The Demon's Den and Other Tales of Valdemar

by Tanya Huff

  He reminded her of that again as they rode into Halfrest, which was, in point of fact, nothing much more than a group of people trying to carve out an uncertain life. Livestock still shared many of the same buildings as their owners, and function ruled over form. Only the Meeting Hall bore any decoration – graceful, joyful carvings tucked up under the gabled eaves gave some promise of what could be when the townspeople finally got a bit ahead.

  “Because a real village has a Meeting Hall?” Alyise asked quietly as they dismounted.

  He nodded, and turned to greet the approaching men and women.

  They hadn’t had an easy year of it. There had been sickness and raiders and heavy rains then sickness again.

  “We had no Harvest Festival this year,” a weary woman told them, pushing greying hair off her face with a thin hand. “With so many sick, there were few to bring the harvest in, so when the fields were finally clear the time was past. We had little heart for it besides. But there are two pigs fattening, pledged for the festival last spring. One came from my good black sow, and I feel I should be able to slaughter him for my own use.”

  “He was pledged to the village,” an equally weary looking man interrupted.

  “He was pledged to the festival!”

  As there had been no festival, it would seem sensible to give the pig back to the woman who had pledged it, perhaps requiring her to give some of the meat to those in need. But this was Alyise's judgment, and Jors sat quietly behind her, allowing her to make up her own mind with no interference from him. He glanced around the Hall, from the work-roughened and exhausted villagers to the sullen knot of teenagers clumped together by the door. No one looked hungry or ill-used, just tired. They'd been working non-stop for weeks. It was no wonder they'd skipped their festival; all they probably wanted was a chance to rest.

  “I have heard all sides of the argument,” Alyise said at last. “And this is my judgement.” She paused, just for a moment, and Jors had the strangest feeling the other shoe was finally dropping. “The pig was pledged to the Harvest Festival. Have the festival.”

  “But the harvest has been in long since, and...”

  “The harvest is in,” Alyise interrupted, her smile lighting all the dark corners of the room. “I think that's worth celebrating.” Before anyone could protest, she locked eyes with the woman who owned the pig. “Don't you?”

  “Well, yes, but...”

  “The sickness is past. The raiders have been defeated. And that's worth celebrating, too.” The man who had protested the reclaiming of the pig seemed stunned by her smile. “Don't you think so?”

  “I guess...”

  “And the rains have stopped.” She spread her arms and turned to the teenagers by the door. “The sun is shining. Why not celebrate that?”

  Shoulders straightened. Tentative smiles answered her question.

  No one stood against Alyise's enthusiasm for long. Soon, to Jors’ surprise, no one wanted to. The pigs were slaughtered and dressed and put in pits to roast. Tables were set up in the hall. Food and drink began to appear. Musicians brought out their instruments.

  “I'd have thought they were too tired to party,” Jors murmured as half a dozen girls ran giggling by with armloads of the last bright leaves of fall.

  “My mother has a saying; if you don't celebrate your victories, all you remember are your defeats. The food they're eating now won't be enough to make a real difference if the winter is especially hard, but the memories they make, good memories of laughter and fellowship, that could be enough to see them through.” Alyise gestured toward the carvings. “They know joy. I just helped them remember they knew. You know?”

  He did, actually.

  *

  :Careful, Chosen.: Gervis adjusted his gait as Jors listed slightly to the left.

  “You lied to me.” Alyise's Whites were a beacon in the darkness. Which was good, because he didn’t think he could find her otherwise. Except that she was on Donnel and that made it pretty obvious where she was, now he considered it.

  “What did I lie about?”

  “You said that was apple... apple juice.”

  She giggled. “It was, once.”

  “Jack. That was apples jack. Apple jack.” He wasn't drunk. Heralds did not get drunk on duty, even at impromptu Harvest Festivals where the apple juice wasn't. Which he wouldn't have had any of had Alyise not handed him a huge mug just before they left, to toast the celebration and the celebrants.

  Now, the stars spun gently around him, and he suspected that getting the Companions settled for the night would be interesting.

