’m cold,” and he shivered to emphasize his predicament. “If you’ll help me back to the inn, I would like a hot bath so I can rest my eyes. And after that, I think we should enjoy a meal at the tavern–in front of a roaring fire– and ask around on the subject of Bishop Warren.”

• • •

“So . . .” Viessa said after a night of drinks and social interaction that led to lots of interesting gossip. “That was interesting.”

Reyes plopped into a chair beside the fire as Viessa stoked it. His eyes had finally stopped watering, and he’d bathed and dressed in a simple tunic of emerald green (given to him by a lovely lady who said it matched his eyes), a pair of well fitted trousers of dark brown, traveler’s boots of the same color, and a thick, hand knitted vest with a fur collar. If Viessa weren’t wearing her own Whites, it was doubtful anyone would have given him a second look.

“What did we learn tonight from some very talkative townspeople?” He still felt a little inebriated, and his stomach was less than settled after the amount of grease he’d ingested in the stew.

“Quite a bit,” Viessa said as she straightened. “This is sort of a test, isn’t it?”

“Testing your listening abilities.”

“First,” she held up a finger. “Not a lot of the town really likes the mayor.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s bought up several businesses by paying off back debt. Her masonry on the hill processes wood, bricks, and stone. The jeweler, though not housed in that group of buildings, is also under the same ownership.”

“And the two holdouts?”

“Uhm . . .” She put her finger to her chin. “The blacksmith and the apothecary.”

“Rose and Quill,” Reyes said. “Lucy, the mayor, employs most of the artisans of the town, including her son Lucien, who is quite the stone mason, which is why he carries that smell and his boots were covered in that same silt mud. I would say, based on the mud alone, that the person who stole the necklace was someone who works at the Masonry. But that smell wasn’t in the Widow’s house. So someone like me, who fell into the mud, could be the culprit.”

“Good thing you didn’t get a good nosefull of the pure solvent. You might have passed out.” Viessa pulled the other chair up close. “That question you asked Quill. Apparently, you were right. How did you know?”

“Observation, Viessa.” He smiled at her and barely stifled a yawn. “His wife claims he brought her three sapphires. Rose Jacks wears a ring with a sapphire, and Lucy Danbury wears a pair of sapphire earrings.” He shrugged. “I just find it more than a coincidence that these three women, who appear to be rivals, are all sporting or possess some form of jewelry with sapphires.”

“You think Bishop Warren gave them these trinkets.” Her eyes widened and she swayed in her chair. “But why did Quill react like he did? What would it matter to him what some feisty old man did with the women in this town? It’s not like he’s got a dog in this fight.”

Reyes laughed. “Wh-what?”

“Oh . . . something my gran used to say. I mean, he’s not really involved, is he?”

“What is Quill’s last name?”

She slowly shook her head. “I’m not following you.”

Reyes leaned back in the chair. “What did the serving maid say about Quill? Do you remember?”

He watched Viessa’s mind replay the evening through dulled memories. “She . . . she called him . . .” She snapped her fingers. “She called him that Jacks boy with the pretty eyes.”

“Indeed.”

Now her mouth formed the perfect O. “He’s Jared’s brother! He hides it well.”

He put his finger to his lips to indicate she needed to lower her voice. “I would say, that if this man had been familiar with my mother, enough to give her a valuable present like that, then he does have a dog in this fight.” He sat forward. “Two fights, really. It makes more sense now why the blacksmith and apothecary aren’t a part of the mayor’s little empire. The two women were rivals for Bishop Warren’s affection.”

She sat forward, then leaned back. Viessa held up her finger, then lowered it. She shook her head. “I think I had too much mead to see what you’re seeing. And I think if you spelled it out to me . . . I wouldn’t remember it.”

He leaned forward and patted her knee. “Go to bed. I’m going to enjoy the fire a bit longer and think before I retire.”

“And then you’ll tell me in the morning.”

“I will.”

She got up and made it to her door. She paused and looked back at him. “You’ve already figured it out, haven’t you? The gray dust, the mud, the spider, the solvent . . .”

“Maybe. Good night, Viessa.”

“Good night.”

Reyes remained in the chair for some time as his mind put things together. Of course there was no ghost who stole the necklace, but it did make sense that one of the other women would steal it—each vying for what was left of Bishop Warren’s sapphires. A necklace as described would have been a boon to anyone who possessed it. A financial windfall that would help alleviate debt for both of the women.

So much gossip revolved around the three. Lucy, Rose, and Annie. And Bishop Warren in the center. Behind the scenes, Lucy had taken on too much debt consolidating all those businesses under one roof, and to keep her blacksmith shop, Rose had taken on debt to keep the business afloat and avoid losing it to Lucy.

As for Annie . . . No one had seen her since his and Viessa’s visit. And, if there was a possibility the necklace didn’t exist . . . why make it up? Why cause all this drama?

He couldn’t reconcile the thought that either of the women would revert to theft. Both were too proud. And Quill was too vague. Did he steal the necklace in hopes of using it for his mother? Did Lucien have a younger brother or sister? There had been stray sentences in the tavern of someone named Marc Danbury, but was that it? Talk of Marc had sounded as if he was good at everything he attempted at the masonry.

He rubbed his head. Too much alcohol. His thoughts continued moving back to the ghost. No one had seen the necklace, but most questioned had seen the ghost. Walking outside their house. Inside at the wake. At the cemetery. In the apothecary. They swore to it . . . and through it all he sensed no lies. No concealment. Just straight, honest truth.

He held out his left hand, palm up and with a bit of concentration, a bird hovered there. A bluebird. It chirped and flapped its wings. It was an illusion, one of the few he could create when pushed. It was more of a picture. And that’s what he’d thought of the Gift when he was a boy. Making pictures others could see. Moving, living pictures. This was what brought the Herald to his home, the day before Eshenesra came to him and claimed him as her own.

:Reyes, go to sleep. You’re going to wear yourself out making that.:

:I know. I just . . . it gives me pleasure to look at it. But what if the widow has the same Gift as me? She is making this illusion of her dead husband? Maybe she doesn’t know she has it and is doing is subconsciously?:

:You believe that spider was an illusion? You know the thief had mud on their hands. They knew of the necklace’s existence. You touched the silt, you smelled the solvent, you’ve seen what you believe is an illusion . . . :

:I need to look at that box again. That mark on the bottom.:

:Reyes, you should sleep first.:

There was a soft tapping at the door. He felt himself sober a bit and opened it. There was no one there. But on the floor was a folded piece of paper. Stepping back into the suite’s common room, he looked at it by the fire.

I know you will find out soon enough, so I would like to tell you the truth. Please come to the Warren home.

It wasn’t signed, and he didn’t recognize the handwriting. The request didn’t surprise him. He was already making plans to visit the Warren home. He pulled on his boots, gave Eshenesra a quick message and headed out the door into the snow toward the Warren House.

• • •

It always amazed him how quiet the snowfall was. The only sound was the barest tapping of frozen flakes on leaves. Quiet followed him to the square and down the path to the Warren’s.

The house itself was dark, not a candle in any window. He stood in front of it.

The Collegium was the only home he knew. He’d been born to a woman who moved from place to place in Karse, dragging along a boy whose odd behavior and ability to make illusions would get them both killed if it was discovered.

And then there was the moment someone saw him make an illusion . . . and he never saw his mother again because she fled. Afraid. Prizing her life above her child’s. And even after that, after he came to Haven and the Collegium, Reyes went out on Circuit in what felt like an immediacy others weren’t foisted into.

:You have the ability of perception,: Eshenesra said in his mind as he stood there in the dark, before a darkened house, possibly being set up for something as equally shocking as that spider had been, as mean spirited as the mud. It was his Companion’s way of reminding him he wasn’t alone. :And that is no illusion.:

He thought he heard something inside. A footfall? No, more like a door closing. But with no light, he was cautious. He stood just outside as the front door opened and the widow Warren appeared just inside. “Please, Herald Reyes. Come in.”

Reyes hesitated. He’d not expected to see the widow. The fireplace flickered behind her. She stepped back and beckoned him inside.

:Eshenesra . . . :

:All is well. Keep going, dear one. You are nearly there.:

The widow called out to him again. “Please . . . I want to show you something.”

He took a deep breath as he stepped toward the door. Before he stepped inside, he could smell the solvent, the same acrid odor that set off his coughing and watering eyes before. He blinked a few times, but the solvent’s scent wasn’t as strong this time. It lingered, as if its bearer had departed some time ago.

The front door remained open behind him as Reyes stood several feet from the widow, and she remained beside the fireplace and the mantle where the silver box gleamed.

When she didn’t say anything else, he spoke. “Did you leave the note?”

“I wanted you to see.” She retrieved the box and opened it, displaying the inside to him.

The shadows cast by the fire darkened the inside. “I can’t see anything. Is there supposed to be something inside?”

“Yes,” she said and beckoned him closer. “You see, I knew about those other women. My Bishop couldn’t keep his eye from roaming. And I accepted it. I did. Until I saw what he’d done. That ring . . . those earrings . . .” She snapped the box closed and Reyes remained where he was. “I found these three stones and wanted something better than what they had. But that . . . that boy wouldn’t make it for me. And then . . .” She lowered her head. “He died. Bishop left me.” Her head snapped back up. “And then his ghost took the stones! He even took that from me!”

She screamed the last sentence and the hairs on the back of Reyes’ neck stood on end. He remembered all the comments the townspeople made of Annie Warren being crazy and well . . . they might have been right.

He held out his hand. “Please . . . calm down. You know ghosts can’t take solid objects. Ghosts don’t exist, they—”

Widow Warren wasn’t looking at him anymore. She was focused on something behind him. He took a step back and turned to see a figure in the open doorway. The outline did resemble the statue in the square, but no light from the fire illuminated its front, much less its face.

“You . . . you’ve come back! Give me back my jewels!” She pitched the box in the figure’s direction, but the throw went wild with anger.

It struck Reyes on the side of the head, and he stumbled backward with the blow.

“You’ll pay for all your affairs!” She was screaming as she pulled a thick branch from the fire and he realized she’d placed a torch inside the burning wood. She held it aloft and the fire’s glow made her look like a vengeful spirit. “I’ll burn it all down! I’ll cleanse this house of your evil doings!”

“Grab the torch!”

“Reyes, give me a hand!”

There were two voices, male. One he didn’t recognize, but the second was Quill. He saw the young man step out of the shadows behind the widow and grab her upraised arm. Reyes ran forward and lent his own strength to Quill’s, and wrestled the torch from her grasp.

Reyes’ eyes instantly watered and he began coughing. “That smell—”

“Oh no . . . she’s drenched herself in solvent!” Quill said.

At that moment the widow moved too close to the fireplace in her attempt to escape the two of them. Her skirts caught fire, and she screamed. Reyes immediately yanked at the material and tore the worst away just as another pair of hands helped drag her through the front door and out into the cold.

They wrestled her and her smoldering dress into a snowbank and held her there as her dress went out and townspeople surrounded them, including Viessa. She bent down next to Reyes as the Mayor and Lucien covered the sobbing widow in blankets and supported her away from the house. It was burning inside the parlor, but the fire was eventually put out.

Quill approached Veissa, who was fussing over the wound at his head, and handed Reyes the box.

