Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  They'll cope, I suppose; it's the thing they do best. I don't know how they manage.

  Both kyree and hertasi were at heart cave- and den-dwellers, and both of the new arrivals were obviously comfortable in the Tower. They settled into the same room shared by Karal and An'desha with every evidence of content. They had not yet moved in their luggage, but the Shin'a'in had brought appropriate bedding material for both of the new guests—and extra warming pans for both beds. As far as personal belongings went, the two had traveled much lighter than he had expected. Their main luggage consisted of boxes of very special writing materials; books of tough paper with waterproof metal covers that locked over the contents like protective boxes, and ink that would never run once it had dried, even if water was spilled directly on it. Tarrn was a historian; not a traditional kyree historian like Rris, who memorized and recited from memory—but the kind of historian like the Chronicler of Valdemar, who attempted to personally view as much as possible of epochal events, and to note the honest and bare facts in record-books called Chronicles. Only when those hard facts had been listed would Tarrn then make his own interpretations of the events, written separately in Commentaries. Tarrn was very serious about his calling; he would rather have the fur pulled out of his tail until it was as naked as a rat's than put a personal interpretation in the Chronicles.

  Actually, that wasn't precisely true. Tarrn would dictate, for, having no hands, he could not write. Lyam would do the actual writing. Lyam was Tarrn's third secretary in a long life as a historian, and his relationship with the kyree was obviously based on affection and mutual respect. Normally it was Lyam who cared for the kyree's needs, but with Lyam just now the one who was in need, Tarrn was seeing to it in a quiet and dignified manner that Lyam got first priority.

  Lyam needed warmth more than anything else, and Karal volunteered to take care of him. Firesong had an idea that he knew why, too. At heart, Karal still considered himself to be the young secretary who had ridden to Valdemar from Karse, and he must be feeling a great deal of empathy for Lyam.

  That's good; they are both strangers in strange places, and it will do them good to have a friend with the same—outlook? Status? They have a lot in common, anyway.

  Tarrn, however, was quite ready for work, and looked it. He had been consulting with Silverfox all the way here from the tent-village. Firesong could not imagine where he was getting the energy.

  He approached Firesong with Silverfox still in tow as soon as Karal took Lyam off to be wrapped up in warmed blankets and given something hot to drink.

  "Firesong, Tarrn wants to speak with you privately, before we get to work," Silverfox told him, with a quizzical expression. "He says he has something for you, but he can't tell me what it is."

  The kyree nodded his head as Firesong turned to look down on him with surprise. :Indeed, Firesong k'Treva,: Tarrn said with grave courtesy. :I have. Would you come with me to where they have brought our belongings?:

  "Certainly," Firesong replied with equal courtesy. "Would you prefer that I Mindspoke with you?"

  :That will not be necessary, but thank you,: Tarrn replied, turning and walking slowly toward the heap of bundles that the Shin'a'in had left just inside the main room of the Tower.

  :It is not that this is a secret matter,: the kyree continued. :It is simply that I have not been given permission to say anything to anyone else before I discharged my obligation.:

  "Oh?" This was getting odder with every moment. Firesong couldn't think of anything or anyone among the Kaled'a'in of k'Leshya Vale who would have had anything to send to him.

  Tarrn stopped beside the pile of belongings. :If you will please remove the three bags of Lyam's clothing there—: he indicated the drab bundles with his forepaw. :—you will find what I brought you beneath them. It is wrapped in blue wool, and it is very long and narrow.: Firesong easily moved the three packages, revealing a long, narrow packet wrapped in blue wool cloth and tied with string. Firesong picked it up.

  And it Mindspoke to him.

  :Hello, boy.: The grating, decidedly female voice was all too familiar to him, although it was not one he had expected to hear ever again.

