Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  The silent whisper of the scythe was the only sound he heard, gasping like the laboring death-rattle of a dying person.

  "Ho—boy."

  Rivin stopped his work, dumbly turning toward the Healer who was standing in the stubble of wheat-trail that Rivin had made.

  "We must speak.'"

  Mute still, and shivering from sweat-chills and weakness, Rivin leaned on his scythe, waiting.

  "How is she?" he asked bluntly.

  The Healer shook his head. "There is a sore deep inside her that my Gifts and knowledge can't seem to reach. I am going to try and summon help, but I fear I may not be quick enough."

  Rivin scrubbed his face, pretending that the dampness this action left on his hand was sweat, and not tears.

  "Why has this happened?"

  The Healer frowned, a line of worry between his brows. "Did not you know, boy? She has miscarried. The babe could not survive the strain of the work she was doing. Some can, but she was too frail." A note of disapproval entered the man's voice.

  Rivin blinked, the chill in his body suddenly concentrating and finding a focus in his breastbone.

  "Do you know the father?" the Healer went on.

  Rivin stared at the man, feeling a numb balm wash him. In that moment, he felt separate—from his body, from the situation, from the questions the old Healer asked. He was above it all—all laws and vows, all beliefs and blood ties that had bound him to his family and his father. The chill in his heart began to radiate outward, and he felt it enter his gaze.

  The Healer must have seen it, for his own blue eyes widened and he stepped back, slowly, first one step, then another.

  "I—" the old man began, and then broke into a run, waddling flat-footed toward his horse, mounting, and galloping off into the night.

  In his belly—even apart—Rivin felt a colddrake uncoil, stirring.

  Go, the Rivin that walked apart from Rivin thought. Summon your Healers. They may be able to help my sister, but there is none who can save my father.

  Carefully, Rivin felt himself lay the scythe down. He would not need its edge. He turned to the farm, and took one step—

  The movement was like a trigger. He Felt the tremble of inner blocks crack, fracture, and start to collapse. Revulsion, that sense of broken trust, panic—the source of all those emotions had overflowed its dam. The walls disintegrated—

  And... he remembered....

  So long ago, as a child—a baby. The warm trust and love he had once held for the man who loomed above him, who he called Da. He remembered the day he had been playing in the barn and his mother had been down at Rianao's, on an errand with Sattar, heavy with Danavan. He remembered looking up, and seeing Delanon—

  He remembered pain, and screaming. He remembered the ripping sound of his clothes as they were torn from him, and he remembered begging, pleading, "No—no—please, Da, no—"

  He remembered being beaten, and then told that if he told anyone, anyone, his father would kill him—or kill Sattar. And it would all be Rivin's fault if that happened.

  And he had made himself forget. To keep that from happening, he had built up walls, drowned the memory, weighted it with stones and thrown it down a well—

  But now he knew. Now he was soaked with memory. All the groundless fears had a base. His vision was clear. The denial was gone. Now he knew—

  His father had raped him.

  The door to the farm did not open, it exploded. He Felt himself reaching for the chill fire that had now spread to his palms, and he Felt it buoy his spirit higher. He Felt the hunger for revenge—cleansing at last!—sweep him as he opened the door to Sattar's room, and stared down at his father.

  Who was sitting in a stool, holding his daughter's hand, bent double.

  There was no pity, no remorse at that moment. There was no doubt as to who was the father of Sattar's baby. He had heard the unknown element in Sattar's voice that rainy night he had returned from his excursion to the city, and now he knew a name for it.

  Shame.

  Delanon stood, a frown on his brow, his eyes dark. With a sweep of his hand, Rivin felt raw power roar through his body and pick his father up, slamming the older man against a wall.

  There was a crack and a scream as Delanon's rib cage broke and his pelvis shattered, and Rivin felt a rivulet of sheer exhilaration trickle into him. Retribution, he thought, and Reached for more.

