Tempest

by Mercedes Lackey

  He couldn’t, no matter what had happened by the river.

  His life was already mapped out. In less than two months he’d finish his schooling and return to Strand Keep, ready to take his place beside his father. As the eldest son, becoming Lord Strand was all he’d ever wanted out of life.

  Certainly he didn’t want some kind of mystical healing power—even if he believed in such things. Which he didn’t.

  “Hm.” Master Adrun leaned back and folded his arms. “I find it somewhat odd that, despite the fact your friend nearly drowned, you are the one still abed while he is out carousing. Healing carries a cost, young man.”

  “I don’t care what you think.” Anger sparked in Tereck’s belly. “I have a future mapped out, and it doesn’t include any of this Gift nonsense.”

  The last words were an echo of his father’s opinion whenever a Bard or Healer visited Strand Keep. They never stayed long, despite his mother’s attempts at hospitality.

  Healer Adrun gave him a disappointed look—as if being a Healer were somehow better than being a Lord. “I can see there’s no talking to you about it,” he said. “At any rate, I’d like you to spend the night. You can leave in the morning, once I look you over.”

  “What about Ro?”

  “Oh, he’s in fine health. When you’re discharged, I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you.”

  “That hardly seems fair.” Tereck scowled at the abandoned bed.

  Master Adrun gave him an undecipherable look. “I think it quite fair, given the circumstances. Now, finish up your dinner and get some rest.”

  Despite his dismay that Ro was free to go and he was not, Tereck had to admit, deep down, that food and sleep sounded more appealing than going out. Not that he’d say as much to the Healer.

  “Fine,” he said. “But you’d better release me in the morning. I have classes to attend.” And a Collegium to graduate from as quickly as possible.

  • • •

  The next day, a Healer Trainee brought him breakfast, which Tereck wolfed down.

  “Could you bring me another cinnamon bun?” he asked. Might as well use his sickbed status to good effect.

  “I’ll try,” the lad said. “Might need one for myself, too, as is.” With a wink, he took the tray and whisked out of the room.

  A few moments later, a tap came at the half-open door.

  “Yes?” Tereck said.

  To his surprise it was not Ro or Master Adrun who entered, but a young woman with light brown hair, dressed all in scarlet. A Bard.

  As if he needed another person with so-called powers meddling in his life. The Healer was bad enough.

  “Are you Tereck Strand?” she asked.

  “Yes.” He folded his arms, pretending he didn’t feel at a disadvantage lying in bed while a pretty stranger paid him a visit.

  “I’m Shandara Tem,” she said. “Master Adrun said I might want to talk to you about my project.”

  “What project?” Her name was familiar, though he couldn’t imagine why. He had no reason to know any Bards by name. Some of the Trainees, certainly, as they shared classes, but not anyone in full Scarlets.

  She gave him a quiet smile. “I’m studying the emergence of difficult Gifts. My particular interest is late-onset manifestations.”

  He stared at her, feeling suddenly as cold as he had when he’d plunged into the river. “That has nothing to do with me.”

  “Oh.” She stopped smiling. “Master Adrun said you saved your friend’s life by using a latent Healing Gift. Wait—” She held up her hand as he started to speak. “—just listen for a few minutes, and then I’ll leave. You don’t have to deny or admit to anything. All right?”

  “Very well.” Part of him wanted to demand she go immediately, but another part—the part that had buzzed with wasps on the riverbank—kept him from speaking the words aloud.

  Was it true that he’d saved Ro? If it was, which he could not quite believe, then that was worth acknowledging.

  Worth a great deal more, really. His thoughts shied away from the implications.

  “Thank you.” The Bard sat gracefully on the second bed. “Gifts are funny things. They have a mind of their own sometimes—sort of like Companions, I suppose. Maybe they come from the same source. Any amount of wishing, or forcing, or rejecting can’t control a Gift, no matter how much we might want it to be the case.”

  There was a rueful note in her voice, and Tereck suddenly recalled where he’d heard her name before.

