Choices

by Mercedes Lackey

  Sparrow sat on the mat next to the body of her heartmate, stunned, unable to move, afraid to speak or cry or fling herself over Cloudbrother’s body. He had called down the clouds, but she was terrified to find that he had paid the ultimate price.

  A rustling by the door and Sparrow turned her head. It was Thistle, his face dark and set, a warrior going into battle.

  :PAPA: he commanded. :PAPA, you belong to me, not to him!: His name is Zeth, and he is already gone. Papa!:

  Ah, her uncanny child. How could he so easily fetch the name of the demon? He had not been Chosen by Abilard, but maybe growing up in the shadow of a Companion drew out a child’s Gifts young. And Thistle, from a young age, had shown the art of summoning. Now he summoned his father’s soul from the clouds, back into his broken body, to serve the most demanding duty of all—to live.

  They had sought a secret weapon the length and breadth of Valdemar. And it turned out, the key to their salvation had been traveling on Sparrow’s back all along.

  With a groan, Cloudbrother returned. Thistle did not cry, he did not laugh. He walked to his father’s side, knelt beside him, and stroked the long silver hair that tangled onto his sealed eyelids.

  Cloudbrother breathed. Thistle stood guard beside him. And Sparrow listened as the healing rain poured down over them all. The affliction was broken.

  * * *

  • • •

  It took three days for Cloudbrother to recover his strength. The Temple priests still said nothing, but their gratitude was plain. It rained and rained.

  After three days, Lord Ivinchi returned to the Temple.

  In the peaceful, drizzly afternoon, Sparrow and Tis rested with Cloudbrother in the meditation garden. Cloudbrother, exhausted, mostly slept, while Sparrow and Tis sat next to him on a long, splintery bench woven of willow switches. Abilard stood with them, clearly enjoying the gentle showers, and together they listened to the soft music of the rain.

  The priests brought Ivinchi to where they sat, and he bowed low before them in the drizzle, his unblinking eyes glittering. “My love Sparrow, I come to you and the magnificent Delegation, bearing a great gift from the Vykaendys-First. In gratitude, and recognition.”

  The raindrops stung like tears in Sparrow’s eyes. “Oh, Ivinchi, thank you. We’re the lucky ones, just to be here. You know we don’t need a gift.”

  “But, you do. A little thing, not so little.” Ivinchi reached into a fold of his voluminous silken robe, and his clawed fingers retrieved a small, intricately embroidered turquoise silk drawstring bag.

  Sparrow reached for the bag with trembling fingers, her breath choked inside her throat. She tugged at the drawstring, opened the bag . . .

  And, inside, she found a perfect jade-and-silver fish-creature, serpentine and winged. Brilliant emerald jewel-eyes glinted up at her, twinkling sardonically as if the little amulet were laughing. Intricately scaled, the little figure twined around her fingers, and its drooping silver mustache whiskers brushed against her palm.

  Her boy Thistle laughed to see it. “Is it alive?” he asked.

  “It is most cunningly wrought, is it not? We believe Urtho himself crafted this little thing, imbued it with power. Have you seen such a creature in life, or is it truly only myth? It is called Dragon, and it calls Water to Earth.”

  Sparrow watched the little silver sculpture dance in her hand, speechless with awe.

  “You seek the spirit of water, dear Sparrow love. Dragon calls to dragon, in the depths of Evendim.”

  Lake Evendim.

  Sparrow couldn’t restrain a gasp.

  Ivinchi’s attention turned to Cloudbrother. “You seek water for your own suffering land, Lord Herald. My master, Vykaendys-First, earnestly wishes to aid you in your quest. Our balladmakers already sing of the Cloud Born, the Land Healer. May you heal your own land, silent one, great one.”

  Abilard spoke, his words warm as sunshine inside Sparrow’s heart. :Deepest gratitude, Lord Tyrill. Truly our fates are linked. The Council of Valdemar was wise to send us here. In your healing, we are blessed.:

  Cloudbrother stirred beside Sparrow, and his arm wrapped gently, featherlight around her waist. “Lord Ivinchi, we depart for Valdemar tomorrow. We will present your gift to the Council and seek healing for our land.”

