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

by Mercedes Lackey

  “That’s right. Locate the energy line below you—good—now draw it up through your feet, through your center, and feed it out slowly.” Tim’s voice teased the edges of Anya’s focus as she drew a mental picture of energy flowing. Floor to flank to fingers, earth becoming light. She fed the tiny flame she had conjured in the bowl in front of her. The fire flared from the size of her thumb to something that would engulf her palm, and she drew in a sharp breath. Her calf muscles quivered, pain shot through the small of her back, and the bright glow winked to nothing.

  “You lost it. What happened?” Tim asked.

  “I . . . I don’t know. All of a sudden my back hurt and then it was gone.”

  Tim frowned. “And what happened last time?”

  “My fingers quivered and didn’t point the right way.” He’d been there when she caught the edge of a tablecloth on fire. Anya heard the defensiveness in her voice and labored to find another tone. “It . . . it seems like I can only hold so much energy, and then something happens. It’s not always the same thing, but it’s always something. Physical. In my body. I don’t know what to change!” Now it sounded to Anya like she’d exchanged defensiveness for despair. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

  “You can hold more energy. I can feel your potential. You aren’t even near your capacity.” Tim tugged on his graying braid, and frowned. Then he looked intently into Anya’s eyes. “You’re fighting it. There’s a point where you have to surrender. You have to feel it—there are no words, and I’ve been told it’s different for everyone. It’s keeping focus, maintaining control, but it’s also surrendering. All at once.” He was pacing, his words more insistent than usual. Anya knew better than to interrupt him—he could be harsh when frustrated. “Your focus is clear, but I can’t feel your surrender. You’re trying to be a warrior spouting flame at an enemy, but Healing isn’t warrior’s work. Surrender, and your body will be able to hold energy much longer. Now, try again.”

  Anya breathed into her belly, tucked her hips, and refocused on her shielding. Then she started again, conjuring the flame, feeding it to fist-sized, holding it, holding it, and then her forehead flashed with pain and she blinked, opening her eyes to an empty bowl.

  Tim didn’t comment. Instead, he said, “I’ll go catch us some supper. While I’m gone, think about what might be between you and your full abilities. Feeding flame is a small trick, but it’s handling the same energy you’ll need for any major Healing.” Tim stood, glanced at her, and walked out the door.

  Grateful for the respite, Anya allowed herself a long sigh as soon as Tim was out of sight. Tim expected her to be good enough to replace him as the troubled village’s Healer soon. If only they could have a real Healer from Haven!

  She had been studying for two whole years now, and while she’d started out learning fast, the last year had felt like stepping backward. Or, at best, sideways. She’d learned new things, but hadn’t made any real progress. At the beginning, Tim had expressed surprise at how quickly she started to cure simple maladies like headaches and sniffles, and to make a tiny flame. Since then, she’d added the ability to form—no, collect—balls of light and to lessen stomach cramps. She knew how to shield, to ground and center, to focus. It wasn’t enough. Real healing eluded her. Tim had to step in every time.

  She’d seen Tim repair multiple burn wounds last year when a half-finished sheep barn had burned, and then have the bad grace to barely look tired. After just two hours of much less difficult work, every muscle along her back was tense, calves to shoulders. She wanted to close her eyes and sleep. Instead she looked around, struggling for alertness.

  Tim’s home was an ingenious cave. Campfire stories whispered that the mysterious hertasi had built it secretly, when Northend Homestead was only a few families struggling to feed themselves. If so, the hertasi were masters at their craft. Anya had never seen one, but they had been described as lizard-like, with hands that worked more cleverly than human hands, fashioning and shaping and building for the Hawkbrothers.

  She’d never spoken to a Hawkbrother, but Anya had seen them twice before, riding fast on graceful dhyeli, warning Homestead of a storm once, and a dangerous hedge-wizard another time. She wanted the mysterious and beautiful people to stay, to talk to her, but of course they were busy.

  Nevertheless, she’d watched for them on woods walks, but they were as elusive as true Healing. All the best magic in the world, except her teacher himself, was hiding from her. Everything bright and positive was hiding, ever since she’d moved here and left her home, searching for work. Tim had identified her Gift. He was a good thing, the best thing, in her life. His regard for her was bright, but she was so far from his expectations she might as well have become the village sheepherder.

