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

by Mercedes Lackey

  burst of color and combinations of colors there came musical notes. The first was a lone, soft, sustained cry that floated above them on the wings of a dove, a mournful call that sang of foundered dreams and sorrowful partings and dusty, forgotten myths from ages long gone by, then progressively rose in pitch to strengthen this extraordinary melancholy with tinges of joy, wonder, and hope as the songs of the other spheres and colors joined it, becoming the sound of a million choral voices raised in worship to the gods, becoming music's fullest dimension, richest intention, whispering rest to Olias' weary heart as the light moved outward in waves and ripples, altering the landscape with every exalted refrain, voices a hundred times fuller than any human being's should ever be, pulsing, swirling, rising, then cascading over his body like pure crystal rain, and suddenly the rain, the music, was inside of him, assuming physical dimensions, forcing him to become more than he was, than he'd been, than he'd ever dreamed of becoming. Olias dropped down to one knee, the sound growing without and within him, and he was aware not only of the music and the colors and whirling spheres of glass but of every living thing that surrounded him—every weed, every insect, every glistening drop of dew on every blade of grass and every animal in deepest forest, and as the song continued rising in his soul, lavish, magnificent, and improbable, Olias Heard thoughts and Sensed dreams and Absorbed myriad impressions as they danced in the air, passing from spirit to mind to memory with compulsive speed and more sensory layers than he was able to comprehend, lifting everything toward a sublime awareness so acute, so alive, so incandescent and all-encompassing that he thought he might burst into flames for the blinding want underneath it all.

  It was the closest thing to splendor he'd ever known.

  L'lewythi lifted his hands from the pipe, but the music didn't immediately stop; instead, it faded away in degrees, one layer of sound absorbed into the next until, at the end, there was only the original note, pure and easy, sighing release like a breath rippling by.

  Olias covered his face with his hands and took several deep breaths in an effort to still the pounding of his heart, then lifted his head and opened his eyes to daylight.

  Daylight.

  In a place he didn't recognize, barren of trees and bush. Ranyart was gone, as was L'lewythi's horse and the campsite, even the road.

  "W-what . . . what have you done?" he croaked.

  L'lewythi's only response was to smile, then turn and walk away, gesturing for Olias to follow.

  The ground—mostly sun-browned mud covered in cracks—was much firmer than it appeared at first glance, though the terrain was far from level. They began ascending a hill and were met by a strong, steady wind soaring down, carrying with it the first stinging spatters of rain—yet the sky above was blue, the clearest Olias had ever seen.

  He doubled his efforts to catch up with L'lewythi and continued climbing, blinking against the sea spray (not rain, after all) until the ground leveled off and he found himself standing at the top of a jagged overhang. Looking to each side, he was struck not only by the vast expanse of the cliffs upon which they were standing, but by their beauty, as well.

  Silvery clouds rolled in above their heads, twirling and turning like banners in a breeze, moving quicker than any cloud formations Olias had ever seen, winding around one another and spinning in place. He opened his mouth to speak, and L'lewythi silenced him by placing a finger against his own lips. An odd noise caused Olias to shake his head: the sound of a million insects buzzing. Here atop the cliffs, the buzzing merged with the sounds of the sea and became clearer, more defined, not a buzz at all but the combined whispering of a million different voices speaking in as many tongues. Some were complex and excited, others low and monosyllabic, still others a combination of vaguely recognizable words that degenerated into animal clicks and whistling and yaps.

  "What are those . . . those voices? Those sounds?" shouted Olias over the roar of the rushing waters below.

  Again, L'lewythi raised a finger to his lips, then pointed out to sea.

  The waters rumbled and churned, crashing against the base of the cliffs with the sound of shattering glass. The vibrations rocked upward through layers of stone and sand, shaking Olias to his bones.

  Then, with stupendous force and thunderous volume, the spinning tower of silver clouds shot down into the sea, churning as it struck the surface and creating great, revolving waves of frothy spray before vanishing beneath the waters. The froth left in its wake formed a circle that spun around and around and around, its speed becoming frantic as it formed an ever-widening and deepening whirlpool.

