Sword of Ice and Other Tales of Valdemar

'Do you know the father?' the Healer went on.

Rivin stared at the man, feeling a numb balm wash him. In that moment, he felt separate—from his body, from the situation, from the questions the old Healer asked. He was above it all—all laws and vows, all beliefs and blood ties that had bound him to his family and his father. The chill in his heart began to radiate outward, and he felt it enter his gaze.

The Healer must have seen it, for his own blue eyes widened and he stepped back, slowly, first one step, then another.

'I—' the old man began, and then broke into a run, waddling flat-footed toward his horse, mounting, and galloping off into the night.

In his belly—even apart—Rivin felt a colddrake uncoil, stirring.

Go, the Rivin that walked apart from Rivin thought. Summon your Healers. They may be able to help my sister, but there is none who can save my father.

Carefully, Rivin felt himself lay the scythe down. He would not need its edge. He turned to the farm, and took one step—

The movement was like a trigger. He Felt the tremble of inner blocks crack, fracture, and start to collapse. Revulsion, that sense of broken trust, panic—the source of all those emotions had overflowed its dam. The walls disintegrated—

And ... he remembered. . . .

So long ago, as a child—a baby. The warm trust and love he had once held for the man who loomed above him, who he called Da. He remembered the day he had been playing in the barn and his mother had been down at Rianao's, on an errand with Sattar, heavy with Dana-van. He remembered looking up, and seeing Delanon—

He remembered pain, and screaming. He remembered the ripping sound of his clothes as they were torn from him, and he remembered begging, pleading, 'No— no— please, Da, no—'

He remembered being beaten, and then told that if he

told anyone, anyone, his father would kill him— or kill Sattar. And it would all be Rivin's fault if that happened.

And he had made himself forget. To keep that from happening, he had built up walls, drowned the memory, weighted it with stones and thrown it down a well—

But now he knew. Now he was soaked with memory. All the groundless fears had a base. His vision was clear. The denial was gone. Now he knew—

His father had raped him.

The door to the farm did not open, it exploded. He Felt himself reaching for the chill fire that had now spread to his palms, and he Felt it buoy his spirit higher. He Felt the hunger for revenge— cleansing at last!— sweep him as he opened the door to Sattar's room, and stared down at his father.

Who was sitting in a stool, holding his daughter's hand, bent double.

There was no pity, no remorse at that moment. There was no doubt as to who was the father of Sattar's baby. He had heard the unknown element in Sattar's voice that rainy night he had returned from his excursion to the city, and now he knew a name for it.

Shame.

Delanon stood, a frown on his brow, his eyes dark. With a sweep of his hand, Rivin felt raw power roar through his body and pick his father up, slamming the older man against a wall.

There was a crack and a scream as Delanon's rib cage broke and his pelvis shattered, and Rivin felt a rivulet of sheer exhilaration trickle into him. Retribution, he thought, and Reached for more.

'No!' the disembodied boy heard. He saw realization in his father's eyes, a desperate plea—horror—fear— good!—'Stop! Please—oh— gods—I'm sorry—'

Rivin did not waste the breath to tell his father that there was no way he could excuse what he had done, nor words enough to apologize. There wasn't even the time for words. Only the time for destruction. Only— the solution—

Fire exploded from the boy, smoking through his body and out of his hands in a burst of light and energy. He Felt the agony as his father screamed, writhing and twisting. The fire sloughed off flesh, burned away blood, burrowed into marrow and bone. Rivin screamed his hatred—his burden of shame—into the winds he had summoned, feeling his mind snap and crackle beneath the new burden of magic.

And then it was over, leaving behind only a char-black, greasy smear on the wall, and ashes on the floor. Rivin swayed, staring down at his hands, amazement in his eyes.

With a popping sound akin to that of a dislocated joint being reset, he came back to himself.

What have I done?

He sank to his knees, sanity returning, the cold banished, weakness and a strange inner emptiness making him tremble. The air was stifling. He felt flushed. When he ran his hand over his forehead, he pulled sweat away from his face.

What have I done?

Slowly, he stood, turning his eyes from the glassy-slick mark on the far wall, turning to the shutters of the window, fumbling to open them, to let this foul, foul air out—to purify—deep, clean, breaths—clean, cleansing air.

His body was racked with sobs when he finally pushed the shutters open and nearly collapsed against the win-dowframe. He was a murderer—a killer of men—he was foul—slimy—caked in dirt—stained in blood—blackened by ash.

He was just like his father.

Like father. Like son.

:No.:

The voice was assertive, female. He trembled, fear consuming him again, making a fist around his belly. He shook his head against the voice, choosing to disbelieve.

Killer. Defiler. Damned. What have I become?

:No!:

The voice again, and he screamed in the silence of his

soul, Don't you see what I just did? Don't you know what I have done? Don't you understand?

.7 see. I know. And I understand.:

He looked up, for a moment blinded by a light akin to the sun, though it was an hour until dawn. And then he saw her—the graceful line of her white neck, the glancing blue-stream brilliance of her eyes—like fire, but kinder.

Shock gathered him up in its prickly folds, and then plunged him into an endless field of blue that was as textured and soft as a satin robe, and as all-encompassing as the closing surface of water. But he had no fear of drowning. Nor did he want to. All he felt—was—her—

And her name was Derdre, and he was her Chosen.

Lisabet gently pulled the covers over the bed that had held the corpse of the girl, tucking everything into neat order. The undertaker had carried the body of Sattar Morningsong off two days ago, and buried it yesterday. They had had to wait that long just to let Rivin rest from the exhausted state he had fallen into.

The man that the regional Healer had brought from Maidenflower stared at the bed and then turned away. He had stayed around in case any other—accidents— had occurred.

'It didn't have to end like this,' he murmured, glancing out the window toward the boy, leaning against his Companion, head buried in her slender neck.

'It didn't have to start either,' Lisabet replied grimly, glancing at the mark on the wall that no amount of washing had removed. 'Gods damn it—I should have known!'