“Torgon?” she called softly. “Be you awake?”
“I am,” came his voice from the shadows. He crawled out from a pile of straw, strands of it clinging to his hair. The swelling had gone down from his face and he moved less stiffly.
“Brought you some breakfast.” She pulled a large sausage and a piece of herb-bread wrapped in cloth from the bottom of the pail. “Hope you don’t mind a few kernels of grain. Had to feed the chickens.”
He unwrapped the bread and sausage. “That’s good,” he mumbled, his mouth full.
She watched him eat, her mind wandering to the night before. Beckor had hidden Torgon in his room, out of sight from anyone who might come looking. After sharing the evening meal with Zaltos’s parents, Sosha returned to the chapel to find Torgon clad in different clothes. Gone were his boots, his blood-stained tunic, as well as his breeches. Beckor was off somewhere, so she waited with Torgon for him to return. They said little to each other, she still somewhat shy in his presence and he wrapped in what must be his memories of violence.
When Beckor reappeared, he refused to say what he had done to give proof Torgon was dead. If she didn’t know, ignorance would provide protection from questioning. Then, under the cover of night, she led Torgon to her house and left him in the barn. Unsheathing his sword, he placed it close at hand and settled down half-hidden by the pile of straw.
Now, as she stood beside him, she felt a creeping unease. Last night, she had trusted Beckor and whatever it was he had planned, but that was then. Today was now, and she feared the two assassins might come to Sweetwater searching for their prey.
“Just ain’t right,” she said, looking up into Torgon’s face. “Nobody should kill nobody for no reason.”
“I certainly won’t argue with you,” he replied. He touched his forehead, wincing slightly. “Some things are even too dark for a lout like me.”
“Don’t think you be a lout,” she protested. “Now keep quiet in here. Sorry for such a boring place.”
“Boring’s good when the alternative is facing frustrated assassins.” His eyes met hers. “You need to take care. Go about your business as if it was a day like any other. And don’t hover around the barn. I’ll be all right. If anyone passes by, forget you ever saw me.”
The sun hung low on the western horizon when two men rode into Sweetwater, to all appearances travelers headed in the direction of Sunhame. Beckor watched them from the front door of the chapel. Big men both, clad in leather and fully armed. Oddly enough, they led a riderless horse. Then, from his vantage point, he could see one of them had his right thigh wrapped in a torn rag. Sunlord protect! he thought. It’s the assassins who tried to kill Torgon! Beckor studiously avoided looking in their direction. They halted by the tavern, dismounted, and went inside—simple wayfarers looking for a place to spend the night before continuing their journey.
Beckor murmured a prayer to Vkandis Sunlord. The game had begun, and he hoped he had prepared a proper ending to it. Something strange had been set in motion when Sosha had found Torgon wounded by the side of the road. And he couldn’t discount the dream that had come shortly before sunrise. He had seen Sosha standing next to Torgon, and between them, tail curled around front paws, sat a large golden cat. Golden? For a brief moment, the cat had grown in size, to be transformed into a Firecat! Words that were not words filled Beckor’s mind: Keep these two together.
Dusk approached, and he entered the chapel to prepare for the sunset service. He clad himself in his vestments, slipped the heavy gold chain of a sun-priest around his neck, and returned to the altar, waiting for the villagers to assemble. One by one, they filed through the open doors and took their accustomed places. He sought and found Sosha, met her eyes and nodded. But arriving last of all, the two assassins entered the chapel, quiet and respectful as any resident of Sweetwater would be.
Beckor tensed at the sight but turned toward the altar, the words of the sunset service coming easily to his lips. Inwardly, he voiced another prayer for the God to grant the villagers safety and to protect the man and woman his dream had revealed as being somehow of great importance.
