* * *
With the funeral over, Jors pulled himself into something resembling official shape and sought out Aysa.
"Your son attacked a Herald."
"His son just died. He was mad with grief."
"You goaded his brothers..."
"To stand by him," she sneered triumphantly. "I never told no one to hit you. And now I'm givin' you and that half-wit food and shelter. You can't ask for more, Herald."
Given that he and Brock were trapped on her side of the river, he supposed he'd better not. "About the bridge..."
Without the bridge, there was no way back. The river wasn't particularly wide, but the water ran deep and fast.
"You come out here to stick your nose in on us, then you're stuck out here till we head in to town and we ain't headin' nowheres until them hides is done. We wasted time enough with Dory having that baby. You want to leave before that, then you and the half-wit can rebuild the bridge yourself."
"That's fair. I can't expect you to drop everything and assist me." His next words wiped the triumphant sneer from her face. "I'll have them send a crew out from town."
"You can't get word to town."
He smiled, hoping he looked a lot more confident of the conversation's outcome than he felt. "There's a Herald there and I already have. By this time tomorrow, there'll be a dozen people in the valley."
"Liar."
"Heralds can't lie, Ma."
"Shut up!" Aysa half turned and Kern winced away as though he expected to be hit. Lip curled, she turned back to Jors. "I don't want a dozen people in the valley! And it don't take a dozen people anyway. And the water won't be down enough tomorrow."
"Then I'll have them come when the water goes down."
"You won't have no one come. My boys'll rebuild."
"Then the townspeople can help."
"My boys don't need help. They ain't got brains for much, but they can do that. You let them know in town I'm hostin' you and the half-wit till then."
It was a grudgingly offered truce, but he'd take it.
Jors wasn't surprised that Aysa'd refused help. The last thing she'd want would be her sons exposed to more people, to people who'd make them realize they were entitled to be treated with kindness. Over the next few days, while they waited for the water to recede, she proved that by keeping him by her side, keeping him from interacting with anyone else at the holding.
Brock, she considered no threat.
Which was a mistake.
Because Brock treated everyone with kindness.
* * *
"You call that supple?! I could do better chewin' it! How could you be doin' this all your life and still be no damned good? You're pathetic." Enric and Kern leaped back as she threw the piece of finished leather down at their feet. "Pathetic," she repeated and stomped away.
"Mean lady calls me names, too," Brock sighed, coming out from behind the fleshing beam and picking up the hide.
Enric ripped it out of his hands. "We ain't half-wits."
"Mean lady calls me half-wit. Not you."
"You are a half-wit!"
"Are you pathetic?"
Kern jerked forward, face flushed. "You callin' us pathetic?"
"No. It hurts when people call names." Brock looked from one to the other. "Doesn't it hurt?"
"If your half-wit falls in a liming pit," Aysa snarled as Jors caught up, "my boys'll stand there and laugh."
"You taught them that."
"I'm all they got."
"They're terrified of you."
"Good."
"Dory isn't."
"You think one of my boys is stupid enough to pick up a weakling?" Aysa nodded toward the garden where Dory heaped cabbage into a basket. "But she does what I say like the rest. If she doesn't like it, she can leave any time."
While they watched, Dory lifted the basket, gave a little cry and let it fall.
Aysa snorted. "'Course that baby left her stupidly weak."
Jors took a step toward the garden but stopped as Simen came out of the chicken house and hurried across to his wife.
"Simen! You get back to work, you lazy pig."
His mother's voice froze him in his tracks. Then he shook himself, and began retrieving the spilled cabbages. "Simen!"
He ignored her.
"This is your fault, Herald. Turning a woman's family against her." Muttering under her breath, she strode toward them.
Dory looked up, saw her coming and stood, hands on hips.
"You think you can face me down, girl? Simen, get up!"
He stood.
"Now get back to work."
He took a step forward and put his hands on Dory's shoulders. "When I'm finished here, Ma."
