Valdemar Anthology - [Tales of Valdemar 02] - Sun in Glory and Other Tales of Valdemar

by Mercedes Lackey

  She forgot the cathedral, then. Forgot the lines of this stranger’s face. She held him, as if a storm raged just beyond her bent shoulders, her bowed back. She found voice; she sang. She sang to him.

  And the singing did what the words she had spoken—for she was aware that words had left her lips, aware that they were a failure before she had finished speaking them—could not.

  Dark eyes turned to her; dark eyes saw her; the agony written and etched in terrible lines across a gray face shifted as eyes she would have sworn couldn’t grow any wider, did.

  He clung to her; his face made her breasts ache, her spine curved in until it was almost painful just to sit, but she sat. She sat.

  And the priest came.

  She heard his voice at a distance. She heard his words as if they were spoken from within her. He was praying. After a moment, she joined him, although she didn’t know the words that he spoke. Hers were as heartfelt, and they were all she had to offer.

  “Come home,” she whispered, kissing the sweaty, damp strands of this stranger’s hair, stroking his face as if it were the fevered face of her eldest. “Come home.”

  Darius was waiting for her. Companions, it seemed, were not considered beasts of burden in even the grandest of venues; he stood in the light of the windows as if he were a dream. He walked forward slowly as the priest helped the man to his feet.

  :Kayla,: he said gravely. :What you did here was bravely done.:

  “What did I do?” she whispered softly.

  :What you were born to do.:

  The priest was staring at her. She turned to him and bowed. “I–I’m sorry,” she stammered. “But—I—I—”

  He shook his head. “He came to this place seeking help. And you came to this place offering aid that we could not offer. Do not apologize, child. But—”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t know what—what I did.”

  “You saved him,” the priest whispered. “I was so certain—” He closed his eyes a moment; she thought he might retreat into prayer again. But he shook himself free of the words, and when he stood, she saw that he was over six feet tall, his shoulders wide and broad. As her father’s had once been, before the mines.

  “There are others,” he said after a moment. He turned and bowed to her Companion. “She is your Chosen?”

  The Companion nickered softly.

  “But she wears no white, no gray. Child, can it be that you have not yet made your journey to the Collegium?”

  “I—no. I think we’re on the way there.”

  “Might I ask—if it’s not too much—that you come to the infirmary?”

  She looked at Darius. Darius was absolutely silent, as if he were adornment to the statues, the windows, the altar of this place.

  Her decision, then. She nodded.

  He led her through the cloisters; she realized later that this was a courtesy to Darius. Darius was comfortable in the apse, but once the halls narrowed, movement would be restricted, and it was clear what the Companion—no, her Companion—thought of that.

  She even smiled, felt a moment of almost gentle amusement, until she glanced at the older man’s face. Care had worn lines from his eyes to his lips, and she thought that no matter what happened in future, they were there to stay.

  They grew deeper as he left the cloister; deeper still as he walked down a hall and stopped in front of a door that was slightly ajar. “Here,” he said quietly.

  She nodded and opened the door.

  And stopped there, beneath the lintel, staring. There was more than one room; she could see that clearly in the streaming light of day. And there were beds, bedrolls, makeshift cots, with only barely enough room between them to allow a man passage. Each of the beds was occupied.

  Darius.

  :Kayla.: The word was urgent, but real.

  She was afraid.

  “I can’t—I can’t go in there,” she whispered.

  :Kayla.:

  But the door was no protection; it was open. She could hear weeping, whimpering, screaming. Her hand caught the frame of the door and her fingers grew white as she held it.

  :Bright heart.: Darius said firmly, :see with your eyes. Hear with your ears; hear only with your ears.:

  She drew a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. See, she thought, with your eyes.

  She could do that. She could look.

  Men lay abed. Women. There were children as well, although they were mercifully few. They gazed up at the ceiling of the room, or at the walls, their eyes unblinking. They did not move; their lips were still. She shook her head to clear it of the sounds of despair, and as she did, the priest gently pushed his way past her.

  “They have been this way,” he said softly, “for weeks. They will eat what we feed them, and drink when we offer them water; we can clean them, wash them, bathe them. But they will not rise or move on their own; they do not speak. Some of them have families in this town, but—but most of their families can only bear to visit for the first few days.” He walked over to one of the beds and set upon its edge, heavily.

  “More and more of my people are brought here every day. And throughout the town there are others whose families can afford the cost of their care.”

  “They—they have no fever?”

  “None. No rash, no bleeding, no outward sign of illness. But they are gone from us.” He looked up; met her eyes.

  “The man that you—you found, today, would have joined them by evening at the latest.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve seen it. I know the signs. All of us do.”

  “But—”

  “We have no doctors who can aid us; no healers who can reach them.” He closed his eyes. Opened them again. “What did you do, Herald?”

  She shook her head. “N–nothing. And—and I’m not—not a Herald.” She walked into the room, to shed the weight of the bleak hope in his eyes.

  And as she did, she passed a small cot and stopped before it, frozen.

