Inya wondered when things had changed. She wondered why she hadn't noticed. She'd been busy—raising children, raising grandchildren, working on the farm—but how could she have missed what was happening around her?
She threw the message into the fire. The wet paper hissed, then burst into flames, turning to ash as she watched.
She found Jory by the river, ankle-deep in mud, leaning on his shovel and staring at the water. A wall of dirt and wood began upstream, beyond the house, and extended to where he stood.
The current swirled swiftly by, carrying tree branches, loose reeds, clumps of grass. Something that looked like a broken chair floated past. Inya shuddered.
Jory shook his head, splattering water around him. "I can save the house," he said. His voice was hoarse. "But not the barn and the rest of the land. Not without help."
"There won't be any help." Inya told him about the mayor's note.
Jory brushed a hand across his dirt-streaked face. "Doesn't surprise me. That's how people are, you know. Watch out for themselves first, and for everyone else if they have any time left over."
But people weren't like that, Inya thought. Not everywhere. They hadn't been in River's Bend, not when she was a girl. She stared at Jory, not sure what to say. If he assumed people only cared about themselves, no wonder he wanted to move. One place was the same as another, if you saw the world like that.
An awful thought crossed Inya's mind. If the people in River's Bend didn't care, did that mean it was time to leave, to find a place where they did?
"I'll finish securing the house tonight," Jory said. "And see what I can do about the fields in the morning."
Inya nodded. "At least you've had Mariel helping you."
"Mariel?" Jory squinted. "I haven't seen her all day."
"What do you mean?" Ice trickled down Inya's spine. "Lara said she was with you."
Jory shook his head. "I'll go look for her. You talk to Lara."
Inya hurried toward the house, boots squishing in the mud. She slowed down when her legs began to ache. Sweat trickled down her face, in spite of the cold. She threw the door open and went inside. Lara still sat by the fire.
"Where's your sister?"
Lara started. "I promised not to tell."
"Lara—"
"She's in the barn." The girl's words tumbled over one another. "It's not my fault. She made me promise."
Relief washed over Inya. Of course Mariel was all right. She'd been silly to think otherwise. The girl had probably run off to be alone. Anara had done the same at Mariel's age.
"How long has she been there?"
"All day."
Well, Inya would have to talk to Mariel about that. The girl had no right to send Lara into town alone.
"Don't tell her I told," Lara begged.
Inya didn't answer. She gulped down a mouthful of warm tea and went back outside.
She found Jory in the barn, staring at the ground. Mariel was nowhere in sight.
"Look at this." Jory's voice was strained.
Cold dread settled in Inya's stomach. She followed his gaze.
The muddy barn floor was covered with Mariel's boot prints. But there was a second set of prints, too, and those weren't human.
Hoof prints. Inya knelt to have a closer look. The prints were large, larger than any horse Inya had owned. She examined a print more carefully. Short, white hairs were scattered in the mud. They were bright and fine, and even in the mud hadn't gathered any dirt.
Inya caught her breath. The Companion had left—and had taken Mariel with her. Inya smiled, though she felt a tinge of sadness, too.
"You see anything down there?"
"Yes." She told Jory about the Companion, leaving out her own role in the tale. It was Mariel's story now, after all. As it should be.
Jory didn't smile. In a thin voice he asked, "Do you think she's all right?"
Mariel was Chosen, Inya thought; of course she was all right. But she realized she didn't really know what happened after someone was Chosen. The Companion would head to Haven and the Collegium, but that was more than a week away. What would Mariel eat? Did she have warm clothes? Why had she left without saying good-bye?
Inya examined the prints again. They led out of the barn, toward the river. Mariel never mounted, just continued alongside the Companion. Didn't Heralds always ride?
Probably everything was all right. Probably Inya was just a crazy old woman, worrying too much. But probably wasn't enough.
"We have to find her. Bring her some food. Make sure she's all right."
Jory nodded. But then he looked back toward the river, and Inya knew what he was thinking. If he went after Mariel, they might lose the farm.