  Into Sparrow’s mind, Cloudbrother whispered, :I called the water down to Iftel, I can do it for the Forest of Sorrows, too. I must. I still think the answer to how to defeat my demon lies in Evendim. But maybe there is another way. No true way, right? Only the way that works . . . :

  And Cloudbrother’s gentle, patient whisper, the pain hidden in his words, tore at Sparrow’s heart.

  They rode for Valdemar the next morning. As before, Ivinchi joined them. The rain had stopped the night before, and a brilliant rainbow arched over their heads, a promise of peace after the storm.

  Reaching down like open arms, from the realms of the Star-Eyed, to embrace the land of her Beloved.

  Letters from Home

  Brigid Collins

  The Collegium bell chimed, signaling the end of the day’s lessons. By the time the metallic ring faded, the chatter of students heading for dinner had risen to fill the warm air of a late summer evening. The kitchen had made something that smelled of hickory and grease, which mingled nicely with the aroma of cut grass from the Companion’s Field.

  Not every student followed the delicious smells to the dining hall, though.

  Holding a hand against her forehead, Herald Trainee Marli headed toward the wood-paneled hallway that led to her room. Her Companion, Taren, continued lecturing her as he’d been from the moment the bell rang.

  :How do you expect to become a proper Herald if you won’t exert yourself in your studies? And you shouldn’t skip dinner again,: he said.

  The pain behind Marli’s eyes spiked, and she winced. She loved her Companion dearly, as she had ever since he had appeared on the outskirts of Fairbend and Chose her, but when he got like this, his voice scoured the inside of her skull like a stiff currying brush.

  Added to the pounding headache from another fruitless lesson with her Farsight instructor—another afternoon of trying and failing to look back at the place she used to call home—Taren’s nagging could do a number on her already sluggish appetite. He’d gotten worse about it lately, too. These days, the closer she came to mastering her Fetching gift, or the more praise she got when she practiced with the weapons in the Salle, the more discontented Taren got with her struggles in this one area.

  The worst part was, she used to love using her Farsight back home in Fairbend, back before she’d been Chosen, back when she’d happily been the girl who would make the miller’s son a good wife. She’d looked after her little farming village, seeking out small problems brewing amongst her neighbors and mediating solutions before the situations grew out of control. In fact, her use of her gift had probably helped Fairbend avoid the need of a proper Herald for a long time, which, in hindsight, mightn’t have helped the village’s trust issues when it came to Heralds. That problem had already grown wild and tangled beyond Marli’s ability to sort out by the time she understood her power to see what was happening in other people’s houses.

  But Taren had Chosen her, and that meant she had to become a Herald herself. It meant her sweet Barret would instead marry another. It meant she no longer belonged at the place she’d always known as home.

  Apparently, it also meant she had to put up with daily headaches and a Companion’s constant needling. She scrubbed her hand against the bridge of her nose, willing the pain to dissipate. Her boots thunked dully against the hardwood of the hallway as she approached her own door.

  :I’m doing the best I can,: she said. :Maybe my Farsight just wasn’t meant for long distance.:

  Taren’s mental snort sent uncomfortable twinges across her scalp. :I’ve never heard so unfounded a claim. You may be
able to fool your teachers, but I know your mind, beloved. You have simply got to get over this ridiculous phobia you’ve developed.:

  :I’m not afraid.:

  :In that case, why don’t you open one of those letters? You must have a fair pile of them by now.:

  The admonition came right as Marli pushed her door open, and she bit back a grunt at the sight of her cluttered room. She did, in fact, have a fair pile of letters, all unopened, stacked on her writing desk. It appeared their accumulated weight had caused an avalanche while she was away, and a few of the brown envelopes lay scattered across her floor. They were all addressed from Yerra, the Fairbend girl she’d befriended the night she left home with Taren—the girl most likely to have been given Marli’s spot at Barret’s side now that Marli herself was . . . unsuitable.

