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

by Mercedes Lackey

  No wonder they tied your hands so tightly, thought Olias. They couldn't chance your healing yourself before the horse had carried you far away from them . . . that is, if they even knew about your healing powers. Were they afraid of something else, odd one? Were they aware of your powers, at all? Damn! What does it matter and why should I care?

  Still, the thought persisted: Why hadn't they just killed him? Didn't it occur to anyone that some other traveler might chance upon the boy and set him free? Wouldn't they know if that were to happen, the boy might come back to seek vengeance?

  The boy lifted his cherubic, smiling face to Olias.

  Gods, thought Olias, feeling almost silly: That was not the face of one who would go seeking vengeance.

  "Th-thank you," said Olias, pointing down toward his ankle. "It feels ... feels fine. It feels wonderful, in fact."

  The boy, his piercing, hypnotic silver gaze never wandering from Olias's eyes, simply smiled more widely and nodded his head.

  "What's your name, child? Have you a name?"

  The boy cocked his head to the side, the expression on his face puzzled.

  Sighing, Olias stood up straight and patted his own chest with both hands. "Olias. I am Olios." He pointed at the boy. "What's your name?"

  The boy grinned, then stood up straight, patting his chest with both hands, and said, quite loudly, "Olias!"

  Olias groaned, shaking his head. "No, no, no! 7 am Olias. Me. That's my name!" He pointed at the boy once again and raised his eyebrows in silent question.

  The boy looked at him, opened his mouth to speak but didn't, then snapped up his head, eyes widening with understanding as he pointed to his chest and shouted, "L'lewythi!" Pressing his hand against Olias's chest, the boy whispered, somewhat hesitantly: "Ffrind-iau. Chi, ti L'lewythi's ffrind-iau, ydhuch?"

  "Urn . . . yes," replied Olias, nodding his head (for some reason, he sensed it was important to agree with the boy at this moment). "Yes, of course. L'lewythi's ffrind-iau."

  L'lewythi laughed, then embraced Olias (nearly crushing his rib cage—gods, the child was strong!), patting his back several times in a gesture of thanks and affection.

  "You're . . . you're welcome. I think," responded Olias, pulling himself away from the boy and checking himself for internal bleeding, then pointing toward the fire where the squirrel-meat was roasting on a spit over the flames. "Are you hungry?"

  The boy furrowed his brow in confusion, obviously no more familiar with Olias' language than Olias was with his.

  Sighing, Olias rubbed a hand over his own stomach. "Hungry? Do you want something to eat?"

  The boy tilted his head to the side, then shrugged.

  His frustration growing, Olias took a calming breath and said, "Rwy'n mynd / gael cinio. Gobeithio mai ty-wydd braf gown ni?"

  Then gasped and promptly covered his mouth with his hand as the boy made a delighted sound, licked his lips, rubbed his stomach, and nodded vigorously.

  Did I just invite him to join me in his own tongue? How in Havens could I do that—I've never heard this language before in my life!

  The boy, perhaps sensing the other's confusion, touched a finger to his own mouth, then his head, then pointed toward Olias.

  "You made me do that, didn't you? You ... you gave your language to me for that moment, didn't you?"

  "Ydhuch! L'lewythi cymorth ffrind-iau." He made his way toward the campfire. "Bwuq!" he said, laughing as he pointed to the roasting squirrels.

  "Y-yes," stammered Olias. "Bwuq." It seemed that was the boy's word for food.

  He proved himself to be a most pleasant and courteous meal companion, not taking more than his share of food and making sure that Olias had all that he wanted. Though there had been only two squirrels, it seemed to Olias that the layers of delicious meat on their carcasses were enough to have come from ten squirrels.

  A candlemark later, when both Olias and L'lewythi were so full they couldn't eat another bite, it still looked as if they had barely touched the food.

  Adding more wood to the fire, then crawling into his ground-bedding, Olias looked at L'lewythi and said (in his own language), "I don't know where you came from or what, exactly, you are, but I'm almost glad for your company—and believe me, I've not said that to another human being in a long, long while. You're welcome to stay here with Ranyart and me for the night."