  The atmosphere crackled with power.

  Olias covered his ears against the shrieking winds and watched as the whirlpool turned inside out, rising like a geyser. Atop the foaming fount appeared a shining white stallion with an opal mane, its front legs lifted high, heraldic, its belly the curve of the moon, the rest a silken fish scaled from chest to tail like a shower of silver coins.

  The churning fount surged across the sea, the glorious creature riding the crest, its legs pumping, mane flowing in the wind. As it neared the cliffs, the fountain of water slowed and began to curve downward, the spray spinning off, lowering the creature until it hovered directly at the edge of the overhang.

  Olias couldn't speak; the eyes of the creature demanded silence.

  The creature threw back its head and opened its mouth. A soft, nearly imperceptible sound rose from deep in its chest, a clear, crisp ping! as if someone had flicked a finger against a crystal goblet. The sound—so much like the music L'lewythi had played earlier—grew in volume and, it seemed, even density, assuming a physical form invisible to the eye yet filling the air, enveloping Olias in a liquid-armor numbness, drugging him like a frosty sip from a Healer's herb cup but allowing him to maintain wakefulness as the geysering fount slowly shifted sideways, moving the creature until its face was inches from his own. The exalted sound, the wondrous lone crystal note sung in response to the call from L'lewythi's glass pipe, filled Olias' center, then suddenly split apart, becoming night stars that in turn became a symphony of musical notes even more unbearable in their purity than the music L'lewythi had created, and Olias realized that what he was hearing was the second verse to L'lewythi's song, a song of mourning, and rejoicing, a song meant for no one and everyone, but in that instant Olias chose to think of it as his, this chaste glory, this innocence, this music. A song for no one's mourning, sung only for him to honor the memory of his parents and all they had dreamed of. He hugged himself, dropping to his knees and rocking back and forth, the spuming foam covering him like lather. He was agonizingly aware of the swirling voices, the unknown languages shifting forward, dislodging themselves from his mind and themselves becoming tones. The first crystal note the creature had sung swam forward until it found its matching language-tone, and the two of them merged—a sharp sting in Olias' ears—and were translated—

  —"Pwy fydd yma ymhen can mlynedd?"—

  —into his own language—

  —"Who will be here in a hundred years?"

  Olias' torso shot straight up, his eyes staring into the unblinking golden disks of the creature's gaze.

  "Gods" he whispered.

  .•Greetings, Olias.: said the creature. :My name is Ylem. You should feel honored. L'lewythi doesn't bring many others to this place.:

  :Where am I?: asked Olias silently.

  :You are where you wished to be: another place, another world, another time. You are in a place that lies between Valdemar and the Otherworld, created by one who feels he has no place in either; only here can he feel some sense of home. You needn't worry about Ranyart. Were you able to cross through the veil that separates this

  world from Valdemar, you would find him only a few feet away from you.:

  :I don't understand.:

  :Perhaps, in time. . . .: But Ylem did not finish the thought.

  After the first merging of tones, the others happened quickly and easily. A note sung by Ylem would find
its match in a language-tone, the two of them merging and translating in Olias' mind until he could not only hear the other languages spoken in their native tongue but understand them, as well.

  Ylem leaned to the side, kissed L'lewythi's forehead, then whispered something in his ear.

  Try as he did, Olias could not Hear what the creature was saying.

  Ylem was in front of him again, hooves pressing against Olias' shoulder hi a gesture of blessing. Then, releasing a triumphant crystal cry, the creature spun around, its tail snapping in the air, and sailed atop the fountain back out to sea, diving downward and disappearing beneath the waters—

  —but not before Speaking one last time to Olias.

  :Take care, Olios, and realize if you can that you are not the only one in this place who has known soul-sickness and grief. Keep your anger near. You will need it—but not for the reasons you may think.:

  For several moments afterward, Olias could only kneel there, shaking.

