Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar

by Mercedes Lackey

  She loved apples sliced and dried and hoped she’d be able to buy some of last year’s if they had a moment before they left town.

  Her grandfather used to carve apples and dry them whole and they turned into the most cunning old men and women dolls’ heads.

  Just when Jors was about to suggest she stop talking, she finished her story about how an apple peel taken off in one unbroken spiral would give the initial of true love when tossed over a shoulder and fell silent, straightening in the saddle and transforming from girl to Herald.

  :Neat trick.:

  :Why does she need to be anything but what she is when she is with you?: Gervais asked reasonably.

  :She doesn’t.:

  :And why do you . . . :

  :Because I’m her teacher!:

  :Herald Jennet was also her teacher. Do you think Herald Jennet behaved differently than herself?:

  :Herald Jennet has had more time to be herself!: Jors pointed out.

  Gervais tossed his head, setting his bridle bells ringing as they passed the first of the buildings. :You are not Herald Jennet,: he said as the first wave of laughing children broke around them.

  :That’s what I keep saying!:

  The Companion carefully sidestepped an overly adventurous and remarkably grubby little boy. :Maybe you should try listening.:

  And that was all he was willing to say.

  Go not to your Companion for advice, Jors sighed. For they will tell you to figure it out for yourself.

  Judgments in Appleby were, not surprisingly, mostly about apples. More surprisingly, Jors found Alyise to be an attentive listener—both to the petitioners and to him. Although she deferred to Jors as the senior Herald, she expressed her opinions clearly and concisely when asked for them and in turn asked intelligent questions when she needed more information. Having been more than a little afraid of what the day would bring, Jors was impressed and grateful that he could set aside personal doubts and concentrate on the job at hand.

  Late that afternoon, when they’d finished with official business and had moved on to the more social aspects of being a Herald—trading the gossip that kept the far-flung corners of the kingdom telling the same stories—Jors glanced over at Alyise within a circle of teenage girls and wondered if it counted as a conversation when everyone seemed to be talking at once.

  “Herald Jors.”

  He turned to see the eldest of the village councillors holding out a cup of cider.

  “Don’t worry, it’s one of this year’s first pressings. Windfall from the early apples. It has absolute no trade value, so you needn’t fear you’re being bribed.”

  A tentative sip curled his tongue. “Tart,” he gasped.

  “A little young,” the councillor admitted, grinning. “And if you don’t mind my saying, you seem a little young yourself to be teaching the ray of sunshine there.”

  “I’ve been doing this for a while, Councillor.” On the outside, Jors remained calm and confident. Inside, a little voice was saying, Oh that’s just great. It’s obvious to everyone. “And Alyise is a trained Herald. I’m only here to help guide her through her first Circuit.”

  “Oh, I’m not criticizing, lad. And given that one’s energy, it’s probably best you’re no graybeard. I imagine she’d be the death of an older man.”

  The councillor obviously believed he was sleeping with Alyise. That was a belief he’d have to nip in the bud. “Heralds aren’t in the habit of taking advantage of their Interns.”

  “Advantage?” The elderly councillor glanced over at Alyise and began to laugh so hard he passed a mouthful of cider out his nose. “Oh, lad,” he gasped when he had breath enough to speak again. “You are young.”

  There wasn’t a lot Jors could say to that.

  :You seem fine in the villages,: Gervais pointed out as they headed toward the Border.

  :It’s different in the villages.: Jors told him. :We have well-defined roles and I know what I’m supposed to do.:

  :You’ve always known what to do in a Waystation before. You’ve always know what to do with another Herald before.:

  He glanced over at Alyise who’d turned to check on the mules. :I’ve never been responsible for another Herald before.:

  His Companion sighed and raised his head so Jors could get at an elusive itch under the edge of his mane. :You’re beginning to worry me.:

  There wasn’t a lot Jors could say to that either.

