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

by Mercedes Lackey

  “I’m surprised.” Jors rubbed his elbow at the memory. “He’s quite strong.”

  “Is he?” She set the finished roll with the others and picked up a new strip of cloth. “He’s bullied all the time, but I’ve never seen him defend himself. Did you know that poorer mothers have him watch their infants if they have to leave them? I’ll tell you something, Herald. When I came here a year ago, I was amazed to discover this town has almost none of those horrible accidents that happen when a baby just starting to creep is left alone and burns to death or drowns—that’s because of Brock.”

  “Where does he sleep?” This far north, the nights were already cold.

  “In various stables when the weather’s good. By someone’s hearth when it isn’t.”

  “Has he no family?”

  “His parents were old when he was born, old and poor. They died about three yeas ago and left him nothing.”

  “Why doesn’t someone take him in?”

  “He doesn’t want to be taken,” the Healer snapped. “He’s not a stray cat, and for all he can be childlike, he’s not a child. He’s a grown man, probably not much younger than you and he has the same right as you do to choose his life.”

  “But . . .”

  She sighed and her tone softened. “‘There are those who try to make sure he doesn’t suffer for those choices, but that’s all anyone has a right to do. Besides . . .” One corner of her mouth quirked up. “. . . he tells me that Heralds never stay in one place so no one thinks they like some people more than others.”

  Simpler language but pretty much the official reason, Jors allowed. “How long has he believed himself to be a Herald?”

  “As long as I’ve been here. I’m surprised you haven’t heard about him from other Heralds. You can’t be the first he’s latched on to.”

  “He wasn’t in the reports I read and I . . .” About to say he doubted Brock would come up in casual conversation between Heralds, he frowned at a distinct feeling of unease. “I should go now.”

  “There’s no need to go to the Waystation tonight, I’ve plenty of room.” Her smile edged toward invitation. “I doubt anyone will accuse you of favoritism if you stay here.”

  “No. Thank you. I need to . . .” The feeling was growing stronger. “. . . um, go.”

  He doubted she’d be smiling that way at him again, but personal problems were unimportant next to his growing certainty that something was wrong. Taking the steps two at a time, he hit the ground floor running and headed for the stables. :Gervis?:

  :We can feel it, too. Calida says it’s close.:

  It wasn’t in the stables or the corral, but when Jors opened the small door, a pair of huddled figures tumbled inside.

  Brock lifted a tear-drenched face up from matted gray fur and wailed, “Heralds don’t cry.”

  “Says who?” Jors demanded, dropping to one knee.

  “People. When I cry.”

  “People are wrong. I’m a Herald and I cry.” He stretched out a hand, keeping half his attention on the big dog who watched him warily. Herald’s Whites meant nothing to Rock, and he didn’t lower his hackles until Gervis whickered a warning of his own. “What happened? Did someone hurt you?”

  “Heralds don’t tattle!”

  His various tormentors had probably been telling him that for years. “If someone does something bad, we do.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. If we can’t make it right on our own, we tell someone who can. Bad things should never be hidden. It makes them worse.”

  Brock drew in a long shuddering breath and slowly held out his arm. Below the ragged cuff of his sweater was a dark bruise where a large hand had gripped his wrist.

  “Is that all?”

  “Rock came. The man ran away.”

  “Who was it?”

  “A bad man.”

  No argument there. “Do you know his name?”

  “A bad man,” Brock repeated, wiping his nose against the dog’s shoulder.

  :You catch him and I’ll kick him.: The Companion’s mental voice was a near growl. :Calida says she’ll help.:

  “It’s a bad bruise, but it is just a bruise. Healer Lorrin wrapped it in an herb pack and she says he’ll be fine. He won’t stay, says he’s not sick enough, but I can’t just let him wander off into the night.”

  “Coors you cand.”

  “And I can’t take him to the Waystation and I can’t stay with him because that would be seen as losing impartiality. So, do you mind if he spends the night with Calida?”

