Valdemar Anthology - [Tales of Valdemar 02] - Sun in Glory and Other Tales of Valdemar (22 page)

Juni had thrown herself over her grandfather and was crying hysterically. Vess' mind was still painfully open to thoughts—Juni's grief-stricken regrets and stunned questioning of what had just transpired, and the telling silence coming from the body of Sevastan.

I killed him,
he thought, reaching out to pull the veils of his shields around his mind.

:No,:
said the woman's voice in his mind.
:I killed him. You broke his concentration long enough to give me the opportunity to throw the bastard into the node—which, thank the god of my fathers, actually
worked
this time.:
A sad sigh.
:Unfortunately—the trauma was too much for Sevastan himself—damnit.:

Vess turned slightly, looking in the direction of the ghostly mage, her arms folded across her chest and one slender eyebrow raised.

“What's a node?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes.
:Naïve outlanders. Never mind. He's gone.:
Her face softened.
:And you have done me a great service.:
She smiled.
:I knew, that first time I saw you, that you'd be something special. Farewell, Herald. I'm off to the place I should have been long, long ago. . . .:

She dissolved before his eyes, reforming into a broad-winged white crow that launched itself upward, flying up toward the sun. He tried to watch her go, but the impending headache and his own physical weakness dissuaded the notion.

“Good-bye,” he said. “Good rest.”

And then there was just the matter of Juni.

Vess heard the muffled bell-tone of Companion hooves behind him. Kestric, no doubt—though Vess wasn't sure how he'd gotten
behind
him. The Companion came up alongside, and Vess grabbed hold of the saddle to pull himself up—

Vess really
looked
at the Companion now, and it gazed back at him with what seemed to be faint amusement—

Hellfires,
Vess thought, stunned.
That's—the Grove stallion!

:Greetings, Herald,:
he heard the contrabass voice of Jastev boom in his mind.
:I Choose—Bright Havens, certainly not you! You've
got
a Companion!:

Vess lost his fine grip on upward mobility. He fell over and landed in a sprawl on the grass—bowled over not only by the fact that another Companion had just spoken to him, but had done so
in order to tell a joke.

:He's got quite a sense of humor, doesn't he?:
Kestric said dryly in Vess' mind. From the overgrown trail that led to Starhaven, the Companion galloped into view, slowing to a trot as he came up to Vess and stood before him.

“He's a bloody
sadist,
” Vess gasped—and hen the surprise faded, and he realized what was going unsaid. “Has Nadja—did she finally—?”

Vess nodded, tears building up in his eyes and trickling down his cheeks.

“It's a sadness,” he said, watching dazedly as Jastev walked with exaggerated dignity over to the dead man and Juni. “I wish I could say it was a relief. It is—and it isn't. It is what it is.”

He still wasn't completely all there, because he was still trying to figure out why Jastev was
here
and not looking for a new King's Own when the Companion bent his head down, touching the girl's forehead with his muzzle.

Juni raised eyes bright red from crying, and Vess felt a momentary shock as her eyes widened and her face brightened with amazement.

“Oh, thank the god!” Vess moaned.

 

Much later, when he'd done his best to explain the Sevastan situation to the people of Solmark—when he'd made sure they understood that Juni was neither demon or Healer—when he'd quaffed enough willowbark tea to stop an army—when he'd arranged for a Herald-Mage to visit Solmark and ensure it was free of blood-magic's taint—and when he was sure that Jastev was tending to Juni, newly Chosen but still in mourning—

Only then did he find himself lying in bed, listening to the crickets and the crows at sunset—aching but alive.

:Juni will be a compassionate King's Own,:
he thought drowsily to Kestric.

:And a good trainee for you to teach,:
his Companion responded.

He subsided into silence then, finding comfort in the crows as they sang their harsh song to the sunset. He thought of the last glimpse of the white crow spiraling up to the sun, and he smiled.

He slept all through the night: dreamless and at peace.

Lord Dashant's forces had drawn off the battlefield, marching backward in ordered retreat. A ragged cheer ran down the line of what had, only moments ago, been a beleaguered army.

Mathias the Herald-Mage, from his place at the rightful Heir's right hand, found he could not share the army's celebration. Something smelled wrong. In point of fact, something stank.

His Companion raised her head and fleered her upper lip in a strikingly horselike gesture. She smelled it, too, although there was nothing earthly about it. As far as his nose knew, this was a battlefield like any other: reeking of blood and loosed bowels, rank fear-sweat, and the incongruous sweetness of crushed grass.

Beside him, Vera's own Companion shook his heavy neck and snorted. Vera stroked him absently with a gauntleted hand. The visor of her helmet was up; her eyes narrowed, studying the enemy's retreat.

He was the bitterest of all enemies that a royal Heir could have: her own half-brother, who had killed their father the King and claimed the throne of Valdemar. Dashant was a murderer and a traitor, but one thing he had never been, and that was a coward. It was not like him to abandon a battle before he was well and resoundingly defeated.

“It's a feint,” she said. “He's laid a trap. But I can't see—”

Neither could Mathias, and that was not reassuring at all. Mathias had the gift of seeing through any wall or veil, and piercing any illusion. His wards were intact. His protection spells were undisturbed. There was no magical threat anywhere, nothing, except that infernal stink.