  Six days later Alyise handed him a mug of tea and said, “Is it because you like boys? It’s just that I’ve been as obvious as I know how without coming right out and saying we should bed down together,” she explained a few moments later, after they cleaned up the mess. “I mean, I was with Jennet for seven whole months and you’re cute and well, it’s been a while, you know.”

  He knew.

  “Your ears are very red,” she added.

  Jors attempted to explain about being responsible and not taking advantage of her while he was in at least a nominal position of power. Alyise didn’t seem to quite understand his point.

  “You’re a little young to take such a grandfatherly attitude, don’t you think?”

  “That’s it, exactly.”

  She wrinkled her nose, confused. “What’s it?”

  She was adorable when she wrinkled her nose and some of the tea had splashed on her tunic drawing his eye right to . . .

  “Maybe you should talk to Donnel about it,” he choked out. “I need to check the um . . . mules.”

  “I just checked them.”

  “I meant the . . . um, stores!”

  “Gervais explained to Donnel who explained to me and I think I understand the problem.” Alyise smiled at Jors reassuringly when he came back inside. “I was kind of dumped on you unexpectedly, wasn’t I? I mean, there you were, out riding your circuit, just the two of you hearing petitions and riding to the rescue and being guys together and all of a sudden Jennet finds out her mother is sick and you’ve got me. I know Heralds are supposed to be adaptable and all, but this is a situation that could take some getting used to for you, so I expect it’s all a matter of timing.”

  “Good. So we’re um . . .” He tried, not entirely successfully, to pull her actual meaning from the cheerful flow of words.

  Her smile broadened. “We’re good.”

  “Okay.” Still, something felt not quite right. :Gervais?:

  He could almost see his Companion roll sapphire eyes. :I dealt with it, Chosen.”

  :But . . . :

  :Let it go.:

  Not so much advice as an unarguable instruction.

  “So . . .” Jors brought his attention back to the younger Herald. “. . . there were some tax problems in the area we’re heading for next. We should go over them in case they come up again.”

  “Jennet and I ran into a few problems just like this back last month. Well, not just like this, because that’s one thing I’ve learned since I’ve been out is that no two problems are exactly the same no matter how much they seem to be and . . .”

  He let her words wash over him as he pulled the papers from his pack. So they were good. That was . . .

  . . . good.

  Why did he feel like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop?

  Last year’s tax problems didn’t reoccur, but new problems arose, and Jors did his best to guide Alyise through them. She was better with people than he was and as summer passed into fall, he allowed her to hear those petitions that dealt with social problems and tried to learn from her natural charm as she learned from his experience.

  Given her unflagging energy and exuberance, he felt as though he was running full out to stay ahead of her and he never felt younger or more unsuited for his position as her teacher as when he saw her in the midst of a crowd of admiring young men.

  Not that she ever forgot she was a Herald on duty, it was just . . .

  :Just what, Chosen?:

  :You’re laughing at me again, aren’t you?:

  No answer in words, j
ust a strong feeling of amusement. Which was, of course, all the answer Jors needed.

  Frost had touched the grass by the time they reached the tiny village of Halfrest, grown up not quite a generation before around a campsite that marked the halfway point on a shortcut between two larger towns. A shortcut only because the actual trade road followed the kind of ground sensible people built roads on rather than taking the direct route more suitable to goats.

  Jors had a feeling that without the mule tied to her saddle, Alyise and Donnel would have been bounding like those goats from rock to rock, Alyise chattering cheerfully the entire time as they skirted the edges of crumbling cliffs.

  The Waystation was brand-new, the wood still pale and raw looking. No corral had been built for the mules but a rope strung between two trees would take the lead lines, giving them plenty of room to graze. While there was no well, the pond looked crystal clear and cold.

  “If you have a Waystation,” Jors said as they carried their packs inside, “you’re more than just a group of people trying to carve out an uncertain life. You’re a real village.”

  “And that’s important to them, to be seen as a real village?”

  “This was wilderness when the elders of this village came here with their parents. They’re proud of what they’ve accomplished.”

