Sun in Glory and Other Tales of Valdemar v(-100

by Mercedes Lackey

  “There’s still something strange about that cat,” Jaskhi said, unconvinced, “and I think you know more than you’re letting on.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Aside from his size, which is enough in itself to set anyone back, there’s a touch of mystery about him, as if he’s a gateway into somewhere we can’t go.” Reulan stared. “What are you talking about?”

  “I really don’t know,” Jaskhi admitted. “But, I’ll tell you right now...this is no ordinary, if simply oversized, cat. Cats don’t grow that big, and I’ve never heard of one walking beside a human all the way to Sunhame.” He held up a hand. “No, don’t say anything. I’m sure I’m not the first to comment on your cat. Just remember this, Reulan...there are more things in this world than even we sun-priests can see. And I think you’ve walked straight into one of them.”

  * * *

  When Reulan set out on the last day of his journey, he was only hours away from Sunhame. By now the road had grown congested with people from all walks of life. As had become the case yesterday, Reulan was surrounded by a crowd of people who, for all their deference to a sun-priest, couldn’t refrain from making comments about Khar. Reulan set his face in a proper priestly expression, refusing to acknowledge the remarks supposedly made out of his hearing. Khar, of course, remained oblivious to the commotion he caused.

  The outskirts of Sunhame came into view around a bend in the road, a road that was now broad and paved with large flat cobbles. As had been the case when Reulan had seen it first, the capital of Karse seemed overwhelming. Born and raised in the country, Reulan had found it hard to believe so many people could live in one place. The six months he had spent in his final studies before being elevated to the priesthood had not lessened that feeling. Today was no different. The buildings were huge. The press of people amazing. The noise, the confusion, the smells...

  And now, people were pointing in his direction. The crowds created so much noise that Reulan could not hear what was being said. From the expressions on people’s faces, some great lord and his escort had been caught up by the press of people behind him. But when he looked over his shoulder, all he saw was a sea of faces, and each one of them seemed to be staring at him.

  Or, he admitted uncomfortably, at the cat.

  He glanced down at Khar, who walked very close to him now to avoid being stepped on by the unwary person or horse. The cat’s appearance was slightly different...his tail, face and legs appeared a darker shade of cream. But that plume of a tail was held straight up and there was a spring to Khar’s step that Reulan had not seen before. Fish. It had to be fish. Close as Sunhame lay to a broad, slow moving river, and to both Ruby Lake and its smaller companion, Lake Mist, fish would be readily at hand.

  The buildings loomed taller now, over three, sometimes four, stories. The closer one drew to the center of Sunhame, the more impressive the architecture. The capital was laid out in the shape of a wheel, or a sundisk, with the Temple holding the center and twelve main roads leading out from that center. Reulan glanced up and saw faces looking down from many of those windows. The noise of the crowd grew even louder and people leaned out from those windows, pointing downward. Vkandis Sunlord! What was going on? Once more, he glanced over his shoulder, certain he would find a procession or something of the sort that could be causing all the commotion. Again, he saw nothing but wide-eyed faces staring at him and the cat that walked at his side.

  There are more things in this world than even we sun-priests can see, his friend Jaskhi had said. And I think you’ve walked straight into one of them.

  Reulan quickened his pace. The sun was near its zenith and he wanted to be standing with the rest of the people at the Temple when the Solstice occurred. He knew from past experience he was too late to attend the service inside the Temple. And with no Son of the Sun to lead the ceremonies, the great sanctuary would be packed by senior priests and those who had staked their claims on the best spots to see and be seen.

  He heard someone cry out, but couldn’t distinguish the words. Nervous now, he kept his eyes straight forward and concentrated on ignoring the growing noise of the crowd.

  Though he walked down a clogged street, no one bumped into him or, for that matter, even came close. He and Khar walked in a small circle of emptiness and that fact alone made Reulan more jittery than ever.

  Vkandis Sunlord, he prayed. Protect me! He didn’t include Khar in that prayer, quite certain the cat could more than take care of himself.