  Then a voice, a small, quiet child's voice asked, "Are you all right?"

  Olias looked up as L'lewythi placed a hand upon his shoulder.

  "Are we speaking in my language, or in yours?" asked Olias.

  "Can you understand me?"

  "Yes."

  "Then what does it matter?"

  Olias struggled to his feet, gasping for breath. "Where are we?"

  "In the Barrens of my world," said L'lewythi, pointing first to his head, then his heart, then spreading his arms in front of him. "I made it, I dreamed it. Do you like it?"

  Olias rubbed his forehead. "I ... I don't know. But so far, what I've seen has been . . . gods. . . ."

  L'lewythi, now looking more like an overgrown child than ever, laughed a child's laugh, grabbed Olias' hand, and led him away from the cliffs. They stumbled down a sharp slope toward a pampas of richly green grass leading to a field where tall corn stalks brushed back and forth through the air. To Olias, everything smelled like lavender—which to him had always been the scent of his mother's skin, left there by the soap she bought from a local tradesman.

  They moved toward the entrance to a grove, but as they neared it, Olias saw there were no trees beyond the few dozen that rose before them, arranged in two opposing rows, between which stood a stained glass archway.

  Olias slowed his steps.

  Something about this was familiar, but he didn't know why.

  The trees were as tall as a castle's tower, each with a thick black trunk. The branches of each tree were obscured by onion layers of bleak blue leaves which collectively blossomed into human faces, each one turned skyward and staring up through milky, pupilless eyes. Every face wore the pinched, tight expression of concentrated grief, and as the wind passed through the trees, the faces opened their mouths and moaned deeply, steadily, mournfully.

  L'lewythi looked upon them as if they were old friends.

  Olias whispered, "They sound as if they're in pain."

  "They are, but they're used to it. They're Keening-woods, and this is what they do."

  Keeningwoods, thought Olias.

  And then: the Forest of Sorrows!

  Looking backward, he began to see a pattern. L'lewythi had taken various parts of Valdemar and transposed them into this place the same way a skilled musician

  would transpose one theme into another. The Barrens could very well have been L'lewythi's version of the Border—Ylem's uncanny form attested to that, and Ylem itself could very well have been based partly on the legends of the Border's creatures, and partly on the Companions, the sea taking the place of Companion's Field, and here the Keeningwoods replaced the Forest of Sorrows.

  It both made sense and did not.

  Of course a child like L'lewythi would have to build upon things he already knew, and who in Valdemar didn't know of the Companions or their field, or the Forest of Sorrows, or countless other beings and places? (Some part of him shuddered inwardly at the thought of what a child might do with the concept of the outKing-dom or the Pelagirs.)

  Pointing toward the Keeningwoods, Olias asked L'lewythi, "Why do they make such an anguished sound?"

  "To remind all travelers that there are only three things that really matter, people you love, your memories, and sadness." Such a wistful look in his silver eyes as he said this!

  They passed under the Keeningwoods and through the archway, emerging on the threshold of a resplendent stone city where a raucous band of black-winged children flew past them, all smiling and greeting L'lewythi by name.

  "They're my friends," said L'lewythi. "I like having friends. Even if I had to ... make them up. . . ."

  Just outside the city, they came to an ancient bridge made of sticks and bones. When they reached the middle, L'lewythi stopped and pointed over the side.

  Beneath the clear, stilled surface of the turquoise water was a series of evenly spaced, hollowed boulders, each with a transparent sheet of glass attached to the front Inside each of the boulders—which weren't boulders at all, Olias saw upon closer examination, but glass spheres like those within L'lewythi's strange pipe, only covered in moss and isinglass—sat a claylike lump. Some were shapeless blobs, others more human in shape, some were skeletal, others so corpulent their forms could barely be contained. Still others were merely hand-sized, featureless fetuses. All of the figures huddled with knees pulled up tightly against their chests.

