Under The Vale And Other Tales Of Valdemar v(-105

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Aric, you have proven yourself to be both skilled and creative. I have spoken to your parents, and they have agreed to send you to the Collegium. You won’t go alone. You will take with you my personal recommendation. You will be welcomed in courts and merchant houses around Valdemar after your skills have been honed.” Terek gave Aric a scroll tied with a crimson ribbon while the villagers applauded. He patted the boy’s shoulder and gave him a gentle push toward his beaming parents.

  Terek smiled and allowed the power of his trained voice to carry his pleasure as he made his final announcement. “Mari, my dear child, you have proven that you have the skill, the creativity, and the Gift to become a Master Bard. I have spoken to your parents, and you will travel with me, finish out my circuit, and then enter the Collegium as the most esteemed of students. You are what every Bard strives to become and the kind of apprentice every Master Bard seeks. You end my quest.”

  Locked in a vision of the past, Terek could feel his power, his Gift, being torn from him bit by bit. He struggled to bring his considerable will to bear, but this trap was too well laid and too long in coming. He had fallen for it, and this knowledge settled heavy on his heart. All around him, he was vaguely aware that even his hidden companions, Kolan and Pala, Gifted bards both, were locked in Sorrel’s spell. He wondered how the unGifted peasant boy could have become so powerful. As if in answer to his query, a new vision clouded his mind.

  Fleeing through the trees, Sorrel sobbed as his heart broke. His one dream in life, to become a Bard, to show the village he was good enough, was gone. There was nothing left for him now. It was the end. He tripped over a tree root and fell headlong into the dirt. He stayed there, trying to choke off the sobs that threatened to overwhelm him again. He wished he would die.

  No, little master, no. Don’t die. I can help you.

  Sorrel lifted his head, looking through wet lashes into the forest around him, tears smudging his dirty face but the sobs had halted in surprise at the voice in his head. He shuddered as he took in a breath and wondered if he had gone mad.

  Not mad, little master. Far from it. You have found me and I can make all of your dreams come true. Would you like that?

  As he looked around, he felt something smooth and cold under his hand. Sticking up from under a tree root was a glossy black stone. He dug until he could pull it out of dirt. It was a statue, a squat thing just longer than his hand and as thick as his fist. Carved on the front of it was a frowning creature with large eyes and a large mouth with thick lips. On the back, the same hideous creature was smiling, open-mouthed, showing off rows of sharp teeth.

  “Make my dreams come true?” Sorrel marveled at the thing in his hand as it spoke in his head.

  All I need is a sacrifice of blood. Feed me and I will be your slave.

  “Sorrel?”

  It was Aric. Most likely come to tell him of his failure, too. “Here,” he called as he stood up, statue in hand. He waited for Aric to appear. He’d show him the statue, and the two of them would figure out what to do—just as they always did.

  Aric burst into view. He was smiling. Before Sorrel could say anything, Aric grabbed him by the hand, “I did it! I’m going to the Collegium with Master Terek’s recommendation! I did it.”

  Sorrel stared as his friend broke his heart all over again.

  “I’m sorry you didn’t make it, but I was thinking after my training, you could travel with me, anyway. You’re really good on the drum. You could be part of my entourage. I’m going to have one of those I’m sure after I’m done. We’ll still be together and making music!”

  Hot roses bloomed on Sorrel’s cheeks as Aric added insult to injury. Come be part of Aric’s entourage? Become one of Aric’s lackeys? An unfamiliar emotion rose out of the shards of Sorrel’s dream. Hate. Hate for his friend and his good fortune.

  Heedless of Sorrel’s clenching fists and flushed face, Aric had continued on, dancing around his friend, “Maybe they’ll let you come to the Collegium with me anyway. Maybe I can say I won’t do it without you. Or maybe I should just take you with me, and we’ll just see what happens. We’re going to get out of here! Isn’t that great?”

  I need just one blood sacrifice and all your dreams come true. Will you sacrifice him to me?

  “Yes,” Sorrel said and stepped close to the boy lost in his own dreams.

