by Paula Guran
If I let him get me angry, he thought, I’m dead.
Biting back his rage, he forced his sword-arm to relax.
The Marluk drew back a pace and shrugged almost apologetically at that—he had not really expected his diversion to work so well—then saluted with his sword and backed off another dozen paces. Brion returned the salute with a sharp, curt gesture and likewise withdrew the required distance. Then, without further preliminaries. In extended his arms to either side and murmured the words of a warding spell. As answering fire sprang up crimson at his back, the Marluk raised a similar defense, blue fire joining crimson to complete the protective circle. Beneath the canopy of light thus formed, arcs of energy began to crackle sword to sword, ebbing and flowing, as arcane battle was joined.
The circle brightened as they fought, containing energies so immense that all around it would have perished had the wards not held it in. The very air within grew hazy, so that those without could no longer see the principals who battled there. So it remained for nearly half an hour, the warriors of both sides drawing mistrustfully together to watch and wait. When, at last, the fire began to flicker erratically and die down, naught could be seen within the circle but two ghostly, fire-edged figures in silhouette, one of them staggering drunkenly.
They could not tell which was which. One of them had fallen to his knees and remained there, sword upraised in a last, desperate, warding-off gesture. The other stood poised to strike, but something seemed to hold him back. The tableau remained frozen that way for several heartbeats, the tension growing between the two; but then the kneeling one reeled sidewards and let fall his sword with a cry of anguish, collapsing forward on his hands to bow his head in defeat. The victor’s sword descended as though in slow motion, severing head from body in one blow and showering dust and victor and vanquished with blood. The fire dimmed almost to nonexistence, and they could see that it was Brion who lived.
Then went up a mighty cheer from the men of Gwynedd. A few of the Marluk’s men wheeled and galloped away across the field toward the rest of their party before anyone could stop them, but the rest cast down their weapons and surrendered immediately. At the mouth of the canyon beyond, a slender figure on a gray horse turned and rode away with her escort. There was no pursuit.
Brion could not have seen them through the haze, but he knew. Moving dazedly back to the center of the circle, he traced the dust-drawn cross a final time and mouthed the syllables of a banishing spell. Then, as the fiery circle died away, he gazed long at the now-empty canyon mouth before turning to stride slowly toward his men. They parted before him as he came, Gwynedd and Tolan men alike.
Perhaps a dozen men remained of Brion’s force, a score or less of the Marluk’s, and there was a taut, tense silence as he moved among them. He stopped and looked around him, at the men, at the wounded lying propped against their shields, at Nigel and Alaric still sitting upon their blood-bespattered war-horses, at the bloody banner still in Nigel’s hand. He stared at the banner for a long time, no one daring to break the strained silence. Then he let his gaze fall on each man in turn, catching and holding each man’s attention in rapt, unshrinking thrall.
“We shall not speak of the details of this battle beyond this place,” he said simply. The words crackled with authority, compulsion, and Alaric Morgan, of all who heard, knew the force behind that simple statement. Though most of them would never realize that fact, every man there had just been touched by the special Haldane magic.
Brion held them thus for several heartbeats, no sound or movement disturbing their rapt attention. Then Brion blinked and smiled and the otherworldliness was no more. Instantly, Nigel was springing from his horse to run and clasp his brother’s arm. Alaric, in a more restrained movement, swung his leg over the saddle and slid to the ground, walked stiffly to greet his king.
“Well fought, Sire,” he murmured, the words coming with great difficulty.
“My thanks for making that possible, Alaric,” the king replied, “though the shedding of blood has never been my wish.”
He handed his sword to Nigel and brushed a strand of hair from his eyes with a blood-streaked hand. Alaric swallowed and made a nervous bow.
“No thanks are necessary, Sire. I but gave my service as I must.” He swallowed again and shifted uneasily, then abruptly dropped to his knees and bowed his head.
“Sire, may I crave a boon of you?”
“A boon? You know you have but to ask, Alaric. I pray you, stand not upon ceremony.”
