Under the Vale and Other Tales of Valdemar

by Mercedes Lackey

  Terek nodded, his heart thumping hard in his chest. It sounded far too much like his letter from home to be coincidence. “It’s been a hard season in northern Valdemar,” he allowed.

  She shook her head, hair flying in its vehemence. “Not that hard. Look.” She pulled a rolled up piece of paper from her bag. When she spread it out on his desk, he saw that it was a map with small marks over four villages in the north.

  As soon as Terek saw the map with the marks, his stomach dropped in horrified recognition and his mouth dried. He sucked air in through clenched teeth.

  “These villages,” Mari said, pointing to the places they both knew well, “have all had horrible events with people dying in taverns or . . .” She stopped and took a breath before continuing. “Or have had a bunch of people kill themselves. Valdemar has had hard seasons before, but this is different. I looked into it. This is one village after another in a line.”

  “In a circuit,” Terek corrected and tapped Woodberry. “Make that five villages. Maybe more.” He drew his finger over the map from village to village in an oval circle. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Mari paused to brush invisible lint from her ruffled crimson sleeve, reluctant to speak. “There’s a Bard involved. Only, no one can remember him after the carnage. They just know he was there the night of the deaths, but no one can find his body, and he isn’t in town the next day.”

  “One of ours is doing this on my old circuit.” He looked up at his former protégé, his eyes bleak. “One of ours. And it has something to do with me.”

  He listened to his lord’s voice as it instructed him where to bury the shard. Eyes closed, he stepped forward or to the side as it commanded. He could feel the power flowing through him as he dropped to his knees and dug a small hole. As he placed the shard, chanting the words that had become his mantra, his prayer, his obsession, he knew his revenge was nigh. Either the object of his hate would come to him, or everyone who used to laud the old Bard would suffer for ages to come.

  Poisoned stone planted on the edge of the village, he stood and brushed the dirt from his hands. He hefted his pack with its evil secret, put on a real smile in anticipation of the carnage that would happen that night, and sauntered down the road into the village where kindly folk smiled at him, pointing him toward the nearest tavern.

  It was a modest thing with only one story and small windows, but it was one of the nicer buildings in the square, with uncracked walls and a freshly painted sign of a mug frothing over with ale. He nodded to himself and entered. Empty at this time of day, the proprietor sat at one of the tables, eating from a bowl of steaming porridge. He didn’t get up, only nodded and gestured the stranger forward with his wooden spoon.

  “Good day, I’m Sorrel. I’m looking for a room and a place to show my skill.” Sorrel tapped his drum for emphasis.

  “Daven, here.” The proprietor gave Sorrel a critical once-over. “Bard, eh?”

  “No, good sir. Merely a wandering minstrel. I wear not the red of an esteemed Bard.” He watched Daven calculate in his head for a moment.

  “Then I can’t pay you Bard wages, but I can make sure you have a warm bed and a full belly and maybe a coin or two to rub together as you leave.”

  Sorrel smiled, “Excellent. For that, I will give you an evening of entertainment you won’t forget for a long time to come.”

  “May I sit with you?”

  The old man looked up at Sorrel’s smiling face, glanced at the mostly full tables around him and nodded with a grunt.

  “I’m Sorrel,” he said as he sat, arranging his pack and drum next to him on the floor.

  “Aaron.” He gave Sorrel another look and then returned his gaze to his ale.

  “You local?”

  “Nah. Traveling through.”

  “Where to?”

  Aaron looked up again, “Why?”

  Sorrel pulled back and raised a hand, “Just curious. I’m a traveler, too. Thought I’d make conversation. Sorry.”

  The old man gave a long, gusty sigh. “Nah, I’m sorry. Heading to Woodberry. Got grandkids to look in on. Their Da died.”

  “Woodberry. Bad bit of business there.”

  “You know?” Aaron paused in his mug in midair.

  Sorrel nodded.

  “What’ve you heard?”