  None of them seemed complete. Their dark, sunken eyes stared blankly at the floating weeds and golden fish swimming by.

  "You see them?" asked L'lewythi. "Don't they look safe?"

  "No," whispered Olias. "They look imprisoned."

  "Oh, no, no, I'd ... I'd never do anything like that. I don't like feeling lonely, and I know that they feel the same way, so I made sure that the water is filled with stories and music to keep them company."

  "Why do you want them to feel safe?"

  "Because it's . . . it's nice to feel that way. I don't want them to be lonely. Lonely is cold. I don't like the cold. There's so much cold, sometimes. Don't you ever feel cold?"

  "Most of my life."

  "That's sad."

  "No, it isn't. It's just the way that is. Your Keening-woods weep; I feel cold."

  "But not here?"

  Olias shrugged. "No, this is ... this is fine." He looked down once more at the beings in the water. "How long will you keep them this way?"

  L'lewythi stared down at his feet. "I guess ... I don't—I mean, until. . . ."

  "Until when?"

  "Until I decide what to make out of them."

  Olias stared at his companion, then said, very slowly, very carefully, "How did you come by this power? I've heard of no Herald-Mage who possesses such abilities. What . . . empowered you?"

  "I don't know. My dreams, I guess. I dream a lot. Sometimes ... I don't have a mother or father. If I ever did have, I can't remember. Mostly I live in the stables of my village. The grooms there are kind to me. They make sure that I have food and blankets." He stood a little taller, a little prouder. "I sweep up after the horses. I do a good job, the stable-master says so. I have a fine feather pillow. The stable-master's wife made it for me. She says I'm a nice boy, and it's a shame the other children won't. . . won't play with me."

  Olias almost laughed at L'lewythi's referring to himself as a child. Perhaps in his mind, yes, but his body was that of the strongest armsmen. A child's mind in a warrior's body.

  But ... a stable-hand? Gods! Were they in a place such as Haven, a boy with L'lewythi's Gifts would be treated with the deepest respect and awe. No one would dare think to make a Gifted one sleep among the horses.

  "L'lewythi," said Olias, slowly and carefully, "why were you made to sleep in the stables?"

  "Because no one would take me into their home."

  "Even though they knew of your powers?"

  L'lewythi stared at him for a moment, then looked down at the ground and shook his head. "I never . . . never understood why I could do some of the things I could—can do. I thought the
y might be bad things, some of them, so I never . . . told anyone. I never showed them."

  "But certainly there must have been ..." Olias sighed, puzzling for a moment over how to say this. "There must have been people in your village who suffered, either from sickness or injury. Children, gods save us! Certainly there must have been children who fell ill and might have died if—"

  "Oh, yes! There was one child, a little girl, who became so sick with fever that no one thought she would live if a Healer were not sent for. But I made her better."

  "How, if no one knew?"

  A bird—strangely metallic in coloring—flew overhead at that moment, and L'lewythi waved his hand toward it. Its wings went limp and its body began to plummet toward the ground, but a few seconds before it would have struck the earth L'lewythi waved his hand once again and the bird—wrenched from its trance—frantically flapped its wings and, screeching, flew away.

  "That's how I did it," said L'lewythi. "I can make people sleep, or not see me. That's how I got into the little girl's bedroom and made her all better. Everyone in the village, they said it was a miracle, a blessing from the gods."

  "And anytime someone in the village needed healing, you . . . you made them sleep or not see you?"

  "Yes."

  Olias nodded his head. "Did you cast this spell over only those you helped, or did you—"

  "The whole village."

  "Everyone?"

  L'lewythi nodded his head.

  "That way I'd be sure no one could see me."

  "Ah."

  "I like helping them and no one knowing. It gives me nice dreams sometimes, and sometimes when I feel lonely, I'd think about the little girl and smile. And it's nice in the stables, really, it is. I like it."

  "I'm sure .you're a fine stable-hand." Surprisingly, Olias found that he meant it.