Valdemar Anthology - [Tales of Valdemar 02] - Sun in Glory and Other Tales of Valdemar (31 page)

“Option number one, then,” said Terek.

“Um . . . never mind,” said Rin quickly, “forget I said anything. So I go to school on the Crown's coin. That's the punishment?”

Terek smiled as nastily as any brigand.

“That's the preparation. Understand that any shortcoming, any shirking, any attempt to disappear or go back to your old ways and it's option number one.”

Coryandor was looking at him again, with those scary blue eyes.
The man who said there's always a choice was a liar,
thought Rin.

“I, uh, accept.” he said. Even with Herald wizardry watching, there was always the chance he could slip away later. “What happens after I get educated?”

Terek smiled like he meant it. “You come to work for me and Valdemar.”

“What?! Why me?”

Terek rubbed his Companion's neck. “Because if you don't, you're back to option one,” he said cheerily. Coryandor snorted and bared his teeth at Rin. Rin blanched.

“Also, you're reasonably intelligent, if not always smart. Gods know you're lucky. You've traveled around both in and outside Valdemar. You can gain people's trust quickly, and convince them you're something you're not. And if needed, you can think the unthinkable. Any Monarch who cares about Valdemar and her people can use a few knaves fighting and conniving for the Right and the Good. You likely won't be a Herald; that choice is out of my hands, but with time you may equal one in service to Valdemar. It's up to you.”

Rin being of service to others, without being forced. The idea was a new one. Still . . .

“You think I can do all this?” he asked.

“With my job you have to be good at reading a person's potential and seeing his true colors.” replied Terek. “I'm very good at it. You might even call it a Gift.”

Rin's smile grew slowly to a huge grin as he thought about it. Here was a chance to be admired for himself, to learn to read and write and to use a sword, to adventure, to defend a kingdom using a slickman's stock in trade, and maybe most importantly a place to belong.

It might even be worth school.

Valon stuck his blond head in the doorway behind Terek and smiled shyly at Rin. The boy still had his wooden Companion with him. Valon's mother appeared behind the boy, put a hand on his head, and smiled. For the tiniest moment, Rin tasted dried apples.

Rin looked down at his torn, dirty Whites, back at Terek and Valon, grinned crookedly, and spread his arms.

“Looks like it's time to change.” He said. Terek's chuckle said he knew Rin wasn't just talking about clothes.

“That's right. Locate the energy line below you—good—now draw it up through your feet, through your center, and feed it out slowly.” Tim's voice teased the edges of Anya's focus as she drew a mental picture of energy flowing. Floor to flank to fingers, earth becoming light. She fed the tiny flame she had conjured in the bowl in front of her. The fire flared from the size of her thumb to something that would engulf her palm, and she drew in a sharp breath. Her calf muscles quivered, pain shot through the small of her back, and the bright glow winked to nothing.

“You lost it. What happened?” Tim asked.

“I . . . I don't know. All of a sudden my back hurt and then it was gone.”

Tim frowned. “And what happened last time?”

“My fingers quivered and didn't point the right way.” He'd been there when she caught the edge of a tablecloth on fire. Anya heard the defensiveness in her voice and labored to find another tone. “It . . . it seems like I can only hold so much energy, and then something happens. It's not always the same thing, but it's always something. Physical. In my body. I don't
know
what to change!” Now it sounded to Anya like she'd exchanged defensiveness for despair. “I'm sorry,” she mumbled.

“You can hold more energy. I can feel your potential. You aren't even near your capacity.” Tim tugged on his graying braid, and frowned. Then he looked intently into Anya's eyes. “You're fighting it. There's a point where you have to surrender. You have to feel it—there are no words, and I've been told it's different for everyone. It's keeping focus, maintaining control, but it's also surrendering. All at once.” He was pacing, his words more insistent than usual. Anya knew better than to interrupt him—he could be harsh when frustrated. “Your focus is clear, but I can't feel your surrender. You're trying to be a warrior spouting flame at an enemy, but Healing isn't warrior's work. Surrender, and your body will be able to hold energy much longer. Now, try again.”

Anya breathed into her belly, tucked her hips, and refocused on her shielding. Then she started again, conjuring the flame, feeding it to fist-sized, holding it, holding it, and then her forehead flashed with pain and she blinked, opening her eyes to an empty bowl.

Tim didn't comment. Instead, he said, “I'll go catch us some supper. While I'm gone, think about what might be between you and your full abilities. Feeding flame is a small trick, but it's handling the same energy you'll need for any major Healing.” Tim stood, glanced at her, and walked out the door.

Grateful for the respite, Anya allowed herself a long sigh as soon as Tim was out of sight. Tim expected her to be good enough to replace him as the troubled village's Healer soon. If only they could have a real Healer from Haven!

She had been studying for two whole years now, and while she'd started out learning fast, the last year had felt like stepping backward. Or, at best, sideways. She'd learned new things, but hadn't made any real progress. At the beginning, Tim had expressed surprise at how quickly she started to cure simple maladies like headaches and sniffles, and to make a tiny flame. Since then, she'd added the ability to form—no,
collect
—balls of light and to lessen stomach cramps. She knew how to shield, to ground and center, to focus. It wasn't enough. Real healing eluded her. Tim had to step in every time.

She'd seen Tim repair multiple burn wounds last year when a half-finished sheep barn had burned, and then have the bad grace to barely look tired. After just two hours of much less difficult work, every muscle along her back was tense, calves to shoulders. She wanted to close her eyes and sleep. Instead she looked around, struggling for alertness.

 

Tim's home was an ingenious cave. Campfire stories whispered that the mysterious hertasi had built it secretly, when Northend Homestead was only a few families struggling to feed themselves. If so, the hertasi were masters at their craft. Anya had never seen one, but they had been described as lizard-like, with hands that worked more cleverly than human hands, fashioning and shaping and building for the Hawkbrothers.