Wary of another spider, Reyes decided not to open the box, and instead turned it over. He smiled when he saw the mark, the signature of the artist who made it. He pressed the cold box against his forehead and closed his eyes.

• • •

Once those who answered Viessa’s call to the widow’s home were warm and enjoying hot cocoa and honey and milk in the tavern, Reyes reassured her he was fine, even though he still had blood on the side of his face. He had her accompany him downstairs and gathered everyone’s attention.

“I believe . . .” He looked around. “We have a solution for the dispute.”

That statement started a murmur in the tavern, which was packed to capacity. He looked around and found all the faces he needed, except the widow.

“We have solved the mystery of the necklace.” He produced the box and held it up high a few seconds before he opened it, and retrieved three large Sapphires. The crowd gasped.

—“I thought it was a necklace!”—

—“What’s this all about?”—

Reyes turned the box over. “Would M.D. please step forward?”

No one moved for a few seconds, then a tall man with thin shoulders and long, dark hair stepped forward. Reyes immediately recognized him as one of the townspeople who had tricked him into stepping into that alley with the runoff. This was Marc Danbury, the Mayor’s youngest son.

Reyes held up the box. “This is your mark?” He pointed to the bottom of the box.

The boy nodded once.

The mayor, seated up front, looked back at her son, and then looked to Reyes with narrowed eyes. “What’s going on?”

“Your son is a jeweler. He only helps with cutting stones.”

“Yes.”

“And he was commissioned by Annie Warren to make the necklace. The one she claimed was stolen.”

Everyone looked at Marc. He looked like he was about to cry.

“It’s okay,” Reyes said to him. “You’re not in trouble. But I am curious as to why you took the stones from the box.”

Again, all eyes were on Marc. He swallowed and began talking in a low voice. “I . . . I was tired of all the fighting between my family and Quill’s family and Mrs. Warren. We all know . . . knew . . . Bishop Warren was a womanizer. I wanted those stupid stones to just disappear. Otherwise she’d have found someone to make the necklace, though Quill was sure she’d hound me because of who my mother is. She would never leave either of us alone.”

Now all eyes shifted to Quill by the door. But unlike Marc, he didn’t flinch and continued to stare at Reyes.

Marc continued. “I knew he’d given my mother the earrings, and he’d given Mrs. Jacks the ring. Then he came to me with these new sapphires, and wanted me to make them into three necklaces. I said I would, but it would take a little time before I could get to them. My price was he’d leave my mother alone if I did this. That he wouldn’t play with her heart any longer. And then I asked for Quill as well. These necklaces were to be the last of his games.”

Murmuring. Reyes lifted his hand. “But that didn’t happen.”

“No. Annie Warren found the stones, and she came to me and asked me to make a single necklace for her. She knew what they were planned for . . . she knew what he was doing. I told her I couldn’t . . . She took a box I’d made, that one, from our store and said it was hers for me, wasting her time. She stormed out.”

“The necklace was never crafted?”

“Not by me. But because she said it was real, we all assumed it was. So finally, after Mr. Warren died, she kept claiming to see his ghost and her blaming my mother and Quill’s mother . . .” He paused.

Quill said. “The widow claimed her husband took them. And then our mothers accused our older brothers.”

Everyone looked at the blacksmith and the mayor.

Reyes spoke, “Lucien and Jared had nothing to do with the missing stones.”

“No,” Marc said. “I wanted you to take them . . . so I put them back in the box and back on the mantle and I left you that note . . .” He stepped forward. “She was there, in the inn, at the foot of the stairs. She must’ve seen me leave it because she glared at me and turned and walked out. I swear, I had no idea she would try and set fire to the house!”

Reyes smiled and held up his hand, calling for quiet again. “It’s okay, Marc. The box and the stones did make it to me,” he said and gingerly touched his head. “Though in a more painful way.” He looked at the Mayor and then at the Blacksmith. “Are you satisfied?”

“What do we do about the sapphires?” Quill asked.

“I say we sell them,” Rose the Blacksmith said. “And rebuild the Warren House.”

“I agree,” said Lucy the Mayor, and the two women stood and shook hands with one another. And then they embraced. When their sons joined them, Reyes excused himself and walked slowly back up to his room. He was exhausted and feeling a bit dizzy.

Once in his room, he stoked the fire and started to strip off his tunic when there was a knock at the door.

It was Quill, and he had a bag with him. “I think it’s a good idea if I take a look at that head wound.”

Reyes sat in the chair.

He stared at the embers and finally, when Quill stood back, opened his palm and called upon the illusion of his blue bird.

Quill gasped. “You . . .”

“Are not as good as you at illusions, Quill,” Reyes said. “If you look at my bird, the feathers are not as defined and too blurred. The eyes are round and not almond. But your mastery of that spider and its movement, as well as the image of Bishop Warren in the doorway . . . was excellent.” He winked at Quill. “Thank you for that distraction. She’d conked me right good in the head.”

He knelt beside Reyes’ chair. “I swear to you, I had no idea she was going to do that. It was just my job to make the ghost so you’d follow it in and pick up the box again. We didn’t know she’d gone back into the house.”

Reyes nodded. “You and Marc. I assumed as much.” He dismissed his bird. “Was the widow injured?”

“Minor burns. She’s resting. We’re sending a messenger out to her family, hoping they can take care of her.”

“Good. I would suggest you come with me to Haven and be trained at the Collegium, for your Healing abilities, as well as your illusions. It might be a good idea to get out of this town for a while.”

Quill picked up his bag and started to open the door. He paused and turned, “I only made the illusions . . . because I wanted to mask the theft of the stones. I didn’t want Marc to get in trouble. But those damned rocks have been nothing but trouble.”

“I know. There are better ways to use your Gift.” Reyes sat forward and looked at the door. “Take your time to decide. I feel I will be in my bed for a day or so.”

“Doctor’s orders,” Quill said, and started to leave the room.

“Quill,” Reyes moved from the chair to the door of his room. He wanted to sleep for a day. “You didn’t make the illusions the town saw or what the Widow saw, did you?”

He shook his head. “The town, though they knew of the Bishop’s indiscretions, loved him. He did a lot for the people here. When the Widow claimed his ghost returned, people saw and believed what they wanted to.” He nodded to Reyes. “I’ll have the tavern draw up a hot bath. And thank you.”

Viessa came in as Quill left and she smiled at him. “You should be in bed.”

“After a bath.”

“Reyes . . . how did you put those pieces together? The mark on the bottom of the box?”

“Everything came down to the simple truths. She claimed she approached a jeweler. Artisans always sign their work. I assumed the mark was the name of the jeweler and once we knew who that was, I went on faith that the truth would come out.”

“And if it hadn’t?”

He shrugged. “More stories to tell the Bards back home.”

She shook her head. “Of ghosts and stones.”

He looked out the window. “And snow.”

Pranks for the Memories

Dee Shull

Jayin heard the words she’d been dreading ever since the most recent storm had blown itself out, the grounds surrounding the Collegium now passable without risking the loss of shoes, and birdsong gone from tentative trills to sweet and enthusiastic warbling.

“I’m bored.”

Flipping her thick, braided red hair off her right shoulder, Kari stared at the pile of papers and books assigned by several of the Healers who’d missed (apparently) that their charges were well and truly done with staying inside, especially on a glorious spring day. The wind through Haven was just cool enough to temper the warmth from the paved city, and the only people truly complaining were the ones with allergies to the grasses in the fields.

Kari continued, “Even the grass is having more fun than we are cooped up in here.”

The class murmured and grumbled in solidarity, but one of the Healers poked his head in at just that moment, grimacing at the sight of students clearly not working.

Before he could say anything, Jayin spoke, “Healer Rendel, we’ve been at this for most of the morning. Transcribing old reports onto fresh paper for the archives certainly does give us some perspective on the things Healers have had to treat over the generations, but surely we could stand a break?”

The man had puffed up like a bladder full of hot air but had deflated as Jayin talked. The students often let her do the talking; hardly any of them had her experience with managing people, and even the ones who did were more skittish than she was.

“Fine. One mark only, and be back here promptly. Some of these ‘old reports’ need to be copied before the ink fades completely, and that means as much daylight as possible to see them.” He ran a hand through stringy brown hair and sighed. “I know it’s a fine spring day out there. Please don’t forget all this?”

“We won’t, I promise.” We might not be back in just one mark, Jayin thought, but I’ll herd these cats as best I can.

At the Healer’s nod, the seven students chosen for this particular task packed everything up carefully before filing out the door into the brilliant spring day. Last out the door, Jayin caught a wistful smile on Healer Rendel’s face and heard him murmur, “Ah, for the energy of youth.”

• • •

Unfortunately, outside was just as boring to Kari as inside. She stalked around the grove of oaks nearest their workroom like a hunting cat, grumping about this and that, how all the Healers were stodgy oldsters with no sense of real adventure or fun, and how even the Heralds were off doing more interesting things than recopying old reports on bunions and gout.

“Y’mean like studying history? Or beating each other with padded sticks?” Erran replied, distaste clear on his face. He was Healer Brone’s protégé and, as far as Jayin was concerned, a right prat. His family were all merchants, specializing in spices and more obscure goods, and they paid for all of Erran’s needs or wants because their favored son happened to be born with the Healing Gift. Brone, who’d almost become dean of the Collegium, and whom Serril had warned her to steer well clear of, had likely picked him because money and Gift together meant more funding for the Healers’ Collegium once Erran finally graduated. He’ll probably get a placement in the city and more than enough sponsors to keep him in the manner he’s already accustomed to.

Jayin sighed. “Kari. You’re a born troublemaker, but what do you consider fun? Climbing trees older than my great-grandfather? I’m sure your five—”

“Six!”

“—six sisters had more than enough ideas to entertain you all, but we’re in Trainee robes, there’s a Healer waiting for us, and if we try and do anything obvious, we will get caught.”

Jord tugged on a blond forelock and shrugged. “Tellin’ stories might be fun.” He was one of Jayin’s closest friends next to Kari, and he had come to her rescue more than once since last autumn when she’d been admitted into the Collegium. She’d learned her letters and math since she was four, but some of the things Healers were supposed to know still made her head spin.

Timms chuckled. “Unless they’re something we’ve never heard before from you, Kari’ll likely go back to whining about how bored she is in less than half the time we have left.” Jayin knew Timms was also favored by Brone, but for the life of her she wasn’t sure why. Plain and unassuming, from a family far out to the west with barely any name or money to speak of, Timms didn’t seem the sort to catch Brone’s attention. The fact that he was more Gifted than Erran probably had something to do with it, but Jayin silently admitted she was cynical about Brone and his motivations.

Kari spun on Jayin. “You’ve barely told us anything about your family, you know. We haven’t even seen you juggle or anything clever like that.”

Ah, here it is. She answered, “You’ve never really asked anything, and assumed the rest.” She dug into a pouch for Zanner’s parting gift before they left with the family: three very well made juggling balls, every family member’s name part of the cloth stitching. It must have taken them weeks to make, even with help. “You want to see me juggle?” She started with basics, two balls back and forth in the air, drawing even Marti and Winna—twins from the east, near Hardorn, both Gifted as well—into the circle around her. To her it was simple enough, but to the rest of her classmates it was a welcome distraction. She added the third ball without missing a beat, and asked, “Is this enough for you?”

