Valdemar Books
Page 964
Darian’s jaw set and his muscles were visibly tense, but that was nothing compared to what Keisha sensed from him. He was angry, disappointed, frustrated - upset at a very deep level over this news, yet - there was an undercurrent of relief, as well. Keisha sensed that inside, this was one of the end results that her lover secretly wanted. She sensed an undercurrent of -
Relief? Happiness at - freedom?
Kelvren growled, jarring her attention back to the task of stitching the wound. Darian straightened his shirt, and replied.
“Mother. Father. When you were gone, I had only feelings of fear and abandonment. I also had myself, and one more thing. I had my memories of you.”
Darian’s eyes clouded in introspection. “In a way, this entire journey was not coming back to you, it was a way of confirming that my memories were real - that even though I remembered that you loved me, I wanted to be sure of it. When you go from childhood to manhood, everything changes, until you’re not even sure that the very things that made you were real. Now that we’re reunited, we have found that it was real. Then. But then is not now. Now, we are new people, and we love each other all over again, in a new way.”
Darian is good at this. Maybe he learned it from Firesong, or maybe Silverfox - how to pick the right thing to say, to soothe and support the listener so the meaning of what is said doesn’t crush them. He has the heart of a Healer, that is for sure. That may be why I love him so much.
Kullen nodded, his arms crossed loosely, listening to Darian intently. Daralie rested against her husband’s shoulder, squeezing his nearest hand slightly - something very natural between them, Keisha could tell, and long-practiced.
I wonder if, when we are that age - may we live so long - we will be that easy with each other, that comfortable. Kullen just lists to the side, already knowing that Daralie will be there. They do not have “powers” like Empathy and Healing, these Gifts, but just look at them. Being in love is enough.
“You have a new home now, and so do I. Mine is far away from here, but your hearts will always be my home. My heart will always be your home. I have to return to my work in Valdemar and the Vales, with the woman that I love.”
Darian looked at Keisha with an expression that showed no doubt in that statement at all.
Another moment, and Darian looked back to his parents. “I love you both, so much.”
“We love you, too, Darian,” Daralie half-whispered. “We are so proud of you. And what you have done for this tribe is - ”
Darian smiled a little and shook his head, holding up one hand. “ - is done lovingly, for no charge, price or demand. It was done for the principle, for the honor, and for you.”
Kullen grunted, and nodded once, in acknowledgmerit. Kuari hooted softly, as if answering, then twisted his head to receive a slow scratching from Darian while his bondmate collected his thoughts.
Darian took a deep breath. “Personally, though I need you to do something for me.”
Darian clasped his hands in front of him, and despite his own bandages he stood perfectly straight up and strong. “You have children now, my brothers and sisters who I’d never met before and, honestly - who I just don’t know. I may never know them. We are siblings by blood, but not by culture, except for one vital link.”
“The link is you, and your knowledge . . . the things that you can teach them. Teach them that their oldest brother is a Knight of Valdemar, and that he is a Hawkbrother, and teach them what those things mean. Teach them that his friends of many tribes, cultures and species came here to defend Raven, and them. Teach them that they can live, and love, and actually fulfill the kinds of duties and risks and grand adventures that you used to tell me about in hero stories when I was just your little boy, Mother. Teach them that it isn’t beyond their reach, that they can be brave, and travel, and learn amazing tilings, and do what is compassionate at whatever cost, Father. Teach them for me, because I cannot be here to do it myself.”
Daralie wept, and Kullen’s eyes looked near to crying as well. Keisha held her breath, and as she knotted the last stitch of Kelvren’s wound, a teardrop from her own eyes fell on the blotting pad.
Epilogue
“No,” Keisha said adamantly, and Ayshen’s face fell. “No flower arches, no procession from the village, and especially no ceremonial dance. I hate those rigid dances - too much structure. I feel like I’m spellcasting, not celebrating, when I’m stuck in one of those things.”