Sosha arrived at the service later than she would have liked, as Zaltos’ father had taken to bed with a slight fever. After dosing him with willow-bark tea, she left him to the care of his wife and hurried toward the chapel. Torgon had eaten his fill earlier, not stirring from the barn all day. He seemed a different person, clad now in a homespun shirt, patched pants, and scuffed but serviceable boots. Only his eyes were the same, startling blue against the tan of his face. She had been unable to keep her mind from him all day. Through all her chores—gathering eggs, feeding and watering her horse, and pulling weeds from the garden—she kept thinking of him.
And now, from her vantage point at the rear of the chapel, she saw two burly men take their places among the villagers. Strangers happened by infrequently but were generally welcome to stay the night at the tavern. One of the two men shifted position, revealing his wrapped leg. Her heart gave a lurch. Oh, Sunlord! It be those men who tried to kill Torgon! She barely controlled the urge to dash out of the chapel to warn him. You silly thing! That be just what they would want! Be you stupid or what? Stay calm, girl ... don’t even look at them!
She fixed her eyes on Beckor’s back as he faced the altar, trusting in him and the Sunlord to make things right.
“Sun-ray, a few words with you?”
Beckor nodded, facing one of the two strangers who had lingered after the sunset service and the lighting of the Night Candle. Sosha had left immediately after the benediction, so he assumed she was out of harm’s way. And now, what happened lay firmly in the Sunlord’s hands.
“I see you’ve been injured,” he said, pitching his voice to obvious concern. His hands trembled slightly and he hoped the stranger did not notice. “Do you need my aid?”
“No,” the man responded. “Well, maybe. My friend and I ... we’re looking for someone. A fellow traveler. Ruffians in the fields beyond your village attacked us. We’re hoping you might have seen him or heard word of his whereabouts.”
Beckor met the fellow’s eyes, noting that they missed very little. “What does this man look like?”
“Tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed. He was armed with a sword and wore a green tunic.”
“Sunlord bless,” Beckor said, bowing his head. “Someone found a man fitting your description yesterday.” The man stiffened slightly, leaning a bit forward. “He’s dead.”
“Dead? You’re certain?”
Beckor nodded his head. “I should be. I’m the local healer as well as sun-priest. I buried him yesterday.”
The intensity of the stranger’s gaze sharpened. “Dead in the fields?”
Beckor’s stomach clenched. “No,” he said. “Dead not that long thereafter.”
“You buried him where?”
“In the field where all our people are buried. The Sunlord demands honor be paid to those who have joined him.”
“Ah. Perhaps we might go and pay our respects. He was a friend.”
Though the words spoken evidenced concern one traveler might have for another, a coldness lurked beneath. At that moment, Beckor felt the chill of death not far away. Sun-priest or not, what happened next could easily turn violent. He had no doubt these men were ruthless enough that nothing would stop them from finding Torgon, or at least discovering evidence they had completed their task.
Sosha slipped through the barn door, her heart racing. “Torgon? Be you here?”
A rustle from the straw. “I’m here.”
“Get you up into the rafters if you can,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “Those men you told us about ... they be here!”
Torgon stood, muttering curses under his breath. He bent and picked up his sword.
“Vkandis protect! You be in no condition to fight. Hide in the hayloft, man! If they come here, it be dark enough they won’t see you.”
He wavered, caught between fight and flight. Finally, he
sheathed his sword and eyed the ladder he would have to climb. “You’re right. For the God’s sake, Sosha, be careful! Those two will stop at very little—”
The sound of voices raised in anger silenced him. Sosha turned to the door. “Oh, Sunlord! Get up that ladder! Now!”
She slipped out of the barn, not waiting to see if Torgon complied. Standing by the henhouse, she could see Papa Lorndo at the back door to her house. Confronting him was one of the men she had seen in the chapel. Swallowing convulsively, she slowly walked across the yard.
“Nobody be here but me, my wife, and my dead son’s wife,” Papa Lorndo said, propping himself against the doorjamb. “Don’t know who you lookin’ for, but you won’t find nobody ’round here but us.”
“That’s not what the smithy said. Said he saw your daughter-in-law bring a man into town. That’s the man we’re looking for.”
For a moment, Sosha thought her legs would crumple. “I surely did,” she said in a small voice. The stranger whirled around and faced her. “Near dead when I found him.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “And where is he now?”