Kari, that brat, said, “I heard you used to juggle knives!”

Erran frowned and spun a finger through his fine black hair. “A good way to lose fingers, if so.” He stared suspiciously at Jayin’s hands, which she made sure were on full display.

“Threw, not juggled. Zanner had the better hands for that sort of thing, and even they nicked themself more than once.” She switched to one of her favorite tricks: two balls tossed and caught in one hand, while the other hand held the third and moved it up and down in time with the other two. Marti giggled at that, shyly nudging her twin, and said, “You make it look like nothing special.” Winna nodded, her strawberry brown hair flopping a bit.

“Years and years of practice. You learned a skill, used it for the crowd, kept people interested and amused.” Without missing a beat, Jayin switched back to three balls. “Wasn’t just me and Zanner either. Hallen, my first father, he’s the best juggler I’ve ever seen, and the three of us sometimes had seven or eight balls in the air at once.”

Timms looked at her suspiciously. “Did not.”

“What are you, twelve?” Jayin smirked. “I’d teach you, but you’d need your own balls. I’m not sharing these.” And with that, she captured the three and tucked them back into her pouch. “It’d take months, and Kari over there is about to die of boredom.”

Sure enough, the redhead had watched for a short time, then wandered off when it became clear Jayin wasn’t going to do anything exciting like juggle knives or do handstands. “It’s a beautiful spring day, and we’re going back in like nothing changed. I’m just tired of how everything’s the same, day in and day out. I wish there was something we could do to make things fun around here.”

When Serril questioned her later, Jayin couldn’t answer why she said the next thing. Maybe it was the fact that Kari was right, that the routine of classes and studying and training had become boring once she got used to it. Maybe it was a bit of a desire to show off to her classmates. Or maybe it was her own bit of mischief just sneaking out in front of people she was actually getting to like, warts and all.

“Well, there was that time the family started a prank war . . .”

• • •

The rest of the day was about as boring as Jayin had expected. Copying records until the light faded too much to be useful, then helping clerks put things into their proper places in the archives until dinner, and after food was yet more studying, this time with Jord.

“Forearm.”

Jayin thought for a moment before answering, “Two bones, anchored at the elbow and the wrist. One’s thinner than the other, both are prone to fractures, though.”

Jord nodded. “Any other parts of the body like that?”

“I think the calf in people is like that?” Jayin was pretty sure she got it right, and grinned at Jord’s response.

“Good. Two bones, one much thinner than the other. Thinnest one in the body for its length, too. How do Healers deal with breaks?”

“That’s easy. Gifted Healers, depending on their Gift, can knit the bone ends back together, or at least encourage the bone ends to grow and heal. Healers without a Gift or whose Gift doesn’t work so well on bone can set bones back into place and splint them to limit movement while the bones mend. Healers also know some plants that are good for speeding up healing.” She was about to continue when she heard giggling out in the hall.

Jord heard it too, and his eyebrows went up. “Sounds like something’s up.” He stood, stretching. “Enough studying for the night. You’ve got the bones down, I think.” He smiled slowly. “At least the bare bones.”

Jayin laughed and stood up as well. The giggling was getting louder. “I’m getting there, at least. Getting dropped into the middle of a class wasn’t something I’d planned for. Thanks, Jord. You’re making this lots easier.”

“Friends, right?” Before he could say anything else, someone knocked at the door, still giggling.

Jord opened the door to see Marti and Kari tumble through, shove the door closed, and dive for the space under Jord’s bed. In moments the two of them were hidden from view but not hearing, as they kept giggling. Kari was what her parents would have called “sturdy” but Marti was thin as a reed, which somehow made it work.

Oh, no, Jayin thought.

Moments later, they heard a familiar if unwelcome voice yelling down the hall, “If I catch whoever stuffed my closet with balls of yarn, they’ll regret being born!”

Jord said, very quietly, “Catla’s going to knock on every single door, isn’t she?”

Jayin answered, just as quietly, “Probably.” Then, a bit more loudly, “It’s a good thing we’re the only ones in here, studying quietly.” The two under Jord’s bed got the hint and managed to quiet down while she and Jord went back to where they were sitting, Jord on his bed and Jayin in the chair across from him. They were barely seated when someone pounded at Jord’s door, yelling “Open up!”

Jayin rolled her eyes before opening the door, and saw Catla in the fanciest dressing gown she’d ever laid eyes on, black hair loosely streaming down from the remnants of braids, the teen visibly red and fuming. “You! Where have you been all night?”

Calmly Jayin replied, “Studying with Jord, who’s right over there. What’s wrong?”

Catla stormed in past Jayin, staring suspiciously around the room. Jayin had to smother a laugh because stuck to the back of Catla’s head where she couldn’t see it was a small ball of very soft, very light white chirra wool yarn.

“Someone thought it would be just the pinnacle of humor to stuff my closet with balls of yarn,” Catla sniffed, staring suspiciously at Jord.

“Well, I’ve been studying bones with Jord, so it wasn’t us.”

“Oh, right. You joined the Collegium last fall, didn’t you? I suppose a circus brat like you wouldn’t be able to do proper studying.” Catla looked around and, seeing nothing incriminating, swanned out the door without even a goodbye.

After carefully closing the door, Jayin counted to ten, and ten again, before saying, “You two. Give her half a mark to get to the other end of the dorms, then you’re out of here with nobody the wiser.”

From under Jord’s bed, she heard, “She’s a nasty bitch and she deserved it.”

“Be that as it may,” Jord drawled, “she’ll get you expelled if she figures out it was you. Better come up with an alibi.”

• • •

Nearly every day after that, Jayin heard stories of pranks being pulled against anyone and everyone. The first several days were small, mostly harmless things: coins glued to the pavement where people would try to pick them up, fresh laundry turned inside out right before being delivered, clothing stays (or bootlaces) tied together, and the like.

Then the pranks spread outside the Healers. One afternoon a Bard Trainee known to be fond of long baths ran naked and screaming from a private bathing room, followed by an impressive wall of pink bubbles that lasted just long enough for people to see him tear around a corner and nearly slam into a Herald who had come into the hall to see what the fuss was. One of the advanced history classes found their inkwells filled with honey instead of ink. (Jayin shuddered at the thought of the cost.) Buckets of water carefully balanced on open doorways were a trend for about half a day, until everyone learned to look up before pushing a door open.

The one that really stuck out to Jayin was the story of how a trio of people had managed to take a Herald’s favorite chair from her office and leave a cunning set of clues and directions to force said Herald into a scavenger hunt for her chair. It would have worked better if the pranksters had picked a different target; apparently the Herald just asked her Companion, who asked the other Companions, and she found the chair so fast the pranksters were caught red-handed.

In that first week, the pranks were still benign. Harmless fun, or so the teachers said when anyone asked why they weren’t interfering. Jayin was fairly sure some of the adults had gotten in on the pranks, given the increase in sophistication. After all, balls of yarn stuffed into a closet only really required access to a supply room. But someone or several someones had to have looked the other way when a trio of pranksters wandered through the Collegia with a very nice stuffed chair.

Six days after telling her friends about the Avelard Family Prank War, Jayin wondered when she’d be targeted. She’d been very careful to not actually prank anyone, knowing that fingers would end up pointed back at her. Catla had only been the first to accuse Jayin. But each time she had a solid alibi or couldn’t have possibly been involved.

But on the seventh day, she—along with a classroom of other students—got pranked.

• • •

Jayin was nearly late to her anatomy class. Today was a demonstration day, and Healer Neena expected everyone to participate. She’d promised to pull out the training dummies: soft, poseable mannequins with a solid internal structure and numerous diagrams all across them. Even when Jayin struggled with names for the parts of the body, Neena had been very helpful, pointing out the relevant part on one or both of the dummies.

What Jayin wasn’t prepared for was the sounds of outrage, embarrassment, and hilarity coming from the classroom ahead of her. Frowning, she slowed to a walk. Oh, no. No no no. I hope whoever didn’t do what I think they did.

But as Jayin turned into the room, the pranksters had indeed done what she feared. Both of the dummies were posed on desks at the front of the classroom in a position that Jayin could only think of as “compromising.”

She wasn’t a stranger to the idea of the things people could get up to in bed, even though she hadn’t found anyone to experiment with. Ronnet and Ella had made sure she knew how all that worked, along with teaching her ways to, ahem, deflate even the most insistent individual. But she hadn’t expected to see the dummies demonstrating at least one of the ideas that made her blush.

So far, it was only students in the room. None were sitting, some were pointedly not looking at the dummies, while others were gathered in a very loose circle more than an arm’s-length from the salaciously positioned mannequins. Like if they got any closer, they’d suddenly be involved, Jayin had a chance to think before Healer Neena came into the room.

Everyone froze. Only Jayin was in a position to see the wicked gleam in Neena’s eyes before she went up to her desk and faced her students. The Healer looked out across the room with clear blue eyes, smoothed back her short blonde hair, and said, “Seats, everyone.” It was at that moment that Jayin realized in horror that one of the desks in use by the mannequins was hers.

“Ah, Healer Neena—?” Jayin started.

“Jayin, Kimmen, you may move your chairs to another desk, if anyone will share with you.” Jord scooted sideways and Jayin grabbed her chair and moved it as quickly as she could. A deep sense of foreboding settled on her as she watched Kari, face red as her hair, make room for Kimmen.

“Now, class, it seems we have an interesting opportunity here.”

Dead silence.

“I’d originally planned to wait on this lecture until a bit later in the season, but it is spring, and the thoughts of many people turn to, shall we say, more intimate activities.”

Jayin was certain nobody was breathing.

“As our mannequins are demonstrating, such activities are anatomically feasible, though here’s where I’m going to ask each and every one of you to come up here and comment on the positioning.”

Oh, no, Jayin thought.

Brightly, Neena said, “Jayin? Would you mind being first?”

“Ah, yes, Healer Neena.” She tried to put on her best Avelard face, sure as anything she was blushing redder than Kari, and looked over the mannequins. “Well, I think if the bottom one had a pillow or two, the position would probably be more comfortable.”

“And where would you position the pillow or pillows for maximum comfort? Considering the general shape of the body involved.”

“Under the head and neck at least. Under the hips too, I think, or at the curve of the spine.” This is worse than performing for that one audience that just wouldn’t laugh.

Neena beamed. “An excellent suggestion. Hard surfaces can cause discomfort in a person in a prone position, and proper support for the neck and back would alleviate much of that discomfort. In the absence of pillows, nicely folded blankets would do.” The Healer sounded as if she knew exactly what she was talking about. “Thank you, Jayin. Kari? You’re next.”

And so the class went, with each student being called up to the front and Neena treating the entire situation as just another exercise. When called, Jord walked up, looked consideringly at the mannequins, then deftly reached in and adjusted their positioning a bit before stepping back and nodding. Winna managed to mutter something about the woman mannequin being on top and how she hadn’t imagined such a thing. Kimmen couldn’t say anything, just pointed at the mannequins partly on his desk and flailed a bit.

By the end, Neena took pity on almost everyone and let them go early.

“Trainee Jayin? Would you stay back for a few moments, please?”

