Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  As I'd prayed, the elemental's halo of flame went out when we splashed into the stream. But its flesh was still hot. The water around it started to boil. I imagined that in time it could cook me like a crayfish.

  But now that I had the elemental submerged, I wasn't about to give it a chance to come up for air. Clinging to it, I stabbed it again and again. As far as I could tell, these new wounds didn't trouble it either. Meanwhile, it tried to thrust me away.

  Though no one could have seen much in the dark water, I still sensed my vision fading. My ears rang and my chest ached, the compulsion to gulp a breath becoming insupportable.

  And then the salamander stopped struggling. Its body turned soft, crumbled and dissolved in the current, as if it had burned itself to ash.

  I dropped the knife and amulet, then, with the dregs of my strength, floundered to the surface. After filling my lungs several times, I paddled to the shore, only to discover that my arms were too feeble to drag me out of the river.

  Gauntleted hands gripped my wrists and hauled me onto the grass. "I came after you," Pivor said.

  "I'm afraid you missed all the fun," I wheezed. "They're dead, the spook and Jarnac both." I started coughing. I wondered vaguely if it was from swallowing smoke or water.

  "You need a Healer!"

  "That would be nice. Not that I'm dying, but I could definitely use some ointment for my scorched parts. Just let me lie here a minute, and then, I think, I'll be able to walk."

  After a pause, Pivor said, "Thank you for bringing us the truth. I keep thinking about things my grandaunt has always said. And all the blood I nearly shed, for nothing. Do you think there might be an honorable way to end the feud? I mean, without killing all the Greens."

  I smiled, which hurt my face. "It's worth considering," I said.

  A Child's Adventures

  by Janni Lee Simner

  Janni Lee Simner grew up in New York and has been making her way west ever since. She spent nearly a decade in the Midwest, where the recent floods formed some of the background for this story; currently she lives in the much drier Arizona desert. She's sold stories to nearly two dozen anthologies and magazines, including Realms of Fantasy and Sisters in Fantasy 2. Her first three books, Ghost Horse, The Haunted Trail, and Ghost Vision, have been published by Scholastic.

  When the Companion first appeared in the marketplace, Inya hoped it had come for one of the grandchildren. Such a thing wasn't unheard of, even in a village as small as River's Bend. Companions were said not to care about rank, or about where people were born.

  The people milling around the square froze at the sound of those bridle bells, at the sight of the graceful white creature, too perfect to be a horse, trailing silver and sky-blue trappings. The Companion had no rider, and everyone knew what that meant. She had come searching, maybe for one of them.

  Lara fidgeted at Inya's side, and Inya squeezed the girl's hand. Mariel stood beside them, large-eyed and still. Lara was too young, but Mariel, just sliding into the awkward lankiness between childhood and adulthood, was not. Companions came for children Mariel's age all the time. Anyone who spent an evening listening to a tavern minstrel knew that.

  The Companion tossed her head, mane falling down her back like soft winter snow, sapphire eyes scanning the crowd. Then she started forward, bells jingling, steps light and quick. Inya heard Mariel catch her breath. After all, she'd heard the minstrels, too.

  But maybe, just this once, the stories would turn true. The Companion stepped toward them, until Inya saw her breath, frosty in the late autumn air. Another step, and she would be within reach. Another step—

  A wet, silky muzzle nudged Inya's chest. She looked down, startled. The Companion looked back at her, through eyes bright and very deep. Inya felt herself falling, drowning in that endless blue. At the bottom waited friendship, and welcoming, and a life without loneliness. The world tilted crazily around her, but for a long moment she didn't care.

  The moment ended. Inya pulled herself away, flinging the Companion's reins to the ground. She hadn't even realized she was holding them. The ground steadied beneath her; the world came back into focus.

  The Companion kept staring at her. Something brushed Inya's mind, soft as a feather. :I Choose you:, a voice whispered. :After all my searching, I Choose you:.