  Fortunately, it seemed that Alyise was less affected.

  “Hey.” He set his saddle down with exaggerated care. “You had some of that too!”

  “Some,” she agreed, the dimples appearing. “But I didn’t drink it as quickly.”

  “We were leaving.”

  “I know. Come on inside.”

  Her hand was warm on his arm. Then it was warm under his tunic. And her mouth tasted warm and sweet. And... Wait a minute. The sudden surge of desire had chased the last of the apple jack muzziness from his head, and he pulled back. His hands, seemingly with a mind of their own, continued working on her laces. It took an effort, but he managed to still them. “I don't think...”

  “What?” She licked her lower lip, the lip he’d just licked.

  He couldn't remember what he’d been about to say. :Gervis?:

  :She's hoping your body’s reaction will shove your ridiculous objections aside.:

  :What?:

  :It was Donnel's suggestion, but it seemed sound. You have made this more complicated than it needs to be, so we have simplified it for you.:

  :You got me drunk?:

  :Are you drunk?”

  :I’m...: He considered for a moment. :No.:

  :Good. Then no one is being taken advantage of.:

  The bunk hit the back of his legs, and he was suddenly lying down holding a soft, willing, body.

  :Help.:

  His Companion's mental voice held layers of laughter. :She will stop if you tell her no, Heartbrother.:

  :I don’t want to tell her no!:

  :We are all aware of that, Chosen. If you don’t want to tell her no, then tell her yes.:

  Alyise was willing, and he was willing, and while the apple jack had relaxed him, he was still fully rational. Alyise was an adult, and he was an adult. And the Companions believed he wasn’t taking advantage of her.

  Jors stared up into smiling eyes, and wanted. “Yes,” he said.

  And that was the last coherent statement he made for a while.

  *

  Jors stood staring down at the pond, watching the early morning sun tease tendrils of fog off the icy-looking water, trying to work the kinks out of muscles he hadn't used for far too long. Alyise was as enthusiastic in bed as she was about everything else, and he'd been hard pressed to keep up.

  He guessed he had been a bit of an ass about that whole position of power thing. Still...

  :What is it, Chosen?: Gervis velvet nose prodded him in the back.

  :I'm still her mentor for another seven months. What if this changes things between us?:

  :You think she will no longer trust your judgement because you have shared her bed?:

  Put that way, it sounded a bit insulting. :Well, no.:

  :Then what is the problem?:

  There didn't seem to be one. Jors leaned against his Companion's comforting bulk and thought about it.

  He wasn't Jennet.

  Alyise was a Herald. That made her responsible for herself.

  Donnel said his Chosen was glad he was a young man.

  They had well defined roles in the villages.

  There was no reason for them not to continue sharing a bed as long as they both remained willing. No reason at all for it to detract from his ability to teach what he knew or learn what she offered.

  Jors grinned. He had other nights like last night to look forward to, days of ch
eerful conversations combined with an enthusiastic welcome to whatever the road ahead might bring, and a high-energy approach to life that definitely got results, since a village-wide party solved a petition about a disputed pig.

  His grin faded as a muscle twinged in his back.

  “Havens,” he sighed as he realized what the next few months would bring, “I'm too old for this.”

  Gervis weight was suddenly no longer a comforting presence at his back, but rather a short, sharp shove.

  The water in the pond was as cold as it looked.

  LIVE ON

  “Are you the young man who wrote that report about Appleby?”

  Heralds didn't tend to grow old. Even in times of peace, they lived lives that lowered the odds of them dying in bed to slightly less than negligible. It seemed that the elderly Herald who'd appeared at Jor's side was the exception to prove the rule. His shoulders were hunched forward, his eyes were red rimmed and moist, he stood with his weight supported on a polished cane, and above the scarf he wore in spite of the heat of a sunny, late spring day, age had pleated his face into a hundred wrinkles.

  “Are you deaf, boy? I said, are you the young man who wrote that report about Appleby! Are you Herald Jors?”

