Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar v(-102

by Mercedes Lackey

  She started toward it, Rhiannon at her side. Along the way, Rhiannon continued the song of joy.

  “What will happen to him?” Dionne asked.

  Deck smiled. “We’ll let him go far away from you two. Valdemar is uncomfortable for mages now, and he is truly changed. Someone so young should have a second chance.”

  Dionne smiled agreement, and Rhiannon said, “Yes, he should.”

  Bard Breda and Master Healer Gavin both wore solemn faces as they listened to the twins’ story for the second time. They were in a small classroom they’d commandeered for the purpose, Rhiannon and Dionne sitting in student chairs while the two teachers sat at the front. At the end of their story, the girls sat with their hands folded in their laps. Breda was not particularly fooled; they were not as meek as they were pretending to be. In fact, she was pretty sure they’d get up and walk away from their callings if she told them they would have to finish out their years apart.

  The girls twitched and fidgeted lightly, a foot here, a little finger there. Clearly, they thought it at least possible that Breda and Gavin would force them to separate again.

  Breda had decided Gavin deserved to pronounce their judgment. He looked very solemn and serious as he said, “We guess you want to stay together?”

  The twins nodded vigorously.

  “You think your bond is something more than we thought, something worth nurturing and feeding.”

  They nodded again.

  “All right.”

  The two girls screeched jubilantly and held each other, and then seemed to recall they were almost adults and settled back into their seats, still smiling.

  Breda leaned over and whispered in Gavin’s ear. “I’m glad you were right. May we always learn from our students.”

  He leaned over and whispered back. “If we hadn’t separated them, we would never have known how strong that bond is.”

  It was Breda’s turn to speak. “You two sound like magpies. We’re not done, yet.”

  Two faces surrounded by red hair looked back at her, pretending innocence.

  She leaned down and pulled a box out from under her chair. She took out two new uniforms: one scarlet and one bright green.

  The twins held their tongues and reached demurely for the symbols of their new status with reverent hands. Good. Maybe their adventure had helped them understand the new realities of a Valdemar without Herald-Mages. They would have to be part of the solution, as would all of the Bards and Healers and Heralds together.

  Three classes of Valdemar, working together. The Power of Three. She could already hear the refrain of a song building in her head.

  What Fire Is

  by Janni Lee Simner

  Janni Lee Simner has published nearly three dozen short stories, including appearances in

  Gothic! Ten Original Dark Tales

  ,

  Realms of Fantasy

  magazine, the first Valdemar anthology,

  Sword of Ice

  , and the third,

  Crossroads

  . Her latest novel,

  Bones of Fairie

  , will be published in early 2009. Visit her Web site at

  www.simner.com

  .

  All my life, fire has danced through my dreams.

  Orange and red, yellow and white—I hold flames in my hands. They caress my skin and melt on my tongue, sweet as sugar on festival days.

  But only in dreams. I am a farmer’s son. I am no fool.

  I know well enough what fire is like.

  When I was small, I told my parents about my dreams. I thought they’d be pleased. We worshiped the Sun, after all, saying prayers morning and night to the round stone disk above our hearth. (The merchant’s daughter, Cara, said her family had a gold pendant, but I didn’t believe her; no one had that much gold.)

  Yet as I spoke, my father’s face grew hard as the frozen winter fields. “Don’t talk of such things, Tamar. Try to dream happier dreams.”

  It was a happy dream, I thought, but before I could say so, my mother looked at me, and the fear in her eyes turned the memory of bright flames to cold ash.

  “Yes,” I told them both. “Yes, I will try.”

  We cannot hold fire. We cannot taste it. But we can use it.

  Fire cooks our food, heats our rooms, lights our homes. After a cold winter night, fire welcomes us to morning.

  With fire the day—and the day’s work—begins.

  When I was older, I called fire into the waking world.