  Aric grinned at Sorrel, not realizing that his friend had not answered him until the first blow came. By then, it was much too late.

  Terek groaned aloud as he watched Sorrel beat Aric to death with the statue. As each blow landed, he felt as if he were being beaten himself. His vision clearing, he saw blood on his hands. Where it was from, he did not know. All around him, he saw people fighting with each other. The heavy drumbeat dominated the sounds of chaos. Sorrel’s voice was strong and overwhelming. Terek could feel the power of it. It was as if Sorrel had a corrupted Gift.

  As if sensing his thoughts, Sorrel looked through the melee of bodies when Terek raised his head, and their eyes met. That one look told Terek everything. This was his fault. He was the reason so many people had died. He had been callous, careless, and mean to a boy who had not deserved it. As the thoughts slammed into his head, Terek realized that they weren’t true thoughts, but the thoughts forced into him by foul magic. Be that as it may, he also knew he was going to die. Still, Terek fought will against will, praying that Kolan or Pala would be able to break the spell.

  Then the tinkling of finger chimes cut through the drowning drumbeat, and a high soprano voice powered by the Gift brought forth a light. The sounds of love and laughter on the music gave Terek the strength he needed to push back against the draining force of the cursed thing in his hands. Sorrel’s beat faltered and Terek, saw why. Mari stood in the doorway of the tavern, and Sorrel stared at her as she sang familiar words of their past.

  You and I together,

  Far from all that ails.

  Young and loved forever,

  And forever we will sail.

  She strengthened her song, singing of childhood days and the innocent love the two of them had once had long ago. Terek could breathe again, and now he brought forth his own voice in harmony with Mari’s. Sorrel’s face hardened once more, and he turned his focus back on Terek, willing the statue to finish its task, but Terek met him, voice to voice, will to will, while Mari sang her own attack.

  The village folk, who had stilled at the first sounds of Mari’s song, now stirred as if waking from a bad dream. Those who could, fled the tavern, limping, bruised, beaten, and bleeding. Mari stepped into the tavern and went over to Kolan and Pala, who had regained their senses. Mari’s finger chimes urged the village folk on as the other two Gifted bards raised their voices to Mari’s, allowing her to lead them in the fight against Sorrel and the evil artifact.

  Terek stood, statue clenched in one fist. He stepped toward Sorrel, whose wide, hate-filled eyes refused to give in. The Bard raised his shaking fist and forced it open to reveal the small statue, a twin to the original one that Sorrel had found in his grief. He showed it to Mari and the others, who turned their voices on it, and all at once the statue vibrated and then shattered.

  As black stone shards flew in all directions, cutting unprotected flesh, Sorrel’s head snapped back, and all the music stopped. His, Mari’s, Terek’s. Sorrel staggered backward, hit the wall behind him, and slumped to the ground. It was only then that the Bards could see that the largest of the black stone shards had taken one last bloody sacrifice by embedding itself in one of Sorrel’s eyes.

  Terek rushed forward and went to his knees, but it was too late. Sorrel was dead, leaving the old Bard with questions and an apology unspoken on his lips.

  Terek sat in his office, staring at the one shard of black stone he had kept.

  “We found the rest of the shards and buried statues at the affected villages. They’ve all been taken care of—except that one,” Mari said from the doorway to his office as she gestured to the one in his hand.


  “I feel I should keep it to remind myself of what my hubris had wrought.”

  “You can’t blame yourself. Not all dreams come true. Sorrel chose his path.”

  “But . . .”

  “But nothing.” Mari stepped forward and held out her hand.

  Terek hesitated before handing it over. “Why did you follow us?”

  She shrugged. “I always wondered why Aric didn’t make it to the Collegium, and I always wondered what had happened to Sorrel. Once you decided this was happening because of you and your past, I realized that I was part of that past and that, perhaps, I could help.”

  “You were right.”

  She smiled. “Sometimes.” She turned, paused, and turned back. “The Herald-Mages are about to do a seeking to find the statue you described from your vision. We know it’s still out there. Want to help?”