Ayshen looked to Darian for support, and Darian shook his head. “We’re all agreed on this, old friend,” he said with sympathy. “You got your chance to drag me through all the ceremonies you wanted last spring. We want a small and private ceremony, a modest celebration, and that’s that.”
“No fireworks,” Steelmind put in. “No invitations to every Vale within flying distance. No canopies carried by hovering gryphons.”
“You can invite the tervardi to come sing, though,” Darian added thoughtfully, and Ayshen’s snout lifted a little.
“Couldn’t we manage to combine it with the Harvest Faire?” he asked hopefully. “Think what a fabulous celebration that would make! And with all of the symbology of the coming fertility, and new births the next spring!”
Keisha and Darian exchanged a glance. “I don’t suppose the Tayledras are familiar with the concept of elopement, are they?” she whispered, as Ayshen launched into another set of grandiose plans.
He laughed and held her closer, and she snuggled into his embrace without a shadow of doubt coming between them. “Maybe we ought to consider introducing it to them,” he whispered back, and she stifled a laugh against his shoulder.
Ayshen glared at them. “This is your future I am planning! Aren’t you paying attention?” he asked irritably.
All four of them exchanged a look, and burst out in helpless laughter.
“Ayshen, my friend,” Steelmind chuckled, “Gods and spirits laugh their loudest when a mortal makes plans, and doubly so when they make plans for another.”
Reluctantly, Ayshen backed down, sitting back on his tail. “It is true that weddings are not so much for the ones being wed, as for their loved ones. I suppose that after all that has happened, you just want peace.”
Darian hugged Keisha’s shoulder, and confided, “Just about now, some time alone together sounds very, very appealing.”
Short Stories of Valdemar
--1 Sword of Ice (1997)--
And Other Tales Of Valdemar
Edited by Mercedes Lackey
version 2.0 minor format changes, spell checking, fixed without original document. finished October 23, 2003
Introduction © 1997 by Mercedes Lackey
Sunlancer © 1997 by Philip Austin and Mercedes Lackey
The Demon's Den © 1997 by Tanya Huff
Ironrose © 1997 by Larry Dixon and Mel. White
Babysitter © 1997 by Josepha Sherman
The Salamander © 1997 by Richard Lee Byers
A Child's Adventures © 1997 by Janni Lee Simner
Blood Ties © 1997 by Stephanie Shaver
... Another Successful Experiment © 1997 by Lawrence Schimel
Choice © 1997 by Michelle Sagara
Song of VaWemar © 1997 by Kristin Schwengel
The School Up the Hill © 1997 by Elisabeth Waters
Chance © 1997 by Mark Shepherd
Sword of Ice © 1997 by Mercedes Lackey and John Yezeguielian
In the Forest of Sorrows © 1997 by John Heifers
Vkandis' Own © 1997 by Ben Ohlander
A Herald's Honor © 1997 by Mickey Zucker Reichert
A Song for No One's Mourning © 1997 by Gary Braunbeck
Blue Heart © 1997 by Philip Austin and Mercedes Lackey
Contents
Introduction by Mercedes Lackey
Sunlancer by Philip M. Austin and Mercedes Lackey
The Demon's Den by Tanya Huff
Ironrose by Larry Dixon and Mel. White
Babysitter by Josepha Sherman
A Child's Adventures by Janni Lee Simmer
Blood Ties by Stephanie D. Shaver
... Another Successful Experiment by Lawrence Schimel
Choice by Michelle West
Song of Valdemar by Kristin Schwengel
The School Up the Hill by Elisabeth Waters
Chance by Mark Shepherd
Sword of Ice by Mercedes Lackey and John Yezeguielian
In the Forest of Sorrows by John Heifers
Vkandis' Own by Ben Ohlander
A Herald's Honor by Mickey Zucker Reichert
A Song For No One's Mourning by Gary A. Braunbeck
Blue Heart by Philip M. Austin and Mercedes Lackey
Introduction
My very first published story, in 1985, was a piece for Marion Zimmer Bradley's "Friends of Darkover" anthology, Free Amazons of Darkover. At the time, although I was working on what would become the first of a series of fifteen novels (with no end in sight), I never thought that I would be in the position to do as Marion had done, and open up my world for other professionals to tinker with.