  More shouting broke out but Reulan couldn’t see far enough to tell what was happening. But when the road rose upward toward the Temple at the highest point in the city, he began to see what was going on. A crowd of Black-robes, Red-robes and White-robes plowed through the crowd, swimming upstream as it were against the tide of travelers headed toward the Temple. Reulan swallowed heavily. Something was happening here...something of great importance. And he didn’t have a clue as to what it was.

  I’m a simple country priest, I’m no one important, he pleaded inwardly. Don’t look at me as if I were.

  One of the Black-robes, a senior fellow if his gorgeous robes and gold accouterments meant anything, turned and all but sprinted toward the Temple, his fellow priests falling back to let him through. The noise of the crowd intensified, blending into an excited roar. Reulan could see the Temple now. White marble caught and held the sunlight and shone like a flame at nighttime. The many steps leading up to the sanctuary gleamed in the sunlight and the gold on the cornices seemed blindingly bright.

  He approached the steps, more determined than ever to ignore the uproar. The crowd had drawn back from the main entrance to the Temple, leaving the plaza around it shockingly empty. Reulan stopped, unsure what to do next. Then something bumped into his leg above the knee, the familiar head-butt of his cat. But above knee height?

  Reulan looked down and his heart gave an absurd little leap in his chest. Knees trembling, feeling faint, he stared at his feline companion.

  In place of the cat who had journeyed with him from Sweetwater stood a creature straight out of legend, one every child had heard about in tale after tale. The cream-colored body was still there, but no tabby markings marred its hue. Now a brick-red mask, legs and tail graced the cream. And the eyes. O Vkandis Sunlord! The eyes were blue, the blue of a cloudless sky, a blue so deep he felt he could have fallen into their depths and kept falling forever.

  A Firecat!

  * * *

  “Khar?” he breathed, knowing the cat would hear. “O Lord of Light...Khar, is that you?”

  :Steady, Reulan,: Khar said, rubbing his cheek against Reulan’s leg. :Take a few deep breaths, and everything will be fine.:

  The noise of the crowd shut off as if someone had taken a knife to it, separating one moment of clamor from the next instant of total silence. Reulan stood rooted in place, lifting his eyes to the steps leading up to the sanctuary. A procession had formed at the top of those steps that consisted of the senior-most priests of the land, who were now slowly headed down toward where Reulan stood. Though every muscle in his body quivered, screaming at him to turn and run, he could not move. His mouth grew dry and he feared he would choke on the avalanche of emotions that gripped his heart.

  The procession stopped a few steps from where he stood, the expressions on the faces of the priests one of uniform awe. It had become so quiet now, he could hear Khar’s rumbling purr.

  As one, every priest facing him bowed low.

  Two of them approached: one removed Reulan’s pack and the other fastened a cloak about his shoulders, a cloak heavily encrusted with gold and sun-gems. Reulan could hardly breathe at this point, his mind whirling out of control and his heart beating so loud he was sure the entire plaza could hear it.

  Then from the center of the procession stepped the senior-most priest of all who had gathered here, a man his master Beckor had acknowledged as one of the purest souls in the capital. An old man, white hair gleaming in the sunlight and eyes wide with awe, t
he priest bore in his hands the great golden crown of the Son of the Sun.

  Reulan briefly closed his eyes. This couldn’t be happening! It was utterly impossible!

  He had never had any desire to do more than minister to his people and-

  “Vkandis has chosen!” the old man called out, his voice surprisingly clear and more than loud enough to be heard by those who had gathered in the plaza. He lifted the crown and set it on Reulan’s head at the very moment the sun reached its zenith in the sky.

  For an instant, Reulan forgot to breathe.

  And then the glory descended.

  Light, golden light, light that filled him like water poured into an empty vessel. Light that lifted him out of himself into a place where no darkness could ever come. He was enfolded by light, consumed by light, cradled by light. He was the fiery wick on a brilliant candle the size of the universe. He cried out voicelessly in the presence of that light, protesting that he could not be worthy.