  "No!" the disembodied boy heard. He saw realization in his father's eyes, a desperate plea—horror—fear—good!—"Stop! Please—oh—gods—I'm sorry—"

  Rivin did not waste the breath to tell his father that there was no way he could excuse what he had done, nor words enough to apologize. There wasn't even the time for words. Only the time for destruction. Only—the solution—

  Fire exploded from the boy, smoking through his body and out of his hands in a burst of light and energy. He Felt the agony as his father screamed, writhing and twisting. The fire sloughed off flesh, burned away blood, burrowed into marrow and bone. Rivin screamed his hatred—his burden of shame—into the winds he had summoned, feeling his mind snap and crackle beneath the new burden of magic.

  And then it was over, leaving behind only a char-black, greasy smear on the wall, and ashes on the floor. Rivin swayed, staring down at his hands, amazement in his eyes.

  With a popping sound akin to that of a dislocated joint being reset, he came back to himself.

  What have I done?

  He sank to his knees, sanity returning, the cold banished, weakness and a strange inner emptiness making him tremble. The air was stifling. He felt flushed. When he ran his hand over his forehead, he pulled sweat away from his face.

  What have I done?

  Slowly, he stood, turning his eyes from the glassy-slick mark on the far wall, turning to the shutters of the window, fumbling to open them, to let this foul, foul air out—to purify—deep, clean, breaths—clean, cleansing air.

  His body was racked with sobs when he finally pushed the shutters open and nearly collapsed against the windowframe. He was a murderer—a killer of men—he was foul—slimy—caked in dirt—stained in blood—blackened by ash.

  He was just like his father.

  Like father. Like son.

  :No.:

  The voice was assertive, female. He trembled, fear consuming him again, making a fist around his belly. He shook his head against the voice, choosing to disbelieve.

  Killer. Defiler. Damned. What have I become?

  :No!:

  The voice again, and he screamed in the silence of his soul, Don't you see what I just did? Don't you know what I have done? Don't you understand?

  :I see. I know. And I understand.:

  He looked up, for a moment blinded by a light akin to the sun, though it was an hour until dawn. And then he saw her—the graceful line of her white neck, the glancing blue-stream brilliance of her eyes—like fire, but kinder.

  Shock gathered him up in its prickly folds, and then plunged him into an endless field of blue that was as textured and soft as a satin robe, and as all-encompassing as the closing surface of water. But he had no fear of drowning. Nor did he want to. All he felt—was—her—

  And her name was Derdre, and he was her Chosen.

  Lisabet gently pulled the covers over the bed that had held the corpse of the girl, tucking everything into neat order. The undertaker had carried the body of Sattar Morningsong off two days ago, and buried it yesterday. They had had to wait that long just to let Rivin rest from the exhausted state he had fallen into.

  The man that the regional Healer had brought from Maidenflower stared at the bed and then turned away. He had stayed around in case any other—accidents—had occurred.

  "It didn't have to end like this," he murmured, glancing out the window toward the boy, leaning against his Companion, head buried in her slender neck.

  "It didn't have to start either," Lisabet replied grimly, glancing at the mark on the wall that no amount of washing had removed. "Gods damn it�
�I should have known!"

  The Healer, a man by the name of Yiro, put a hand on her shoulder and shook his head. "Stop it now, Herald. Sometimes it's almost impossible to tell. Even Delanon's sister said that she thought he was a tad harsh, but never... well...."

  "Those kids carried that secret well."

  "Or else they thought it was normal to be treated that way."

  They stood in silence for a time. Then: "Why would someone do that to their own children?" she whispered.

  "I've asked myself that same question before. The best answer I have is that they like the... power. The pleasure of a helpless victim. The dependence. They get a feeling of control. Some even think they're doing the child a favor. If nothing else, they try to justify their actions."

  Quiet. Outside, the Herald could hear Derdre take fidgety steps, the tall grass whispering softly. Then, "And the other two?" she asked.

  "I've already called in one of the best MindHealers in this district. She'll check them out, live with them for a while. They're young. With luck, she'll be able to Heal them."

  After a moment, Yiro clasped her in a quick hug. "Cheer up, sister. Things'll get better. The boy will most likely heal, if not today, then tomorrow. If not tomorrow, then the next day. It will take a lot of time, but hopefully, it'll happen. He'll realize... and then maybe he'll even forgive."