Jayin nodded, and watched everyone else practically run out of the room. I’m about to get expelled for something I didn’t do. I hope Serril doesn’t mind me living under his roof until the family comes back.

Neena watched carefully as she asked, “Did you do this?”

“Gods no!”

“And you didn’t put anyone up to it?”

“I have no idea who would have.”

“I’m inclined to believe you,” Neena said, “but aside from Jord, your suggestions were the most thoughtful.”

“Why not ask him to stay too?”

“Because I know he did it, or at least was involved in the set up. On my request.”

Jayin felt her jaw drop. Neena grinned and winked.

“But-but-but.” Jord was a beanpole, he’d absolutely have needed help to move the mannequins into position.

“Oh, don’t mind me, I’ve wanted to pull this particular joke for years now, but any other year it would have been out of nowhere, too much of a shock. In the middle of everyone pranking each other, though? It seemed a perfect time to do something like this. Jord did say you’d both mentioned a prank war and done no pranks yourself.” She sighed. “And honestly, everyone in the class is old enough to be experimenting one way or another, so why not give them the chance to learn good habits? Or at least learn how not to do certain things.”

“I’m . . . not in trouble?” Jayin felt her mind spinning like a top. Jord set all this up. Her friend, with a wicked and understated sense of humor, who’d helped her learn anatomy, set all this up. Well, now I get to tease him about knowing anatomy so well.

“No! Not at all.” Neena smiled. “I’ll tell everyone that you’re innocent, make sure you don’t get into trouble. Some people surely will talk, but we can’t help that. As I’m sure you know.”

• • •

Of course, it wasn’t nearly as simple as that. Over the next few days, several students found opportunities to congratulate Jayin in private on her prank. She’d have liked to deny responsibility, but she knew from experience that never worked. Each time, she agreed it was a rather clever prank and dodged the questions about how she’d done it. Jord, for his part, just laughed about the whole thing the next time she managed to catch him in a quiet moment. “Shame we didn’t have more dummies. That’d have been even better.”

As if the events at the anatomy class had opened the floodgates, suddenly the Collegia was awash in practical jokes. More Trainees, including a startling large number from Bardic and the Heralds, were affecting innocent expressions as hapless individuals fell victim to a variety of pranks. Some clever person—Jayin suspected an Artificer—had discovered a way to make ink fade as it dried, and a poor Bardic instructor was forced to cancel a music writing exam within minutes. Another classroom found all their tables flipped and carefully balanced on chairs—including the instructor’s desk. Overnight, the doors along one dormitory hall sprouted painted pasteboard jester heads from a jester’s bauble. Someone took that idea and ran with it, painting eyes in locations clearly intended to surprise people coming around corners. And someone managed to switch the forks for spoons and in reverse one evening in the refectory, right before the dinner rush.

It was all enough to make Jayin sigh, especially when people started trying to involve her in their pranks. She knew things had escalated to the point where the instructors were watching the Trainees more carefully, and it was only a matter of time before someone tried something more likely to cause harm. Besides, as she wrote to the Avelards in her monthly letter, most of the pranks were, well, simple. If she was going to participate, she’d want to come up with something even more clever than disappearing ink or amusingly positioned training mannequins.

• • •

Jayin puttered around her room late one night. She knew she needed to actually go to bed and try for sleep, but the past couple of weeks had set her somewhat on edge. While nobody had actually done anything drastic to a student’s room, she figured it was only a matter of time. And her usual strategies for blocking the door didn’t seem terribly safe in case someone either set a fire or pretended to set one.

She was on the verge of piling blankets and pillow in front of her door when she heard quietly insistent knocking start. “Who is it?” she called, braced for someone to tell her that her nose was running or something similarly absurd.

“Just let me in Jayin before anyone sees me,” Kari whimpered.

She opened the door enough to let her friend in, and shut it quietly after. It looked as though Kari had just come from the baths, with a fluffy towel wrapped around her head and a linen robe for modesty. She’d clearly been crying, and at first Jayin couldn’t see any reason why. At least, until Kari pulled the towel off of her head and shockingly green hair came spilling down.

Quietly, she wailed, “I was just using the shampoo like I usually do, and everything seemed fine until all of a sudden I saw my hair!”

Jayin blinked. The shade itself wasn’t horrid; it actually went decently well with Kari’s complexion. But she was overly proud of having red hair, and the sudden change of color was likely to cause some distress until she got used to it.

“Help me cut it off, it’ll grow back the right color right?”

Or she’ll think of the most extreme solution possible, Jayin sighed to herself. “Look, if you think having green hair will make you stand out, having no hair at all is going to be loads worse. How long did it take you to get your hair this long?”

“Years!”

“So you’d be stuck growing it out again for years, instead of waiting a few weeks for the dye to fade.”

Kari sniffled. “You really think it’s only going to be weeks?”

Jayin nodded. “We used hair dyes in the family for shows often enough. Even the extreme colors fade after several washings. You just need to make sure you’re using shampoo you trust. Mine’s probably safe for you, but I know someone in Haven who makes really good soaps. Bren’s a friend of a friend, and I know I’ve got enough money saved to where we can visit the shop and get you set.”

Kari plonked down on Jayin’s bed, crying.

“Stay here tonight, we’ll work out a story, make it easier on you tomorrow. And tomorrow evening, between classes and dinner, we’ll take a trip, okay?”

Kari nodded, sniffling. “I’ve some coin I’d been saving for a treat for myself, too.”

“And Bren will help you figure things out.” Thank Havens Zanner introduced me to Bren. “Though you may end up leaving with more than you intended!”

And in fact, the next day Bren was very helpful, both in identifying what had likely been added to the shampoo as well as selling Kari a product that would gently but completely remove the green. The Trainees ended up missing dinner at the refectory thanks to Kari’s sudden need for more soap and perfume, and Jayin and Bren exchanged Zanner stories while Kari shopped. The three of them ended up sharing a meal together at a nearby inn; by this point Kari had grown used to her newly green hair, and even talked a little bit about possibly trying for green hair again at some point. Bren joked that Kari might want to be careful about not spending all of her coin at Scents and Wonders. Kari teased in return that maybe she should get a commission for how many people she’d be sending to Bren’s shop.

By the time Jayin and Kari headed back to the dorms, the girl was decidedly in better spirits. On the other hand, Jayin found herself fretting more than a bit, because the pranks were getting more personal. It was likely random chance that Kari was affected by that particular prank, but she couldn’t be sure. As far as she was concerned, pranks that did nobody any harm were fine. But if Kari hadn’t gone to Jayin, the girl might have cut off her hair.

By the time Jayin had settled in for the night, she resolved to keep her eyes and ears open for someone plotting a worse prank.

• • •

Of course, when the final prank happened, Jayin was nowhere nearby. Serril had offered her the opportunity to go with him and Herald Kerina while they ran errands and then had a picnic. She’d agreed with alacrity, wanting nothing more than to be away from the Collegia for most of a day. Plus, it seemed as though they intended her to play the part of chaperone, making sure the two adults behaved themselves. Well, she certainly made sure they had plenty of opportunities to “behave” themselves; by the end of the outing the two were giggling quite a bit and holding hands. Jayin excused herself with a grin, waving the two off while she headed toward the dorms.

Her grin faded as she saw clusters of students and instructors clearly searching the grounds, calling out to each other that no, they still hadn’t found number three, and yes, they were still looking. Jayin found herself even more grateful that she’d been gone all day in the company of reputable adults. She paused, unsure of what she should do next. Luckily for her, Serril and Kerina came trotting back toward her with serious expressions on their faces.

Serril started, “We’ve been drafted and we’re bringing you along. Someone set four goats loose inside the main classroom building, they’ve caught three and are looking for the fourth.”

Jayin said the first thing that popped into her head. “How do you know there were four goats?”

Kerina paused, looked first at Serril and then at Jayin. “That’s an excellent question. The very harried Bard organizing the outside search said there were four. So I’m thinking we should probably check the source, yes?”

Jayin nodded. “This wasn’t me, and I don’t know who it might be. But there’s got to be a reason they think there are four goats, right?”

Serril smiled lopsidedly. “And without you we’d likely have made the same assumption. Come on. I’m sure Ostel’s in the midst of this somewhere. We’ll ask him and get to the bottom of this wild goat chase.”

The Dean was in his office, coordinating the hunt, and looking like a man who wished he was anywhere else. “Serril, Herald Kerina, Trainee Jayin. Why are you not out looking for the last goat?”

Serril said, “My Trainee asked a rather useful question. How do you know there are four goats?”

Ostel paused, then sat down heavily in his chair. “We caught three of them, and each had a numbered cloth around its neck. The kind you usually see in goat herds, the better to track them and make sure you’ve gathered them all. The cloths said one, two, and four.” He put his face into his hands for a moment, then looked up. “We’ve been fooled, haven’t we?”

Kerina looked to Jayin. “You were with us all day, and you told us you weren’t involved in this. Why did you ask about the number of goats?”

Jayin shrugged, uncomfortable in a room with the Dean of the Healer’s Collegium watching her rather intently. “I heard stories, while I was traveling with my family. Practical jokes involving pigs or goats, mostly. Animals you’d have trouble catching, so it’d be easy to assume you missed one.”

Ostel raised an eyebrow, a feat Jayin desperately wished she could copy. “From everything I’ve heard, you’ve not been involved in any of the pranks here. I trust Serril as I trust few others, and I’ll admit I wondered if he’d made a mistake with you when all this started. I’m very glad to be proven wrong, and I owe you both an apology.” He sighed as he stood up. “I’ll go and start rounding up the students and faculty. We know who the culprit is, but we hadn’t gotten around to questioning him. Herald Kerina, may I prevail upon you to use Truth Spell on our guilty party?”

At her nod, Ostel started toward the door, only to turn around and say, “Serril, Trainee Jayin? Please stay here. You’re not in trouble, but no sense in adding to the turmoil, especially because one of your classmates, Trainee Erran, is our culprit. Brone’s been in an apoplectic fury ever since that came out.”

As soon as the others left, Serril whistled. “Now I’m doubly glad you were with us today.” He paused, and added, “Even though you did nearly everything in your power to throw the two of us together without your supervision.” He winked at Jayin, who sighed in fond exasperation at her mentor.

• • •

The day after the goat hunt, all the students and staff were called into the refectory, as it was the only place big enough for everyone in the Collegia. The deans announced that there would be no more pranks, and that anyone found responsible would suffer the gravest of consequences. Ostel stepped forward at that point, and explained that Trainee Erran would be made to care for the three goats for a full year as penalty both for letting them loose in the halls and for the damage they’d done. Unspoken was the part where nearly everyone in the Collegia had wasted marks searching for a nonexistent goat. Jayin quickly looked around, but Brone was nowhere to be seen—a surprise, given Erran’s actions, but she guessed the Healer had dropped his Trainee like a hot coal.

And then Herald-Captain Kerowyn stepped forward and suggested with a steely glare that all of the Trainees might want to find themselves something to do for the rest of the day, so as to keep out of trouble.