He glanced to either side, down along the ranks that were beginning to waver. The commanders were doing nothing to stop them. One or two had had the sense to send parties in pursuit of the enemy, but the rest were acting as if the battle was over. None of them paid any attention to Vera at all. Even her personal guard, her squires who adored her, the messengers and pages who had stayed by her through exile and civil war, had turned away from her. As if they had forgotten her existence. As if—

The spell was as strong as it was subtle. Mathias felt it creeping around the edges of his wards, seeking out chinks and weaknesses. It blurred his sight, so that when he looked at Vera, she seemed to shimmer like a reflection in a pool. But in his heart where she had been since the first day he saw her, long ago when he was a callow boy, new-Chosen, and she a curly-headed child, she was as clear and strong a presence as ever. He had never even asked if she loved him as he did her. It made no difference. She was the Heir and would be Queen. He was her servant—her Herald and her Mage.

He strengthened the wards, giving her all that he was, for her protection. She was not a mage of any kind, but she was a sensitive; she felt some at least of what he did for her. Her hand reached across the small space between them and clasped his, as warmly trusting as if they were both still children.

The earth boiled up with an army three, four, five times as large as the one that they had faced and, they thought, defeated. It swarmed over the Heir's weary forces. Its hordes of warriors were fresh and well-fed, with unscarred weapons and bright new armor. The spell that had concealed them was shredded and tattered, but still fuddled the minds and hearts of Vera's army.

They had forgotten why they fought, or whom they fought for. Swords dangled from slack hands. Spears struck without force. Arrows flew wide of the mark.

It was all Mathias could do to hold off that mindblurring magic from himself while sustaining the wards about Vera. The guards were useless; each of them was fighting for his own skin.

The enemy could see the Heir. The heart of her own forces' blindness was clear to Dashant's troops. They converged on her.

Mathias was beyond desperation. Lytha, his Companion, fought with every weapon and wile at her disposal. He dropped his sword and bow and raised his hands. The spell that rose up in him was a spell for the other side of hope. It would kill him, but it would break the spell on Vera's army and weaken and befuddle Dashant's horde, and maybe—just maybe—give Vera enough cover to run for safety.

There was no time to explain. He had to hope against hope that both his Companion and his Queen would understand; that their hearts were close enough to let them see the sacrifice he had made—and that Vera, at least, would save herself.

He was not afraid. Fear was lost somewhere in the life that he was leaving. The spell was whole inside him. It was beautiful, a structure as intricate as a snowflake and as deadly as the track of a viper in the sand. It stirred and shimmered, tugging at the edges of his control, drawing power from the roots of his earthly self.

The horde was almost upon them. Vera held her sword in both hands, raised above her head, ready to fight to the last.

No grief. No hesitation. One more instant and the spell would be cast, and his life and magic with it.

He let it go.

The world shattered. All spells broke—every one, except those which guarded Vera. Mathias' body was gone, and so was every enemy within a furlong of it. Vera's forces reeled, stumbling over the sudden dead.

He clung to the reality of them, and most of all to Vera. But the world was whirling him away. He looked down into her white, shocked face—and if he had still had throat or tongue, he would have cried aloud. He knew—he understood—he foresaw—so clear, so terribly, appallingly clear—

 

Long waves sighed upon a shining shore. The foam on their breasts was the color of moonlight and snow. The sand on which they rolled was dust of jewels, opal and moonstone, lapis, malachite, chalcedony. The sky was silver, and the sun was gold, fixed it in forever, never shifting, never changing. Somewhere, in another heaven, were moon and stars, but not in this place. Here, it was morning for all eternity.

Luminous spirits walked in the jeweled sand or on grass the color of emeralds. Some wore the forms of men or women; others chose the shapes of moon-white horses, blue-eyed, silver-hooved, mystical and magical. They grazed on the eternal grass, or ate the fruits of paradise, or drank from springs that flowed supernally pure. Everywhere was a dream of peace.

The soul that had been Mathias stood on the edge between the sea and the sand. He still wore his human shape: a tallish man in Herald's whites, broad-shouldered, with curling brown hair, and green eyes more fit for laughter than for sorrow. But they had not laughed since well before he died. Here in the land of laughter, they knew no mirth at all.

A slender woman stood beside him. Her eyes were blue; her hair was long and silver-white, drawn back in a straight and shining tail that swung to her haunches. “My dear,” she said, “you can't grieve here.”

He kept his eyes fixed obstinately on the place where the horizon would have been if this had been an earthly isle. “Why can't I grieve? Is there a law against it?”

“Well,” she said, “no. But—”

“Then I will grieve,” he said.

“But why?” she asked him. “Your sacrifice ended the war. Your beloved is safe. The traitor's army is broken; she has marched in triumph to the capital, and taken her throne. She is Queen—and by your doing. You should be rejoicing.”

“Yes,” he said dully. “I should.”

“Dear one,” said the woman who in mortal life had been his Companion, “is it that you can't be with her? Your two souls are bound, you know that. In the fullness of time, you will both be reborn, and be together again. If I know the laws that constrain the gods, in your next life you will have her, and you will reap the reward of your sacrifice.”

He shook his head. “No. That's not what it is. I know how the gods parcel out their favors. It's . . . I can't speak of it. Please, by the gods, don't make me try!”

She was relentless. She was a blessed spirit, he reminded himself, but she was not omniscient. She was not a god, or even a mage with a deathbed gift of prescience. She had not seen what he had seen. “Tell me,” she said. “Tell me why you grieve.”

But he would not. After a moment or an age, she went away. Her sadness stung him with guilt, but he could not tell her the horror that he had seen. They were all the blessed dead here. They were all ended, done with, rewarded. Anything that they had left behind, was left forever.