hear her heart's song.
And because she understood something of the nature of dreaming, she allowed herself to be honest. 'If you had asked me as a child, I would have tendered a child's answer. But I have children now, and they need me greatly, and you are not a creature to be confined to a place like Riverend.'
He had met her eyes with eyes, she thought, that saw whole lives as if they were the course rivers ran, beginning to end, and he might map them out, might remark on where the rapids lay, and where the oceans, at last, waited, for the movements of rivers to cease. And he said,
But she knew that the time was coming when he would, and she was afraid of it.
Because Riverend was her home, and she wanted to leave.
* * *
He came to her often in her dreams after that, and she spoke with him, he with her. But his was not the only dream which changed.
For one night, huddled alone in the cold, she dreamed the black dream, and it was different: The dragon took flight. It searched; it searched for her. She could hear it roar when it opened its lips, and its voice was a song of death and desire.
And when it sang, she heard over voices as well, thin and terrible, the wailing of children, of grown men reduced to that earlier state, of women whose losses were so profound that silence-even the silence of the grave- seemed to offer mercy. They were lost, these voices; she knew it. They were lost to the devourer, the shadow, the dragon.
And if she were not careful, if she were not silent as mouse, and hidden in the darkness of a hold's small room, it would find her, it would consume her, and it would add her voice to its song.
She woke, sweating, her voice raw; the walls of the hold were solid, but she could hear footsteps in the halls beyond her room. They paused a moment outside her door, but no one knocked; no one entered. Her mother was gone.
* * *
After that, she dreamed of the darkness often. It grew stronger and stronger, and she, weaker.
On the morning of the worst of these dreams, the Heralds had come with their ominous gifts, and she had left them with Widow Davis.
Tonight, the darkness had not yet fallen across the field of her vision. He was waiting for her, cold beauty.
She felt the howl of winter wind through passes closed by snow and storm; memory of spring and summer faded until only the cold remained, essential and eternal. The ice glittered from the heights of the mountains' peaks; caught light in a skirt around the fringes of the evergreens that stretched a hundred feet in height to the edge of her vision.
The snow did not swallow him; is weight did not bear him down, down through the thin crust of snow. Silent, he waited for her.
As he always waited.
But it was different, tonight, and she knew it.
She said, 'You cannot carry an Oathbreaker.'
He met her gaze and held it, but she heard no voice, and she found the absence unsettling, for in dreams like these, she had spoken to him for much of her life.
'Did you send the Heralds? Did they bring gifts that were meant to take my place?'
He offered no reply.
And she was afraid. Her arms were cold; the day was fading. Night in the mountains was bright, if not brighter, by moonlight, but the colors-winter colors, to be sure-were leached from the landscape until only shades of gray remained beneath the black and white of sky and star.
'This is no dream,' she said quietly, the question a shadow across the words.
He nodded.
She did not know what to feel; the winter had settled deep within her.
* * *
In the morning, he came. He came after breakfast had been prepared, but before the miners had gathered in the hold; the sun cut crisp, long shadows against the sparse growth.
The children carried word of his presence from one end of the village to the other, but they came in numbers to where Kayla cleaned the heavy ceramics that held the morning porridge. Kayla quietly washed and dried her hands, while smaller hands tugged at her apron's hem and strings.
'There's a Companion in Riverend!' Tess said, her dark eyes wide and round.
'I know,' Kayla told her softly, bending and gathering her in shaking arms.
'It's got no Herald!' Evan added. 'lt's got no rider!'
'I know,' Kayla replied. She straightened.
'Everyone wants to see it. Do you think it's come searching?'
'Aye, little, I think it's come searching.'
'For who?' Tess asked, insistent, and unaware of the stillness of Kayla's expression.
'Do you think he'll take Evan away?'
Evan was her older brother, by about four years. 'Not yet.'
'Too bad.'
She laughed. 'I'm sure Evan thinks so, too.'
'But do you think he's lost his Herald? Do you think he needs help? Do you think-'
'I think,' she said, 'that he'll have died of old age before I can see him if I answer all your questions first.'
'Just one more?'
'One more.'
'Do you think he'll let me ride?'
'No, little, I think you'll fall off his back, and Companions aren't in the business of visiting villages just to injure the dearest of their people.' She kissed the girl's forehead, just as she would have once kissed the forehead of her youngest.
Tess wrapped her arms around Kayla's neck. 'But what do you think he wants?'
'I think,' she said quietly, 'that we'll find out soon. Now hush.'
* * *
Widow Davis was there, in the clearing by river's side. The river itself, cold and loud, was a thin one, but it was clear and the water, fresh. She looked up when Kayla approached, her eyes narrowed and wrinkled by exposure to wind, to cold, and yes, to the scant sun. 'Well, then,' she said, 'You've heard.'
'I've...heard.'
'Your mother told me,' the widow said, turning back to her bucket.
'Told you?'
'To be careful of the Companions.'
'They're not evil, Widow Davis.'
'No, I'm certain of it. All of our stories say so, and they've come to the aid of the village at least three times in my living memory.' She was silent a moment. 'But this will be the first time they take more than they offer.'
'Widow Davis-'
The old woman's look stopped her flat. 'Come on, then. You're here, and we might as well have it out.' She offered Kayla an arm; Kayla shifted Tess to one side and took it.
Together they crossed the uneven ground that led from stream to the shadows cast by the tall, white Companion, caparisoned in livery of blue and sliver, belled so his movements might evoke a sense of music, a sense of play. But his eyes were dark, and large as the palms of a child's hand, and he did not blink when he turned his massive head toward the two women Children dogged their steps, crossed their shadows, whispered eagerly and quickly amongst themselves. Not even the dour expression of the Widow Davis could silence them completely.
The widow's hand tightened; Kayla's arm began to tingle. She did not, however, ask the old woman to let