So Jayin found herself outside in that very same oak grove where everything had started, with Jord, Kari (who’d decided to keep her green hair “for a while”), Timms, Marti, and Winna. Jayin juggled, reflecting that not even three weeks had passed in a haze of pranks, chaos, and vigilance. The others watched for a time, then spent some of it recounting the pranks they’d pulled or seen pulled, some of which surprised Jayin. Timms had conspired with the refectory workers on switching the forks and spoons, while Winna shyly admitted she’d been responsible for the jester heads, with the rest of their group expressing appreciation at their antics.

They then moved on to speculating what made Erran pull that final prank, since none of them had been able to talk with him since he’d been caught. The goats had been bought from a herder just outside Haven, who had confirmed there were only three, and who had let the coin overwhelm his common sense. Timms speculated Erran couldn’t have known how destructive goats could be, given his upbringing. Jord simply shrugged and blamed it on a need to outdo everyone else.

But soon silence fell, and the only sounds in the grove were the wind through the treetops and the steady pat-pat-pat of the balls falling into and leaving Jayin’s hands. Jayin looked at her friends and smiled. They’d been through some very interesting times these past few weeks, and she was glad of their company.

Which lasted until Kari said, “I’m bored.”

Shin’a’inagins

Mercedes Lackey and Larry Dixon

The Shin’a’in cousins Edris and Kenlan shena Ne’vor’ison were not riding war steeds. They were not even riding good trail horses. In point of fact, they were riding scrubs, a couple of horses deemed not even worth selling out of the clan. They weren’t bad horses by the standards of most people, but by Shin’a’in standards they were the sort of utility equines you gelded immediately and assigned to the shepherds and herdsmen, because no one else wanted them.

Not that either of them minded. So what if they weren’t war steeds? So what if they weren’t sweet-gaited pleasure horses? They were good hacks. They got the job done. And really, war steeds would be wasted on the two of them. They weren’t fighters, they were herders, and they only needed horses that were “good enough.”

The job at the moment was taking a string of cargo horses laden with Aldostani goat fleeces to the Shin’a’in trade city of Kata’shin’a’in, which might have been the easiest job in the clan, apart from the inconvenience of having to sleep two in a travel tent. No one was going to steal those fleeces; no one but a handful of very secretive Shin’a’in craftsmen knew that one of these things was worth fifty sheep fleeces. And even if they did know, they’d never be able to sell stolen fleeces for much of anything, except to those very same, very secretive craftspeople. Who would know they were stolen . . . and people trafficking in stolen goods did not fare well in Kata’shin’a’in.

Which is what led to Edris and Kenlan being on the road to Kata’shin’a’in on this early summer day. They weren’t fighters in the strictest sense, although like every Shin’a’in old enough to go out in the grasslands alone, they were competent with weapons. They weren’t hunters, though they could help feed themselves and the others. They weren’t craftsmen, who could evaluate trade goods if they were offered in lieu of coin. But they could stick on the back of a scrub, help guard the pack train (which mostly meant guard it from predators), and generally make themselves useful. In Kenlan’s case, that meant he was the camp cook. In Edris’s case . . . well, he was good at making up tall tales, had an excellent singing voice, and could play the one-stringed fiddle, bone flute, and hand drum, so he was welcome at just about any campfire and on the trail too. Riding the Plains was boring; it helped to have someone to enliven the silence when the wind fell with a good tune.

It was also true that they were catalysts for mischief for each other. They had progressed from childish “Watch me do this!” into the barely-more-mature realm of “You know what’d be funny?” in the past few years. The people of the plains generally admired a good prank, so long as whatever was broken was mended well enough afterward, and by now their skills at apology were as good as their horsemanship.

Once they arrived at their destination, the pack horses would be sold as well as the fleeces. Ne’vor’ison was a small and unpretentious clan. While they did breed horses along with their special goats, as every Shin’a’in clan did, they kept to breeding sturdy pack horses from a long-ago offshoot of the war steed lines. What few war steeds they needed were bought or traded for. No one envied the Clan of the Long-Eared Hare, though no one derided them either. It was a good position to be in: a target for no one and universally considered “practical and reliable.”

The Plains stretched around them as an endless sea of knee-high grass, broken only by the distant hazy dark green lines that marked spring-fed watercourses. The sky above was a blue bowl marked with skeins of thin white clouds that predicted no change in the pleasant weather. A keen nose–and most Shin’a’in were blessed with such a thing–would pick up the faint scent of wildflowers on the breeze amid the scent of warm grass.

Kenlan was only listening to Edris with half an ear because he’d already heard everything Edris was babbling about before. This would be Edris’s first visit to Kata’shin’a’in, the big trade city on the edge of the Dhorisha Plains, although it was Kenlan’s fourth. Edris was full of all the things he thought he was going to do while the trade chief negotiated the sales of fleeces and horses. Kenlan knew he was most certainly not going to be doing most of those things he was yammering about, because Edris’s belt pouch was as empty as Kenlan’s was.

What was going to happen was they would pitch their tents in the huge and ever-changing encampment reserved for the Shin’a’in. The trade chief would go make a courtesy call on his regular customers to let them know he had fleeces for sale. Someone—probably the caravan master because he held the purse strings—would go replenish their food supplies, and Kenlan would set up a proper cookfire and camp kitchen. A rotation for camp guards would be determined while the trade chief was gone, so their little encampment was never left unattended, and everyone would get a chance to go into the city if they chose. Kenlan would choose only to visit the House of the Star-Eyed to pay his respects, as was customary, and would probably venture no farther than the edge of the encampment itself. Until the fleeces and the horses were sold, he didn’t even have the copper bits to buy so much as a snack, much less buy drinks at a tavern or purchases at a stall or store.

The good thing was that the encampments were right next to the racecourse, and the races were free for anyone to watch, so if he got tired of cooking and napping, he could watch those for nothing. The big money at the racecourse came from the betting (which he would not do) and the sale of winning horses (which he certainly would not have). It would have been futile as well as foolish to try to keep people out, so instead, crowds were encouraged to drive up those bets and auction prices. Because in a nation of horse breeders, the clans of Se’ve’la, Argo’i’tin and Fala’devor’i’an bred racehorses as famous as the war steeds, and even one of their culls was worth quite a bit of money to outclansmen. That ensured that the races were very much worth watching.

Edris kept on babbling about the women he was going to impress, the things he was going to buy, and the winning bets he was going to place, and Kenlan was tired of interjecting “with what money, exactly?” so he just let Edris natter on while he made appropriate noises in the pauses, unless the pause went on long enough that it appeared Edris was expecting an actual answer.

One of those pauses occurred just as the cliff wall that marked the perimeter of the Dhorisha Plains came into view as something other than an elevated gray line on the horizon.

Quickly, Kenlan reviewed the words he’d only been half listening to and gathered that Edris had expressed incredulity that Kenlan had said nothing about the women of Kata’shin’a’in.

Kenlan shrugged; “What’s there to say? You’re likable enough—we both are—but we aren’t as handsome as we like to think, and likable people with jingle in their pouch are easy enough to come by. We can’t afford the drink it’d take to get women interested in us. If you want to find an outclan sweetheart of our blood, you’d need to come here in the fall, which means you’ll have to go with a clan other than ours. Most of the encampment this time of year will be traders in horses, fleeces, and things that were crafted over the winter, with no time for mucking about. The few women with free time there will be mercs, of the sort that could take you in a fight with a hangover and one arm in a sling, and if they took you to bed, they’d probably break you in half. There are plenty of joy-girls in the city itself, but they cost money, which, I have repeatedly pointed out to you, you don’t have. And as for the women who are not joy-girls, well, we don’t mess with city folk. City folk have entire herds of family in Kata’shin’a’in and . . . let’s just say you don’t want to be ambushed and beaten by twenty people who think you insulted their daughter, because the City Guard won’t help you.”

“I wouldn’t mind being broken in half a little,” Edris snarked. “Strong women impress me.”

Kenlan just snorted. “You say that now. We don’t have a Healer with us. Which means if you get hurt while we’re here, either you do a lot of favors for one of the clans that does have a Healer along, or you suffer, because Healers in the city cost money that you don’t have. And I don’t have, either.”

Edris finally fell silent, his petulant expression saying what his mouth did not–you are such a spoilsport.

Kenlan was just happy for the silence. And as the silence lengthened, one horse after another in the train raised its head, took deep breaths, snorted, and picked up its pace a good bit. The riding horses already knew what they were smelling–the city, which meant rest, and a good feed of grain, and the chance to laze about until the return trip. The pack horses didn’t know about Kata’shin’a’in, but they smelled the presence of more horses, and they took their cues from the riding horses.

Kenlan sighed with relief. They were going to make it to the bottom of the cliff by noon. That meant they’d arrive in the camp well before sundown, which would make setting up the kitchen ever so much easier.

• • •

The less said about the trip up the switchback trail that led to the top of the cliff and the purely Shin’a’in side of Katashin’a’in, the better. Kenlan supposed if you were new to the view, it was probably impressive–for the breathtaking vista, at least. There were vertical things here--buildings, posts, tall tents—and anything that stood vertically was automatically a novelty to those who lived on the Plains, which was just endless variations upon “flat.” The Dhorisha Plains were grass as far as the eye could see, and much farther than that; from here you couldn’t see even a quarter of the way to the ruins at the center of the Plains. The grass was only broken up by the watercourses that crisscrossed it, some fed by springs, some by the rivers above the Plains that cascaded down in waterfalls that varied from trickles to torrents. Two of those could be seen from the trail, bracketing it at about two leagues away to the left and five at the right. But Kenlan had seen it all before, and he concentrated mostly on a mental list of what he’d ask the caravan master to get to feed everyone.

Thanks be to all the gods, however, the view kept Edris gawking. He clung in fear to the pommel of his saddle, determined not to show it. Like most Shin’a’in who hadn’t had an opportunity to leave the Plains, height was not a concept he was familiar with. Halfway up the cliff face, and they were about as far from the ground as most birds he was familiar with; in fact, a couple of bustards soared past at eye-level, causing Edris’s eyes to pop.

It was a long–and surprisingly difficult–ride. For the horses, certainly, who were having to climb a continuously upward-slanting trail, with no real place to stop and rest. The best the master could do for them was to pause every so often and allow them to get their breath. But it was hard for the riders as well, who were canted forward in their saddles at an angle they almost never rode naturally. Seldom-used muscles began to protest faintly after they’d made about a dozen switchbacks, and by the time they finally reached the trailhead at the top, those muscles were in full-throated outcry. And the first thing each of the riders did as soon as they were on flat earth was to dismount—painfully—and lead their horses off the trail so others could do likewise.

And now Edris’s eyes popped all over again, because the permanent all-clans encampment was not like anything he had seen in his lifetime.

Unlike the Plains, where wood was precious, the land beyond Kata’shin’a’in was rich in trees. As Kenlan knew, because he had asked, these seemingly vast timberlands to the north of the city were not wild forests, but a carefully cultivated and ever-renewable resource in which every tiny plant, from tender strawberries to ancient trees that were only on the rarest of occasions cut, was tended to and accounted for—and replanted whenever a plant was cut down, died out, or was taken. Kata’shin’a’in worshiped the Star-Eyed, chiefly, and the Star-Eyed was not backward in punishing those who abused the land and its creatures. In fact, it was considered a sacred duty for Her worshippers to be custodians of the lands they traveled, and tending to trailside plants and camps was akin to a prayer.

