“Dawn said, ‘Don’t ever be sorry,’ and let Lisle’s fingers slip from hers.
“The Companion turned and passed me by. She gave me a look that didn’t need Mindspeech to read. She might as well have spoken out loud and said, ‘Take care of this woman for me.’ ”
Jocelyn paused. This was the heart of the song, and she wanted to be sure Silver felt it. Silver had turned her head, but when she turned it back to see why Jocelyn had stopped talking, tears glistened in the corners of her eyes.
Jocelyn noted the tears, smiled, and kept the story moving. “I reached for Dawn, but she had already fallen to her knees in the dirt, head buried in her hands. Sobs shook her whole body. I knelt by her side, my hand on her slender, heaving back. I sang softly, soothing her as best I could.”
Silver’s voice was soft and warm, concerned. “And that’s when the last stanza starts.”
Jocelyn nodded. “Her tears were pure sorrow. I’d never heard such a forlorn sound before, and haven’t since, not from animal or human. I wanted to help her more than I’d ever wanted anything, for her sake, and for Tamay’s and Lisle’s, too. For all of our sakes. Seeing Lisle’s Choosing felt like a symbol of all that Valdemar holds dear, all the love, all the sacrifice, all the magic. It showed me what Ancar wanted to take from us.” She glanced back down at the peaceful summer scene below them, and spread her arm out over the town, encouraging Silver to see the peace.
“When I’d thought about Choosing before, I’d only seen the joy and shock and bewilderment of it, never the price. Companions choose who they choose, of course, and usually it’s not first or only children; usually it’s a blessing to the family left behind. Surely, Lisle must have a special part to play, but that’s not part of this story.”
“Did anyone ever write a song about Lisle?”
Jocelyn shrugged. “I don’t know. Remember, she’ll just barely be getting her Whites by now. I never stayed in Haven long enough to watch for her.” Jocelyn shrugged. “Most Heralds live unsung lives. It’s easy to forget that. There are so many songs about Heralds, but there are many more Heralds than songs about them. Many parents and families of people who come to Haven, whether Herald or Bard or Mage or Healer, well, their pain is unsung as well.” She stared down at her knotted fingers. “That’s why I wrote ‘Dawn of Sorrows,’ for Choosing, and all the love and pain and sacrifice and promise of that moment. Dawn’s pain would have gone unnoticed, a single sacrifice in a flood of things surrendered to save Valdemar from Ancar. Except I gave people her story for remembrance. That’s what Bards do.”
Silver twisted her hands in her lap. “I haven’t yet written anything that many people sing.” The wistful yearning in her voice echoed in her eyes.
Jocelyn stood up. “Your life will surely yield opportunities. Come on, there’s only a few hours until dark. We should get moving.” She bent down to gather up her battered leather pack and fiddle case, and when she stood back up, she saw the disappointment on Silver’s face. She sighed. “Yes, there’s more. I’ll tell you more of the story tonight.”
“Thank you.” Silver’s voice sounded small. She shouldered her own nearly-new black leather pack. A flute case hung below her pack, tied in with purple ribbons, and she carried a gittern case that looked as new as her pack. “Will we stay at an inn tonight?”
Jocelyn shook her head. “Not if you want the rest of Dawn’s story. It doesn’t make me want to sing. They’ll have plenty of minstrels and even Bards in a town this close to Haven—they won’t expect us to sing.”
Silver fell silent, and Jocelyn started down the hill, setting a good, hard pace. Silver’s footsteps behind her reminded her of Dawn following her, and she walked faster, leading them downhill through tall dry grass and yellow mustard flowers. If only she hadn’t tried so hard to help Dawn. She struggled to distract herself by counting the small suncup butterflies flashing white and orange over yellow mustard flowers and tiny blue wild onions. She picked up speed, nearly jogging down the water-rutted path.
After an hour, the footsteps behind her began to fade and Jocelyn stopped, looking back. Silver’s cheeks shone red with exertion and her shoulders drooped. Jocelyn heard her own rattling breath and stopped. She waited for Silver to catch up, then said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to walk so fast.”