  "But not forget."

  "No. He already forgot once, from what we got out of him. He must have blocked that incident for years. I've heard of it."

  But the Healer's words were fading away as Lisabet moved out of the room and toward the figure in the fields.

  Gently, she placed a hand on his shoulder, remembering what she had seen from her view out the window of her cousin's home when Nastasea's bathtime had come up. A child comforting a child.

  And now I am doing the same. Aren't we all just children at heart?

  She enclosed him in her arms, petting his hair, holding him as he began to cry.

  "Sattar," he whispered, weeping into her shoulder.

  "She's gone," Lisabet replied.

  "Want Sattar," he said, echoing Nastasea's words.

  "Sattar's gone now. It's time to let go, Rivin."

  The boy neither agreed nor rejected her words. Instead, he turned and mounted his Companion, his face a cast-granite mask of sorrow. Lisabet checked the shields around him, looking for leaks and holes. No use letting that powerful a new-born Mage-Gift get out of hand.

  Satisfied, she called Raal over, and pulled herself into her own saddle. With one trembling hand on her Companion's neck, she led the way down the road toward Haven.

  Gods—mage-power coming to life like that scares me. The boy didn't even know what he was doing—didn't even realize it was magic—until it was too late. It was only luck that this was my circuit and that I was close by when he first Reached. I don't think that I would have wanted a stranger taking care of him. She shivered. There was so much anger in him....

  :Thus, the nature of madness,: Raal said, his voice heavy and dusky in her mind.

  :I'll never figure it out.:

  :Some things we were never meant to figure out.:

  :Like Companions?: Lisabet asked slyly.

  She heard a dry chuckle. :Like Companions.:

  A wind chuckled by, catching her hair. She saw Rivin's head jerk up, as if he had heard something, and then he shook himself, falling back into his mournful brooding.

  It was then—when he lifted his head—that she noticed the worryline now chiseled between his brow. She noticed his taut neck muscles, the lines around his eyes. But most of all, she noticed the way he held his arm and rubbed his shoulder as if it ached with the pain of a hard grip that had, for a long while, forgotten how to let go.

  ...Another Successful Experiment

  by Lawrence Schimel

  Lawrence Schimel is the co-editor of Tarot Fantastic and Fortune Tellers, among other projects. His stories appear in Dragon Fantastic, Cat Fantastic III, Weird Tales from Shakespeare, Phantoms of the Night, Return to Avalon, the Sword and Sorceress series, and many other anthologies. Twenty-four years old, he lives in New York City, where he writes and edits full-time.

  They resembled nothing so much as ill-proportioned hammers, but Chavi was pleased with them. No, he decided as he held one aloft and the weight of the tiny head on the end of the broomstick-length handle caused it to quiver slightly, he was more than just content.

  "They're perfect!"

  Gathering the other five from his bed, he tucked them all under one arm and went in search of his year-mates.

  Chavi had spent the last week hidden in his room constructing these strange items. An air of mystery had naturally developed around them as Grays and sometimes even full Heralds stood outside his door listening to the curious sounds of their creation. Locking himself into his room was always the first clue that mischief was afoot, and that another of Chavi's (in)famous experiments would soon be unveiled. Therefore, as Efrem wandered down the hallway and noticed the door ajar, he could not resist the temptation to peek inside, hoping for a glimpse of the latest invention. Finding it empty, not only of marvels, but of the mischief maker himself, he went in search of him, knowing it would be worth his while, in laughter if nothing else.

  Whether it was simply a lucky guess, or the fervent hope that Chavi was not foolish enough to premiere one of his experiments indoors again, his search led him—after a brief stop in the kitchens—to Companion's Field, where Chavi and his Companion Tecla waited for his year-mates to arrive.

  The first person to show up was not, however, one of Chavi's year-mates. A tall, lanky man in the red-brown of a Bardic trainee came by and leaned against a tree, facing Chavi and Tecla. Chavi was of a mind to ask him to "Move along," then decided it might be good to have a Bard on hand to immortalize his success. He was sure it would be a success, too, and did not even consider that the experiment might fail.

