Valdemar Anthology - [Tales of Valdemar 02] - Sun in Glory and Other Tales of Valdemar
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:Whose duty was also to serve the Goddess—but she won’t mention that at the moment,: said Kantor absently.
Goddess? What Goddess? When had there ever been a Goddess in Karse? :What are you talking about?: he demanded, but Kantor wasn’t answering, and more than half of his attention was on the two women anyway. . . .
“Vkandis has chosen this woman to be the first of the new White-robes,” Solaris continued, her voice stronger, as in a call to arms. “Vkandis has burned away all the hatred, all the death, all the evil that has passed between our lands! Vkandis has sent His purifying fire to show us the way, to give us this new, living bridge, of understanding between His land and Valdemar! I, Son of the Sun, now charge you—cry welcome to Talia, White-robe Priest of Vkandis!”
The cheering that erupted vibrated the very stone beneath Alberich’s feet and left him momentarily deafened. But that was all right, for the cheers went on so long that no one would have been able to hear anything anyway.
The three Heralds and their Companions stood in front of the arched doorway into Solaris’ private courtyard that would serve as the framework for the Gate. Hansa stared fixedly at the arch—presumably, in the little clearing in Companion’s Field, Karchanek was doing likewise. Alberich was as tired as if he’d been running training exercises for a day and a night without a rest. Dirk looked stunned, as if all of this still hadn’t quite sunk in yet. Well, Alberich didn’t blame him. He didn’t feel as if it had all quite sunk in yet either.
Talia’s new vestments and robes were packed up into a saddlebag on Rolan’s back; on the whole, given all of the bad blood between Karse and Valdemar, Solaris deemed it wise for them to leave now, before this first flush of good feeling faded and people began looking for the Demon-riders and their Hellhorses to have a few choice words with them. Few even among the Priest-Mages knew that a Gate was even possible, and those few were in Solaris’ ranks; the arrival and departure. of the Queen’s Own would seem miraculous, as miraculous as the transformation of Talia’s robes from black to white.
Was it magic—or a miracle? Alberich knew which his heart wanted it to be. And he wished he could recapture a little of that wonderful stillness, that peace, that had come over him. But that was, after all, the nature of miracles. They were evanescent, and left little or nothing behind to prove where they had come from. It all could have been magic—illusory flames, and Talia projecting that stillness under Solaris’ guidance. It could have been a well-orchestrated series of magic spells, set up by Priest-Mages in hiding just as Alberich had been. Who knew how many of those little niches overlooking the sanctuary there were.
Alberich didn’t want to question it, though. His rational side said he should, and when he got home, Myste almost certainly would want to know why he hadn’t. And he didn’t have a good answer for her—:And you will continue to believe in the face of her questions, even though at times doubt overcomes that belief,: Kantor said. :That, after all, is the nature of faith. And perhaps that is as it is intended to be, and the reason why miracles so seldom leave tangible evidence of their origin behind.:
:What—: Alberich replied. :So that we have nothing to rely on but belief?:
:That would be the “free will” part, I think.: Kantor replied, with just a touch of impishness.
There was no time for further discussion. The Gate sprang into uncanny life. The stones of the archway began to glow; the brightness increased, and suddenly, instead of the room beyond the door, there was an empty blackness within the arch that made Alberich’s eyes ache.
Then crawling tendrils like animate lightning crept across the blackness, tendrils that crisscrossed the darkness and multiplied with every heartbeat.
Then, with a jolt he felt somewhere in his chest, the blackness vanished, and the arch opened up on Companion’s Field on the twilight, and his waiting friends, and Karchanek in front of them all.
“Time to go,” said Dirk, and suited his action to his words, riding straight through without a backward glance. Poor Dirk! This had not been easy for him. . . .
“Thank you for your trust,” Solaris said to Talia, and held her in a momentary embrace that Talia bent down from her saddle to share.
“And you for yours, Radiance,” Talia replied, smiling, some of the peace that Alberich wistfully wished for still lingering in her gaze. Then it was her turn, and she rode through to the welcoming committee on the other side.
Alberich would have followed, but a restraining hand on his stirrup made him pause.
“Here—” Solaris said, handing him a basket that smelled of home. “I told you that Karse would come to you.”
