Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  Why, dear gods; can you tell me why even here our grief haunts us? Can you make me understand why our souls cannot find a measure of peace?

  As if in answer, a great rumbling came from the depths of the dark cave.

  Then the echo of even darker laughter.

  "...Gash..." whispered L'lewythi, clutching Olias' arm.

  There was no time to run. Already Olias could see the thing's shape shifting forward from the depths of the earth, moving toward the light, and bringing with it a smell that was at first musty and stale like the odor from a long-closed chest whose lid has suddenly been forced open. The odor grew ever stronger, rancid and sickening, the stench of bloated carcasses rotting under a blazing sun.

  Its step shook the ground, and when it at last emerged from the cave, it had to bend over, it was so tall, thrice the size of the tallest tower.

  It was worse than any nightmare.

  Gash was not one, but two soldier-creatures fused together. The first walked on reed-thin legs while the other grew out of its back, a torso whose head sat far above that of its carrier, with one twisted, grotesquely long arm that reached nearly to the ground, its misshapen bulk held upright by a pulsing black sack growing from between the carrier's shoulders. The shimmering gray skin had the jagged texture of rough stone, though not as dark. Its legs scraped together as it walked, loosing small clouds of chalk dust. The weight of the thing growing from its back forced the carrier to walk hunched over and in obvious pain. The bodies looked to have been once covered in armor that some terrible conflagration had melted to their skin.

  The carrier looked at Olias and smiled, its pulverized lips squirming over rotted needlelike teeth. Its face was an abomination of all nature. Countless boils and leaking, diseased wounds covered its cheeks, and the sunlight reflected against the stone-sized tumors that buried its left eye. Its entire face was covered in a maze of something that looked like a spiderweb of hairless flesh.

  When it spoke, it was in a voice filled with phlegm and corruption.

  "Ah, a brave one," it spat. "I do so like brave ones. They die so well."

  Olias couldn't move. L'lewythi had gone into some form of seizure, his body stone-rigid and still, his eyes rolled back into his head, exposing only the whites.

  Olias thrust out his dagger, the only weapon he had. Against Gash's colossal form, it looked pathetic, a sad joke.

  "You'll not need that if you can tell me what I am."

  Olias gently set L'lewythi aside, then stood. "And if I cannot?"

  Gash tossed back both its heads and released a mad, high-pitched, cackling laugh, then balled one of its hands into a fist and threw forth a fireball that slammed into the sea, hissing. "Then the next one will be for you. Now, look me in the face, boy, and tell me what I am."

  Olias stared, long and hard and unblinkingly.

  It seemed to him that both parts of Gash were as familiar as everything else he'd encountered thus far. The carrier—brutal, cold-hearted—could well have been a perverted form of himself, of his soul, of what it might some day become; the other—so blank-eyed and vacant—very easily might be another form of L'lewythi.

  But not one of his choosing, came the thought. No; that is how others have seen him, how they have made him feel inside; hideous and freakish. The boy is Gifted, after all; those Gifts are raw and undisciplined, so he would be susceptible to others' unspoken perceptions. Is it so hard to imagine that some secret part of himself has come to view himself as other have—and not only that, but has done so without his even being consciously aware of it?

  If that is so, then why do you see yourself in the carrier? What is it about that thing, this place, the faces of Mother and Father that—

  —he lowered the dagger to his side—

  —as around him he heard the distant echoes of L'lewythi's song, plaintive and sorrowful and simmering with ethereal beauty—

  —and like a seed becoming a root becoming a sprout becoming a blossom, the answer came to him as, one by one, the pieces of L'lewythi's painful puzzle fell into place.

  "I know what you are," said Olias through clenched teeth. "You are loneliness, and grief, and the death of dreams. You are the sickness which taints the spirit, and the helplessness which breaks the heart. You are fear and cold darkness, doubt and regret. You are envy and avarice and the lies we tell ourselves to excuse our cowardice or selfishness. You are every cruel word, every unkind thought and act of violence ever brought into the world. You are the weeping of mothers over the bodies of their children, the blood of soldiers spilled in battle, the last gasp of the starving in the streets. You are this boy's misplaced anger and confusion, and you feed on his sadness. You are my father's disgrace and the thing which swallowed my mother's laughter. You are the blackness of my soul, all of my hate and lust for vengeance come to life, and in your diseased gaze I can see what my spirit might one day become. You are my weakness and failures—all weakness and failure... but most of all, you are jealous."

  Gash snarled. "Jealous? Of whom? And why?"

  "You are Pain, and you are jealous of us—not just the boy and me, but any human being who can forget for a while that you are real. You might be a part of our lives, but we can sometimes forget you exist. We can listen to music, or tell our tales, or dance in the waters as they lap the shoreline, or we can steal from the wealthy, or flee into the night where we meet a new friend. We can drink wine and eat fine food and sleep with chambermaids who pleasure us beyond imagining... or we can simply lie back and stare into the flames of a campfire and revel in the unadorned glory of the night stars. Ah, yes, we can forget about you and still go on living, but you, Gash, who are Pain and Grief and Loneliness, you can never, for one moment, forget about us! You wish you could, but you can't, no matter how much you try.