  Homestead was one of a handful of towns in the far north of Valdemar; land the Hawkbrothers had reclaimed for safe human habitation only a few generations ago. Lately, raids had come with no warning, and the town was now smaller and more indrawn, afraid. Now, townspeople only came to Tim’s cave in the light of day, and even then, they often sent Anya to fetch the Healer. In the past three months, ten men had disappeared with no trace. Ten more had left to find them, disappearing as well.

  Light spilled in through the door and fell from two clever round openings in the roof, illuminating the large open space with mid-afternoon sun. A few carefully crafted items lined the walls, leaving a large clear area where Tim struggled twice a week to teach her. Anya’s gaze fell across the small altar in front of her. A wide burled maple trunk had been sawn flat and polished to a bright surface that glowed when the light—like now—hit it just right. A fine hand-sewn cloth two handspans wide sat in the center. It shimmered when sunlight hit it, somehow twisting from black and gray to purple and blue. The work was so magnificent that Anya couldn’t imagine the weaver. In the center of the cloth rested a candle and a drawing of three figures. The drawing showed a woman, a man, and a small boy. Anya was sure Tim had drawn them, although they looked somehow less alive than pictures he drew of wolves and deer and, sometimes, of townspeople.

  Anya closed her eyes, pulling her focus inward, trying to release the tight muscles along her spine. Then suddenly, they clenched again. The peal of the town alarm bell screamed for attention, and in two heartbeats Anya had grabbed her backpack and was pelting down the trail toward Northend Homestead.

  This time it wasn’t a direct raid; there was no noise of fighting staining the town. Nevertheless, Anya’s landlady Elena was crying quietly, a group of women gathered around her. Hovering at the edges of the crowd, Anya was able to glean that Elena’s oldest, nine-year-old Justine, had left before dawn to deliver eggs and had not returned after half a day. She should have been gone just a candlemark.

  Justine’s father was one of the men who had followed the raiders ten days ago. Elena and Justine had not seen or heard from him since. After Anya moved to town three yeas ago, Justine had become a frequent visitor to Anya’s room. Just last night, Anya had prepared a tea of comforting herbs to ease Justine’s bedtime fears. The girl had stammered and thanked her. Then Anya had held her close for almost a full candlemark, while she cried for her father, until Justine fell asleep in a tangle of bedclothes and blonde hair.

  Only a handful of candlemarks remained until dark. Teams split up in the four directions, agreeing that the town bell would call them back if anyone succeeded in finding Justine. Tim insisted they go east, the same direction as his underground home. They stopped there to provision, but rather than helping Anya, Tim sat down in front of the small altar and just stared at his drawing.

  “Well?” she looked at him.

  He didn’t respond at all, just picked up the picture of the three people and held it in his hands, his eyes closed.

  Anya gathered cheese, bread, and an herb kit into packs. She stared at Tim’s unmoving back. After a few moments she said, “We need to hurry. Justine could be hurt.”

  Tim ignored her and slipped into his bedroom, closing the door.


  Anya waited, drumming her fingers, and then pacing.

  When he finally emerged, Anya raised her eyebrows at him.

  “They’re . . . from how I lived once before.” A quite serviceable sword was buckled around his waist, and a long knife stuck hilt-up from his boot. In his right hand he held out a short dirk toward her. He looked unfamiliar, different. Somehow he fit the mood he had been in all day: stern and serious

  “But . . . but you’ve always told me you weren’t a fighter.”

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t one. Just that I’m not one now. So go on, take it. I’ll feel better. I made you stop practicing with the young men at guard, but that was to hone your focus on healing skills,” Tim said. “I’ve seen you use a weapon, you’ll pass. You may need one today. Go on.”

  Puzzled and a little alarmed, Anya palmed the blade and stuck it in her waistband. They left, climbing up the rise behind Tim’s cave. A stream ran down the hill on the other side, and there they walked with just the water between them, searching for tracks, but close enough to talk. “So, tell me about it,” Anya said.

