There. On the far side of the lake, in a ruin from the older days. Legend had it that had been a sorcerer’s tower during the Mage Wars. Mathias in this incarnation knew that for truth. Dashant was drawing up the dregs of power that had gathered there, feeding his own strength.
He had paid a high price for his ambition. He was skeletally gaunt; his face was twisted with scars. One hand was a claw. His own spellmongering had done it to him, but in the darkness of his bartered soul, he held Vera to blame.
Mathias had no magic to match his, and next to no strength. He had only the weight of his body, driven at the speed of desperation. He hurtled over the broken wall.
There were wards, protections. His flesh charred and crackled at the touch of them. He ignored the pain, ignored the barriers, ignored the slow and excruciating dissolution of his mortal substance. He fell on Dashant.
Bones snapped like dry sticks. His own, the sorcerer’s—it did not matter. Dashant screamed. Mathias had no breath left for such a thing. Silver hooves battered the writhing body. His nostrils filled with the iron scent of blood.
On the edge of awareness, he knew that the darkness had collapsed upon itself. Terrell drove it back with a barrage of fire-spells.
This world would believe that Terrell had saved his queen from Dashant’s last assault. That was fitting. She would never know who had broken the laws of heaven for her—would never suffer that guilt.
Mathias’ knees buckled. He was dying, again. He made certain that when he fell, he crushed the sorcerer’s remains beneath him.
The last of his sight saw the blue of the mortal sky, and the brightness of the sun, and a pack of pale gleaming shapes drawing in. The baying of hounds was painfully loud. They were almost upon him.
He let go. The world whirled away, sky and sun and Companions, all of it—even the hounds of heaven.
He knelt on grass that never faded, under a sun that never set. His form was a man’s again. He was rather surprised to feel no pain; no broken bones, no bruises.
Not that it would have mattered if he had. His heart was as light as air. The grief was gone from it. He knew, at last, the peace of this blessed country.
He knew also that he had no right to any such thing. Three judges stood over him. They seemed to be Companions: white horse-shapes, supernally beautiful. Their eyes were not blue but dark, like the night full of stars.
Their hounds lay at their feet, panting like mortal dogs. None seemed to bear him any malice for outrunning them. He was caught, after all. He had come to face his judgment.
“Whatever you do to me,” he said to his judges, “let it be enough. No one else should pay for what I’ve done.”
“No?” said the judge in the center, who was perhaps the chief of them. Its eyes flickered toward one who stood not far from Mathias: the great one, now much shrunken and its light greatly dimmed. It could have been a mortal horse, standing with head low, ears slack as if exhausted.
His heart went out to it. He rounded on the judges. “If that one has any guilt, let it be on my head. Let me pay for whatever sins it has committed.”
“You would pay a doubled and trebled price?” the judge asked him. “Even if that price should be the dissolution of your very self?”
“Even so,” Mathias said without hesitation.
The judge stood motionless. There was no breath here, and no heartbeat to mark the passage of time; only the stillness of eternity. Mathias existed in it in perfect peace, without fear, without apprehension. Whatever sentence was laid on him, he would accept it. He had done what he was set in the world to do. The rest, as the singers sang, was silence.
After a moment or an eon, the judge spoke. “All things are possible under the eyes of heaven. What you did, you were permitted to do by the One who is above the gods; and you did it for love of another. That mitigates your sentence. Yet sentence there must be, for you broke the laws that divide mortal from immortal, and did violence to the barriers between life and death.”
Mathias bowed his head. “That is true,” he murmured.
“You did it knowingly,” said the judge, “and in full knowledge of the consequences. Therefore we grant you justice. Since the world of the flesh is so dear to you, we condemn you to return, and to live life after life in human form, each time anew, each time without memory of the life before—save only once in each life, in utmost extremity, when you will know what you are and why you have come into that life. And because you would have surrendered your very soul for the Queen and the Kingdom of Valdemar, we charge you to serve it forever, in life after life, until with the passing of time you shall have atoned for your transgression.”
