Sun in Glory and Other Tales of Valdemar

If he became wedged, they would both die in the dark, dank interior. :Orrin, I can't fit.:

:You'll fit. Trust me.:

Santar had to keep reminding himself that he spoke with a Herald, one who desperately needed his help for survival. The idea that he might become stuck fast grew into obsession. Santar realized he alone could make that judgment: the Herald could not know the size of the man who had come for him. :I can't make it, Orrin. I'm sorry.:

:Do what you must.: Simple words, brave words, from one who had just condemned himself to death.

Santar knew he had to try. He could not banish his fear, but he could choose to ignore it. He sucked in a deep breath, then let it out fully, tightening his muscles and huddling into the smallest area he could manage. Then, he forced himself into the opening.

The rock crushed in on him, tearing furrows of skin from his chest and arms. He closed his eyes, trying to trick his senses into believing this deliberate act was the source of the darkness. He felt pinched, squeezed in all directions. Crushed empty, his lungs spasmed, seeking air. Panic trickled through him, sending his wits scattering. He forced himself onward, gathering his thoughts and binding them together into one solid goal-the rescue of a stranger for whom he had already risked so much.

Then, suddenly, the pressure disappeared. Santar popped into a cavern that seemed enormous after the constriction that had nearly held him fast. :I'm coming,: he sent. :You were right. I made it through.: His tunic had torn and now hung in two rags from his shoulders. Though irritating, he did not remove them. He might need the fabric to cushion some other movement or to use as bandages. For a moment he wondered how he would get back, especially towing another man. He brushed the thought side. First, he had to find that injured Herald.

When Orrin made no reply, Santar forced conversation. He had once seen a Healer do the same thing, keep his patient talking to assure he did not lose consciousness. Obliged to respond, the wounded man had had little choice but to attend the questions, no matter how silly or obvious the answers, which kept his mind working, awake, and focused. :Your Companion brought me here.: The Herald did not seem impressed.

:I'd guessed that. Next right, please.:

Undeterred, Santar continued. :A remarkably handsome creature, in addition to being loyal and intelligent.:

:Best there is.: Orrin's voice itself seemed to smile, distracted from the pain. :I'm very lucky.:

:What's his name?: Santar took the indicated right and suddenly found himself bathed in moonlight. Though still night, the contrast with the depthless cave interior seemed blinding. He blinked several times, gradually taking in the spray of stars across the blue-gray sky, the skeletal hulks of trees waving in the wind, and the snarl of weeds and bushes that defined the Tangled Forest.

The Companion lifted his head and looked worriedly in Santar's direction.

'Oh, no!' Filled with a tense mixture of alarm and despair, Santar dropped to a crouch. :I messed up. I lost you.: Santar whirled, rushing back into the cave. :I've gone in a circle. I'm sorry. You'll have to start over.:

:The Companion's name...is Orrin.:

Santar froze. :Orrin. But that's your-: Shoulders drawn up to his ears, he turned slowly to confront the stallion. :You?:

The horse nodded. :Yes.:

Santar could only stare incredulously. 'Why?'

:I needed to know you were up to the job, someone who can push himself to his limits, who will do so for the good of a sick or injured stranger.:

:Why?: Even as he asked the question, Santar understood the answer. :Your Herald-:

:My Herald,: Orrin repeated, then added, :is you. I Choose you.:

'Me?' The reply was startled from Santar. :Me.: he repeated internally. :Herald Santar?: He shook his head to awaken himself from what had to be a dream, then looked into the blue eyes of the very real, dazzingly gorgeous white stallion in front of him. He had aspired to owning a horse half this fine, and now he had a Companion as a lifelong friend, so much more than a possession or a mount.

'Thank you,' Santar breathed. 'Thank you for Choosing me.'

Orrin lunged like a striking snake, caught Santar's britches, and hurled him into the air. Santar barely managed to twist before he found himself, once again, unceremoniously dumped, belly first, astride the Companion. :Come on,: the horse sent. :Let's go home.: Turning toward Valdemar, he trotted into the forest.

Mounted on 'the best there is,' Santar scrambled onto the stallion's withers and forgot to worry about demons.

IN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER

by Josepha Sherman

Josepha Sherman is a fantasy novelist and folklorist, whose latest titles include: Son of Darkness; The Captive Soul; Xena: All I Need to Know I learned from the Warrior Princess, by Gabrielle, as translated by Josepha Sherman; the folklore title Merlin's Kin; and, together with Susan Shwartz, two Star Trek novels, Vulcan's Forge and Vulcan's Heart. She is also a fan of the New York Mets, horses, aviation, and space science. Visit her at www.sff.net/people/Josepha.Sherman.

Toward the end of the second day of struggling her way through the forest, Marra was certain she was being followed.

The question was, by what?

I don't need this. Really, I don't.

Marra was not exactly young anymore, not exactly slim and heroic in shape or manner. Just an ordinary woman, she thought wearily, not anyone to be followed by, well, whatever. A four-legged predator would already have tried an attack, and a two-legged one, the bandit sort, would have had no reason not to have done the same. As for Lord Darick's men...

Marra bit her lip. That was done and over. She was the last survivor of what had been a peaceful village, and if she hadn't collapsed after burying...what she could...she wasn't going to break down now.

She couldn't afford to collapse. Someone had to deliver the story of that unprovoked raid to whatever authorities she could reach, even if it did mean pushing on through she had no idea how much wilderness.

Marra was doing her best to keep heading in the right direction. If she could only reach the shore of Lake Evandim, she could, hopefully, follow it along to civilization, or at least a real road. At least, Marra thought, she knew woodcraft and could forage for food easily enough. And at least Darick had had the...good taste to attack in warmer weather, so she didn't have to worry about freezing to death.

Damn him. Damn him and his men and his idea of-of burning down a village over an accidental insult-ha, no, he burned it down for fun!

For a minute she had a flash of imagined satisfaction, seeing white-clad Heralds declaring Darick's guilt,