"How did you know?" the Herald asked, his voice low and potent with threat.
"That you are a Herald?" The old man grinned. "I did not know it until this visit, when I had need to know. I have the sight, at need. At those times, I can sense things that are not apparent."
His guest was not in the least mollified. "Why did you grant me guest-right, Tirens Mul-Par, if you knew what I am?" he demanded harshly.
Tirens sipped his wine. "I have a granddaughter," he said. "A little above damn's age. She has a daughter, a lovely child in my eyes, who laughs at the stories of her greatgrandsire, and who loves him as much as he loves her. She is only nine years old. A dangerous age, in Karse."
The Herald relaxed, just a trifle. "They test children in the temple at their tenth birthdays. . . ."
"Exactly so." He allowed his smile to fade. "She tells me stories as well, of dreams in the night. At times, those dreams come to pass.'.'
The light of understanding blossomed in the Herald's eyes. "Dreams can be dangerous—in Karse."
The old man nodded, curtly. "I wish her and her mother to be taken someplace where dreams are not so dangerous. Before we have visitors in the night."
The Herald tilted his head to one side. "Her father may have something to say about that," he ventured.
Tirens waved his hand hi dismissal. "Only if he chooses to return from the hosts at Vkandis' right hand, where the priests pledge me he has gone," he replied.
The Herald chuckled at that, and relaxed further. His hand made an interesting little movement, that told Tirens the dagger had returned to its home. "When?" he asked only.
"Tomorrow," the old man said firmly. "I have already made the arrangements. My granddaughter is privy to them, and just as anxious as I for her daughter's safety. They will not inconvenience you. In fact," he allowed a twinkle to creep into his eyes, "a prosperous scholar, with a Karsite wife and child, returning from visiting relatives, is not likely to be questioned by anyone, so long as be is careful to stay within law and custom. Which his Karsite wife will be sure to impart to him."
The Herald coughed gently. "I can—ah—see that."
Tirens still had not heard the promise he wanted.
"Please," he said, resorting to beggary. "Please, take them to safety. You will have no cause to regret this."
But the Herald had not been reluctant after all. "Of course I will," he said, a little embarrassed. "I was just— thinking for a moment! Rearranging my trip to account for a new wife and child!" But at Tirens' chuckle, his gaze sharpened. "But what of you, old owl?" he asked, using the name Clarrin had used hi affection.
The old man leaned back in his seat on the couch and sipped his wine. "Oh, I shall enjoy my garden until I die," he said casually. "Life has been . . . interesting. But I do not fear to leave it." And before his visitor could ask anything more, he leaned forward with an eagerness that was completely genuine. "And now, Herald of Valdemar, since your other tales have been so fascinating—tell me of the land that my dear ones will live in!"
Clarrin put aside his doubts long enough to bid farewell to his family. It would be many more months before he had another chance to visit them, and without a doubt, by then his niece Liksani would be almost a woman. Already she had the look of his sister Aldenwin about her, and he could not help but remember all the times when it had been Aldenwin who clung to his stirrup and begged him to stay "just one more day."
But when he told Liksani, with a playful shake of his head, that there were no more days left in the visit, she let go and let him mount.
"Uncle Clarrin," she said, her pretty, dark-eyed face solemn, "I almost forgot. I dreamed a tale for you this morning, in the women's garden after sunrise prayers."
He bent down to ruffle her hair. "And what did you dream, little dreamer?" he asked, lightly, thinking it would be a request for a doll, or some such thing.
"I dreamed that a man in armor so bright I could not look at him told me to tell you something," she laughed up at him.
Clarrin went cold inside but managed to keep smiling. "And what thing was that?"
"He said to tell you that—" she screwed her face up in concentration. "—that 'the light is the life and the breath, the flame is the blessing and not life's-ending' . . ." she faltered for a moment, then smiled, ". . . and that 'children should live and laugh and play!' Then he told me to go and play in northern flowers!" she finished, giggling.
A weirding chill raised the hackles on his neck, but somehow Clarrin managed to lean down from his saddle to hug her firmly, lifting her right off her feet as she put her arms around his neck.