And yet, ten years later, here it is, the Friends of Valdemar anthology. Some of the stories here are by names you will recognize, some by authors you will not, but the one thing that unites them all is that somewhere along the line, they actually enjoyed my work enough to want to add their own touches to the world that I created. Several of the authors in this book are protege's of mine and have cowritten other things with me; some are proteges of mine and have had work published that I had no hand in, which is, to any teacher, a source of great pleasure. You always hope that the "student" goes beyond what you can teach and finds his or her own way, own voice, and own creations that you have no direct part in.
And it is entirely possible that one or more of the authors in this volume will one day find him- or herself playing host and editor to a book of stories set in a world he or she has created.
And when that happens, I hope that they think of me, and ask me to come play, too!
Sunlancer
by Philip M. Austin and Mercedes Lackey
Philip Austin writes, "Misty Lackey is the one who made this story come alive. She deserves the majority of the credit and all my thanks. [She] has been a good friend and mentor. She's been helpful in so many ways. Through her good offers, I've been able to dream of a future. A creative future. That dream is worth more than any monetary reward."
Mercedes Lackey was born in Chicago, and has worked as a lab assistant, security guard, and computer programmer before turning to fiction writing. Her first book, Arrows of the Queen, the first in the Valdemar series, was published in 1985. She won the Lambda award for Magic's Price and Science Fiction Book Club Book of the Year for The Elvenbane, co-authored with Andre Norton. Along with her husband, Larry Dixon, she is a Federally licensed bird rehabilitator, specializing in birds of prey. She shares her home with a menagerie of parrots, cats and a Schutzhund trained German shepherd.
Clarrin Mul-Par knelt below his open window and raised his face to the rising sun; he closed his eyes and felt the warmth of its rays against his cheeks, watched the inside of his eyelids turn as red as the robes of Vkandis' priests. The sun was a pressure against his skin, as real as the pressure against his heart.
Vkandis! Sunlord! he prayed. Hear me, and guide me in what I must do. Red-priestess Beakasi tells us we do your will and bidding—should I believe her? She tells me "that it is your will that we take the young ones, that your miracles show her the ones to test for your service. Must I believe her? Sunlord, all life comes by your gift; to live in your light is the old teaching, passed from generation to generation. But is this what you meant? Vkandis! Sun-lord! What must I do? Give me a sign!
He lowered his outstretched arms, letting the rays of the sun bathe him. But although they warmed his body, they did not touch the cold in his heart, nor did they ease his worry and confusion.
For the first time in his life, he doubted.
No, he told himself firmly. No, I do not doubt the Sunlord. I doubt those who speak in His Name. I doubt that what they call upon me to do is truly His Will
And he knew exactly where to place the blame for that doubt—if "blame'" was precisely the right thing to call it.
Squarely in the lap of that scholar-scribe with the terrible eyes: the guest of his grandfather, and as such, sacrosanct.
The man had been there when he arrived last night; they seemed to be old friends, and Grandfather had introduced him as such. Clarrin found the man to be a fascinating storyteller, and the three of them had conversed long into the night, in the garden pavilion, where—now that he thought about it—no one could creep up upon them to listen without being seen.
And it was the scholar's questions that had made him doubt....
"Captain Clarrin Mul-Par is a wise man, I have no doubt," the scribe said in accentless, flowing Karsite that even a priest would envy. "As well as a man trusted in the Temple's service. I value wisdom, and I seek answers, answers to questions a man such as the Captain may be able to give me."
