Raves for the previous Valdemar Anthologies:
“Fans of Lackey’s epic Valdemar series will devour this superb anthology. Of the thirteen stories included, there is no weak link—an attribute exceedingly rare in collections of this sort. Highly recommended.”
—The Barnes and Noble Review
“This high-quality anthology mixes pieces by experienced authors and enthusiastic fans of editor Lackey’s Valdemar. Valdemar fandom, especially, will revel in this sterling example of what such a mixture of fans’ and pros’ work can be. Engrossing even for newcomers to Valdemar.”
—Booklist
“Josepha Sherman, Tanya Huff, Mickey Zucker Reichert, and Michelle West have quite good stories, and there’s another by Lackey herself. Familiarity with the series helps but is not a prerequisite to enjoying this book.”
—Science Fiction Chronicle
“Each tale adheres to the Lackey laws of the realm yet provides each author’s personal stamp on the story. Well written and fun, Valdemarites will especially appreciate the magic of this book.”
—The Midwest Book Review
“The sixth collection set in Lackey’s world of Valdemar presents stories of Heralds and their telepathic horselike Companions and of Bards and Healers, and provides glimpses of the many other aspects of a setting that has a large and avid readership. The fifteen original tales in this volume will appeal to series fans.”
—Library Journal
TITLES BY MERCEDES LACKEY available from DAW Books:
THE NOVELS OF VALDEMAR:
THE HERALDS OF VALDEMAR
ARROWS OF THE QUEEN
ARROW’S FLIGHT
ARROW’S FALL
THE LAST HERALD-MAGE
MAGIC’S PAWN
MAGIC’S PROMISE
MAGIC’S PRICE
THE MAGE WINDS
WINDS OF FATE
WINDS OF CHANGE
WINDS OF FURY
THE MAGE STORMS
STORM WARNING
STORM RISING
STORM BREAKING
VOWS AND HONOR
THE OATHBOUND
OATHBREAKERS
OATHBLOOD
THE COLLEGIUM CHRONICLES
FOUNDATION
INTRIGUES
CHANGES
REDOUBT
BASTION
THE HERALD SPY
CLOSER TO HOME
CLOSER TO THE HEART
CLOSER TO THE CHEST
FAMILY SPIES
THE HILLS HAVE SPIES
EYE SPY
SPY, SPY AGAIN
BY THE SWORD
BRIGHTLY BURNING
TAKE A THIEF
EXILE’S HONOR
EXILE’S VALOR
VALDEMAR ANTHOLOGIES:
SWORD OF ICE
SUN IN GLORY
CROSSROADS
MOVING TARGETS
CHANGING THE WORLD
FINDING THE WAY
UNDER THE VALE
NO TRUE WAY
CRUCIBLE
TEMPEST
PATHWAYS
CHOICES
SEASONS
PASSAGES
Written with LARRY DIXON:
THE MAGE WARS
THE BLACK GRYPHON
THE WHITE GRYPHON
THE SILVER GRYPHON
DARIAN’S TALE
OWLFLIGHT
OWLSIGHT
OWLKNIGHT
OTHER NOVELS:
GWENHWYFAR
THE BLACK SWAN
THE DRAGON JOUSTERS
JOUST
ALTA
SANCTUARY
AERIE
THE ELEMENTAL MASTERS
THE SERPENT’S SHADOW
THE GATES OF SLEEP
PHOENIX AND ASHES
THE WIZARD OF LONDON
RESERVED FOR THE CAT
UNNATURAL ISSUE
HOME FROM THE SEA
STEADFAST
BLOOD RED
FROM A HIGH TOWER
A STUDY IN SABLE
A SCANDAL IN BATTERSEA
THE BARTERED BRIDES
THE CASE OF THE SPELLBOUND CHILD
JOLENE
Anthologies:
ELEMENTAL MAGIC
ELEMENTARY
And don’t miss THE VALDEMAR COMPANION edited by John Helfers and Denise Little
Copyright © 2020 by Mercedes Lackey and Stonehenge Art & Word.
All Rights Reserved.
Cover art by Jody Lee.
Cover design by Adam Auerbach.
DAW Book Collectors No. 1869.
Published by DAW Books, Inc.
1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
All resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may be stolen property and reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Ebook ISBN: 9780756414733
DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED
U.S. PAT. AND TM. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES
—MARCA REGISTRADA
HECHO EN U.S.A.