"Be happy, Liksani," he ordered gently. "Live and laugh and play, like the shining man told you."
"I'm always happy, Uncle Clarrin. You know that," she giggled as he set her back down on the ground.
Sunlord, keep her happy, he prayed silently, turning his horse to the gate, and leading his seven guards back toward his duty. Sunlord, keep her always happy.
Tirens watched as his grandson rode off down the road to the south. And two candlemarks later, he watched as his granddaughter, Liksani, and six of his seven servants rode off down the road to the north and west. With them, rode the Herald, whose true name Tirens still did not know.
He knew that the Herald was a man of honor. That was all he needed to know.
The sun was directly overhead, the birds singing all about his favorite pavilion, as his one remaining servant served him his finest wine from a fragile crystal goblet. He sipped it with appreciation as he turned the crystal to admire the way it sparkled in the sunlight. This had been one of a set of two, from which he and dear Sareni had drunk their marriage-wine. The shards of the other lay with Sareni in her grave.
Sareni would have approved, he thought, as he drank the last of the wine, and slipped his frail old hand into the bowl of figs where a tiny, rainbow-striped snake was curled. He stirred the figs until he felt a slight sting on
his hand, then a sudden lethargy. The goblet fell from his nerveless fingers and shattered on the pavilion floor. He lay back in his couch, watched the snake slip away under the rosebushes, and wondered if Vkandis liked gardens.
Clarrin stirred his noodles with his fork, and stared at nothing at all.
"Captain!" his Corporal-Orderly said sharply, making him jump.
"Yes, Esda?" he replied, wondering if he looked as guilty as he felt.
Evidently not. Esda pouted at him, hands on side-cocked hips, a petulant expression on his face. "Captain," he complained, "you've hardly touched your meal, and I worked very hard making it! What is bothering you?"
Clarrin grinned in spite of himself at the burly corporal's burlesque of a spoiled girl. "Esda, you lie! You never work hard at anything. Not in the ten years you've served me, anyway!"
Esda grinned back. "Too true, Captain. That's why / picked you for my officer."
Clarrin shook his head at his Orderly's unrepentant grin. "Here," he said, shoving the plate of noodles across the table toward Esda. "Sit down, finish my meal for me, and let me use your common sense." He made it less of an order, and more of an invitation.
Esda's grin faded immediately, and the grizzled veteran's expression was replaced by one of concern. "You are troubled, Captain," he observed, taking the seat, but ignoring the food, his eyes fixed on damn's.
Clarrin shrugged. "I have some questions to repeat to you—and a dream to tell you about," he said, slowly.
"A dream!" Esda lost every trace of mockery. "Dreams are nothing to disregard, Captain." Esda had served the Temple for longer than Clarrin had been alive—he had seen three Sons of the Sun come and go. And he was both a skeptic and a believer; if anyone
knew where Temple politics began and true religion ended, it would be Esda.
"Yes, well, see what you think when I am done."
For the next candlemark, Esda sat and listened without interruption as Clarrin recounted the discussion in the garden and little Liksani's dream.
"You k
now we serve at the Cleansing," he finished.
"Aye, and I know you mislike the assignment," Esda replied gruffly. "But—is it Vkandis you blame for—"
"No!" Clarrin exclaimed, cutting him off with a slam of his open palm on the wooden table. "Never! I cannot believe that the Lord of all Life would ever countenance taking life, that is all! It is the priests and their minions that I mistrust and fear! I believe they serve themselves, not Vkandis! And I fear that they use magic, and call it 'miracle,' to order to puff up their own importance!"
"Well, then bugger them all, Captain!" Esda grinned, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. "Whatever you decide to do, just remember that poor, overworked, old unappreciated Esda will be there to pick up your soiled linen!"
The roar of laughter that followed made the rest of his personal guards turn their heads, wondering what outrageous thing Esda had said to him this time.