  “Big brawl. Lots of people died. It was a mess.”

  “You were there?”

  “Nah. Just picked up the word on the road. Avoided it.”

  Aaron drank deep from the mug and clonked it on the table. “Yeah. That’s what I’ve heard, too.”

  “It’s why I travel.” Sorrel saw Aaron’s questioning look. “To spread joy and leave a place a bit lighter than when I arrived. He tapped the drum on the ground.

  “A Bard?”

  “Just a minstrel.”

  Aaron nodded. “Playing tonight?”

  “Aye.”

  “Good. I could use some music. It lightens the soul.”

  Sorrel gave him a smile with too many teeth. “This will be a night to remember. Speaking of which, it’s time for me to earn my supper.”

  Word of the minstrel had spread throughout the small village. Music was always welcome, and the tavern was almost full. The sounds of wooden mugs clopping to the table mixed with the smacking of satisfied lips and the laughter of good conversation. However, when Sorrel took his place in the corner where the singers and dancers performed, the place quieted with an anticipatory buzz of people whispering to each other what they knew of the stranger. Two beats of a drum later and the tavern was almost silent.

  “Tonight, a dream of mine is about to come true and all of you here will witness it unfolding.” Sorrel reached down into his pack and pulled out something small and black. “Terek, this is for you.” With that, he tossed the black thing toward Aaron.

  It is the most natural thing in the world to catch something tossed to you in a casual manner. Terek’s hands were already wrapping themselves around the cursed item as Sorrel’s drum sounded out a slow beat and Terek realized that his real name had been used. By then it was much too late.

  He rocked back as the power of the thing, a statue with large blank eyes and a larger mouth filled with sharp teeth, caught him in a spell. Staring into the statue’s eyes, Terek knew that Sorrel had captured the rest of the audience in a spell, and they would be no help. He felt his own power draining from him as he fell into the statue’s trance.

  “Before me stand three promising youngsters, but not every dream can come true.” Terek recognized himself from years before while riding his last circuit. He had been asked to judge the children in the village for potential. And judge he did. “You, young Sorrel, you have some skill but lack both the creativity and the Gift of a true Bard. You will be welcome at campfires, but not in the halls of the Collegium.” With a shake of his head and a turn of his shoulder, he dismissed the boy. Terek saw the boy’s anguish as he fled the square, but that was no longer his concern. These other two children were.

  “Aric, you have proven yourself to be both skilled and creative. I have spoken to your parents, and they have agreed to send you to the Collegium. You won’t go alone. You will take with you my personal recommendation. You will be welcomed in courts and merchant houses around Valdemar after your skills have been honed.” Terek gave Aric a scroll tied with a crimson ribbon while the villagers applauded. He patted the boy’s shoulder and gave him a gentle push toward his beaming parents.

  Terek smiled and allowed the power of his trained voice to carry his pleasure as he made his final announcement. “Mari, my dear child, you have proven that you have the skill, the creativity, and the Gift to become a Master Bard. I have spoken to your parents, and you will travel with me, finish out my circuit, and then enter the Collegium as the most esteemed of students. You are what every Bard strives to become and the kind of apprentice every Master Bard seeks. You end my quest.”

  Locked in a vision of the past, Terek could feel his power, his Gift, be
ing torn from him bit by bit. He struggled to bring his considerable will to bear, but this trap was too well laid and too long in coming. He had fallen for it, and this knowledge settled heavy on his heart. All around him, he was vaguely aware that even his hidden companions, Kolan and Pala, Gifted bards both, were locked in Sorrel’s spell. He wondered how the unGifted peasant boy could have become so powerful. As if in answer to his query, a new vision clouded his mind.

  Fleeing through the trees, Sorrel sobbed as his heart broke. His one dream in life, to become a Bard, to show the village he was good enough, was gone. There was nothing left for him now. It was the end. He tripped over a tree root and fell headlong into the dirt. He stayed there, trying to choke off the sobs that threatened to overwhelm him again. He wished he would die.

