Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar

by Mercedes Lackey

  A small tendril of that power settled at the place where a man gave his life for a woman, for love.

  A second firecat shimmered out of the void and stepped down. It didn’t seem to know exactly what to do with its tail.

  “Was that me?” it said, looking at the place where the colonel had died.

  “Yes,” said the firecat. “Your task now is to watch over her. She is handmaid to our Lord, and she must survive.”

  “I will,” said the new ’cat.

  “In the meantime,” said the old, “let me show you the joys of field mice. They go best with toast.”

  The chirurgeon deserted the next morning. A month later, he knelt before his own bound liege.

  “Arise, Healer, and report,” said Queen Selenay of Valdemar. “What of Karse?”

  THE BLUE COAT

  by Fiona Patton

  Fiona Patton lives in rural Ontario, Canada with her partner, a fierce farm Chihuahua, and inumerable cats. She has four novels out with DAW Books: The Stone Prince, The Painter Knight, The Granite Shield, and The Golden Sword. Her fifth novel, The Silver Lake, was published in hardcover by DAW in 2005. She has twenty-odd short stories published in various DAW/Tekno anthologies including Sirius the Dog Star, Assassin Fantastic, and Apprentice Fantastic.

  SPRING had come late to the Ice Wall Mountains. Although the warm afternoon breezes had brought the first of the tiny purple-and-yellow flowers pushing up through the snow, the passes were still closed and the nights still frosty and cold well into the season. Two figures, each heavily bundled in hides and fleece and wearing thick caps made of the soft, luxurious brown fur that gave the Goshon clan its name, walked single file along a narrow, barely passable mountain path. Each carried a short hunting bow and several brown-fletched arrows in ornate quivers at their backs and long knives, waterskins, and a brace of rabbits at their belts. The older, just past twenty years in age, was tall and thin, with a short length of beard and long, dark hair, plaited in several thick braids and tied with bits of hide. The younger, closer to fourteen or fifteen, was clean-shaven, lighter in coloring and more compact in build, but still bore a striking resemblance to his companion. As the path widened to reveal a small, protected vale, they paused to study the tableau below them with an apprehensive air.

  A stout hide tent stood in the lea of a copse of pine trees with four shaggy ponies cropping at the dry grass before a ringed fire pit. Two figures, one old, the other young, were the only people to be seen. For a moment, there was no sound except the piercing call of a hawk high above the trees, and then the sharp, painful birthing cries of their cousin Dierna that had driven the two men from the vale that morning began again. The younger backed up a step, but the older put his arm about his shoulders and drew him forward.

  “There’s nothing for it, Kellisin,” he said, keeping his voice firm and even. “Take the hares and prepare them.”

  “But Trey . . .”

  “I know.” Treyill k’Goshon glanced over to where his brother Bayne stood guard before the tent’s entrance. The other man met his gaze, then shook his head, and Trey nodded in resignation. “Shersi’s doing all she can,” he continued, handing Kellisin his kill. “Maybe a thick rabbit stew will help her and Dierna both, yes?”

  Kellisin swallowed hard. “Yes.”

  “So go on, then, little cousin.”

  As the younger man made for the fire pit, his face clouded with distress, Trey walked the short distance to where Vulshin, the family’s shaman, sat weaving his fingers through a thin trickle of water running down the rocks. As Trey touched him lightly on the shoulder, the old man raised his head, the expression in his rheumy gray eyes making words unnecessary.

  Trey crouched beside him. “It’s as you dreamed then,” he said, studying the collection of stones and small bird bones lying on the ground before them.

  Vulshin nodded, his seamed face gray and weary. “It’s as we both dreamed,” he corrected. “The baby’s breached; Shersi can’t make it turn, and Dierna’s lost a lot of strength and a lot of blood just getting this far. Now the baby’s in trouble. It can’t breathe and there’s nothing Shersi can do.” He sighed deeply. “It’s only a matter of time.”

  Trey picked up the largest of the stones, squeezing it in his fist with a helpless gesture before dropping it once more. “How long?”

  “Dusk. No later.”