  The second arrival, however, gave Chavi pause. Efrem was a fellow Gray, who had been chosen two years before him. While Chavi did not at all dislike the Herald (he doubted it was even possible for a Herald to actively dislike another Herald), his presence made Chavi nervous. Had he been wandering by and noticed them, Chavi wondered, or had he known to come to Companion's Field now? If one of his year-mates had let slip that they would unveil his latest experiment....

  Just then, Gildi arrived with her companion, Fedele. With them came an older woman in Healer's green, her hair just turning to frost.

  "I knew it," Chavi admonished, even as he hugged his year-mate in greeting. "I told you not to tell anyone." He glanced meaningfully from the Healer to Efrem and the Bard.

  "I've been part of your experiments before, Chavi, and felt having a Healer on hand was a precaution worth taking. But I didn't tell anyone."

  "Someone must have" he said, glaring at the pair of bystanders.

  "Oh, don't sulk, Chavi. What harm is there in having spectators to revel in your latest crowning glory?"

  He grinned at her. "Well, when you put it that way...."

  Tecla warned him that he was in for a surprise when he turned around. Nervously, Chavi looked behind him. His year-mates Some and Grav had arrived with their Companions.

  :That's not it,: Tecla told him.

  Chavi looked again, and this time saw what Tecla had meant: a group of three full Heralds coming toward them. "Aaaarrgggh! Why me? Why? All I ask for is a little peace and quiet in my life!"

  Gildi could not stop laughing at that last comment until the three Heralds had reached them. Their Companions had come in from the Field to greet them. That must be how Tecla had known they were coming, Chavi realized.

  "So who told you?" Chavi asked with a small grin, by way of greeting to the three Heralds.

  All three of them laughed. "I'm afraid you can't keep a secret that involves six Companions," one said.

  Chavi looked sternly at Tecla, about to ask her if she had told, but then decided he really didn't want to know. He was sure she h
ad read his thoughts and knew what he had meant to ask, but she kept silent, aside from her usual comforting presence at the back of his mind.

  Chavi sighed. While he was interrogating, he might as well do them all. "And how did you find out?" he asked the Bardic trainee.

  "One of the servants told me."

  One of the servants, Chavi thought. And how did they know? Did he have no privacy whatsoever around here, or what?

  Chavi turned to Efrem. "You?" He was getting very tired of this question very quickly.

  "No one."

  "No one?"

  "We all knew you were making something in your room, since you could hear the noise even from the cellar, practically. When I noticed your door was open again at last, but the room empty, I knew there was a sight to be seen somewhere, if only I could find it. One worth risking Mero's wrath by skipping out on preparation." Efrem smiled. "But I found a way around that."

  "Oh?" Chavi asked, very curious as to any new techniques he might learn, for getting out of chores. "Pray tell, how was that?"

  Before Efrem had a chance to explain, the answer walked into sight. Mero carried a basket stuffed with food in each hand, the three Grays in tow carried chairs and a table. They would work outside, and therefore all get the chance to watch the spectacle.

  "This is ridiculous!" Chavi exclaimed as they began setting up the table and chairs. "You'd think I had invented entertainment for the first time."

  Kem and Fiz chose that moment to show up with their Companions. "Are we charging admission or something?" Fiz asked.

  "Then neither of you told?"

  "Chavi. Really." Kem struck a melodramatic pose. "That you could even doubt us."

  Chavi turned to Gildi. "Now you see why I didn't want spectators? Put him in front of a crowd and he's incorrigible."

  "You're just jealous of my charm and good looks," Kem replied.

  In answer, Chavi picked up one of his inventions and held it aloft. Advancing on Kem he said, "I can take care of those looks."

  But once his actions had gotten enough laughter, Chavi lowered the creation again and turned serious. He turned to face the crowd. "I'll bet you're wondering why I've brought you all here," he began, earning boos and catcalls from his year-mates. Chavi looked down his nose at them, even though he was shorter than all save Grav. "Now where was I...? Oh, yes, today's demonstration. You are very privileged to witness here today the birth of a new sport. A game of skill that will enchant spectators, and also," Chavi turned toward the three Heralds, "help train the participants in equitation and combat."