  “Aren’t you the Bard who supposedly put the audience to sleep during the Midwinter Recital?”

  She nodded. “I was a Trainee then, and yes I did. It was a mortifying moment, because I hadn’t been planning on doing that at all. Sometimes Gifts manifest when we least expect it, and in embarrassing ways.”

  Tereck thought on that a moment. “But can’t you just ignore it? I mean, you were trying to do something, achieve an effect, and it went too far. If you hadn’t been playing music, it never would have happened.”

  “That’s because it’s a Bardic Gift.” She gazed at him, her hazel-green eyes full of warm sympathy. “But for me, to stop playing for the rest of my life would be like cutting off a hand. I’m not whole without my music—so I had to learn how to work with my Gift and accept it for what it was. I had to get out of my own way. I imagine different Gifts react differently to various situations.”

  Tereck didn’t like the direction the conversation was going, but he couldn’t quite ask her to leave. He dropped his gaze to the brown woolen blanket covering him.

  “Let’s say someone had the Healer’s touch,” Shandara continued. “Maybe it activates whenever that person is around someone wounded or in pain. That can happen anytime, anywhere. Beyond having unintended consequences, an uncontrolled Gift can be dangerous.”

  Fingers knotted in the blanket, he darted a suspicious look at her. Did Shandara have the ability to cast the Truth Spell? Could Bards even do that, or just Heralds? There was so much he didn’t know about the Gifts—so much he hadn’t thought he’d ever need to know.

  “Dangerous how?” he asked.

  She tilted her head at him. “Using Gifts—especially Healing—can drain you.”

  Well, that explained why he’d been in worse shape than Ro. “What else?”

  “You’d have to ask Master Adrun about this, but some Healing requires a very deft touch. What if an untrained Healer attempted something, and ended up killing the person they were trying to help?”

  Tereck shifted uncomfortably under the covers. That was a terrible thought. “Couldn’t the person just not use the Gift?”

  “Is that possible?” She raised one eyebrow. “Could you be around someone in pain and simply ignore it?”

  “This isn’t about me.”

  “Perhaps it isn’t, after all.” She let out a sigh, then stood and smoothed the red silk of her tunic. “I’ll leave you to your rest then, Tereck Strand. Thank you for listening to me.”

  He felt as though he’d disappointed her. And maybe himself. But for him to have the Gift of Healing simply wasn’t an option.

  “I appreciate your visit,” he said, though truly he hadn’t.

  “I wish you well,” she said, moving to the door, then standing aside as the Trainee came in with another cinnamon bun. “Enjoy the rest of your breakfast.”

  “Thank you,” Tereck said.

  Then she was gone, and the lad handed him the pastry.

  “I already ate mine,” he said. “But here you are. I’ve got to get back to the main infirmary.”

  “Go ahead.”

  The Trainee darted away, leaving Tereck to eat his cinnamon bun in solitude. Somehow, it didn’t taste half as sweet as the first one.

  • • •

  During the next week, Tereck concentrated on his classes, and tried to put the ev
ents of that day out of his mind. Whatever Shandara Tem had said, he was determined to ignore any future manifestation of his Healing Gift. If that was even what had happened.

  That determination began to erode one morning in his history class.

  At first, Tereck thought his inability to concentrate was due to tiredness, but soon he realized it was something more.

  A girl in the front row, Trainee Elwen, winced as she leaned over to pick up her fallen book. The disorienting blur slipped over Tereck’s eyes, and he saw a lavender light pulsing from just below her stomach. The wasps buzzed annoyingly in his head.

  Clenching his jaw, he forced himself to ignore the tickling sensation until the end of class. Whatever was wrong with the girl, it didn’t seem serious.

  Then, at lunch, he was besieged by an awareness of a multitude of low-level ailments. The boy two tables over seemed to have a toothache, and one of the girls seated nearby had a bright flare of pink on her hand. Blinking, Tereck saw with his normal vision that her palm was bandaged. At least she’d seen the Healers already.

  “Are you all right?” Ro asked, clearly noticing Tereck’s distraction.

