While they watched, Dory lifted the basket, gave a little cry and let it fall.
Aysa snorted. “ ’Course that baby left her stupidly weak.”
Jors took step toward the garden but stopped as Simen came out of the chicken house and hurried across to his wife.
“Simen! You get back to work, you lazy pig.”
His mother’s voice froze him in his tracks. Then he shook himself, and began retrieving the spilled cabbages.
“Simen!”
He ignored her.
“This is your fault, Herald. Turning a woman’s family against her.” Muttering under her breath, she strode toward them.
Dory looked up, saw her coming and stood, hands on hips.
“You think you can face me down, girl? Simen, get up!”
He stood.
“Now get back to work.”
He took a step forward and put his hands on Dory’s shoulders. “When I’m finished here, Ma.”
Aysa’s mouth worked for a moment, but no sound emerged. Finally, she spun on one heel and stomped away.
The corner of Simen’s mouth curled. “You’d best help here, Herald. I wouldn’t follow her right now.”
The river was low enough the next day.
The bridge took only a day longer to rebuild and for the most part involved fitting the original pieces back into place.
Jors stared the completed bridge in amazement. “That’s incredible.”
“Nothin’ incredible about it, Herald,” Enric snorted. “Damned thing goes out every other season. Easier to build it so it breaks apart clean.”
His bare torso red with cold, Kern shrugged into a sheepskin coat. “Supports slip out so they don’t shatter, logs end up in the same place, we float ’em back and rebuild. Any idiot can do it.”
“Trust me, I’ve crossed a hundred rivers—or maybe a couple of rivers a hundred times—but I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Ma says it’s not . . .” Simen paused, frowned, and looked up at the Herald. “It’s really good?”
“It’s really good.”
The brothers exchanged confused looks and Jors had the horrible suspicion this was the first time they’d ever been praised for anything.
The next day while Jors was checking Calida’s girth strap for the trip back to town, Dory came out of the house with a bundle. “It’s for Brock,” she said, folding back a corner. “I want you to give it to him for me.”
At first Jors thought it was white leather. Made sense; they were tanners after all. Then he realized the leather had been cut and sewn into a fair approximation of Herald’s whites. Dory had clearly taken the pattern from his and sized it to fit Brock.
“I saw he didn’t have none of his own.”
Oh, help. “Dory, you know he’s not . . .”
“Brother Herald! We go now? What you got?”
His hands and Dory’s together closed the bundle.
“It’s a surprise,” Dory said, her cheeks crimson. “For later.”
“Not for now?”
“No.”
“Okay.” He took Calida’s reins and stood waiting patiently while Jors tied the bundle behind Gervis’ saddle.
:You seem upset, Chosen.:
:I can’t tell her Brock’s not an actual Herald while he’s standing there. He’ll say he is, I’ll say he isn’t, and I’m not sure that in this place at this time, I’d win the argument.:
:You shouldn’t argue.:
:Oh, that’s helpful.:
:Thank you.:
The whole family went with them to the bridge. Jors didn’t know why the rest came, but he was certain Aysa just wanted to make sure they were off her land. He wanted to say something, something that would convince them they didn’t have to live inside the darkness of an old woman’s anger, but before he could think of the right words, Brock hugged Dory. And Simen. And Enric. And Kern.
Then he scrambled up into the saddle and, from the safety of Calida’s back, took a deep breath, looked Aysa in the eye, and spoke directly to her for the first time. “Why don’t you love your babies?”
Her lip curled. “I buried my babies, half-wit.”
He nodded toward the three young men standing to her right. “Not them.”
She turned, looked at her sons, looked back at Brock and muttered, “Half-wit.” But there was little force behind it.
Jors had no idea he was going to do what he did until he did it.
“Jors, you hugged mean lady.”
“Yeah. I know.” Although he still couldn’t believe it. “Everyone else got hugged, I just . . .”
She’d pushed him away with such force that he’d slammed back into Gervis’ shoulder.
