Sword of Ice and Other Tales of Valdemar v(-100

by Mercedes Lackey

  The horse shied back, and the Mage's eyes snapped open. Carris leaped up from the ground, swinging his sword. It whistled in a perfect arc; the Mage didn't have time to avoid it. The sword hit him across the chest arid shimmered slightly. That was all.

  The man laughed out loud. "You fool!" He cried. "Did you think to harm me with that?" Carris swung again, and again the Mage did nothing to avoid the strike. "Why, I think I know you—you're the little Herald that escaped us. It's probably best for you—you wouldn't have enjoyed the fate that you consigned your friend to suffer alone."

  Carris' next swing was wild, and it was his last; three foot soldiers came up, slowly, at his back. But the Mage lifted a hand, waving them off. "No, this one is mine, gentlemen. Unfinished business." He smiled. "Don't you have merchants to kill?"

  The soldiers nodded and stepped back almost uncertainly. If Kelsey had to guess, the Mage had probably killed one or two of them to keep them in line; they weren't comfortable with him; that much was clear.

  "You can't think that you'll get away with this," Carris said. It was, in all, a pretty predictable thing to say—and not at all what Kelsey would have chosen as her last words.

  Something snapped into place for Kelsey as she thought that. / can't let him die with that for an exit line, she told herself, and very slowly, watching her back as much as possible, Kelsey began to shinny down the tree.

  "I know we will," the Mage replied, all confidence. "Are you sure you don't want to continue your futile line of attack? It amuses me immensely."

  Carris lowered his sword.

  "You could try the bow—you can wield it, can't you? It would also amuse me, and perhaps if I'm amused, you'll die quickly. I was embarrassed by your escape," he added, his voice a shade darker. "And have much to make up for to the Baron."

  Carris said nothing.

  "Come, come. Why don't you join me? We can watch the death of all of your compatriots before we start in on yours. You see, you have a larger number of guards— but they aren't, like my men, immune to the effects of sword and arrow. It's a lovely magic I've developed, and it's served me exceptionally well. Come," he added, and his voice was a command.

  Like a puppet, Carris was jerked forward.

  "Watch."

  It was almost impossible not to obey his commands. Kelsey looked up—and what she saw made her freeze for a moment in helpless rage. David was fighting a retreat of sorts—but he was backing up into another cluster of the enemy. He seemed to understand that the swords that the caravan guards wielded were only good for defense, for he parried, but made no attempt to strike and extend himself to people who didn't have to worry about parrying anymore.

  A guard went down at David's side.

  Kelsey bit her lip.

  And then, because she was her grandmother's daughter—and more than that besides—she swallowed, took a deep breath, and crawled as quickly as possible to where the Mage sat enjoying the carnage.

  She wanted to say something clever or witty or glib— but words deserted her. Only the ability to act remained, and she wasn't certain for how much longer. She lifted the bat, and, closing her eyes, swung it with all the force she could muster.

  She had never heard a sound so lovely as the snapping of the Mage's neck. She would remember it more clearly than almost any other detail of the attack. Almost.

  He toppled from his horse as the horse reared. She watched him crumple and fall, watched his body hit the ground. Then she lifted the bat and began to strike him again and again and again. Carris shouted something-she couldn't make out the words—as she began to try to shatter the crystal that hung at the Mage's neck.

  Then she felt a hand on her arm, and swung the bat round.

  "Kelsey, it's me!" Carris' face was about two inches away from hers. There was a bit of blood on it—but she thought it wasn't his. Couldn't be certain. "You did it," he said. He tried to pry the bat out of her hands, but her fingers locked tighter around it than a merchant's around his money chest. He let go of her hands and smiled. The grin was wolfish.

  "We've got them, Kelsey. Thanks to you, they don't know that they can die yet—but they're about to find out the Mage is gone." His teeth flashed. "And they've been walking onto our swords because there's no risk to them."

  "Remind me," she said faintly, "not to make you mad."