  And the light responded, not in words but in something far beyond words. Comfort came with those “words,” along with a feeling of subtle good humor. Could he question the will of Vkandis? Could he possibly know more than the God? And what if Vkandis required a “simple country priest” to lead his people?

  The light, if possible, intensified and coursed through his veins like fire. His heart expanded, accepting the love and wisdom of the God who touched him. He bowed before that Presence, accepting the choice of the God he loved.

  And, suddenly, he saw again with the eyes of flesh. The silence in the plaza beat at his ears with the same intensity that the roar of the crowd had possessed not long ago...a lifetime ago. He felt Khar’s shoulder snug against his leg, heard the Firecat’s soothing purr.

  The crown on his head should have weighed enough to bend his neck, but he felt nothing heavier than the touch of a gentle hand.

  He stared at the crowd that stood in a circle around him. No one moved or spoke. He turned slowly, looking from person to person. And his heart quivered in his chest at what he saw.

  Behind those who faced him stretched their shadows, as if he were a lamp lit in the darkness and they had turned toward his light.

  Khar butted his head against Reulan’s leg again. He glanced down at the Firecat, seeing true affection dancing in those very blue eyes.

  :Well, Reulan. We’re here at last. Now can I have my fish?: Winter Death

  by Michelle West

  Michelle West is the author of numerous novels, including the Sacred Hunter duology and the Sun Sword series, which will be concluded with the publication of The Sun Sword in January 2004. She re-views books for the online column First Contacts, and less frequently for The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. Other short fiction by her has appeared in dozens of anthologies, most recently in The Sorcerer's Academy, Apprentice Fantastic, Once Upon A Galaxy, Familiars and Vengeance Fantastic.

  Kayla was born in the harsh winter of life in the mining town of Riverend. Her father had been born there, and her mother had come from the flats of Valdemar's most fertile lands.

  An outsider, she had learned to face the winter with the same respect, and the same dread, that the rest of the villagers showed. She had come to be accepted by the villagers in the same way, slowly and grudgingly at first, but with a healthy respect that in the end outlasted all of their earlier superstitious fear of the different.

  Margaret Merton, called Magda for reasons that Kayla never quite understood, was different. She could walk into a room and it would grow warmer; she could smile, and her smile would spread like fire; her joy could dim the sharpest and bitterest of winter joy could dim the sharpest and bitterest of tempers, when cabin fever ran high. How could they not learn to love her?

  Even in her absence, that memory remained, and when her daughter showed some of the same strange life, she was loved for it. More, for the fact that she was born to the village.

  * * *

  The Heralds came through the village of Riverend in the spring, when the snows had receded and the passes, in the steep roads and treacherous flats of the mountains, were opened. Heralds seldom stopped in the village, although they rode through it from time to time.

  When they did, Kayla took the little ones from the hold and made her way down to the village center to watch them ride through. She would bundle them one at a time in the sweaters and shawls that kept the bite of spring air at bay, and gently remind them of foreign things-manners, behavior, the language children should use in the presence of their elders.

  She would remind them of the purpose of Heralds, and promise them a story or two if they behaved themselves, and then she would pick up the children whose toddling led them to cracks in the dirt, sprigs of new green, sodden puddles-in fact, anything that caught their eye from the moment the hold's great doors were opened-and hurry them along; in that way, she managed to keep them from missing the Heralds altogether.

  This spring was the same, but it was also different; every gesture was muted, and if she smiled at all, it was so slight an expression that the children could be forgiven for missing it. It had been a harsh winter.

  A terrible winter.

  And the winter had taken the joy out of Kayla so completely the villagers mourned its passing and wondered if it was buried with those who had passed away in the cold.

  On this spring day, the Heralds stopped as the children gathered in as orderly a group as children could who had been cooped up all winter.

  There were two, a man and the woman who rode astride the Companions that set them apart from any other riders in the kingdom of Valdemar.