  No, little master, no. Don’t die. I can help you.

  Sorrel lifted his head, looking through wet lashes into the forest around him, tears smudging his dirty face but the sobs had halted in surprise at the voice in his head. He shuddered as he took in a breath and wondered if he had gone mad.

  Not mad, little master. Far from it. You have found me and I can make all of your dreams come true. Would you like that?

  As he looked around, he felt something smooth and cold under his hand. Sticking up from under a tree root was a glossy black stone. He dug until he could pull it out of dirt. It was a statue, a squat thing just longer than his hand and as thick as his fist. Carved on the front of it was a frowning creature with large eyes and a large mouth with thick lips. On the back, the same hideous creature was smiling, open-mouthed, showing off rows of sharp teeth.

  “Make my dreams come true?” Sorrel marveled at the thing in his hand as it spoke in his head.

  All I need is a sacrifice of blood. Feed me and I will be your slave.

  “Sorrel?”

  It was Aric. Most likely come to tell him of his failure, too. “Here,” he called as he stood up, statue in hand. He waited for Aric to appear. He’d show him the statue, and the two of them would figure out what to do—just as they always did.

  Aric burst into view. He was smiling. Before Sorrel could say anything, Aric grabbed him by the hand, “I did it! I’m going to the Collegium with Master Terek’s recommendation! I did it.”

  Sorrel stared as his friend broke his heart all over again.

  “I’m sorry you didn’t make it, but I was thinking after my training, you could travel with me, anyway. You’re really good on the drum. You could be part of my entourage. I’m going to have one of those I’m sure after I’m done. We’ll still be together and making music!”

  Hot roses bloomed on Sorrel’s cheeks as Aric added insult to injury. Come be part of Aric’s entourage? Become one of Aric’s lackeys? An unfamiliar emotion rose out of the shards of Sorrel’s dream. Hate. Hate for his friend and his good fortune.

  Heedless of Sorrel’s clenching fists and flushed face, Aric had continued on, dancing around his friend, “Maybe they’ll let you come to the Collegium with me anyway. Maybe I can say I won’t do it without you. Or maybe I should just take you with me, and we’ll just see what happens. We’re going to get out of here! Isn’t that great?”

  I need just one blood sacrifice and all your dreams come true. Will you sacrifice him to me?

  “Yes,” Sorrel said and stepped close to the boy lost in his own dreams.

  Aric grinned at Sorrel, not realizing that his friend had not answered him until the first blow came. By then, it was much too late.

  Terek groaned aloud as he watched Sorrel beat Aric to death with the statue. As each blow landed, he felt as if he were being beaten himself. His vision clearing, he saw blood on his hands. Where it was from, he did not know. All around him, he saw people fighting with each other. The heavy drumbeat dominated the sounds of chaos. Sorrel’s voice was strong and overwhelming. Terek could feel the power of it. It was as if Sorrel had a corrupted Gift.

  As if sensing his thoughts, Sorrel looked through the melee of bodies when Terek raised his head, and their eyes met. That one look told Terek everything. This was his fault. He was the reason so many people had died. He had been callous, careless, and mean to a boy who had not deserved it. As the thoughts slammed into his head, Terek realized that they weren’t true thoughts, but the thoughts forced into him by foul magic. Be that as it may, he also knew he was going to die. Still, Terek fought will against will, praying that Kolan or Pala would be able to break the spell.

  Then the tinkling of finger chimes cut through the drowning drumbeat, and a high soprano voice powered by the Gift brought forth a light. The sounds of love and laughter on the music gave Terek the strength he needed to push back against the draining force of the cursed thing in his hands. Sorrel’s beat faltered and Terek, saw why. Mari stood in the doorway of the tavern, and Sorrel stared at her as she sang familiar words of their past.

  You and I together,

  Far from all that ails.

