Sword of Ice and Other Tales of Valdemar

There was the farm to take care of. The water to hold back. And the land had been in her family for so long. No matter how hard the villagers turned their backs, Inya wouldn't walk away without thinking a good, long time. :How long are you willing to wait?:

:As long as you need.: Thea met Inya's eyes again, but this time, Inya didn't drown in them. Instead, something rose up from the Companion, a warmth that surrounded her, made her understand what it truly meant to never be alone. She was crying again, but this time she didn't even wipe the tears away.

She knew, then, what her answer to the Companion would be. She'd wait a while to give it, but she knew.

'Grandma? Are you okay?'

:Your grandmother is fine.:

'Grandma!' Mariel's face lit up. 'She spoke to me! Did you hear? She wouldn't Choose me, but at least she spoke. That's something, isn't it?'

'Yes, that's something.' :You should have taken Mariel,: she thought again, but she didn't know whether she meant it. Something brushed her mind, feather-light. Inya smiled. She reached out and hugged Mariel.

Thea did not speak again, not then and not for a long time afterward. The Companion knelt down, letting Inya and Mariel mount.

The three of them crossed the river, and together began the long journey home.

Blood Ties

by Stephanie D. Shaver

Stephanie Shaver is a twenty-something writer living in Missouri. In her spare time, she works on the obligatory novel and short stories, but most of her time is taken up attending school, where she's majoring in Computer Science, and writing code for an online games company. She has worked at Marion Zimmer Bradley's Fantasy Magazine, and considers it one of the great experiences of her life. Of this story, she says, 'I wrote this story for the anthology a long time ago, back when I was still in my 'Angry Young Woman' phase. Misty has always been a strong force in my life, beginning at the age of thirteen. I can only thank her for introducing me to a world of magic and wonder, a feeling I hope to someday breathe into my own works.'

Dedication:

to Mr. Brian Devaney—respected teacher, good friend,and one of the few true Heralds in this world

'Rivin.'

From where he sat at the table, the boy looked up at his father. He had been rubbing his fingers—near to blistering from chopping wood all day—trying to get the ache out of them.

Holding so hard to the ax handle I forgot how to let go, he thought, reminding himself of a quote his older sister, Sattar, was fond of.

Rivin looked around to see Sattar clearing the wooden trenchers for washing, Danavan—his younger sister— smiling her sweet, undefiled smile and vanishing after Sattar, and Nastasea squalling as she tried to catch up with her two older siblings. In his concentration on his pain, he had forgotten that dinner was over.

'Is—something wrong, sir?'

For a small man, Delanon Morningsong had an enormous presence about him. Strict and solemn, dedicated to purist beliefs, he was a refugee of the famine that had caused his family to flee from their native land of Karse.

Rivin had not been part of the flight that had carried his father, mother, and their extended families to Valde-mar, but he had heard enough stories about it to be happy to no longer live in Karse. While he had been pelted with his father's beliefs since before he could speak, his daydreaming and slightly absentminded attitude had mostly helped him to escape the rigid mind-frame of most of his father's teachings—and had also caused him great bodily harm in the area of thrashings and penance.

'You chopped that wood?'

'Aye, sir.' Rivin smiled, not wincing as he ran a hand through his short black hair. His eyes were gray, like his mother's.

'All of it?'

'Yes, sir.'

The dark brown eyes of his father flickered.

'Good,' he grunted at last. 'I have another task for you.'

Rivin groaned inwardly. He had estimated one week until he began planting in the fields—usually that week was a lazy, vacationlike existence where he performed menial tasks and occasional chores, a break before the longest season. But Delanon had been piling jobs on him since weather had permitted, and Rivin feared his father might be trying to put the yoke of 'responsible manhood' upon him.

Well, I am nearly thirteen . . . I suppose he'll be thinking about marriage, too, soon.

Outwardly, Rivin's face remained neutral, neither smiling idiotically nor showing contempt toward further work. One would have been considered mockery, the other insubordination.

But the words Delanon had to say were hardly what his son expected, and it was all the boy could do to keep the shock and joy from showing on his face.

'I want you to go into town and buy some things. Sacks, candles, Sattar says she needs a new spindle as well.' His serpentine eyes turned thoughtful as he appraised his son. Rivin blinked in surprise. This was no chore! He was going into town! Away from the farm! Away from work! Freedom and fresh air!

'In addition to that, Sattar and I have decided that we can no longer support having Nastasea and Danavan. I talked to my sister, and she said she'd be more than happy to take them—she being no longer capable of having littles and all.'

Surprise again, and relief as well. Rivin and Sattar had been conspiring long and hard to get Nastasea and Danavan out of the house, if only to avoid having to endure a life of poverty and their father's harsh rules .. . now it seemed their plans would come true.

'After all, they'd only be a dowry fee and a nuisance,' he added casually. 'And we don't have the money your aunt does.'

Probably because Aunt has the sense to let some of her fields lie fallow, while you plant more than you could ever hope to harvest! Rivin had heard his father's excuses and complaints many times, and had long ago stopped believing them.

Delanon raised a glass filled with water to his lips and drank. His father had long ago forsworn spirits and beer, sticking to clean water and berry juice, or cow's and goat's milk.

'Any questions?' the older man asked, wiping his mouth.

Rivin shook his head, and then said, 'No, sir.'

'Then get to bed. You'll be leaving in the morning.'

Rivin bowed his head. 'Thank you, sir.'

The soft pad of his feet as he left the house for the stables was all the sound Rivin could make to express his joy.

Though clouds had built up the night before, the promise of rain had not come through. Rivin awoke in the barn, surprised to find the hay he was lying in (with a scrap of cloth thrown over to take away the itch) was not damp with early moisture. Indeed, the day was clear and the sky blue as the Morningsong excursion began— Nastasea and Danavan behind and Rivin leading in a steady walk. In a way, he was grateful for the clear weather. It meant that the trek would be easier. But dry weather wouldn't make planting less difficult, and he hoped that it would cloud over after he dropped off Nastasea and Danavan with Aunt Rianao.

/ don't care if I get drenched, but the girls are still too delicate. They'd probably die of pneumonia, and gods know what hells I'd go through trying to forgive myself— as well as the suffering Father'd put me through. Not like he'd need to do anything. I'd probably kill myself if I let one of them die.

Time whittled away as they moved, Rivin's feet taking well to the walk. He glanced back only once, when they got to the top of the hilly slope that overlooked the farm. He thought he saw Sattar standing in the doorway, hands tucked into her apron, the wind stirring her hair lightly. She was a mirror of their father—dark and sharp—