Finding the Way and Other Tales of Valdemar

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Kemoc’s . . . kindhearted.” Grier waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Someone’s got to stand up to the cousins, or they’ll stomp all over him when—”

  Abruptly, he deflated. “Gods damn it,” he muttered. “I don’t want him to be king.”

  “I’m sure it’ll all work out.”

  “Do you really think so?” Grier met her gaze. “Do you think Elspeth will . . . get better?”

  “I don’t know what in the hells is going on with Selenay and her child, Grier,” Lelia said honestly.

  He rested his chin on top of her head. His arms wrapped around her and his shoulders relaxed.

  “So are you going to answer my question?” he asked.

  She blinked into his chest, trying to connect this with that, finally making the connection to the question he’d asked with a mouth full of apples.

  She tilted her head up to look at him. “No.”

  “Ah, well.” He kissed her. “Once again, I shall have to endeavor to persuade you otherwise.”

  She chuckled as he covered her face with kisses and carried her into the bedchamber.

  Lelia flopped onto Maresa’s couch. “I’m perishing.”

  Her friend raised a brow.

  “Of boredom,” Lelia added.

  Maresa snorted. “Your Death Bell Darling’s not keeping you sufficiently entertained?” “Death Bell Darling” was Maresa’s name for Grier, based on the circumstances he’d met Lelia by.

  Both coming out to the Field to try to find who the Death Bell cried for this time, Lelia thought, remembering. They’d both admitted to feeling a mixture of guilt and relief that it wasn’t their loved one the Companions mourned. Then Grier had suggested a drink, which had led to more drinks, which had led to—

  “Is he still asking you to marry him?” Maresa asked.

  “Nightly.”

  “Lelia, you need to let him go.”

  Lelia shrugged. “We’ve an agreement.”

  “Regardless. He’s in love with you.”

  Lelia shrugged again.

  “And what if Wil—”

  “Maresa,” Lelia said, an edge to her voice.

  “What?”

  Lelia sighed, draping an arm across her forehead to block out the late morning sunlight and her friend’s disapproving look.

  Ah, Wil, Lelia thought. You’re better off belonging to Valdemar and your Companion than to a ridiculous Bard. And I’m better off not thinking about you.

  “Well,” Maresa said into the uncomfortable silence, “if you’re so bored—what about a performance?”

  Lelia uncovered her eyes, grateful for both the suggestion and the change in subject. “Go on.”

  “You know that new tavern, the Fancy Dancer?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “That’s pretty much the story,” Maresa said, her eyes twinkling. “They asked me for a Master Bard. I thought I would offer you the chance before I reached out to other contacts.”

  Lelia sat up, thinking. “When?”

  “Oh, a week from whenever you return the contracts,” Maresa said.

  “Brilliant. I’m in.”

  “Any idea on a set?”

  “Mm.” Lelia’s strumming hand moved unconsciously. “Have you heard of the Ostrum Cycle?”

  “No. Wait. Yes.” Maresa squinted at her. “As your handler, I strongly advise against you playing the whole thing. Or half of it. Or one-tenth of it.”

  “Pah,” Lelia said. “Even Ostrum never expected anyone to play it from start to finish. Only pretentious third-years ever try.” And I was a very pretentious third-year, she thought.

  “So . . . you’d be doing the Ostrum Selections?”

  Lelia cocked her head. “Sure. I like that name.” Keeping her tone light, she said, “I’ll do two sets. One candlemark each, and a candlemark break between. Can you wangle that?”

  “Should be easy.” Maresa tilted her head, a faint worry-line between her brows. “Why the extended break?”

  Lelia was saved from having to answer, as Maresa’s two-year-old chose that moment to burst into the study and climb up on his mother’s lap. Topher’s brown-gold hair came from his father, Mayhiu, but he had his mother’s green, green eyes, sparkling like emeralds. He would slay the ladies someday, the more so if he wound up with his mother’s Bardic Gift.

  Topher turned around to stare at Lelia, sucking on his thumb solemnly.

  “I think your son is telling me to go,” Lelia said, rising.