  Isabel managed a truncated snort. “Fine wid me, bud you’d bezd ask her.”

  Leading Gervis and the chirras out of the stable, Jors turned for one last look at Brock curled up against Calida’s side. The elderly mare had been pleased to have the company and had positioned herself in such a way that Brock could pillow his head against her flank. Rock had snuggled up on the young man’s other side and although his face was still blotchy, Jors had never seen anyone look so completely at peace.

  :Why do you two care about him so much?: he asked as he mounted.

  :He believes he is a Herald.:

  :Yes, but . . .:

  :And he acts accordingly.:

  The next day during petitions, the mayor tripped over Rock sprawled by the table. Jerking his chain of office down into place, he snarled, “That dog is vicious and ought to be destroyed.”

  Jors pushed Brock back into his chair. “Who says this dog is vicious?”

  The mayor’s lip curled. “I heard he attacked a man last night.”

  “I heard that, too, Herald,” called out one of the waiting petitioners.

  “Brock, show everyone your arm.” The bruises were dark and ugly against the pale skin. “The man Rock attacked did that and would have done more had the dog not come to his master’s defense. This dog is no more vicious than I am.”

  “We’ve only your word on that, Herald. You can’t truth-spell a dog.”

  “No, but I can truth-spell the man who made the accusation if he’s willing to come forward.”

  No one was surprised when he didn’t.

  Mid afternoon, as Jors was returning to the hall after a privy break, the town clerk fell into step beside him and apologized for the mayor’s earlier behavior. “It’s just he feels responsible for the whole town, and it weighs on him and makes him short-tempered. Believe me, Herald, he’s a whole different man when he can take that chain off.”

  “Mister Mayor wears the town. The town swings heavy heavy.”

  Brock’s explanation suddenly made perfect sense.

  It had been arranged that Brock would spend another night with Calida.

  “Companions need Heralds. Lady Herald is sick. I am not sick. I am here.” He threw his arms around Jors. “I see you tomorrow, Brother Herald.”

  “No, not tomorrow, Brock. Tomorrow, I’m going to see the tanners.” Tanning was a smelly business, tanners set up their pits downwind of towns, far enough away they could work without complaint but not so far they couldn’t get skins or find buyers for their hides. These particular tanners had chosen distance over convenience and had settled nearly a full day’s travel away. The townspeople he’d spoken to about them had made it quite clear that the animosity was mutual. No one went near the place unless they had to. “I’ll stay overnight, then go back to the Waystation the next day. The day after that, I’ll be back in town. That’s why I brought my chirras in today, so he won’t be left alone at the station.”

  “No.”

  “It’s okay. Gervis travels very fast, I won’t be gone long.”

  “No!” Brock released him, stepping back just far enough to meet Jors’ eyes. ‘Don’t go!” Pulling the hair back off his face with one hand, he grabbed the Herald’s wrist with the other. “See?” An old scar ran diagonally from the edge of a thick eyebrow up into his hairline.

  “The tanners did that?”

  “I bumped mean lady’s cart. Don’t go.” His eyes welled over. “Mean lady is there.
”

  Jors pulled free of Brock’s grip and squeezed his shoulder. “I’ll be fine. Really. The mean lady won’t do anything to me.” The sort of people who’d strike a frightened Moonling were unlikely to be the sort who’d strike a healthy young man in Herald’s Whites. “But I have to go and check on them. They haven’t been into town for a long time and it’s almost winter.”

  “Not alone.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll have Gervis.” He gave the trembling shoulder another squeeze, then swung himself up into the saddle. “You stay with Calida, and I’ll see you in two days.”

  He supposed he’d been half expecting it. When Jors came out of the Waystation early the next morning there sat Brock—which was the half he supposed he’d been expecting—on Calida—which was a total surprise. It wasn’t often a Companion would choose to bear anyone but her Chosen—and those exceptions were almost always Heralds.

  “Good morning, Brother Herald!”

