Somehow, that flash of blue unfroze her, allowed her to think again. She couldn't use the dappled mare, but maybe she could call someone else. Someone who had no right to have left Mariel in the first place, but she'd worry about that later.
:Thea.: Inya didn't know where the name came from, but she knew it was right. :Thea, 1 call you.:
For a moment the air was still, the birds in the tree-tops silent. Then Inya heard a sound—like a nicker, only higher, lighter, more graceful. Hoofs hit the dirt lightly, with only the faintest whisper of noise.
And the Companion stood before her. Mud splattered her saddle, but the white coat was bright. Beneath the
overcast sky, the creature seemed to glow. And her eyes—
No, Inya wouldn't look into her eyes. She wanted to be able to let her go when she was through.
The Companion snorted, pawing one foot against the ground. She almost seemed impatient.
All right, then. :Thea. You're the one who left Mariel stranded. Now you're going to help get her out.:
:I did not leave her. She ran away on her own. I only followed because I was worried about her safety.: But Thea knelt, inviting Inya to mount.
The Companion was larger than the dappled horse, and wider; Inya's hips stretched painfully across the saddle. Yet Thea moved more smoothly than any horse; when she stepped forward, Inya barely felt the motion.
She almost didn't notice when Thea stepped into the water, not until the water came up to her feet and soaked through her breeches. Water sloshed over the saddle, and the Companion used her strong legs to swim. Inya clutched the wet mane, drew her legs more tightly around the saddle.
Then the water turned shallow again. Thea stepped up onto dry land, and Inya shivered as the air hit her wet clothes.
"Grandma!"
Inya eased her way out of the saddle and took Mariel in her arms.
"She wouldn't take me," Mariel sobbed. She buried her face in Inya's shoulder. "She was in the barn, and you didn't want her anyway, but she wouldn't take me."
Inya whirled to face the Companion, glaring. "How dare you get a child's hopes up like that? How dare you follow her this far and not Choose her? You lied to her, that's what you did!"
:No. I never claimed to Choose her, though she begged me to. I did not know my presence on the farm would bother her so. I did not know she would run away. I went after her, but I could not persuade her to return.:
:So Choose her now. It's not too late.:
:No. I Choose you.:
:Damn you!: Inya turned away, facing Mariel again. :She's still young—young enough for a child's adventures. She has an entire life in front of her.:
:There is no right or wrong age for such things.:
Inya laughed, a bitter sound. :You don't know much about the responsibilities that come with adulthood, then. Or about the ailments that come with old age.:
Thea snorted. .7 know that you've had the strength to keep your family together, through death and hard times. You've had the strength, too, to travel through the night, steadily and in spite of pain, to rescue a child. These are not small virtues. They are virtues that would serve a Herald well.:
:That's not enough,: Inya said.
The Companion stamped a foot; it squished against the mud. .7 know, also, that you're more sensible than a child would be. You packed extra supplies, made sure you stopped to rest before you collapsed from exhaustion. You would never die for the stupid reasons young people die. Your age makes you more likely to be taken seriously, too, in negotiations and other diplomatic matters. There are a thousand reasons. Need I list them all?:
Inya felt anger again, not for Mariel's sake, but for her own. She brushed hot tears aside with one hand. :Why in all the Havens didn't you come sooner? Why didn't you come when I could still leave?:
Thea came up behind Inya, leaning a silky muzzle against her neck. Inya turned to look at the Companion.
And made the mistake of meeting her eyes. She felt herself falling, drowning in a field of endless sapphire blue.
.7 Choose you. Don't you understand? Now neither of us will ever be alone.:
.7 need to take care of Jory and the children. I can't just follow you away.: She knew, though, that Jory would welcome the chance to move to the City. And the villagers would hardly notice they were gone.
.7 couldn't come sooner. I was not yet in this world, and then I was too young. I've come now. Will you have me?:
Inya took a deep breath. Her next words surprised her. "I don't know."
"Don't know what, Grandma?"
