Changing the World

by Mercedes Lackey

  From the change in angle of the light slanting through the windows, she’d slept at least two marks, maybe more. Funny how it felt like moments. She took another sip of tea and choked some words past the lump in her throat. “Are they done?”

  “Soon. That’s why I got you up.”

  “Hmmmph.” Dionne handed her the empty tea cup and walked over to the wounded. They still slept, a typical outcome of healing. They all breathed normally, and Dionne adjusted a pillow here and a blanket or coat there before she went to the privy to clean up and wash her face. The cold water did only a little to help her feel refreshed. Surely it was just because she’d spent so much energy healing, but Melony’s death weighed on her mood like a stone, so heavy it was impossible to drag up a welcoming smile as a woman bundled in a warm coat and handmade sheeps-wool scarf came in the door. “Is the Healer here? Dionne?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Ylia.” The way the woman said her name had a bit of singsong in it. “We’d like you to come out, to say something before we bury them all.”

  Dionne shouldered into her coat, sure she didn’t want to go stand graveside and say nice pretty things. She was too tired.

  She and Rhiannon followed Ylia to the four graves. Either Rhiannon had told them about her relationship with Melony or someone had remembered, since although the other three were finished, they’d saved the work of throwing the first earth onto Melony’s body for Dionne. The simple gesture made the last few steps to the graves even harder to take.

  She stood in front of Melony’s coffin. The lid was still open, the familiar, beloved face marred by a cut cheek and a bruised lip. With her life gone, her mentor appeared simply slight and thin, wispy. Dionne felt thinner herself, as if some of her soul followed Melony, as if her past had begun to die.

  Lioran and Rhiannon stood behind her, close enough for Dionne to hear their breathing. The same man who had taken their reins this morning—Jared—climbed down into the grave and closed the lid of the coffin, hiding Melony from the world.

  The faces standing graveside were lined with spider webs of dignity and pain, some of the men with settling jowls or bald heads, most of the women shaped more like boxes than urns, slow and broad, a few thin and reedy, all bone and skin. As a group, the primary expressions they wore were resignation and hope. Dionne tried to look hopeful, to be the Healer she was, but all she could manage was a lighter despair than she’d started with. The afternoon was like molasses, time moving slow and everything exaggerated.

  She knelt down and took a fistful of rich, damp earth. A week of relentless rains had stopped a few days ago. Even though the surface of the earth had dried in the previous day’s wind, the bottom of the grave was damp, dark mud.

  As soon as she stood, she started talking, not saying anything at all like what she usually said at graves. Not comforting. “Life is not fair. It unfairly plucked this wonderful woman too early, and for doing what she always did. Helping people. I came here to get help from her; she has helped me all my life when I needed it. Oh, I haven’t seen her for years, but that’s partly because she helped me grow up.”

  Rhiannon came and stood beside Dionne, like a pillar. It gave Dionne the strength to continue. “This year I needed her, and she’s not here.” A tear fell down her face. She let it go. “Healers cry. That’s something Melony taught me. If we don’t cry, we die inside, a little bit every day. So when we need to, we cry.”

  And then she was sobbing, great piles of breath backing up in her throat and bursting out, her nose and eyes running like streams. She threw the dirt before she couldn’t see any more; then she knelt down by the grave, Rhiannon next to her.

  Head bowed, she heard other fistfuls of dirt thudding into the hole. Murmured prayers accompanied each throw. One and another and another.

  “Thank you.”

  “Speed on your journey.”

  “I’ll always remember the blackberry jam.”

  “Goodbye, and who am I going to weave with now? I’ll miss you so.”

  “Pass well.”

  In time, the wet sloppy sounds stopped.

  Rhiannon elbowed her gently.

  Dionne looked up in time to see Lioran throw his own fistful of mud. A tear streaked down his cheek as well, and then another, the most genuine emotion Dionne had ever seen on his face. He was doing the one thing she hadn’t seen him do since she met him. Crying.

  She started to push herself up, but Rhiannon held her down. “Finish your own grief.”

