Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar v(-102

by Mercedes Lackey

  The Healer perched daintily on the edge of a chair. “Of course, but I’d rather see you eat.”

  Dutifully, Mola seized the spoon she had just noticed through the steam rising from the bowl and stuck it into her mouth. The flavor of vegetables and gravy spiraled through her, inciting a saliva riot that nearly drove her to devour the entire bowl in an instant. Instead, she forced herself to push it aside. She needed to talk.

  “How is it?” Sietra asked.

  “What?”

  “The stew. What do you think of it?”

  “Delicious,” Mola admitted, sucking back drool that nearly leaked from her mouth. “And I promise I’ll eat every bite. But, first, I want to tell you about something.”

  Sietra nodded encouragingly, long blonde braids hopping with the motion.

  “I’ve been having ... a recurring dream.” Mola studied Sietra for some kind of reaction but received nothing but quiet patience. “In it, I see a mountain just south of here, still in Velvar, not a particularly high or difficult one. On it grow some unusual clovers, and a voice in the dream tells me they can strengthen—” Mola made a short gesture toward Charlin, uncertain how much the Herald could still hear and understand.

  Sietra continued to look askance at Mola, clearly expecting more.

  “That’s about it,” Mola said. “But it seems so real, more real than any dream I’ve ever had before. And ... I’ve had it every night since ... my lady ... lapsed.”

  As Sietra still said nothing, Mola asked directly, “What do you think?”

  “I think,” Sietra said with obvious caution, “that you love and miss your lady.”

  That being self-evident, Mola continued to press, “Do you think it’s possible there is such a ... a healing clover?”

  Sietra went even more quiet, but she seemed to be giving the matter significant thought, so Mola waited. Finally, Sietra spoke her piece, “Mola, have you ever had prophetic dreams before?”

  Mola lowered her head. “Of course not. I have no magic of any kind. I’m only ... what I am.”

  “You mean a devoted, sweet, kind, and generous person? With courage and hope and intelligence? Because I’d hardly use the word ‘only’ when explaining that.”

  The warmth in Mola’s cheeks increased to a bonfire. “That’s ... that’s so very nice of you to say. I’m not Gifted, though. Not in the sense of a Herald or a Healer or a Bard or anything. But this dream. It’s telling me—”

  “—to do something.” Sietra shrugged. “Then, perhaps, you should do it.”

  “Me?” Mola laughed, the sound odd to her ears. She could not recall the last time she had managed such a thing. “Slopping through swamps? Climbing mountains? That’s a job for Heralds, not hand-maidens.”

  Sietra’s slender shoulders rose and fell. “You’ll have a hard time convincing a Herald to go on a fool’s mission on no better pretext than a servant’s recurring dream. Even if the servant is as wonderful as you.”

  It was exactly what Mola had figured, the very reason she had not yet told her dream to anyone else. “I have to try.”

  Sietra rose. “I understand. And I wish you the best of luck.” She headed for the door. “Please eat, Mola.”

  “I will,” Mola promised, immediately turning her attention to the stew. She could not have resisted it if she had tried, and she fairly drank it, without bothering to chew.

  Mola washed and curried Elborik until her coat shined, though the old Companion never bothered to open her eyes. She lay in the pasture, fetlocks grass-stained and ragged, chestnuts marring the perfect, snowy lines of her legs. Mola had rubbed and oiled her hooves until they gleamed like metallic silver. The mane and tail lay spread in beautiful waves, combed to silky perfection. Even so, brushing could not hide the moth-eaten patches of fur, the ashen eyelashes, and the slumping frame incapable of standing. The Companion was dying slowly, along with her Herald.

  Spotting Corry playing with his own Companion, Rexla, in the field, Mola gathered her supplies and dumped them into her pack. She embraced Elborik’s neck and kissed her soft nose and furry muzzle. Then, tossing her tack bag over one shoulder, Mola walked toward Corry.

  Sun rays turned the blades of grass into sparkling jewels, and the cloudless warmth made a negative mood nearly impossible. As she headed toward Corry and Rexla, Mola found herself smiling for the first time in many days. The all-consuming darkness lifted from her soul, as well as her eyes, as she watched the playful dance of man and animal. Heralds worked hard, and she did not begrudge them their moments of play, even with her own heart so heavily burdened.

  Seeing her coming, Corry waved in greeting, and Rexla trotted to her, snuffling her pockets for the sugar and carrots she usually carried. The stallion’s blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight, mischievous and joyful, two states she had not experienced in what seemed like months.

  Mola shoved the Companion’s face away, then found herself immediately drawing him back for a warm hug and a nose kiss.

  “Hey,” Corry shouted, running toward them. “Save some of that affection for me.”

  Mola studied her feet. Corry was thirty years old, a Collegium-trained Herald, and far above her station. Yet, he always treated her with great kindness. She found him nearly irresistibly attractive and wondered why he had never bonded with anyone other than his Companion. True, he had a generous, hawk-like nose that had been broken once or twice, and his sandy hair fell in greasy clumps, always into his eyes; but she saw those as endearing characteristics rather than flaws.

  When he arrived, Corry threw his arms around Rexla and began plastering the Companion with kisses. The stallion stomped his feet and tossed back his head, mane flying.

  “Ooops, sorry,” Corry said in mock apology. “Wrong one.” With dexterous ease, he switched from his mount to Mola, hugging her with the same warmth and exuberance.

  It was all Mola could do to keep her balance as Corry planted a welcoming kiss directly on her lips.

  Mola found herself incapable of breathing. Though chapped, his lips felt spongy, delightful. She wanted nothing more than to suck his tongue into her mouth, to wind herself around him, to become lost in his embrace. But she was only a servant, and he was so much more.

  “Sleep with me,” Corry said.

  Mola disengaged and slapped him. “Stop teasing me, you lizard. I’m in no mood for games.”

  Corry rubbed his face, becoming appropriately somber. “I understand. I shouldn’t joke around while Charlin . . .”

  Reminded of the cause of her anxiety, Mola felt tears forming in eyes too sore to hold any more.

  Cursing himself under his breath, Corry took Mola into his arms again, this time more gently. “I’m sorry, Mo. So sorry. But Charlin is so very old, and the Healers can’t do anything more.”

  Alerted by the change in mood, or by some mind-magic from Corry, Rexla returned to grazing. Corry led Mola to a grassy hill, where he pushed her down, then sat beside her. “Mola, life goes on. They’re not going to send you away just because your—”

  Mola stiffened. She had not even considered that possibility. “You mean they might send me away?”

  Corry cringed, obviously realizing he had worsened, rather than soothed, her distress. Again. “No, no. Of course not. There are plenty of jobs, and no one would consider such a thing.”

  You just did. Mola did not speak the words aloud. Corry felt bad enough without her aggravating his guilt and discomfort. “Corry, do you think it’s possible that the healers missed something? That there’s an herb or plant or magic out there somewhere that might save Herald Charlin?”

  Corry studied her in silence for a moment.

  Mola stared back. “Corry, don’t try to figure out what I want to hear. Just speak the truth.”

  Corry cleared his throat. “Well. Mola.” So far, he had done nothing but delay. “I’m an open-minded man. I’m taught to believe anything is possible. Such a thing might exist.”

  Mola hung on every word.

  Corry
stopped talking.

  Mola dodged his gaze. “Would you be willing to look?”

  “Mola ...” Corry started.

  Mola could tell by his tone that he was going to say something she did not want to hear. “I mean, if you had reason to believe such a thing existed. And someone told you where to find it.”

  Corry squeezed his eyes shut. “Mola, our Healers are some of the best and as well-trained as Healers come. I trust them.”

  “But if you had reason to believe,” Mola insisted.

  Corry turned and took both of her hands in his. “Mola, if a trusted, magical source told me where to find a cure for Charlin, I’d ride to the ends of the world for it. But, Mola, there is no cure for old age. Some few mages have managed to greatly extend their lives; but, ultimately, time catches up even to them.”

  Mola could deal in hypotheticals no longer. “I’ve been having this dream. Every night for four nights now. There’s a healing clover growing on the mountainside. That one there.” She pointed southward toward the nearest of the few scattered peaks in the distance. “It’s barely a few hours’ travel by Companion. Couldn’t you, at least, check for me?”

  Corry’s lids glided shut again, and he gritted his teeth. “I’m sorry, Mola. I have a mission that starts just after midday meal, and I’m not sure how long it will take.”

  The tears dripped from Mola’s eyes, down her cheeks.

  “Mola, please. If it’s that important, I can get a horse for you.” Corry opened his eyes, saw the tears, and cringed.

  Mola freed her hand to wipe them away fiercely. “I can’t climb mountains. I’m not Gifted. I’m not even trained to use a simple weapon. How could I possibly go on such a trip alone?”

  A light flashed through Corry’s eyes, then disappeared. “Mola, there’s a reason these dreams are coming to you, not to me. Whether that reason is only your concern for your mistress, or if it is something more, it’s still your challenge and you must face it however you choose.” He unfastened a knife and its sheath, from his belt. “Keep this for me while I’m gone, and use it as you see fit. If you wish, I’ll have a horse ready for you at the stable, as well as a pouch of provisions.” Glancing toward the rising sun, he sighed. “I have to go now. What you do is up to you, and no one could fault you for dismissing a dream ... or for following it.”

  Corry leapt to his feet, saluted a good-bye, and headed to ready Rexla.

  A damp breeze stirred Mola’s hair, and she reveled in the motion of the sturdy little chestnut mare Corry had chosen for her. She patted the knife at her belt, then the sack of provisions tied securely behind the saddle. Her mission should not take long. With any luck, she would return by bedtime.

  As the few scattered mountains drew tantalizingly near, the footing became less certain. The mare snorted frequently, and its pace slowed to a crawl. It lifted its hooves unnaturally high to clear the mud that sucked at its fetlocks. Finally, it stopped completely, twisting its head toward home and nickering uneasily at the swampy ground.

  Mola dismounted. “It’s all right, girl. You don’t have to go any farther.” She untied her pack from the saddle, rolling up the twine and placing it in her pocket. Barely a cloud marred the sky, and the afternoon sun warmed the air pleasantly. It would take less than half an hour to reach the cliffs on foot, even slogging through the swamp at its base. “Wait here for me.” She did not know if the horse would understand or obey. The Heralds did not have to worry about such things; their Companions grasped everything they said, whether aloud or in Mindspeech.

  Mola considered tying the reins to a branch of one of the scraggly trees at the edge of the swamp, but discarded the thought. If something happened to her, the horse would starve. And, if it spooked, it might break its neck or leg. It seemed better to risk the hike home than the horse’s life. Sighing, she removed the headstall and tied it to the saddle. To her relief, the horse did not run but settled into quiet grazing.

  Mola took a forward step, the muck sucking noisily at her boots. She frowned, studying the trees again until she found a suitable, sturdy branch. Using a combination of the knife’s blade and her own strength, she broke free a thick limb a bit longer than a tall man. Using that, she poked ahead of herself, gauging the thickness of water and mud before plunging forward.

  The stick did its job, warning Mola of sinkholes and helping maintain balance as she wandered deeper into the swamp. The water rose above her feet, then her calves, and, finally, above the top of her boots. Brackish water soaked her feet, reeking of plant material and dead things. Mola crinkled her nose and continued walking, her attention fixed always ahead, always on the mountain.

  Mola ran the details of the dream through her mind as she walked. It always started the same, a strange and masculine voice narrating the scenes: “Come, Mola, come. You can find it.” It guided her through the swamp to the foot of the mountain, then up a craggy path to a ledge, where a five-leafed variety of pink clover grew. “Pick them, as much as you can carry. They will make the Herald strong.”

  The tone never changed, nor the words. The scene that unraveled in the dream looked eerily similar to what lay precisely before her now: the sunlit swamp, the close gray stone of the mountain. Mola could not help smiling. Filled with sudden excitement, she took a few skipping steps through the muck.

  They saved her. The surprise attack meant to end her life became a missed strike. An enormous shape hurtled past Mola, slamming her with a broad shoulder and knocking her into the filth. Huge, reptilian jaws closed on a rock instead of a woman.

  Swamp drake. Mola screamed and tried to run. But the water hampered her movements, and the mud slowed her to an awkward stumble. Don’t panic. Mola tried to avert her eyes. She knew from the tales of the Heralds that drakes had hypnotic abilities, that catching its glance directly would result in her death. I need a weapon. Survival instinct and common sense would not allow her to leap bodily upon the thing. A long weapon.

  Mola dared not stare at the drake, but she kept the edge of her vision and her ears upon it. For the moment, it was more worried about shoving the stone from its mouth than catching her, but she had no illusions. The moment it freed its jaws, it would come after her again.

  Mola juggled the twine from her pocket, and Corry’s knife. As quickly as she could, she tied the hilt onto the branch, creating a crude spear.

  By the time Mola finished, the swamp drake charged her again. Though lumbering and slow, it had the great advantage of bulk. Massive and deadly, it opened its jaws wide, displaying rows of dagger-like teeth. It had lost the ambush but had not yet given up on its prey.

  Mola screamed again. Shutting her eyes tightly, she shoved the spear toward the creature’s wide-open mouth. The impact of its attack hurled her to the ground, still clutching the branch in desperate, white-knuckled fingers. The drake’s massive body flopped on top of her, grinding her into the muck and water. She managed to choke down a breath of mostly air before becoming pinned, underwater, beneath it.

  No! No! For the second time in a matter of moments, Mola fought panic. The swamp drake had gone still, apparently dead; its own momentum driving the spear deep. Smashed into the muck beneath the water, Mola struggled to wriggle loose. The drake’s body did not budge.

  Mola opened her eyes, only to have them stung closed by silt and blood. The world around her had turned scarlet, soft, and utterly wet. Her head started to ache, and her lungs spasmed in her chest. She had only one last chance to free herself before she drowned, murdered by the very corpse she had created. Charlin needs me. I’m not going to die here!

  Driven by new purpose, Mola writhed and shoved, braced and pushed to no avail. She felt her muscles weakening, the agony in her lungs growing unbearable. Seeking bearings, she buried her hand into the muck. Soft. She tossed aside a handful, churning up the water into wild bubbles. Heading down when air was up defied survival instinct, but Mola forced herself to dig. Seizing and kneading, grinding down the muck beneath her, she created just enough extra
space to squeeze out.

  Mola could not wait until she fully reached the surface before gasping in a lungful of air and mud, blood and water. The combination choked her. She coughed violently, wheezing in air at the end of each paroxysm. She vomited forcefully, repeatedly. Gotta move. Might be more of these things. Eyes watering, lashes filled with silt, she grabbed the end of the branch, trying to wrench it free of the sunken corpse. It resisted.

  Mola’s head felt ready to explode, and she continued to cough as she worked, twisting and pulling until blood boiled into the water and the branch finally slid free. The knife remained attached, to her relief. As she ran as quickly as the swamp allowed, she realized the provision bag still thumped against her shoulder. She had forgotten about it in the struggle and could not help wondering if slipping it off might have allowed her to free herself faster and easier. A Herald would have thought of that.

  Mola had never seen a mountain up close before, and it surprised her. She had expected a tower of pure rock. The Heralds’ tales always involved vertical crags with dodgy handholds and boulders crashing down upon them. Instead, she found a gentle, upward slope as grassy as a pasture and interspersed with trees. Mola climbed mindlessly, swiftly, her only thought to leave the swamp far behind. At length, exhaustion seized her; and she dropped to the ground to rest.

  The grass felt warm and comforting beneath her, cushioning the many aches that descended upon her as fear and excitement ebbed. Mola felt bruised and achy in every part, but no one pain stood out from the others. Overtaxed muscles, pulls, and tears seemed the worst of it. Though covered in sticky drake blood, she did not appear to have shed any of her own. She stank of drying innards and swamp slime.

  Mola opened the supplies Corry had had packed for her, thrilled to find clean, dry clothing as well as food. It seemed foolish to change now, when she had to wallow back through the swamp, but she needed the comfort. Quickly, she stripped down and replaced her grimy clothes. The soft, clean fabric felt wonderful, buoying her mood as well, and confidence swelled through her like second wind. I survived a swamp drake! The thought filled her with pride. I survived an attack—and it didn’t. That same morning, she would not have considered herself capable of such a feat. Charlin will be so proud.