  “Trust me, if he wanted you out he’d say so,” Maresa replied. “What’s your favorite word, Topher?”

  The thumb popped out of the child’s mouth. “No!” he announced loudly, with a volume and sharpness any Bard could envy—and wince at.

  Lelia smiled. “You have my sympathies.”

  “No!”

  “Thank you.” Maresa stroked her son’s hair.

  “No!”

  Lelia bent down and kissed his forehead. “See you later, Tophy-apple.”

  “Luloo!” He exaggerated a wave. “Bye bye!”

  She waved back and left, heading to the Palace, and certain boredom.

  Dinner was the same as always: five courses complete with meat, bread, cheese, and gossip.

  Lelia listened more than she contributed. The chatter was nothing new (the queen, the Borders, whether Elspeth would ever be the heir-in-right), but a few new threads were sneaking in, and both were centered on Talamir.

  Lelia had to admit that Talamir didn’t look well—his skin was more translucent than usual and dark smudges lurked under his eyes. Everyone at Court picked up on it. And talked about it.

  Discreetly, of course.

  The other topic was sheer speculation: Talamir’s “plans” for getting Elspeth under control. Would he pack her off to Evendim to live among the fisherfolk? Foster her with the Holderkin? Spirit her away to the Dhorisha Plains? Lelia thought there might be a germ of truth to the idea of removing the child from Haven, but little substance behind the actual location.

  The air in the hall was more stifling than usual, and mid-meal she went out to get a breath of air. Grier didn’t accompany her—he was locked in conversation with the Chief Councilor, debating tariffs and trade routes.

  She wandered into the gardens, letting the looming darkness of the rose hedges swallow her. Maybe that’s why Talamir comes here, she thought. It’s quiet.

  No sooner had she thought it than someone spoiled it.

  “ . . . an antiquated practice.”

  Lelia stopped within the shadows of two thorny giants. The man’s voice was one row over, practically next to her, but she couldn’t see him—not in this darkness, not through the thick vegetation.

  “I agree completely,” a woman answered. “Did it make sense back in old King Valdemar’s time? Of course! But Selenay has to see how disruptive it is, forcing us to go without an heir. Why, the infighting and jockeying has already begun.”

  “And it’ll only get worse! I say make Elspeth the heir-in-right and damn the pretty horses.”

  Lelia stood, mildly stunned. Are these people even aware of what they’re suggesting? Do they have any grasp of history?

  “The Heralds are just so . ...” The woman searched for words. “Elitist.”

  Lelia clenched her fists, her short nails digging into her palms. This coming from someone whose wardrobe probably costs more than most folk earn in a lifetime!

  “I think it’d be a nice change,” the man said, “not having a Herald on the throne for once.”

  The woman agreed, as the voices wandered off.

  Lelia went back to the table to find Grier’s conversation with the councilor ended. She leaned over and whispered in his ear, “Going.”

  Grier leapt from his seat, looping an arm around her waist.

  “I heard something interesting,” Lelia murmured.

  “Oh?”

  She filled him in as they strolled to the exit, keeping her voice low.

  Grier frowned. “Did you happ
en to see who was saying it?”

  “No. But if I ever hear them here, I’ll point them out to you.”

  “You could do that? Just from hearing—oh, wait.” He blushed. “Bard. Right.”

  Lelia smiled grimly. “Honestly? Those featherheads should be whipped for treason.” Hastily, she added, “Not that Valdemar has any precedent for doing such to its traitors. Though there was that thing King Theran did to—”

  She stopped. Grier’s face had assumed a schooled, patient expression she knew too well.

  “I’m boring you,” she said.

  “We can’t all be Bards, darling.” Grier kissed her cheek. “I’ll be by later.”

  “I’ll be practicing,” she replied, giving him a preemptive punch in the shoulder before he could pose any questions.

  “Ow!” he exclaimed. “How do you manage to always hit the exact same spot?”

  She winked. “Just like plucking a gittern.”

  Back at the suite, Lelia opened the window, collected her gittern, and sat down to play.