“You are the bravest Herald. Ever, ever.”
“Thank you.”
Then she’d snarled something incomprehensible, turned, and stomped away.
He’d probably accomplished nothing at all by it.
The bundle Dory had given him pushed against the small of his back.
The weather remained clear and cool and just as the sun was setting, they stopped outside the village.
“Gate will close when sun is set,” Brock warned.
“I know. Brock, I think you should go back to Haven with Isabel.”
“Lots of Heralds in Haven?”
“Yes.”
Brock sighed and shook his head. “No. I have to stay here. I am the only Herald.”
“Brock, you’re not . . .” He couldn’t say it.
Brock waited patiently for a moment then smiled. “Is it later?”
“Yes . . .”
‘What’s Dory’s surprise?”
“Um . . . it’s um . . .”
Both Companions turned their heads to look at him. Their expression said, this is up to you.
:He believes he is a Herald.:
:Yes, but . . . :
:And he acts accordingly.:
“I couldn’t do it, Isabel. They’re just clothes and I know that but if I gave Brock those whites, then there’d be fake Heralds showing up all over the place.”
“A bad precedent to be sure,” the older Herald agreed.
“There has to be a line and that line has to be the Companions. Sometimes it seems like we’re barely keeping order in chaos now. I couldn’t . . . No matter how much . . .” Jors ran both hands back through his air, he couldn’t believe how much the decision, the right decision had felt like betrayal. “It wouldn’t make any difference to Brock. He knows who and what he is, but for the others in the village, those who made fun and called him names . . .”
“Come here, I want to show you something.” Isabel took his arm and pulled him to the window. “What do you see?”
Jors squinted down into the stable yard. “Brock’s grooming Gervis again.”
“While you four were gone, I talked to a lot of people. Seems that whenever a Herald comes into this village, the Companion manages to spend time with Brock. Even if it’s only a moment or two.” They watched as Calida crossed the yard and tried to shoulder Gervis away. Brock laughed and told her to wait her turn. ‘You were right not to give him the Whites,” Isabel continued, “but you were also right when you said it makes no difference. He couldn’t be Chosen because, as Heralds, we have to face dangers he’d never understand, but the Companions know him. All Brock needs from us is our love and support. Now, since Healer Lorrin has finally allowed me out of bed, what do you say you and I go down there and give our brother a hand with the fourfoots?”
Jors grinned as Brock gamely tried to brush both tails at once.
Heralds wear shiny white.
Brock wore his Whites on the inside.
True Colors
by Michael Longcor
Michael Longcor is a writer and singer-songwriter who recently wrote a dozen songs for the Mercedes Lackey album, Owflight. Aside from writing and performing, Michael has also been an insurance investigator, employment counselor, news reporter, fencing instructor, and blacksmith. His more ex
otic hobbies include donning medieval armor and competing in the bruising tournaments of the Society for Creative Anachronism. He also once placed third in a cricket-spitting contest. He currently shares a 130-year-old farmhouse outside of West Lafayette, Indiana, with a variable number of pets and guitars.
It had worked again.
The sun was well up as Rin rode out of Goldenoak. Summer light filtered through the trees, dappled the white coat of his mount, and sparked off the hilt of the sword bouncing gently at his side. It also showed the grimy spots on his white tunic and leggings.
It had been a good visit. Good for Rin, that is. The take included four solid meals, road rations, several pots of the local beer, and a few kisses stolen from the hamlet’s daughters.
There’s something about a man in uniform, he mused. Fine-boned, even features, blond hair, and blue eyes helped, too. If you can’t be big and burly, slight and handsome will have to do. Too bad I couldn’t manage some coin.
