Sword of Ice and Other Tales of Valdemar

Gash turned around and stormed back toward the cave, but with each step it took, some part of its body fell to dust.

'I am not the last of my kind,' it screamed back at him. 'What created me can easily create others. You would do well to remember that, thief!' Then, turning to face him as its legs exploded into rubble, it gave one final, hideous grin, and hissed, 'I'll remember you to your mother and father. I have them in my belly.'

'No, you don't,' said Olias. 'But you wish I believed that.'

What remained of Gash froze, unmoving, unspeaking, then cracked, broke apart, and fell to ruin.

When the sand and dust clouds died down, Olias looked to see that the woman in the wall was gone.

In the distance, the Keeningwoods were simply trees. No faces, no anguished sounds.

L'lewythi was still unconscious, but the seizure had passed. Olias knelt down and gently lifted his friend, carrying him as he would a newborn baby, walking slowly along the shoreline toward the bridge which would take them back through the stone city, then to the Barrens and cliffs beyond.

In his heart, he knew they could not stay here, no matter how much they might wish to. This had been a hiding place, a sanctuary of sorts for their wounded souls. Now that they had each other, neither would ever need it again.

But the ability that went into the creation of such a place—a world between worlds— that was desperately needed in Valdemar. To think of the suffering such a Gift could erase... !

Olias leaned down his head, pressing his cheek against L'lewythi's.

'You'll be safe now,' he whispered. 'I promise. We've done it, don't you see? In each other, we have found Home.'

And I've not forgotten, dear Father, dear Mother; I've not forgotten how to care, how to love . . . nor how to fondly remember you, without rancor or regret.

I will make amends, somehow, for all the wrong I've done. I will honor the memory of your lives by living my own as well as I can, and with my friend by my side, I think that may be very well, indeed.

As the echo of L'lewythi's song found them once again, Olias couldn't help but notice there were two additional tones joining in the glory. One, sharp, loud, and steady, was the sound of a blacksmith's hammer striking down, proudly and confidently shaping steel into blade, and the other, so pure and easy and light, was that of a good woman's laughter, dancing across the heart, leaving warmth and affection in its wake.

L'lewythi awoke soon after, and with silver threads beckoned his glass pipe come.

His song—what Olias had thought of as a song for no one's mourning—was even more transcendent than the first time, and when they found themselves back at the campsite where Ranyart and L'lewythi's horse were waiting patiently, it was with renewed hope that they readied themselves for their journeys—for there would be many, of that there was no doubt.

They had much to do, and learn, and teach.

Climbing onto Ranyart, Olias looked at his new friend, his dearest and most loving friend, and thought that theirs would be a good life.

Good enough.

They say that if you travel the road between Haven and the Forest of Sorrows on Sowan-night, when the Otherworld is so near, you might chance upon a pair of riders resting at a campfire; they may invite you to join them for their evening meal (which will be plentiful, for none ever leaves their camp hungry), and later, if you are so inclined, they will take up lute and pipe and sing to you of another place, another land, another world in another time where two broken souls found friendship, and acceptance, and redemption.

They say you can see the spirits dancing as the riders sing.

They say you can hear the sound of the sea come so close you swear it's right behind you.

They say you can hear a blacksmith's hammer striking anvil, and a woman's laughter ghosting happily through the trees.

But most of all, they say, you will leave these riders as more than you were before, as if every sadness had been lifted from your eyes.

And their wondrous song will rest in your heart forever, as all true music should.

In loving memory of Edward King Shaw

Blue Heart

by Philip M. Austin and Mercedes Lackey

Philip M. Austin is currently an inmate at Soledad prison in California. About this story, he writes, 'Misty Lackey is the one who made this story come alive. She deserves the majority of the credit and all of my thanks, [She] has been a good friend and mentor. She's been non-judgmental and helpful in so many ways. Through her good offers I've been able to dream of a future. A creative future without walls and bars. That dream is worth more than any monetary reward.'

'There's a Herald to see you, Your Majesty,' the page called quietly from the doorway of the Queen's private suite.

Selenay sighed and put down the silver pencil she had been using to scribe a design for an illuminated initial. 'Can it wait until tomorrow?' she asked without hope. She was technically supposed to be asleep, not getting her fingers paint- and ink-stained, copying one of Daren's favorite poems. She cherished her time alone; all too rare and much needed. She understood why Elspeth needed that shed out in the back gardens, and the feeling of clay under her fingers. Her own hobby of calligraphy and illumination was very similar, intensely physical and requiring complete concentration, and gave her brief respites when she could forget the responsibilities of crown and country.

'He says to say that it's your shadow, Majesty,' the page replied, clearly baffled by the enigmatic message.

But if the page was baffled, Selenay was not. She sat

up quickly and put away her implements. 'Tell him to come in, and see that we're not disturbed.'

'Her shadow' was an enigma; a Herald who never, if he could help it, appeared as himself. Very few people— Kerowyn, Alberich, her own husband Daren—even knew he existed, much less what he really looked like. This was a necessary precaution for his special and demanding duties. He, like Skif, was a spy and an assassin ... her own special tool to use as needed, and always with reluctance.

When she did not need him, he sometimes requested leave—a day, a week, a month. She never asked him why. Usually it was innocuous, and he returned with tales of his Companion's doings—for it was often his Companion who wanted the leave, and not him. Sometimes, though, it was not; and when he reported for duty, his eyes told her she did not want to know what he had been doing, despite the fact that she must hear it. Whatever he did, he did it because she needed it done, whether or not she knew it. Never had she found a reason to even rebuke him for his private missions, and she knew that agonizing over whether to tell her before or after the fact must often cause him sleepless nights. He had requested leave some few weeks ago, and she searched his expression for some clue as to his mood.

But this time, he came as himself, an ordinary man with a pleasant face, unmarked and unremarkable, except for his haunted eyes. She relaxed as she read relaxation in his posture. So; it had been a true holiday, then, and not some secret mission of his own.

'Come in, sit down,' she invited, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes, and forced down the shiver that always came when he looked at her. She did not know his history; she did not know if anyone knew it. But whatever his past had been, it had left dreadful scars on his soul. 'I hope you enjoyed your Midwinter holiday.'

'Pilane appreciated it as much as I, if not more,' he said with a smile, as he gracefully lowered himself into the chair. 'He indulged himself in his passion almost as much as he wanted to!'

Selenay laughed. 'Sometimes I think he Chose you because you are the only Herald in Valdemar willing to sit and turn pages for him—and to take dictation from him and be his hands! But he is a most remarkable writer. I have copies of all of his books in my personal library, in fact.' She relaxed a little more, sitting back hi her chair. 'I fear, though, I pay far more attention to the drawings and illustrations than I do to his scientific discourse.'