  Terek did not say anything for a long moment before he nodded and stood. “Yes. I started this, I should help end it. One last circuit to complete.”

  Chapter 8 - Slow and Steady - Brenda Cooper

  Shay leaned down and filled her fist with fresh earth. It felt cold, and damp, and absolutely awful. She almost opened her fist, almost let the earth drop again. It wasn’t real that she needed it, wasn’t real that she stood in front of her whole village by her mother’s grave with a fistful of dirt. She was going to wake up any minute and hear her mom searching through the shelves in her apothecary for moonflower or homemade tinctures or bandages.

  “No, now. Go on.” The voice belonged to the innkeeper, who had gotten her in trouble for climbing in his barn rafters to watch the horses from Haven just yesterday. Only now his voice was soft and sweet, almost wheedling. “You can do it.”

  She shook her head. She needed to think. It was so hard to think.

  “Shay. Throw the dirt.” the innkeeper repeated, a little more firmly this time.

  She took a close look at her surroundings, the cold hole in the ground just big enough for the slender wooden coffin, the winter-bare trees, and the shivering townspeople.

  She raised her fist above her head, gripping so hard the dirt became a wet, hard ball, bits of it falling through her fingers like everything she knew about life. She threw the mud onto the coffin, watching it smear across the top and stain the clean white pine of the lid.

  She backed up, slowly, one foot at a time, trying not to be noticed, letting others come in and throw their own dirt on her mother. A few adults hugged her as she went. She stiffened, their touches feeling more like fire than help. The children and teenagers ignored her, which was better than usual.

  As she finally got behind everybody and could turn and walk away, the first strains of a funeral song began to fill the air. The song seemed to be for her as well as for her mom. After all, she had to leave. No one would want her here.

  At their house, Shay stopped outside and gazed at the dark windows. Shay wasn’t smart enough to manage all the things her mom did. She could have been her mom’s helper until her mom died, years from now. But there was nobody else in town who would be patient with her.

  She didn’t go in.

  She pulled the kitchen knife she’d hidden from the woodpile and tucked it in her belt, the blade long enough she felt it with the top of her thigh. The water jugs swung easily over her head, but when she shouldered her pack, she had to work to get the whole assemblage adjusted. The water pouches hung on a leather strap sized for her mom, and Shay had to tie a knot in them.

  At fourteen, Shay was nearly her mom’s height, but she was all bones while her mom was soft. Had been soft. She couldn’t remember what she’d thrown into the old pack, but surely it had been the right things. She’d been filling packs for her mom since she was seven, and for the last two years she’d even been allowed to go along when the farm or homestead a call for healing came from was close enough for the trip to be safe. Surely even this new empty person she had become knew what to do.

  Shay turned away from Little’s Town. She didn’t look back, couldn’t bear to look back. No one would notice her missing until after the funeral or even, with luck, after the funeral feast. By then it would be dark.

  Little’s Town sprawled across a meadow, surrounded by more meadow and low hills in three directions. Cold, harvested hayfields alternated with sheep pens, full now since the sheep wintered near town. They were quiet today, huddled together for warmth, heads down as they tried to find fodder in between feedings. Shay went in the fourth direction. Up. The same way her mom had gone, toward a homestead on the top of the cliff that looked down on the town from the north. She wound up a forested path that wasn’t straight up but rather a series of nasty switchbacks with a few good breaks of flat trail. They’d found her mom on one of those trails.

  Cold wind drove at her back, helping her up.

  The sounds of the town faded, replaced by birdsong and the rill of water running thinly down cold stream-beds, just fast enough that only the very edges froze. Her thighs started to hurt, but she drove them up and up anyway. If she could do this climb in summer, she could do it now.

  Her mom would have liked to meet the women from Haven, especially the one in green. The Healer. Healers came through about once a year, sometimes more often, sometimes less. Her mom and the Healers would usually take tea together and talk, maybe sit by the fire if it was winter. Too bad there was no fire here. Shay was getting cold.