  Both men glanced up at the sun already well into its trek towards the horizon.

  “Once there were so many of us,” Vulshin noted sadly. “The voices of our people sang in my dreams like a chorus of sparkling water flowing down the mountains sides. Not like this pitiful little trickle,” he sneered, waving a gnarled hand at the rivulet of water. “But like a torrent. Now sickness and clan-fighting have silenced their voices, one by one, until the Goshon are no more.”

  “The people are scattered,” Trey allowed.

  “The people are no more,” Vulshin repeated sharply. “Their voices have left my dreams, I tell you. We are the last, and when Dierna and her child pass from this world so will the Goshon pass.” Scooping the stones and bones into a small, hide bag, he fixed Trey with a stern expression. “When this is over, I want you to leave this place; you and Bayne and young Kellisin. There’s nothing left for you here.”

  Trey gave the old man a worried glance. “There’s yourself and Shersi, Shaman,” he said.

  Vulshin shook his head. “No. Shersi is old,” he said wearily. “Old and sick. The winter was very hard on her. Too hard. And with our grandson Aivar’s death coming before his child could even draw breath, the strength to carry on has left her.”

  His expression drew inward. “She used to love the meadow flowers in springtime, you know,” he said, more to himself than to the younger man. “When we were children, so many years ago, we would go out seeking the earliest spring blossoms, even if we had to sweep the snow away to find them. Sometimes our fingers would be red and stiff from searching, but she would never return until she could bring a handful home to plait into our ponies’ manes. Now she couldn’t walk as far as the edge of the camp to find them, and my vision’s so poor I couldn’t see to fetch them for her even if I tried.” He blinked a sudden welling of tears from his eyes. “She only waited this long to help Dierna bring her child into the world, but now . . .” He paused, and the two men glanced unwillingly toward the tent where Dierna’s cries had become noticeably weaker. “Now, my Shersi won’t last the week.”

  “Then we’ll wait a week, and afterward you’ll break camp with us.”

  “No.”

  “Shaman, you must. We need you.” Trey scowled at the desperate sound in his voice but kept his eyes on the older man’s face regardless.

  Vulshin patted his arm with slightly more force than necessary. “No, you don’t,” he replied. “I’ve taught you all I can, Trey. Bayne will stand beside you as he always has, and Kellisin would follow you into a fire pit if you told him he could learn its nature. Rely on Bayne’s strength, Kellisin’s mind, and your own gifts, and you’ll be fine.”

  “But my dreams aren’t like yours,” Trey insisted, trying to curb the sudden panic he felt at the thought of losing the old man’s guidance. “They’re hazy and unclear. And even when they’re not, they don’t make any sense.”

  “They will when you trust that they will. You’re strong, so are your dreams; strong enough to lead the three of you to a new life.” Vulshin passed a hand through the rivulet of water once again. “I have only one dream left now, and I don’t want to see it through without my Shersi. I’ve never been without her, you see; I wouldn’t know how.” He raised his eyes to the sky. “In this dream I saw a storm of unusual fury bury the hills again as if it were the middle of winter. It will be our funeral storm. We’ll wait for it and ride it into death like a mountain pony together, hand in hand.” He returned his attention to the younger man. “By that time, you’ll have reached the pass; it will be open, and you’ll be safe.”

  “Pass?”

 
; “The Feral Pass that leads south to the High Hills and the Terilee River.”

  Trey blinked. “The Goshon do not travel south, Shaman,” he reminded him gently.

  “Teach your grandmother to suck eggs,” Vulshin snapped. “You’ll travel south if I tell you to.” His gaze drew inward again. “South to the river and farther still to a place of stone and timber where music and sunlight stream in equal magnificence, and where creatures of such magic and poetry as would take your breath away run freely over lush, green meadows; far away in the young kingdom of Valdemar.”

  Trey mouthed the unfamiliar word with a frown. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “As I said, it’s a young kingdom, and you’re an even younger man.”

  “What clan holds its territory?”

  “No clan. It lies far beyond their reach, but you will have to travel past clan lands to get there. Stay by the river, heed your dreams, and you’ll pass through safely.”

