Sword of Ice and Other Tales of Valdemar

'Is it possible,' he continued, leaning forward so that

his terrible, knowing eyes bored into Clarrin's, 'that the ones who are fire-cleansed are destroyed because their powers are too strong, too strong to permit their minds and hearts to be cleansed of the love of their kinfolk, and that if they lived, they could rival the priests and priestesses without ever having to wear a robe?'

His eyes seemed to penetrate right into Clarrin's mind, as if he were daring Clarrin to find the true answers to this 'puzzle' of his. And there was something lurking in the depths of his gaze; a hint of pain, of loneliness, of half- madness that made Clarrin finally shiver and turn away.

'I—have no answers for you at all, sir scribe,' he replied, rising to his feet, quickly. 'I am only a poor lancer, with no head for such an elevated discourse. I will have to leave these things to men of wisdom, such as you and my grandfather. Now, if you will forgive me—' he ended, hastily, already backing away, 'I have duties early in the morning. Very early—'

And with that, he beat a hasty retreat.

Tirens Mul-Par also faced the sun this morning, but not to pray. His prayer had been answered last night, and that in itself was proof enough of the Sunlord's power—and that His power, like the light of the sun, granted blessings and prayers in every land and not just in Karse.

Instead, he watched as his servants secretly readied all the horses in his stable for a long journey, and his thoughts, too, returned to the previous evening's conversation.

Clarrin beat a hasty, but tactically sound, retreat from the garden. He did not—quite—run, but it was plain enough from his posture that he wished he could. It was too bad for his peace of mind that he would never be able to run fast enough or far enough to escape those questions the scribe had placed in his thoughts.

Tirens watched him go, and hid a smile. This was not the first time that he had entertained the scholar who

called himself 'Brekkan of Hawk's Rest,' but it was the first time he had been utterly certain of what this 'Brekkan' really was.

'I fear I may have upset your grandson, Tirens Mul-Par,' the scribe said softly. 'It was not my intention.'

The old man snorted. 'It was always your intention— Valdemaran,' he said, and watched with interest as the scribe's hand twitched a little. Interesting. A sleeve-dagger? 'You Heralds of Valdemar do not care to see folk become too complacent, do you?'

He saw the man's eyes widen just a trifle, and smiled.

'I think you are mistaken—' the so-called 'scribe' began.

Tirens held up a finger, cautioning him to silence. 'If I am mistaken, it is only in thinking that a Herald would not resort to a hidden dagger up a sleeve.' His smile broadened as the Herald twitched again. 'But I did not make any mistakes in giving you my hospitality, nor in bringing my grandson here for you to disturb with your questions. He is old enough, and well-placed enough, to make a difference in this sad land.'

Again the Herald moved as to protest, and again he silenced the man with a single finger.

'Your questions deserve answers, not platitudes or religious cant. But he must decide for himself what is right. I cannot give him answers, nor can you.' He shrugged expressively. 'I do not know what his answers will be, nor can I say what he will do once he finds them. That will come as Vkandis wills.'

The Herald watched him with narrowed eyes, gray eyes, which marched well with his straight brown hair, the color of old leaves. You would never notice him in a crowd, so long as he was not wearing the expression he bore now. Which, Tirens supposed, was the point....

'How did you know?' the Herald asked, his voice low and potent with threat.

'That you are a Herald?' The old man grinned. 'I did not know it until this visit, when I had need to know. I have the sight, at need. At those times, I can sense things that are not apparent.'

His guest was not in the least mollified. 'Why did you grant me guest-right, Tirens Mul-Par, if you knew what I am?' he demanded harshly.

Tirens sipped his wine. 'I have a granddaughter,' he said. 'A little above damn's age. She has a daughter, a lovely child in my eyes, who laughs at the stories of her greatgrandsire, and who loves him as much as he loves her. She is only nine years old. A dangerous age, in Karse.'

The Herald relaxed, just a trifle. 'They test children in the temple at their tenth birthdays. . . .'

'Exactly so.' He allowed his smile to fade. 'She tells me stories as well, of dreams in the night. At times, those dreams come to pass.'.'

The light of understanding blossomed in the Herald's eyes. 'Dreams can be dangerous—in Karse.'

The old man nodded, curtly. 'I wish her and her mother to be taken someplace where dreams are not so dangerous. Before we have visitors in the night.'

The Herald tilted his head to one side. 'Her father may have something to say about that,' he ventured.

Tirens waved his hand hi dismissal. 'Only if he chooses to return from the hosts at Vkandis' right hand, where the priests pledge me he has gone,' he replied.

The Herald chuckled at that, and relaxed further. His hand made an interesting little movement, that told Tirens the dagger had returned to its home. 'When?' he asked only.

'Tomorrow,' the old man said firmly. 'I have already made the arrangements. My granddaughter is privy to them, and just as anxious as I for her daughter's safety. They will not inconvenience you. In fact,' he allowed a twinkle to creep into his eyes, 'a prosperous scholar, with a Karsite wife and child, returning from visiting relatives, is not likely to be questioned by anyone, so long as be is careful to stay within law and custom. Which his Karsite wife will be sure to impart to him.'

The Herald coughed gently. 'I can—ah—see that.'

Tirens still had not heard the promise he wanted.

'Please,' he said, resorting to beggary. 'Please, take them to safety. You will have no cause to regret this.'

But the Herald had not been reluctant after all. 'Of course I will,' he said, a little embarrassed. 'I was just— thinking for a moment! Rearranging my trip to account for a new wife and child!' But at Tirens' chuckle, his gaze sharpened. 'But what of you, old owl?' he asked, using the name Clarrin had used hi affection.

The old man leaned back in his seat on the couch and sipped his wine. 'Oh, I shall enjoy my garden until I die,' he said casually. 'Life has been . . . interesting. But I do not fear to leave it.' And before his visitor could ask anything more, he leaned forward with an eagerness that was completely genuine. 'And now, Herald of Valdemar, since your other tales have been so fascinating—tell me of the land that my dear ones will live in!'

Clarrin put aside his doubts long enough to bid farewell to his family. It would be many more months before he had another chance to visit them, and without a doubt, by then his niece Liksani would be almost a woman. Already she had the look of his sister Aldenwin about her, and he could not help but remember all the times when it had been Aldenwin who clung to his stirrup and begged him to stay 'just one more day.'

But when he told Liksani, with a playful shake of his head, that there were no more days left in the visit, she let go and let him mount.

'Uncle Clarrin,' she said, her pretty, dark-eyed face solemn, 'I almost forgot. I dreamed a tale for you this morning, in the women's garden after sunrise prayers.'

He bent down to ruffle her hair. 'And what did you dream, little dreamer?' he asked, lightly, thinking it would be a request for a doll, or some such thing.

'I dreamed that a man in armor so bright I could not look at him told me to tell you something,' she laughed up at him.

Clarrin went cold inside but managed to keep smiling. 'And what thing was that?'

'He said to tell you that—' she screwed her face up in concentration. '—that 'the light is the life and the breath, the flame is the blessing and not life's-ending' . . .' she faltered for a moment, then smiled, '. . . and that 'children should live and laugh and play!' Then he told me to go and play in northern flowers!' she finished, giggling.