  One gray winter dawn the year I turned nine, I crouched in the loft where I slept, longing for the warmth I’d held in my dreams. My palms grew hot, and a tiny orange flame sprang to life in my cupped hands.

  From below my father called me down to milk the goats. The flame disappeared in a wisp of smoke, leaving behind only a small red welt.

  This time I told neither of my parents what I’d seen. I told myself they were afraid I’d burn myself. They didn’t understand that I was older now and knew how to be careful.

  I didn’t call the flame back again that day. I longed to, though, even when the welt blistered, even when the blister broke and wept.

  The day begins with fire. And fire begins with Vkandis, our God.

  Every year the Sun’s bright rays light the wood our village priest, Conor, piles on the sacred altar. Every year we carry some of that holy fire home to light our own hearths.

  As the flames burn in our hearths, they reach upward, yearning, always yearning, to return to the Sunlord once more.

  Three days after I first called fire, Cara walked up to me in our village church. “Don’t be stupid,” she said.

  I made sure no one was looking, then stuck my tongue out at her. It was a worship day, and we were supposed to be on our best behavior, but I knew well enough it was girls who were stupid.

  “I mean it,” Cara said. She was nine, too, but she rarely spoke to me. My mother said that was because she was rich and we weren’t.

  I didn’t care what the reason was. I stuck out my tongue again, then ran off to sit with my parents near the back of the church. Soon Conor entered the sanctuary in his brown homespun robes, and the service began.

  Conor’s sermon that day was about witchpowers, and I fought not to yawn, because of course I’d heard it all before: how in faithless realms to the north demon-kin welcomed unholy witchpowers into their lives and rode ice-white demons sent from the coldest depths of Hell. Not here, though—here people with witchpowers were cleansed by holy fires that destroyed the powers, yet left the soul intact. As for demons, only trained priests called on them, and only as needed to protect our people.

  As Conor went on and on, my gaze strayed from the altar fire to my own hands. I remembered the fire that had burned in them, and I wondered if I could call it back again.

  I looked back to the altar. From her seat at the front of the sanctuary—because her family could afford to tithe more than mine—Cara glanced at me. I saw fear in her gaze—the same fear I’d seen in my mother’s eyes when I told my dreams. Cara turned swiftly away, but not before I wondered whether I really was stupid.

  For until that moment I hadn’t realized that something as pure as flame—and hadn’t Conor just talked of cleansing fire?—might be a witchpower, too.

  For a fortnight I wondered whether I should tell Conor. The priest said we must always report witchpowers, in others and in ourselves, for the sake of our immortal souls.

  One spring evening I stood alone in the fields my family farmed. Winter’s ice had melted at last—soon it would be time to plant turnips and carrots and beans—but I barely noticed the mud coating my shoes. I watched as the setting sun turned the clouds to molten fire.

  I cupped my hands together and imagined a tiny orange flame. My palms grew warm; the flame appeared, looking like a bright sliver of evening cloud. It danced over my palms, taking away the evening chill.

  I blew softly, and the flame went out. Could such warmth truly come from an unholy
power?

  Conor would know. I should ask him.

  “Don’t be stupid,” someone said, as if reading the thought.

  I whirled to see Cara trudging through the fields. I’d been so focused on my flame—on my thoughts—that I hadn’t heard her coming. Her shoes and the hem of her embroidered dress were stained with mud, and sweat made her dark brown hair escape its braid to curl around her face. I’d never seen Cara dirty before.

  “I’m not stupid,” I said, even as my heart began to pound. Had Cara seen that flame? Would she tell Conor?

  “You need to be more careful,” Cara said. “It won’t save you in the end, but it’ll at least buy you a little more time.”

  I scowled, even as I realized she had no intention of telling. What if Conor was right, and I was putting my soul in danger by keeping this power secret?

  Cara kicked a stone, splattering mud on us both. “Don’t you dare tell. Promise you’ll be careful, Tamar.”