  He looked down at the corpse at her feet. Laughed, loudly and perhaps a little wildly. "You're telling me that?"

  An hour later it was all over. People lay dead in pockets of blood across the width of the encampment. The merchants buried and mourned their own, but they left the bandits for carrion. The mounted men had fared the best, once they realized that they were vulnerable, and three at least had fled the arrows and bolts that the guards used against them. The rest joined their unmounted counterparts.

  David, injured, was still alive. Kelsey was glad of it. She watched his wounds being bound by the doctor— the merchant Tuavo always traveled with a good physician as part of his caravan—and swung her bat up onto its familiar shoulder-perch. "Hey," she said.

  "I know, I know. So we never make fun of strange barmaids who carry bats around the kitchen. Okay?"

  She smiled. "That's not what I'm here for. It's about my position as a caravan guard."

  "As a what?"

  "Look, I'm a bit of a hero for the next hour, and I'll be damned if I don't use it to get out of peeling potatoes and onions for the next two months. You're going to vouch for me—is that clear?"

  He laughed. "As a bell."

  "Hello," Kelsey said, as she caught Carris' shadow looming over her shoulder. "Aren't you late for your shift?"

  "The captain excused me. I've been," he added, lifting his arm, "injured in action." He grinned and Kelsey laughed. She'd done a lot of that lately.

  Carris returned her laugh with a laugh of his own. He seemed both taller and younger than he had when she'd first laid eyes on him in Torvan's place. A little more at peace with himself.

  Still, there was something she wanted to say. "I—I've been meaning to apologize to you."

  "To me? For what?"

  "The Mage." She looked up, and her eyes, dark in the fading day, met his.

  Carris shook his head almost sadly. "Was it that obvious?" He took a deep breath, and ran his fingers through his short, peppered hair. Very quietly, he gave her her due. "I've never wanted to kill a man so badly in my life."

  "I would've felt the same way."

  "You got to kill him." He looked into the fire, and she knew he was seeing Lyris. She reached up and caught his hand, felt his fingers stiffen and then relax as she pulled him down to the log.

  "Tell me," she said, in the softest voice he had yet heard her use. "Tell me about Lyris."

  He did. He talked for hours, letting his tears fall freely at first, and then returning to them again and again as an odd story or an old, affectionate complaint brought the loss home. He talked himself into silence as the fire lapped at the gravel.

  Then he did something surprising. He turned to her in the darkness and said, "Now tell me about Kelsey."

  She was so flustered, she forgot how to speak for a moment—and Kelsey was not often at a loss for words. Well, she thought, as she stared at the crackling logs beyond her feet, what do you have to say for yourself? About yourself?

  His chuckle was gentle. "Should I start?"

  "Go ahead."

  "Kelsey is a young woman who, as a child, very much wanted to be a Herald."

  It was dark, so he couldn't see her blush. "H-how did you know that?"

  "It's a ... gift of mine. And as a Herald, you get used to spotting people who hold the Heralds in awe. Or rather," he added wryly, as he touched his short hair again, "hold the position in awe."

  She shrugged.

  "You asked me if I knew why we were Chosen—but what you really wanted to know was why you weren't."

  She couldn't answer because every word he spoke was true.

  "I don't know why." He slid
an arm around her shoulder and it surprised her so much she didn't even knock him over. "But having met you, I can guess."

  Here it comes. "What? What would you guess?"

  "Kelsey—I told you that I was the son of a noble, and as it's not important, I won't tell you which one. But if

  Arana hadn't come to me, hadn't Chosen me, I would have become embroiled in the politics of the nobility, and would have done very little of any good to the people of the Kingdom as a whole. I like to think I would have ruled my own people well, but . . . it's not easy.

  "And Lyris? Much as I love him, he'd have probably wound up as a second-rate thief—or a corpse. Not much good there either."

  She was very quiet.

  "You don't have a Companion, yet if not for you, the people of this caravan would have been slaughtered like sheep at the Crown Princess' wedding." He caught one of her hands in his good one. "I've got to get some sleep, if I can. So do you. But think about it."