  “I used to be a fighter.”

  “I can see that.”

  “A mercenary. I thought it was a good thing to be. I loved the action . . . loved being so strong. But then I went too far.”

  “And?”

  “I killed people for money. Sellswords do that.” Tim stopped for a minute and bent down to look at the ground. Then he shook his head. “Not Justine’s track. Someone bigger, but not necessarily an enemy.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I went too far and one day I woke up sick and tired of it all. I had done something . . . wrong . . . terrible the day before. At first, I drank it off. But in the morning, my head became crystal clear, and I got up and walked away.”

  That wouldn’t have made him popular with his troop. “What did you do?”

  “We’d been hired to clean out a bunch of thieves from someone’s holding.”

  “That sounds pretty normal,” Anya said.

  “Yeah. But it turned out we were the thieves.”

  “Does this have anything to do with the pictures on your altar?” Anya asked

  “They were the rightful owners.” Tim’s voice clamped down and he walked a while before he spoke again, “They were defending their home. I killed the man with my own hands. I broke his back and pulled his head back and snapped his neck. I threw the firebrand that caught the house’s roof on fire. The woman and the boy burned alive. I did it just because I was told to. I didn’t think.”

  Anya had no response. They walked as quickly as they could and still watch the ground. At one point they found a bit of red string stuck to a low branch, about waist level. There was no way to know if it was Justine’s, but it kept them following the stream. As the sun touched the treetops, the temperature dropped, shadows lengthened, and Anya felt fear building.

  “So, when you left, when you walked away from being a mercenary, what did you do?”

  “I got lost.” Tim stood still and looked around. “We should stop soon, we may spend the night out here.”

  “I haven’t heard the town bells.”

  “You won’t. I’m sure we’re going the right way.”

  “I thought you said FarSeeing wasn’t a Gift of yours.”

  “It’s not. But sometimes I just know things. I have ever since I was a kid. I think that’s what made me good at fighting in the first place.”

  Three forest tracks converged near the bottom of the hill. Gold light dappled the paths and a rabbit flashed its white at them as it dove into the safety of the underbrush. Tim pointed out shallow hoofprints. “These look fresh. Probably made today, at least.” He gestured at her to stay close to him. “Did you think about what is stopping you?”

  Anya bit her lip. “Fear, I guess.”

  “Of course. But what are you afraid of?”

  Anya let the question hang in the air for a bit. She was so absorbed in trying to read the faint tracks that her next words surprised her. “Healers are people in stories and songs—not me. I’m just Anya.”

  “You don’t know how good you are.”

  Anya smiled. Tim was always saying she was good, and complaining at her for failing, all in the same conversation. “But still I can’t do half of what you do. How will I ever take over for you?”

  “When you have to, you will.”

  An owl screeched. It was close to dusk, but still early—owls shouldn’t be hunting yet. And the sound was—desperate. Anya looked at Tim.

  He was standing completely still. “I think we’ll know something pretty soon. Follow.” Tim took off to the right, toward the sound. The owl screeched again, sounding at once angry and frightened. They ran.

  Two hundred yards farther along, Anya heard the sounds of fighting. Tim gestured to her to stay back, and he kept going, running low, tugging his sword from its scabbard as he went. He disappeared down the edge of a ridge.

  Anya’s breath tangled in her lungs as she worked her way quickly and silently to the fir trees at the ridge’s edge. A shadow passed over her head. She looked up. The bird was impossibly big, twelve feet or more wingtip to wingtip, and it was diving down, silent and deadly. The owl arrowed directly at a man Tim was fighting. The man flinched, stepping back to avoid the wings and talons directed at his face. Tim ran his sword through the attacker, whirling to hold off a second man.

  Anya’s fingers clenched the dirk’s hilt, fear and confusion anchoring her feet. Her eyes swept the scene, trying to make sense of the movement. A wagon sat in the middle of the path, twisting dangerously as two horses danced and kicked with their back legs. The spooked horses were unable to run; leather hobbles bound their front legs. A small figure lay in the wagon, covered by a blanket. Justine?