Esda moved quietly among the guards, speaking with them one at a time, over the next two days, while Clarrin pretended that he did not notice. And over the next two days, every one of his men approached him quietly, one at a time, to offer their personal fealty to him. Clarrin was touched and humbled by their trust. But he still did not know what he was going to da In ten days, Clarrin was back in command of his troop of Temple Lancers. In fifteen days, they paraded for the Ceremony of Cleansing, conducted by Red-priestess Beakasi. The Temple square was crowded with worshipers and spectators at two sides, behind the lines of the temple guards. Clarrin's Lancers dosed the third side of the square. The low Sun Altar, flanked by priests and
priestesses in order of rank, filled most of the fourth side.
At damn's signal, the lancers knelt as one at their horses' heads, lances grounded, with the shafts held stiffly erect. The red pennons at the crossbars moved lazily in the warm afternoon air.
Red-priestess Beakasi, flanked by her torch-bearers, mounted the altar-platform, and turned to face the crowd and the setting sun behind them. Her arms stretched out toward the sun, and her red robes matched the red clouds of sunset.
At that signal, lesser priests brought the two who were to be cleansed to the steps: a boy who looked to be hi his early teens, and a girl somewhat younger, dark-haired, with a pretty, gentle face.
damn's breath caught in his throat. She could be Lik-sani, he thought in anguish. The words of his niece's dream kept repealing, over and over, in his head.
The flame is the blessing and not life's ending. Children should live, and laugh, and play,
The boy was shoved forward onto the platform. He stood there looking frightened and confused.
"Vkandis! Sunlord!" Beakasi sang. "Grant your miracle! cleanse this tainted one with your holy fire!"
She brought her hands together over her head, closing them on the iron shaft of a torch held there by a Black-robed priest. He let it go, and she held it high above her head, flame flickering.
"Witness the Sunlord's miracle!" she sang. "Tremble at his power!"
The torch flame flared, and grew suddenly to man-height, then bent toward the boy. He started to scream, but remained where he was, frozen with fear. Another Red-robed priest pointed, and the boy's scream was cut off; he remained where he was, a wide-eyed, open-mouthed, living statue. Flames flowed from the torch to the boy, arching overhead like water from a fountain, in a long, liquid stream. They touched him, then engulfed him, turning him into a column of searing, white-green fire that grew to three times the boy's height. A vaguely
human-shaped form turned slowly in the upper half of the column of fire, as if bathing in it.
Clarrin's heart spasmed, and his gorge rose.
Slowly the flames diminished and flowed back into the torch, until it burned normally once again.
The boy was gone, and there was only a small pile of ashes to mark where he had stood.
The priestess waited until the original bearer had his hands on the torch, before she removed hers, spreading her arms wide. Looking somewhere above the heads of the onlookers, she called out into the silence.
"Hail Vkandis, Sunlord!"
"Hail Vkandis, Sunlord!" the crowd roared in response. Beakasi signaled for the girl to be brought forward.
'The flame is the blessing and not life-ending," Clar-rin murmured, his eyes bright with tears. "Children should live, and laugh, and play!"
He was standing now, moving to his saddle in slow, sluggish motion, warring within himself.
The flame is the blessing, and not life-ending. He reached for the saddle-bow and swung up into place, feeling as if he were trapped in a fever-dream. Children should live, and laugh, and play!
His hand was on his lance; his horse jerked its head up m astonishment at the tightening of his legs, then stepped forward.
He kicked it, startling it into a gallop.
"The flame is the blessing, and not life-ending!" he screamed, the words torn from his throat in torment. His lance swung down, into the attack position. "Children should live, and laugh, and play!"
Red-priestess Beakasi swung around in surprise. Her face mirrored that stunned surprise for a few moments, then suddenly began chanting in a high, frightened voice, words Clarrin could not understand. Her hands moved in intricate patterns, tracing figures in the air.
damn's superbly-trained mount, the veteran of many encounters, plunged up the stairs at the gallop, never missing a step. "The flame is the blessing, and not life-
ending!" Clarrin roared as a warcry. "Children should live, and laugh, and play!"