  As a child, Inya had dreamed about hearing that voice. But that was a long time ago. She didn't have time, now, for a child's adventures. She had a farm to keep up. She had grandchildren to raise. And someone had to look after the girls' father, too. The Companion had made a mistake. Inya couldn't run off, not now.

  "Go away," Inya whispered. She twisted a gray strand of hair between her fingers. "I'm too old. You're too late. Go away."

  The Companion shook her head. :You:.

  "Take one of the children. They're who you're looking for, not me."

  The Companion snorted, a surprisingly horselike sound. She knelt beside Inya, inviting her to mount.

  "No!" Inya turned from the Companion's sapphire eyes. Her foot slipped on a loose stone, and pain shot through her knee, so sharp she caught her breath. She stood still for several minutes, waiting for the pain to fade.

  Even if she could leave her home and her family, she couldn't follow the Companion. Who ever heard of a Herald with bad knees, with joints that ached whenever it rained?

  She felt warm breath on her neck. The muscles down her back tensed. "Go away. You've made a mistake."

  "I wish mistakes like that would happen to me."

  Inya turned to see Mariel standing beside her, the bag with their purchases swinging from one shoulder. The girl's face had a twisted, angry look. :You should have come for Mariel:, Inya thought again. She sighed, taking Mariel's hand. She had to get home, to start on dinner, to clean the house. Whatever dreams she'd had as a child, she didn't have time, now, to argue with Companions.

  Lara came up at Inya's other side, and Inya took her hand, too. People lingered in the square, staring. Inya ignored them. She started past the jumble of stalls and vendors, toward home.

  Lara twisted around and looked over her shoulder. "She's following us." The girl giggled, as if the idea were terribly funny.

  Mariel dropped Inya's hand, turning to look for herself. "You have to stop," she said. "You can't just leave her there." Mariel's voice was fierce. "You can't."

  "It's not your place to tell me what I can or can't do," Inya said sharply. "Now come along."

  She kept walking. Mariel followed, but she wouldn't take Inya's hand again.

  All the way home, Inya didn't turn around. Even though she heard the Companion's steps, light as snowfall, behind her.

  By the time they got home, an icy rain was falling, turning the dirt road to mud. Inya shivered, dropping Lara's hand to pull her cloak close around her shoulders. Over the steady patter of the rain, Inya no longer heard the Companion's hoofs. Maybe she had finally gone away.

  Lara started to run, and Inya, unable to keep up, let her. Mariel followed her sister, the two of them racing for the house.

  Inya skirted the edge of the fields, where the girls' father was working. Jory nodded as she walked past. He was splattered with mud, brown curls plastered to his face. Beside him a dappled brown horse was hooked to the plow, deep in mud itself.

  Beyond their land, through the trees, Inya saw the dark band of the river. Even from where she stood, she could tell the water was rising. Tongues of water lapped at the trees.

  Inya kept walking, past a battered barn and on to the house. She started a fire in the kitchen hearth, and made the girls change into dry clothes.

  Mariel avoided Inya's eyes. She wouldn't talk to her, and she ran back outside as soon as she'd changed, muttering something about helping her father. Inya sighed.

  She started on dinner, Lara by her side, trying to help but mostly just getting flour in her face and short curls. The fire quickly took the chill from the room, and the smell of simmering soup made the cold outside feel even farther away. I
nya kneaded the smooth, hard dough beneath her fingers, trying to forget the Companion's bottomless eyes, trying to forget the silky whisper in her head.

  Jory and Mariel came in just after dark. They ate in silence. Jory wolfed down his food, face tired and tight. Mariel didn't eat at all, just stared at Inya with an unreadable expression. Outside, the wind picked up, whistling through the gaps around the door. One of the hinges was wearing loose. Inya needed to fix it before winter.

  Jory looked up. "I spoke to old Caron today." Jory's tangled curls fell into his face. Lara looked a lot like him. Mariel was the one who looked like their mother—Inya's daughter. She couldn't believe Anara had been gone almost a year.

  Inya fixed her gaze on Jory. "What'd Caron say?"

