Finding the Way and Other Tales of Valdemar

by Mercedes Lackey

  The filly, who was was some years yet from being a mother, tossed her mane and flagged her tail and danced. That was all she knew or cared about, and that was exactly as it should be.

  “Gramma,” said a young voice behind Marlys. Then when she did not turn quickly enough: “Gramma!”

  Her third-eldest grandson was windblown, dusty, breathless, and hopping from foot to foot. “Gramma, come see!”

  “Come see what?” asked Marlys.

  He shook his head. Whatever it was was beyond words.

  It was not bad, she thought, or he would be howling. His eyes were huge with wonder. “Come see!”

  There was no time. She had a hundred things to do, and a hundred more behind those. The last thing anyone needed was for Marlys to go chasing rainbows with Kaylin’s four-year-old.

  She held out her hand. “Show me what’s to see,” she said.

  Kaylin had married the innkeeper’s son, and lived down the hill from the farm and over the bridge that spanned the river. On market days the inn filled early and stayed full late with people who came in from the farmsteads and the horse farms and the smaller villages within a day’s wagon ride.

  Today was not a market day, but there was a crowd around the inn. The crowd was thickest in the square in front, where the innkeeper set tables in fair weather. Marlys, who was not tall, had to strain to see what they were staring at.

  At a table under the awning sat a man dressed all in white, with no hint of color anywhere. There would be no doubt as to what he was, not in that uniform. There was a Herald in Emmersford.

  In spite of herself, she sighed. That had never been her dream, even when she was young. She had wanted to marry and settle down and be a mother. Heralds were like adventures and Haven: all perfectly well for someone else.

  And yet, seeing the Whites and thinking of the Heralds’ mysterious mounts that were not, appearances to the contrary, horses, Marlys could be just as dazzled as any half-grown girl in Valdemar. That was why she had let young Devyn take her away from her responsibilities. She had recognized the look in his eye.

  This was his first sight of a Herald. It was, by her count, the fourth that she had had in her life. Heralds did not often ride through Emmersford.

  The Herald, Marlys heard as she came near, was on his way north; naturally he did not proclaim his errand to the world. But he had taken the wrong turning near Twin Hills where the road split twice—travelers more often than not took the first fork instead of the second, and found themselves in Emmersford instead of on the straight way to the North Road.

  “I suppose you get the odd bit of business from that,” the Herald said to Marlys’ son-in-law, who had brought him a tankard of ale.

  “We do get a little now and then,” said Devyn the elder. Devyn had wanted adventures before he married Kaylin; he had spent a year in Haven, helping his aunt run a tavern in a part of the city that was not, Marlys had deduced, the most savory. He never would say how he had broken his nose.

  He seemed remarkably at ease with the Herald. When Devyn the younger slipped free of Marlys’ grip and darted through the crowd, his father swept him deftly up before he could launch himself at the Herald. “Manners,” said the elder in a warning tone, setting the younger on his feet.

  “Manners,” the child echoed, then grinned at the Herald. “Good afternoon,” he said. “Don’t you ever get dirty?”

  The Herald laughed. “All the time,” he said.

  Marlys had only been seeing the Whites. Now she saw the man: not a young man, though far from old; not handsome, if by no means ugly either. He looked like someone she might have been at ease with if he had lived in Emmersford.

  When young Devyn climbed into his lap, he waved off Devyn the elder. “It’s no trouble,” he said. “Is that meat pasties I smell baking?”

  Young Devyn had fallen in love by then, and not only with the glamour and the dream. Marlys was rather taken with the man herself. So was everyone else she could see.

  They were all ordering ale, now the Herald had his; and speaking up for pasties fresh from the oven, too, or bowls of thick savory soup, or new-baked bread with wedges of cheese thrust into the loaves, melting into deliciousness inside.

  Marlys was neither hungry nor thirsty, but she was intrigued. The Herald was good for business, and she had a feeling he knew it.