  "I will."

  Kelsey had spent many sleepless nights in the cold of a dying fire, and this one was to be no exception. What did it mean? What did it really mean? She looked at her hands, seeing both the calluses and the dried blood of the injured that she'd helped the doctor with. They were good hands, strong enough to do what was necessary.

  I'm not a Herald, she thought, as she stared at them. And I never will be. She turned it over in her mind, and for the first time in her life, she accepted it without sorrow. / never will be Chosen.

  She stood up as the embers faded. But if I can't be one of the Chosen, I can be one who chooses. And 1 choose to do what I must, when I'm needed.

  Heralds couldn't do everything for themselves; she knew how to run an inn—maybe, if she proved worthy of it, she'd be allowed to run a school. Everyone needed to eat—surely the Heralds would need a cook? And that close to the thick of things—that close to Heralds, Companions, possibly the King himself—there was certain to be a lot for Kelsey to do.

  She smiled; the sun was on the fringe of the horizon.

  "Carris!"

  If she expected him to be sleeping, she was wrong; he was awake, and a strange little smile hovered around the corner of his lips. "Yes?"

  "I'm coming with you to the capital, and I won't take no for an answer. You're still injured, you probably still need someone to watch your back, and you—"

  "And I'd love your company."

  He didn't, come to think of it, look at all surprised. Made her suspicious, but it also made her, for the first time that she could remember, completely happy. She had done with waiting; it was time to start the life that her grandmother had always promised her she could choose to live.

  Song of Valdemar

  by Kristin Schwengel

  Kristin Schwengel is an avid fan of Mercedes Lackey's work, and leaped at the opportunity to write about Valdemar. This story is her first published work. She lives in Green Bay, Wisconsin with her fiance, John Heifers, whose work also appears in this collection. They have no cats (yet), but they do have a collection of wolf and wildcat paraphernalia, which will have to do for now.

  "Revyn," Eser called quietly, "I need some more of those bandages over here. And a splint."

  The young trainee trotted over to the Master Healer, arms full of soft fabric, fingertips barely clutching the smoothly carved pieces of the splint. Eser took the wood from his hands just before he dropped it, smiling gently.

  "Now, lad, I don't need you bringing so much that you lose it before you can do any good with it," he teased, a smile lighting his faintly lined face. Revyn smiled thinly back at him, acknowledging the mild rebuke, and watched with feigned disinterest as the Healer carefully set the broken leg.

  "Do you think you could do the same, hmm?" Eser asked when he had finished, glancing up at his pupil.

  Revyn avoided Eser's eyes as he lifted his shoulders slightly, carefully hiding the surge of affirmation that raced through him.

  "I—I'm not sure. It seems easy enough, but ... I wouldn't want to cause more harm than is already done." He spoke awkwardly, trying to seem all nervousness and uncertainty.

  Eser's lips thinned as he stood smoothly, stretching his back to straighten out the knots that he got from hunching over the pallet. He still moved with a fluidity and grace belying his forty years, but every so often his body chose to remind him of his true age. He studied Revyn's averted face carefully. What was wrong with the young man? Was there more than he himself was aware of? Eser shrugged mentally, knowing that answers would come eventually, one way or another. Now, they had more important things to take care of. Eser gestured to his apprentice to follow him and moved down the halls of the House of Healing to the storeroom.

  "Well, Revyn, you're going to set a leg now. Teral wasn't the only one caught in that rockslide. More bandages and another splint, lad, and follow me."

  Revyn nearly gasped aloud at Eser's words, staring at the older man's parting back. What if he finds out? he thought frantically. / can't hide much longer, but I can't keep refusing either. Taking a large breath to relax his nerves, he scurried along the halls of the House of Healing after his teacher, nearly spilling the extra bandages again in his haste.