  "He offered me half again what he'd offered before—more than this farm's ever going to make on its own." Jory buttered a thick slice of bread. "I said I'd think about it."

  Inya stiffened. "It's not your decision to make." The farm had been in her family for generations, since before River's Bend was more than a few scattered houses, before the village even had a name.

  "Well, maybe you should think about it, too," Jory said.

  They'd had this discussion before. Caron had first approached Jory nearly two years ago. The farm, once a candlemark's walk from the next nearest house, was now close to the village. The merchant wanted to build a tavern there, and maybe a couple of shops.

  At first Jory had refused, just as Inya expected him to. Then Anara had died, giving birth to a child who died a few hours after her. After that, Jory took Caron more seriously. "My heart isn't in this place anymore," he'd told Inya once.

  Jory's family had moved to River's Bend when he was a child. He didn't know what it was like to be in a place for hundreds of years, to stay with it through good times and bad.

  "We could move up to Haven." Jory had finished the bread and reached for the ale pitcher. "With what Caron's willing to pay, we could start all over again."

  "This is our home."

  "Anywhere can be home." Jory's voice rose. "Unless you're too foolish to let it be."

  "Jory." Inya kept her own voice low. She wouldn't yell in front of the children. "What would you do in the city? You're a farmer."

  "My grandfather worked leather. It's a trade I could learn, if I set my mind to it."

  "We belong here."

  "You always say that!" Suddenly Jory was standing, yelling across the table. "We belong where we can make a living!"

  Mariel silently left the kitchen. Lara followed her into the bedroom. Inya let them go. It was bad enough they'd lost their mother. They shouldn't have to worry about losing their home, too.

  "You're a fool," Jory said, but he didn't say anything more. Somehow, with the children's leaving, the argument had ended.

  For now. Inya sighed and started clearing the table.

  She'd just finished the dishes when the door flew open and Mariel staggered in. Her clothes were soaked through; water streamed from her hair. She shivered. Thunder rumbled outside.

  Inya hurried her to the hearth. She hadn't seen Mariel leave; the girl must have climbed out one of the bedroom's shuttered windows. Inya winced. Had the argument with Jory upset her so much that she didn't want to go through the kitchen again?

  Mariel stared at the flames. Her face had a strange look, eyes very large and dark. Inya hoped she hadn't caught a chill. She put water on for tea.

  "What do you think you're doing, running around in the rain like that? You'll make yourself sick."

  "I had to feed the animals." Mariel's teeth chattered.

  "Your father would have done that."

  "I had to do it."

  The tea boiled. Inya poured Mariel a steaming mug of it, then added a spoonful of honey. Mariel took the cup eagerly. Inya poured herself a cup, as well. Just listening to the wind made her shiver. Her joints were stiffening with dampness; she knew she wouldn't sleep well.

  She sipped the hot tea, staring at Mariel over the cup's rim. Mariel's clothes and hair were drying; she'd stopped shivering, too.

  She looked a lot like her mother had at that age, from the dark eyes to the long, stringy hair. For a moment Inya thought she saw Anara sitting there, not a married woman but a girl, halfway between childhood and adulthood, staring at her through serious eyes.

  "Grandma? Are you all right?" Mariel's voice brought Inya back to the present.

  Inya brushed a hand across her face. "I'm fine. Are you warmer now?"

  Mariel nodded.

  "Why don't you go on to bed, then?"

  "Come with me." Mariel sounded suddenly young.

  "I'll be along in a moment." Inya watched as Mariel left the room. Then she stood, wincing at the weight on her knees. She walked slowly to the door, examining the worn-out hinge. She felt a tingling at the base of her skull. Some instinct made her undo the latch. She opened the door, staring out into the cold, wet night.

  The wind had died. The moon shone through the dark clouds, lighting the field. And something stood beneath that moon, too perfect to be a horse. Its white hide shone, brighter than any moon.

  Inya slammed the door shut again. The hinge creaked in protest.

  She realized she was crying. :I can't follow you. Don't you understand?:

  The Companion didn't answer, and Inya didn't open the door again. She banked the fire and stumbled into bed.