  “You’re asking me—” I spoke slowly, even as I wondered why Cara had come here at all, “—to keep a secret from one of Vkandis’ priests.”

  Cara nodded soberly. “Even a priest can be wrong.”

  That was heresy, and we both knew it. If I repeated her words to Conor, Cara might be the one who burned, though my mother said there hadn’t been a burning in our village for a long time, not since before Conor had come here.

  Either way, I knew well enough I wouldn’t repeat anything. Yet still I said, defiantly, “I’m not afraid of fire.”

  “I am,” Cara said. “So promise. By Vkandis’ light.”

  You couldn’t break an oath made by the God, or else you wouldn’t only burn in this world—you’d freeze in the next. “You have to promise you won’t tell either,” I said. What was the use in my keeping secrets if Cara only turned me over to Conor herself?

  “I never tell,” Cara said. “How do you think I’ve lived this long?”

  I had no idea what she was talking about. “Promise anyway,” I said.

  Cara bowed her head, like in church. “I promise I won’t tell about your power or mine, not so long as I live.”

  “What do you mean, your power?”

  Cara laughed, a bitter sound. “Didn’t I just promise not to tell?”

  I hadn’t meant not to tell me. I let that go. “And I promise I’ll be careful, all right?”

  Cara nodded sharply. “By Vkandis’ light,” she said.

  “By Vkandis’ light,” I agreed. Then, because Cara had just sworn an unbreakable oath, I carefully scanned the fields—no one else was anywhere in sight—cupped my hands in front of me, and called the small flame back again.

  Cara looked into the light, and her expression turned incredibly sad. “Of course they’re not witchpowers,” she whispered. “Of course we’re not cursed. But they won’t know that, not for hundreds of years.”

  By the fire’s light we tell stories. We pray. We dance. On a cool night, the flicker of flames is like laughter, welcome and warm.

  Yet if we don’t add wood, if we forget to bank the coals, even the strongest fire burns out by morning.

  We were careful, Cara and I. I didn’t call that small flame to my hands again, not even alone in the gray light of dawn, and Cara never, not once, spoke of what she saw. We hardly spoke to each other either, just like before.

  Once a year, Conor gathered all the village children together. He looked at each of us in turn, searching for witchpowers. Yet his gaze was always kind, and it never lingered for long before he declared he saw nothing in any of us save for Vkandis’ own light. For three more years after Cara and I swore our oaths, no one was taken for the fires.

  The fourth year was different. That year a red-robed priest visited our village. Conor called us together as always, but then the red robe himself began looking us over, one by one.

  I told myself everything would be all right—only then I glanced at Cara. Her lips were pressed tightly together, and her face was icy pale. All at once I realized what Cara’s power was; I realized, too, just how much trouble we both were in.

  The red robe’s eyes held no kindness, just a long searching gaze I was sure could see down into our very souls. When he touched Cara on the shoulder, she didn’t even look surprised. She just shut her eyes a moment, then followed Conor to the waiting carriage as the red robe continued examining us. He tapped my shoulder next, just as Cara must have known he would.

  I felt a spark of anger. I could fight the priest. I could kick, scream, maybe even call flame—but Cara’s words echoed through my head. Promise you’ll be careful. I’d sworn a sacred oath, and attacking a red-robed priest wouldn’t be careful at all. It would be, as Cara said, stupid. Stupid enough that the priest might just burn me right there.

  I forced my anger down, dousing it as surely as I’d once doused the flame I’d called into my hands. It’s not a witchpower, I thought defiantly, but I spoke not a word as Conor led me away. I caught a glimpse of my parents, both of them fighting not to cry. I heard Conor whisper, so low none but me could hear, “I’m sorry, Tamar.” Then I entered the carriage. Conor shut the door behind me, leaving me alone in the dark.

  No, not alone. I heard Cara sobbing softly. As my eyes adjusted, she looked up at me, her eyes bright with tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m trying to be brave. Only—”

  “Only you knew what was going to happen.” Her power was invisible, yet no less forbidden than mine. She could see the future.

