Sword of Ice and Other Tales of Valdemar

Martin seemed the more pensive of the two. He did not hum or sing, and his eyes remained fixed on the mound between Tirithran's ears.

Scarcely able to suppress a smile, Judaia waited for Martin's inevitable assessment of her work. It did not come. In fact, neither Herald passed a word until Martin drew rein in a quiet clearing alongside the beaten track. He dismounted there, removing the bitless bridle and bells from Tirithran's head. Judaia joined him, releasing Brayth as well. The Companions grazed on the boughs and underbrush while Martin prepared a meal in the same thoughtful hush he had assumed throughout the ride.

Finally, Martin broke the silence. 'I spoke in private with the midwife.'

Judaia leaned against a thick, rough-barked oak, nodding encouragement for him to continue.

'You gave only one of those babies to its rightful mother.'

Judaia nodded. 'Lindra bore the boy. The girl was Keefhar's baby.'

Martin stared. 'You knew?'

'Of course, I knew.' Judaia met Martin's green-gray stare that appeared even more muddled than usual. Familiarity made the eyes beautiful, despite their indeterminate color. Guilt twinged through Judaia for the pain his silence must have caused him in the birthing room; he alone could have reversed her decision. But he had promised not to interfere with her judgment, and his honor had held him to that vow as strongly as to the other.

Martin seemed incapable of blinking. 'You intentionally gave a baby to the wrong mother? Are you insane?'

'Maybe.' Judaia plucked at the bark beneath her fingers, studying the fragments she pulled loose. 'If you find considering the welfare of the children insane. Having a womb doesn't make a good or worthy mother. Bloodline isn't enough. No one, Martin, no one can grow in the hands of a liar or in a home without honesty, loyalty, and trust. As far as I'm concerned, Keefhar gave up her right to motherhood when she knowingly traded her child for another.' Once again, Judaia met Martin's eyes, and she did not blink either. 'Sometimes, Herald Martin . . .' She grinned. '... sometimes what's right is more important than the truth or any vow. Sometimes justice over honor.'

Martin considered the words for some time. Gradually, his lips framed a smile, and he pulled Judaia into a friendly embrace that might become so much more. And all the awkwardness, at least, was gone.

A Song For No One's Mourning

by Gary A. Braunbeck

Gary A. Braunbeck has sold over 60 short stories to various mystery, suspense, science fiction, fantasy, and horror markets. His latest fiction also appears in Future Net and Careless Whispers. His first story collection, Things Left Behind, is scheduled for hardcover release this year. He has been a full-time writer since 1992 and lives in Columbus, Ohio. 

Sweat ran down the young man's back and his ankle hurt severely—he'd leaped from the window on impulse and landed badly after the scullery maid discovered him in the master's private chamber. She had simply opened the door and walked in, her servant's eyes taking in everything—the bags of silver coins clutched in his hands, the portrait set haphazardly on the floor, the exposed secret cache in the wall, the broken-locked, opened lid of the master's money box—before she thought to shout an alarm to the others in the manor-keep, but by then the young man had tossed a chair through the stained glass window, perched himself there like a raven for only a moment before hearing other loud voices and footsteps thundering toward the room, then jumped. Though careful to bend his knees, the impact was nonetheless painful. It was a miracle he'd to made it to his horse without losing more of the money, but make it to his horse he did, and Ranyart—as fierce and strong a horse as ever the young man knew—galloped swiftly away from the manor, through the streets, past the city gates where the guards and armsmen in the towers, too busy with their own private Harvestfest celebrations, were neither able to take up their crossbows nor lower the gate in time to stop him. He hoped they heard his laughter as Ranyart carried him away into the darkness of the forest road.

That had been several candlemarks ago, and now both he and Ranyart were weary from the chase—and the armsmen had given chase for a while before he lost them near the Westmark Hills. He was glad he had been alone this time, claiming to be a simple minstrel who wished only to entertain with song in exchange for a warm fire and a good meal; not only had his being alone enabled him to flee quickly without having to make excuses to anyone in whose company he might have been seen, but had such a disaster occurred while he was with a troupe, the other members would now be suffering for his actions.

And isn't that always the way, Father, he thought. Whenever the rich find they've been bested by one of a 'lower' heritage, they vent their wrath on others whom they deem undeserving of mercy, or kindness or understanding, let alone a chance to prove their innocence— and forget about individual worth; in the eyes of the rich, we are all the same: valueless fodder, so much human flotsam for them to treat with as much disregard or contempt as they please. I remember the way Lord Withen Ashkevron of Forst Reach treated you after those damned Herald-mages from Haven showed him what a Gifted one could do with metalworking. I remember how the bastards all laughed at you, and you were a good enough man to pretend you didn't hear the laughter or see the smirks. But did any of the gentry, any of the courtiers ever bring their trade to you again after that? No. Gods, how they killed your spirit. Half my life you've been dead, and I miss you no less now than I did on the day Mother and I had to watch the gravediggers toss your body in that foul, disgraceful hole. Damn them! Damn then all!

The young man's name was Olias, a thief who secretly possessed a meager measure of both the Bardic and Heraldic Gifts. Often in his travels, when both money and food were running low, he would insinuate himself into the good graces of various traveling minstrel troupes, enchanting them with his storytelling and enviable abilities on the lute, rebec, and cornemuse (his fiddle- and pipe and tabor-playing, though not offensive to the untrained ear, left something to be desired in his opinion); inevitably, the leader of the troupe would invite him to travel and perform with them, which Olias was more than pleased to do, accompanying them from city to village to hamlet and hollow, playing for lords and ladies and peasants alike. Since he never wished to endanger the members of the troupes (who were always kind to him, despite their typically desperate circumstances), he took care to ensure his thievery would appear to be the act of someone with whom the victim was familiar. It seemed that every merchant and nobleman possessed their fair share of enemies, and it was surprisingly easy to discover who among them was the most envied or despised—as well as the names of those who harbored resentment—and thus lay the groundwork for his deception. Sometimes it was as simple as placing a few stolen coins outside the doorstep of his chosen scapegoat (always another member of the gentry or a successful tradesman, never one of the poor), making it appear that they, in their haste, had dropped some of their ill-gotten treasure as they ran from the sight of their crime; occasionally he would have to resort to more complex methods of duplicity in order to avert suspicion from himself or the other players—employing his mild Gift of Thought-sending to plant misgivings in others' minds—but the effect was always the same: None had ever accused him or any member of his temporary troupe of the robberies.

For Olias—lonely, angry, bitter, and distrustful—it was a good life.

Good enough.

The road he now found himself traveling was little more than a rutted tract of hard-packed dirt meandering through a skeletal tunnel of near-barren tree branches. This Harvest had been an usually cold one, and the trees, sensing this, chose to slumber earlier than many of the people in Valdemar were accustomed to. Tendrils of mist snaked from between the trees and lay across the road like a blanket of living snow, shifting, curling, reaching upward to ensnarl Ranyart's legs for only a moment before dissolving into nothingness. Overhead, the moonlight straggled through the branches, creating diffuse columns of foggy light that to Olias' frayed nerves became fingers of foggy light from a giant ghostly hand that at any moment would fist together and crush him. He was aware, as if in deep nightmare, of shadows following along from either side of the road—silent, misshapen things, spiriting along with the mist for furlongs until he snapped his head toward them. Then they would disappear in slow degrees, mocking his anxiety, melting back into the darker, unexplored areas of the night-silent forest. These shadows called to mind far too many campfire tales and old wives' stories of the outKingdom and the Pelagirs, with its uncanny