  The boy snuggled up against one of the trees, folded his hands in his lap, and leaned back his head . . . but did not—or would not, it appeared—close his eyes.

  "I guess that means you're happy to accept the invitation," whispered Olias under his breath, then lay back, lute in hands, and strummed an old tune while staring up at the clear, starry night.

  From time to time, Olias would chance a quick glance at his guest, and always the boy seemed to be fighting against falling asleep.

  Why do you not wish to rest? thought Olias. Are you

  frightened that your dreams will force you to relive what they did to you? Or is it something else, something you cannot express to me so that I'll understand?

  He held his breath, momentarily opening his senses to the night as the wind changed direction and the stench of fire, smoke, and destruction grew stronger.

  Out there, somewhere in the night, a great violence had taken place. Olias was able to Feel the lingering resonance of the destruction and brutality . . . and unspeakable terror. Closing his eyes and focusing on the sentient threads, he Sensed the presence of something powerful in slumber, something Otherworldly—no, not Otherworldly at all, but something that came from beyond the Otherworld, something he couldn't quite grasp and bring forward so that he might See and Understand.

  Whatever it was, it was beyond any power he'd ever encountered, and somehow it was connected to this boy.

  What are you, my strange lostling . . . and what did you do to deserve such a fate?

  Then: You're nothing to me, so why should I care?, Each of us must deal alone with our demons. Don't count on anyone's help, lostling, because you'll not get it. Tonight you were lucky, but as far as I am concerned, come the dawn you are on your own.

  As if he had both heard and comprehended Olias' private musings, L'lewythi's face shadowed for an instant with a soul-sick hurt that made him look even more helpless and pathetic and so very, very sad.

  Lest that look reach into his heart, Olias turned his face away, returning his attention to his lute.

  Alone, lostling, we are all alone, from cradle to grave. Don't share your pain with me; I don't want to see it.

  3

  After a while—and without his being aware of it— Olias had begun to play "My Lady's Eyes", a sentimental song and one that he had always thought to be so much drivel, but it allowed a minstrel to show off his

  fingering. It had been his parents' favorite song. They had danced to it at their wedding.

  Unexpectedly, Olias felt his throat tightening as unwanted tears began to form in his eyes. Swallowing back the emotions that were trying to surge to the surface, he laid the lute aside and forced himself to think of his blunder earlier tonight in allowing the scullery maid to panic him. He could have easily gotten past her and the others. After all, he'd taken time to walk through the manor-keep and decide upon his escape route, but for some reason, being discovered like that had unnerved him, and that had never happened before. What did it matter, though? That fat, arrogant, disgusting slug the servants called m'Lord was a lot poorer now than he'd been before allowing the minstrel into his home. Though Olias doubted the man would remain poorer for very long, he at least had the satisfaction of knowing that the bastard was stewing in his own juices tonight, cursing everyone and everything because he had been taken in by a common thief.

  He sat up, rummaging around for the bottle of wine, and took three deep swallows, then looked over at his companion.

  L'lewythi, looking exhausted and desperately in need of sleep, was still awake and staring at Olias, his face betraying his concern.

  Olias began
speaking to the boy; he couldn't stop himself. It was as if the spirits wandering this Sowan-night were forcing him to talk.

  "I was thinking about—" No, best not tell him what you were just this moment thinking about. After all, a thief is a thief in any clan.

  "I was thinking about my parents. My mother was employed as an apprentice-seamstress at the manor-keep of Lord Withen Ashkevron of Forst Reach. My father was the village metalworker and blacksmith. I remember ... I know this may sound odd to you— assuming you understand a word I'm saying—but of all things, I remember his hands the best. They were so large and powerful that when I was a child, I imagined