  It held a young child, eyes wide, hair damp against his forehead. Were it not for the slack emptiness of his features, he would have been beautiful. She forgot Darius; forgot his words.

  She listened with her heart.

  And her heart shuddered, and nearly broke, from the weight of what it heard. She had once been near the mines when a shaft had collapsed. The roar of falling rock had deafened her; the shouts of fear, of terror, the commands for action, had done the same. And through it all, one guilty thought had kept her still: she should not have come here. Children were not allowed by the mines. But she had wanted to see her father.

  Standing in this room, at the foot of this anonymous cot, she felt the same deafness and the same guilt. Some part of her urged her to turn, to run, but she ignored it because she had heard it for most of her adult life.

  What loss could she suffer that she had not suffered?

  She took a step, and then another, pushing her way forward as if through a gale, until she stood by the child’s side. And then she reached for him.

  He was not large; she did not know if he had once been chubby, as children his age often were; he was not that now; he weighed almost nothing. She lifted him, as she had lifted one other sick child, almost two years ago.

  He was screaming now, in the silence behind her silence, and she joined him because it was the only way she knew to answer the memories that even now threatened to break her.

  Her son.

  Mommmmmmmeeeeeee

  Her child.

  MOMMMMMEEEEEE

  Her own son had not wept or cried or struggled. The fever had spared him terror, and he understood, in the height of its grip, that she held him in the safety of her arms.

  Almost unconsciously, she shifted her grip on this stranger until it was the same embrace; her shoulders were curved forward, her spine rounded at the top, as if, hunched over him, she might hide from the death that was waiting, waiting, in the winter’s depths. She placed her lips against his fore
head, and tasted salt.

  She was crying.

  He was screaming, but she knew how to comfort terror by now. Her arms tightened and she began to rock him, gently, back and forth, whispering his name, her son’s name, as if they were the same.

  It happened suddenly: His arms jerked and trembled as he tried to lift them. She did not know how long he had lain in that cot, inactive, but his hands were so weak they were like butterfly wings against her neck.

  “The dragon,” he whispered, his voice a rasp, a creak. “The dragon will eat us.”

  “No,” she told him firmly. “The dragon can’t land. He can only fly, making night wherever he goes. He can roar. He can scream. But he can’t land.”

  “He hates us.”

  “Aye,” she replied. She had never lied to her children; she felt no need to lie to this one. “He hates all living things. All happy things.” And as she said those words, she felt the truth of them, although she had never thought to speak them before. The boy’s hands touched her cheeks. “You were scared,” he whispered.

  “No.”

  “But you were. You have tears on your face.”

  She could not dry them; both of her hands were occupied with his scant weight. But she turned to the priest who was watching in utter silence.

  “You can breathe now,” she said.

  The priest’s eyes were wide. “Herald,” he said again, and this time she did not correct him, “can you reach the others?”

  “I—”

  :No.:

  She frowned. It was Darius’ voice. :Darius—why?:

  :You are exhausted, Kayla. You are light-headed. You—you will put yourself at grave risk if you attempt to proceed. These people have lain immobile for some weeks, and the townspeople are decent; they will care for them.

  :But if we do not reach the capital before he finds you, they will have no way back.:

  :Before who finds me?:

  Darius was silent.

  She drew the boy up in her arms, into a hug; her arms were as gentle as she could make them in a grip so tight. She felt his bony chin in the hollow between her neck and her shoulder, and the weight of it, resting there, was everything she desired for that moment.

  But this is how she had quieted her sorrow; she had filled it with life, small life, the immediacy of children.

  “Where are his parents?” She asked the Priest.

  “He has no parents. I am sorry. They passed away a year and a half ago in the summer crippling plague.”

  “His family?”

  “He was their only child. They were newly married. His grandmother is in the town to the east. She is his only living relation; it is why he was here—when it happened.”

  She pulled the boy away from her chest and her neck; held him out so that she could meet his serious, brown eyes. He was so damn thin. “Daniel,” she said softly, “my name is Kayla.”

  “I know.”

  “I am going to the capital. I am going to learn how to become a—a Herald.”

  He was too tired to look awed, and she loved him for it. Was afraid of that emotion, because she knew it should not have come so quickly, so easily, for a stranger.

  “But I don’t want to leave you here, alone. I dream of the dragon. I have always dreamed of the dragon; he hunts me in my sleep. But he has never caught me, never once. If you want—if you would like—you can come with me.”

  :Kayla, that is not allowed—:

  :I don’t give a damn.:

  The boy slid his arms around her neck and held her tightly, and that was his entire answer. She turned to the priest, a mixture of defiance and possessiveness lending strength to the soft lines of her face. “I cannot help them all,” she said quietly. “Not yet. But I promise, if it is in my power, that I will.”

  And wondered what the word of an Oathbreaker was worth.

  Looked at the child’s head, his messy hair, the wax in his ears that hadn’t been cleaned out by whoever had been attending him.

  And knew that the word was everything. Mother, forgive me. Forgive me. I will return to Riverend when I am done.