The priestess held up her hands, as if she could ward off the lance with a gesture. The long, leaf-shaped blade impaled one of those outstretched hands, nailing it to her chest as it struck her heart.
She shrieked in anger, shock, and pain. The crossbar behind the blade slammed into her hand and chest. Clarrin took the impact in his arm, lifting her up off her feet for a moment, as he signaled his horse to halt. He dropped the point of the lance, and the priestess' body slid off the blade, to lie across the altar.
Clarrin leaned down as he wheeled his horse and started back down the stairs, sweeping the young girl into his arms without slowing. The horse plunged down the steps at the back of the altar, and they were away, the child clinging desperately to him. Clarrin held her protectively to his chest, and urged his mount to greater speed.
So far, they had escaped, but their luck could not last for much longer.
He heard horses behind him. Close, too close. He looked back, his lips twisting in a feral snarl, ready to fight for the child's life, as well as his own.
The snarl turned to a gape, and the gape to a grin that held both elation and awe.
His own personal guard and fifty of his lancers, those that had served with him the longest, were following. Esda in the lead. Many had blood on their blades.
Clarrin slowed just enough for the rest to catch up with him. Esda waved an iron-banded torch—just like the ones carried by the priests. As they galloped past a rain-swollen ditch, Esda tossed the torch into the water. Green-yellow smoke and steam billowed up hi a hissing roar as they passed the place, and a vaguely man-shaped form twisted and jerked in the heart of the smoke, as if it were on fire.
Clarrin and Esda spat, and rode on, letting the evening breeze carry the smoke away in their wake.
The pursuit, when it finally came in the wake of blame-casting and name-calling, was vicious. Clarrin felt extremely lucky that they crossed into Rethwellan with twenty-six still alive.
Or rather, twenty-seven. Twenty-six men, and one special little girl, who could now live, and laugh, and play in the warm morning sun. Without fear, and without threat.
Fifteen days later, Clarrin crossed back into Karse, his men with him, all disguised as scholars. They quickly dispersed, each with provisions and a horse, and a series of uncomfortable questions.
There were more young ones to save.
And after all, at the right time and place, a question was more deadly than any sword.
The Demon's Den
by Tanya Huff
Bom In the Maritimes, Tanya Huff now lives and writes in rural Ontario. On her way there, she spent three years in the Canadian Naval Reserve and got a degree in Radio and Television Arts which the cat threw up on. Although no members of her family are miners, "The Demon's Den" is the third story she's written about those who go underground, and mines have been mentioned in a number of her books. She has no idea where it's coming from, but decided not to fight it. Her last book out was No Quarter (DAW, March 1996), the direct sequel to Fifth Quarter (DAW, August, 1995) and her next book will be Blood Debt (DAW, April 1997), a fifth Vicki/Henry/Celluci novel.
The mine had obviously been abandoned for years. Not even dusk hid the broken timbers and the scree of rock that spilled out of the gaping black hole.
Jors squinted into the wind, trying and failing to see past the shadows. -.Are you sure it went in there?:
:Of course I'm sure. I con smell the blood trail.:
.-Maybe it's not hurt as badly as we thought. Maybe it'll be fine until morning.: His Companion gave a little buck. Jors clutched at the saddle and sighed. :All right, all right, I'm going.:
No one at the farmstead had known why the mountain cat had come down out of the heights—perhaps the deer it normally hunted had grown scarce; perhaps a more aggressive cat had driven it from its territory; perhaps it had grown lazy and decided sheep were less work. No one at the farmstead cared. They'd tried to drive it off.
It had retaliated by mauling a shepherd and three dogs. Now, they wanted it killed.
Just my luck to be riding circuit up here in the Great White North. Jors swung out of the saddle and pulled his gloves off with his teeth. :How am I supposed to shoot it when I won't be able to see it?: he asked, unstrapping his bow.
Gevris turned his head to peer back at his Chosen with one sapphire eye. :It's hurt.:
:I know.: The wind sucked the heat out of his hands and he swore under his breath as one of the laces of his small pack knotted tight.
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