No True Way: All-New Tales of Valdemar (Tales of Valdemar Series Book 8)

by Mercedes Lackey

“Only ‘fairly,’ Father?” Hettes asked, and took another sip of her tea. “You know what he will want. And you are as ready to give it as you were the day we arrived here.”

  Virtulias sighed ruefully, shaking his head. “Tell me, wise little Firecat, what do you think I should do?” He sounded so very weary, as if Sunhame were wearing him away little by little, the way a trickle of water might wear away a stone.

  “You already know what I think, Father,” Hettes answered gently. “It’s simply that you don’t care for it.”

  “Hettes,” Virtulias said, his voice full of quiet rebuke. “How could I face the Sunlord knowing that I had abandoned His people to a man like Lastern—or even one like Lumillian—out of a desire to save my own skin?”

  Something inside her chest tightened, and she looked away, swallowing hard. He put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I know you say this out of love. But—”

  “But what of the child?” Hettes asked, looking out at the stars, at the floor, anywhere but at Virtulias. “What of Solaris?” They had never spoken of her, not even on the day Hettes brought her home in her market basket, but she was sure he felt it too. Solaris was . . . special.

  “I have faith that you will always do what is needed to keep her safe,” Virtulias said in a quiet voice.

  Hettes shivered in spite of the heat.

  She had known since before they came to Sunhame what she must do to keep Solaris safe.

  * * *

  Karchanek had never imagined there could be so many people in one place—and all of them very busy, with no time for a small boy. Solaris spent most of her time in the Great Temple, watching the ceremonies that occupied every candlemark of the day, but, devout as he was, Karchanek found them boring after a while. Nobody had any time for him. Even Father Aetius had told him to run along and amuse himself today!

  With a sigh of relief, Karchanek stepped into the coolness of the garden. The place had become his refuge, for the garden of the Hierophant’s Palace was little used. The fountain at the center of the garden lay just ahead, but it was a moment before he realized he wasn’t alone here. Through its dancing spray he could see two figures standing on its far side. He could not see them clearly, but he could hear their voices—a man’s tenor and a woman’s low alto. Through the sound of the plashing water he could make out a few names. Lumillian. Lastern. They were names everybody was talking about lately, and Karchanek quickly lost interest in the conversation. Then he heard a name he recognized: Virtulias.

  It was enough to make him creep forward and try to hear more. As he came closer, he could see them clearly. The man had his back to Karchanek, but he was wearing a Hierophant’s gold robes. The woman was wearing an embroidered gown of a deep red. She was veiled, as many wealthy women were. Karchanek wondered who she was and why she was talking to this man. Perhaps she was one of the nobles of Karse? Father Aetius said that Karse was a “nominal” kingdom. But Father Aetius also said that the King might reign, but the Son of the Sun ruled.

  The Hierophant suddenly looked around.

  “We are not alone, madame,” he said.

  Karchanek fled.

  * * *

  Each of the embroidered silken veils was as delicate as a butterfly’s wing and worth more than a mere housekeeper might hope to earn in a year. Removing them felt rather like shedding an outworn skin—though it was a skin she had donned many times in the past. Hettes folded them carefully and tucked them away in a small spring-loaded drawer concealed in the lid of her largest trunk. The crimson dress, thick with embroidery, was folded into a plain blanket of light wool and put away with the linens. Hettes stuffed the little gold slippers inside a pair of scuffed boots, then simply stood for a moment, savoring the coolness of the air against her bare skin. Finally, with a little sigh of regret, she pulled a shift of plain white cotton over her head.

  She regarded herself soberly in the mirror as she wiped away the kohl she’d used to line her eyes, and then carefully tucked her hair under a tidy linen kerchief. Siralchant had taken her for a high official’s wife, who clearly had access to her husband’s vast network of spies and informants, and an interest in seeing a young man with ample reason to be grateful ascend the Sun Throne.

  While the story suited Hettes’ purposes nicely, almost none of what she’d told Hierophant Siralchant (in strictest confidence) was true.

  It would, however, break the deadlock in the Conclave.