  He reminded her of that again as they rode into Halfrest which was, in point of fact, nothing much more than a group of people trying to carve out an uncertain life. Livestock still shared many of the same buildings as their owners and function ruled over form. Only the Meeting Hall bore any decoration—graceful, joyful carvings tucked up under the gabled eaves gave some promise of what could be when they finally got a bit ahead.

  “Because a real village has a Meeting Hall?” Alyise asked quietly as they dismounted.

  He nodded and turned to greet the approaching men and women.

  They had not had an easy year of it. There had been sickness and raiders and heavy rains, then sickness again.

  “We had no Harvest Festival this year,” a weary woman told them, pushing graying hair off her face with a thin hand. “With so many sick, there were few to bring the harvest in so when the fields were finally clear the time was past. We had little heart for it besides. But there are two pigs fattening, pledged for the festival last spring. One came from my good black sow, and I feel I should be able to slaughter him for my own use.”

  “He was pledged to the village,” an equally weary looking man interrupted.

  “He was pledged to the festival!”

  As there had been no festival it would seem sensible to give the pig back to the woman who had pledged it, perhaps requiring her to give some of the meat to those in need. But this was Alyise’s judgment and Jors sat quietly behind her, allowing her to make up her own mind with no interference from him. He glanced around the Hall, from the work-roughened and exhausted villagers to the sullen knot of teenagers clumped together by the door. No one looked hungry or ill used, just tired. They’d been working nonstop for weeks. It was no wonder they’d skipped their festival, all they probably wanted was a chance to rest.

  “I have heard all sides of the argument,” Alyise said at last. “And this is my judgment.” She paused, just for a moment, and Jors had the strangest feeling the other shoe was finally dropping. “The pig was pledged to the Harvest Festival. Have the festival.”

  “But the harvest has been in long since and . . .”

  “The harvest is in,” Alyise interrupted, her smile lighting all the dark corners of the room. “I think that’s worth celebrating.” Before anyone could protest, she locked eyes with the woman who owned the pig. “Don’t you?”

  “Well, yes, but . . .”

  “The sickness is past. The raiders have been defeated. And that’s worth celebrating, too.” The man who had protested the reclaiming of the pig seemed stunned by her smile. “Don’t you think so?”

  “I guess . . .”

  “And the rains have stopped.” She spread her arms and turned to the teenagers by the door. “The sun is shining. Why not celebrate that?”

  Shoulders straightened. Tentative smiles answered her question.

  No one stood against Alyise’s enthusiasm for long. Soon, to Jors’ surprise, no one wanted to. The pigs were slaughtered and dressed and put in pits to roast. Tables were set up in the hall. Food and drink began to appear. Musicians brought out their instruments.

  “I’d have thought they were too tired to party,” Jors murmured as half a dozen girls ran giggling by with armloads of the last bright leaves of fall.

  “My mother has a saying; if you don’t celebrate your victories, all you remember are your defeats. The food they’re eating now won’t be enough to make a real difference if the winter is especially hard, but the memories they make, good memories of laughter and fellowship, that could be enough to see them through.” Alyise gestured toward the carvings. “They know joy. I just helped them remember they knew. You know?”

  He did actually.

  :Careful, Chosen.: Gervais adjusted his gait as Jors listed slightly to the left.

  “You lied to me.” Alyise’s Whites were a beacon in the darkness. Which was good because he didn’t think he could find her otherwise. Except that she was on Donnel and that made it pretty obvious where she was now he considered it.

  “What did I lie about?”

  “You said that was apple . . . apple jush. Juice.”

  She giggled. “It was once.”

  “Jack. That wash apples jack.” He wasn’t drunk. Heralds did not get drunk on duty even at impromptu Harvest Festivals where the apple juice wasn’t. Which he wouldn’t have had any of had Alyise not handed him a huge mug just before they left to toast the celebration and the celebrants.