But coinage was almost as scarce as Heralds among the tiny settlements scattered along Valdemar’s Northern Border. Out here, the forest’s dangers combined with distance to isolate the villages. Other than infrequent sweeps for brigands, people this far out never saw much of the Militia, let alone Valdemar’s regular Guard, especially since the recent problems in the South. Even less often, they might glimpse a legendary Herald. They and their spooky-white horses were near-mythical heroes. Rin figured folks should get to meet their heroes on occasion, and show a little hero worship. It wasn’t his fault if the real Heralds were too busy saving the Kingdom to take time to share a few meals, drinks, and kisses with the salt of Valdemar’s earth.
Two months back he’d made his break from Torto’s Traveling Show, a ratty handful of slickmen, peep shows, and crack-throated minstrels, ruled by the beefy, sadistic Torto. The show had about as much resemblance to a true traveling troupe of gleemen as a weed does a rose. In Torto’s Show, you rarely saw the same town twice. After swindling and stealing everything that wasn’t nailed down on one end, they packed up in the night and moved on to fresh marks. Rin ran shell games with the best of them, developed a healthy contempt for the townies, and never stopped hating and fearing Torto. The night he’d made his break they were between towns in western Iftel. Rin hoped he’d truly cracked the drunken Torto’s head with that tent stake, but with Torto’s thick skull, he doubted it.
Rin had started this Herald game less than a month back after crossing Iftel’s border with Valdemar. It wasn’t much, but it beat being a cup-and-ball man in the towns. With luck, it would get him somewhere more comfortable, where constables didn’t know him and Torto couldn’t trail him.
He didn’t know a great deal about Heralds, but apparently neither did the locals. His story of being a “Special Auxiliary Herald” worked well enough, and explained why he only talked with them, took mysterious, coded notes, and moved on. Rin was sure his code was unbreakable. His scribblings were just that. As much as he’d wanted, he’d never learned to read or write.
The story also let him get food and other necessities from the villages, rather than the Waystations normally used by Heralds and other servants of the Crown. The Heralds rode regular circuits, and Rin simply made sure he was somewhere else. That wasn’t hard, this far out.
He was safe enough, so long as he picked the right villages, and didn’t stay too long or take too much. It was simple as games went, but not bad for an eighteen-year-old slickman. It kept him fed, equipped, and admired. Of the three, he liked the admiration best.
The morning warmed as he rode through patches of sunlight and shade. Scarlet flashed as a bird took wing, and a woodlark’s song piped through the trees. He remembered the woods like this, out with his family hunting wild berries. It was one of his few memories of a time before brigands hit his village and took him, fourteen years ago this summer. He didn’t remember the village’s name, even though it had been somewhere in this region. He barely remembered the faces of his parents, but he remembered the look and feel of the woods.
Rin fingered a townchit, given him by Goldenoak’s headman. The small brass plate was stamped with a crude, stylized tree, representing the village’s name. He gathered they expected him to turn it in at Haven to get the village a tax break for feeding and sheltering him. Interesting, how trustful folks could be of a government. Maybe it came from not constantly pulling stakes and moving. He shook his head, chuckling softly, and leaned back to slip it into his saddlebag, adding to the pile of townchits already there.
At midday, Rin stopped to rest the mare, watering her at a shaded brook before he took his own drink. He was as good to her as he could manage. She was a good horse and his only real friend in Torto’s show; no prince’s charger, but not a plug either. Rin thought of unsaddling her and letting her roll, but here he had to move fast if needful, so he only loosened the girth strap. She was white, mostly, but that was just good luck and the graying out of age. She’d been Torto’s, but Rin was the one who cared for her. It didn’t really bother Rin that he’d stolen her, though a slickman with pride in his craft wouldn’t resort to outright theft unless there was no way to swindle for what was needed. Which was also why he’d later stolen the Herald’s Whites.
The flashy sword was from Torto’s prop box, taken with no thought of this particular game. He just liked having the sword, even though the slim, heavy knife in his boot top was probably a better weapon. A sword made him feel more like a heroic servant of the Crown, and half of any game was feeling the part.