  * * *

  Father Aetius shepherded the novices, the acolytes, and the postulants to sunset service each evening—as well as the younger priests in Father Virtulias’ household—and Hettes went along, as she always did. Their rooms were usually empty when they returned, but tonight Father Virtulias was waiting for them.

  At first Karchanek didn’t see him—and did not expect to, for what would Father Virtulias be doing sitting in the novices’ common room? But Hettes gasped softly and ran forward, and suddenly Karchanek saw Virtulias, sitting slump-shouldered on one of the hard little wooden chairs.

  “Father!” Hettes cried, kneeling at his feet while the acolytes and novices looked at each other in alarm. “What is it?” She glared at the two acolytes who normally served Father Virtulias and said: “Make yourselves useful and bring him some wine.”

  Karchanek thought he saw the ghost of a smile pass across Father Virtulias’ face, but it was gone again as quickly as it came. “It is done,” he finally said in a voice like dry leaves. “Karse has a new Son of the Sun.”

  Karchanek felt cold all over. He reached for Solaris’ hand.

  “Hierophant Lumillian was found dead this morning,” Father Virtulias said in the same colorless voice. “The Conclave has brought charges of murder and heresy against Hierophant Siralchant. Both Lumillian’s and Siralchant’s supporters were only too quick to transfer their allegiance to Lastern, lest anyone think they might be . . . involved.”

  “The Conclave would have been in a hurry to settle the matter, I’m sure,” Father Aetius said in an uncharacteristically dark voice. “I suppose we all must now do honor to Radiance Lastern.”

  “It is our duty,” Father Virtulias agreed wearily.

  Karchanek shivered and glanced at Solaris. Her hand was as ice-cold as his. But she wasn’t looking at Father Virtulias at all.

  She was looking at Hettes.

  * * *

  By the time Hettes stumbled up the stairs to her little chamber the following evening, weary in body and bruised in soul, it was that time of night that always left her doubting—just a bit—the sun would ever rise again. The day had been filled with hurried ceremonies: Lastern was not slow to take up the reins of power, and the Solarium Excelsis was just as quick to display its prudent loyalty.

  But at last Hettes could seek her bed, here in the wolf hour. It brought back memories. She remembered kneeling on the flagstone floor of the Chapel of the Sun in the bone-deep cold of Longest Night, a child younger even than little Solaris was now, weeping with terror at the thought the darkness would endure forever. Father Virtulias had gathered her close, and leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Morning always comes,” he’d said. A promise in the darkness, just for her. His coarse robes had smelled of sunlight and spices.

  “Morning always comes,” she murmured under her breath now as she pushed the heavy door open. She was halfway across the threshold when some instinct—some half-heard rustle, some sense of something out of place—stopped her.

  She let the little knife slip from the sleeve of her tunic into her hand (Virtulias had frowned fiercely when he first learned she carried it, but he’d never forbidden it) and raised the candle she carried so that it cast its feeble light into the room. All Hettes could make out were shadows, but she didn’t need to see any more to identify her nocturnal visitor. It was the girl-child Solaris, sitting as still and as patient as a priest keeping vigil in the temple. Hettes felt a tiny shiver crawl along her spine�
��how long had the girl been waiting here alone in the darkness?

  “Solaris,” Hettes said in mild reproof. “If Father Aetius finds you out of bed, he’ll take a switch to you.” It was a foolish thing to say, but a part of Hettes shied away from giving voice to what she felt hanging in the air between her and the child.

  Solaris made a scoffing noise. Such an adult sound should have sounded ludicrous coming from a girl so young, but it didn’t. Hettes’ breath caught in her throat.

  “It’s late, child,” Hettes said more gently. In the dim and wavering light, she imagined she could see greatness flickering around the child like a crown of flames. “You should go back to bed.”

  She stepped carefully into the room and shut the door behind her. The smoke from Artiolarces’ funeral pyre still clung to her clothes. With a new Son of the Sun enthroned, they had been able to burn the poor old man at last. But Lastern had burned him at sunset, not at dawn. Hettes wondered what that meant, and she was afraid she knew. The sooner they could all leave Sunhame, the better. The changes that were coming were not good ones.

