Sword of Ice and Other Tales of Valdemar

Did I just invite him to join me in his own tongue? How in Havens could I do that—I've never heard this language before in my life!

The boy, perhaps sensing the other's confusion, touched a finger to his own mouth, then his head, then pointed toward Olias.

'You made me do that, didn't you? You ... you gave your language to me for that moment, didn't you?'

'Ydhuch! L'lewythi cymorth ffrind-iau.' He made his way toward the campfire. 'Bwuq!' he said, laughing as he pointed to the roasting squirrels.

'Y-yes,' stammered Olias. 'Bwuq.' It seemed that was the boy's word for food.

He proved himself to be a most pleasant and courteous meal companion, not taking more than his share of food and making sure that Olias had all that he wanted. Though there had been only two squirrels, it seemed to Olias that the layers of delicious meat on their carcasses were enough to have come from ten squirrels.

A candlemark later, when both Olias and L'lewythi were so full they couldn't eat another bite, it still looked as if they had barely touched the food.

Adding more wood to the fire, then crawling into his ground-bedding, Olias looked at L'lewythi and said (in his own language), 'I don't know where you came from or what, exactly, you are, but I'm almost glad for your company—and believe me, I've not said that to another human being in a long, long while. You're welcome to stay here with Ranyart and me for the night.'

The boy snuggled up against one of the trees, folded his hands in his lap, and leaned back his head . . . but did not—or would not, it appeared—close his eyes.

'I guess that means you're happy to accept the invitation,' whispered Olias under his breath, then lay back, lute in hands, and strummed an old tune while staring up at the clear, starry night.

From time to time, Olias would chance a quick glance at his guest, and always the boy seemed to be fighting against falling asleep.

Why do you not wish to rest? thought Olias. Are you

frightened that your dreams will force you to relive what they did to you? Or is it something else, something you cannot express to me so that I'll understand?

He held his breath, momentarily opening his senses to the night as the wind changed direction and the stench of fire, smoke, and destruction grew stronger.

Out there, somewhere in the night, a great violence had taken place. Olias was able to Feel the lingering resonance of the destruction and brutality . . . and unspeakable terror. Closing his eyes and focusing on the sentient threads, he Sensed the presence of something powerful in slumber, something Otherworldly—no, not Otherworldly at all, but something that came from beyond the Otherworld, something he couldn't quite grasp and bring forward so that he might See and Understand.

Whatever it was, it was beyond any power he'd ever encountered, and somehow it was connected to this boy.

What are you, my strange lostling . . . and what did you do to deserve such a fate?

Then: You're nothing to me, so why should I care?, Each of us must deal alone with our demons. Don't count on anyone's help, lostling, because you'll not get it. Tonight you were lucky, but as far as I am concerned, come the dawn you are on your own.

As if he had both heard and comprehended Olias' private musings, L'lewythi's face shadowed for an instant with a soul-sick hurt that made him look even more helpless and pathetic and so very, very sad.

Lest that look reach into his heart, Olias turned his face away, returning his attention to his lute.

Alone, lostling, we are all alone, from cradle to grave. Don't share your pain with me; I don't want to see it.

3

After a while—and without his being aware of it— Olias had begun to play 'My Lady's Eyes', a sentimental song and one that he had always thought to be so much drivel, but it allowed a minstrel to show off his

fingering. It had been his parents' favorite song. They had danced to it at their wedding.

Unexpectedly, Olias felt his throat tightening as unwanted tears began to form in his eyes. Swallowing back the emotions that were trying to surge to the surface, he laid the lute aside and forced himself to think of his blunder earlier tonight in allowing the scullery maid to panic him. He could have easily gotten past her and the others. After all, he'd taken time to walk through the manor-keep and decide upon his escape route, but for some reason, being discovered like that had unnerved him, and that had never happened before. What did it matter, though? That fat, arrogant, disgusting slug the servants called m'Lord was a lot poorer now than he'd been before allowing the minstrel into his home. Though Olias doubted the man would remain poorer for very long, he at least had the satisfaction of knowing that the bastard was stewing in his own juices tonight, cursing everyone and everything because he had been taken in by a common thief.

He sat up, rummaging around for the bottle of wine, and took three deep swallows, then looked over at his companion.

L'lewythi, looking exhausted and desperately in need of sleep, was still awake and staring at Olias, his face betraying his concern.

Olias began speaking to the boy; he couldn't stop himself. It was as if the spirits wandering this Sowan-night were forcing him to talk.

'I was thinking about—' No, best not tell him what you were just this moment thinking about. After all, a thief is a thief in any clan.

'I was thinking about my parents. My mother was employed as an apprentice-seamstress at the manor-keep of Lord Withen Ashkevron of Forst Reach. My father was the village metalworker and blacksmith. I remember ... I know this may sound odd to you— assuming you understand a word I'm saying—but of all things, I remember his hands the best. They were so large and powerful that when I was a child, I imagined

that I could curl up in either of his palms and sleep there. They were rough hands, hard-callused and scarred, but his touch against my cheek was as gentle as angel's breath. I remember the way he would come home after a day's labors and scrub those hands until I thought he would scrape the flesh right off of them, and whenever my mother would say to him, 'Why do you wash so angrily?' he would show her one of his sad half-grins and say, 'It won't do for you to be touched by anything so dirty and hard,' and my mother would laugh . . . oh, gods, I miss hearing her laugh. If my father's hand so lightly against my cheek was the touch of angel's breath, then my mother's laugh was their song. And the love in their eyes whenever they would look at each other. . . . 'Neither of them were Gifted in any way; they weren't what I suppose you'd call particularly bright. They weren't educated, but they were good people, fine people, decent and honest and loyal. Don't misunderstand, each had their faults—Mother was often a little too worrisome, which annoyed Father no end, and he, gods bless him, could never seem to pay attention to anything besides his work for very long—conversations with him were a test of your patience, trust me—the man didn't know how to listen, and at times he and Mother argued over my upbringing and how to manage their money well enough to keep the creditors at bay . . . but they made certain that neither of them ever went to bed angry at the other. I once asked my mother why, and she told me that Father had this fear that were they to go to bed angry, one of them might die during the night and the survivor would be left with unanswered questions and unresolved regrets. I used to think that was funny until Mother told me that my father had once exchanged harsh words with his father, then stormed out of the house only to return the next morning and find that the old man had died in his sleep. 'He never got the chance to apologize,' she said to me. 'He never got to take it back. He's carried that sorrow with him for many years, and he wants to make sure that none of us ever has to face that.' ' Olias, shaking his head, snorted a humorless laugh. 'I always wondered why I never saw him really smile. I don't think he felt he deserved to smile, not after what happened with his father.

'Mother understood that about him, and she accepted it as best she was able, and did everything she could to give his heart some small measure of... of peace. Theirs was perhaps the most loving marriage I have ever