  The sound of bells teased her ears. How she could have heard so soft a sound through the hubbub, she could not imagine, but there was no mistaking it. It almost seemed to be calling her—though even as the thought took shape in her mind, she dismissed it, She was looking for ways to escape wedding hysteria, that was all. A Companion was a singularly effective distraction.

  This one was a mare, and she was settled comfortably in the stable, eating her elegant way through a manger of hay. The stall door was open; her saddle and her bitless bridle waited for her on a stand just outside. The bells on saddle and bridle were perfectly still, and yet Marlys could hear them in her head.

  She would have thought the Companion would attract an even larger crowd than the Herald, but there was no one in the stable but Marlys and the white being who was not a horse.

  Truly, she was not. Marlys knew and loved horses. This was something else altogether. But the shape it wore . . .

  “It’s good,” she said before she realized she was speaking aloud.

  Amusement washed over her, warm and . . . indulgent? The Companion’s clear blue eye was watching her; the little lean ear slanted toward her. Marlys could not help peering into the stall—yes; the hooves did look like silver, even close up. But the coat felt like a horse’s, warm and satin-soft.

  She jerked her hand back. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That’s not at all what I—”

  The Companion shook her silken mane. :You’re not presumptuous,: she said. The words were clear, the voice in Marlys’ mind a firm, practical woman’s voice—like Brenna’s or like Marlys’ own.

  Marlys blinked. “I thought you could only talk to your Herald.”

  :It’s not could,: the Companion said. :As a rule, it’s would.:

  Oh, she did sound like Brenna. Marlys sat on the stool that the stableboy had left in the aisle, because her feet were not as young as they used to be and she had been on them enough today as it was, and smiled up at the Companion. The Companion’s face was not made for smiling back, but Marlys felt the warmth inside, a deep, peaceful, altogether wonderful feeling. It asked nothing of her except that she be there; it expected nothing. It was exactly what she needed.

  The Herald left well before sundown. Marlys was long gone by then, back to the farm, but she heard the fading sound of bells and the distant chiming of silver hooves, and knew a momentary pang of regret—though for what, she could not have said. She had no ambition to be a Herald. But to be a friend: in another world, that might have been possible.

  In this one, she was what she was. There were six crises and a handful of disasters to avert before dinner, and Ginee’s wedding tabard to finish embroidering after, because tomorrow would be full from dawn to midnight, and if she did not do it now, it would never get done.

  By the time Marlys fell into bed, she was ready to sleep like the dead. Her dreams were full of white light and the sound of silver bells. Even in the middle of them, she laughed at herself for dreaming like a silly girl.

  :Good morning.:

  This voice was male. It was as warm as the other Companion’s voice had been, and it had a beautiful timbre in Marlys’ sleep-fogged mind, soft and rich and deep. The white light around it had a distinct golden cast, like a memory of summer. There was, over and under it all, a ringing of silver bells.

  Marlys sat bolt upright. The wind blowing through the open window smelled strongly of rain, and the light was ominously gray.

  With any luck at all, Ginee would sleep for hours yet without the sun to wake her. That would postpone, if not, unfortunately, dispense with the eruption altogether. Today the wedding tent was to be delivered and set up in t
he daisy meadow, which in wet weather was also known as the swamp. Ginee would not be happy about that. Oh, no. Not at all.

  :The rain will stop by evening,: said the Companion, who should have receded with the rest of her dreams. But he was still there, and she was wide awake. :It will be a little wet still tomorrow, but not enough to make the tent impossible. You’ll have a fine dry day for the wedding.:

  For a magical being, he was remarkably practical. That stood to reason, since he was a figment of Marlys’ imagination. Even in flights of fancy, Marlys kept a grip on reality.

  :Oh, no,: he said. :I’m quite real. You had better get dressed. The tent is almost here.:

  “What in the name of—” Marlys sprang to the window.

  He was there in the kitchen garden, grazing on the grass that insisted in springing up along the outside wall. He had been very careful not to step on the squash vines or to knock down any of the beanpoles. He was saddled, bridled, and groomed to a luminous sheen. The rain seemed powerless to penetrate the light that surrounded him.