Aysa's mouth worked for a moment, but no sound emerged. Finally, she spun on one heel and stomped away.
The corner of Simen's mouth curled. "You'd best help here, Herald. I wouldn't follow her right now."
* * *
The river was low enough the next day.
The bridge took only a day longer to rebuild and for the most part involved fitting the original pieces back into place.
Jors stared the completed bridge in amazement. "That's incredible."
"Nothin' incredible about it, Herald," Enric snorted. "Damned thing goes out every other season. Easier to build it so it breaks apart clean."
His bare torso red with cold, Kern shrugged into a sheepskin coat. "Supports slip out so they don't shatter, logs end up in the same place, we float 'em back and rebuild. Any idiot can do it."
"Trust me, I've crossed a hundred rivers-or maybe a couple of rivers a hundred times-but I've never seen anything like this."
"Ma says it's not..." Simen paused, frowned, and looked up at the Herald. "It's really good?"
"It's really good."
The brothers exchanged confused looks and Jors had the horrible suspicion this was the first time they'd ever been praised for anything.
* * *
The next day while Jors was checking Calida's girth strap for the trip back to town, Dory came out of the house with a bundle. "It's for Brock," she said, folding back a corner. "I want you to give it to him for me."
At first Jors thought it was white leather. Made sense; they were tanners after all. Then he realized the leather had been cut and sewn into a fair approximation of Herald's whites.
Dory had clearly taken the pattern from his and sized it to fit Brock.
"I saw he didn't have none of his own."
Oh, help. "Dory, you know he's not..."
"Brother Herald! We go now? What you got?" His hands and Dory's together closed the bundle.
"It's a surprise," Dory said, her cheeks crimson. "For later."
"Not for now?"
"No."
"Okay." He took Calida's reins and stood waiting patiently while Jors tied the bundle behind Gervis' saddle. :You seem upset, Chosen.:
:I can't tell her Brock's not an actual Herald while he's standing there. He'll say he is, I'11 say he isn't, and I'm not sure that in this place at this time, I'd win the argument.:
:You shouldn't argue.:
:Oh, that's helpful.:
:Thank you.:
* * *
The whole family went with them to the bridge. Jors didn't know why the rest came, but he was certain Aysa just wanted to make sure they were off her land. He wanted to say something, something that would convince them they didn't have to live inside the darkness of an old woman's anger, but before he could think of the right words, Brock hugged Dory.
And Simen. And Enric. And Kern.
Then he scrambled up into the saddle and, from the safety of Calida's back, took a deep breath, looked Aysa in the eye, and spoke directly to her for the first time. "Why don't you love your babies?"
Her lip curled. "I buried my babies, half-wit."
He nodded toward the three young men standing to her right. "Not them."
She turned, looked at her sons, looked back at
Brock and mut
tered, "Half-wit." But there was little force behind it.
Jors had no idea he was going to do what he did until he did it.
* * *
"Jors, you hugged mean lady."
"Yeah. I know." Although he still couldn't believe it. "Everyone else got hugged, I just..."
She'd pushed him away with such force that he'd slammed back into Gervis' shoulder.
"You are the bravest Herald. Ever, ever."
"Thank you."
Then she'd snarled something incomprehensible, turned, and stomped away.
He'd probably accomplished nothing at all by it. The bundle Dory had given him pushed against the small of his back.
* * *
The weather remained clear and cool and just as the sun was setting, they stopped outside the village. "Gate will close when sun is set," Brock warned. "I know. Brock, I think you should go back to Haven with Isabel."
"Lots of Heralds in Haven?"
"Yes."
Brock sighed and shook his head. "No. I have to stay here. I am the only Herald."
"Brock, you're not..." He couldn't say it.
Brock waited patiently for a moment then smiled. "Is it later?"
"Yes..."
"What's Dory's surprise?"
"Um...it's um..."
Both Companions turned their heads to look at him. Their expression said, this is up to you.