She'd never spoken to a Hawkbrother, but Anya
had
seen them twice before, riding fast on graceful
dhyeli,
warning Homestead of a storm once, and a dangerous hedge-wizard another time. She wanted the mysterious and beautiful people to stay, to talk to her, but of course they were busy.

Nevertheless, she'd watched for them on woods walks, but they were as elusive as true Healing. All the best magic in the world, except her teacher himself, was hiding from her. Everything bright and positive was hiding, ever since she'd moved here and left her home, searching for work. Tim had identified her Gift. He was a good thing, the best thing, in her life. His regard for her was bright, but she was so far from his expectations she might as well have become the village sheepherder.

Homestead was one of a handful of towns in the far north of Valdemar; land the Hawkbrothers had reclaimed for safe human habitation only a few generations ago. Lately, raids had come with no warning, and the town was now smaller and more indrawn, afraid. Now, townspeople only came to Tim's cave in the light of day, and even then, they often sent Anya to fetch the Healer. In the past three months, ten men had disappeared with no trace. Ten more had left to find them, disappearing as well.

Light spilled in through the door and fell from two clever round openings in the roof, illuminating the large open space with mid-afternoon sun. A few carefully crafted items lined the walls, leaving a large clear area where Tim struggled twice a week to teach her. Anya's gaze fell across the small altar in front of her. A wide burled maple trunk had been sawn flat and polished to a bright surface that glowed when the light—like now—hit it just right. A fine hand-sewn cloth two handspans wide sat in the center. It shimmered when sunlight hit it, somehow twisting from black and gray to purple and blue. The work was so magnificent that Anya couldn't imagine the weaver. In the center of the cloth rested a candle and a drawing of three figures. The drawing showed a woman, a man, and a small boy. Anya was sure Tim had drawn them, although they looked somehow less alive than pictures he drew of wolves and deer and, sometimes, of townspeople.

Anya closed her eyes, pulling her focus inward, trying to release the tight muscles along her spine. Then suddenly, they clenched again. The peal of the town alarm bell screamed for attention, and in two heartbeats Anya had grabbed her backpack and was pelting down the trail toward Northend Homestead.

This time it wasn't a direct raid; there was no noise of fighting staining the town. Nevertheless, Anya's landlady Elena was crying quietly, a group of women gathered around her. Hovering at the edges of the crowd, Anya was able to glean that Elena's oldest, nine-year-old Justine, had left before dawn to deliver eggs and had not returned after half a day. She should have been gone just a candlemark.

Justine's father was one of the men who had followed the raiders ten days ago. Elena and Justine had not seen or heard from him since. After Anya moved to town three yeas ago, Justine had become a frequent visitor to Anya's room. Just last night, Anya had prepared a tea of comforting herbs to ease Justine's bedtime fears. The girl had stammered and thanked her. Then Anya had held her close for almost a full candlemark, while she cried for her father, until Justine fell asleep in a tangle of bedclothes and blonde hair.

Only a handful of candlemarks remained until dark. Teams split up in the four directions, agreeing that the town bell would call them back if anyone succeeded in finding Justine. Tim insisted they go east, the same direction as his underground home. They stopped there to provision, but rather than helping Anya, Tim sat down in front of the small altar and just stared at his drawing.

“Well?” she looked at him.

He didn't respond at all, just picked up the picture of the three people and held it in his hands, his eyes closed.

Anya gathered cheese, bread, and an herb kit into packs. She stared at Tim's unmoving back. After a few moments she said, “We need to hurry. Justine could be hurt.”

Tim ignored her and slipped into his bedroom, closing the door.

Anya waited, drumming her fingers, and then pacing.

When he finally emerged, Anya raised her eyebrows at him.

“They're . . . from how I lived once before.” A quite serviceable sword was buckled around his waist, and a long knife stuck hilt-up from his boot. In his right hand he held out a short dirk toward her. He looked unfamiliar, different. Somehow he fit the mood he had been in all day: stern and serious

“But . . . but you've always told me you weren't a fighter.”

“I didn't say I wasn't one. Just that I'm not one now. So go on, take it. I'll feel better. I made you stop practicing with the young men at guard, but that was to hone your focus on healing skills,” Tim said. “I've seen you use a weapon, you'll pass. You may need one today. Go on.”

Puzzled and a little alarmed, Anya palmed the blade and stuck it in her waistband. They left, climbing up the rise behind Tim's cave. A stream ran down the hill on the other side, and there they walked with just the water between them, searching for tracks, but close enough to talk. “So, tell me about it,” Anya said.

“I used to be a fighter.”

“I can see that.”

“A mercenary. I thought it was a good thing to be. I loved the action . . . loved being so strong. But then I went too far.”

“And?”

“I killed people for money. Sellswords do that.” Tim stopped for a minute and bent down to look at the ground. Then he shook his head. “Not Justine's track. Someone bigger, but not necessarily an enemy.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I went too far and one day I woke up sick and tired of it all. I had done something . . . wrong . . . terrible the day before. At first, I drank it off. But in the morning, my head became crystal clear, and I got up and walked away.”

That wouldn't have made him popular with his troop. “What did you do?”

“We'd been hired to clean out a bunch of thieves from someone's holding.”

“That sounds pretty normal,” Anya said.

“Yeah. But it turned out
we
were the thieves.”

“Does this have anything to do with the pictures on your altar?” Anya asked

“They were the rightful owners.” Tim's voice clamped down and he walked a while before he spoke again, “They were defending their home. I killed the man with my own hands. I broke his back and pulled his head back and snapped his neck. I threw the firebrand that caught the house's roof on fire. The woman and the boy burned alive. I did it just because I was told to. I didn't think.”