All of this—and she remembers sausages and herbbread for me?
She smiled up at him—once again, the ordinary-extraordinary woman that she was when she was not encased in the Sunlord’s gold. “This could not have been done without your trust as well.”
He coughed. “It was little enough, for so great a result, Radiance,” he replied, shifting the basket uneasily.
“It was greater than you will admit,” she retorted. “And I think you had better not say anything more that would indicate you disagree with your spiritual lord. I might arrest you for heresy.”
“The day you arrest anyone for heresy will be the day that the sun turns black, Radiance,” he responded, earning another smile from her. He hesitated a moment, poised on the brink of asking all those questions that quivered on the tip of his tongue.
But she was having none of it.
“Go!” she said, with a playful slap to Kantor’s rump. “Hansa wearies and Karchanek cannot wait to quit your soil and its plague of eyes!”
Kantor leaped forward without any urging from Alberich, and as he fell through the arch in that moment of eternal darkness, he felt something brush past his leg—Karchanek, taking advantage of the fact that the Gate would not close immediately to escape back into his own land and place.
Then Kantor’s four hooves thudded on solid turf, and he was surrounded by friends and fellow Heralds, and he realized that the basket he held did not smell of home after all. It smelled of childhood memories, yes, and of things he thought of as comforts that he had not enjoyed in a very long time. But not of home.
Home was here, in a land whose language had become his in dreams, among people who were dearer than blood-kin, who would gladly give him anything they had, including their lives.
As he would, for them.
And as for his God—well, Vkandis had shown more clearly than in words that a border was nothing more than an artificial boundary, and names were just as artificial. Vkandis had been here all along, cloaked in the hundred names for Deity that the Valdemarans had for Him; Alberich just hadn’t known it in his heart until now.
‘Welcome back!” said Eldan, relieving him of the basket so that he could dismount. The relief on his face said all that he would not say aloud—that despite all of the assurances, the guarantees, the others had been wound as tight with worry as he had been in the Temple. “I hope it all went all right?”
“Better, much, than all right,” Alberich replied, the cadences of Valdemaran coming strangely—for just a moment—to his tongue. He looked around, and saw that all of the Council as well as Selenay and the Prince-Consort had surrounded Talia and Dirk to get their version of the story. His own friends, including Myste, surrounded him. “Many tales, have I to tell,” he continued. “And tell them I shall, when we settled are, with good wine in hand.”
“How are you feeling?” Myste asked, taking his hand and looking into his eyes—perhaps looking for a sign that he regretted leaving.
“Well. More than well.” He smiled down at her. “It is good to be home.”
NOVELS BY MERCEDES LACKEY available from DAW Books
THE HERALDS OF VALDEMAR
ARROWS OF THE QUEEN
ARROW’S FLIGHT
ARROW’S FALL
THE LAST HERALD-MAGE
MAGIC’S PAWN
MAGIC’S PROMISE
; MAGIC’S PRICE
THE MAGE WINDS
WINDS OF FATE
WINDS OF CHANGE
WINDS OF FURY
THE MAGE STORMS
STORM WARNING
STORM RISING
STORM BREAKING
KEROWYN’S TALE
BY THE SWORD
VOWS AND HONOR
THE OATHBOUND
OATHBREAKERS
OATHBLOOD
BRIGHTLY BURNING
TAKE A THIEF
EXILE’S HONOR
EXILE’S VALOR
VALDEMAR ANTHOLOGIES
SWORD OF ICE
SUN IN GLORY
Written with LARRY DIXON:
THE MAGE WARS
THE BLACK GRYPHON
THE WHITE GRYPHON
THE SILVER GRYPHON
DARIAN’S TALE
OWLFLIGHT
OWLSIGHT
OWLKNIGHT
OTHER NOVELS
JOUST
ALTA*
THE BLACK SWAN
THE ELEMENTAL MASTERS
THE SERPENT’S SHADOW
THE GATES OF SLEEP
PHOENIX AND ASHES*
DARKOVER
Written with Marion Zimmer Bradley
REDISCOVERY
And don’t miss:
THE VALDEMAR COMPANION
Edited by John Helfers and Denise Little
*Forthcoming in hardcover from DAW Books