Sword of Ice and Other Tales of Valdemar v(-100

by Mercedes Lackey

  Sword of Ice and Other Tales of Valdemar

  ( Valdemar (11) - 100 )

  Mercedes Lackey

  Sword Of Ice And Other Tales Of Valdemar

  Sunlancer

  The Demon's Den

  Ironrose

  Babysitter

  The Salamander

  A Child's Adventures

  Blood Ties

  . . . . Another Successful Experiment

  Choice

  Song of Valdemar

  The School Up the Hill

  Chance

  Sword of Ice

  In the Forest of Sorrows

  Vkandis' Own

  A Herald's Honor

  A Song For No One's Mourning

  Blue Heart

  SWORD OF ICE

  And Other Tales Of Valdemar Edited by Mercedes Lackey

  DAW BOOKS, INC.

  Copyright © 1997 by Mercedes Lackey and Tekno Books

  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

  The Salamander by Richard Lee Byers

  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 hi the Valde-mar 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 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 m " 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 Karaite 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 Valde-mar. 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, hi 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, damn'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 hi 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.

  He was not wrong.

  "Another question comes to my mind," the scholar said. "The faithful are granted healing of ills and new injuries in the Temple, and it is true healing, for I have seen the results of it. This is said to be another miracle of the Sunlord, is this not true?"

  Clarrin nodded warily. "Yes. I have received the Sun-lord's Gift myself. As a young lancer I was arrow-struck during our foray into Menmellith to relieve the true believers trapped there." He tapped his left leg to indicate the site of the old wound. "One of the priests laid hands upon the wound and drew out the arrow, and there was neither blood nor wound after, only a scar, as if the injury had occurred weeks hi the past."

  "I am glad that you were healed that you may still serve," the scribe replied. "Yet—forgive me, but in other lands, there are healers as well. In fact, in every land I have ever been or even read of, there are healers of the flesh. In Valdemar, they are even gathered together at an early age, and taught at a great school called a Collegium."

  "We gather those granted the healer's touch by the Sunlord and teach them in the Temple—" Clarrin began, but stopped when the scribe held up a finger.

  "True enough, but the healers in Valdemar are not taught in a temple, for there are many beliefs in their land, not one," the scribe said earnestly. "When these healers are proficient in their work, they are given green clothing to wear so that they may be recognized and heeded. They go where they are needed, and all may

  come to them for aid, even the lowest and the poorest. So, here again, I must ask you—if there are true healers elsewhere, does the Sunlord grant them this miracle of healing as well as he does here?"

  Clarrin sighed. "Your question marches with the one before," he replied. "In truth, I cannot answer."

  He picked up the pitcher, hoping to stave off more questions. He poured his grandfather another goblet, offered wine to the scholar and was politely refused, and filled his own glass. And in truth, he felt the need of it. This scribe had a way of demanding answers to questions he had rather not think about.

  "I only have one more question, Captain," the scribe said, chuckling when he saw damn's expression of resigned dismay. "Though it could be seen as more than one."

  "A puzzle, then? Or a riddle?" Clarrin hoped so. He and his grandfather had often traded riddles long into the night.

  "Perhaps, yes!" the scribe agreed. "A puzzle of questions."

  Clarrin waited while the breeze stirred scent up from the night-blooming flowers around them, and made the wind-chimes play gently. "Your puzzle, then?" he prompted.

  "Only this; why are the young ones chosen by the priesthood taken from their homes at night? Why are they tested, cleansed of all ties of kinship, and never seen again by their kin except at a distance? Why are those that cannot be cleansed of kin-ties in your temple, or those who fail the testing, cleansed instead by burning in the fire of Vkandis? Why does the Sunlord, the giver of all life, require the death of children? Is it the cleansing and sacrifice of kin-ties that give the priests and priestesses the power to perform the Sunlord's miracles, or could they perform them if they never set foot in the temple or donned robes?"

  Clarrin shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but the scribe was not yet done with him.

  "Is it possible," he continued, leaning forward so that

  his terrible, knowing eyes bored into Clarrin's, "that the ones who are fire-cleansed are destroyed because their powers are too strong, too strong to permit their minds and hearts to be cleansed of the love of their kinfolk, and that if they lived, they could rival the priests and priestesses without ever having to wear a robe?"

  His eyes seemed to penetrate right into Clarrin's mind, as if he were daring Clarrin to find the true answers to this "puzzle" of his. And there was something lurking in the depths of his gaze; a hint of pain, of loneliness, of half-madness that made Clarrin finally shiver and turn away.

  "I—have no answers for you at all, sir scribe," he replied, rising to his feet, quickly. "I am only a poor lancer, with no head for such an elevated discourse. I will have to leave these things to men of wisdom, such as you and my grandfather. Now, if you will forgive me—" he ended, hastily, already backing away, "I have duties early in the morning. Very early—"

  And with that, he beat a hasty retreat.

  Tirens Mul-Par also faced the sun this morning, but not to pray. His prayer had been answered last night, and that in itself was proof enough of the Sunlord's power—and that His power, like the light of the sun, granted blessings and prayers in every land and not just in Karse.

  Instead, he watched as his servants secretly readied all the horses in his stable for a long journey, and his thoughts, too, returned to the previous evening's conversation.

  Clarrin beat a hasty, but tactically sound, retreat from the garden. He did
not—quite—run, but it was plain enough from his posture that he wished he could. It was too bad for his peace of mind that he would never be able to run fast enough or far enough to escape those questions the scribe had placed in his thoughts.

  Tirens watched him go, and hid a smile. This was not the first time that he had entertained the scholar who

  called himself "Brekkan of Hawk's Rest," but it was the first time he had been utterly certain of what this "Brekkan" really was.

  "I fear I may have upset your grandson, Tirens Mul-Par," the scribe said softly. "It was not my intention."

  The old man snorted. "It was always your intention— Valdemaran," he said, and watched with interest as the scribe's hand twitched a little. Interesting. A sleeve-dagger? "You Heralds of Valdemar do not care to see folk become too complacent, do you?"

  He saw the man's eyes widen just a trifle, and smiled.

  "I think you are mistaken—" the so-called "scribe" began.

  Tirens held up a finger, cautioning him to silence. "If I am mistaken, it is only in thinking that a Herald would not resort to a hidden dagger up a sleeve." His smile broadened as the Herald twitched again. "But I did not make any mistakes in giving you my hospitality, nor in bringing my grandson here for you to disturb with your questions. He is old enough, and well-placed enough, to make a difference in this sad land."

  Again the Herald moved as to protest, and again he silenced the man with a single finger.

  "Your questions deserve answers, not platitudes or religious cant. But he must decide for himself what is right. I cannot give him answers, nor can you." He shrugged expressively. "I do not know what his answers will be, nor can I say what he will do once he finds them. That will come as Vkandis wills."

  The Herald watched him with narrowed eyes, gray eyes, which marched well with his straight brown hair, the color of old leaves. You would never notice him in a crowd, so long as he was not wearing the expression he bore now. Which, Tirens supposed, was the point....