Mathias sank down under the weight of that sentence, on his face in the undying grass. And yet his heart was incorrigibly light. To live for her—to live for Valdemar. He dared to speak, though it might damn him even further. “And she? Will I stand beside her in life after life?”
“In every life,” said the judge, “you two shall be bound. You shall never have her as mate or consort, nor shall your love ever be requited.”
“But we will be together,” Mathias said. “That is enough.”
The judge was silent.
Mathias did not care what any creature or Power might think. It truly was enough. His soul knew it, deep within itself, where joy was rising like a lark in the morning.
“Go,” said that dreadful and merciful judge. “Live out your sentence, man of Valdemar. Serve it forever as you served it in these lives of yours, both that to which you were entitled and that which you stole in her name.”
Mathias rose. He kept his head bowed in respect, but he could not keep the smile from his lips. Maybe the judge saw it. If that was so, it said nothing—and that was divine mercy.
Already Mathias felt the pull of the living world. It drew him down out of the land of peace. It enfolded him in a scrap of flesh, the barest beginnings of a human being. Memory was too expansive a thing for this mote in eternity. All that was left was a spark of joy. It would grow as he grew, and fill him always, however dark the world about him.
The Queen of Valdemar bent over the cradle in which her son lay burbling softly to himself. She smiled—she could not help it; there was something so light about him, so irresistibly joyous. “Look,” she said to her consort. “his eyes are changing color already. I think they’ll be green.”
Lord Terrell took her hand and kissed it. “Have you decided yet what you’ll call him?”
She did not answer at once. Even as besotted with new motherhood as she was, she knew that this was an ordinary enough baby; he ate, slept, and filled his diaper as monotonously as any other of his kind. And yet sometimes she could have sworn that someone she knew and had loved before was watching her out of those blurred infant eyes.
She held her finger in front of them. His hand reached up to clasp it. Yes, those eyes would be green. “Mathias,” she said. “His name is Mathias.”
Terrell shot her an odd look, but he did not object. Not for the first time, Vera was glad of her choice of consort. She stood with him, looking down at this new Mathias, and knew in her heart that she had chosen the name well. And maybe . . . who knew? Maybe it was her dearest friend come back again, to be Heir and eventual King of Valdemar.
That was justice, she thought, and mercy, too. It seemed that he agreed. The nurses all said that he was much too young to smile, but a smile that certainly was, curving his lips as he slid contentedly into sleep.
Brock
by Tanya Huff
Tanya Huff lives and writes in rural Ontario with her partner, six cats, and a chihuahua who refuses to acknowledge her existence. Her latest book, out for DAW in May of 2003, was the third in the Keeper Chronicles called Long Hot Summoning and she’s currently working on the first of three books spinning the character Tony off from her Blood series (DAW spring 2004). In her spare time she gardens and complains about the weather.
“Id’s just a code.”
Trying not to smile
at the same protest he’d heard for the last two days, Jors set the empty mug on a small table. “Healer Lorrin says it’s more, Isabel. She says you’re spending the next two days in bed.”
The older Herald tried to snort, but her nose had filled past the point it was possible, and she had to settle for an avalanche of coughing instead. “she cud heal me,” she muttered when she could finally breathe again.
“She seems to think that a couple of days in bed and a couple of hundred cups of tea will heal you just fine.”
“Gibbing children their Greens . . .”
That was half a protest at best and, as Jors watched, Isabel’s eyes closed, the lines exhaustion had etched around them beginning to ease. Leaning forward, he blew out the lamp, then quietly slipped from the room.
“Oh, she’s sick,” the Healer assured him, exasperation edging her voice. “What could have possessed her to ride courier at her age, at this time of the year? Yes, the package and information she brought from the Healer’s Collegium will save lives this winter, but surely there had to have been younger Heralds around to deliver it?”
Jors opened his mouth to answer.