  Trey shook his head stubbornly. “But what kind of life could we make in such a place even if we could get there safely?” he demanded. “What do we have to offer? Poetry and music have no need for trapping and hunting.”

  Vulshin’s eyes narrowed. “The land and the people will be strange and foreign to you, that’s true, but a sharp eye and a courageous arm are always welcome if they’re offered honestly. It’s their way. Besides, I dreamed you there.” He closed his eyes. “Last night I saw you standing by bright water wearing a coat dyed the deepest blue of a summer evening sky.” He opened his eyes again without noticing how pale Trey had suddenly become. “So you’re going,” he continued. “Don’t argue with me, or I’ll give you a good smack. When I . . .”

  “Shaman?”

  The two men turned to see Bayne gesturing to them, and Trey suddenly realized how quiet it had become. The old man nodded sadly. “It’s time,” he said. “Help me up.”

  Trey hesitated. “You don’t think . . . ?”

  “No, Treyill,” Vulshin said firmly but not unkindly. “And neither do you. Their voices are no more. Come, make your first good-bye. It’s what must be done and you know it.”

  With a reluctant frown, Trey helped him stand, then together, the two men made their way across the vale toward the now silent tent.

  The next morning, after Dierna and her stillborn child had been wrapped in hides and buried under as many rocks as the three young men could pry from the still-frozen ground, Trey set Bayne to breaking camp. Vulshin and Shersi sat, huddled together before the fire pit without speaking and to Trey’s eyes it looked as if they’d already begun their final trek, pausing only to wait until death could catch up with them.

  Mouth set in a grim line, he began to wrap the season’s goshon pelts in oilcloth. They would use them to barter their way south to Vulshin’s dream kingdom of Valdemar. Whatever the old shaman believed, they were still trappers, that’s what they did and that’s all they had to offer a new life, regardless of their eyes or their arms. Beside him, Kellisin hovered about uncertainly until he sent him to help Bayne load Dierna’s pony with their extra supplies. He could find no words to comfort him when he had none to comfort himself. Turning away from the injured look in the younger man’s eyes, Trey picked up another pelt with deliberate care.

  By the time the sun had reached its zenith, they were ready. Trey made one last attempt to convince Vulshin and Shersi to come with them, but the two older Goshon were adamant.

  “It’s our right as elders to choose whether we break camp or remain behind,” Shersi said, her once strong voice weak and breathy. “It’s the way of our people. You know that.”

  “Then choose to break camp with us.”

  “Treyill,” Vulshin said sternly. “Come, it is time to make your second good-bye. Do it respectfully.”

  Trey would have continued the argument afterward, but finally, Bayne drew him away, setting his reins into his hand. His last sight of the vale was that of the hawk circling high overhead, sending its mournful cry into the wind. For good or ill, the last of the Goshon Clan were passing from its world.

  The three kinsmen made their way in somber silence for the better part of a week, alternately walking and riding, following what paths were open, and heading roughly south. When they reached the Feral Pass, a thin, mushy path winding its way through a narrow canyon of high, jagged rocks, they rode cautiously, keeping a close eye on the walls of ice and snow that stretched high above their heads. When they finally emerged on the other side, they glanced back to find the sky above the mountain peaks had turned an ominous dark, slate gray.

  “Vulshin’s storm,” Trey said heavily.

  Bayne nodded. “We have to quicken our pace.”

  They made the shelter of a rocky tor just as the storm hit. Huddled behind their ponies, they waited it out and when they finally struggled free the next morning, the pass behind them glittered with impassible snow. Trey narrowed his eyes against the glare.

  “Well, that’s it, then,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion. “There’s no going back now.”

  Kellisin glanced over at him. “And Vulshin and Shersi?” he asked quietly.

  “Gone. We should never have left them.” Taking hold of his pony’s halter, Trey made his way back to the barely discernable path without looking back.

  Bayne shook his head. “We had to respect their wishes,” he said to Kellisin, catching him by the shoulder and pulling him into a rough hug to take the sting away from his brother’s words. “Life is seasonal, and everyone breaks camp for the ride into death eventually, little cousin.”