Inya looked down to see Mariel staring at her. She hadn't realized she'd spoken aloud.
.7 can wait while you decide.:
There was the farm to take care of. The water to hold back. And the land had been in her family for so long. No matter how hard the villagers turned their backs, Inya wouldn't walk away without thinking a good, long time. :How long are you willing to wait?:
:As long as you need.: Thea met Inya's eyes again, but this time, Inya didn't drown in them. Instead, something rose up from the Companion, a warmth that surrounded her, made her understand what it truly meant to never be alone. She was crying again, but this time she didn't even wipe the tears away.
She knew, then, what her answer to the Companion would be. She'd wait a while to give it, but she knew.
"Grandma? Are you okay?"
:Your grandmother is fine.:
"Grandma!" Mariel's face lit up. "She spoke to me! Did you hear? She wouldn't Choose me, but at least she spoke. That's something, isn't it?"
"Yes, that's something." :You should have taken Mariel,: she thought again, but she didn't know whether she meant it. Something brushed her mind, feather-light. Inya smiled. She reached out and hugged Mariel.
Thea did not speak again, not then and not for a long time afterward. The Companion knelt down, letting Inya and Mariel mount.
The three of them crossed the river, and together began the long journey home.
Blood Ties
by Stephanie D. Shaver
Stephanie Shaver is a twenty-something writer living in Missouri. In her spare time, she works on the obligatory novel and short stories, but most of her time is taken up attending school, where she's majoring in Computer Science, and writing code for an online games company. She has worked at Marion Zimmer Bradley's Fantasy Magazine, and considers it one of the great experiences of her life. Of this story, she says, "I wrote this story for the anthology a long time ago, back when I was still in my 'Angry Young Woman' phase. Misty has always been a strong force in my life, beginning at the age of thirteen. I can only thank her for introducing me to a world of magic and wonder, a feeling I hope to someday breathe into my own works."
Dedication:
to Mr. Brian Devaney—respected teacher, good friend,and one of the few true Heralds in this world
"Rivin."
From where he sat at the table, the boy looked up at his father. He had been rubbing his fingers—near to blistering from chopping wood all day—trying to get the ache out of them.
Holding so hard to the ax handle I forgot how to let go, he thought, reminding himself of a quote his older sister, Sattar, was fond of.
Rivin looked around to see Sattar clearing the wooden trenchers for washing, Danavan—his younger sister—smiling her sweet, undefiled smile and vanishing after Sattar, and Nastasea squalling as she tried to catch up with her two older siblings. In his concentration on his pain, he had forgotten that dinner was over.
"Is—something wrong, sir?"
For a small man, Delanon Morningsong had an enormous presence about him. Strict and solemn, dedicated to purist beliefs, he was a refugee of the famine that had caused his family to flee from their native land of Karse.
Rivin had not been part of the flight that had carried his father, mother, and their extended families to Valde-mar, but he had heard enough stories about it to be happy to no longer live in Karse. While he had been pelted with his father's beliefs sinc
e before he could speak, his daydreaming and slightly absentminded attitude had mostly helped him to escape the rigid mind-frame of most of his father's teachings—and had also caused him great bodily harm in the area of thrashings and penance.
"You chopped that wood?"
"Aye, sir." Rivin smiled, not wincing as he ran a hand through his short black hair. His eyes were gray, like his mother's.
"All of it?"
"Yes, sir."
The dark brown eyes of his father flickered.
"Good," he grunted at last. "I have another task for you."
Rivin groaned inwardly. He had estimated one week until he began planting in the fields—usually that week was a lazy, vacationlike existence where he performed menial tasks and occasional chores, a break before the longest season. But Delanon had been piling jobs on him since weather had permitted, and Rivin feared his father might be trying to put the yoke of "responsible manhood" upon him.
Well, I am nearly thirteen . . . I suppose he'll be thinking about marriage, too, soon.
Outwardly, Rivin's face remained neutral, neither smiling idiotically nor showing contempt toward further work. One would have been considered mockery, the other insubordination.