  Young and loved forever,

  And forever we will sail.

  She strengthened her song, singing of childhood days and the innocent love the two of them had once had long ago. Terek could breathe again, and now he brought forth his own voice in harmony with Mari’s. Sorrel’s face hardened once more, and he turned his focus back on Terek, willing the statue to finish its task, but Terek met him, voice to voice, will to will, while Mari sang her own attack.

  The village folk, who had stilled at the first sounds of Mari’s song, now stirred as if waking from a bad dream. Those who could, fled the tavern, limping, bruised, beaten, and bleeding. Mari stepped into the tavern and went over to Kolan and Pala, who had regained their senses. Mari’s finger chimes urged the village folk on as the other two Gifted bards raised their voices to Mari’s, allowing her to lead them in the fight against Sorrel and the evil artifact.

  Terek stood, statue clenched in one fist. He stepped toward Sorrel, whose wide, hate-filled eyes refused to give in. The Bard raised his shaking fist and forced it open to reveal the small statue, a twin to the original one that Sorrel had found in his grief. He showed it to Mari and the others, who turned their voices on it, and all at once the statue vibrated and then shattered.

  As black stone shards flew in all directions, cutting unprotected flesh, Sorrel’s head snapped back, and all the music stopped. His, Mari’s, Terek’s. Sorrel staggered backward, hit the wall behind him, and slumped to the ground. It was only then that the Bards could see that the largest of the black stone shards had taken one last bloody sacrifice by embedding itself in one of Sorrel’s eyes.

  Terek rushed forward and went to his knees, but it was too late. Sorrel was dead, leaving the old Bard with questions and an apology unspoken on his lips.

  Terek sat in his office, staring at the one shard of black stone he had kept.

  “We found the rest of the shards and buried statues at the affected villages. They’ve all been taken care of—except that one,” Mari said from the doorway to his office as she gestured to the one in his hand.

  “I feel I should keep it to remind myself of what my hubris had wrought.”

  “You can’t blame yourself. Not all dreams come true. Sorrel chose his path.”

  “But . . .”

  “But nothing.” Mari stepped forward and held out her hand.

  Terek hesitated before handing it over. “Why did you follow us?”

  She shrugged. “I always wondered why Aric didn’t make it to the Collegium, and I always wondered what had happened to Sorrel. Once you decided this was happening because of you and your past, I realized that I was part of that past and that, perhaps, I could help.”

  “You were right.”

  She smiled. “Sometimes.” She turned, paused, and turned back. “The Herald-Mages are about to do a seeking to find the statue you described from your vision. We know it’s still out there. Want to help?”

  Terek did not say anything for a long moment before he nodded and stood. “Yes. I started this, I should help end it. One last circuit to
complete.”

  Slow and Steady

  Brenda Cooper

  Shay leaned down and filled her fist with fresh earth. It felt cold, and damp, and absolutely awful. She almost opened her fist, almost let the earth drop again. It wasn’t real that she needed it, wasn’t real that she stood in front of her whole village by her mother’s grave with a fistful of dirt. She was going to wake up any minute and hear her mom searching through the shelves in her apothecary for moonflower or homemade tinctures or bandages.

  “No, now. Go on.” The voice belonged to the innkeeper, who had gotten her in trouble for climbing in his barn rafters to watch the horses from Haven just yesterday. Only now his voice was soft and sweet, almost wheedling. “You can do it.”

  She shook her head. She needed to think. It was so hard to think.

  “Shay. Throw the dirt.” the innkeeper repeated, a little more firmly this time.

  She took a close look at her surroundings, the cold hole in the ground just big enough for the slender wooden coffin, the winter-bare trees, and the shivering townspeople.

  She raised her fist above her head, gripping so hard the dirt became a wet, hard ball, bits of it falling through her fingers like everything she knew about life. She threw the mud onto the coffin, watching it smear across the top and stain the clean white pine of the lid.