:He believes he is a Herald.:
:Yes, but..:
:And he acts accordingly.:
* * *
"I couldn't do it, Isabel. They're just clothes and I know that but if I gave Brock those whites, then there'd be fake Heralds showing up all over the place."
"A bad precedent to be sure," the older Herald agreed.
"There has to be a line and that line has to be the Companions. Sometimes it seems like we're barely keeping order in chaos now. I couldn't...No matter how much..." Jors ran both hands back through his air, he couldn't believe how much the decision, the right decision had felt like betrayal. "It wouldn't make any difference to Brock. He knows who and what he is, but for the others in the village, those who made fun and called him names..."
"Come here, I want to show you something." Isabel took his arm and pulled him to the window. "What do you see?"
Jors squinted down into the stable yard. "Brock's grooming Gervis again."
"While you four were gone, I talked to a lot of people. Seems that whenever a Herald comes into this village, the Companion manages to spend time with Brock. Even if it's only a moment or two." They watched as Calida crossed the yard and tried to shoulder Gervis away. Brock laughed and told her to wait her turn. "You were right not to give him the Whites," Isabel continued, "but you were also right when you said it makes no difference. He couldn't be Chosen because, as Heralds, we have to face dangers he'd never understand, but the Companions know him. All Brock needs from us is our love and support. Now, since Healer Lorrin has finally allowed me out of bed, what do you say you and I go down there and give our brother a hand with the fourfoots?"
Jors grinned as Brock gamely tried to brush both tails at once.
Heralds wear shiny white.
Brock wore his Whites on the inside.
TRUE COLORS
by Michael Longcor
Michael Longcor is a writer and singer-songwriter who recently wrote a dozen songs for the Mercedes Lackey album, Owflight. Aside from writing and per-forming, Michael has also been an insurance investigator, employment counselor, news reporter, fencing instructor, and blacksmith. His more exotic hobbies include donning medieval armor and competing in the bruising tournaments of the Society for Creative Anachronism.
He also once placed third in a cricket-spitting contest. He currently shares a 130-year-old farmhouse outside of West Lafayette, Indiana, with a variable number of pets and guitars.
It had worked again.
The sun was well up as Rin rode out of Goldenoak. Summer light filtered through the trees, dappled the white coat of his mount, and sparked off the hilt of the sword bouncing gently at his side. It also showed the grimy spots on his white tunic and leggings.
It had been a good visit. Good for Rin, that is. The take included four solid meals, road rations, several pots of the local beer, and a few kisses stolen from the hamlet's daughters.
There's something about a man in uniform, he mused. Fine-boned, even features, blond hair, and blue eyes helped, too. If you can't be big and burly, slight and handsome will have to do. Too bad I couldn't manage some coin.
But coinage was almost as scarce as Heralds among the tiny settlements scattered along Valdemar's Northern Border. Out here, the forest's dangers combined with distance to isolate the villages. Other than infrequent sweeps for brigands, people this far out never saw much of the Militia, let alone Valdemar's regular Guard, especially since the recent problems in the South. Even less often, they might glimpse a legendary Herald. They and their spooky-white horses were near-mythical heroes. Rin figured folks should get to meet their heroes on occasion, and show a little hero worship. It wasn't his fault if the real Heralds were too busy saving the Kingdom to take time to share a few meals, drinks, and kisses with the salt of Valdemar's earth.
Two months back he'd made his break from Torto's Traveling Show, a ratty handful of stickmen, peep shows, and crack-throated minstrels, ruled by the beefy, sadistic Torto. The show had about as much resemblance to a true traveling troupe of gleemen as a weed does a rose. In Torto's Show, you rarely saw the same town twice. After swindling and stealing everything that wasn't nailed down on one end, they packed up in the night and moved on to fresh marks. Rin ran shell games with the best of them, developed a healthy contempt for the townies, and never stopped hating and fearing Torto. The night he'd made his break they were between towns in western Iftel. Rin hoped he'd truly cracked the drunken Torto's head with that tent stake, but with Torto's thick skull, he doubted it.