“Don’t know,” she replied, begging Vkandis’s forgiveness for the lie. “Took him to our priest.”
“Then that’s where we’re going,” he growled, grabbing her arm. “Get moving!”
“Take your hands off her!” Papa Lorndo sputtered. “You can’t—”
“Keep your mouth shut!” the man snapped. “Be glad I’m in a good mood!”
He propelled Sosha around the house and down the road toward the chapel. In the early twilight, she could see the harshness of his face, the glint of his eyes. Sunlord ... Sunlord! Protect me now!
His worst fears surfaced when Beckor saw the other stranger coming toward the chapel, one burly hand wrapped around Sosha’s upper arm. The poor woman looked both terrified and utterly determined. The moment was now. It all came down to the plan he had put in place the night before.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he exclaimed, putting all the outrage he could into his voice. “You don’t treat young women like that!”
The man released Sosha, who rubbed at her arm, her eyes pleading for Beckor’s help. “What did this priest tell you?” he asked his companion.
“That Torgon’s dead. Died yesterday. Says he buried him.”
“Huh. Smithy didn’t say whether he was dead or alive when she brought him into the village.” He glared at Beckor. “We need to know if he’s dead or not.”
“Why?” Beckor demanded. “Are you kin?”
“No. Friends. We’ll have to answer to his family. We need to see his body.”
Beckor shook his head. “Small honor you give to me and those who have died. You’d have me disturb his grave?”
The man with the wounded leg stepped closer to Beckor. “Take us there.”
The command dripped ice. Beckor shrugged, took Sosha’s hand. “Everything will be all right,” he said. Then, glancing at the two assassins: “Follow me, if you’re still determined to violate the dead.”
“Need a shovel,” the taller of the two said. “You got one, priest?”
“Around back. We have to go that way to the field where he’s buried.”
Sosha’s heart pounded so loudly she knew Beckor and the two men could hear it. How was Beckor going to prove an empty grave contained a man who was very much alive and, if he had listened to her, hiding in the hayloft of her barn? She voiced another silent prayer to Vkandis and followed Beckor as he led the way to the field of burial.
“There,” Beckor said, pointing to the edge of a cleared field. “That’s where I buried him.”
The taller of the two men stared at the newly turned earth. He rolled his shoulders and began to dig. Sosha watched, fascinated and terrorized, unable to turn away, even if she had wanted to. As the digging continued, time seemed to slow down. Finally, the shovel hit something and the man began to work around it.
“What did you find?” the other stranger asked.
“Damn ... think it’s a boot.”
“Let me see.” The wounded assassin pushed forward. “Looks like his.”
The taller man moved up toward the middle of the grave and began to dig again. Sosha glanced at Beckor, but the priest stood calmly, his face expressionless.
Once again, the assassin’s shovel found something. He scraped at what he had unearthed. “Green tunic. Got blood on it. Must be his.” He started to dig around what he’d discovered. “Gah!” he exclaimed, his eyes narrowed. “The stench!”
Both men drew back from the grave, their faces screwed up in disgust.
“What did you expect?” Beckor asked. “Bodies rot. Especially in this heat.”
The two strangers stared at the priest. Sosha couldn’t help but stare, too.
“Now,” Beckor said, “do you mind if we cover him again? The Sunlord will be none too pleased with this night’s outcome.”
The taller of the two men dropped the shovel. “We’ll leave that to you.”
Something moved behind the wounded man’s eyes. Sosha couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment or relief. “We’ll tell his family,” the man said, sounding somewhat deflated. “Sorry to have caused trouble.”
“We heard there have been bandits in this area,” Beckor said, pointedly not accepting the apology. “That’s why we’re on guard when we work in the fields.”
The other assassin nodded, taking his cue from his companion, the bluster drained from his voice. “It was a large number of them. The three of us couldn’t fight them off. Thank you again. We’ll be leaving now.”
“Tonight?”