But the words Delanon had to say were hardly what his son expected, and it was all the boy could do to keep the shock and joy from showing on his face.
"I want you to go into town and buy some things. Sacks, candles, Sattar says she needs a new spindle as well." His serpentine eyes turned thoughtful as he appraised his son. Rivin blinked in surprise. This was no chore! He was going into town! Away from the farm! Away from work! Freedom and fresh air!
"In addition to that, Sattar and I have decided that we can no longer support having Nastasea and Danavan. I talked to my sister, and she said she'd be more than happy to take them—she being no longer capable of having littles and all."
Surprise again, and relief as well. Rivin and Sattar had been conspiring long and hard to get Nastasea and Danavan out of the house, if only to avoid having to endure a life of poverty and their father's harsh rules .. . now it seemed their plans would come true.
"After all, they'd only be a dowry fee and a nuisance," he added casually. "And we don't have the money your aunt does."
Probably because Aunt has the sense to let some of her fields lie fallow, while you plant more than you could ever hope to harvest! Rivin had heard his father's excuses and complaints many times, and had long ago stopped believing them.
Delanon raised a glass filled with water to his lips and drank. His father had long ago forsworn spirits and beer, sticking to clean water and berry juice, or cow's and goat's milk.
"Any questions?" the older man asked, wiping his mouth.
Rivin shook his head, and then said, "No, sir."
"Then get to bed. You'll be leaving in the morning."
Rivin bowed his head. "Thank you, sir."
The soft pad of his feet as he left the house for the stables was all the sound Rivin could make to express his joy.
Though clouds had built up the night before, the promise of rain had not come through. Rivin awoke in the barn, surprised to find the hay he was lying in (with a scrap of cloth thrown over to take away the itch) was not damp with early moisture. Indeed, the day was clear and the sky blue as the Morningsong excursion began— Nastasea and Danavan behind and Rivin leading in a steady walk. In a way, he was grateful for the clear weather. It meant that the trek would be easier. But dry weather wouldn't make planting less difficult, and he hoped that it would cloud over after he dropped off Nastasea and Danavan with Aunt Rianao.
/ don't care if I get drenched, but the girls are still too delicate. They'd probably die of pneumonia, and gods know what hells I'd go through trying to forgive myself— as well as the suffering Father'd put me through. Not like he'd need to do anything. I'd probably kill myself if I let one of them die.
Time whittled away as they moved, Rivin's feet taking well to the walk. He glanced back only once, when they got to the top of the hilly slope that overlooked the farm. He thought he saw Sattar standing in the doorway, hands tucked into her apron, the wind stirring her hair lightly. She was a mirror of their father—dark and sharp—except that her eyes were not solemn, they were sorrowful. Ever since their mother had died a month after Nastasea's birth, she had taken on the tasks of housewife and sister, moving like a steady ghost through the house and tending to their needs. He felt a stab of sadness as he disappeared over the ridge, as if he were leaving her forever. . . .
But I'll be back before the moon turns full. Why do I feel this way?
Sunzenith rose over the windy farmlands, and Rivin took the time to rest and feed his sisters on bread and cheese and cool water. He himself fasted, knowing that in three candlemarks there would be a good meal waiting at Rianao's. Besides, he would need to keep a tight watch on his rations if he were to make it to Kettlesmith and back.
By a candlemark and a half, he was carrying Nastasea, who had begun complaining—"feet!"—to mean that her feet hurt. Though nearly five years old, she still talked like one of the littlest littles. Sattar said that they had all been like that, and that this would pass.
Aye, just like the fears of monsters in the well and colddrakes In the dark. And me—with my fear of the barn. Still get kind of nervy when I go in there at night to sleep. Ah, well, time will cure.
A thread of wind tickled his face, and Nastasea giggled a little, playing with a digit of his hair.
Rivin nodded to himself. Time always has before. . . .
Rivin rubbed his shoulder—weary from holding the burden of his younger sister—trying to massage the pain out of it. His back leaned against the wood-built wall of his aunt's fore-room, his left side toward the cheery fire that was burning steadily in the hearth. He took a long drink from his milk-filled tin cup, grateful for the cool liquid, and smiled when Rianao walked by.