  Her mind settled and her Gift expanded. It grew easier each time; she barely had to concentrate any more. Not that she felt anyone tonight, except for the sleeping guildsman temporarily lodged in the suite next door.

  Songs spun out, one by one. Too soon, her wrists began to throb, intruding on her meditation. She set down Bloom and rubbed her arms, trying to massage the fire out of them. She guessed that it had been merely a candlemark since she’d started practice.

  No matter. It gave her a chance to try something.

  Hands back in her lap, Lelia closed her eyes and settled once more, humming “Meetings” under her breath.

  To her surprise, it worked.

  A couple strolled by, and she felt the pulse of their activity. Guards made their rounds. The guildsman slept on. Out in the garden beneath her window—

  Her eyes flew open in surprise.

  Talamir didn’t see her, or if he did he didn’t acknowledge her. He sipped from his glass and gazed up at the frosty stars. Then he wandered away again, winding back toward the center, soft as a ghost.

  She’d felt his life in those moments, though. Her stomach twisted like a rag being wrung dry, and tears slipped down her cheeks.

  “Lelia?”

  She hadn’t heard Grier come in. She started badly, swinging around to find him standing behind her.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, sitting down next to her and taking her hands. “You’re freezing!”

  “I, ah, the windows. It was too warm.” She closed one with fumbling fingers. This new facet of her Gift was but one of many things she’d never explained to Grier. Truth be told—she hadn’t tried to explain it to anyone, and she wasn’t sure she could articulate what she’d felt when she’d brushed against Talamir. His pulse had blazed like a beacon being burned too quickly.

  “Why are you crying?” Grier asked.

  Lelia took a deep breath and smiled. “Talamir wandered close to the window and I saw his face. He looks . . . sad.”

  “Ah.” Grier kissed her cheek. “Well, you know what might cheer him up?”

  “No, what?”

  “If you married me.”

  She bumped her head against his chest like a cat and stood, taking his hand.

  “It would cheer me up,” Grier added.

  She shook her head and led him into the bedchamber.

  Lelia spent the morning in the archives, hunting down the first ten volumes of Ostrum’s Cycle and transcribing what she could before her hands started to cramp.

  Back at the apartment, two things waited for her: Maresa’s contract and a brief note from Grier stating he would be late at the House of Healing. Lelia entrusted the signed contract to a page, then sat down with her new works spread out about her and let them speak to her.

  By dusk, she had the beginnings of an opening set. She lit the fires and the lamps, then sat by the window and practiced her selections. She made it through two candlemarks before the gnawing in her wrists became unbearable.

  Afterward, she sat by the window, pondering arrangement and inflection as she waited for the Queen’s Own’s appearance. She watched until her eyes grew heavy, then went to bed without having seen Talamir or Grier.

  It felt like she’d only just fallen asleep when something roused her. Lelia sat up in bed, heart thundering.

  Gong. Gong. Gong.

  The Death Bell.

  She jumped from the empty bed and sprinted for the door. Clothes were an afterthought; she pulled on a tunic and breeches, dashing barefoot into the gardens and angling toward the Grove.

  A figure rushed to intercept her.

  “Lelia!” Grier called.

  She staggered to a stop. He still wore his working robes. He looked exhausted, but he knew. She saw it in his eyes.

  “Who?” she asked, hands curled into tight fists.

  Grier hesitated, then said the name softly. “Talamir.”

  She stood agape, words failing.

  Over in the Palace and the Heralds Wing, fires and lamps were being kindled, windows filling with golden illumination. Grier put his arms around her as she shivered in the cold, and the Bell’s somber lament tolled on.

  There was no Court dinner that night.

  Lelia spent the day in the archives again, removing herself from the bleak atmosphere of the Palace. She sifted through the last of Ostrum’s Cycle, taking transcriptions and writing notes until her hands burned.

  Dusk crept across the horizon when she returned to the empty suite. She ate alone, working her way through a bottle of wine and a pile of firewood, shuffling and weighing the pages with a growing sense of melancholy. She’d promised Maresa something lighthearted, but it felt all wrong right now.