Alaric shook his head, brought his gaze to meet Brion’s. “No, this I will and must do, Sire.” He raised joined hands before him. “Sire, I would reaffirm my oath of fealty to you.”
“Your oath?” Brion began. “But, you have already sworn to serve me, Alaric, and have given me your hand in friendship, which I value far more from you than any oath.”
“And I, Sire,” Alaric nodded slightly. “But the fealty I gave you before was such as any liegeman might give his lord and king. What I offer now is fealty for the powers which we share. I would give you my fealty as Deryni.”
There was a murmuring around them, and Nigel glanced at his brother in alarm, but neither king nor kneeling squire heard. A slight pause, a wry smile, and then Brion was taking the boy’s hands between his own blood-stained ones, gray eyes meeting gray as he heard the oath of the first man to swear Deryni fealty to a human king in nearly two centuries.
“I, Alaric Anthony, Lord Morgan, do become your liegeman of life and limb and earthly worship. And faith and truth I will bear unto you, with all the powers at my command, so long as there is breath within me. This I swear upon my life, my honor, and my faith and soul. If I be forsworn, may my powers desert me in my hour of need.”
Brion swallowed, his eyes never leaving Alaric’s. “And I, for my part, pledge fealty to you, Alaric Anthony, Lord Morgan, to protect and defend you, and any who may depend upon you, with all the powers at my command, so long as there is breath within me. This I swear upon my life, my throne, and my honor as a man. And if I be forsworn, may dark destruction overcome me. This is the promise of Brion Donal Cinhil Urien Haldane, King of Gwynedd, Lord of the Purple March, and friend of Alaric Morgan.”
With these final words, Brion smiled and pressed Alaric’s hands a bit more closely between his own, then released them and turned quickly to take back his sword from Nigel. He glanced at the stained blade as he held it before him.
“I trust you will not mind the blood,” he said with a little smile, “since it is through the shedding of this blood that I am able to do what I do now.”
Slowly he brought the flat of the blade to touch the boy’s right shoulder.
“Alaric Anthony Morgan,” the sword rose and crossed to touch the other shoulder, “I create thee Duke of Corwyn, by right of thy mother,” the blade touched the top of his head lightly and remained there. “And I confirm thee in this title, for thy life and for the surviving issue of thy body, for so long as there shall be Morgan seed upon the earth.” The sword was raised and touched to the royal lips, then reversed and brought to ground. “So say I, Brion of Gwynedd. Arise, Duke Alaric.”
Okay. I admit this is not exactly a sword-and-sorcery story. Perhaps I should have chosen a tale of the dark-skinned swordswoman Tarma and fair sorceress Kethry from Mercedes Lackey’s Vows and Honor series. But those are only slightly connected to Lackey’s Valdemar universe and Valdemar has been a gateway drug to S&S and other fantasy for many young folks, mostly girls. It is difficult to keep track of how many novels Lackey (1950– ) has published since her debut in 1985. Including those she has co-written, I think there are more than one hundred with five more scheduled for 2017. The Heralds of Valdemar series is high fantasy—magic, quests, heroism, average people called to greatness, good fighting evil—usually with teen protagonists (often abused or at least misunderstood) trying to find themselves. And then there are the Companions, magical horses (well, creatures that look like white with bright blue eyes and silver ho
oves) that Choose a virtuous, MindGifted Herald with whom they form mind-to-mind bonds. The Valdemar books might be considered “sword and sorcery lite,” but if you are unacquainted with them, I think you can see from this tale how certain youthful readers are seduced by Lackey. If they outgrow Lackey, they don’t necessarily outgrow fantasy—or sword and sorcery.
Out of the Deep: A Valdemar Story
Mercedes Lackey
Now this was a forest!
Trees crowded the road, overshadowing it, overhanging it. You didn’t need a hat even at midday; you almost needed a torch instead to see by. Herald-Intern Alain still couldn’t get used to all of the wilderness around him—trees that weren’t pruned into symmetrical and pleasing shapes, wildflowers that were really wild, ragged, and insect-nibbled. All of his life—except for the brief course in Wilderness Survival—he’d never seen a weed, much less a wilderness. He kept expecting to wake up and find that all of this was a fever-dream.