  “I know that,” Kellisin said, his brows drawn down into a tight vee. “Dierna and the baby was hard for us all, but Vulshin and Shersi were old. Trey . . .” He shook his head helplessly. “It wasn’t his choice to make.”

  “Trey’s a shaman,” Bayne explained. “They take responsibility for everything; so it’s up to us to remind him not to. But in the meantime . . .” He caught hold of his own pony’s halter, “we have to find a clear patch of fodder and some dry wood for a fire. Unless you want a cold breakfast?”

  Kellisin smiled ruefully. “No.”

  “All right, then. Let’s catch up to our ray of sunshine, shall we, before he falls off a cliff? Maybe some of your warm rabbit stew will lighten his mood.”

  Kellisin nodded and together, they followed Trey down the path.

  That night Trey dreamed. He saw Vulshin standing in the midst of a winter storm so violent it blinded him. One hand shielding his eyes, the other stretched out before him, Trey reached out for the old man but, just as their fingertips touched, Vulshin vanished under a sudden avalanche of snow. Trey sprang forward and, falling to his knees, worked frantically to dig his old teacher free, but every time he thought he might have reached him, another deluge of snow buried him again. He cried out in frustration and awoke to find Bayne holding him tightly, rocking him back and forth as their parents had done when he’d been a boy. In the moonlight he looked so much like their father that Trey gaped at him, then the other man pulled back, and Trey was back on the cold ground south of the Feral Pass once again.

  The next night he dreamed again, only this time it was Shersi who disappeared under a cascade of falling snow, then Dierna and her baby, then Aivar, then Vulshin again, night after night. He began to avoid sleeping altogether, sitting wrapped in his blanket, staring up at the moon for hours until exhaustion drove him to a few hours of broken rest. He became gray and gaunt, drawing farther and farther into himself and neither Bayne nor Kellisin could bring him out of it.

  Finally, as the mountains gave over to rolling hills and valleys, Bayne joined him, sitting staring up and the starcast sky before fixing his brother with a serious expression.

  “You have to stop this, Trey,” he said. “We’ll be in foreign lands in a day or two and we’ll need your insight.”

  Knees drawn up to his chest, Trey shook his head. “I can’t.”

  “You have to. You’re our shaman. We need you.” Bayne frowned. “Th
is isn’t like you, brother. What is it?”

  Scrubbing at the growth of beard along his cheeks, Trey took a deep breath. “Do you remember the nightmares I used to have as a boy?” he asked after a long moment.

  When Bayne nodded, he continued.

  “They were so real, so vivid; sometimes it was hard to tell if I was awake or asleep. I saw storms and floods and fighting and everything I saw came true. I saw our father’s death as clear as if it were happening right before my eyes.”

  “I remember. That was when Vulshin began your training and the nightmares stopped.”

  “The nightmares stopped,” Trey agreed. “But not because Vulshin began training me.” He closed his eyes. “The dreams always started the same way. I was standing by bright, swiftly flowing water wearing a dark blue coat the like of which I’ve never seen among the Goshon. I looked down into the water and I saw the future of our people.” His face darkened. “But our people had no future,” he grated, “and all I saw were bodies floating below the surface. And just as Vulshin heard them singing in his head; so I saw them dying in mine, and it hurt worse than anything else has ever hurt before or since. One day it was just too much, so I went into my dream and I took the coat off, I buried it in a deep cleft in the rocks, and the dreams stopped hurting. They became hazy and unclear, sometimes happening before and sometimes afterwards. I saw Aivar’s death and Dierna’s and their baby’s, but they didn’t hurt. Not the dreams anyway,” he amended.

  “And Vulshin and Shersi?”

  Trey nodded wordlessly.

  “And the dreams are hurting again?”

  “Yes. But there’s more. The day before we left the vale, Vulshin told me that he’d seen me in a dream standing by bright water wearing a coat dyed the deepest blue of a summer evening sky. His very words. Bayne.” He fixed his brother with an intense stare. “I never told Vulshin about the coat. Does that mean it’s back? That even though I buried it, it followed me here?”