  Shay never talked to the Healers, or anyone from Haven. By definition they were the best Valdemar had to offer, and Shay had nothing to offer them. She was always scared she would say the wrong thing. But there had been no tea this time. Her mom had been off getting killed by bandits, and the women had been gone before anyone knew that. No reason to call a Healer for the dead.

  She stopped at the first flat place, looking for signs of struggle. She spotted a few broken twigs by the side of the path and the footprints of the townsmen who had gone looking for her mother, both going up and coming back. Here and there, the mark of a horse’s hoof going toward town.

  The fresh human tracks kept going, so Shay took a long drink of water and followed them. She should eat, she knew she should eat, but she couldn’t remember if she’d brought food. She didn’t want to stop long enough to dip into her pack.

  Night had started lying cold along the trail when she stopped at the next flat place. The signs she’d been looking for were here, even bigger than she’d expected. Bushes lay flat. Footprints went every which way. It seemed tainted by people and hurt. She found a few spots of what looked like black liquid on sticks and rocks. Her mother’s blood. Cold now, gone back to the forest already.

  She’d overheard one of the men say her mom hadn’t been given a chance to fight, but had been killed from behind, and quick. There was nothing for bandits except a pack full of herbs and bandages. They should have left her alive and asked her to help them heal their hurts. It would have been better for them, and her mother would be alive.

  Shay’s pack did yield food: Bread that had been fresh the day before lay squished in the bottom on the pack beside five apples. Shay ate the bread and one of the apples. She should have taken more. Her mom would have patiently helped her lay out what she needed, but no one would talk her through plans any more, help her survive in a world that demanded more ideas than it had given to Shay.

  She felt sure it wasn’t smart to stay here, where she could see her mother’s blood and the tracks and everything, but it couldn’t be smart to keep walking either. Shay looked around for a place to build a bed, careful not to step on any healing plants and careful not to step into anything with thorns, settling for a flat place made soft with old pine needles. She pulled down blue-pine branches thick with cold needles until she had enough to make an even softer spot to lie on, and then twice as many more branches to put over her and hold in some of her body heat.

  She did all of this slowly and steadily, careful to focus on her task.

  She climbed carefully in as the dark took the last of the light awa
y, and she lay still under the boughs, her knife right in front of her in case any night animals came sniffing around. She tucked her pack under her head so nothing could steal it. Tomorrow she’d have to keep going as fast as she could manage and still be steady. More snow could come before winter was over.

  She was going to need something to do. She had tried to help the innkeeper clear dishes, but he had yelled at when she was too slow for him. He’d told her no when she asked to work in the stable, mumbling something about not wanting the horses let out. Her mom had refused to let her try to herd sheep with the other children after they threw rocks at her one day. She knew all of her mom’s herbs, and how to count them, and how to hold a crying child while a bandage went on a knee or a splint on an ankle. Maybe she could pick plants for people and trade them for food. She wondered how far the next town was down the track. Too far for common visiting in winter. She wasn’t too dumb to know that much.

  It took a long time to fall asleep, and then she didn’t stay that way very well. Branches poked her, and the cold found its way through her blanket of needles and poked her in the ankle, and her fingers grew so cold she finally fell asleep with them tucked up between thighs.

  She woke up in time to see the last stars fade. After an apple and some water, she stood and looked at the place her mom had died. For just a moment, the idea of going back down to town seemed better than going up, but there was nothing left in town that loved her except a few of the animals.

  After two candlemarks spent trekking uphill, Shay came to the top of the ridge. If she went right, she’d end up at the homestead, but she didn’t know very much about it. Just that Mr. Crestwell, who owned it, didn’t pay enough for the long trek up. At least that was what her mom had said. So she didn’t turn that way. The path kept going straight along a ridge for a long while, thinner now since it wasn’t used as much as the one between Mr. Chrestwell’s homestead and Little’s Town. She surprised a few deer and a wild pig, but they were all afraid of her, and she was afraid of the pig. She dug roots for lunch, using a hard stick and a rock just as her mom had taught her. She ate an apple, but she was still hungry. Well, there were two more apples, and she could make it the rest of the day on those.