Lorrin gave him no chance. “If she hadn’t run into your riding sector, she might not have made it this far. She needs rest and I’m keeping her in bed until I think she’s had enough of it.”
Jors didn’t argue. He wouldn’t have minded an actual conversation—Lorrin was young and pretty—but unfortunately, she seemed too determined to run this new House of Healing the way she felt a House of Healing should be run to waste time in dalliance with the healthy.
“Have you good as new. You see. Good as new. Soft and clean.”
Jors stopped just inside the stable door and stared in astonishment at the young man grooming his Companion. The stubby fingers that held the brush, the bulky body, the round face, angled eyes, and full mouth told the Herald that this unexpected groom was one of those the country people called Moonlings. He wore patched homespun; the pants too large, the shirt too small, both washed out to a grimy gray. His boots had seen at least one other pair of feet.
He’d already groomed the chirras and Isabel’s Companion, Calida—the sleeping mare all but glowed in the dim stable light.
:Gervis?:
:His name is Brock.: The stallion’s mental voice sounded sleepy and sated. :Can we take him with us?:
:No. And how do you know what his name is?:
:He talks to us and he knows exactly—oh, yes—where to rub.:
Companions were not in the habit of allowing themselves to be groomed by other than Heralds’ hands. Jors found it hard to believe that they’d not only allowed Brock’s ministrations but were actually reveling in them. He stepped forward and, at the sound of his footfall, Brock turned.
His face broke into a broad smile radiating welcome. Arms spread, he rushed at the Herald and wrapped him in a tight hug. Staring up at Jors, their faces barely inches apart, he joyfully repeated “Brother Herald!” over and over while a large gray dog leaped around them barking.
:Gervis?:
:The dog’s name is Rock. He’s harmless.:
:Glad to hear that.:
“Brock . . . I can’t breathe . . .”
“Sorry! Sorry.” Releasing him so quickly Jors stumbled and had to grab the edge of a hay rack, Brock shuffled back, still smiling. “Sorry. I brushed.” One short-fingered hand gestured back at the Companions. “Good as new. Soft and clean.”
“You did a very good job.” Jors stepped around the dog, now lying panting on the floor and ran his fingers down Gervis’ side. There wasn’t a bit of straw, a speck of dust, a hair out of place on either Companion.
:Better than very good,: Gervis sighed.
Jors smiled and repeated the compliment. :Did you say thank you, you fuzzy hedonist?:
In answer, the Companion stretched out his neck and gently nuzzled Brock’s cheek, receiving a loud, smacking kiss in return.
“Okay. We go now.” Brock bent and picked a ragged, gray sweater out of the straw and wrestled it over his head. “We go now,” he repeated, placing both hands in the small of Jors’ back and pushing him toward the stable door. “Or we come late and Mister Mayor is mad and yells.”
“Late for . . . ?”
:The petitions.: Gervis’ mental voice sounded more than a little amused and Jors remembered he’d intended to merely look in on the Companions on his way to the town hall.
Heading out into the square, he realized Brock was trotting to keep up, and he shortened his stride. “Does the mayor yell a lot?”
“Yes. A lot.”
“Do you know why?”
Brock sighed deeply, one hand dropping to fondle the ears of the dog walking beside him. ‘Mister Mayor wears the town,” he said very seriously after a moment. “The town swings heavy heavy.”
Okay; that made no sense. Maybe we should try something less complex. “Is Rock your dog?”
“He’s my friend. They were hurting him. I . . . Wait!”
Uncertain of just who had been told to wait, Jors watched Brock and the dog run across to the town well where a pair of women argued over who’d draw their water first. Ignored in the midst of the argument, Brock began to draw water for them. He had no trouble with the winch, but while pouring from bucket to bucket, he splashed the older woman’s skirt. Suddenly united, they turned on him. By the time Jors arrived, Brock had filled another bucket in spite of the shouting—although his shoulders were hunched forward and he didn’t look happy.
The older woman saw him first, shoved the other, and the shouting stopped.