  Actual Heralds. “Brock, what are you doing here?” The young man’s crestfallen expression insisted on better manners. Jors rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “Good morning, Brock.”

  The smile returned. “It’s early!”

  “Yes, it is. What are you doing here so early?”

  “I go with you. To tanners.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Yes, I go with you.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  Jors hated to do it, but . . . “What about the mean lady?” The smile faltered as Brock sucked in his lower lip. “You don’t want to see the mean lady.”

  “Don’t want you to see mean lady alone.” He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “I go with you.”

  “That’s very brave of you.” And he meant that. Courage was only courage in the face of fear. “But even though I know you mean well, you can’t just take a Companion.”

  Brock’s eyes widened indignantly. “Didn’t take!”

  :Calida says if she hadn’t wanted him to ride her, he wouldn’t be here.: Gervis scratched his cheek on a post and added thoughtfully. :He’s very bad at it.:

  :At what?:

  :Riding.:

  :No doubt. What does Isabel say about this?:

  :Herald Isabel trusts her Companion.:

  :That’s not very helpful.:

  :It should be.:

  One more try. “Brock, by taking her Companion, you’ve left Herald Isabel alone.”

  “No.” He leaned carefully forward in the saddle and stroked Calida’s neck. “Left Rock.”

  Jors reached for Calida’s bridle, but the Companion tossed her head, moving it away from his hand. “Calida, you have to take him back.”

  The mare gave him a flat, uncompromising stare.

  :She says, “make me.”: Gervis translated helpfully.

  :Yeah. I got that. What do you think I should do?:

  :Help him down.:

  :You think this is funny, don’t you?: Jors demanded doing as the Companion suggested.

  :I think this is inevitable, Chosen. You might as well make the best of it.:

  Even with Jors’ help, Brock stumbled as he hit the ground, fell, rolled, and bounced up, declaring, “I’m okay!”

  :Now, get ready. : Gervis shoved at Jors’ bare shoulder. :We’ll be moving slowly and Calida says it’s going to rain.:

  :And won’t that make this a perfect day?:

  :No. She says it’s going to rain hard and I don’t like to get wet. I want to be there before it rains.:

  That began to look more and more unlikely as the morning passed and the clouds grew darker. Brock managed to stay in the saddle at a fast walk and Calida refused to go faster. Once or twice, Jors was positive he was going to fall off, but at the last instant he’d shift weight and somehow stay mounted.

  :His balance is bad. But Calida’s helping.:

  :Why is Calida doing this?:

  One ear flicked back. :So he won’t fall off.:

  :No, I mean why is Calida allowing any of this? Why is she allowing Brock to ride her? Why is she allowing—insisting—he come along today?:

  :She has her reasons.:

  Jors sighed. He knew that tone. :And you’re not going to tell me what those reasons are, are you?:

  :He’s very happy.:

  :I can see that.:

  Happy was an understatement. For all he held the pommel in a death grip, Brock looked ecstatic. This is really not helping his delusion that he’s a Herald, Jors realized. Something would have to be done about that and since the two of them were spending what was likely to be a full day traveling together, now would be the time to do it. Maybe that was why Calida had brought him.

  There’d be no point in bluntly saying, “Brock, you’re not a Herald.” The townspeople said that all the time, shaded in every possible emotion from amusement to rage, and it had no effect.

  “Brock, do you know what makes a person a Herald?”

  “Heralds help people. Heralds can cry. Heralds tell when bad things happen.” He beamed proudly. “I remember the new things.”

  “Yes, all those things make a Herald, but . . .”

  “I’m a good Herald.”

  “. . . but there’s other things.”

  Brock twisted in the saddle to look at him and Calida adjusted her gait to prevent a fall. “Heralds wear shiny white.”

  “Yes . . .”

  He looked down at his gray sweater, then looked back at Jors smiling broadly. “Clothes are on the outside.”