  "Need?" he gasped, as he tore at the wrappings, trying to free the blade within. Lyam must have wrapped it; the string was tied in a complicated knot-pattern only a hertasi or a kestra'chern could admire. He finally pulled off the string, the fabric fell away, and there was the ancient spell-bound sword. She looked precisely as she had the last time he saw her, strapped to Falconsbane's "daughter" Nyara's side as she and Herald Skif rode out of Valdemar to become Selenay's envoys to the Kaled'a'in and Tayledras, and possibly to the Shin'a'in as well.

  "Need, what are you doing here?" He hadn't been taken so completely by surprise since—since he'd been kidnapped by his ancestor Vanyel!

  :Nyara doesn't require me anymore; she's better off on her own,: the sword said to him. :There's nothing at k'Leshya that she, Skif, or the Kaled'a'in can't handle. You, on the other hand, are dealing with very old magics. I am very old magic, and I still recall quite a bit. I helped you once before, and I'm hoping I can help you again.:

  Firesong held the sword in both hands, and stared at it. It was very disconcerting to be Mindspeaking with what should have been an inanimate object. A sword didn't have a face to read, eyes to look into, and it was difficult to tell if it could read his expressions.

  But there's something about all this that doesn't quite make sense yet.

  "I find myself wondering if there is something more to this than just an urge to help us here," he said finally. "You've never put yourself in nonfemale hands before."

  :Hmm—let's say I've never done it deliberately, but it has happened, and it was usually with lads who had the same taste in men as my "daughters.": The sword chuckled, but he sensed there was still a lot more than she was telling, and he decided to press her for it.

  :Try again,: he said sternly in Mindspeech. :You're avoiding my question.:

  A sword could not sigh, but he got that sensation from her.

  :All right. I could tell you to work it out yourself, but why waste time? You've got mage-storms disrupting magic; you've managed to get them canceled out for the moment, but we all know this is only a temporary respite, not a solution. I'm magic. I've managed to hold myself together this long, but each Storm gets stronger, and sooner or later I'm going to lose to one. I don't know what will happen when I lose, but it's going to happen.: She paused for a moment. :Worst case is that I'll go up in fire and molten metal, the way the sword was made. Best case is that the magic will just unravel, and there won't be anything here but a perfectly ordinary sword.:

  He had never once thought that Need might be affected by the Storms; she had always struck him as being so capable, so impervious, that it never occurred to him that she might have been in trouble.

  This bothered him. :I can't promise anything,: he said soberly. :I don't even know if we're going to survive the end of this ourselves.:

  To his surprise, the sword laughed, though rather sardonically. :You think I don't know that? If I go pfft, I don't want little Nyara to see it happen. She had enough troubles in her life and she shouldn't lose an old friend and teacher in that unexpected a fashion. Besides, if I'm going to go, I want to do it while I'm trying to accomplish something. How could I miss a chance at getting my hand in on what you're trying to do—It's complicated, it's dangerous, it's challenging, it's irresistible.:

  "If you say so," he said aloud, but strapped the sword on anyway, for she required his presence to be able to see and hear clearly. Without a bearer, it took incredible effort for her to perceive anything, and at that it was only dimly. He didn't often carry a blade, and she felt very odd, slung across his back in Tayledras fashion. "An'desha will probably be happy to see you, but you're going to have to explain yourself to the rest. They don't know anything about you."

  And the gods only know what the Shin'a'in are going to make of her. Yes, Kethry had carried her, and Ke
rowyn after that, but still—she was yet another creature of magic inside the heart of the Plains. How much more were they going to be willing to allow?

  :I can't wait,: Need replied, with a bit less irony than he expected. :There's something rather amusing about the reactions people get the first time I talk to them.:

  Amusing? Oh, gods. Firesong buried his irritation at this particular complication in an already complicated situation; after all, Need was right about her abilities. She did know much older magics than anyone here, and that included An'desha. That might be crucial at this point, for there could be something ancient and long-forgotten that would give them all the clues they needed to solve this situation. She was a powerful mage in her own right—something near to an Adept, or she never could have made the magics that bound her human soul to an iron blade. He, An'desha, and Sejanes were the only true mages here; having Need with them gave them a fourth.