  But her grief had lightened a little. She glanced back at the coffin, smeared and splattered with mud and prayers. “Thank you,” she whispered. “You did find a way to help.”

  Almost everyone went back to their violated houses, and even Rhiannon followed, murmuring something about making more hot tea. Dionne stayed graveside, standing in the chilling breeze while leaves blew around her feet. Lioran came to stand beside her. His eyes were red and sore, his cheeks puffy and pink, his hands covered in mud, his Whites dirty beyond saving. He put an arm around her and pulled her close to him, the two of them standing in silence for a long time. She felt warmer with him there. Finally he whispered, “You’ll remember her. I remember my mom every day. I remember the way she bit her tongue when she cut potatoes for dinner and how her voice lilted when she called Jackie, our farm dog. I remember my little sister calling me a wimp and a bookworm and then asking for help with numbers.” His voice had lost the whine. “I remember my dad the day I was Chosen, looking like the best and worst thing ever had all happened to him at once and wishing me well.” He swallowed. “That’s where I go at night, to remember them. I’m so afraid that I’ll go back to town and get busy and forget the little things, and then they’ll really be dead.”

  Dionne looked down at the fresh earth. “She’s dead. I will forget the details, because I’m not dead, and I have a job to do. But that doesn’t change the beauty of her life or make what she gave me any less.”

  “I have work, too.”

  “Yes.” More silence, and then Dionne whispered, “Thank you for telling me about them.”

  “Thank you for singing to me,” he said. “I’ll tell Rhiannon that, too.”

  Two days later, they started their return journey to Haven. There, they’d tell their tales and see if there was a way to get help for Shelter’s End, maybe some guards or a few young families. They’d encourage the Crown to send out a hunting party to find the bandits and clean up after them. Ylia and Jared accompanied them to be witnesses, riding horses borrowed from a farm in a nearby town. Haven was stretched—it was always stretched—and Dionne expected that only a little could be offered. But they’d give whatever was possible.

  Dionne cracked her sore knuckles and told her back there were a few more years of riding left. Shelter’s End was worth keeping, maybe a place they’d go themselves, although not for a while.

  On the first night away from town, Lioran picked a campsite without being asked. He did go off with Mila, bare-backed and silent, but on his return he didn’t roll away from them all and stare out into the night.

  He sat beside them at the fire, Ylia and Jared on one side, Lioran between Rhiannon and Dionne on the far side. When Rhiannon started to sing, he joined in. Dionne had never heard his voice. It was rich and full, and confident.

  Midwinter Gifts

  by Stephanie D. Shaver

  Stephanie Shaver works in the online gaming industry, where she has donned the hat of writer, game designer, programmer, level designer, and webmaster at various points in her career. Like most people who work by day and write by whenever, her free time is notoriously elusive. She can be found online at sdshaver.com and other virtual hives of scum and villainy. Offline, she is either hiking with the smirking entity she calls “The Guy” or on the couch with cats and a laptop stacked atop her, recovering from the aforementioned hiking trail.

  “This is madness,” Lelia said.

  “This?” Her twin, Lyle, looked over his shoulder at the Haven market
place, packed with people engaged in the mindless, happy activities that swirled about at this time of year. “It’s just the Midwinter Market.”

  She punched his shoulder, a futile gesture as they were both bundled up against the cold; she in mittens and a coat, he in riding leathers and a heavy white cloak. Lyle’s Companion, Rivan, stood off to one side, saddled and ready to go. Five years as a Field Herald had whittled Lyle down—punching him felt like punching a tree. He grinned at her pitiful attempt to bruise.

  “You’re such a mooncalf sometimes,” she muttered, sweeping her bangs back under her cap so she could fix him with a full glower.

  “I was being—what d’ya call it? ‘Funny’?”

  She only frowned. Anyone who knew the two would have been amused (or greatly alarmed) by their role reversal. She—solemn as a priest, he smirking like a page who’d filched cream cakes off the queen’s table.