To Sosha, the priest sounded as concerned as someone would be at the prospect of travelers riding out in pitch darkness.
“We were supposed to be at Faroaks yesterday, but we kept hunting for our companion. It’s not that distant. Even bandits sleep. Now that we know Torgon’s dead, we can continue on.”
The wounded man nudged his companion. “And we have to make sure his family is notified. They’ll be grief stricken.”
“Oh ... that’s true. Don’t worry about us, sun-ray. And, girlie,” he said, glancing at Sosha, “sorry I scared you.”
She lifted her chin and stared back at him, struggling to keep her face expressionless. The two assassins nodded farewell, turned, and left the field. Only when she could no longer see them in the gathering darkness did she allow tears to roll down her cheeks.
“Now, now ... you’ll be all right.” Beckor put an arm around her shoulders. “They’ll be gone soon.” He lowered his voice. “Where’s Torgon?”
“Up in the hayloft,” she replied, matching his hushed words. “I warned him.” A shift in the evening breeze made her gag. “Lord of Light! What be in that grave?”
“Besides Torgon’s boots, tunic and breeches?” A small smile tugged at Beckor’s face. “Rotted vegetables, meat that’s gone bad ... anything vile I could find to fill them with. You see, Sosha, ofttimes we see what we expect to see, even when it’s something else.”
Relief descended like a flood. She wiped at her tears and, ignoring propriety, hugged the priest.
His smile broadened. “Let’s cover this up and then I’ll walk you home.”
After the two assassins had ridden out of Sweetwater, Beckor joined Sosha in her barn. Holding a shielded lamp in his hands, he watched Torgon slowly climb down the ladder, favoring his left side in his descent.
“For what you’ve done for me, sun-ray,” Torgon said, after Beckor had explained all that had happened, “I can’t thank you enough.” He turned to Sosha. “And you ... you were very brave. My undying thanks to you also.”
Beckor noticed how their eyes met and held. He remembered his dream. Keep these two together, the Firecat had said.
Somehow he knew his plan, played out to perfection this evening, was but one step in a journey Torgon and Sosha would make together. And in the darkness of the barn, he could have sworn he saw a large golden cat smiling.
&nb
sp; Author’s note: Read “The Cat Who Came to Dinner” in the anthology Sun in Glory and Other Tales of Valdemar, edited by Mercedes Lackey, which tells the story of Torgon and Sosha’s son Reulan and his own experience with a much more talkative Firecat.
The Power of Three
by Brenda Cooper
Brenda Cooper’s novels include The Silver Ship and the Sea, Reading The Wind, and, with Larry Niven, Building Harlequin’s Moon. Brenda’s short fiction includes multiple fantasy stories set in the mythical High Hills, an alternate Laguna Beach, CA, and harder science fiction that has appeared in Analog Science Fiction , Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, Strange Horizons, and Nature Magazine. Brenda’s very honored to be included in these anthologies, as she’s whiled away many pleasant hours in Valdemar and shared the Valdemar books with countless others. What a treat!
Bard Breda focused on the fight in front of her. In the center of the outside practice rink attached to the salle, two young women wearing worn practice armor sparred with dented practice staffs. Two matching faces wore rivulets of sweat down their foreheads and cheeks, and more sweat glued matching fire-red hair to the slender napes of two necks. For every blow Rhiannon struck, Dionne parried and sent another, which Rhiannon parried. Neither had any advantage over the other, not in quickness, speed, or strength.
Morning sunshine illuminated the two fighters and the two watchers alike. The first of the season’s swallows labored around them, chattering over stray bits of straw for their nests. The twins’ staffs made loud thunks as they struck each other fairly and well, over and over.
Breda cleared her throat to gain attention from Gavin, her counterpart from the Healer’s Collegium. “Do you see why I brought you here? They’re mirrors of each other. Can’t stand to be apart for longer than a class period, and we’ve let them live that way. We even let them share a room when they first got here, and somehow no one thought to separate them. Other Bardic students don’t room with Healers.”
Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar Page 6