And because of that abundance of timber, the permanent camp was an orderly array of radial wooden structures, each of them not unlike a gigantic version of the Shin’a’in round tents. The “floor” of the structure they approached now was hard-packed, sandy earth. There was a single entrance in the east, out of the prevailing wind, and the roof ended just about the length of a man’s forearm above the ground. In summer, this allowed a cooling current of wind to come in at the bottom and leave through the smoke-hole in the top. And in winter, snow blocks would be cut and stacked around the bottom to waist-height to keep that wind from stealing the heat that built up inside. In all seasons, the roof kept the worst of the weather off, and in winter, cut fodder stacked for storage served double duty up there as a layer of insulating thatch. They would be pitching their travel tents inside this thing, and for tonight, all the horses would be in here with them. Only when the caravan master had discovered which corrals were empty and available would they be moved.

Of course, their arrival was anything but a surprise, since the lookouts on the top of the cliff had been aware of them as soon as they emerged from the haze of distance down there on the Plains. So the Camp Master was waiting for them and led them to their assigned structure, which was already stocked with firewood and fodder,and even had a small fire going so Kenlan wouldn’t have to make one. Heaps of long fir needles awaited their pleasure to make into pads under their blanket-rolls. None of this was free of course; the caravan master would pay for it all before they departed. But their clan was known, and would be allowed to let the fees ride until they sold what they had brought.

Edris gawked like a child until Valtis, their caravan master, led his horse up to the lanky fellow and smacked him (lightly) on the side of the head. “Take your beast, mine, and Kenlan’s and tend to them.” He didn’t have to point out that the picket line was on the side opposite where the firewood had been stacked; it was pretty obvious, since the rope had been dyed a bright yellow for visibility, and there was a lot of stacked, cut grass for fodder in front of it, and big barrels of water on either end.

Before Edris could object, Kenlan thrust his reins into his cousin’s hands and asked, “Who’s going for food?”

“I am,” Valtis said, and Kenlan quickly recited the brief list of things he would need for the next few days. There was still enough food in their baggage, plus the hares—the same sort of long-eared ones their clan was named for—they had shot that day, to make a decent supper for them all. Goddess knew there was no lack of them on the Plains. Valtis recited the list back to him, then left immediately to catch the food markets while they were still open. There would be markets open all night, but the only food in them would be cooked. The night markets were mainly for those successful enough in their trading to buy things other than necessities.

While Edris got stuck with tethering the horses to the picket line, removing their tack and burdens, rubbing them down, and making sure their leather buckets were full of water, Kenlan hauled all the kitchen supplies and cooking stuff to the fire, built it up, and started on the business of making flatbreads.

By the time the caravan master returned, it was just sunset, the travel tents were all up, and Kenlan had the makings of a good supper for everyone–flatbread, thinly sliced rabbit skewered on stalks of sourgrass, sourgrass tea, and handfuls of dried mushrooms he’d restored by soaking in water, then skewered with the rabbit. In addition to what he’d asked for, the caravan master brought with him the unexpected treat of enough strawberries for everyone to have a few.

By this time as well, someone had hung the clan banner on the outside of the shelter. This was a rather more modest version of the man-tall one that was displayed when clans met on the Plains for festivals, trading, and socializing. It featured a lively hare dancing on hind feet painted on a stretched and cured goat-hide, with brightly colored wool tassels dangling from the horizontal supports. The Clans were serious about the vibrance of their dyes, and they were kept uniform across the Clans, which always had a show of solidarity by the outermost tassels being the golden color of summer afternoon on tallgrass. Faded dyes were a sign of poverty, and so the gifting of dye was a way for Clans to show they cared about each others’ well-being—or at least the appearance of it. Clans that intermarried often tended to have similar colors.

After that climb, they were all feeling sore and weary, including Edris. The food vanished, and so did Kenlan’s clansmen. With no real need to set a guard, they were all going to take advantage of a solid night of sleep. Kenlan was the last of them to go, taking the time to clean up, and finally setting a pot full of water, oats, and dried berries to cook overnight in the coals and ashes of the fire. Only then did he stumble to the travel tent in the light from a single lantern hung beside the entrance. Edris was already asleep. Mercifully, he did not snore.

And Edris had done him the very great favor of making a nice, thick bed of fragrant needles for him, laying out the bedroll on top of it. He’d even made sure none of the needles would poke into his cousin to disturb his rest by laying the waterproof, tightly-woven canvas bedroll cover between the needles and the blankets.

Kenlan immediately forgave him for chattering like a magpie all day, and he was asleep as soon as he had rolled himself up in his blanket.

• • •

As it happened—and probably precisely because their pack horses were steady creatures, as disinclined to take fright or offense as it was possible for a horse to be—the corrals they had been given were right next to the racecourse. And since Edris had no money to spend–though his mind was abuzz with half-baked plans to make some money—he volunteered to look after the horses so the others could go off into the city. He wasn’t alone in that, because one of Kenlan’s friends named Madrin also volunteered, but it was an easy job once they got all the horses into their two designated pens. One pen held the animals for sale, clearly designated as such by the red-dyed rope tying the gate to the gate-posts. Corrals for Shin’a’in personal beasts had undyed rope holding them together. Although it was well known that offers could be made on someone’s personal animal, it was equally well known that you should do so with the expectation that very few Shin’a’in were willing to part with their riding mounts.

I would, Edris thought wistfully. Then had second thoughts. What would I ride home on? I don’t think Kenlan would take me up as a double. That was the problem with his ideas. They started out looking strong, and fell over at the least little push.

But once the horses were settled and he and Madrin had hauled food and water to them from the common fodder piles and the well, at least there was plenty of time to watch the races.

The course had been laid out as a kind of U-shape; Edris judged it to be about eleven furlongs altogether. It must have been here a good long while, since the barriers were a pair of good, thick, U-shaped hedges, something that wouldn’t hurt a horse that shouldered into them. Bettors were on the inside of the U, mere spectators on the outside. When the races stopped so both participants and bettors could get something to eat and drink, Madrin made a face at the tasty aromas coming from clever little portable carts.

Edris interpreted that expression correctly. “Go get something to eat,” he told his clansman, who was not at all backward about taking that invitation. Edris was hungry too, but not yet hungry enough to be particularly eager about more flatbread with spiced chickpea paste, with, at best, sourgrass tea, which would be all Kenlan would be making until they sold some horses.

Instead, he leaned up against the corral, and one of the pack horses ambled over to stand next to him, with the fence between them. He reached up to rub her nose; she was one of the ugliest things he had ever seen. A red roan, with big joints, a jug head, generally moving, on the trail at least, at a loose amble. But something about those racing horses had caught her attention. She’d stood at the fence the entire time they were running, as enraptured—actually, probably more enraptured—than any of the bettors. They were focused on money to be made. She was focused on the racers.

“You like watching your cousins, eh, kecha?” he asked her. Absently, she butted him gently with her muzzle. Like all Shin’a’in horses, even the pack horses were raised with love and care and as a result were as sweet-tempered as anyone could ever ask, and this one was no exception. Her unimaginative name was “Red.” I wonder what she thinks about when she’s watching the others fly around that course?

But before his thoughts could wander any further, Madrin came back, and it was his turn to go for food. Which was, as he had figured, flatbread and spiced chickpea paste. He accepted it with a sigh and asked himself why he had thought it would be an adventure to join the caravan this spring.

Well, if nothing else, I can go out in the city and learn some new songs. He might not be a trained, professional rhymester, but no one else in the clan was ever asked to sing twice in a row—

—and that was when it struck him.

And he could scarcely wait for someone to relieve him of his horse-minding duties so he could try his idea out.

The opportunity came much faster than he would have guessed. He had just finished his last bite when Elosha returned from his foray into the city, looking pleased with himself. “So, you found the perfect betrothal gift, eh?” Kenlan asked, probably noting Elosha’s smirk as soon as Edris had.

For answer, Elosha unwrapped a sheathed dagger. The leatherwork was the best Edris had ever seen, and the blade—

“Is that starstone?” he gasped, recognizing the crosshatched patterns in the steel as something that could only have come from sky-fallen iron–known as “starstone” and also as “Star-Eyed’s Gift.”

Elosha smirked again as he tucked it away. “I’m a lucky man,” he just said. “I want her to know I know that.”

“If anyone is worthy of a starstone dagger, it’s Virania,” Edris admitted. The lady in question was noted for her warrior skills as well as her beauty, and although Edris knew he would never have had a chance with her, he still suffered a pang of jealousy that someone else had gotten to her first.

“Eh, with your silver tongue, you’ll do well enough,” Elosha said, clapping him on the back hard enough to make him stagger. “I’ll take over horse watch if you want to go watch the races or something.”

Well, he couldn’t have asked for a better opportunity! “Or something,” he replied, went to the tent and fetched his little hand drum, his tapper, and his bone whistle and quickly made his escape before the caravan master saw he had no work and decided to give him some.

First thing to do, find the competition. Surely in a place this big, there would be songsters and storytellers; he needed to find some and listen to them. Then he’d know if he could compete with them in any way.

About a mark later, he had his answer. By walking the streets nearest the Shin’a’in encampment, he had discovered there were, in fact, storytellers and other street performers and that he was certainly a match for many of them.

But he had also discovered that to perform in the streets, you had to have a thing called a “permit”—a piece of stiff paper you were supposed to display prominently. One of the performers he had been watching had caught sight of his hand drum, and had tipped him off, and the tip was confirmed when he noticed every one of the performers he saw after that did, indeed, display their permit.

Well, so much for that idea. But he wasn’t done yet; he began looking for taverns with open-air tables. That way if he got the stink eye from a server for not ordering, his retreat could be done a little more discreetly than if he was inside.

Once he had located one such establishment—and made sure most of the patrons were fellow Shin’a’in—he cautiously took a spot on the end of a table only half occupied. As he had hoped, the others hailed him, asked for his clan, nodded approvingly, and then went on with their conversation. That was fine; he was patient, and this was going to take some waiting.

The server left him alone, and eventually after someone finished a not-very-funny story that hadn’t gotten as good a reception as the teller had probably hoped, the teller looked around for someone to scrape the jeers of his fellows off on. “What about you, stranger?” he asked, with just a touch of belligerence. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

And that was exactly the opening Edris needed. “Well,” he said modestly, “There was that time—”

Now the “no shit, there I was,” story Edris told had absolutely nothing to do with the stranger’s story. But it was pretty funny, and it had the added benefit that Edris, and not someone else, was the butt of the joke. The roars of laughter from his brand-new friends and the people at the two nearest tables were tasty stuff, but tastier still was the pitcher of ale someone bestowed on him.

From there it was an easy step to becoming the tavern storyteller—and even better, once the server had told him he didn’t need a “busking” permit to play on tavern property—to become the tavern’s all-around entertainer. He even had a neat trick up his sleeve in the matter of his “tapper,” which was an invention of his own that allowed him to prop his hand drum against his ankle and do a pretty respectable job of drumming alongside his flute playing. No one had ever seen anything like that, so even if his playing hadn’t been good, he’d have been a marvel. Someone who could play two instruments at once! Sensation!