  Age had roughed his voice but not lessened his volume.

  People were beginning to gather, and Jors could see a trio of Companions heading across the field to see what all the noise was about. “I am. I'm Jors.”

  “Who taught you to write reports? Never mind. You leave too much out. That report about Appleby? All apples.”

  “That's pretty much all there is in Appleby.”

  “What? There's no people? No dogs? No cats? No buildings? No apple trees, for pity's sake?”

  “Of course there are, and...”

  “Of course there are,” the elderly Herald snorted. “Why didn't you mention them, then, eh? You mentioned the apples, why not the apple trees?”

  Jors smiled and spread his hands. “They didn't do much.”

  The rheumy eyes narrowed. “Don't get smart with me, boy. I've had my Whites longer than your father's been alive, maybe even your father's father, and there has been a distinct disintegration, no, dispersing, no, erosion of writing ability over the last few years.” He shook a swollen finger at Jors – or perhaps he merely pointed and it shook on its own, it was hard to tell. “Reports used to say things. Give details. Tell stories. They used to bring Valdemar to life. Now it's all apples!”

  Since the older man seemed to be waiting for him to respond, Jors ventured a reasonably sincere, “I'm sorry.”

  “Don't be sorry. Do it right the next time. Honestly,” he muttered, turning and making his way toward the stables. “What are they teaching them when they're in their Greys?”

  Jors watched him go, watched him correcting a lateral drift every six steps or so, and wondered if he should have offered his arm.

  “I see you've met Herald Tamis.”

  He turned to see Erica, one of his yearmates, leaning on the fence, one arm stretched out over the top rail so she could scratch up under Raya, her Companion's mane. “He doesn't like the way I write reports.”

  “As near as I can tell, he doesn't like the way anyone writes reports.” She put a quaver into her voice. “It's all business now, I tell you. No stories.” Then her expression changed. “Raya says we shouldn't mock him.”

  “I wasn't.”

  She smacked his shoulder with her free hand. “You would have.”

  “Who is he?” Jors asked, climbing up onto the top rail so he could pay a similar attention to his own Companion. Who seemed to be sulking.

  :I was not sulking,: Gervis protested, pushing against Jors' leg almost hard enough to knock him off the fence. :You were ignoring me.:

  :I wasn't.:

  :I had an itch.:

  Jors rolled his eyes as he pushed a hand up under the silken mane and began to scratch. :Better?:

  :Yes.:

  “Tamis is a historian,” Erica told him. “He has rooms in behind the library – I think they used to be storerooms until he took them over. He's working on the history of the Heralds.”

  “Why have I never met him?”

  “Because you're never here.”

  Gervis snorted. :She's right.:

  :I don't like cities. Circuits have to be ridden. I might as well ride them.:

  :We.:

  :We,: he repeated apologetically. And then something occurred to him. “Don't histories usually get written after the fact?”

  Erica shrugged. “It's an ongoing history.”

  “Let's hope.”

  Tamis had reached the stables and dealt with the heavy door by pounding on it with his cane until someone opened it from the inside. Obviously, someone who'd opened the door for Tamis before as they danced back so the next blow missed them.

  “How old is his Companion then?”

  :She's not young,: Gervis answered diplomatically.

  *

  His room still smelled slightly musty, like no one had been in it for months. Since he hadn't been in it for months, Jors wasn't terribly surprised. Crossing, to the window, he pried it open and brushed the two dead flies on the sill outside, allowing the living fly to leave under its own power.

  On the top floor of the Herald's Wing, his room had a killer view of the Companion’s Field, but was so small – a little smaller, in fact, than the rooms housing the Greys – that no one had wanted it until he'd chosen it. Since he'd probably spent less than two months in it over the five years he'd had his Whites, Jors had no problem with the size. He didn't see much point in claiming space he never used.

  A trio of gleaming white figures galloped across the field, kicking up their heels and playing what looked like the Companion version of tag. Even at a distance, he could see all three of them looked distinctly coltish.

  :Gervis?:

  :What is it?: The young stallion sounded a bit petulant.