  Cara nodded, not denying it, but not speaking the nature of her power aloud, even now. “It’s not so bad. We still have some time, I know.” Yet the bleak look she gave me made the carriage seem suddenly cold.

  I had nothing to say to that, so instead I drew her close, not caring that she was a girl. She let me, not caring that she was a merchant’s daughter and I was a farmer’s son.

  “I wish we could have lived in some other time,” Cara said. “There will be miracles in other times. But not for us.”

  Later I learned they often drug the children they take away, but Cara and I were so quiet, the priest saw no need. We didn’t say anything more as the carriage began to move, taking us away from our homes and all we knew. We just held each other in the dark, cut off as we were from the Sun’s bright rays.

  The surest sign of last year’s fire is this year’s bright green field. If flames scour the land one season, new growth sprouts the next.

  There are seeds that cannot grow without fire.

  Twice during our journey the carriage stopped and another child joined us.

  The first was a girl, drugged and bound, who thrashed and moaned as if from bad dreams. Yet once, for just a moment, she opened her eyes and looked up at us. My own eyes were used to the dark by then. I saw how still Cara grew as she returned the girl’s gaze.

  “It’s not your fault,” Cara told her. “Truly it isn’t.”

  I didn’t know what Cara meant, but the girl did. She sighed, closed her eyes, and slid into quieter sleep. The priest didn’t drug her again.

  The second child was a boy, bound only, trembling from head to toe. “It’s all right,” Cara told him. “They won’t hurt you. You’ll be a priest one day. Only try not to speak up in geography class. Nothing good will come of it if you do.”

  The boy nodded, and his trembling eased. Beside me, Cara sat up a little straighter, all sign of tears gone. As the carriage began to move once more, she whispered, “I know now, Tamar.”

  “Know what?”

  Cara’s smile was sad but real. “What I need to do.”

  It was some time before I knew what Cara meant.

  In the meantime we arrived in Sunhame—that great city, said to be designed by Vkandis himself, which I never dreamed I’d see—and were taken to the Children’s Cloister. There I realized one more thing Cara must have already known: that no one meant to burn us, not yet. They meant to train us—to be priests if our studies went well, or else to be servants to priests if those studies went poorly.<
br />
  We still have some time. I remembered Cara’s words, yet still I felt a small spark of hope. Maybe we had more time than Cara thought.

  To my surprise, I enjoyed my studies, even though I’d never been much of a student at the village school. I enjoyed improving my reading and writing. I enjoyed studying Vkandis’ writ. I enjoyed learning my own history and reading glorious accounts of times my people had turned invaders away, or else invaded and claimed some land of their own.

  I learned, too, all the things that priests did. Red-robed priests might take children from their families and black-robed priests might light fires in which children burned, but priests of all colors also defended our borders, looked after the sick, and tended to families who lacked food or clothing. They brought Vkandis’ wisdom to the smallest villages, just as Conor had. And sometimes they spoke with the Sunlord directly, in order to gain wisdom and carry out His will.

  Alone in my small room after evening prayers, I listened for Vkandis’ voice, too, but I never heard it. If I felt any anger at that, I forced it down, just as I’d forced my anger down when the red robe took me away. Instead, I prayed harder, and I kept listening.

  I longed, during those lonely evenings, to call flame to my hands, but I forced that longing away as well. Only in dreams did I set my power free, where none but Vkandis could see.

  No matter that the God never spoke to me; He also never betrayed me to the priests with whom He did speak. I took some hope from that, too.

  Maybe, if I studied hard enough and prayed well enough, the Sunlord would decide to spare Cara and me after all.

  We can put a fire out by smothering it or by mixing it with water.

  Yet it only takes one missed coal to keep a fire alive. Fire will wait, invisible and silent, for tinder or anything else that can catch.