  that I could curl up in either of his palms and sleep there. They were rough hands, hard-callused and scarred, but his touch against my cheek was as gentle as angel's breath. I remember the way he would come home after a day's labors and scrub those hands until I thought he would scrape the flesh right off of them, and whenever my mother would say to him, 'Why do you wash so angrily?' he would show her one of his sad half-grins and say, 'It won't do for you to be touched by anything so dirty and hard,' and my mother would laugh . . . oh, gods, I miss hearing her laugh. If my father's hand so lightly against my cheek was the touch of angel's breath, then my mother's laugh was their song. And the love in their eyes whenever they would look at each other. . . . "Neither of them were Gifted in any way; they weren't what I suppose you'd call particularly bright. They weren't educated, but they were good people, fine people, decent and honest and loyal. Don't misunderstand, each had their faults—Mother was often a little too worrisome, which annoyed Father no end, and he, gods bless him, could never seem to pay attention to anything besides his work for very long—conversations with him were a test of your patience, trust me—the man didn't know how to listen, and at times he and Mother argued over my upbringing and how to manage their money well enough to keep the creditors at bay . . . but they made certain that neither of them ever went to bed angry at the other. I once asked my mother why, and she told me that Father had this fear that were they to go to bed angry, one of them might die during the night and the survivor would be left with unanswered questions and unresolved regrets. I used to think that was funny until Mother told me that my father had once exchanged harsh words with his father, then stormed out of the house only to return the next morning and find that the old man had died in his sleep. 'He never got the chance to apologize,' she said to me. 'He never got to take it back. He's carried that sorrow with him for many years, and he wants to make sure that none of us ever has to face that.' " Olias, shaking his head, snorted a humorless laugh. "I always wondered why I never saw him really smile. I don't think he felt he deserved to smile, not after what happened with his father.

  "Mother understood that about him, and she accepted it as best she was able, and did everything she could to give his heart some small measure of... of peace. Theirs was perhaps the most loving marriage I have ever seen.

  "Then one day some Herald-Mage-trainees came to Forst Reach with Lord Withen Ashkevron's sister Savil. I found Savil herself to be a remarkably kind and pleasant woman, but some of her trainees . . . bah!—a more self-centered, arrogant bunch of brats I hope I never see!"

  Absentmindedly, Olias picked up a nearby stick and began tapping it against the neck of his lute. "Among those Savil brought with her was a young man named Gwanwyn, who took great delight in amazing the courtiers with his metalworking prowess—and as much as I hate admitting it, his skill was impressive. Lord Ashke-vron was suitably amazed that he called for a contest between Gwanwyn and my father. 'I wish for a new sword,' he said. 'One to rival even my armsmen's finest blades.' Until that night, my father had fashioned most of the swords used by Lord Ashkevron's soldiers, so few doubted that he would prevail. The only rule was that Gwanwyn could not employ any magic during the competition.

  "I remember all the people. I was very young, so maybe there weren't as many as it seemed, but to my eyes half of Valdemar turned out for the contest. My father—he'd never been comfortable in large crowds— was nervous as a boy calling on his love for the first time, but Mother . . . Mother eased his anxiety as well she could, telling him that no matter the outcome, she would always love him. Dear, sweet, silly woman ... as if love could be enough.

  "I'm not sure how it happened, but I'm certain Gwanwyn cheated—he must have! He bested my father's efforts by more than half a candlemark—no one could have fashioned a blade that quickly without the use of magic, it just wasn't possible. Toward the end, when he began to realize that Gwanwyn was winning, my father became careless, and pulled his blade from the fire before it was ready for the hammer, and the first strike snapped the metal in two. He'd never made that mistake before, and I saw him die inside at the sight of those two halves lying on the ground before him.

  "The people watching all laughed. Gods, I remember their laughter. It was such an ugly sound. Until that moment, I'd never realized that people you called 'neighbor,' people you called friend,' could take such delight in your disgrace. Only the Heralds were silent. My father was not a small man—he was perhaps one of the tallest men hi the city—but I could see him shrink under the weight of that ugly laughter.

  "When he walked away that day, he was looking at the ground. I don't believe I ever saw him look up again. They broke his heart and crippled his spirit. After that day, none of the gentry ever brought then' business to him again. By the time he died, he'd been reduced to taking groom duties at one of the local stables. He never spoke much, except to thank the stable-master for his position. Of all the pains that he had to endure toward the end, the worst of it—though he would never say it aloud—was the way people looked at "him. With such ... pity. Distaste and pity.