"I'll go," Inya said.
"That's crazy." Jory brushed his hands against his breeches.
"No it isn't." Inya spoke fast, afraid she might believe him if she didn't. "On horse I can make decent time, even with my knees. What I can't do is keep the farm from flooding out. You can."
"It'll be dark soon."
"I'll bring a lantern. I can carry it and walk, once the sun goes down." Inya didn't know how long she could manage on foot, but she'd worry about that later. She stared at Jory, hoping he'd see that she was right.
"I don't like it." Jory looked at Inya through tired eyes. He needed to rest, much more than Inya did. He'd been building walls all day, after all. "I'll take another look around the farm," he said. "Maybe she hasn't gone all that far."
"I'll start packing," Inya told him.
By the time she was ready to leave, the sun was low, casting gold light through the drifting clouds. Jory hadn't found Mariel—both her boot prints and the Companion's hooves followed the river, disappearing upstream.
Jory didn't argue any further. He saddled the dappled horse and helped Inya mount. Her knees ached, unused to being twisted out for riding, but she gritted her teeth and ignored the pain. Her hips complained, too, at the way they stretched across the saddle.
Inya reminded Lara to listen to her father, reminded Jory that there was some reheated soup on the fire. Then she left, following the tracks past the edge of the farm.
The sun soon dipped below the horizon, but the light stayed with her for a while. The moon rose above pink and orange clouds. Inya's breath came out in frosty puffs.
The scattered trees grew thicker beyond their land, until Inya rode at the edge of a forest. The mud deepened, and she had to slow down.
Inya stopped just as the last light faded. She didn't want to dismount, but she needed to rest and get something to eat. Better to go slow than to wear herself out.
She eased herself out of the saddle. Her legs wobbled as she hit the ground. She hadn't realized that getting off would hurt more than getting on.
She ate by yellow lamplight, munching on some bread while the horse grazed nearby. By the time she was ready to move on, the moon had slipped behind a cloud.
Taking the horse's reins in one hand and the lamp in the other, she started walking.
Inya tired much more quickly on foot. Every candlemark, it seemed, she had to stop, rest, and eat something.
Small swirls of water appeared in the mud, and the swirls turned into puddles. Mud coated her boots; water soaked through her socks. Cold air numbed her face and fingers. She pulled out the scarf and gloves she'd packed. The next time she stopped, she'd change her socks as well. She was glad she'd packed extra clothes. When she was younger, she probably wouldn't have bothered. But back then she could have managed, in spite of her foolishness. She didn't have that luxury now.
The puddles widened, until Inya had to veer into the woods to get around them. She lost track of how long she walked.
Then she saw that the sky had turned from black to dark gray. It was almost morning. The very thought made her tired. She stopped to rest, wondering how much farther Mariel had gone.
The gray sky lightened; a thin band of color appeared along the horizon. Birds chirped across the treetops. There was another a
nimal, too, farther away, but Inya couldn't hear it as well. It made a low sound, more like a cry than anything else.
A child's cry.
Fear tingled down Inya's spine. "Mariel!" She took off upstream at a run.
Her legs protested, but she ignored the pain, shut it away to deal with later. In the growing light she saw that the ground had turned uneven. In spots the water surrounded small islands of land.
She found Mariel on one of those islands.
The girl stared at the water, eyes wide. Her clothes were rumpled and muddy, as if she'd slept on the damp ground. The water wasn't very wide, but it was still—and therefore deep.
"Grandma!" Mariel looked up, red-eyed. "I fell asleep. There wasn't any water when I fell asleep."
Inya wanted to reach out and hug her. Instead she just called out, "I'm here, Mariel," as calmly as she could. A distant corner of her mind wondered where the Companion had gone. She'd worry about that later, after she got Mariel off the island.
"You'll have to swim. You can throw your shoes across to me first; that'll make it easier."
"I can't." Mariel choked on a sob.
"Of course you can. I'll be right here, waiting for you."