Beads of sweat stood out on Silver’s forehead. She breathed in little hard gulps. “I didn’t know how much you’d mind talking about Dawn.” She licked her lips and brushed damp hair from her face, looking at Jocelyn earnestly. “I thought I was asking about a song, but I guess I was asking about more. You don’t have to tell me.”
Hot tears suddenly licked at the edges of Jocelyn’s eyes. She turned her face away a little, hoping Silver wouldn’t see them. “I know.” She took a long drink of water, felt it fall like a welcome river in her mouth. She’d been pushing Silver too hard, but maybe she’d also been pushing herself too hard. “I’ll slow down some. Tell me about the first song you wrote.” She started off again, not looking at Silver, but measuring her pace.
Silver was quiet for a few steps. When she spoke, her soft voice barely carried to Jocelyn. “I always made up songs, as long as I can remember. I’m sure my first songs were about my family. What about you? Did you sing about your family?”
Jocelyn flinched. How come everything Silver said poked at her? Had she really become such a pincushion? No wonder Dennis had looked so concerned when she wandered back to Bardic a month ago for rest. “I sang about the boarding school I was raised in, and about some of my teachers. Maybe we should just walk for a while.”
Behind her, Silver’s answer was to start humming, and then singing, a summer harvest song. If Silver had asked her to join in, Jocelyn would have refused, but the younger woman’s quiet singing acted like a balm, letting Jocelyn enjoy the late afternoon sun warming her face and steady, quiet hum of bees in the flowers. By the third song, Jocelyn began to sing along, and before they even made it all the way off the hill and onto the main road, she realized she was smiling and her pace was naturally slower.
The road to Sunny Valley was wide enough for two carts to pass each other easily. Although the hard-packed road was empty for long stretches, they were greeted by kids on horses going between farms, and carts most likely headed between towns or even to Haven.
Jocelyn remembered to stop a few times under shade trees. Silver would get used to traveling, and they’d make better time in the future. After all, this was only day two of a three-month journey.
They stopped at an inn in Sunny Valley to refill their waterskins and purchase a loaf of fresh bread, a skin of red wine, and a round of deep-yellow cheese. As the skinny, dark-haired innkeeper handed them their packages of food, he said, “There’s room. We have a local minstrel who plays here, but he never minds being joined by Bards, long as they share the takings. Says it helps him learn new songs.”
Jocelyn glanced at Silver, letting her choose.
Silver shook her head. “We’d rather push on tonight.”
The innkeeper grumbled good-naturedly. “You folk from Haven. Always hurrying.” He turned to his next customer, and Jocelyn and Silver headed back for the road.
Two candlemarks later, after setting up a quiet camp by a thin stream, they perched on an old log, a small fire at their feet throwing tiny sparks up into a darkening sky. Jocelyn broke the bread in half while Silver parceled out the cheese and one more apple each.
Jocelyn set her plate on her lap, and took a long sip of the wine. Her stomach fluttered, but at least the hot tears didn’t return. No point in waiting, the words wanted to come out. “So we left the story with me and Dawn in the middle of the road, and Dawn in pain, and me feeling her pain, and on my way to Johnson’s Ford to convince people I’d never met to leave a town they’d struggled to build their whole lives.
“Well, I might as well have promised Tamay I’d take care of Dawn, and besides, who could have left her? So I sat there with her and fed her water and sang to her, and she let me stroke her back even though she’d never seen me before. Finally, she pushed herself away from me and looked deep into my eyes. Her voice trembled as she said, ‘Thank you.’
She glanced at Silver, finding Silver’s pale eyes staring at her, waiting. Silver still looked like Dawn, and still, like Dawn, looked like she needed Jocelyn. Except Silver had her own scarlet cloak, and her need was simple and healthy, unlike Dawn’s naked, scraped-raw tenderness. Jocelyn cleared her throat. “I stood and helped her up. We walked back to town just as the sun was setting. She moved slowly, as if she were an old woman, as if every movement hurt. Perhaps it did. Perhaps her grief was so heavy it weighed on her bones.
“Johnson’s Ford didn’t have an inn, so Dawn led me home with her for the night. I really should have called a town meeting right then, maybe stayed one night, and gone on, but I didn’t. I stayed a week.
“Dawn’s house had two beds, hers and another that must have been Lisle’s, but Dawn didn’t offer it and I