  They were in a snug side street off the market, one of the few not accommodating the overflow of stalls and hawkers. A few minutes ago she’d been happily browsing jewelry in her Scarlets, which was probably how he’d spotted her. Usually she wore plainer clothes, but she’d hoped formal regalia would drum up a little Midwinter work.

  Work had found her, all right. And it wore Whites.

  “They realize I’m a Bard?” she said. “Not a Herald?”

  “That’s the point.”

  “They also know that I will likely foul this up?”

  “You don’t even know what ‘this’ is.”

  “Even more likely!”

  “Lelia.” He reached out and touched her shoulder, gracing her with a beatific smile that had reassured more than a few Valdemarans in its time. “You’re going to do fine.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Did you suggest me?”

  Lyle cocked his head. “Actually, no.”

  “Well, if you didn’t—”

  Something nuzzled the back of her neck, and she shrieked, leaping forward. Lyle grabbed her shoulders and gently turned her around to face the Companion waiting there. The Companion inclined his head and bent his knee in an equine bow.

  :Be polite to Vehs,: Lyle Mindspoke to her.

  :Vehs? Companion to Herald Wil?: she thought back, sweating with the effort. Their twin-bond was not the stuff of legend. If they hadn’t been touching she wouldn’t have been able to MindSpeak to him at all.

  :Yes.:

  Lelia’s heart sank. Of course it would be him. The network of Heralds only went so far. Wil, Lyle’s senior on Circuit training. Wil, who probably only knew one Bard—her. Wil, the Herald she’d been obsessed with years ago. Just the memory of the way she’d romanticized him made her ears burn.

  She tried to reassure herself. But you grew up. You stopped wearing that stupid necklace he gave you. You got over it. She straightened her spine. You’re a Master Bard now.

  Suddenly Lyle hugged her, disrupting her train of thought. “Love you!”

  She sagged against him, letting some of her anxiety drain out. “Stay safe,” she muttered. “Remember that if you die on the job, I will eulogize you in a five-part cycle with at least two flute solos.”

  He chuckled. “By the way, I told Mama and Papa you’d come with me next year for Midwinter.”

  She drew back, horrified. “You didn’t.”

  He grinned.

  “Lyle—Midwinter is about earning money for a Bard—”

  His face grew stern. “When was the last time you visited, Lelia?”

  She sputtered, unable to say anything but, “I can’t afford it!”

  “We’ll figure something out.” Lyle winked, then gestured to Vehs, who had presented a stirrup. “Up you get!”

  She ignored his offer of help, despite Vehs’s mountainlike build. She didn’t so much mount as scale him. He whickered and turned. At the last possible moment, Lelia twisted round and said to Lyle, “I’m staying in your room. Hope you don’t mind.”

  His face fell. “What?”

  She squeezed Vehs gently. He took her lead and leaped forward, moving off into the crowds. The last she heard from Lyle was: “Lelia! If you burn down the Herald’s wing—”

  Vehs chuckled in his Chosen’s head.

  Wil leaned against a post in the Companions’ stable and thought back, :What?:

  :I have been part of something sneaky. Mine is an evil chuckle.: He demonstrated it again.

  :Oh.: Wil rubbed his brow. :For the record—:

  :Yes, yes. It’s a terrible idea. Understood, Chosen.:

  Vehs chuckled again.

  Wil paced. He was not alone in the stable—another Herald, the official who would be signing off on this “mission,” stood nearby with hands clasped behind his back. Always still. Always composed.

  Not Wil. He kicked up hay- and grain-dust as he paced between the deepening shadows of late afternoon. He wanted another solution, but no ideas were forthcoming.

  He took a step, gray winter sunlight sliding over him, and the next put him in shadow. Another step, and—

  His gut wrenched as his Gift triggered.

  —body on the floor and a woman in jewelry standing over it, two knives at her waist, one in her hand, the tip bloody as she smiled and raised it—

  He came back to himself on his knees, clutching his head. Over on the other side of the stable, the other Herald asked, “Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” Wil said, climbing to his feet and brushing off his knees. “Sir, I don’t know if this—”

  “Wait for her to get here,” the Herald said. “Then we’ll decide if it’s a bad idea.”