  :I was just checking to see if you were all right.:

  :I'm in the Companion's Field, surrounded by Companions, on a beautiful day. Why wouldn't I be all right?:

  :I just...:

  :Don't like being stuck in the city,: Gervis finished his sentence. :If it helps, don't think of it as being stuck in the city, think of it as being stuck at the Collegium.:

  :I'm not sure I see the difference.:

  :Did I mention I had carrots?:

  :No, you didn't.:

  :And that Raya is here?:

  :And you'd like me to leave you alone?:

  :Yes.:

  Jors grinned. Gervis and the mare enjoyed each other's company whenever they crossed paths. :You know where I am if you need me.:

  :Companion's Field, beautiful day, Raya...:

  :Yeah, yeah, I get it. You're not likely to need me.: Still grinning, he let their connection fade down to the gentle touch that was always with him and drew in a deep breath. Probably his imagination that he could taste the population of Haven on the breeze, and there was no way he could hear the noise those same people had to be making on the other side of the walls.

  *

  His new Whites came in time for him to attend a spring garden party at the palace.

  :I can't believe this is what I'm reduced to,: he muttered mentally, delaying the inevitable by lingering at the Companion’s Field for as long as possible.

  :Things are quiet. Quiet is good. And you will not be the only Herald there,: Gervis reminded him. :Perhaps you should try enjoying yourself.:

  *

  “Most of the stains will come out.” Lips pursed, the laundress turned his vest around in her hands. “How on earth did you manage to make such a mess?”

  Jors sighed. “My Companion suggested I enjoy myself. That seemed to involve Lord Randall's eldest daughter, a full glass of wine, two rose bushes, and a desert tray.”

  Her brows rose nearly to her hairline. “That was you?”

  “You heard about it?”

  “Oh, sweet boy, everyone's hear
d about it.” She patted his shoulder with a plump hand. “They'll be telling the story in the kitchens for years.”

  *

  “Herald Jors?” The boy grinned up at him, seemingly oblivious to the bruise swelling his left eye shut. “The Dean wants to see you.”

  “Thank you...?”

  “Petrin.”

  “What happened to your eye, Petrin?”

  “Weapons training.” He grinned. “I forgot to block.”

  Impossible not to grin back. “Now you know why you're supposed to.”

  “That's what the Weaponsmaster said. Me and Serrin, that's my Companion, Serrin, we can't wait to get out on the road.”

  Jors rubbed at the marks of thorns on the back of his right hand. “Yeah. I know how you feel.”

  *

  “I've got escort duty available, heading south to Hartsvale, a small village up in the hills east of Crescent Lake. Interested?”

  “Havens, yes!” Jors felt his cheeks heat up as Dean Carlech raised both brows at his vehemence. “Sorry. Things are just... I'm just better out on the road.”

  “I suspect the palace gardeners would agree with you. Herald Tamis' great-niece is to be married, and he wants to attend. Verati, his Companion, is also elderly, and we don't want them traveling that distance on their own, so your job will be to get them there and back.” He looked down at the papers spread over his desk, one corner of his mouth twitching within the shadow of his beard in an obvious attempt not to laugh. “Enjoy yourself at the wedding, try not to demolish any topiary.”

  “It was an accident.”

  “Hellfire, lad!” The laugh escaped. “No one thinks you did it on purpose.”

  *

  “So, you're the one who'll be escorting us south.” Eyes narrowed, arms folded, Tamis raked a scathing gaze over Jors. “I'm not thrilled with the idea of a babysitter, just so you know. Verati and I have travelled from one end of this country to the other in our time, and we don't need a Herald barely out of his Greys assigned to keep an eye on us.”

  “I've been riding circuit or courier for more than five years.”

  “Of course you have, and I've had rashes longer. Verati and I, we'd be fine on our own, I've told Carlech that. Not that he listens, the young pup. Well, as long as you're here...” He waved a hand toward the pack on his bed. “...you might as well put those young muscles to use and carry that down to the yard for me.”