He dug into a saddlebag, and came up with a small cloth sack. Rin peered in, laughed delightedly and popped one of the golden brown slices into his mouth. He rolled his eyes and nearly cried. The taste of the lightly seasoned, dried apple brought back a wave of memory and feeling. For Rin that taste whispered of another time, and a loving mother’s special treat for a small boy.
Rin munched road rations while the mare grazed. He drank deeply from the brook and topped up his water bottle. After a half-hour’s rest, he cinched the mare’s girth strap and set off again.
In late afternoon he rounded a turn and glimpsed two small figures perhaps a hundred paces ahead on the narrow, uphill road. The taller darted into the brush. The shorter seemed frozen, holding something. The taller figure reappeared to drag the other back into the bushes They didn’t seem big enough to be a threat, but this region was never entirely free of brigands.
With one hand on the reins and the other on his sword, Rin edged the mare on up the hill. Reaching the spot, he heard voices whispering fiercely. The brush rustled, and a small boy stumbled out onto the path. He was four or five, dressed in homespun tunic and breeches. The boy stared round-eyed up at Rin, clutching a battered toy stick horse. The head of the horse was cut from split wood, and painted white. Its eyes were blue.
“Valon!” the bushes behind the boy hissed. “Get back here!” More rustling, and a girl of about nine years came out on the path. She was dressed in the same material as the boy, with similar features, her hair a darker shade of blonde; sister and brother, probably. She pulled the boy behind her.
“Natli!” piped the boy, peering around her. “He’s a Herald!”
“May be,” she said, eyeing Rin. “An’ may be not. If you’re a Herald, what’s your name, an’ how come your horse’s eyes hain’t blue?”
Rin gave the girl his warmest smile, feeling as if he were stepping onstage.
“I am Special Auxiliary Herald Rincent, m’lady, at your service.” Rin let his voice ring with easy authority. Time for fast answers and distractions. “As for my Companion, the regular Heralds around the big cities have the ones with blue eyes. They don’t all have blue eyes, you know. But Serena here can do other things. She can read minds.”
“Read minds?” The girl looked less wary and more interested.
“And talk without words.”
“Hmf!” the wary look was back in the girl’s eyes. But Rin was on familiar ground here. The few tricks he’d taught the mare always
came in handy. He cocked his head as if listening, and tickled the mare’s neck on the side away from the girl. The horse snorted and shook her head slightly.
“She says, Natli, that you and your brother, Valon, shouldn’t be out in the forest, especially with your family worried about you.” The girl’s eyes widened.
“But we had to run!” Valon had edged out from behind his sister. “We had to! We can’t go back to the village!”
“You had to run?”
“That’s right . . . Herald Rincent,” said Natli. “Mum said to run an’ run, an’ not stop till the bad men weren’t followin’ us no more.”
“Bad men?” Rin didn’t like the sound of this. “What bad men?”
“The ones that came to our village. Mum said they wanted food an’ gold an’ people. Mum said to run till we found someone to get help.”
Brigands; robbers and killers with a taste for slaving. They were hunting these children, if they hadn’t given up. The same sort who’d attacked his home, killed his parents, sold him to be “adopted” by that greasebucket Torto. Rin was very sure he wanted nothing to do with these “bad men.” He hadn’t planned on returning so soon (if ever) to Goldenoak, but it was far better than meeting the outlaws. He hoped the kids could keep up. If not, he could tell the villagers they were on the trail, while he rode on to “get help.”
“You’ll help us, won’t you, Herald Rincent?” Valon’s eyes pleaded along with his voice. “Won’t you?” Rin had been about this boy’s age when the raiders came.
“How far back are these bad men?” asked Rin. A shout snapped his attention up the trail, where the hill crested. A big, broad-shouldered man stood there. He stared at Rin and the children, then turned, shouted again, and waved behind him. It was too far for Rin to make out his face, but Rin could guess who and what he was.
Valdemar Anthology - [Tales of Valdemar 02] - Sun in Glory and Other Tales of Valdemar Page 21