  As if the Queen didn’t have enough trouble, Lelia thought. As if Talamir isn’t needed right now.

  She randomly chose a song—one of the last from the Cycle—and began to sing, picking out progressions as she found them appropriate.

  Who are we?

  What are we?

  In the end, lost causes

  Death holds to no promises

  And Life does not love me

  As much as I love her

  She heard Grier coming this time. When he spoke, it didn’t surprise her.

  “That’s . . . cheerful,” he said, sitting down in a chair.

  After a moment, she cleared her throat and said, “Ostrum was a Master Bard, oh, during your great-grandfather’s rule. He wrote a song a day, starting after his fifth year graduation. After three years without missing a day, he turned in the material and made Master Bard. But he didn’t stop.”

  Grier said nothing. If she bored him, she couldn’t tell; the shifting shadows of the fire made a mask of his face. She stirred the sheets of vellum with one finger. “He wrote over two thousand songs. Some were ridiculous.” She smiled, thinking of the four-line ditty she’d found in honor of summer’s first sprays of Maiden’s Hope (“Oh pure white blooms / The perfume of hope! / Pray you aren’t / Eaten by goats”).

  “Some were profound. He fell head over heels in love with another Bard, and there are at least three months where he writes about nothing but her. He set their vows to music.” He’d done the same with the proposal, too, but she didn’t mention it; she didn’t want to give Grier any ideas.

  “Five years into the project, he writes about a passing fever. Then a passing ache. Then he realized neither were passing.” She swallowed hard, imagining how Ostrum must have felt. The slowly dawning realization. The comprehension of mortality and how little time he had left. “It was insidious, you see. Took years to manifest, and more to kill him. The Healers told him there was nothing to be done, that whatever he had was a wasting ailment, and incurable.

  “His body betrayed him, but his mind stayed sharp. His wife, Lirian, started transcribing for him. Right up to the last.”

  Grier cleared his throat. “Is that what you were playing? The last one?”

  She shook her head. “He
wrote that when he . . . knew. He thought he was disappointing Lirian by dying.” Her lips quirked. “No, his last song is . . . quite peaceful.”

  A pause. Then Grier said, “Show me?”

  She didn’t need to find the page.

  How shall I haunt you

  So you do not know?

  After I am gone,

  I pray you move on

  Depart from my fond shadow

  And show me, love,

  Show me that you live

  Grier said nothing. Taking a deep breath, Lelia finally spoke.

  “I do love you, Grier. But not enough.”

  “I know,” he said automatically.

  “You’ll go back to your estates,” she said. “I’ll miss you, and you’ll miss me. You’ll inherit, and you’ll be expected to have a wife who runs your home and has your children.” She tapped her chest, over her heart. “I am not her.”

  He said nothing.

  She crossed to him and kissed his cheek. “We both know that if you don’t fill the role, one of your cousins will.” He shuddered at the notion. “I’d never ask you to give it up for me. I—”

  He put a hand to her lips, stilling her. “Let’s enjoy what’s left of spring,” he said softly. “Let’s pretend for a little longer that Valdemar doesn’t expect anything from me. Let’s pretend I’ll still be here after Midsummer.”

  Lelia closed her eyes. Whispering, she said, “I just spoke to Valdemar.”

  “Oh?” He wound his arms around her neck. “What does Valdemar say?”

  “Duty, sacrifice, no one true way. The usual.”

  He chuckled.

  “But she agrees. It’s okay for us to do this a little longer. Not much longer, though.” Lelia opened her eyes. “Okay?”

  He gave her a firm kiss in answer.

  The Fancy Dancer smelled like fresh paint and new thatch. So much so that Lelia had to go out the back door for fresh air during her break.

  She stood alone in a corner of the outer courtyard, rubbing her wrists and drinking her way through a cup of icy-cold wine. The tavern was a blessed reprieve from the unhappy Court dinners of the last few days. Meals there had become solemn affairs, with courtiers in mourning attire and the queen scarcely seen. Grier had gone without her tonight, mostly out of a sense of duty to his family’s place at Court. He’d promised to come by and catch the last of her show once dinner wound down.