Rin had started this Herald game less than a month back after crossing Iftel's border with Valdemar. It wasn't much, but it beat being a cup-and-ball man in the towns. With luck, it would get him somewhere more comfortable, where constables didn't know him and Torto couldn't trail him.
He didn't know a great deal about Heralds, but apparently neither did the locals. His story of being a "Special Auxiliary Herald" worked well enough, and explained why he only talked with them, took mysterious, coded notes, and moved on. Rin was sure his code was unbreakable. His scribblings were just that. As much as he'd wanted, he'd never learned to read or write.
The story also let him get food and other necessities from the villages, rather than the Waystations normally used by Heralds and other servants of the Crown. The Heralds rode regular circuits, and Rin simply made sure he was somewhere else. That wasn't hard, this far out.
He was safe enough, so long as he picked the right villages, and didn't stay too long or take too much. It was simple as games went, but not bad for an eighteen-year-old stickman. It kept him fed, equipped, and admired. Of the three, he liked the admiration best.
The morning warmed as he rode through patches of sunlight and shade. Scarlet flashed as a bird took wing, and a woodlark's song piped through the trees. He remembered the woods like this, out with his family hunting wild berries. It was one of his few memories of a time before brigands hit his village and took him, fourteen years ago this summer. He didn't remember the village's name, even though it had been somewhere in this region. He barely remembered the faces of his parents, but he remembered the look and feel of the woods.
Rin fingered a townchit, given him by Goldenoak's headman. The small brass plate was stamped with a crude, stylized tree, representing the village's name. He gathered they expected him to turn it in at Haven to get the village a tax break for feeding and sheltering him. Interesting, how trustful folks could be of a government. Maybe it came from not constantly pulling stakes and moving. He shook his bead, chuckling softly, and leaned back to slip it into his saddlebag, adding to the pile of townchits a
lready there.
At midday, Rin stopped to rest the mare, watering her at a shaded brook before he took his own drink. He was as good to her as he could manage. She was a good horse and his only real friend in Torto's show; no prince's charger, but not a plug either. Rin thought of unsaddling her and letting her roll, but here he had to move fast if needful, so he only loosened the girth strap. She was white, mostly, but that was just good luck and the graying out of age. She'd been Torto's, but Rin was the one who cared for her. It didn't really bother Rin that he'd stolen her, though a slickman with pride in his craft wouldn't resort to outright theft unless there was no way to swindle for what was needed. Which was also why he'd later stolen the Herald's Whites.
The flashy sword was from Torto's prop box, taken with no thought of this particular game. He just liked having the sword, even though the slim, heavy knife in his boot top was probably a better weapon.
A sword made him feel more like a heroic servant of the Crown, and half of any game was feeling the part.
He dug into a saddlebag, and came up with a small cloth sack. Rin peered in, laughed delightedly and popped one of the golden brown slices into his mouth. He rolled his eyes and nearly cried. The taste of the lightly seasoned, dried apple brought back a wave of memory and feeling. For Rin that taste whispered of another time, and a loving mother's special treat for a small boy.
Rin munched road rations while the mare grazed. He drank deeply from the brook and topped up his water bottle. After a half-hour's rest, he cinched the mare's girth strap and set off again.
In late afternoon he rounded a turn and glimpsed two small figures perhaps a hundred paces ahead on the narrow, uphill road. The taller darted into the brush. The shorter seemed frozen, holding something. The taller figure reappeared to drag the other back into the bushes. They didn't seem big enough to be a threat, but this region was never entirely free of brigands.
With one hand on the reins and the other on his sword, Rin edged the mare on up the hill. Reaching the spot, he heard voices whispering fiercely. The brush rustled, and a small boy stumbled out onto the path. He was four or five, dressed in homespun tunic and breeches. The boy stared round-eyed up at Rin, clutching a battered toy stick horse. The head of the horse was cut from split wood, and painted white. Its eyes were blue.
Sun in Glory and Other Tales of Valdemar v(-100 Page 20