  “Well enough,” Tereck said. “Just not hungry. Excuse me.”

  He stood, and almost lost his balance as his vision doubled again. Despite Ro’s murmur of concern, Tereck snatched up his plate and cup and hurried off. He needed to get away from everyone, as fast as he could.

  Going back to his room would mean passing fellow students in the hallways, and he couldn’t bear it. The wasps in his head buzzed so loudly he could barely concentrate as he deposited his dishes in the tubs and then headed for the outside.

  It was quieter in the courtyard, and he was beyond grateful for it. Without thinking, he turned right, away from the buildings of the Collegium. Head down, he paced over the stones. When they ended, he stepped into the grasses and kept going. It didn’t matter where, as long as it was away.

  Some minutes later, he fetched up at a fence. Startled, he glanced up to see that he’d arrived at Companion’s Field. The buzzing in his brain had thankfully died down. He took a deep breath of grass-scented air and rested his forearms on the smooth, weathered wood. Farther down the green Field, a handful of Companions raced back and forth, the wind making banners of their brilliant white manes and tails.

  He’d never wanted this. Never dreamed of being a Herald or wished for any kind of mystical ability. Ever since he was a child he’d been practical. Focused on the future, on his role as heir.

  Hadn’t he?

  Something flickered through his thoughts, a niggling memory. Tereck closed his eyes, feeling the spring sunshine on his face, and tried to recall what it was.

  A book! There had been a book once, with gold lettering and bright illustrations, filled with fanciful tales he’d begged his older sister to read him. She almost never did, and only late at night, by the light of a single candle.

  One day he’d found the book tucked under her mattress and pulled it out. He’d taken it to the Hall and sat by the fire, happily leafing through the colorful pages. Pictures of Gryphons and Mages, Kings and Adventurers filled his mind. Until his father had snatched the book from his hands.

  “What’s this?” Lord Strand had demanded, closing the cover and reading the title. “Tales of the Past? More like Tales of Rubbish. Where did you get this?”

  Wide-eyed, Tereck had stared up at his father’s stern features and said nothing. The cold edge to Lord Strand’s voice meant trouble, and Tereck had already learned it was better to keep quiet when faced with that icy tone.

  “Nothing to say?” Lord Strand had turned and tossed the book into the fire. “Listen up, my boy. These things don’t exist, and believing in such nonsense makes a man soft. You don’t want to be soft, do you?”

  Mutely, Tereck had shaken his head. Behind Lord Strand, the flames were devouring the book. As Tereck watched, a bright illustration of a regal Gryphon blackened and curled.

  “Good. No heir of mine should give any credence to claims of magic and such. Provided he wants to remain heir. Now, off with you, and no more fancies, you hear?”

  “Yes, milord,” Tereck had said, then scampered back to his room, holding back tears at the thought of that beautiful book burned all to ashes.

  A quiet nicker returned him to the present. He opened his eyes to see a Companion standing a mere yard away. It regarded him from one deep blue eye, its coat shining silver in the midday light.

  Tereck swallowed, tasting the memory of his boyhood tears. After that day, he’d heeded his father, and turned his mind only to practicalities. Lord Strand’s expectations were like iron, a cage that Tereck had stepped into and then forgotten the bars were even there.

  Until now.

  Throat tight with pent-up emotion, he stared at the Companion. It was starlight and glimmer, hope and sorrow.

  It was magic.

  It was not for him, but that didn’t matter. His father might have thrown all Tereck’s young dreams into the fire, but, unlike the book, they had not burned away. Been covered over with ashes and shadows, maybe, but his yearning for a magical future was there, waiting for him to finally let himself remember.

  The Companion bobbed its head, then pivoted on light feet and cantered away, a silver breeze over the green grass. Tereck took a shaky breath, then another. Slowly, he turned to face the Collegium.

  His path had changed inexorably the moment he’d rescued Ro from the river. Much as he’d tried to deny it, he had a Gift—and nobody, not his father, not the Masters of the Collegium, not even the Queen herself could change that fact.