  That night she dreamed of half-grown children—Mariel, Anara, even herself as a girl. Only all the girls had blue eyes, bright as sapphire. Inya knew that wasn't right, though in the dream she couldn't think why.

  Inya woke in the dark, not sure what had stirred her. Rain crashed against the roof; thunder rumbled. She crawled out of bed. The dirt floor was cold and damp beneath her feet, even through heavy socks. Her knees and ankles ached. She walked slowly toward the kitchen.

  Jory stood by the door, holding a lantern. The yellow light cast shadows on his face. His shoulders were tight, hunched together. He looked tired.

  Inya tensed. "What's wrong?"

  "It rained harder than I thought last night. The river's rising fast. If it doesn't crest by the end of the week, the farm'll flood out. Sooner, if the rain keeps up."

  Inya bit her lip. She'd known the water was high, but she'd thought they had more time.

  There hadn't been a flood since she was a girl. People had come from the village, then, helping her parents build floodwalls of mud and wood. Together, they'd held the water back.

  Jory ran a hand through his hair. "Soon as the sun's up, I'm going to start digging."

  Inya nodded, suddenly wide awake. "I'll send the children into town with word that we need help."

  Jory nodded. He opened the door again. The sky was dark, still more black than gray. Rain fell in icy sheets. There was no moon, no Companion standing in the field. Perhaps she had given up and gone away.

  Jory stepped back out, closing the door behind him. Inya went to wake the children.

  Mariel was already up. Lara poked out from under the blankets, yawning and rubbing her eyes. Inya explained, as quickly and calmly as she could, while the sun rose and thin light crept around the shuttered windows.

  "Will we have to swim?" Lara sounded so worried that Inya didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

  "Of course not." Inya spoke as gently as she could. "We're going to sit down and have breakfast, same as always. Then I'm going to send you into town with a message for the mayor." As a child, Inya had taken a similar message to the mayor's grandfather. River's Bend hadn't had a mayor back then, but there had been a village council, and he'd been on it.

  While the girls munched on reheated soup and cold bread, Inya wrote the message. Then she bundled Lara and Mariel into warm clothes and followed them outside. The rain had let up, and pale yellow light filtered through the clouds. The warm rays felt good on Inya's face.

  She didn't have time to stand around, though. The dishes needed washing, and the door needed mending. She had to check for new leaks in
the roof, too. And with Jory and the girls out all morning, she needed to make something warm for lunch.

  She went back inside, closing the door behind her.

  * * *

  The rain started again soon after the girls left. No thunder this time, and not much wind; just a steady drizzle that stole all the warmth from the air. Inya found herself shivering, even inside. She worked slowly, knees and ankles complaining as she did.

  Lara didn't return until well past noon. She pulled off her boots, sat down by the hearth, and stretched out her feet to warm them. "Where's Mariel?"

  "She's—" Lara hesitated. "She's outside helping Dad."

  Inya nodded. She put water on for tea, then sat down beside Lara.

  "They made me wait a long time," Lara said. "They wouldn't let me see the mayor, but they took the note to him, and came back with an answer. It's in my pocket." Lara pulled out a sheet of wet, crumpled paper. The ink ran, but Inya could still make out the writing. She read the letter slowly. Then she read it again, unable to believe the words.

  Much of it was formal, meaningless prose, thanking her for writing and expressing concern for her family. But two lines told her what the message really meant.

  While we share concern for your property and safety, the village has not gone unaffected by this rain, and our own affairs occupy most of our time. I can make no promises, though we will send what help we can, when we can.

  Anger blurred Inya's sight. What help we can, when we can. That meant there'd be no help at all. And, our own affairs. That meant the farm's affairs were not the village's affairs, not their concern at all.

  Things had been different when Inya was a girl. The farm and village had worked together; in her grandmother's day, the farm had even been the larger of the two. There'd been no question, then, about whether the villagers would help hold the water back. They had helped. Just like Inya's family had helped the villagers, during hard winters, supplying food and charging only what they could afford.