  I could swear he’s been talking to Vehs, Wil thought sourly.

  As if cued, Vehs said, :We’re coming through the Herald’s Gate.:

  Wil walked over to stand beside the senior Herald. He folded his arms across his chest, and watched as the red-clad rider drew closer.

  Vehs stopped a few feet away from the big open building of Companions’ stables.

  Oh, Lelia thought when she saw who stood next to Wil. She dropped to her feet and executed a deep curtsy, sweeping off her cap. “M’lord Herald,” she said.

  Queen’s Own Talamir inclined his head slightly.

  “Herald Wil,” she said to the other, dropping another curtsy, albeit more shallow. A fierce joy welled, unbidden, inside her. She did her best to squash it.

  I am a Master Bard! I am a Master Bard! she reminded her galloping heart.

  Wil grunted a hello.

  “How much did Lyle tell you?” Talamir asked her. His voice had a faint quaver, but his gaze was direct and difficult to meet. Even if he hadn’t been spooky as a haunted castle, being under the eye of a Herald this high gave Lelia the quakes.

  “Nothing,” she said honestly. “Just that the Heraldic Circle’s interested in enlisting a Bard for something delicate.” Her voice dropped in volume as she finished the sentence, glancing about nervously. She had to presume that the Heralds had chosen the stables for a reason, but it still felt awfully open.

  “It’s safe,” Wil said blandly, addressing her concern. “The Companions are keeping an eye out.”

  Lelia nodded.

  “Lyle vouched for you as trustworthy,” Talamir commented.

  Lyle, you mooncalf, Lelia thought furiously.

  “He—” Talamir indicated Wil with a nod “—has reason to get inside the mansion of a lord in Haven without anyone knowing a Herald is there. And I have it on good authority that the lord’s wife is seeking a musician for her Midwinter parties.”

  Lelia pursed her lips. Suddenly, this didn’t sound so bad.

  “Discretion would be required,” Talamir said. “Who placed you there would have to remain confidential. This is a potentially volatile situation.”

  She nodded. “Discretion. Understood.”

  “Do you?” Wil asked, fixing her with a look. His tone caused a flicker of irritation to rise inside her, and when she met him gaze for gaze she saw in his face something she hadn’t anticipated: deep distrust.


  Not skeptical, not suspicious—he didn’t trust her.

  The joy of reunion died, leaving behind a wealth of annoyance.

  “I’ve performed for the queen,” she replied coolly, and had to suppress a smirk when he blinked in obvious surprise. Didn’t know about that, did you? she thought. “M’lord Talamir, would you say I did so with grace?”

  “Indeed,” the Queen’s Own murmured.

  “Also,” she continued, “it’s been a while since I wore my Rusts, but I’m sure Dean Arissa would vouch for me.” Assuming she’s forgotten about that incident with the chirra and the inkwell.

  “Well, Herald,” Talamir said to Wil, “it’s either this or try to get in as a servant.”

  Wil massaged his forehead, grimacing. “I guess . . . we’ll try this.”

  “Very well.” Talamir rubbed his hands together lightly. “I will make the arrangements. Do you have a handler?”

  “Maresa Applegate,” Lelia replied promptly.

  “I shall make your arrangements with her, then. I leave you two to the rest.” He walked off abruptly, without further farewell.

  When Wil finally bothered to look at Lelia, he did so with a sad, sober expression. It made her own smile fade a little.

  “I’m glad to see you,” she said, and hugged him.

  Women confused Wil.

  He never felt comfortable around them unless they were younger than fifteen or older than dirt. Or married. Or saddled with babies.

  None of which described Lelia. When she’d been younger, she’d been—well, manageable didn’t cover it, but it had been different.

  Now, though . . .

  He patted her back awkwardly as she hugged him and felt relieved when she disengaged. Not that it hadn’t been a nice hug—her coat hung open, and he’d shed his due to the warmth of the heated stables. Her body squished comfortably in the right places. Her height had also put her hair right under his nose, giving him a whiff of honey and cinnamon.