  He lifted his head. He was not particularly large; the Companion in the inn had been a good hand taller. But he was well and sturdily built, and he had a good, solid head, the kind Marlys liked best: not too small, not too dished in the face, with plenty of brain space between the ears.

  :Thank you,: he said. :Do you want the tent in the barnyard? That’s where they’re headed with it.:

  Marlys flung on clothes more or less at random, snatched her oiled rain cloak from the peg, and managed to get her hair braided out of her face before she had to head off the wagon. By the time she had dealt with the tent and the people who belonged to it, sent Ronan and the boys to help them, settled three lesser crises, and fed the horses, she was as ready as she was going to be to face the wrath of Ginee.

  To her amazement, there was none. Her daughter was awake, dressed, and cooking breakfast, and her expression was profoundly bemused. “Did you know there’s a Companion in the garden?” she asked.

  The last time she had sounded that reasonable, or that much like herself, she had been walking out with Ronan but had yet to tell him they were getting married. It was so unexpected that Marlys almost forgot to answer the question. “Yes, I did notice.”

  “Did you happen to notice who he’s here for?”

  Ginee was doing her best to sound elaborately casual, but Marlys could sense the disappointment underneath. It was buried deep; she probably was barely aware of it.

  But Marlys was her mother. Marlys could read her with practiced ease. “I haven’t had time,” she said. “Why? Has anyone said anything?”

  “Not a word,” Ginee said. “I don’t think anybody’s seen him but us. You don’t think—after all—”

  “Did he speak to you?” Marlys asked.

  Ginee shook her head. “Really, I know it’s not me. I don’t want it to be me. I’ve got the life I want. I don’t want to give it all up to be a living, breathing, mounted target.”

  “I guess we’ll find out, then,” said Marlys as Ginee filled a bowl with porridge and honey and cream and set it in front of her. She was careful not to make a great show of appreciation, because Ginee hated that, but she smiled and dipped her head in thanks, and ate her breakfast while it was hot.

  Then, after certain preparations, she went to the kitchen garden, where the Companion had finished off the grass and was asleep with one back foot cocked, as much like a horse as made no difference. The rain had backed off for a bit, and he was still perfectly dry.

  “All right,” she said as he started awake. “If you’re here to Choose somebody, do get about it, but could you make sure they stay until after the wedding? If it’s somebody essential, we can’t spare her, and if it’s family, we’ll be needing some time to get used to the idea of losing her. Or him?”

  :For me it would be “her,”: the Companion said. :My name is Kellen.:

  “Marlys,” she said. “If you don’t mind, the stable’s probably more comfortable, and it’s certainly less wet.”

  :I would be glad of that,: he said civilly. He dipped his head as a man would, a small bow of appreciation. She had done the same for Ginee not an hour before.

  Marlys could appreciate the strangeness of it all, but it felt real enough. The Companion approved of his clean and deeply bedded stall, greeted the mares politely, and was clearly relieved to be rid of his saddle and bridle. :There are times,: he said, :when one misses the convenience of hands.:

  “They are useful, aren’t they?” Marlys said.

  She had a sense of quick humor, like the flash of a grin, before he got down and had himself a long, delicious roll in the straw. The mares watched intently, but they were not offering any opinions—which for those ladies was remarkable.

  It seemed logical, once Kellen was on his feet again, to brush the straw off him. There were endless duties calling, and Marlys would go to them. But not just yet.

  She was doing her best not to think a thought that kept niggling at her. That it felt ridiculously comfortable and right to be here, picking straw out of the long waving mane, while the Companion ate his way through a manger of hay.

  He had not come for her, of course. She was much too old. Her daughters were all spoken for and her grand-daughters were hardly more than babies. It must be one of the farmhands or a girl from the town.

  Maybe it was one of Brenna’s girls. Brenna would be beside herself, between grief at losing her child and heart-bursting pride at having a Chosen in the family.