  A dead man lay near the wagon. Another man, no two men, rolled on the ground. One of them was covered with twigs and mud and colored like the forest. It was so hard to see him, Anya had to focus hard to keep him in sight even though he was moving. He must be a Hawkbrother scout. Then the owl was his bondbird!

  The scout slashed a knife across the throat of the man he struggled against. Now free, the Hawkbrother stood quickly, running toward Tim.

  Anya wanted to move, but couldn’t tell where to run. Her eyes found Tim. There was a new slash across his shoulder, and blood ran down his bicep and dripped from his elbow. Still, she had never seen him move with such speed and sureness. Tim circled, using the long knife that was in his boot, keeping his attacker from the sword that now lay gleaming dully on the ground. His challenger came in low, and Tim blocked with his damaged arm, pushing the man off as Tim himself fell. New blood bloomed where the man’s knife had gouged his thigh.

  A flash of silver light caught the last rays of the sun and the Hawkbrother’s knife thudded into the neck of Tim’s challenger, who crumpled. Tim waved thanks. He tried to stand and made it to one knee, his right leg dragging. He reached for the sword, holding it out in front of him as blood dripped from his arm and from the edge of the sword as well. No one else moved.

  Anya finally leaped into motion, running down the small hill toward the rocking wagon. She was only halfway there when the wagon tipped and rolled over, knocking one of the fractious horses off its feet. The other one planted a solid kick on the wagon’s side. Anya scrambled to the front of the wagon, banged her knee, and used the dirk to saw the leather traces loose from the tongue. Hooves sliced the air, one quite near her head. She backed up, talking softly to the frightened animals, trying to calm them enough to see if Justine was under the wagon.

  Abruptly, both horses stilled, their attention focused on the Hawkbrother walking carefully toward them. He bent and expertly cut the hobbles. Now free, the big animals stood placidly.

  All of the chaos had disappeared from the scene, and the path and forest became silent and still. The owl glided in, landing on a branch at the edge of the clearing, watching with the same quiet that had settled on the rest of the forest.

  The Hawkbrother looked direc
tly at Anya, paused, and then simply said, “Well met. I’m Nightsinger.”

  “Thank you.” she replied, then offered, “I’m Anya, and that is Tim.”

  He grinned. “I know who Tim is. You must be his student.”

  How could the man grin at a time like this? Nightsinger helped her turn the crumpled and staved wagon over. It was Justine under the wagon, legs twisted sideways, both arms splayed wide as if she had tried to break her fall. Blonde hair spilled out from the blanket, dark with blood. Nightsinger ran toward Tim, gesturing that she should stay and tend to the girl.

  “Justine!” Anya called out, kneeling by the still form, placing one hand on Justine’s chest. She had a heartbeat, but her skin was chalky, her scalp bleeding. As Anya felt along the top of her head, one part felt mushy, as if the business end of a horse’s hoof or a board had knocked into her. Anya looked around frantically for Tim.

  He was still thirty feet away, and Nightsinger had rolled him onto his back. The new wound on the back of his thigh was bleeding extremely fast, staining the earth around it. She had to go to him! She leaped up and ran to his side. Pain swirled like a live thing in his bright, wet eyes, and he clenched the knife tightly.

  “Let me . . .” She began.

  “Justine.” Tim croaked. “Justine first.”

  “But . . . but you might die!”

  “I’m tougher than I want to be—this won’t finish me.” Tim’s teeth ground into his lip, sweat stood out on his forehead, and Anya could hear noises dying in his throat as he refused to cry out. How could he survive this?

  Defiantly, she placed her hands on his thigh near the worst of his wounds.

  He raised the knife, made as if to slash at her with it. “Justine first.”

  Anya felt like she was being severed in two. The little girl clearly needed her, but Tim was the real Healer, not her. Not yet. If she helped Tim, he could help Justine . . . but Justine could die without immediate attention. It was beyond her to save one, and they both needed her. What if Tim died? She felt anchored in place—the way she had been when she was watching the fight, unable to choose a direction because all of the choices needed doing. But Nightsinger was with Tim, and Justine was a child. Turning away from Tim was like spiraling through a physical wall. Her legs shook as she walked away from him.