His aunt's establishment was larger than his home, being the dwelling of numerous children (called Rianao's Brood) as well as a crew of work hands, seven large wolfhounds, and five cats.
On the other side of the room was an enigma. Seated in a high-backed, armless wooden chair and dressed in white tunic and side-split, white leather riding skirt was Lisabet Morningsong, the Herald-Mage of the family, and distant cousin to Rianao. She didn't look much like a mage—with needlework on her lap and her face lost in concentration as she pulled up a knot—but there was a slight aura about her that spoke of control, restrained power, and authority.
She looked up at him upon noticing his eyes on her, and smiled slightly, inclining her head at him just a little before reaching into the basket at her side and hunting for a new color of thread.
"She's here on vacation," he heard a voice say, and looked up at the looming form of Rianao's fifteen-year-old son Tileir, who had met the Morningsong pack as they arrived at Rianao's farm. "Some vacation—haw!" The older boy shook his head as he slid down on the floor next to Rivin. "She's just 'bout as old as Ma an' looks like she was Ma's daughter! They say," his voice grew to an undertone, "that it's the magic tha' does't."
"I never heard of magic doing that," Rivin murmured back.
"Neit'er I until m'cousin Kentith told me."
"And what does Kentith know?" Rivin had only met Kentith once or twice, but had, from first encounter, disliked the boy for some strange reason.
Tileir gave a braying laugh. "Why, boy, didn't ya hear? Kentith's been Chosen, too!"
Rivin went silent with shock. "Kentith? Kentith Ra-venblack? Our cousin?"
"Why are ye so surprised? If Lisabet, why, then, whyn't another?"
Rivin shrugged. "Do'know. It's just . . ." he trailed off, shook his head. "Never mind." He could see Tileir was going to push the subject, so he said, "Where am I sleeping tonight?"
Tileir considered for a moment, his caravan of thought rerouted with this new line of questioning. "Why—most prob'bly wi' me."
Rivin winced, feeling a strange panic build inside. Pani
c not so much of having to sleep with Tileir, but of what Tileir might do to him.
Why am I thinking like this? he rationalized to himself in bewilderment. Tileir wouldn't do anything to me! Lady—I think I'm going mad!
Across the room Lisabet's head lifted, and she cocked her head to one side, as if trying to hear something she couldn't quite catch. She swept the room with baffled eyes, pausing only momentarily to look at him before going on.
It was then that Rivin heard the thin wail coming from outside.
"... No/ no! no! no! . . . won't! won't! won't! . . . DON'T WANT BATH!"
Rivin ran outside, stopping when he saw Rianao standing over Nastasea. The child was snarling up at her aunt, her little face streaked with tears and broken with anger.
"Won't, won't, WON'T!"
"Now, 'Stasea—" Rianao said soothingly, moving forward.
"NO!" the child shrieked, hands curled into white-knuckled fists at her sides, eyes squeezed shut.
"Aunt—here, let me." He moved forward, past the round, horse-faced body of his aunt, and knelt hi front of Nastasea.
" 'Stasea," he said, touching her fists.
"No!"
His ears rang as her scream echoed around him. In a soft voice he gentled her, watching as her short-lived tantrum drained away, her expression remolding again, except now it was confused and tear-filled.
"Want Mamma," she whimpered, using her word for Sattar.
"Mamma's not here anymore, 'Stasea. Rianao's going to be your new mamma."
"No!" The shriek went up again.
"Yes," he said firmly, pulling her into his arms. "Yes."
He stroked her hair lovingly as she sobbed against his shoulder, stuttering out "Mamma" every third word. He could feel Rianao's curious gaze on him as he spoke to his sister. He kept his own eyes fixed on the steaming tub in front of him.
"Let Ria give you a bath?" he asked at last, patting her back with a note of finality.
She sniffed and nodded, her eyes downcast.
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