  Now the night was spinning gently around him and he suspected that getting the Companions settled for the night was going to be interesting.

  Fortunately, it seemed that Alyise was less affected.

  “Hey.” He set his saddle down with exaggerated care. “You had some of that, too!”

  “Some,” she agreed, the dimples appearing. “Come on inside.”

  Her hand was warm on his arm. Then it was warm under his tunic. And her mouth tasted warm and sweet. And . . . Wait a minute. He pulled back although his hands, seemingly with a mind of their own, continued working on her laces.

  “I don’t think . . .”

  Her eyes gleamed. “What?”

  He couldn’t remember. :Gervais?:

  :She got you drunk and now she’s taking advantage of you.:

  :What?:

  :It was Donnel’s suggestion, but it seemed sound.:

  The bunk hit the back of his legs and he was suddenly lying down holding a soft, willing body.

  :Help.:

  His Companion’s mental voice held layers of laughter. :Say that like you mean it, Heart-brother.:

  Actually, for a while, he wasn’t able to say anything much at all.

  Jors stood staring down at the pond watching the early morning sun tease tendrils of fog off the icy-looking water, trying to work the kinks out of muscles he hadn’t used for far too long. Alyise was as enthusiastic in bed as she was about everything else and he’d been hard-pressed to keep up.

  He guessed he had been a bit of an ass about that whole position of power thing. Still . . .

  :What is it, Chosen?: Gervais’ velvet nose prodded him in the back.

  :I’m still her mentor for another seven months. What if this changes things between us?:

  :You think she will no longer trust your judgment because you have shared her bed?:

  Put that way it sounded a bit insulting. :Well, no.:

  :Then what is the problem?:

  There didn’t seem to be one. Jors leaned against his Companion’s comforting bulk and thought about it.

  He wasn’t Jennet.

  Alyise was a Herald. That made her responsible for herself.

  Donnel said his Chosen was glad he was a young ma
n.

  They had well-defined roles in the villages.

  There was no reason for them not to continue sharing a bed as long as they both remained willing. No reason at all for it to detract from his ability to teach what he knew or learn what she offered.

  Jors grinned. He had other nights like last night to look forward to and days of cheerful conversations combined with an enthusiastic welcome to whatever the road ahead might bring, and a high-energy approach to life that definitely got results since a village-wide party turned out to solve a petition about a disputed pig.

  His grin faded as a muscle twinged in his back.

  “Havens,” he sighed, as he realized what the next few months would bring, “I’m too old for this.”

  Gervais’ weight was suddenly no longer a comforting presence at his back but rather a short, sharp shove.

  The water in the pond was as cold as it looked.

  WAR CRY

  by Michael Longcor

  Michael Longcor is a writer and singer-songwriter from Indiana who wrote a dozen songs for the Mercedes Lackey album, Owlflight, released by Firebird Arts & Music. He’s also had stories appear in the Mercedes Lackey anthologies Sun In Glory and Bedlam’s Edge. Here, he tells the tale of a young Valdemaran soldier with a dangerous problem facing his first big battle and the bloody, final clash of the Tedrel Wars.

  RURY Tellar pulled the blanket closer around his shoulders and stared into the yellow heart of the campfire. The blanket and the Valdemaran Guard surcoat were enough to keep off the night’s cool, but still he shivered. His throbbing head didn’t dim the whispering feelings crowding in; feelings of doubt, fear, hope, despair, cheer, loneliness and sadness—the massed feelings of an army camped close on the eve of battle.

  It had started three weeks ago, soon after his seventeenth birthday and the call for the Oakdell village militia to march off and join the main army. The intruding feelings were very faint at first, like the not-quite-words heard late at night in the settling of an old house. They’d grown steadily stronger and now they constantly jostled his thoughts. His head ached with the pressure of other people cramming in. Sometimes he felt like his brain was the anvil from the blacksmith shop where he’d apprenticed, with strangers’ feelings hammering and ringing on it like the smith’s sledge.