"No." Mariel began to cry. "I can't swim. I don't know how."
For a moment Inya didn't believe her; she was sure she'd taught Mariel to swim herself. But no, Anara was the child she'd taught. She'd assumed Anara had taught her children in turn.
Inya might be able swim to the island herself, but she couldn't make it back, not while carrying someone. And the damp logs on the ground were too soft and slippery to walk across.
In the distance, the dappled horse let out a nervous nicker. If the horse could swim, it could carry them both across, but the mare had a terror of water that no one had broken.
"Grandma?" Mariel shivered, drawing her arms around herself. Inya felt cold too—frozen, unable to move, unable to think what to do next.
Her skull tingled. There was a sudden flash of sapphire, bright and deep, gone before Inya was certain she saw it. The sky was gray, with pale streaks where the light filtered through.
Somehow, that flash of blue unfroze her, allowed her to think again. She couldn't use the dappled mare, but maybe she could call someone else. Someone who had no right to have left Mariel in the first place, but she'd worry about that later.
:Thea.: Inya didn't know where the name came from, but she knew it was right. :Thea, I call you.:
For a moment the air was still, the birds in the tree-tops silent. Then Inya heard a sound—like a nicker, only higher, lighter, more graceful. Hoofs hit the dirt lightly, with only the faintest whisper of noise.
And the Companion stood before her. Mud splattered her saddle, but the white coat was bright. Beneath the overcast sky, the creature seemed to glow. And her eyes—
No, Inya wouldn't look into her eyes. She wanted to be able to let her go when she was through.
The Companion snorted, pawing one foot against the ground. She almost seemed impatient.
All right, then. :Thea. You're the one who left Mariel stranded. Now you're going to help get her out.:
:I did not leave her. She ran away on her own. I only followed because I was worried about her safety.: But Thea knelt, inviting Inya to mount.
The Companion was larger than the dappled horse, and wider; Inya's hips stretched painfully across the saddle. Yet Thea moved more smoothly than any horse; when she stepped forward, Inya barely felt the motion.
She almost didn't notice when Thea stepped into the water, not until the water came up to her feet and soaked through her breeches. Water sloshed over the saddle, and the Companion used her strong legs to swim. Inya clutched the wet mane, drew her legs more tightly around the saddle.
Then the water turned shallow again. Thea stepped up onto dry land, and Inya shivered as the air hit her wet clothes.
"Grandma!"
Inya eased her way out of the saddle and took Mariel in her arms.
"She wouldn't take me," Mariel sobbed. She buried her face in Inya's shoulder. "She was in the barn, and you didn't want her anyway, but she wouldn't take me."
Inya whirled to face the Companion, glaring. "How dare you get a child's hopes up like that? How dare you follow her this far and not Choose her? You lied to her, that's what you did!"
:No. I never claimed to Choose her, though she begged me to. I did not know my presence on the farm would bother her so. I did not know she would run away. I went after her, but I could not persuade her to return.:
:So Choose her now. It's not too late.:
:No. I Choose you.:
:Damn you!: Inya turned away, facing Mariel again. :She's still young—young enough for a child's adventures. She has an entire life in front of her.:
:There is no right or wrong age for such things.:
Inya laughed, a bitter sound. :You don't know much about the responsibilities that come with adulthood, then. Or about the ailments that come with old age.:
Thea snorted. :I know that you've had the strength to keep your family together, through death and hard times. You've had the strength, too, to travel through the night, steadily and in spite of pain, to rescue a child. These are not small virtues. They are virtues that would serve a Herald well.:
:That's not enough,: Inya said.
The Companion stamped a foot; it squished against the mud. :I know, also, that you're more sensible than a child would be. You packed extra supplies, made sure you stopped to rest before you collapsed from exhaustion. You would never die for the stupid reasons young people die. Your age makes you more likely to be taken seriously, too, in negotiations and other diplomatic matters. There are a thousand reasons. Need I list them all?:
Inya felt anger again, not for Mariel's sake, but for her own. She brushed hot tears aside with one hand. :Why in all the Havens didn't you come sooner? Why didn't you come when I could still leave?:
Thea came up behind Inya, leaning a silky muzzle against her neck. Inya turned to look at the Companion.
