Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar

“Yes.”

“Then trust your dreams like Vulshin told you to. If there’s anything missing you’ll dream of that, too, and we’ll find it together, yes?”

Trey took a deep breath. “Yes.”

“Then go and tell Captain Danel that we accept, shaman.”

Deedun was not a large village, but nevertheless it took Trey some time to find his way through the dizzying crowds of people on the docks. Finally he spotted one of the guardsmen he recognized standing at the entrance to a low, wooden building and the man escorted him into the hushed anteroom at once. Captain Danel stood before Marik’s body laid out on a long table and the silver trim on his formal uniform tunic flashed in the afternoon sun as he turned.

Trey gaped at him in shock.

“I thought Valdemar guards wore bright blue,” he said weakly.

“They do,” the Captain answered. “Palace guards wear . . .”

“Coats the blue of a summer evening sky,” Trey finished for him.

“If you like. We call it midnight blue.” He came forward. “You have an answer for me?”

Still staring at his tunic, Trey nodded slowly. “Yes.” He drew himself up. “We accept. If your king agrees, the last of Goshon Clan will join the palace guard and make a new life in the south.”

The Captain smiled. “Welcome to Valdemar.”

As he took his outstretched hand, Trey thought he saw a man and woman mounted on shaggy ponies with purple and yellow flowers in their manes. Vulshin and Shersi smiled down at him, then turned and melted into the distant mountains beyond.

SAFE AND SOUND

by Stephanie D. Shaver

Stephanie D. Shaver lives in Missouri with assorted cats and wooden swords. She desings online games and websites for a living, and has been very active in the development cycle of the upcoming MMORPG

Hero’s Journey

. When she isn’t talking to gamemasters and artists about the lifecycle of dragons, she writes books, and hopes to someday sell one. Or two. Or twenty. You can visit her website at

www.sdshaver.com

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“DO you think if I swallowed this whole book,” Lelia mused, eyeing the fist-sized volume of songs she had taken off the shelf, “I’d get a bad enough stomach ache that they’d let me postpone the performance?”

“I think the Healers would give you a bottle of preserved plum juice and tell you to cheer up,” Malesa replied, not looking up from where she was scribbling away furiously at her song. “And then the Chronicler would probably flog you for eating one of her books.”

“Mm.” Lelia slumped in her chair, peering about the Collegium Library with a disappointed scowl. “I guess you’re right.” She opened the book to a random page and grimaced when she saw the title.

“Bright Lady,” she muttered.

“What now?”

“Sun and Shadow.” Lelia closed the book with a thump. “Everywhere I look.”

Malesa shrugged. “It’s a good story, made better by good songs.”

“Exactly. Everything that can be sung about Sun and Shadow has been, and by better Bards, and yet every year some damn trainee thinks he or she can top the Masters.”

“Ah, capricious youth,” Malesa said dryly.

“So why compete?” Lelia railed on, ignoring her best friend and year-mate. “There are other story jewels to plunder.” She picked up another volume, this one bound in brown leather. “Like this.”

Malesa finally looked up. She frowned. “That’s a journal.”

“The journal of Herald Daryann, to be exact. It’s fantastic.”

“Sure.” Malesa looked back at her sheath of papers. “Except for the fact that she dies at the end. And while it’s many things, it’s not a story.”

“It is so—”

“No, it’s a journal. A diary. A collection of events without a discernable plot, antagonist, or resolution.” She lifted her head and raised a brow. “Or did you miss that class?”

Lelia scowled and thumped Daryann’s journal with her knuckles. “Story or not, it’s the untold stuff between the lines that matters. Look.” She flipped the book open to a point near the end. “Here. She mentions that her brother, Wil, got Chosen, too. And how proud she was of him. And then two pages later—last entry. Right before the raiders got her and her Companion.”

Malesa leveled a look at her. “So?”

“Can you imagine being him? Wil, that is.” Lelia’s eyes glazed over. “I bet he’s got a story, and I bet it’s no Sun and Shadow.”

“And I bet it’s very sad. Why is it you have this morbid fascination with dead Heralds anyway?” Malesa asked suspiciously. “It’s always Vanyel this, Lavan that . . .”

“Hey—if the Bards were right, Vanyel was quite a catch.”

Malesa sighed and shook her head, glancing back at her parchments. “I’m done.”

“What?” Lelia squeaked.

“I’m done. Eight verses, one bridge, and a melody already in mind.” She looked up coyly. “You?”

Lelia groaned and buried her face in her arms.

“Oh, ’Lia,” Malesa stood and patted her on the shoulder. “Just write the song and get it over with.”

“But I don’t know what to write,” Lelia wailed into the table.

“You’re a Bard—”

“—trainee—”

“—with a brother who’s a Herald—”

“—trainee—”

“—I’d think you could cobble up something if you’re so opposed to borrowing from the classics.”

Lelia moaned inarticulately.

Malesa patted her shoulder again. “It’ll come to you.” She clutched her papers to her chest. “I’m off to practice my masterpiece.”

Alone in the Library, Lelia lifted her head and stared at the scuffed leather cover of Herald Daryann’s journal.

What did you do, Wil? she thought. What did you feel, when you found out she was gone?

She sat with her thoughts and her blank parchments until the Herald-Chronicler came around to put out the lights.

The next day didn’t get any better.

It started with waking up.

Lelia emerged from a fitful slumber to the sound of someone knocking on her door. She sat up, papers sliding off her chest to the floor, and stared blearily forward as the knocking droned on. She knew with a grim, growing certainty that when she did manage to convince her legs to move, it would be to open the door and throttle whoever had chosen to wake her on a rest day.

“One moment,” she moaned, coaxing her weary arms to pull on a lounging robe. She’d spent all night trying to pry a song out of her head, and bits of parchment with half-scribbled lyrics and notations were strewn here and there. They crunched underfoot as she crossed the room.

She knew before her hand dropped to the handle who was on the other side of the door. The warm touch of the bond she shared with her twin easily cut through her stupor.

The door swung open. Her brother stood in the hallway, dressed from head to toe in Whites.

“Is this some sort of joke?” she blurted.

“I did it!” he whooped, crushing her in a hug. “They voted this morning! Me and all my year-mates!”