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
pid_prh_5.6.1_c0_r0
Contents
Roads Less Traveled
Charlotte E. English
A Ruler’s Gift
Anthea Sharp
Rising to the Occasion
Jennifer Brozek
A Nursery of Raccoons
Elisabeth Waters
Tables Turned
Kristin Schwengel
Expected Consequences
Elizabeth A. Vaughan
Burrowing Owl, Hidden No More
Dayle A. Dermatis
The Dream Seeker
Paige L. Christie
Shadows and Reflections
Louisa Swann
Flying the Nest
Michele Lang
Snowbound
Brigid Collins
The More Things Change, the More They Change More
Fiona Patton
The Choice Makes the Chosen
Stephanie D. Shaver
Trial by Reflection
Terry O’Brien
Theory and Practice
Angela Penrose
Tools of the Trade
Phaedra Weldon
The Border Within
Brenda Cooper
Temper
Mercedes Lackey
The Hawkbrothers’ Ways
Larry Dixon
About the Authors
About the Editor
Roads Less Traveled
Charlotte E. English
:I can see you, you know.:
Uselessly, Rosia tucked herself deeper into the thicket in which she h
ad taken refuge, as though doing so might turn her invisible if she only wished hard enough.
The dulcet voice went on, inexorable. :You look nice!:
A choked sound emerged from the girl, comprising disgust and—in spite of herself—laughter, albeit without much mirth. Nice? She looked nice? After weeks on the road, wending ever deeper into the wilds of the Pelagir Hills; without money even to eat half the time, let alone bathe; dressed in ragged garments that were now hopelessly soiled and torn and had never been nice even when new.
:Perhaps it isn’t the way you look so much as the way you smell,: conceded her pursuer, the words coming somehow from inside her own head. She might conclude she had gone mad and was talking to herself, save that the bright white horse, with its silvery bridle and its bells and its wide, friendly eyes, had been following her for hours; and every observation made, in those mellow tones, was accompanied by some hopeful movement. This time, it was a nuzzling at the branches of Rosia’s friendly thicket. One clear blue eye peeped in.
“That’s even worse,” Rosia said. “If I could only get away from my own smell, I would.”
A pause followed. Rosia received the impression that the horse was thinking.
:No, you’re right,: came the reply. :It isn’t a vision or a scent but a . . . feeling. You feel nice.:
Rosia, exhausted and hungry and despairing, swallowed a sob. “Why won’t you go away?”
:Because I’m lonely.:
“So? Find another friend.”
:But I like you.:
“Who wouldn’t,” Rosia muttered, clenching her fists. “When I’ve been so friendly.”
:I am your Companion,: said the horse. :That is the best friend anybody could have.:
“I don’t need a companion.” And I don’t deserve one, Rosia thought.
The horse lay down on the other side of the thicket, clearly prepared to wait all day if necessary. :I am here anyway, my Chosen.:
Rosia briefly thought of running away, but the horse would only follow. “Why are you so stubborn?” she said instead, hating the whining quality of the question. She was an adult—or nearly, anyway. Adults didn’t whine.
The horse lipped at a scrubby thread of grass. :I am your Companion.:
“You said that already.”
Rosia received a sense of warm amusement, like . . . a giggle. Her Companion, if she was such, was too young for sober dignity. :For some reason, I got the idea you weren’t listening,: she said. :My name is Lilan.:
Rosia sat up as far as she was able, ignoring the tangle of thorns in her hair, and folded her arms.
:And you are . . . ?: prompted Lilan.
“Rosia,” the name ungraciously muttered under her breath. “Peddler.” Thief. “And a girl who talks to horses, looks like.”
:I am not a horse,: said Lilan patiently. :A Companion is something else altogether.:
“I know what you are. You think I haven’t seen Heralds?” Rosia had no intention of telling this peculiar creature what kinds of feelings she’d witnessed at the passage of Valdemar’s Chosen. In their immaculate Whites, with their Companions at their sides, they’d blown through Rosia’s life like a fresh, bright wind, untouchably distant. Unfathomably magnificent.
Not that any of them had ever stopped to talk to the likes of her, not even when her parents were alive. Peddlers were beneath such folk. She and Ma and Pa had passed Heralds on the road sometimes, that was all.
:Well, then, you know why I am here.: Lilan settled herself more comfortably, as placid as a summer lake, and if a horse—Companion—was capable of smiling, she was smiling now.
“You must be confused,” said Rosia.
:Not in the least. You are my Chosen, and when you’re feeling better, we shall be off on our way to Haven.:
“You picked wrong. Go find someone else.”
:Why do you say that?: Lilan asked the question in a spirit of gentle enquiry, as though mildly curious.
Rosia bit her lip. “Heralds are s’posed to be good people.”
:And you are not?:
“I’m not.” She heaved the boundless sigh of a wearied spirit and added, in a smaller voice, “I wasn’t so bad, before . . .”
:Before?: prompted Lilan.
Rosia tightly closed her lips.
Lilan, unconcerned, fell silent. Rosia peeped through the thorns and saw the Companion, eyes closed, lightly dozing. Or so it seemed.
“Before Ma died,” Rosia said. “And then Pa, and . . .”
It was her turn to fall into a silence, though hers was of a brooding quality.
