Sun in Glory and Other Tales of Valdemar

Drew on it, calling her ghosts. This boy was her son. This boy was her child.

She loved her children, and for her children, she could sing. She remembered the sweet, gentle nature of her oldest, and the stubborn fury of her youngest, and for the first time since she had bid them farewell, she laughed in delight at their antics.

The man in the bed stirred.

She had survived their loss because of her vows, and she had found that sorrow, in the end, could not keep her from the other children in the Hold. They needed her. Their parents needed her. In the worst of winter, she could soothe temper, displace boredom, still fury; she could invoke the love her mother invoked.

Even after the deaths.

Even then.

'Gregori.'

The sound of his name drained the room of light. But Daniel was safe; she felt his fear struggle a moment with her love. And lose.

Such a small thing, that fear.

She reached out to touch Gregori's forehead; his eyes widened in terror and he backed away. But he had been abed many, many months; he was slow. And she, mountain girl, miner's daughter, was fast. She ran her fingers through his hair and let go of all thought.

What remained was feeling.

Love.

Loss.

Gently, gently now, she brushed his hair from his face. She felt the raging fury, the emptiness, the guilt, and the horror that he could not let go. Not on his own.

But surely, surely she had felt this before?

A child's emotions were always raw, always a totality. They existed in the now, as if the past and the future were severed neatly by the strength of what they felt in the present.

:Don't touch me! Don't touch me! I'll kill you!:

But she continued to touch his face, the fine line of his nose, the thin, thin stretch of his lips.

'You need my song,' she whispered, 'and I had forgotten how to sing. I am sorry. I am sorry, Gregori.'

She did not question; did not think. To do either was death. Instead, she gave in to her Gift.

To her mother's Gift. What she felt, she made him feel, just as he had made his enemies feel. :Don't-don't touch me

:Don't touch

:I'll kill you

:I'll kill you, too

:1 don't want to kill you, too

She sat in the room with her younger child in her lap and her older child in his bed.

:Hush, hush.:

And when the older child began to weep, she held him.

* * *

Darius was a patient Companion. And a large one.

He did not complain at the weight of three passengers, and had he, Kayla would have kicked him. After all, she was no giant, Daniel was less than half her weight, and the Prince, tall and skeletal, probably weighed less than the saddlebags.

The King had agreed to let his son go, but with misgivings; it was therefore decided, by Royal Decree, that a Healer, and three attendants, would accompany them.

She was grateful for that; the spring in Riverend had already passed into summer, and in the winter, with a Healer, there might be no deaths. A winter without death.

'Kayla?' Gregori said, as the Hold came into view. She felt his anxiety.

'Daniel's fallen asleep and my arm's gone numb. I don't want him to fall-'

'You won't let him fall,' she told the Prince gently. 'And I won't let you fall.'

'Will it be all right? Will they accept me?'

'I was so lonely here,' she answered. 'I was so lonely. I don't think they'll begrudge us each other.' She smiled, and the smile was genuine. 'Do you think you've learned the dawnsong well enough to sing it with me?'

A HERALD'S RESCUE

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

Mickey Zucker Reichert is a pediatrician whose science fiction and fantasy novels include The Legend of Nightfall, The Unknown Soldier, and several books and trilogies about the Renshai. Her short fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies, including Battle Magic, Zodiac Fantastic, and Wizard Fantastic. Her claims to fame: she has performed brain surgery, and her parents really are rocket scientists.

Dust motes swirled through the sunbeam glaring into the barn. By its light, Santar trapped the upturned right front hoof of the salt merchant's gelding between his muscular calves. 'Hand me the pick.'

Blindly, he held out his right hand.

Santar's younger brother, Hosfin, slapped the tool into the proffered palm. 'Do you see something?' He crowded in for a closer look, his tunic tickling Santar's bare arm, his shadow falling over the hoof.

'Think so,' Santar grunted. 'Got to get past all the crap first.' Flipping the pick in a well-practiced motion, he gingerly hooked out chunks of road grime and straw. The sharp odor of manure rose momentarily over the sweet musk of horse. 'Here.' He touched the pick to a gray cobble shard lodged in the groove between forehoof and frog. He dug under the hard, sharp stone. The horse jerked its foot from his grasp, just as the pick lodged into position, and the movement sent the fragment flying. It struck the wooden wall with a ping, then tumbled to join the rest of the debris on the stable's earthen floor. Still clutching the pick, Santar scooped the hoof back upward to examine the damage. He discovered a light bruise but nothing that suggested serious swelling or infection. He stroked the injury with a gentle finger, and the horse calmed.

Hosfin's head obscured the hoof. 'No wonder he was hopping and snorting.'

'Yeah.' Santar released the hoof and patted the horse's sticky flank. 'Could have been a lot worse.

Lucky beast.'

'Lucky man,' Hosfin corrected. He stepped back, skinny arms smeared with grime, sandy hair swept back and tied with a scrap of leather. 'Don't think he could afford another horse by the look of him. Needs to learn to take better care of his valuables.'

Santar's brown hair hung in shaggy disarray, in need of a cut. Horse work had honed his muscles: lugging grain bags and hay bales, exercising his charges, cleaning and grooming. He also had an almost inexplicable way with afflicted creatures that made his father's stables an exceptionally logical place for any traveler to board. They might find stables nearer their lodgings or destination, ones larger or with more modern construction, ones with fancier names or decor. But Santar's father prided himself on service, mostly provided by his seven sons and one daughter. Travelers who cared as much for their animals' comfort as their own tended to seek them out, including the occasional Herald from Valdemar.

Santar especially loved their huge white mounts with their impeccable coats and strange, soft blue eyes.

They seemed so docile and intelligent, their conformations so perfect, their intensity of attachment to their riders so mythically intense. The Heralds tended them so vigilantly, Santar rarely had the opportunity to do anything for them but stare.

A sharp whinny from the yard sent Santar's head jerking up so suddenly he nearly brained his brother. 'Who's that?'

Hosfin's thin shoulders lifted, and he slouched from the stall. As Santar watched him move, he marveled at how his brother had grown just in the last few months, gaining the gawky, spindly proportions of an adolescent. Santar wondered if their eldest brother had looked at him the same way when he had turned fourteen three years ago.