By all rights, he shouldn’t be out here, league upon league away from Haven on his Internship Circuit. He was a Prince, after all, and Princes of Valdemar had never gone out of Haven for their Internships, much less out into the furthermost West of the Kingdom, where there were no Guardsmen to rescue you if you got into trouble, and often nowhere to shelter if nature decided to have a bash at you. He should have been serving his Internship beside one of the Heralds who helped the City Guard, the Watch, and the city judges.
There was just one teeny, tiny problem with that.
:Actually,: his Companion Vedalia observed, :There are seven rather tall and vigorous problems with that. And four slender and attractive ones as well.:
Alain sighed. It wasn’t the easiest thing in the world, being the youngest of twelve royal children who had all been Chosen.
:It wasn’t the easiest thing in the world trying to find things for all of those young and eager Heralds to do,: Vedalia pointed out. :It wouldn’t take more than a candlemark for any of you to figure out that he’d been set make-work. As it was—:
As it was, it was just bad luck that Alain was not only the youngest of his sibs, he was the youngest by less than a candlemark. Queen Felice was not only the most fecund Consort in the history of Valdemar, she had the habit of having her children in lots. Three sets of twins and two sets of triplets, to be precise. The Heir, whose real name was Tanivel but who they all called Vel for short, was the eldest of his set of twins. Alain was the youngest of his. And in between—
:It is rather a good thing that your mother was never Chosen,: Vedalia observed. :I’m not sure her poor Companion would have gotten much exercise, much less attention . . . :
It was true enough that until after Alain had been born, no one in the Court could remember her in any state other than expecting. The fact that she actually possessed a waist had come as a complete surprise to everyone except the King. Everyone wanted to know—and no one dared ask—both the “why” and the “how” of it.
The “how” was easy; multiples ran in her family. Felice was one of a set of twins, and not one of her sisters had ever given birth to less than twins. Her family history held that it had something to do with a blessing placed on them, but by what—well, there were several versions.
The real question was “why”—having had Vel and Vixen (his twin’s name was Lavenna, but no one ever called her that) she could have stopped with the traditional “heir and a spare.” Certainly most women would have called a halt at the next lot, which were triplets. Not Felice. Rumor had it that she was trying to fill all the extra rooms in the newly rebuilt Heralds’ Collegium with her own offspring.
Only Alain had dared to ask his mother what no one else would. She’d hugged him then looked him straight in the eye and said, “Marriages of state. You’re Heralds, all of you. You don’t need a spouse to be loved.”
Now, Alain knew his blunt-spoken mother well enough to read between the lines. Shockingly blunt in this case . . . except . . . well Felice had not made a love-match with King Chalinel; she cared deeply for him, but theirs had been a marriage made in the Council chamber. She knew very well that the way to cement the loyalty of a powerful noble house was to marry into it; the way to ensure a foreign alliance was to send (or send for) a bride or groom. Neither she nor the King would force one of their children into a marriage he or she did not want; they would consent to any marriage, even to a beggar, where love was. But this way . . . if an alliance had to be made, there would be someone available to make it at the altar.
Vanyel Ashkevron had made his terrible sacrifice decades ago; Queen Elspeth was Alain’s great-great-grandmother. Valdemar’s borders had expanded as more and more independent nobles sought to come under the banner of those who had defeated the Karsites. Those nobles—some no better than robber-barons—had no traditional ties to the Valdemaran throne, and no real understanding of what Heralds (the backbone of Valdemaran authority) were and did. One of the obvious solutions was Felice’s. After all, it had worked for her family. Her father had gone from an uneasy ally to a doting grandfather who would no more dream of a disloyal thought than jump off the top of his own manor.
And all of his grandchildren—Chosen. That truly brought it home to him and every one of his people what Heralds were and what they did. The lesson was painless and thorough, and the Baron soon was accustomed to having white-clad Heralds coming and going on his lands.