:Why don’t you tell me what happened?: Lilan said. :Once I know how awful you are, I’m sure I’ll be off like a shot.:
Rosia shrank into herself, appalled at the thought of confessing aloud to—anybody, least of all a stranger. Least of all a . . . horse. Companion. “I can’t. It’s too hard.”
:Don’t start with the hard part,: Lilan suggested. :The trick is to start at the beginning.:
* * *
* * *
The Pelagir Hills loomed ahead, dark and uninviting. Heavy old boughs hung over the road, casting long shadows, despite the day being rather young yet. Fall had that way about it sometimes; winter lurked just behind, and sometimes you could really feel it.
Rosia felt it keenly today.
She’d meant to plunge straight into the forest without stopping. That was how you did things that were scary: quickly, without pausing to think. But her feet had betrayed her, or perhaps it was her heart that had failed. The darkness under those trees daunted her. Even the road this far northwest did not much deserve the name, being a crumbling dirt track that hosted few travelers.
And then there were the stories . . .
Fever had taken her ma, not long since and her pa soon after. There hadn’t been much left in their packs by then, and there hadn’t been money enough for a donkey or a pony in years. Still, Rosia had never known what it was to go truly hungry—until Pa had gone. Then she’d learned.
She was hungry now. Not the light, ordinary hunger of the well-fed, but an urgent need for sustenance that tore at her insides and weakened her knees. She had sold most of Ma’s ribbons and Pa’s trinkets for medicine; and when that failed to save either of them, she had been forced to sell everything else for food. Now there was nothing left, not for food, not for new supplies to sell in some fresh town farther up the road. If she didn’t do something, she would starve.
Something had presented itself. Her last coin had gone to purchase a loaf—stale but edible—from a baker a village or two back. In passing, she’d heard talk.
“Them Pelagirs, you wanta watch yersel’ up there,” the baker said in his gruff, deep voice to the customer after her—a man with the look (and smell) of a trapper about him. “Dangerous parts.”
But the trapper had laughed. “S’alright for them as knows ’em. I’m off to get me a Firebird. Heard tell there’s a few of ’em not too deep in.”
“Can’t say as I know anything ’bout that,” answered the baker, cautious-like. “Wouldn’t think it worth the danger, meself.”
“Ain’t much that could kill me,” said the trapper cheerfully, and tipped what there was of his hat. “And for that kind o’ money, I’m game to try. Good day to ye.”
That kind of money?
Firebirds.
Not for nothing was Rosia a peddler’s daughter. She knew well what a Firebird would fetch. A single feather would be enough . . .
“ ’Scuse me,” she said, turning back to the baker. “Are we near the Pelagirs here?”
“Aye, but you don’t wanta go up that way,” the baker replied. “Nasty place. Be lucky to come out alive.”
Clutching the last piece of food she was likely to see in a while, with her pockets empty of coin and her packs empty of goods, Rosia knew she would be lucky to c
ome out of the week alive. Her fingers tightened on the loaf. “Please, could you tell me the way?”
The baker had done so, if reluctantly, and now here she stood on the very edge. Hesitating.
It was the pain in her stomach that decided her. She took a step, and another—and then with a great rush of desperate energy, she plunged deep into the forest and didn’t look back.
* * *
* * *
She did not, of course, stumble over a Firebird feather just lying there under the trees. Nothing so easy could come of so risky a venture.
But nor was she disappointed of her aim.
Mouthfuls of her precious bread sustained her for a day or two’s wandering under the thick boughs, bolstered here and there with handfuls of berries, or an occasional mushroom. Ma and Pa had known a bit about foraging, learned during the leaner times. Rosia kept her wits about her, listened and watched for the dangers the villagers had been eager to warn each other about. Wild beasts of all kinds, they said. Some of them . . . different. Not as they should be.
The stories used words like magic. There used to be a lot of it, out in the Hills, and some of it lingered still.
Rosia was no careless child, not after a lifetime of wandering the roads with Ma and Pa. Even so, when the wild beasts of the Pelagirs found her, they caught her unawares.
She’d paused to gather a mushroom, a fat specimen with a broad cap. It was the sort with the meaty texture, one Pa had taught her to look out for, and her empty stomach growled in anticipation of sinking her teeth into it.
There had been nothing to warn her; no snap of a twig, no soft footfalls, no snarling menace. Just a sudden rush of movement, a loud rustling, as something leaped from the depths of a thicket; and then Rosia was down in the earth, the wind knocked out of her, and a weight on her chest pinned her where she lay.
A low, awful growling reverberated around the clearing.
The beast was some sort of feline, though larger than any Rosia had seen before. Its sleek coat was dappled with spots, and jaunty tufts adorned the tips of its ears. There was nothing jaunty about those eyes, though: topaz-gold, and fierce. The cat had bared every one of its ivory teeth; Rosia had no trouble imagining just how easily they would rip through her.
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