Sword of Ice and Other Tales of Valdemar

things here and make sure that everything was prepared.'

'Shonu's got dinner for two set up. H'shama and Huli have the kitchen relay ready and Tsamar is cooling the ashdown tea over in the stream.'

'Good. Good,' Tullin said with satisfaction. 'There's Ironrose now. He's slow tonight.'

Coulsie looked sympathetically at the tall form of the smith. 'More awkward than usual, and stiffer in his movements—if that's possible,' she noted as the smith began undressing. 'Look how carefully he folds his clothes, taking his time. This was a hard decision for him. He looks scared.'

Tullin wiggled, rubbing shoulders with her. 'No more scared than I was when I danced my courting dance for you. But I had tasted your scent and knew what the answer would be. Poor taste-blind Hawkbrother only has what his eyes and his heart tell him. The eyes and the heart are notorious liars. Not like the tongue. You cannot lie to the tongue.' He slithered down from his perch. 'I don't see the love token he made,' Tullin sniffed critically.

'The rose?' Coulsie said.

'Yes. It's not in his clothes either,' Tullin said, rocking back on his heels. 'He must have been afraid to bring it after all. I'll have to fix the oversight. Start the food and drinks; I'll be back in a moment!' he whispered as he slid through the leafy undergrowth.

The hunter toyed with the lacings of the smith's apron she had bartered a moon's hunting for. Tallbush had managed to keep it a secret; he was certain Ironrose would like it very much. She was not so sure, considering the circumstances her heart told her it should be given in.

Well. If he didn't seem receptive to a courting gesture, then it wasn't really one at all. Just a gift to a skilled artisan to thank him for his work. Nothing more. Easy to explain away.

Sunrunner smoothed down the outfit Coulsie had prepared for her. It seemed entirely too soft, and it fit the contours of her upper body perfectly. Below that, it draped like a hawk's tail when she walked.

At least it wasn't in some shocking color like a festival costume. It was a comfortable warm gray, speckled and smooth-seamed. The most confounding thing about it, she'd realized after it was on, was that it had lacings oh the back that she couldn't reach herself. How odd.

Ironrose cursed himself for his ineptitude. If only he was more romantic, like his brethren, he wouldn't feel like he was stumbling naked into a thornbush. He'd made the rose, thinking of her the whole time, crafting the petals with his most beloved tools. He had cooled it with his own breath, felt its heat radiating to his lips, and imagined Sunrunner's kiss. When he had polished it, he'd imagined Sunrunner's body, smoothed under his hands. And he had imagined her smile.

But now, he was as nervous as he had ever been in his life. He had mustered enough bravery to come here and meet her, but he didn't have the courage to go any further than that.

Then she appeared. He looked longingly at her, drowning in her hint of a smile, wishing that he could say or do something.

'Sunrunner. Good evening. Please. Join me.'

She looked for all the world like a gray falcon flying along the ground as she came closer. When she slowed her walk, her clothing billowed around her legs like a falcon spreading its tail to land. She was grace itself in his eyes.

She gingerly laid down a pack and pulled back a few strands of hair from her eyes. 'I wanted to thank you for the arrowheads. And for everything. I hope you like this.'

'A ... gift? For me?'

Her face flushed red. She nodded, then looked away.

Oh, stars above, she . . . how could I have missed this opportunity? I'll look like a fool, and she won't know that I. ...

A small, taloned hand reached out and gently touched the smith's elbow. He turned. On a towel by the pool lay the iron rose, gleaming softly in the starlight.

Babysitter

by Josepha Sherman

Josephs Sherman is a fantasy writer and folklorist whose latest novels are the historical fantasies The Shattered Oath and Forging the Runes. Her latest folklore book is entitled Trickster Tales.

Thunder shook the earth and lightning seemed to shred the sky apart, and Leryn, crammed into this barely dry little cave in the middle of the gods-only-knew- where, thought wryly:

Of course. Why should my luck change now?

The whole expedition had been a farce from the start; he acknowledged that now with flawless hindsight. He was a city man, curse it, a settled gem merchant with a settled business. What in the name of all the powers had possessed him to up and leave it? To start over as a wandering merchant? (Elenya, lost Elenya—No!) Bad enough to go traveling among the more-or-less civilized peoples. But why had he ever been mad enough to come up here, to this cold, rocky, godsforsaken wilderness north of Lake Evendim? (Elenya, his mind insisted, his dear one, and the panicky flight from a grief that would not let him rest—No! He would not think of that!) Had he actually expected to start a profitable enough trade with the scattered little hunting parties, their furs for his pretty gems?

Furs, ha! What did he know of furs? Of course he'd failed! The locals had, as the saying went, seen him coming. And no one had thought to warn him about the bandits who called the wilderness home.

Leryn shivered. Of his troop, only he remained alive, and that only because he'd been lucky enough to outrun those bandits.

Lucky. He was alive, yes—but thoroughly lost in the wilderness with nothing more than his belt knife and the clothes on his back. Yes, and with a storm like the end of the world raging all about him.

And did you want to live? a voice deep within his mind wondered. Wouldn't it have been better to die at once and rejoin Elenya!

'No,' Leryn said aloud, then laughed without humor.

What difference did it make? He'd probably wind up dead anyhow, more slowly, of starvation or cold.

At least the horrendous storm seemed finally to be wearing itself out. A few more rumbles, one last flash of light, a final burst of rain, then . . . silence.

Almost too stiff to move, Leryn uncurled out of his cramped shelter, stretching complaining muscles. And for all the burden of chill fear within him, he stood looking about for a moment, almost in wonder. Gods, it was beautiful out here, even in the middle of all his trouble, he had to admit that: rocks and sturdy northern forest all clean-washed and glittering in the first rays of sunlight breaking through the dissipating clouds. The air was so clear and cold it made him cough.

Eh, well, all this nature worship was fine, but it wasn't helping his plight a bit. He had a goodly way till sundown, judging from what he could see of the sun, and Leryn shrugged in wry bravado. If he headed due south, he must, eventually, come out on the shores of Lake Evendim, and from there, eventually, if he followed the lake along eastward, maybe some friendly settlement.

And if he didn't, well, at least moving was better than standing around waiting to die!

But Leryn hadn't gotten very far before he let out a startled yelp and dove in the prickly shelter of a thicket. What was that? Something large, tawny-gold ... a gryphon? Had he actually seen a gryphon? Leryn freely admitted he knew next to nothing about the magical, intelligent beings, other than what probably fantastic stories the locals had told him. All he could remember right now was that gryphons were definitely carnivorous!

But the gryphon ahead of him wasn't moving in the slightest, and after a wary moment, Leryn struggled out of hiding. And, much to his surprise, he heard himself gasp aloud in pity.

What a beautiful creature this was, all lovely, graceful sleekness—or rather, what a beautiful creature it had been.

The poor beast must have been caught in the storm. Either the lightning struck it, or the winds