  She set the candle and the little knife down on the lid of her largest chest and reached up to unpin the kerchief that covered her hair.

  “You were supposed to get Virtulias chosen as Son of the Sun,” Solaris said in a very even voice. The candle flickered and guttered. “He trusted you. We all trusted you. But you helped Lastern instead! Karchanek told me he saw a woman dressed in red talking to Hierophant Siralchant the day before Hierophant Siralchant was accused of killing Hierophant Lumillian. I know it was you.”

  “You weren’t there to see, and Karchanek doesn’t know what he saw,” Hettes said in a gentle voice. It wasn’t quite a lie.

  Solaris folded her arms and gave Hettes a searching look, and for a moment—perhaps it was a trick of the shadows and the flickering candlelight—Hettes didn’t see a child at all. She saw a woman, tall and stern and decked in gold and jewels. A woman she’d seen in a dream many years ago: the night before she brought home an abandoned babe in her market basket and begged Father Virtulias to take in the child.

  “He doesn’t know it was you, but I do. And I trust him. He wouldn’t say he’d seen something if he hadn’t,” Solaris said implacably. “It was you. You were there. In disguise.”

  “You think I betrayed you,” Hettes said softly. If Solaris told Father Virtulias what she knew, it would break his heart.

  “Didn’t you?” Solaris asked. She hadn’t raised her voice above a level suited for pleasant, private conversation, and yet somehow it filled the room. “Lastern is a black-robe,” Solaris said, her voice still cold and adult.

  “As is Father Virtulias,” Hettes pointed out steadily.

  “Lastern will—”

  “How long do you think Father Virtulias would have survived as Son of the Sun?” Hettes asked. “He is a good man, a pious man, and Sunhame grinds good and pious men into dust. Lastern would still be Radiance Lastern before the seasons changed.” It was more difficult than she expected to keep her voice even.

  “My people—!” Solaris’ voice was filled with quiet anguish. She scrubbed impatiently at her eyes, her voice wavering.

  It was a matter of a few steps for Hettes to cross the room and gather the little girl up in her arms, just as she had so many times before. Solaris leaned into her, trembling.

  “It’s better this way,” Hettes murmured against Solaris’ hair. “Radiance Lastern is the Son of the Sun Karse has chosen. And he will live and reign for many years, as he is much like Artiolarces—yes, and like Siralchant and Lumillian and most of the rest of the Solarium Excelsis—and he knows how to gain power, and keep it, and keep it from being taken from him. As Father Virtulias does not. And Father Virtulias will return home, and we with him, and there we will follow the Writ and the Rule for the greater glory of Vkandis Sunlord, just as we always have. But Radiance Lastern will not live forever, and the day will come when a new Radiance must be chosen.” She stroked the child’s hair carefully, gently. “And I think that one will be wise, and will have learned a great lesson from the time she has spent here in Sunhame, and will have worked very carefully for many years to find good men and make strong alliances. And, so, when she reaches out her hand and says, ‘in Vkandis’ Name,’ she will not find herself given to the flames as a madwoman, a heretic, or simply someone . . . inconvenient . . . before she can say it a second time.”

  Solaris looked up at her, brow knitted in consideration. “Girls can’t be Sunpriests,” she said. “Everybody says it says so in the Writ. Even Father Aetius says so.”

  But Father Aetius was wrong. Hettes knew that. So did Virtulias. The Writ said nothing at all about women being barred from the priesthood. It was only that the Writ didn’t mention Sunpriestesses at all. The trouble, Virtulias always said, was that without Vkandis declaring his intentions before all in the Temple, the Writ was subject to interpretation.

  And revision, by those in power. In the name of clarity. Or simple convenience.

  “Rebellion against tyranny and corruption doesn’t come from the top. It comes from the bottom. Or else it doesn’t last,” Hettes continued, as if Solaris hadn’t spoken. “You must remember that—when you are Son of the Sun.”

  Solaris went utterly still, and her gaze sharpened even as her eyes widened.

  “Who are you?” Solaris asked. In her voice Hettes could hear the woman she would become and fought the urge to kneel.