  Finally, Eser stopped and gestured for Revyn to precede him into the sickroom. Revyn paused in the hall-way to allow his heightened breathing to slow to a normal pace. "Never enter a sickroom in a hurry or in obvious panic," he heard Eser's voice in his head, "for that is the best way to hinder the Healing you wish to encourage." Gently, he laid his hand on the door and slowly pushed it open. The well-oiled hinges made barely a sound as the two of them slipped into the room and closed the door carefully behind them.

  Glancing at the blanket-covered figure on the low pallet, Revyn was barely able to contain a low gasp of shock and surprise. It was just a boy! A boy, no older than his sister Chylla. The lad was clearly fevered, for he tossed his head restlessly under the effects of the herbs that had taken away his pain and put him to sleep so that the Healers could work on him. Looking uncertainly up at Eser, Revyn received no encouragement other than a small nod. Taking a deep breath, he knelt on the floor by the side of the pallet and lifted the blanket from the boy's thin legs.

  Carefully, Revyn moved his hands gently over the skin of the broken leg, exploring the shape of the bone and determining how much movement would be needed to line up the two edges so that the splint and bandages could do their work. Thankfully, he had just to pull slightly on the boy's foot to straighten the bone, and the pieces moved easily into place, seeming to straighten almost of their own accord. Silently, Eser crouched next to him and maintained the tension on the foot so that Revyn could place the splint and swiftly bandage the leg tightly, making sure the bone would heal as straight as before. Standing, he met the Master Healer's eyes and was surprised and intensely pleased by the approbation he saw there.

  "He will sleep easier now that his bones are in line, and the healing herbs can take better effect. Well done," Eser said softly. "We are finished here, but I would speak with you."

  Revyn was no stranger to the sudden sinking feeling in his stomach. He had often felt this way before one of his older brother Myndal's chastising sessions—those that had involved swift beatings and usually the destruction of at least one of his own precious treasures, few though they were. He had thought he had done well with the young boy's leg—no, he knew he had done well. Eser's own words had told him that. What could have gone wrong? He followed the Healer out of the House, trying to control his concern.

  Eser slowly shut the door to his room and turned to face his student, a swift touch to his temples easing the tension headache that was already building.

  "Why, Revyn?" he asked. "We both know that you have a strong Healing Talent. Why do you resist it so?"

  Revyn looked down at the floor, shuffling his feet slightly. How could he put it so that the Healer would understand? He didn't want to be a Healer, at least he hadn't wanted to until— He broke off his thoughts and tried to answer.
>
  "I—I don't know. I just don't want to ... hurt anyone when I try to help them. And I seem so clumsy sometimes that it seems that all I can do is just to make a mess of what I put my hands to, and . . ." The hurried flow of his speech stopped as he ran out of words, and he glanced uncertainly up at Eser. The older man had turned to look out the window at the autumn golds and reds in the garden, just visible beneath the dusting of the second snow.

  "Revyn, you've been here at Haven for almost a year now, and most of that time you have spent with the Healers. You should be farther along in your studies than you are now. Your skill today, handling that broken leg without even asking advice, proves that you are not as clumsy as you say. Yes, I know you nearly dropped the splint this afternoon," Eser laughed, holding up a hand to stop his student's protest, "but that was only because you took more than you could easily carry, through no fault of your own."

  The Healer paused for a moment, thinking, then turned to look his student straight in the eye. "Just because one dream won't come true for you doesn't mean that you should stop dreaming, should stop thinking of the good you can do for yourself and others." He would have continued, but Revyn, choking as if the words he wanted to say were stuck in his throat, had already turned and fled.

  How can he know? Revyn thought furiously. He's just a Healer. He ran to his room, paused only to snatch his letters from his desk and stuff them inside his tunic, and hurried out to the garden. He only knows Healing. He wouldn't know who has the Gift and who doesn't. "But Bard Keryn would," a small voice in his head reminded him, a voice that he crushed as he had so many times before. Keryn could be wrong, he told himself. Sometimes Gifts don't show until later, like with the Heralds. Some of them aren't Chosen until they're older than I am. There's still a chance that I could have a Bardic Gift, he told himself, refusing to listen to the voice that told him otherwise.