  And if she is right, and the mage-storms overwhelm her along with the rest of us, she won't have to worry about how she unravels. If she dissolves into flame and melted steel, we here among all these dangerous machines of power will have far more to worry about than her.

  On the other hand, dealing with Need's irascible personality was not going to be easy. He rubbed his temples, feeling another headache coming on.

  She Mindspeaks; perhaps I can get Tarrn interested in her. When he is not translating for us, wouldn't she be fascinating for a historian?

  He could only hope that was the case, because he had the feeling that Need was not going to give him a choice about becoming her bearer. In this all-male enclave, he was probably the closest she was going to come to an acceptable bearer, for by now, even the female Companions they had ridden here on had begun the long journey back to Valdemar.

  "Well, we might as well get this over now," he said aloud, as Tarrn watched him with interest. "I assume, sir, that you have made the acquaintance of my metal friend, here?"

  :I have, and I hope she will continue to impart her tales of the past to me here, when our work permits,: Tarrn replied gravely, which made Firesong feel a little more cheerful about the situation. At least he wouldn't be burdened with Need's presence and personality all the time.

  "Well, most of my other colleagues here don't even know she exists, so we'd better introduce her to them before she startles one of them into dropping something critical by mindspeaking to him without warning." Need remained silent after that little sally, which either meant that she agreed with him, or that she was insulted and was plotting revenge.

  :An excellent plan,: Tarrn replied. :Carry on.:

  He gathered them all together by the simple expedient of going into the central chamber, clearing his throat, and announcing, "Excuse me, friends, but something rather—unexpected—has come up that you really ought to know about."

  That certainly brought everyone who understood Valdemaran boiling out, and the few Shin'a'in who didn't know the language followed the rest out of sheer curiosity.

  Silverfox was the first to arrive, and stared at him as if he'd grown a tail. "Firesong," the kestra'chern began incredulously, "what are you doing with a sword?"

  He removed Need from her sheath, just in case the leather and silk hampered her ability to Mindspeak at all, and held her out in front of him, balanced on his palms, as the others arrived. "Well. that's what I wanted to tell you all about," he said, flushing a little. "It seems we didn't get two additions to our little group here, we got three. I'd like you all to meet Need, those of you who haven't already encountered her."

  "Need!" An'desha had only just emerged from the sleeping chamber, but there was no doubt that he was glad to see the mage-blade. "What is she doing here? This is wonderful!"

  Firesong's expression must have been a bit sour, for An'desha took one look at his face and laughed. "Oh, it's that way, is it? You're the chosen bearer?" He looked down fondly at the blade. "Firesong is much too certain of his own expertise, dear lady; I trust you can teach him that there are other people here who are just as expert in their crafts as he. I warn you though, he looks much better this way than in a dress."

  :Don't be so hard on him, boy,: the blade replied, amused. :Leave that job to me. I've got more experience at it.:

  By now all the rest had gathered around, and were staring with varying degrees of fascination and puzzlement at the sword. "What is this?" Sejanes asked, brows knitted.

  "Is this by any chance the famous sword called 'Need' that the ancestress of Tale'sedrin Clan once wore?" asked Lo'isha, as the other Shin'a'in gathered in a knot behind him, murmuring. "The one carried by our Clan-sib, Herald Kerowyn?"

  "The same," Firesong all but groaned. "To answer you, Sejanes, Need is a magically made sword with the soul of its maker bound into it, and she is unbelievably ancient. Either she or Tarrn can probably tell you the story of why she did such a daft thing—"

  :Hardly daft. Reckless, yes, and probably less than wise, but at the time we didn't have many options, and all of those were worse than what I did. Of course, I could have just folded my hands and done nothing at all, but—let's just say that went against my conscience and my nature.:

  Those who didn't know what she was went wide-eyed with startlement at the sound of her projected mind-voice.