  Gifts were meant to be used. For certain, his own would drive him mad if he didn’t learn how to train it, to control it. There was no denying there would be struggles ahead—not the least of them with his family.

  Although . . . Tereck remembered his mother singing him ballads of valor and adventure, and how strongly she’d advocated he come to the Collegium, even against his father’s wishes. Perhaps she’d suspected. Perhaps she’d buried a Gift of her own, had let Lord Strand smother it with the weight of disapproval and expectation.

  But that wouldn’t happen to Tereck. Breathing easier than he had in years, he strode out, headed for the Healer’s Collegium. He had some apologies and explanations to make—to Master Adrun, to Shandara Tem, to Ro—and a new set of studies to begin.

  Maybe he couldn’t be both a Lord and a Healer.

  But he was willing to try.

  Dawn of a New Age

  Dylan Birtolo

  “Aren’t you worried?”

  Bassyl turned sideways and stepped ahead of Gan as they navigated the crowded market streets. The foot traffic slowed to a standstill as the bodies pressed together so tightly that Bassyl felt people on all sides. He stretched his neck, taking advantage of his height to see over the crowd.

  Ahead, a priest of Vkandis strolled down the center of the road with an escort of two soldiers flanking him. The common people shoved each other to the edges in an attempt to get out of the way and give the priest a wide berth.

  As the priest passed, Bassyl met the holy man’s eyes for a moment before dropping his gaze. Fear crawled up his spine, chilling him despite the warm sun beating down on his neck and making him sweat. Bassyl resisted the urge to reach up and mop his head, not wanting to do anything to draw attention. The priest continued walking without a hitch in his step, letting Bassyl release his breath. As soon as he and his escort left the vicinity, traffic began flowing again.

  He shrugged and looked back at Gan. “Sometimes I am, but I can’t change it. I spent years trying to fight it, but that’s a pointless battle.”

  Gan stepped close and grabbed Bassyl’s arm, hard enough to pull him to a stop. Lifting up on his toes, he leaned forward so that he could whisper and still be heard over the din of business. “Don’t you know what they’d do if they
knew you’re shaych?”

  Bassyl ripped his arm free and walked away, threading his way through the crowd in a rush. He didn’t so much as glance over his shoulder as he headed to the nearest side street that offered some shelter from the crowd.

  Behind him, the larger Gan knocked a prospective buyer into one of the tables, causing stacks of decorative bowls to rattle and wobble precariously.

  Once Bassyl was a few feet past the opening, he whirled around to face Gan. “You shouldn’t bring it up in the middle of a crowded street!”

  “I thought you said you weren’t worried.”

  “Not all the time, no. But that doesn’t mean I talk about it in the open. You’re right, you know. If the wrong people did find out, I could lose everything. I’ve lost sleep in the middle of the night because I heard a strange sound outside my door and thought it was the Temple Guard coming to arrest me. So yes, I do worry. Why do you think I took so long to tell you?”

  Gan looked down and clasped his callused hands together in front of his body, rolling them over one another. He glanced over his shoulder to the entrance of the alley before he looked back up at Bassyl. “Sorry. I didn’t think about it. I was curious.”

  Bassyl smiled and reached out, resting his hand on Gan’s shoulder. “It’s okay to ask questions. I don’t mind talking about it. Just, maybe save it for behind closed doors?” After a nod from the smaller man, Bassyl continued. “I need to get back to the shop. I’ve been gone long enough as it is. The crowds came earlier than I anticipated.”

  The two men entered the large press of people and navigated the path back to Bassyl’s shop. Calling it a shop was a generous description. It was little more than a stall, just like most of the establishments on the street, but the location was reserved for the entire year after paying an exorbitant fee to the Temple for the rights to that tiny plot of space. Bassyl had spent three years petitioning for this specific area of street real estate. Its primary advantage was being located directly in front of his house, enabling him to resupply his wares in the middle of a shopping day without a costly trip across half of Ebervergen during the middle of shopping hours.