He could have staggered back to the camp roaring drunk, he was offered so much to drink, but instead, he just allowed himself to get to the point of “convivial” without impeding his storytelling. And he cut himself off as the tavern’s water clock showed midnight, and ambled back to the camp unaided, but with a profound feeling of self-satisfaction. And because he had been so modest in what he accepted for his services, they’d been kind enough to fill a waterskin to bursting with ale to take back with him.

• • •

A waterskin entered the tent, thrown down onto Edris’s bedroll, followed by Edris. Kenlan–who had been decently asleep, sat up so fast he almost brought the tent down. “The hell, Edris!” he snapped, through a fog of sleep. “Where have you been?”

“Singing and tale telling and drinking,” Edris replied, slouching himself down on his bedroll. “Mostly singing and tale telling, though. I didn’t forget you, either. Want a drink?”

Uh . . . actually I do. Kenlan picked up the skin, unstoppered it, and sniffed. Not wine, but good ale, which was not going to be improved by spending a night in a waterskin. I should make sure none of this goes to waste. He took two long pulls as Edris stretched out with a sigh of satisfaction.

“See? I remembered you, cousin.”

“You did, and I am grateful.” And he was, of course. After days on the trail with nothing more exciting to drink than sourgrass tea, this was certainly welcome. He took another couple of long drinks from the skin, and began to feel the effects. “Perhaps I should share this,” he said cautiously.

“You do that, cousin,” Edris replied, voice muffled as he rolled up in a blanket. “Sleep calls.”

• • •

The pack mare Edris had noticed yesterday and told Kenlan about was acting . . . very oddly. Not as in “this horse is sick or distressed,” odd, but as in “this horse is displaying a lot more intelligence than she should” sort of odd.

After watching the races all day yesterday, she seemed to have gotten it into her head to imitate what she saw. When the riders lined up their horses at the start of the course, she lined herself up with them—or at least, as well as she could. And when the big bullwhip cracked to start the race, she leaped off as well.

But her problem—and she was showing growing frustration with this—was that the other stolid pack horses in the corral wouldn’t get out of her way so she could have a good run. She expressed her frustration with squeals, little half-rears, and nips, but all she got for her pains was to be shouldered aside by several others. Still, she kept coming back to that “start” position to wait for the next race.

There happened to be an empty corral next to the one with the pack horses in it, and operating on the principle that “it’s easier and quicker to apologize than to get permission,” Kenlan finally moved her over to it. At the least this would cut down on the sparring and borderline fighting she was causing. At the most . . . at this point, watching her was more interesting than watching the races.

She trotted into the new corral with her head high and her tail flagged and a look in her eye that seemed to say well finally someone understands! And sure enough, she lined herself up again at the start of the next race, and when the whip cracked, she was off like an arrow from a bull-killing bow.

He watched her in absolute astonishment as she raced around and around the corral with one eye on the racecourse in the distance, and only when the first of the racers emerged from the hedges to cross the finish line did she pull up. Not in the least lathered. Not in the least winded.

Looking very, very pleased with herself.

“Huh,” he said aloud. Then, addressing the mare, “Red, I think you are crazy.”

She snorted at him, and flipped her tail, then lined up at the “start” position again.

He watched her repeat her actions three more times—each time looking not much more tired than she had when she started—when Edris turned up, accompanied by an older man dressed in a combination of Shin’a’in and townsfolk clothing. Before Kenlan could ask who the stranger was, Edris hailed him.

“Cousin! This is one of my patrons from last night! Kenlan, this is Lorash shena Liha’irden. Lorash, my cousin Kenlan.”

Patrons? He must mean one of the fellows that were buying him drinks last night. Kenlan gave the stranger the clansman-to-clansman salute of clasped and released forearms with a friendly nod, wondering what had brought the man here in the morning. From the skiving knife and strop at his side, he was a leatherworker. From his clothing, he was a master leatherworker, and the knife was nothing more than a symbol of his profession. They didn’t have hides for sale, and they certainly weren’t going to sell any of the packhorses to be skinned!

“I came here to warn your young cousin not to venture to try his luck as a songster outside the confines of the Lucky Duck, but it seems he already knew that,” the man chuckled. “And I came as well to tell him that Peri shena Al’e’stir’a, who owns the Duck, said he is welcome to entertain for whatever he can get for as long as you lot are here.”

“She isn’t even going to charge me a fee!” gloated Edris. Not charging Edris a fee for entertainment he was providing for free seemed only polite to Kenlan, but then, what did he know? Even after four visits, the ways of the townsfolk were still strange to him.

“But—what is that mare of yours doing?” Lorash asked in astonishment, as once again, the mare lined herself up, just like a racehorse.

“Racing, apparently,” Kenlan replied, and all three of them leaned on the fence to watch the crazy mare run her own, solo race.

“I find myself wordless,” Lorash said, when she’d come to a skidding halt, this time to go help herself to the waterbag hanging on the side of the corral. “How long has she been doing this?”

“Since I put her in here. She was trying to race in the common corral, but the others weren’t having any, so I moved her in here.” He scratched his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it before. At least, not in a pack horse.”

“Well, I’ve seen it in racehorses, but . . .” Lorash pulled at his chin, as if stroking a beard he didn’t have. “Is she at it again?”

She was. With a look of purest determination, she lined herself up and, once again, was off. She’s gotten the hang of the beginning now, too. Digging in, clean start, no scrambling.

Lorash stood there, arms folded over his chest, weathered face creased in a frown of concentration, lips moving silently. After a moment, Kenlan reckoned he was counting under his breath. When the mare pulled up in response to the other horses doing the same, he raised an eyebrow at Kenlan.

He laughed. “Is she crazy?”

But he was dead sober in his reply. “She’s not crazy, she was born to run. And she’s fast. If those people over there knew how fast she was, they’d pay a small fortune for her. And there isn’t a chance in hell they’ll let her in the races.”

“What?” blurted Edris, and “Why?” asked Kenlan.

“Take a look over there. Look at the owners, not the horses.”

Kenlan did. And what he saw was—townsfolk. Not just townsfolk, but ones without a single sign that they had even a drop of Shin’a’in blood in them. Prosperous, even rich, townsfolk. “They make the rules?” he guessed.

Lorash nodded. “They make the rules. And they only allow horses with particular bloodlines into the races.”

“But those bloodlines are all Shin’a’in!” Edris protested. “We’re Shin’a’in.”

“We are,” Lorash agreed. “And it is completely unfair to that mare to have to spend her life hauling packs. It is also unfair that you’ll never get a fair price for her. She could outrun a storm, but if she’s not pretty enough, she’s not worth a brass ring to them.”

“But winning races should make her beautiful!” Edris sulked.

But then Edris’s eyes widened. Kenlan knew that look, and his excitement warmed up. Shenanigans were about to ensue.

“Lorash,” Edris said, as Kenlan braced himself, “I wonder if you’d be willing to give us a hand . . .”

• • •

The mare fretted, but Edris held her head down, firmly. Kenlan felt distinctly sorry for her. Here she was, within mere steps of the racetrack, and yet she wasn’t being allowed to line up on it with the others. She was behaving herself, but it was at a cost; for the first time, there was sweat on her shoulders.

Nerves, I hope, Kenlan thought. This was a risk. This was a big risk. There was the possibility that something would go wrong, and they could be in more trouble than he cared to think about. The hope was that she would keep up with the pack, thus proving she was worth paying much more money for, even untrained for racing, than she’d get them as a pack horse. And Lorash and some of his friends had a betting scheme going on. It wouldn’t even matter if they were disqualified; what mattered would be the result at the auction house.

While Lorash engaged the race officials in some light banter, Edris edged Red closer and closer to the starting line, keeping one eye on the starter and his whip. “Take your mark!” the starter called out, and all the horses on the line tensed, taking their cues from their riders. “Settle!”

And just as he said “Go!” and cracked his bullwhip, Edris planted himself into Red’s cargo-saddle. She didn’t need any more cue than that.

• • •

Holy gods! That was all Edris could think as Red practically left him behind. They’d had a plan. It was obvious Red didn’t care a straw for their plans. It was a good thing that all Shin’a’in, even the youngest, were trained in how to do a running mount, or she’d have left him at the starting line.

As it was, by the time he pulled himself into her saddle she’d gotten the bit between her teeth. Literally. She’d somehow tongued her bit up to the front of her mouth and clamped her teeth down on it, making it impossible for him to use the bridle to control her. All he could do was hang on desperately and pray to the Star-Eyed that Red wouldn’t blunder into another horse and bring all of them down.

Because, even though she had started a good two lengths behind the rearmost of the pack, it was obvious she had no intention of staying in that position.

This was both the most terrifying and at the same time most exhilarating moment of his entire life. Everything narrowed down to a sharp focus: Hang onto the reins and her mane. Cling on as tightly as he could with his legs. Watch as the chaos of horse rumps and legs and tails got nearer and nearer as he felt Red’s muscles stretch and contract under him. Dust in his nose and eyes, and sweat stinging dozens of invisible wounds on his hands and face from the gravel being tossed at him by the hooves of the horses in front of them. Incredulous looks over their shoulders from the other riders. Sweat drops from their horses flying into his eyes.

Thunder of hooves on ground. Roar of the crowd. Some angry-sounding shouts, some encouraging.

And then he was somehow among them. Red had found a gap and eeled herself into it. He was between two angry-looking riders. One of them cut at him with his riding crop. The other jerked the reins savagely to one side, forcing his horse into Red’s shoulder. Pain, as his leg got squeezed between them. Terror, fearing Red would go down.

Then she squeezed her way out of the pack at the turn, somehow diving under the left-hand horse’s nose and grazing the hedge before shooting past the pack like a melon seed spit by a naughty boy.

Now it was the back straight, and there were only three horses in front of her. Somehow she put on more speed. No more dust and gravel now, only sunlight and the thud of hooves on ground and air rushing into his face and Red’s mane lashing him and the crowd, the crowd, howling like madmen.

Two horses ahead, the riders concentrating on each other and not on them. Arms and legs screaming with pain. If I survive this–what a tale! He would be able to drink free on this story for the rest of his life!

Red stretched out her neck even farther and somehow hunkered down in her run.

One rider, who cast a look of alarm back at them. Then Red shot past him.

Then clear track ahead and Red impossibly going faster than he’d ever thought it possible for her to run. With a full quarter of the track still ahead of them, somehow, some way, they were winning! He dared a look over his shoulder to see the rider they’d just passed, falling behind, losing speed, as his horse faded, lacking Red’s endurance.

Then they crossed the line, and Red pulled up to keep from plowing into the crowd of spectators, some angry, some excited, and all of them yelling his name.

He slid off Red’s back and almost fell as his knees gave way. There was a lot of shouting now, some people demanding that he be disqualified, some demanding he be crowned the victor, and none of it mattered. None of it. He clung to Red’s saddle and could not help but notice that she, at least, was in fine fettle; head up, tail flagged, barely sweating, and looking ready for another run.

This was why Lorash was there. He was a respected member of this Shin’a’in community and a prominent craftsman. And he knew the plan; it didn’t matter if Red was disqualified. What mattered was that she had beaten all those other horses into the dirt. The Long-Eared Hare clan was about to see the biggest profit they had ever made in their entire history. They might even unload some of the other pack horses at stupid prices just on the basis that they were related to Red, so they might have some of her speed, and they would surely have her endurance.

