within a day’s ride of the capital.
The ’cat felt the surge and heave of the god’s presence, even this far from Sunhame, as He made His own appearance. By now, Laskaris would be dead, and Solaris, ascendant.
A small tendril of that power settled at the place where a man gave his life for a woman, for love.
A second firecat shimmered out of the void and stepped down. It didn’t seem to know exactly what to do with its tail.
“Was that me?” it said, looking at the place where the colonel had died.
“Yes,” said the firecat. “Your task now is to watch over her. She is handmaid to our Lord, and she must survive.”
“I will,” said the new ’cat.
“In the meantime,” said the old, “let me show you the joys of field mice. They go best with toast.”
The chirurgeon deserted the next morning. A month later, he knelt before his own bound liege.
“Arise, Healer, and report,” said Queen Selenay of Valdemar. “What of Karse?”
THE BLUE COAT
Fiona Patton lives in rural Ontario, Canada with her partner, a fierce farm Chihuahua, and inumerable cats. She has four novels out with DAW Books:
and
. Her fifth novel,
, was published in hardcover by DAW in 2005. She has twenty-odd short stories published in various DAW/Tekno anthologies including
, and
.
SPRING had come late to the Ice Wall Mountains. Although the warm afternoon breezes had brought the first of the tiny purple-and-yellow flowers pushing up through the snow, the passes were still closed and the nights still frosty and cold well into the season. Two figures, each heavily bundled in hides and fleece and wearing thick caps made of the soft, luxurious brown fur that gave the Goshon clan its name, walked single file along a narrow, barely passable mountain path. Each carried a short hunting bow and several brown-fletched arrows in ornate quivers at their backs and long knives, waterskins, and a brace of rabbits at their belts. The older, just past twenty years in age, was tall and thin, with a short length of beard and long, dark hair, plaited in several thick braids and tied with bits of hide. The younger, closer to fourteen or fifteen, was clean-shaven, lighter in coloring and more compact in build, but still bore a striking resemblance to his companion. As the path widened to reveal a small, protected vale, they paused to study the tableau below them with an apprehensive air.
A stout hide tent stood in the lea of a copse of pine trees with four shaggy ponies cropping at the dry grass before a ringed fire pit. Two figures, one old, the other young, were the only people to be seen. For a moment, there was no sound except the piercing call of a hawk high above the trees, and then the sharp, painful birthing cries of their cousin Dierna that had driven the two men from the vale that morning began again. The younger backed up a step, but the older put his arm about his shoulders and drew him forward.
“There’s nothing for it, Kellisin,” he said, keeping his voice firm and even. “Take the hares and prepare them.”
“But Trey . . .”
“I know.” Treyill k’Goshon glanced over to where his brother Bayne stood guard before the tent’s entrance. The other man met his gaze, then shook his head, and Trey nodded in resignation. “Shersi’s doing all she can,” he continued, handing Kellisin his kill. “Maybe a thick rabbit stew will help her and Dierna both, yes?”
Kellisin swallowed hard. “Yes.”
“So go on, then, little cousin.”
As the younger man made for the fire pit, his face clouded with distress, Trey walked the short distance to where Vulshin, the family’s shaman, sat weaving his fingers through a thin trickle of water running down the rocks. As Trey touched him lightly on the shoulder, the old man raised his head, the expression in his rheumy gray eyes making words unnecessary.
Trey crouched beside him. “It’s as you dreamed then,” he said, studying the collection of stones and small bird bones lying on the ground before them.
Vulshin nodded, his seamed face gray and weary. “It’s as we
Trey picked up the largest of the stones, squeezing it in his fist with a helpless gesture before dropping it once more. “How long?”
“Dusk. No later.”
Both men glanced up at the sun already well into its trek towards the horizon.
“Once there were so many of us,” Vulshin noted sadly. “The voices of our people sang in my dreams like a chorus of sparkling water flowing down the mountains sides. Not like this pitiful little trickle,” he sneered, waving a gnarled hand at the rivulet of water. “But like a torrent. Now sickness and clan-fighting have silenced their voices, one by one, until the Goshon are no more.”
“The people are scattered,” Trey allowed.
“The people are no more,” Vulshin repeated sharply. “Their voices have left my dreams, I tell you. We are the last, and when Dierna and her child pass from this world so will the Goshon pass.” Scooping the stones and bones into a small, hide bag, he fixed Trey with a stern expression. “When this is over, I want you to leave this place; you and Bayne and young Kellisin. There’s nothing left for you here.”
Trey gave the old man a worried glance. “There’s yourself and Shersi, Shaman,” he said.
Vulshin shook his head. “No. Shersi is old,” he said wearily. “Old and sick. The winter was very hard on her. Too hard. And with our grandson Aivar’s death coming before his child could even draw breath, the strength to carry on has left her.”
His expression drew inward. “She used to love the meadow flowers in springtime, you know,” he said, more to himself than to the younger man. “When we were children, so many years ago, we would go out seeking the earliest spring blossoms, even if we had to sweep the snow away to find them. Sometimes our fingers would be red and stiff from searching, but she would never return until she could bring a handful home to plait into our ponies’ manes. Now she couldn’t walk as far as the edge of the camp to find them, and my vision’s so poor I couldn’t see to fetch them for her even if I tried.” He blinked a sudden welling of tears from his eyes. “She only waited this long to help Dierna bring her child into the world, but now . . .” He paused, and the two men glanced unwillingly toward the tent where Dierna’s cries had become noticeably weaker. “Now, my Shersi won’t last the week.”
“Then we’ll wait a week, and afterward you’ll break camp with us.”
“No.”
“Shaman, you must. We need you.” Trey scowled at the desperate sound in his voice but kept his eyes on the older man’s face regardless.
Vulshin patted his arm with slightly more force than necessary. “No, you don’t,” he replied. “I’ve taught you all I can, Trey. Bayne will stand beside you as he always has, and Kellisin would follow you into a fire pit if you told him he could learn its nature. Rely on Bayne’s strength, Kellisin’s mind, and your own gifts, and you’ll be fine.”
“But my dreams aren’t like yours,” Trey insisted, trying to curb the sudden panic he felt at the thought of losing the old man’s guidance. “They’re hazy and unclear. And even when they’re not, they don’t make any sense.”
“They will when you trust that they will. You’re strong, so are your dreams; strong enough to lead the three of you to a new life.” Vulshin passed a hand through the rivulet of water once again. “I have only one dream left now, and I don’t want to see it through without my Shersi. I’ve never been without her, you see; I wouldn’t know