  "And that is why you hate us so, and why you are jealous!"

  "Go away," said Olias, dismissing the monstrosity with a wave of his hand. "You no longer have any hold over this boy or me."

  "Damn you, thief!"

  "But a thief no more. From this day, I will protect this boy, and I will provide for him as best I can with what meager Bardic and Herald Gifts I possess, with honor and honesty, hurting no one. And if I can somehow make myself worthy, I will travel to Haven and ask the Herald-Mage Savil to teach me discipline so that I in turn might teach it to my friend.

  "And you can be certain, Gash, that neither I nor L'lewythi will think of you very much at all."

  Gash turned around and stormed back toward the cave, but with each step it took, some part of its body fell to dust.

  "I am not the last of my kind," it screamed back at him. "What created me can easily create others. You would do well to remember that, thief!" Then, turning to face him as its legs exploded into rubble, it gave one final, hideous grin, and hissed, "I'll remember you to your mother and father. I have them in my belly."

  "No, you don't," said Olias. "But you wish I believed that."

  What remained of Gash froze, unmoving, unspeaking, then cracked, broke apart, and fell to ruin.

  When the sand and dust clouds died down, Olias looked to see that the woman in the wall was gone.

  In the distance, the Keeningwoods were simply trees. No faces, no anguished sounds.

  L'lewythi was still unconscious, but the seizure had passed. Olias knelt down and gently lifted his friend, carrying him as he would a newborn baby, walking slowly along the shoreline toward the bridge which would take them back through the stone city, then to the Barrens and cliffs beyond.

  In his heart, he knew they could not stay here, no matter how much they might wish to. This had been a hiding place, a sanctuary of sorts for their wounded souls. Now that they had each other, neither would ever need it again.

  But the ability that went into the creation of such a place—a world between worlds—that was desperately needed in Valdemar. To think of the suffering such a Gift could erase...!

  Olias leaned down his head, pressing his cheek against L'lewythi's
.

  "You'll be safe now," he whispered. "I promise. We've done it, don't you see? In each other, we have found Home."

  And I've not forgotten, dear Father, dear Mother; I've not forgotten how to care, how to love... nor how to fondly remember you, without rancor or regret.

  I will make amends, somehow, for all the wrong I've done. I will honor the memory of your lives by living my own as well as I can, and with my friend by my side, I think that may be very well, indeed.

  As the echo of L'lewythi's song found them once again, Olias couldn't help but notice there were two additional tones joining in the glory. One, sharp, loud, and steady, was the sound of a blacksmith's hammer striking down, proudly and confidently shaping steel into blade, and the other, so pure and easy and light, was that of a good woman's laughter, dancing across the heart, leaving warmth and affection in its wake.

  L'lewythi awoke soon after, and with silver threads beckoned his glass pipe come.

  His song—what Olias had thought of as a song for no one's mourning—was even more transcendent than the first time, and when they found themselves back at the campsite where Ranyart and L'lewythi's horse were waiting patiently, it was with renewed hope that they readied themselves for their journeys—for there would be many, of that there was no doubt.

  They had much to do, and learn, and teach.

  Climbing onto Ranyart, Olias looked at his new friend, his dearest and most loving friend, and thought that theirs would be a good life.

  Good enough.

  6

  They say that if you travel the road between Haven and the Forest of Sorrows on Sovvan-night, when the Otherworld is so near, you might chance upon a pair of riders resting at a campfire; they may invite you to join them for their evening meal (which will be plentiful, for none ever leaves their camp hungry), and later, if you are so inclined, they will take up lute and pipe and sing to you of another place, another land, another world in another time where two broken souls found friendship, and acceptance, and redemption.

  They say you can see the spirits dancing as the riders sing.

  They say you can hear the sound of the sea come so close you swear it's right behind you.

  They say you can hear a blacksmith's hammer striking anvil, and a woman's laughter ghosting happily through the trees.

  But most of all, they say, you will leave these riders as more than you were before, as if every sadness had been lifted from your eyes.

  And their wondrous song will rest in your heart forever, as all true music should.

  In loving memory of Edward King Shaw

  Blue Heart

  by Philip M. Austin and Mercedes Lackey

  Philip M. Austin is currently an inmate at Soledad prison in California. About this story, he writes, "Misty Lackey is the one who made this story come alive. She deserves the majority of the credit and all of my thanks, [She] has been a good friend and mentor. She's been non-judgmental and helpful in so many ways. Through her good offers I've been able to dream of a future. A creative future without walls and bars. That dream is worth more than any monetary reward."

  "There's a Herald to see you, Your Majesty," the page called quietly from the doorway of the Queen's private suite.

  Selenay sighed and put down the silver pencil she had been using to scribe a design for an illuminated initial. "Can it wait until tomorrow?" she asked without hope. She was technically supposed to be asleep, not getting her fingers paint- and ink-stained, copying one of Daren's favorite poems. She cherished her time alone; all too rare and much needed. She understood why Elspeth needed that shed out in the back gardens, and the feeling of clay under her fingers. Her own hobby of calligraphy and illumination was very similar, intensely physical and requiring complete concentration, and gave her brief respites when she could forget the responsibilities of crown and country.