As he sat there, completely at ease in the low couch, boots crossed at the ankles and elbows resting on knees, his eyes never left the face of the Captain of the Temple Lancers. Clarrin wondered what in heaven or earth he was reading there. He never had learned to completely school his expression.
But he had tried not to betray his uneasiness. "What are your questions, good sir?" he replied, forcing himself to return the scribe's direct gaze. "Although you grant me more wisdom than I would claim, I will do my best to answer you."
"My first question is this—and pray, do not take offense, for I am a foreigner, and I mean none," the scholar said, with a smile that looked honest, leaning forward a little to speak. "Are the miracles performed by your priests and priestesses true miracles, or are they actually magic?"
Clarrin licked his lips, and answered carefully. "Vkandis forbids the practice of magic," he replied sternly. "It was by his will that magic was driven out of the land. His miracles ensure that we of Karse need no magic, and aid his holy ones to keep magic from our borders."
The scribe did not seem particularly disturbed by the implied rebuke. He sipped at the pleasant, fruity wine with appreciation, examined the crystal goblet that contained it for a moment, then looked up through the latticework of the pavilion's roof at the stars. Only then did he look back at Clarrin.
"Spoken as a true warrior of the Temple," he said, with another of those enigmatic smiles. "Yet—I have been in other lands. Rethwellan, Hardorn, even Valdemar. I have seen those who claim to be practitioners of magic perform feats precisely the same as those that Vkandis' priests perform. Does the Sunlord grant these people the power to work miracles as well?"
Clarrin carefully set his goblet down on the low table they all shared, heated words rising in him. "I have not seen these marvels that you claim to have seen, scribe," he replied, his anger giving his voice a distinct edge, "So I may make no judgment."
But his grandfather frowned. "Sharp words!" he chided. "Grandson, you come close to dishonoring my granted guest-right with your sharp tongue!"
Clarrin flushed, this time with embarrassment. He might be thirty summers old, but this was the man who had raised him, and the bright-eyed old fellow did right to remind him of the courtesies owed a guest of the house.
"I am well rebuked, old owl," he replied, with a bow of apology to the scribe, and a smile of affection for the wizened old man. "You remind me of the proper way to answer our guest."
He turned to the scribe. "I apologize for my discourteous reply, sir. And to answer your question with strict truth, I do not know. I have no knowledge of magic and have never seen any who practice it; we are taught that it is all trickery in any case, that the miracles of Vkandis alone are no deceit. The priests would tell you that this magic you have seen is nothing more than cleverness and misdirection."
The scribe smiled, giving Clarrin the slight
bow of scholar-to-scholar, wordlessly telling Clarrin that he had shown wisdom by admitting his ignorance. Clarrin flushed again, this time feeling pleased and flattered.
"Now this—" the scribe said lightly. "This is a moment of true men's pleasure: to sip good wine, in a beautiful garden, on a clear summer's night, discussing the mysteries of the world. Among men who can face truth and enter debate with open minds, no apologies are needed, for all three of us are men who can acknowledge that we can speak the truth only as we see it. And the truth is a crystal with many facets."
A night bird began a liquid, plaintive song just as the scribe finished speaking. The scribe half-closed his eyes to listen, and out of courtesy, all of them remained quiet until it had finished and flew away.
"The ovan has other pleasures in mind," Tirens Mul-Par, Clarrin's grandfather, said wryly. "He calls a mate."
Clarrin and the scribe both chuckled. "Ah," the scribe replied. "And have you never heard the tale of the 'scholar's mate'?"
Both indicated ignorance, and he told them a roguish story of a priestly scholar who so loved to read in bed that he filled half of his bed with books and heavy scrolls every night, leaving an impression on the mattress that looked as if someone had been asleep there. This continued until his superior spied upon him to catch him in the act of bringing in a (prohibited) female, and caught him only with a "mistress" made of paper.
With the atmosphere lightened, the scribe leaned forward once more, and Clarrin told himself to keep his temper in check, anticipating another unpleasantly direct question.