And made the mistake of meeting her eyes. She felt herself falling, drowning in a field of endless sapphire blue.
:I Choose you. Don't you understand? Now neither of us will ever be alone.:
:I need to take care of Jory and the children. I can't just follow you away.: She knew, though, that Jory would welcome the chance to move to the City. And the villagers would hardly notice they were gone.
:I couldn't come sooner. I was not yet in this world, and then I was too young. I've come now. Will you have me?:
Inya took a deep breath. Her next words surprised her. "I don't know."
"Don't know what, Grandma?"
Inya looked down to see Mariel staring at her. She hadn't realized she'd spoken aloud.
:I can wait while you decide.:
There was the farm to take care of. The water to hold back. And the land had been in her family for so long. No matter how hard the villagers turned their backs, Inya wouldn't walk away without thinking a good, long time. :How long are you willing to wait?:
:As long as you need.: Thea met Inya's eyes again, but this time, Inya didn't drown in them. Instead, something rose up from the Companion, a warmth that surrounded her, made her understand what it truly meant to never be alone. She was crying again, but this time she didn't even wipe the tears away.
She knew, then, what her answer to the Companion would be. She'd wait a while to give it, but she knew.
"Grandma? Are you okay?"
:Your grandmother is fine.:
"Grandma!" Mariel's face lit up. "She spoke to me! Did you hear? She wouldn't Choose me, but at least she spoke. That's something, isn't it?"
"Yes, that's something." :You should have taken Mariel,: she thought again, but she didn't know whether she meant it. Something brushed her mind, feather-light. Inya smiled. She reached out and hugged Mariel.
Thea did not speak again, not then and not for a long time afterward. The Companion knelt down, letting Inya and Mariel mount
.
The three of them crossed the river, and together began the long journey home.
Blood Ties
by Stephanie D. Shaver
Stephanie Shaver is a twenty-something writer living in Missouri. In her spare time, she works on the obligatory novel and short stories, but most of her time is taken up attending school, where she's majoring in Computer Science, and writing code for an online games company. She has worked at Marion Zimmer Bradley's Fantasy Magazine, and considers it one of the great experiences of her life. Of this story, she says, "I wrote this story for the anthology a long time ago, back when I was still in my 'Angry Young Woman' phase. Misty has always been a strong force in my life, beginning at the age of thirteen. I can only thank her for introducing me to a world of magic and wonder, a feeling I hope to someday breathe into my own works."
Dedication:
to Mr. Brian Devaney—
respected teacher, good friend,
and one of the few true Heralds in this world
"Rivin."
From where he sat at the table, the boy looked up at his father. He had been rubbing his fingers—near to blistering from chopping wood all day—trying to get the ache out of them.
Holding so hard to the ax handle I forgot how to let go, he thought, reminding himself of a quote his older sister, Sattar, was fond of.
Rivin looked around to see Sattar clearing the wooden trenchers for washing, Danavan—his younger sister—smiling her sweet, undefiled smile and vanishing after Sattar, and Nastasea squalling as she tried to catch up with her two older siblings. In his concentration on his pain, he had forgotten that dinner was over.
"Is—something wrong, sir?"
For a small man, Delanon Morningsong had an enormous presence about him. Strict and solemn, dedicated to purist beliefs, he was a refugee of the famine that had caused his family to flee from their native land of Karse.
Rivin had not been part of the flight that had carried his father, mother, and their extended families to Valdemar, but he had heard enough stories about it to be happy to no longer live in Karse. While he had been pelted with his father's beliefs since before he could speak, his daydreaming and slightly absentminded attitude had mostly helped him to escape the rigid mind-frame of most of his father's teachings—and had also caused him great bodily harm in the area of thrashings and penance.
Valdemar Books Page 974