  "Well met," the woman said, nudging her Companion forward at a slow walk. Kayla heard the whisper that started at one end of the small group and traveled to the other. She almost smiled.

  Almost.

  Mitchell and Evan began to shove each other out of the way in an attempt to be at the front of the group. Kayla set Tess down and separated them, grabbing an elbow in either hand. She didn't need to speak; her expression said everything.

  Bells caught light and made of sound a musical cacophony, which was not in fact dissimilar to the sound it evoked from the children, whose quarrels fell away in the wake of shared wonder.

  Well, almost all of the quarrels at any rate; there was still some scuffling for position, with its attendant shoving and hissed accusation. Given everything, this was almost angelic behavior; it wouldn't be good enough for the old aunts, but it was good enough for Kayla.

  Two years ago, she would have asked for more-and gotten it, too-but two years ago, behavior had seemed so much more important than it was now.

  These children were the children of winter, and the winter was harsh; she knew that if half of them lived to be eight, the village would count itself lucky; if half of those lived to be fifteen, it would count itself more than that.

  The Herald, an older woman with broad hips and an easy smile, watched the children from the safe distance of her Companion's back; her Companion, on the other hand, had no difficulty wandering among the many outstretched-and upstretched-hands. The second Companion seemed to have a more obvious sense of personal dignity-or at least a healthy caution when it came to children; it was hard to say which. Her rider was a handful of years older than Kayla, if at all, but his face was smooth and unblemished by either time or war, and he seemed both grave and dignified in a way that reminded her of her dead. Riverend was a harsh, Northern town; the dead were many.

  "Youngling," the older Herald barked, her voice loud but not unfriendly.

  Mitchell leaped up about six feet, straining to look much older than his handful of years.

  "Yes, ma'am!"

  The young man who rode at her side laughed. "Ma'am, is it?" His glance belied the gravity of his expression; Kayla liked the sound of his voice.

  "Obviously I don't look as young as I'd like to think I do. Ah well, time is cruel." Her smile showed no disappointment at that cruelty as she looked down at Mitchell. "You know the people of the
village by name?"

  He nodded.

  "Good. I'm wondering where Kayla Grayson lives." Mitchell lifted a hand and pointed toward the large hold.

  "Will she be down at the mines, or up at the hold?" He frowned. "Neither."

  Kayla said nothing.

  But she felt it: a change in the older woman's mood and intent; there were currents in it now that were deeper than they should have been. She snuck a glance at the man, and listened carefully. There, too, she felt a determination that was out of place. It put her on her guard.

  "Why are you looking for Kayla?" she asked.

  "We've heard a bit about her, and we-well, I at least-thought it would be nice to meet her on our way through Riverend. We don't often get much call to travel this way."

  "What have you heard?"

  "Well, for one, that she's Magda Merton's daughter, the last of four, and the one most like her mother."

  Kayla hesitated a moment, and hid that hesitation in the action of lifting a child to the wide, wide nostrils of a very patient Companion. She had the grace to wince and pull back when the child's first act was to attempt to shove his whole hand up the left one.

  "That's true," she said at last. "At least, that she's the last of her daughters. You'll have to judge for yourself how much alike they actually are." She straightened her shoulders, shifting her burden again with an ease that spoke of practice. "Because I'm guessing you knew my mother."

  The Herald's expression shifted; it didn't matter. Kayla already knew what the woman was feeling. Surprise. Concern. Hope. "So you're Kayla."

  "And you?"

  "Anne," the woman replied. She reached out with a hand, and after only a slight hesitation, Kayla shifted the boy to one hip, freeing one of hers. She shook the Herald's hand and then turned to face the quieter young man. "If you want to join us, there's food, but I'll warn you, it's spare; we can offer you news, or trade, or water-but we barter for most of our food, and only Widow Davis has stores enough to entertain important guests."

  The Heralds exchanged a look, and then the young man smiled. "We're well provisioned. We'd be happy to offer food for our discussion or news."