Sword of Ice and Other Tales of Valdemar

'And yet if our positions were reversed, you'd expect me to let you die for me.' She ground the words out through the shards of broken bones, of broken dreams. 'Heralds die for what they believe in all the time. Why can't I?'

'You've got it wrong, Ari,' he told her quietly. 'Heralds die, I won't deny that. And we all know we may have to sacrifice ourselves someday for the greater good. But we don't die for what we believe in. We live for it.'

Ari couldn't stop shaking, but it wasn't from the cold or even from the throbbing pain in her stumps.

'Who else do you want that mine to kill?'

'This, all this, is my responsibility. I won't let it kill anyone else.'

Because he couldn't reach her with his hands, Jors put his heart in his voice and wrapped it around her. 'Neither will I. What will happen if you grab my legs and Gevris pulls us both free?'

He heard her swallow. 'The tunnel will collapse.'

'All at once?'

'No . . .'

'It'll begin here and follow us?'

'Yes. But not even a Companion could pull us out that quickly.'

:Gevris . . .: Jors sketched the situation. :Do you think you can beat the collapse?:

:Yes, but do you think you can survive the trip? You'll be dragged on your stomach through a rock tunnel:

:Well, I'm not going to survive much longer down here, that's for certain— I'm numb from my neck to my knees. I'm in leathers. I should be okay.:

:What about your head?:

:Good point.: 'Ari, you're wearing a heavy sheepskin coat, can you work part of it up over your head.'

'Yes, but ...'

'Do it. And watch for falling rock, I'm going to do the same.'

'What about your pack?'

He'd forgotten all about it. Letting the loop of rope under his armpits hold his weight, he managed to secure it like a kind of crude helmet.

'Grab hold of my ankles, Ari.'

'Ari, I can't force you to live. I can only ask you not to die.'

He felt a tentative touch, and then a firmer hold. :Go, Gevris!:

They stayed at the settlement for nearly a week. Although the Healer assured him that the hours spent trapped in the cold and the damp had done no permanent damage, Jors wore a stitched cut along his jaw as a remembrance of the passage out of the Demon's Den.

Ari was learning to live again. She still carried the weight of the lives lost to her pride, but she'd found the strength to bear the load.

'Don't expect sweetness and light, though,' she cautioned the Herald as he and Gevris prepared to leave. 'I was irritating and opinionated before the accident.' Her mouth crooked slightly, and she added, with just a

hint of the old bitterness, 'I expect that's why I was never Chosen.'

Jors grinned as Gevris pushed his head into her shoulder. 'He says you were chosen for something else.'

'He said that?' Ari lifted her hand and lightly stroked the Companion's face. She smiled, the expression feeling strange and new. 'Then I guess I'd better get on with it.'

As they were riding out of the settlement to take up their interrupted circuit again, Jors turned back to wave and saw Ari sketching something wondrous in the air, prodded by the piping questions of young Robin.

:I guess she won't be alone in the dark anymore.:

Gevris tossed his head. :She never had to be.:

:Sometimes it's hard for people to realize that.: They rode in silence for a moment, then Jors sighed, watching his breath plume in the frosty air. :I'm glad they found the body of that cat—I'd hate to have to go back into the Den to look for it: Their route would take them nowhere near the Demon's Den. :That was as close to the Havens as I want to come for a while.: And then he realized.

:Gevris, you knew Ari wanted to die down there!:

:Yes.:

:Then why did you let her go into that mine?:

:Because I believed she could free you.:

:But. . .:

:And,: the Companion continued, :I believed you could free her.:

Ironrose

by Larry Dixon and Mel. White

Larry Dixon is the husband of Mercedes Lackey, and a successful artist as well as science fiction writer. Other stories co-authored by him appear in Dinosaur Fantastic, and Deals With the Devil. He and Mercedes live in Oklahoma.

Mel. White is an accomplished writer whose work also appears in Witch Fantastic and Aladdin: Master of the Lamp.

The tiny forge's flames comforted Ironrose. Its presence was a constant in his life; not always a focus of his attention, but there. Its fingers were of flame, which didn't caress him as a lover or massage him, but still provided comfort to him. The spring which fed water to its mechanical bellows was another constant, shaped by Adept magic to a simple water funnel that split off for quenching and tempering.

Tempering was another constant in Ironrose's life. He had always tempered himself, reciting oaths silently when upset, bringing his spirits up with songs when saddened. Sadness, though, had come to perch on his forge like a wingbroken vulture of late. His hard work was valued by the Clan, and his skills were ranked well above the average for Artificers. He was also well-thought-of among his Hawkbrother brethren—when he was thought of at all. And that was why sadness was making his temper brittle.

'Ironrose? I've brought your game.'

He turned from the forge and laid down his tools. It was Sunrunner, the lithe, strong hunter, only two-thirds his height, half his weight, and utterly unattainable. She set down an overstuffed game bag on a chipped worktable, and a sack of greens and wild herbs a moment later. She looked at him expectantly.

'Ah. Sunrunner. Ah, thank you,' he stammered. How foolish he must look! The largest of his Clan, all callused fingers and strong arms, intimidated by this young hunter. And surely she knew it. How could she not? His sweating certainly wasn't from the forge's heat. He caught himself staring at her as she stood in a shaft of the late afternoon sunlight, with dust motes dancing all around her. A sudden fire burned in the pit of his stomach and he wiped his sweaty palms on his thick apron, trying to calm the sudden thunder of his heart. It was all too embarrassing, and he tried to cover it by searching for the arrowheads and bow fittings he'd made for her. They'd been put somewhere. Sunrunner stood, looking quietly at him.

Where was Tullin when he was needed?

Tullin was, in fact, behind the forge polishing an iron ring with a small file. Absorbed in his task, he hadn't noticed the hunter's entry, but he did notice when Iron-rose's hammer blows stilled. That meant a visitor; someone to pick up an order or barter for the smith's services. The small hertasi cocked his head and flicked his tongue to taste the air. The scent identified the late afternoon visitor as the hunter, Sunrunner. Lately Ironrose had reacted like a spooked rabbit every time she visited the forge building. Ghosting up behind the smith, he tasted the air again to catch the nuances of Ironrose's scent. No doubt about it—courting pheremones. He