  Scowling at the mess, Marli left the door standing open, kicked aside a growing pile of dirty laundry, and went to drop her class materials on her bed. She gave her still-rumpled bedclothes a cursory pat before dropping herself on top of them, too. The pain in her head throbbed a little less.

  This wasn’t like her, she knew. She’d always been a homemaker at heart, and she normally couldn’t tolerate the kinds of odors thickening the air in here. The sight of clutter usually spurred her into an almost reflexive spree of neatening up.

  But those letters . . . she couldn’t bear to read them. Scanning their contents would make everything back home painfully real. The simple fact that she’d received nothing from anyone but Yerra hurt quite enough. But she couldn’t bring herself to throw her friend’s correspondence away unopened, either. Marli hadn’t been the only one to lose her longed-for future that night. Both of them had promised to support each other as they took on the other’s desired role. Yerra had kept her end up.

  Marli had . . . wallowed. And the letters piling up had bled into everything else piling up, too.

  At least the mail carrier hadn’t slid another brown envelope under her door today. Her stomach writhed with guilt at that relief, but from a practical point of view, the lack of an extra letter would keep the clutter from spreading. Without one more letter added to the mountain, Marli could make a start at working through the ones she already had.

  :The sooner you read them, the sooner you can stretch your Farsight past this absurd block you’ve built up,: Taren said.

  The writhing in Marli’s stomach gave a hard twist. A bitter taste flooded her mouth. “I haven’t blocked anything, I just can’t see that far!”

  Her voice bounced off the paneled ceiling, ricocheted back to bring her headache to full force. A few more letters slid from the pile to land on the floor with a fluttery flump.

  Marli closed her eyes. She hadn’t meant to shout. She preferred to keep these conversations with Taren purely mental, even when nobody was around to overhear them.

  And of course, in her single-minded haste toward her bed, she’d left her door open, which meant she’d eschewed any semblance of privacy the thin dormitory walls provided.

  A soft cough from the hallway told her that her outburst had indeed been overheard.

  Marli opened her eyes to find a Bardic student shuffling into view. He was a little older than her—perhaps Barret’s age?—and sported a mop of brown curls. His rust-red clothes flowed loosely around his sticklike body, except across his torso, where they bunched and folded under the strap of the mailbag over his shoulder. His cheeks were flushed, and from the light whistle of his breath, Marli could tell it was more because he’d been rushing to finish his work than due to his untimely interruption of her argument with Taren.

  He held a brown envelope.

  Shame mingled with annoyance, driving Marli up to her feet. “Sorry about that,” she said as she stumbled over a set of soiled Grays. “Companion’s making a nuisance of himself. Nothing to worry about.”

  The Bardic student glanced past her to the mess of unopened letters, then down at the yet-to-be-delivered addition in his hand. When he lifted his eyes back to Marli’s, the look of betrayal made him appear much younger than she’d originally guessed.

  “You haven’t opened any of them?”

  The guilt churned again, but Marli forced herself to smile and hold a hand out for the letter. “Haven’t had time. Life’s busy at the Collegium, you know.”

  But the young Bard didn’t hand the letter over. He drew it closer against himself, his fingers clenching enough to crumple the edges.

  “You’re just going to forget about her, then. Is it really so easy? She’s sent you so many letters. I delivered all of those, you know, just about one every day. Don’t you get how lucky you are to have someone writing you like this? Doesn’t knowing she still cares about you even though you’re far apart mean anything to you?”

  The envelope was all but crushed by the time he finished. Though his cheeks had darkened through the tirade, his eyes had grown alarmingly bright.

  Marli was no Empath, but she hadn’t escaped years mediating the myriad problems of Fairbend without picking up a skill for reading people. Not that she needed any great skill to tell this young man was hurting. The guilt twisted again with the knowledge that, however unintentional, she’d been the trigger of this current bout of pain.

  She could barely resist the urge to reach out to him, but she managed to keep her hands as they were: one at her side and one held out, patient.

  The silence between them stretched and stretched, until finally the young man sniffed.