  “You have known me since you were a babe, my darling,” Hettes said quietly. “You know I am nothing more than Virtulias’ housekeeper.”

  * * *

  The Robing had been but the first of the ceremonies surrounding the elevation of a new Son of the Sun; today was the last of them, and it was a relief for Hettes to follow Virtulias back to their rooms when it was over, to send Solaris and Karchanek off under Father Aetius’ care.

  Sunhame was no place for innocence.

  “Now—at last—we can return home,” Virtulias said, turning to her. Servants lifted the heavy, gold-trimmed robes from his shoulders as Hettes undid the elaborate fastenings down their front; beneath them, he wore the simple homespun priest’s habit he usually wore at home. “We will leave tomorrow—the day after at the latest.” In the morning light, his face looked careworn and heavily lined.

  “I’m sure the children will be glad to return to their studies,” she said, looking away. “And I for one will be grateful to sleep in my own bed again.”

  Gently, so gently, he cupped her cheek in one of his big, gnarled hands. Startled, she looked up and met his eyes. The sadness she saw there made her want to look away again. “I know you did your best for me, my little Firecat,” Virtulias said softly. “But even your skill could not make me Son of the Sun.”

  For a moment, all Hettes could think of was how grief-stricken he looked. He had come to Sunhame hoping to gain the power to do great good, and those hopes had been dashed. Even if he had known what Solaris had been born to be, he would still have wished to try.

  But your task is a far harder one, my dear friend. She thought of the years Vkandis’ true daughter would need to gather up the power that would let her survive what Virtulias could never have survived. The power she could gain in a Hierophant’s household, living under his protection. The power to fulfill Virtulias’ hopes and dreams and those of Vkandis’ people. And I do not know if you will live to know what you have done. I can only pray you will.

  “Yes, Father,” she said around the lump in her throat, “I did my best. For you, and for Karse.”

  Vixen

  Mercedes Lackey

  The inn near the Pelagiris Forest was bustling this morning, with horses being saddled and loaded and people hustling out of the stable and inn doors, but Healer Vixen was getting priority help in starting on the next leg of her own journey. Already in the saddle, she was arranging things on her horse�
�s back from in place; Brownie was an exceedingly tall horse, and it was much easier if someone was atop him to make sure everything was secure. A boy from the stable had been assigned to her alone, just to help her get her bay hunter saddled, bridled, and loaded up, and the innkeeper himself had just now brought a nice selection of pocket pies for her to eat on the road. Those were stowed in the saddlebags that hung over the bay’s shoulders, in place and fastened shut, though the smell coming from the left-hand one was enough to try her willpower and tempt her into a second breakfast.

  Then again, while everyone was glad to see Vixen arrive in a hamlet or village, they were also happy to see her leave as quickly as possible once her job was done, which was probably why the innkeeper was doing his level best to get her on the road. Her sharp tongue was the stuff of legend, and no one wanted to be on the receiving end of it. She encouraged this, to be honest. She didn’t much care for people. Healthy people, that is. She was generally able to muster some compassion for sick ones, but she much preferred her own company to that of anyone else. She not only did not suffer fools gladly, she didn’t suffer them at all.

  “Healer Vixen,” that was what they called her, since no one actually knew her real name anymore. She’d have gone by “Healer” and nothing more, but at one point someone who’d had the dubious benefit of the sharp edge of her tongue had dubbed her “that Healer-vixen,” and the name had stuck.

  Some might have resented it, but Vixen was just as glad, actually, that she’d gotten a name that no one would ever have associated with her past. She didn’t look anything like she had as a child, and the last thing she wanted was for anyone to connect her with that girl.

  Especially when she spotted someone who might have known that girl, as she had just now.

  She sat quietly in the saddle of her enormous horse—really, he was as big or bigger than the mounts fully armored knights used—and watched a fellow unload a wagon in the thin morning sunshine out of the corner of her eye. He was across the village square from her, and she couldn’t tell exactly what his wagon carried. Sacks of something. Flour? Marrows? It could be anything. She knew him, though; he had been one of the boys who had tormented “Rosie” unmercifully, in another hamlet, long ago, a place much smaller than this village but within two day’s ride of here.