  :And a Herald is on the inside.:

  :I get it.:

  A sapphire eye rolled back at him, distinctly amused. :Just trying to help.:

  “Brock, all those things are part of being a Herald, but the most important part is being Chosen by a Companion. You don’t have to be a Herald to be a really good person but you do have to be Chosen. Do you understand?”

  Brock nodded. “Companions have Heralds.”

  “You don’t have a Companion.”

  “Yes!” He bounced indignantly, lost a stirrup, and nearly went off. “Have Calida,” he continued when he was secure in the saddle again.

  “But she’s Herald Isabel’s Companion. Herald Isabel is letting you ride her.”

  “No. Calida is letting.”

  :He’s got you there.:

  Jors sighed. “Riding a Companion isn’t the point, Brock. You’re not Calida’s Herald.”

  “Not her Herald,” Brock agreed, his smile lighting up his whole face. “A Herald.”

  Between the less than successful conversation and the glowering sky, Jors had picked up a pounding headache. They rode without speaking for a while, Brock humming tunelessly to himself. Finally, more to put an end to the humming than for any real desire to know, Jors turned in the saddle and said, “So, you were going to tell me how you saved Rock.”

  “Kids were hurting him.” Brock’s placid expression turned fierce at the memory. “I made them stop.” Although he wouldn’t defend himself, he seemed quite capable of defending the helpless. “He was hungry. I counted his bones. One, two, three, four . . .”

  “Where did he come from?” Jors interrupted, unsure of how high the other man could count and not really wanting to find out.

  “Don’t know. Now, he is my friend.” The broad brow furrowed as he searched for words. “Some mean people aren’t mean now because he is my friend.”

  That was hardly surprising. Rock was a big dog. Probably a hunting dog of some kind who’d gotten separated from his pack and managed to finally find his way back to people. “Why did you call him Rock?”

  “So when kids are mean, it doesn’t matter.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Brock stared down between Calida’s ears and chanted, “Brock, Brock, dumb as a rock.” Then he grinned and turned just far enough in the saddle to meet Jors’ gaze. “Rock isn’t dumb. I fooled them.”

  He looked so proud, Jors found himself grinning in return. “Yes, you did. That was very smart.”

>   “I am a smart Herald.”

  It was a good thing he didn’t need affirmation because Jors had no idea of what to say. :And now,: he sighed quietly as large drops of cold water began splashing against his leathers, :it’s raining.:

  :I know. I’m getting wet.:

  :So am I.:

  :I’m bigger. There’s more of me, so I’m more wet.:

  In a very short time all four of them were so drenched there was little point in comparisons. Fortunately, as they crested a rise in the trail, the tanners’ holding came into sight on the other side of a small valley. Neither Companion needed urging toward the river running through the valley center although they both stopped well back from the bank. The water was brown and running fast, the log bridge nearly awash.

  :What do you think? Is it safe?:

  Gervis stepped cautiously out onto the edge of the logs. :If we move quickly.:

  But Calida hesitated.

  :What is it?:

  :Calida says the river’s already undermining the bridge supports. That the bridge is going to wash away.:

  :Tell her that if it does, better we’re all on the side with shelter. I’m half drowned and half frozen and Brock’s got to be colder still. She’s got to get him out of this weather.:

  Eyes wide, the mare stepped up beside Gervis who took her arrival as his cue to leap forward. One stride, two, three. As Jors watched anxiously from the other shore. Calida slowly followed, placing each hoof with care.

  Wood screamed a protest as the bridge supports caved.

  The huge logs dipped and skewed out from the bank, dragged by the river.

  Calida half-reared as her front hooves scrambled for purchase in the mud.

  Brock bounced over the cantle and disappeared.

  “No!” Jors threw himself to the ground. Stumbling to the Companion’s side, he grabbed the mare’s saddle and heaved. Step by step, as she managed to work her way forward, he worked his way back until, to his amazement, he saw a very muddy Brock holding on with both hands to Calida’s tail, his feet in the river. A heartbeat later, with solid ground, beneath all four of them, he dropped to his knees and gathered Brock up into his arms.