  "The point is, she's from a time that actually predates the Mage Wars and the Cataclysm, at least so far as we can tell and that makes her an expert in magics much older than the ones we know," Firesong said, noting as he spoke that An'desha's eyes were unfocused, which probably meant he was talking privately to her. "She has volunteered to come help us, since her last bearer no longer requires her tutelage."

  Master Levy rubbed his chin with one hand as he looked down on the sword with speculation. "What happens if and when the mage-storms overwhelm us here?" he asked. "If she is magically made—"

  :Then unless I can manage to shield myself, which I'm not certain I can, I either go quietly or dramatically, and I don't know which it will be,: Need replied bluntly. :These Storms disrupt the patterns of magic so deeply they may as well be spells of Unmaking. But that would happen whether I was here or somewhere else, and I'd just as soon be trying to accomplish something. I told you, I'm not one to sit with folded hands, even if I still had hands to fold.:

  "Wait a minute," Sejanes objected, speaking directly to the sword, glimmering with reflected light from above. "If you predate the Mage Wars and the Cataclysm, how did you survive them?"

  :In a shielded casket in a shielded shrine in the heart of the triply-shielded Temple to Bestet, the Battle-Goddess,: she replied promptly. :And when the Cataclysm was over, the shields on the shrine and the casket were gone and I felt as if I'd been drained to the dregs. It took me years to recover, and by then I'd been moved to the armory since no one could figure out why I'd been put in with the Goddess' regalia in the first place. If I were inclined to such things, I'd have been indignant.:

  Sejanes nodded. "It would be difficult to find such a situation again," he observed, stroking his chin with one hand. "Indeed, it is quite surprising that you were in that situation during the first Cataclysm."

  :The only reason they had shields like that was because of the war with Ma'ar. I don't know of any Temples now with that kind of protection,: Need went on. :Or to be more honest, I don't know of any that would offer me shelter. I might as well be doing something useful, and I just might be able to save myself while doing it.:

  "Do you fear death so much?" Karal asked softly. Light rippled across the surface of the sword, as if Need reacted to that question.

  Firesong expected a sarcastic reply, or none at all, but was surprised by both her answer and her sober tone.

  :I don't fear death, youngling,: she said, with great honesty. :What I'm afraid of is more complicated than that. I don't want to vanish without fighting, I don't intend to just lie down and accept "death" passively. There is the possibility that I could meet my end violently, and if that is the case—:

  "Then it would be bet
ter here," Sejanes said with finality, as a chill crept up Firesong's spine. "If there is a second Cataclysm and the effect penetrates this place, your demise will be insignificant compared to the violence that will be unleashed."

  Light rippled along the surface of the blade again. :Good. You'd already considered that.: Need sounded relieved. :I'd hoped I wouldn't be the bird of ill omen forced to point that out to you.:

  I would rather hope we can pull this off right to the very end, thank you. "No, just the one who forced us to think about it a little earlier than we wanted to," Firesong sighed.

  Now she gave him one of her typical sardonic chuckles. :Consider it incentive to find a solution,: she told him.

  Now, of course, those who had never met Need wanted to speak with her; Firesong handed her over to An'desha for that, although he was quite aware that she was not going to change her mind about her choice of a bearer. Somewhat to his surprise, Karal separated himself from the group for a moment and approached him.

  "I'm not quite sure what to say, except that I know it isn't going to be easy or very entertaining to have Need literally on your back while we work our way through all this," Karal said quietly. "I've had teachers like her. They were very good, but not easy to live with, and you have my sympathy, for what it's worth."

  "Thank you, Karal," he replied with some surprise. The last thing he had expected was sympathy or understanding from the Karsite!

  "Just trying to—oh, I don't know." Karal smiled crookedly. "Believe it or not, I like and admire you, Firesong. We irritate each other sometimes, but who doesn't? And I never properly thanked you for what you did for me."