Edris just let Lorash do the talking, as Kenlan broke away from the throng throwing questions his way, and took Red off to the side to walk her up and down the end of the racecourse to cool off. It would all work out in the end.

And, oh, what a story Edris would have to tell, of Red the Red Horse—no, Red the Scarlet Horse, that was more dramatic—and his daring ride! “No, even better, Red the Crimson Mare,” he said with a hushed reverence. He’d leave out the conspiracy with Lorash and play up Kenlan as his horse-wise and endlessly loyal friend, and he’d deny any punishments that came from their deeds. By the next moon, Kenlan and Edris would be just two more pack riders trudging away, but until that day, Kata’shin’a’in would definitely know their names, and where to find them.

What could possibly go wrong?

About the Authors

Dylan Birtolo is a writer, game designer, and professional sword-swinger. He’s published multiple novels, novellas, and short stories both in established universes and worlds of his own creation. Some of the universes that he’s created stories in are Shadowrun, Exalted, BattleTech, Freeport, and Pathfinder. On the gaming side, he is a designer with Lynnvander Studios and has created multiple games such as Pathfinder’s Level 20, Starfinder’s Pirates of Skydock, Evil Dead 2, and many more to come. He trains with the Seattle Knights, an acting troop that focuses on stage combat, and has performed in live shows, videos, and movies. He’s had the honor of jousting, and yes, the armor is real. You can read more about him and his works at www.dylanbirtolo.com, look him up on Facebook, or follow his Twitter at DylanBirtolo.

Jennifer Brozek is a multitalented, award-winning author, editor, and media tie-in writer. She is the author of Never Let Me Sleep and The Last Days of Salton Academy, both of which were nominated for the Bram Stoker Award. Her BattleTech tie-in novel, The Nellus Academy Incident, won a Scribe Award. Her editing work has earned her nominations for the British Fantasy Award, the Bram Stoker Award, and the Hugo Award. She won the Australian Shadows Award for the Grants Pass anthology, co-edited with Amanda Pillar. Jennifer’s short form work has appeared in Apex Publications, Uncanny Magazine, Daily Science Fiction, and in anthologies set in the worlds of Valdemar, Shadowrun, V-Wars, Masters of Orion, and Predator. She’s been a freelance author and editor for over fifteen years after leaving a high-paying tech job, and she has never been happier. She keeps a tight schedule on her writing and editing projects and somehow manages to find time to volunteer for several professional writing organizations such as SFWA, HWA, and IAMTW. She shares her husband, Jeff, with several cats and often uses him as a sounding board for her story ideas. Visit Jennifer’s worlds at jenniferbrozek.com.

Paige L. Christie is originally from Maine and now lives in the North Carolina mountains. While she is best known for her Legacies of Arnan fantasy series (#1 Draigon Weather), her work can also be found in several anthologies, including Galactic Stew, Witches Warriors & Wise Women, Passages (Valdemar #14), and Boundaries (Valdemar #15). When she isn’t writing, Paige runs a non-profit soup kitchen and food pantry, walks her dog too early in the morning, and is teaching herself to crochet (badly). She is a proud, founding member of the Blazing Lioness Writers. Website: PaigeLChristie.com

Brigid Collins is a fantasy and science fiction writer living in Michigan. Her fantasy series The Songbird River Chronicles and Winter’s Consort, her fun middle grade hijinks series The Sugimori Sisters, and her dark fairy tale novella Thorn and Thimble are available wherever books are sold. Her short stories have appeared in Fiction River, Feyland Tales, and Mercedes Lackey’s Valdemar anthologies. Sign up for her newsletter at www.brigidcollinsbooks.com/newsletter-sign-up/ and get a free copy of Strength & Chaos, Mischief & Poise: Four Cat Tales, exclusively available to her subscribers!

Ron Collins is the bestselling Amazon Dark Fantasy and Science Fiction author of Saga of the God-Touched Mage and Stealing the Sun, a series of space-based SF books. He has contributed hundreds of stories to premier science fiction and fantasy publications, including Fiction River, Pulphouse, and several editions of the Valdemar anthology series. His work has garnered a Writers of the Future prize and a CompuServe HOMer award. His short story “The White Game” was nominated for the Short Mystery Fiction Society’s 2016 Derringer Award. Find current information about Ron at typosphere.com.

Brenda Cooper writes science fiction, fantasy, and the occasional poem. She also works in technology and writes and talks about the future. She has won multiple regional writing awards, and her stories have often appeared in Year’s Best anthologies. Brenda lives and works in the Pacific Northwest with her wife and multiple border collies, and can sometimes be found biking around Seattle.

Dayle A. Dermatis is the author or coauthor of many novels (including snarky urban fantasy Ghosted and YA lesbian romance Beautiful Beast) and more than a hundred short stories in multiple genres, appearing in such venues as Fiction River, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, and DAW Books. Called the mastermind behind the Uncollected Anthology project, she also edits anthologies, and her own short fiction has been lauded in many year’s best anthologies in erotica, mystery, and horror. She lives in a historic English-style cottage with a tangled and fae back garden, in the wild greenscapes of the Pacific Northwest. In her spare time she follows Styx around the country and travels the world, which inspires her writing. She’d love to have you over for a virtual cup of tea or glass of wine at DayleDermatis.com, where you can also sign up for her newsletter and support her on Patreon.

Larry Dixon is a renowned fantasy artist and novelist. The husband of Mercedes Lackey, he has collaborated on a number of novels with her, including the Mage Wars Trilogy and the Owl Trilogy. As a birds-of-prey rehabilitation specialist, Dixon, along with Lackey, has returned several hundred hawks, owls, falcons, and corbies into the wild. Dixon’s wildlife rehabilitation led to a minor role in the creation of the digital effects for the giant eagles in the Lord of the Rings movies. Dixon took digital photographs of a stuffed golden eagle he had been keeping for its owner. These photographs, along with castings of the beak and talons, were sent to Weta Digital in New Zealand to provide texture mapping for the digital model for Gwaihir and company. His skill at depicting birds of prey has often led to commissions with the United States Military and with Save Our American Raptors, an organization devoted to raptor rehabilitation.

English both by name and nationality, Charlotte E. English hasn’t permitted emigration to the Netherlands to change her essential Britishness (much). She writes colorful fantasy novels over copious quantities of tea, and rarely misses an opportunity to apologize for something. A lifelong history buff with a degree in Heritage, she loves dressing up, touring historical sites, and really good cake. Her whimsical works include the House of Werth series and Modern Magick. Her short fiction has also appeared in Mercedes Lackey’s Valdemar anthologies.

Michele Lang is the author of the Lady Lazarus WWII historical fantasy series, and her fantasy, romance, crime and science fiction short stories have been published by DAW, PM Press, WMG Publishing, and Running Press, among others. She is one of the original contributors to the Uncollected Anthology project, and is currently a Syndicate writer for the quarterly magazine Mysteries, Crime, and Mayhem (MCM). Michele lives on Long Island with her family and loves writing Valdemar and Elemental Masters stories for Mercedes Lackey anthologies! Learn more at michelelang.com.

Fiona Patton was born in Calgary, Alberta, and now lives in rural Ontario with her wife, Tanya Huff, an assortment of cats, and two wonderful dogs. She has written seven fantasy novels published by DAW Books and close to forty short stories. “The Beating of the Bounds” is her 15th story in the Valdemar anthologies and the 13th to feature the Dann family.

Diana L. Paxson is the author of 29 novels, including the Westria series and the Avalon novels, more than ninety short stories, and nonfiction about goddesses, mythology, trancework, and the runes. Many of her novels have historical settings, a good preparation for writing about Valdemar. Her next book will be a study of the Norse god Odin. She also engages in occasional craftwork, costuming, and playing the harp She lives in the multigenerational, multitalented household called Greyhaven in Berkeley.

Kristin Schwengel lives with her husband near Milwaukee, Wisconsin, along with the obligatory writer’s cat (named Gandalf, of course), a Darwinian garden in which only the strong survive, and an ever-growing collection of knitting and spinning supplies. Her writing has appeared in several previous Valdemar anthologies, among others. This is the third story featuring Herald Rinton and his most unusual Bondbird, and Kristin has plans for other stories exploring their perspective on the events of the Winds and Storms trilogies.

Anthea Sharp is the author of the USA Today bestselling Feyland series, where a high-tech game opens a doorway to the treacherous Realm of Faerie. She spends part of her year in sunny California and the rest in the Pacific Northwest, finding inspiration in the lush and ferny forests. Her newest release, The Darkwood Trilogy, features fierce heroes and heroines, magic, Dark Elves, a touch of romance, and an enchanted forest filled with secrets and danger. Discover more at www.antheasharp.com

Stephanie Shaver lives with her family in Washington state, where she is gainfully employed by Wizards of the Coast. With this story she returns to following Herald Wil and company on the road once more. You can find more at sdshaver.com, along with random snapshots of life and the food she’s made along the way.

Dee Shull has an MA in Communication and doesn’t get to use it nearly as much as they’d like, either in or out of their job. In their spare time they read for fun, they discovered an interest in console gaming, and they very much want to find a stable tabletop roleplaying group. They currently live with their partner near Denver, Colorado, though they’ve been yearning for the ocean ever since moving out of California.

A lover of local history and fantastical possibilities, Louisa Swann spins tales that span multiple genres, including fantasy, science fiction, mystery, and steampunk. Her short stories have appeared in Mercedes Lackey’s Elementary Magic and Valdemar anthologies (which she’s thrilled to participate in!), Esther Friesner’s Chicks and Balances, and several Fiction River anthologies, including No Humans Allowed and Reader’s Choice. Her steampunk/weird west series, The Peculiar Adventures of Miss Abigail Crumb, is available at your favorite etailer. Keep an eye out for her new fantasy adventure series featuring an ex-soldier betrayed by his king, a child witch tasked with saving the world, and a rabbit-sized creature who claims he’s a god! Find out more at www.louisaswann.com or friend her on Facebook @SwannWriter.

Elisabeth Waters sold her first short story in 1980 to Marion Zimmer Bradley for The Keeper’s Price. Her first novel, a fantasy called Changing Fate, was awarded the 1989 Gryphon Award. She also edited many of the Sword & Sorceress anthologies. Her favorite real place to get away is an Episcopal convent, while her favorite imaginary place is the Temple of Thenoth.

Phaedra Weldon grew up in the thick, atmospheric land of South Georgia. Most nights, especially those in October, were spent on the back of pickup trucks in the center of cornfields, telling ghost stories, or in friends’ homes playing RPGs. She got her start writing in shared worlds (Eureka!, Star Trek, BattleTech, Shadowrun), selling original short stories to DAW anthologies, and sold her first Urban Fantasy series to traditional publishing. Currently she is working on the Paranormal Women’s Fiction series Ravenwood Hills as well as researching a new era in BattleTech. See more at phaedraweldon.com.

About the Editor

Mercedes Lackey is a full- time writer and has published numerous novels and works of short fiction, including the bestselling Heralds of Valdemar series. She is also a professional lyricist and a licensed wild bird rehabilitator. She lives in Oklahoma with her husband and collaborator, artist Larry Dixon, and their flock of parrots.