  "Mother died shortly after we buried Father. The grief and loneliness was too much for her. I tried, the gods know how I tried, to fill the void left in her life by Father's death. I would play for her at night—I'd always had a talent for music—but every song reminded her of Father. There is some grief you never recover from, I guess.

  "I took to thieving shortly before she died. She'd become very ill and I knew she didn't have long left, and I was damned if her body was going to be tossed into a pauper's grave like my father's, I managed to steal enough to pay for a proper grave and marker, but I hadn't enough for a new grave for my father. To this day his body still lies in that pauper's field, and enough time has gone by that—though I can easily raise the price asked by the grave-diggers—I have . . . forgotten the exact location of the spot where his body was buried. I can't help but think that his spirit must be saddened by that, for I know how much he wanted to rest by Mother's side."

  He picked up the lute and stared at it. "I will never forgive any of the gentry, any of the wealthy or the highborn for what they did to my parents. Never. They think they are so far above the rest of us, safe in their mansions. They are all the same in my eyes, and I in theirs— who am I, after all? To them? No one. Well, damn them all to hell, I say! I'll take from them what was denied my parents in life, and I'll do with the money as I please. If I wish to spend it on food and drink and the price of a woman in my bed, so be it. If I choose to give it away to beggars hi the street, then that is what I'll do! And may the gods pity anyone who dares to try and stop me!" He angrily strummed the lute. "And someday, I swear, I'll make Lord Withen Ashkevron suffer for his betrayal of my father, and then I'll find Gwanwyn and I'll kill him. Slowly, so that he'll know the pain my parents suffered because of his pride." He strummed the lute once again, coldly and calmly, then lay the instrument aside lest he damage it in his anger.

  He looked toward L'lewythi. "Damn you, as well, lost-ling. What is it about you that causes me to speak in an unknown tongue? What is it that made me want to tell these things to you?"

  L'lewythi only stared in silence, looking more and more like some village idiot.

  Olias groaned in frustration, then flipped onto his side, facing away from his guest.

  Gods! At times like this I wish t
here were another place, another land, another world in another time where I could be rid of them all, where I wouldn't have to look upon the faces of Valdemar and see the ghost of my parents in everyone, in every place.

  I wish. Gods, how I wish. . . .

  He awakened sometime later to the sounds of rustling, and immediately drew his dagger from his ankle sheath and whipped around, brandishing the weapon.

  L'lewythi was standing by the tree, his eyes closed, his arms outstretched, the fingers of his hands extending outward, then curling toward him as if he were beckoning someone.

  Olias watched dumbstruck as threads of thin silver light danced around L'lewythi's fingertips, then reached out to encircle a small bundle attached to the back of L'lewythi's horse. The ropes holding the bundle in place untied themselves, the covering fell away, and the silver threads wound themselves around something that looked like a glass pipe—only this instrument was much larger than a pipe, easily the size of a man's forearm, tapered at one end and open at the other. Inside, the glass had been blown In such a way that several spheres, some larger than others, had formed along its length. The instrument rose from the horse, cradled in silver threads, and moved through the air to land gently in L'lewythi's grip. Smiling, the boy sat down once again and rubbed his hands against a small patch of ice near the base of the tree until the heat from his palms melted the ice sufficiently to wet his fingers. Laying the glass pipe across his knee, L'lewythi placed his fingers on the surface of the instrument. The spheres within began to revolve and whirl, some slower than others, some so fast they could barely be seen.

  Olias couldn't tell how this was possible. The spheres were obviously part of the pipe, yet each moved as if independent of it.

  L'lewythi began to finger the glass in much the same way harp players plucked at the taut strings of their instruments, but as he moved his fingers up and down the length of the pipe, each of the spheres glowed—not any single color, but all colors, one bleeding into the next until it was impossible to tell the difference between gold and red, red and gray, gray and blue, and with each