  "He says to say that it's your shadow, Majesty," the page replied, clearly baffled by the enigmatic message.

  But if the page was baffled, Selenay was not. She sat up quickly and put away her implements. "Tell him to come in, and see that we're not disturbed."

  "Her shadow" was an enigma; a Herald who never, if he could help it, appeared as himself. Very few people—Kerowyn, Alberich, her own husband Daren—even knew he existed, much less what he really looked like. This was a necessary precaution for his special and demanding duties. He, like Skif, was a spy and an assassin... her own special tool to use as needed, and always with reluctance.

  When she did not need him, he sometimes requested leave—a day, a week, a month. She never asked him why. Usually it was innocuous, and he returned with tales of his Companion's doings—for it was often his Companion who wanted the leave, and not him. Sometimes, though, it was not; and when he reported for duty, his eyes told her she did not want to know what he had been doing, despite the fact that she must hear it. Whatever he did, he did it because she needed it done, whether or not she knew it. Never had she found a reason to even rebuke him for his private missions, and she knew that agonizing over whether to tell her before or after the fact must often cause him sleepless nights. He had requested leave some few weeks ago, and she searched his expression for some clue as to his mood.

  But this time, he came as himself, an ordinary man with a pleasant face, unmarked and unremarkable, except for his haunted eyes. She relaxed as she read relaxation in his posture. So; it had been a true holiday, then, and not some secret mission of his own.

  "Come in, sit down," she invited, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes, and forced down the shiver that always came when he looked at her. She did not know his history; she did not know if anyone knew it. But whatever his past had been, it had left dreadful scars on his soul. "I hope you enjoyed your Midwinter holiday."

  "Pilane appreciated it as much as I, if not more," he said with a smile, as he gracefully lowered himself into the chair. "He indulged himself in his passion almost as much as he wanted to!"

  Selenay laughed. "Sometimes I think he Chose you because you are the only Herald in Valdemar willing to sit and turn pages for him—and to take dictation from him and be his hands! But he is a most remarkable writer. I have copies of all of his books in my personal library, in fact." She relaxed a little more, sitting back in her chair. "I fear, though, I pay far more attention to the drawings and illustrations than I do to his scientific discourse."

  "I won't tell him, Your Majesty," the young man laughed. "He does take his hobby quite seriously."

  Selenay chuckled. "I'm sure he, does. But what brings you here? Especially so late at night? You could—should!—have given yourself an evening of rest before reporting to me."

  "I have a story to tell you, Your Majesty."

  Selenay stiffened, folding her hands in her lap to hide their sudden trembling. She'd half expected to hear those words.

  Too often, the story he had to tell was the dark and deadly result of what he was. For some reason, he preferred to give his reports as "stories." It was as if he tried to maintain some kind of fiction that she was innocent of his actions. She was not, and could never be. She gave him orders and the freedom to act; she was as culpable as the archer who looses an arrow. That she did not always know where it would land made her more responsible, not less.

  "I thought—on a night like this one, in the deeps of winter—you would enjoy this," he continued, and smiled. "It is the story of the Blue Heart, Your Majesty; a regional legend of the mountains near White Foal Pass."

  Selenay sighed, and relaxed again. Just a story, after all—

  And oddly enough, she was suddenly in a mood to hear a story.

  "In those mountains," the Herald continued, "there is a small and isolated village. Its population is less than two hundred, and most of them make their living from the fine wool of the long-haired goats they raise."

  "I know that wool!" the Queen said in surprise. "Very soft and fine, and very expensive."

  The Herald nodded. "It is indeed. And it is with that wool that the story b
egins...."

  The trader examined the sample of wool cloth with pleasure and delight. It was soft as a puff of down, warm and light as a purring kitten, and a lovely shade of blue-gray. He'd never seen such cloth, nor anything of so fine a weave. Plush was the word he'd put to it, and he was already calculating his profits. He already had a customer in mind, a man of wealth and power in military and secular service of Sunlord Vkandis. Baron Munn—who had led his own private, household troops against the Unbelievers, and as a consequence was high in the favor of the Son of the Sun. The Baron made no attempt to conceal his fondness for luxuries, and he was a good, if choosy, customer.

  "It will be hard to find customers for so unusual a weave, but I can take all you have at ten coppers the bolt," he said, expansively, with a condescending smile as if he were doing the rustics a favor.

  But the village headman only shook his head sorrowfully. "Oh, Trader Gencan, that giving a mood we're not in," he said, just as condescendingly, and sighed. "It's a been a hard year, that it has. We need so many things, so many things, or there'll be no wool for next year, for we'll have had to eat our goats to stay alive." His voice hardened as he bent to the bargaining. "Thirty coppers it'll have to be, or nothing at all."

  "What?" Gencan yelped, taken by surprise. Why—that was exactly what he'd expected to sell the stuff for! These mudfoots weren't nearly so green as they looked!

  And neither was his former competitor, from whom he'd stolen—ah—acquired this trade route. Perhaps this was why he had not fought to retain it. There was nothing worse than a tradesman who knew the value of his goods!