  That was it, Marlys thought. It was Tara or Elin. Either would make a fine Herald, as bright and bold as they were, and afraid of nothing.

  Still. The Companion was in her barn, not Brenna’s, eating her hay and carrying on a lazy, meandering conversation with many pauses. There was nothing deep or significant about it. Kellen knew something about dairy farming and more about weddings than one might easily expect.

  :We take time to observe the world,: he said. :Humans have so many rituals, and tie themselves in so many knots about them.:

  “Now that is the truth,” Marlys said with a sigh. He was as clean as he was going to get, and she was dallying, combing his tail to rippling white silk. “I’d better get to my ritual, or it won’t get done. You’re comfortable?”

  :Perfectly,: he said.

  It was harder to leave him than she would have thought. But he was a dream, and not for her. Her reality was outside the barn, falling into chaos as things always seemed to do without Marlys there to keep them in order.

  “Two more days,” she said. “Just two more days.”

  His assent was warm inside her. As if he counted the days, too, and understood perfectly.

  One would think that the whole of Emmersford would be in a flutter over the Companion in Marlys’ barn, but except for Ginee, no one seemed aware of him. He made no move toward any of the eligible young women as far as Marlys could detect. He seemed content to idle in his stall, keep the mares company, and offer the occasional pithy mental comment when wedding hysteria got out of hand.

  He was keeping her sane—though the family might beg to differ. She had to be careful not to break out laughing at some of his more penetrating observations.

  People did notice something. “You look as happy as Ginee is supposed to,” Brenna said the morning of the wedding. It had dawned with fog and damp, but before either the bride or the groom could give way to panic, the fog burned off and the sun shone bright and warm. It was a beautiful day, as lovely as any bride could ask for.

  Ginee was in the bathhouse with her flock of friends, getting ready for the wedding. Everyone else was delegated to this task or that. For Marlys and Brenna, that was the weaving of the last garlands, and making sure the bride’s gown and tabard were finished, ready, and spotlessly clean.

  “There’s been a light on you for days,” Brenna said. “Are you really that glad to be getting this over with?”

  “Gladder,” Marlys said. Which was true, but that was not why she kept wanting t
o break out smiling. Kellen had wandered down to the river pasture, where he was pretending to be an ordinary gray horse and watching the last of the wedding preparations come together in and around the tent.

  She could see them through his eyes. It was peculiar and a little disorienting, but entertaining, like being in two places at once. It was useful, too, she told herself: she knew exactly what people were getting up to.

  “You know,” said Brenna, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think you’d found yourself a man.”

  That shocked Marlys out of her doubled reality. “Not bloody likely,” she said.

  “I didn’t think so,” said Brenna, so mildly Marlys darted a suspicious glance at her. But she did not seem unduly skeptical.

  Marlys thought seriously of telling her who else was there, watching and listening through her. But that meant explanations, and probably misunderstandings, and certainly incredulity. What, after all, would a Companion want with a grandmother from Emmersford?

  :You might be surprised,: Kellen said.

  “Hush,” she told him, turning it into a loud sniff and a sneeze before Brenna could ask what she was talking about.

  After all those eons of preparation and the drama attendant on them, the wedding came and went with supernatural speed. The weather was flawless, the bride was beautiful, the groom both handsome and besotted. Some of the guests wept, though Marlys did not, and a few became so drunk afterward that they had to be hauled off in the cart that Marlys had hired for just that purpose.

  It all went off as close to perfectly as anything could. Marlys allowed herself a little tightness in the throat as she saw Ginee and Ronan off to their new home, but only a little. It was not as if they were moving to Haven. She could see them every day if she had a mind.

  She might. Or she might not. When it was all over, when the feast was cleared away and the guests had stumbled and staggered and rolled on home, she sat in her empty house with the last of the wine.

  It was blissfully quiet. The night was warm; the air was sweet. Somewhere not too far away, a bird called, sweet and lonely.