  “Sorry,” he said. His shoulders slumped, and the still-heavy bag of undelivered mail slipped forward to sway in front of his hips. “It’s none of my business what you do with your mail. I just . . . sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” Marli said. “I’ve let my personal problems affect my manners.” Not to mention my hygiene.

  Fumbling for the doorknob, she stepped out into the hallway and shut the door behind her. Maybe if she couldn’t see the effects of her moping, she’d be less inclined to continue such behavior. The smell certainly improved with the door closed.

  Drawing a lungful of fresher air, she managed a genuine smile. “I’m Marli, by the way.”

  The Bardic student waved the brown envelope. “I know.”

  “Of course you do. I’m sorry. I just find it easier to be companionable with someone once you’ve introduced yourself. Might be that’s from my country village upbringing. Some of the other Trainees say I’m hopelessly rural.”

  She’d fallen into the cadence of speech she used most often when solving other people’s problems. The others might tease her, but not a one of them had yet proven immune to the calming effect of her country talk.

  The high color faded some from the young man’s cheeks, though his eyes still shone just as bright. He cleared his throat twice, shuffled his feet. Squeezed that envelope a hair tighter.

  Marli let her tone grow softer. “I reckon you’d like to talk about what’s eating you?”

  “I’m running late already. Have to finish my rounds before I can go to dinner.”

  Both their stomachs grumbled discordantly. Marli couldn’t help smiling, and it seemed neither could the young Bard, though he bit at his lip.

  “Seems I’ll have missed my dinner, too,” Marli said. “Why don’t we finish your round together? The kitchen’s usually got some after-dinner scraps late diners can beg, and they’re used to seeing me late, anyway. I know I always feel better once I’ve had a decent meal.”

  The young man relaxed a little. “Okay. I’m Simen.”

  “I’m happy to know you, Simen.” And she was happier to have the promise of his problem to focus on. Maybe if she could help sort him out, she’d feel more ready to tackle her own malodorous mountain of issues.

  Maybe. Eventually.

  :You can’t avoid looking back at the stables of your youth forever, beloved. What’s past and done can’t hurt you, you know.:

 
; Taren was wrong, but instead of telling him so, Marli gave her full attention to her new friend. Soon enough, Taren’s voice slipped from her mind, done with his lectures for today.

  * * *

  • • •

  With everyone still gone to dinner, the dormitory hall rang with emptiness. A thin breeze flowed through windows thrown open earlier, scattering the growing chorus of cricket song and the aroma of night blooms along the corridor. But beyond Marli and Simen, no signs of human or Companion life emerged. It was a rare moment of peace in a place usually alive with activity.

  Simen had yet to deliver Yerra’s most recent letter, having put it back in his mailbag as they walked along his route through the Collegium.

  “I’m not sure why I feel so comfortable with the idea of talking to you about this. You won’t even open your girlfriend’s letters.”

  He stooped to slide a white envelope under the door of one of Marli’s neighbors.

  “Yerra isn’t my girlfriend. She’s someone I met the night Taren Chose me. Just a friend.” Just the woman who may have already married the mate of my soul.

  Simen straightened up and blinked his surprise. “Oh. I just assumed . . . there were so many letters. Usually that means, you know.” His blinking grew more rapid, and the brightness in his eyes intensified.

  “Tell me,” Marli said, though she was beginning to suspect the silhouette of his story.

  Simen let out a rattling breath and marched forward as if the motion of his legs would help him form the words.

  “It’s like this. There’s a boy at home, Dreyvin, who’s special to me. We’ve been inseparable since we were children learning the sword together. He’s much better at it than me, of course.” A brief smile touched his lips. “I came to Haven a year ago when I showed the Bardic talent. We’ve been having a lot of trouble with local bandits back home, and it’s not exactly safe at the keep anymore. Mother was ecstatic to learn that I could leave. But I couldn’t convince anyone to let me bring Dreyvin along with me, not the Collegium, not Mother, not even Dreyvin. Mother said she needed him to stay and help protect everyone, and Dreyvin agreed with her. We promised to keep in touch.”