Both Heralds’ Collegium and Valdemar had benefited by the arranged marriage with Felice—for now eleven other Heralds, whose skills would be useful outside the capitol, would be freed up by Felice’s brood for those other duties while the Princes and Princesses took over.
All of the ten eldest had done well in their classes. Alain and his twin sister Alara had run through the Collegium curriculum like a hot needle through ice. How not? They’d listened to ten siblings as they recited their lessons, they’d practiced weapons-work and archery with ten older siblings, watched and listened with ten siblings. King Chalinel often said that intelligence in the family just kept increasing with each set of children and culminated with Alain and Alara. Alain didn’t know about that—all of his sibs were clever . . .
:But you and Alara made it through a year early, and Kristen, Kole, and Katen lagged behind because they lost a year to the scarlet fever. With five of you going into Internship at once, there was something of a problem, since we don’t like to Intern relatives with relatives,: said Vedalia.
Which was, of course, why he was out on Circuit in the wilderness. No one wanted to risk the health of the triplets after that near-miss with fever, which meant they had to stay within the confines of Haven.
And there were only four Haven Internships available. The four Haven Internships had gone to his other siblings, yes, because of the triplets’ uncertain health, but also because they all had Gifts that were useful in those internships. To create a new position just for Alain would have been wrong—
:Yes, well my so-called Gift probably had something to do with why I’m out here, on the edge of the Kingdom, and not somewhere else,: Alain observed.
Vedalia’s tone turned sharp. :There is nothing wrong with your Gift,: he said. :It’s as strong as anyone in the Collegium has got, and stronger than your sister’s.:
:And a fat lot of good Animal Mindspeech would have been, Interning with the Lord-Martial’s Herald,: he retorted. :What would I do, interrogate the Cavalry horses? What else can I do? Nothing that a weakly Gifted Herald can’t. I don’t even have enough ordinary Mindspeech to talk to Herald Stedrel—and he’s got the strongest Mindspeech of any Herald anyone’s ever heard of!: He couldn’t help it; a certain amount of bitterness crept into his thoughts. He hated not being able to MindSpeak other Heralds—when he could Hear a tree-hare chattering at ten leagues away.
Vedalia was silent so long that Alain thought the conversation was over.
:Look around you,: Vedalia said. :Listen to the birdsong in the trees. Feel that free wind in your hair. Take a deep breath of air that no human
has been breathing but you. Think about all you’re learning from the wild things. Are you really so unhappy that your Gift brought you here?:
Well, put that way . . .
:Hmm. I suppose not.:
:And admit it; it’s a relief to be away from Alara for the first time in your life.:
Alain laughed aloud; Herald Stedrel looked back over his shoulder and smiled at him, then turned his attention back to the trail ahead.
It was a relief to be away from Alara, who thought she had to have the last word in everything they did, who bossed him as if she was five years, not half a candlemark, older than he. It was a relief to be away from all of his siblings, and from the Court, and all the burdens of royal birth. And so far, although no one could call circuit-riding in the hinterlands a pleasure-jaunt, he’d been enjoying it. He would probably change his mind as soon as winter set in and they were riding with snow up to Vedalia’s hocks, but right now, he was enjoying it.
Out here, no one knew he was a Prince. He could flirt with pretty village girls, he could swim naked by moonlight, he could dance at fairs and sing rude songs and no one would make a face or take him aside to remind him that he must act with more decorum. Stedrel actually encouraged him to kick up his heels within reason. He might even try the experiment some time of getting really and truly drunk, though he’d have to wait until he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be needed.
:You’ll regret it,: Vedalia laughed.
:Probably. But at least I’ll have tried it. And maybe I’ll try a few more things, too—:
:Tch. Sixteen, and delusions of immortality,: Vedalia teased.
:Doesn’t that go with being sixteen?: he retorted.
No, on second consideration, he wouldn’t trade being out here for any of the Internships his sibs had. He wished Alara joy of the Lord Martial, who thought that women in general were useless and good only as decoration, and female Heralds in particular were a nuisance. She wouldn’t get around him by speaking in a slightly higher, more breathy voice and acting hurt, or by turning bossy either.