  “I am taking this child with me,” she told the priest. She almost lied. She almost told him that if she didn’t, he would lapse back into his state of wide-eyed immobility. But she didn’t believe it.

  “Will you take him into safety, Herald—”

  “Call me Kayla. Kayla Grayson.”

  “Will you take him into safety, Kayla? Or into danger? If you ride toward the capital, you will find this . . . disease . . . is far more prevalent as you approach the palace. We have had care of him for two weeks, and we are prepared to care for him until—”

  “Until he falls victim to the terrors once again? No. If I take him into danger, I take him with me, and I know—I know how to comfort a child.”

  “You will have your duties.”

  “What duty is more important than this? I will protect him. But—”

  And a head appeared in the doorway; a white, large head, with deep blue eyes the size of palms and a long, straight muzzle wearing a silver-and-blue strap and bells. Companions had no words to offer anyone but each other—and their Heralds—if the stories were true, but Darius did not need words; he butted the priest gently in the chest, and met his eyes, unblinking.

  It was the priest who looked away.

  “I won’t abandon you,” she said softly, and hesitantly, as Riverend flashed before her eyes. “But . . . but I think I understand now why I was called.”

  “What are you, child?”

  “I don’t know.”

  :Tell him your Gift is Empathy.:

  “Darius says my Gift is Empathy.”

  The priest closed his eyes. “Then he is taking you to an unkind fate, Kayla.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The Empaths, the greatest of the Empaths, were the first to fall.”

  The town’s many inns offered food and wine and water when Darius entered their courtyards. But they were silent as they made their offers, and the fear that she had sensed in the infirmary had extended outward in an echo that was terrible to witness. On impulse, she said, “I have with me one of the children who was in the cathedral infirmary. He’s not very talkative,” she added, as the boy shyly turned his face into her shoulder, “but he’s recovering. I know it’s been bad on the town, but as an outsider, I’m amazed at the way the town has come together to help the fallen, even when they don’t understand the disease.

  “There’s hope,” she added softly.

  And the innkeepers, their wives, their guests, leaped at the words that she had spoken aloud, a clear indication that eavesdropping was a way of life in any place, be it small hold or large town.

  They might have called her a liar, but she was astride a Companion, and the Heralds did not lie.

  So they breathed a sigh of relief instead. “We’ve been pleading for help,” the innkeeper’s wife said, as she added four extra pies to their load. “But the only help the King sent lies in the infirmary with the others. We didn’t know—” She ran the back of her hand across her eyes. “My brother’s in back, same as them that you saw. Thank you, Herald.” Kayla had given up telling people that she wasn’t. The woman composed herself, although the redness of her eyes spoke of unshed tears. “You’ll want a blanket for the boy; it’s chilly on the hills in these parts.”

  The boy ate like a pig. Which is to say, he ate everything they put in front of him, and he ate it in a way calculated to leave the most food on his clothes. The innkeeper’s wife—a woman, and a mother, who therefore thought of these things—had seen fit to pack him extra clothing; Kayla was grateful for it.

  She did not let the boy leave her, and he did not wander farther than her hand could reach. But his ordeal had left him easily tired, and he slept frequently, his back against her chest, her arms on either side of his upright body to stop him from plunging the distance between Darius’ back and the forest floor.

  “Is it true, Darius?”


  :Yes. In the capital, where there are so many more people, many have died from the . . . ailment. They cannot feed themselves, and if they fall in the streets before the Heralds or the Kings’ men find them, they’re often robbed and left for dead.:

  “How long has this been happening?”

  Darius was silent.

  “Darius, I think I’ve figured out why you came to Riverend by now. How does my ignorance serve your purpose? Tell me. If I’m to help, I need to know.”

  :I would tell you everything in a minute, but there are oaths you must swear, and vows you must undertake, before you become Herald; and if you are Herald, there is no information with which you cannot be trusted.:

  She knew when she heard his words that she suddenly didn’t want that much trust.

  Daniel chattered as they rode. And he helped with the food that was meant for Darius; helped with the blankets that were meant to keep him warm in the night. But he helped in a way that he didn’t understand, for he would not sleep without Kayla’s arms around him. She held him.

  When the nightmares came that night, they were subtly different. The beast that roared with the voice of a thousand—tens of thousands—of screams, had eyes that were focused. Its flight was lazy, the circles it drew in the night sky slow and deliberate.

  He was searching, Kayla realized. For her. For the child she had taken from him.

  She did not scream. She wanted to, but she knew what it would cost the boy, and she kept it to herself.

  And because of that, she reached the capital, and the Herald’s Collegium, before sun’s full height the next day.

  The Kings’ guards bowed quietly as Darius approached the main gates, and although it was evident that they were curious, they merely welcomed him home.

  :They are usually more friendly,: Darius said apologetically, :but things in the Collegium have been dark for many months. I—Come, Kayla. Here is a woman you must see.:

  A Herald?

  :Yes. She is the King’s Own, second only to the King in authority, and she is beloved of the Heralds. I should warn you, though that it is not for the quickness or sharpness of her tongue that she is loved.: