Tempest

by Mercedes Lackey

  Which was how Riann found herself slipping out of the village gates after the SunDescending ceremony. Heart pounding so hard she wondered why no one had heard it and followed her, she hid among the brinle bushes crowded tight against the log walls surrounding the village, the same prickly bushes that gave the village its name, and waited for darkness to fall.

  The clack of the closing gates made the hair rise on the back of her arms. There was no going back now. No waiting and wondering if it had all been a real dream as opposed to a vision.

  No matter. She had two things to accomplish before dawn. Three, really, if she included surviving whatever terrors the coming night held. First she had to find the wagon family, and then she had to convince them to turn around. If all went well, she’d be back before dawn and would be able to slip back into the village as easily as she’d slipped out.

  There was only one road leading out of Brinlevale—or leading to the village, depending on which way you were traveling, so Riann didn’t have to take time figuring out which way to go.

  Unsure what to expect, but determined to be ready for whatever happened, she’d wrapped her heavy winter cloak into a bundle and tied it with twine, then had done the same with a blanket and her winter boots. She’d tucked the dried bread and sausage she’d found at the bakery and at the butcher shop into the boots so they wouldn’t get squished before tying the boots into the bundle. She’d managed to hide both bundles in the bushes during one of her trips to the river for water.

  The village well had been sealed closed when Petre’s boy drowned. A new well was being dug, but harsh winters had slowed the progress. Meanwhile, the river provided the villagers with plenty of water; they just had to fetch it.

  A good part of Riann’s days were filled with hauling water. First, for Miz Burdock, then for whoever paid Miz Burdock the best price. Miz Burdock claimed Riann was just earning her keep, but some of the villagers disagreed and slipped Riann a coin here and there when they could do so unobserved.

  She had those coins with her now, sewn into the lining of her winter cloak. They clinked softly as she drew the bundles from their hiding place in the brush. Hopefully, she wouldn’t need the coins, but their soft music was reassuring, a promise that she was ready, no matter what difficulties lie ahead.

  Here and there, trees thrust skyward, their deep shadows looming like black giants alongside the road. Dust from the road teased her nose, and the damp scent of the river seemed stronger in the night air.

  The moon would be up soon, a fact she’d been relying on. And the clouds that gathered during the afternoon had drifted off as darkness fell, leaving the night sky sparkling with stars that cast their faint light over the road.

  Able to see only the faintest outlines, Riann walked cautiously along the road, feeling trapped by the slowness of her movements. She fought down a giggle—strange that she generally moved this slowly throughout each and every day, and hardly thought twice about it. But now, when no one was watching, when it would actually be dangerous to move fast, she resented being forced to move slow.

  It felt odd, really, to walk normally, without the shuffle-step she’d adopted after being sick all those years ago. At first, it felt as though she was walking wrong, but after a while, the movement felt so natural she began to worry she’d forget the shuffle-step when she returned to the village—if she returned to the village—so she started mixing it up, challenging herself to switch back and forth between the two. Thinking about her steps also kept her from thinking about how alone she was out here, by herself, in the middle of the night, on a deserted road.

  When the moon finally rose and she could see the road almost as well as she could during the day, Riann forgot about the shuffle-step and walked as quickly as she could, trying to ignore the occasional squeaks and squawks coming from the bushes and trees.

  The night air grew chill, and she unfolded her winter cloak and put it on, then carefully pulled the bread and sausage from her boots and laced them on. She allowed herself a quick bite of food, then wove through the brush toward a small stream, intending to quench her thirst. She could still hear the river, though its roar was muted by distance.

  She started as something squeaked in a bush near her left foot. Before she realized what she was doing, Riann had turned around and was headed back to the road. She’d try again . . . later.

  • • •

  Near dawn, Riann found what she’d been looking for. Exhausted by the night of walking, she almost passed it by. The family had pulled the wagon—its wooden sides high and sturdy looking beneath a white canvas roof—completely off the road into a small copse of willow trees, picketing the horses by a burbling stream before settling down for the night.

  Something was wrong, though. She could feel it. Like a mess of worms in her belly, only worse—like worms in her belly and spiders in her hair.

  The wagon looked exactly like the one in her vision, but it seemed . . . vacant. Abandoned.

  It couldn’t be abandoned, of course. There had been a family in her vision—hadn’t there?

  The horses moved restlessly, stomping their feet and snorting softly. Riann froze. Of course the horses knew she was there. Horses had very sensitive noses. They could probably smell her.

  Quickly, Riann moved closer, staying as far from the horses as she could. No use spooking the horses and waking up the wagon family. They might think she’d come to rob them, or worse. She listened for sounds from inside—voices, snoring, breathing—anything that would tell her that there were other people around.

  With a start, she realized that she wanted to find people, needed to find them. The walk she’d made from the village had been the only time in her life that she hadn’t been around people. Even when she’d walked down to the river for water, there’d always been villagers around, doing their various chores. Awake or asleep or drunk with too much wine, she knew what people sounded like. What they smelled like.

  Riann took a deep breath and almost choked. She knew what death smelled like, too.

  Panic bubbled in her throat as she circled the wagon. She bit back a scream as she stumbled over something that blatted . . . then moved.

  A goat. Tied to one of the rear wheels. The animal scrambled to its feet, bleating plaintively as she passed, but Riann ignored the goat, focusing her attention on the mounds scattered around a smoldering fire ring a little more than a wagon’s length away.

  Cautiously, she stepped up to the first mound, got close enough to see the crumpled cloak, the staring eyes.

  She’d found them—the wagon family.

  All dead.

  Quickly, she went from body to body around the fire ring, hoping against hope to find someone alive.

  And failing.

  Five men of varying ages and three women, one barely more than a girl. It looked as though they’d gathered together for the evening meal and had been seated on logs or stones, facing the fire.

  Whatever had happened to them, happened fast. There was still food on some of the discarded plates.

  Riann’s breath caught in her throat, and the sausage she’d eaten early in the night soured in her throat. Her vision had been true; she’d just misinterpreted it.

  The faces staring at her had been these faces, not the villagers. The bodies weren’t as numerous as she remembered, and they weren’t in the village square, but they were swollen, eyes staring, skin stretched—just as she remembered.

  She hadn’t had to leave the village after all. Hadn’t needed to . . .

  A tiny sound caught her attention, bringing her back from the edge of panic.

  There was something inside the wagon—someone.

  Moving carefully away from the fire ring, Riann once again circled the wagon until she found a door in the rear, complete with steps that looked as though they could be tucked away when they weren’t needed. She put a foot on the lowest step and s
tared at the door as if daring it to open.

  What if whoever or whatever had done this to the family had seen her? What if they were waiting inside?

  Another tiny sound, almost like a weak cough.

  Riann lurched up the last stair, grabbed the door handle, and twisted.

  The door swung open on silent hinges, moonlight pouring into the tiny room beyond. She had never been inside a traveling wagon before. It looked like a miniature house, packed together neatly in a space that had to be the size of Miz Burdock’s kitchen. There were cupboards everywhere, and a bed along one side.

  The bed was empty.

  Another tiny cough.

  It came from the far end of the room.

  It seemed to take forever to get from one end of the wagon to the other. The place smelled of recently cooked lamb and something else she couldn’t identify.

  Until she found herself looking into a cradle.

  The baby lying on its stomach couldn’t be more than a few months old. A wave of icy cold washed over Riann as she realized that once again she was too late. The tiny form was as still as the bodies around the fire ring.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, all thoughts of the villagers fleeing from her mind. She hadn’t seen this, hadn’t . . .

  “I’m so sorry.” Her voice broke and she sagged back against a set of cupboards, tears blurring her vision.

  The tiny sound came again.

  From the cradle in front of her.

  With a soft cry, Riann snatched the baby from the wooden box, turning it over and cradling it in her arms. Her nose wrinkled as she recognized the other “smell” she hadn’t been able to identify at first.

  The baby’s face was bright red, as if he—or she—had been crying. The little mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, then opened wide.

  Riann had never been so glad to hear a baby cry.

  She quickly went through the wagon, finding clean cloth diapers—and not so clean ones—then rapidly changing the little one. And discovering that he was definitely a she.

  “Hush now, baby girl,” she cooed. “Hush.”

  Changing a dirty diaper didn’t seem to be enough. The baby wrinkled up its nose and let out another plaintive cry. It hiccupped and the crying faded to a weak squeal. Alarmed, Riann looked around the wagon again, trying to find something to feed the little one.

  It took some time, but she finally realized that the noise she kept hearing outside was the goat, not some deadly night creature. She found a clean mug in one of the cupboards, laid the baby gently back in the cradle, and hurried outside.

  Riann had never milked a goat, but she’d milked plenty of cows. The poor thing’s udder was so swollen she was afraid she would hurt the animal when she tried to milk it, but the goat seemed relieved.

  “I’ll do more in a minute,” she promised as the mug quickly filled. There had to be a bucket around somewhere. She’d find it and then . . .

  Riann dismissed the thought from her mind. She ran back inside, found a clean cloth she could tie over the top of the mug, teasing a corner loose so it draped down over the side, then let the baby suck on the end of the cloth as she tilted the mug, slowly letting the goat’s milk saturate the cloth.

  It wasn’t the best way to feed a baby, but it worked.

  • • •

  After the baby had fallen back to sleep, Riann took a deep breath and headed outside.

  The two huge horses snorted and shuffled as she drew close, but they didn’t shy away, seemingly happy for some human companionship. She let them sniff her hand, stroking each of them in turn. “Too bad ya can’t talk,” she said in a low voice. “Ya had to’ve seen somethin’ of what’s gone on here.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at the fire ring and shook her head. Not some kind of mortal sickness. From what she remembered, babies were the hardest hit when families got sick, and the baby in the wagon seemed just fine.

  Some kind of poison, then?

  Riann wasn’t a Healer, she wasn’t even an herbalist. The best she could do was get back to the village and let everyone know . . .

  Her breath stopped in her throat so quickly Riann thought she was choking.

  She couldn’t go back to the village. She’d have to explain why she’d gone wandering off on her own in the dark. How she’d come across an abandoned wagon. How she’d found a baby without a mother.

  She’d have to tell them about the vision.

  Riann took a deep breath. She had someone to care for now. Someone who depended on her. She couldn’t let that grumpy old priest feed her to the cleansing fires.

  Moonlight glinted off a necklace hanging around the throat of one of the women. Riann gritted her teeth, walked over and took the necklace from the woman’s throat, trying not to touch the icy skin.

  She absently noted that the bodies hadn’t been touched by predators, another sign of poison or mortal sickness, according to Old Man Burdock.

  Well, if they’d been sick, she’d know in a day or so.

  But the baby is fine.

  Riann wrapped the necklace, a finely wrought piece of what looked to be silver with a glowing blue stone in the center, tightly in her fist, forced herself to look at the bodies one by one, then headed back to the wagon, planning to set out the moment the sun broke over the horizon.

  She’d heard the stories of the Great Traitor, a Karsite captain who’d been “chosen” by one of the white demon horses the Valdemarans called Companions. The Companion had saved the captain from the cleansing fires. When she’d first started having the dreams, Riann had prayed every day for a white horse to magically appear and carry her away.

  No white horses had shown up.

  So now, she’d have to go to them.

  Yes, Valdemar was a long way away, and yes, they had demons.

  But they didn’t burn children in Valdemar.

  All she had to do was get there. She could live with white demons.

  And so could the baby.

  One Last Night Manning the Home Station

  Brigid Collins

  As the last rays of a blazing orange sunset gilded the wheat ripening in the fields, the soft southern breeze carried traces of frog song from the forest and mixed them with the cacophony of the small town engagement celebration Yerra was about to sneak away from.

  The warmth of the cloth-wrapped pie she’d hidden in her satchel pressed against her hip, its crushed berry and pastry fluff scent teasing her nose.

  With a glance behind her, she tightened her grip on the strap across her shoulder in anticipation. She’d seen a flash of white in the trees earlier this afternoon. Footsteps like bell chimes had confirmed her assumption: A Companion waited out there, by the Herald’s Waystation outside of town.

  The knowledge sent all kinds of exciting hopes whizzing through Yerra’s mind. Maybe the Companion recognized her as the one who’d worked to keep the Waystation from complete neglect over the last few years. Maybe Yerra would never have to endure the quiet sleepiness of her small town and its petty squabbles after tonight.

  Maybe the Companion was calling her to serve Valdemar in earnest at last.

  But she couldn’t turn up at the Waystation to meet the Companion empty-handed. That wouldn’t reflect well on the image she’d tried to make of herself.

  And so she’d decided to take one of Mother’s amazing berry medley pies from the party.

  “A waste of good berries, is what it is,” Mother had said this morning as Yerra and her sisters worked to prepare the pies. “Why we should even attend the party is beyond me. We’ve no relation to the bride’s family, and a good thing that is. And now the Millers will be associated with those thieving Carpenters, such a shame. Marli is as selfish a leech as her parents, stealing a nice boy like Barret from the respectable girls of town. I tell you, he’d have taken Yerra when she comes of age ne
xt year if it weren’t for that wench.”

  Yerra shuddered at the memory. She’d always known Mother had such designs for her, but Marli’s engagement to Barret had saved her from a boring fate.

  Not that anything was wrong with the Miller boy, but from the first and only time she’d seen a Herald up close, Yerra had had grander plans for herself. Unfortunately, while she had stuck on how brave and strong the Herald had been, everyone else in town had focused on how he judged the well near the forest to belong to her family’s thieving neighbors, and the following animosity between families had continued without cease to this day. The whole community had labeled Heralds as “outsiders” and “troublemakers” ever since.

  Yerra didn’t belong with such small-minded people.

  Her scan of the party didn’t reveal anyone watching her, so she figured she had a clear shot to make her escape. Her satchel thumped against her hip as she started slipping away from the revelry. Maybe she should hold the pie in her hands as she approached the Waystation? That would make a good impression on the Companion.

  “Yerra, where are you going?”

  Yerra cringed at her brother’s voice. She must have missed him, too caught up in deciding how to greet the Companion. She didn’t answer his question as he trotted up beside her. Luckily, Rhen could carry a conversation all by himself.

  “Mother’s aiming to get us all out of here as soon as possible,” he said. “She wants us to go make our congratulations to the groom now.”

  “To the groom?” Yerra asked. She’d already kept the Companion waiting all afternoon. She didn’t think she could afford to take the time for the congratulations, but she also realized she didn’t have much of a choice at this point.

  Chewing on her lip, she allowed her brother to shepherd her back to the party. They wove through the people in the square, skirting the edge of the roped-off dancing ground. The bandstand shook to the rhythm of stomping feet, while fiddles and tin whistles sang the merriest tunes their players had to offer. The town didn’t have any trained Bards to speak of, but the farmers drank the music in anyway.