“Ladies.”
“Herald,” they said in ragged unison.
“Let me give you a hand with that, Brock. You bring the water up, and I’ll pour.”
“Pouring is hard,” Brock warned.
“Herald, you don’t have to,” one of the women protested. “We never asked this . . .” When Jors turned a bland stare in her direction, she reconsidered her next word. “. . . boy to help.”
“I know.” His tone cut off any further protests and neither woman said anything until all the buckets had been filled, then they thanked him far more than the work he’d done required. He’d turned to go when at the edge of his vision he saw one woman lean forward and pinch Brock on the arm, hissing, “Now that’s a real Herald.”
“HERALD JORS!”
Across the square, the mayor stood on the steps of the town hall, chain of office glinting in the pale autumn sunlight, both hands urging him to hurry. Well, he’ll just have to wait! Lips pressed into a thin line, Jors turned back toward the well, had his elbow firmly grabbed, and found himself facing the mayor again.
“Mister Mayor is yelling,” Brock explained, moving Jors across the square.
“Let him. I saw what happened back there. I saw that woman pinch you.”
“Yes.” He turned a satisfied smile toward Jors, never lessening their forward motion. “I made them stop fighting. Heralds do that.”
“Yes, they do.” They’d almost reached the hall and Jors had a strong suspicion that digging his heels in would have had no effect on their forward motion. “You’re stronger than you look.”
“Have to be.”
I’ll bet, Jors thought as he caught sight of the mayor’s expression.
“Brock! Get your filthy hands off that Herald!”
“Hands are clean.”
“I don’t care! He doesn’t need you hanging around him!”
“I don’t mind.” Jors swept through the door, Brock caught up in his wake, both moving too quickly for the mayor to do anything but fall in behind.
“Heralds work together,” Brock announced proudly. He clapped his hands as heads began to turn. “Be in a good line now. Heralds are here.”
“Heralds?” a male voice jeered from the crowd. “I see only one Herald, Moonling.”
“Heralds!” Brock repeated, throwing his arms around Jors’ waist in another hug. “Me and him.”
Oh, Havens.
:Trouble, Heart-brother?:
:I just realized something that should have been obvious—Brock believes he’s a Herald.:
:So? You’d rather he believed he was a pickpocket?:
:That’s not the point.:
But he couldn’t let the townspeople chase Brock from the hall as they clearly wanted to do and Brock wouldn’t leave because it was time for the Heralds to hear petitions, so Jors ended up sitting him at the table and hoping for the best.
He realized his mistake early on. Brock had a loudly expressed opinion on everything, up to and including calling one of the petitioners a big fat liar—which turned out to be true; on all points. Unfortunately, short of having him physically carried out of the hall, Jors could think of no way to get him to leave.
:Have him check on Isabel.:
:How. . . . ?”
:You’re worried. You’re projecting. And I’m only across the square. If he wants to be with a Herald, send him to check on Isabel. She’s sick and she needs company.:
:That’s a terrific idea.:
Gervis’ mental voice sounded distinctly smug. :I know.:
It worked. Jors only wished the Companion had thought of it sooner. A Herald’s office protected him or her from the repercussions of a judgment—no matter how disgruntled the losing petitioner might be, few would risk the grave penalties attached to attacking a Herald. Brock didn’t have that protection. Good thing he’s safely tucked away with Isabel.
“No, Brock’s not here.” Healer Lorrin continued rolling strips of soft linen. “He left at sunset for the tavern.”
“The tavern?”
“He’s there every evening. He fills their wood box and they feed him—him and Rock.”
“He works there?”
Lorrin nodded. “There, and the blacksmith’s whenever there’s a nervy horse in to be shoed—animals trust him. I tried to have him deliver teas to patients, but if he’s carrying something, there’s always troublemakers who try to take it from him.”
Valdemar Anthology - [Tales of Valdemar 02] - Sun in Glory and Other Tales of Valdemar Page 18