Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar

“Well . . . when you put it that way. . . .”

Malesa put her head in her hands. “Oh, ’Lia.”

“What?”

“It’s a wonder sometimes that you’re a Bard. You have the tact of a stud in heat.”

Lelia bristled. “It was an honest question!”

“There’s honesty, and then there’s rude. Did you even stop to consider his feelings?”

Lelia scowled and stared at the table. She’d expected comfort and commiseration from Malesa. Not a tonguelashing on the ethics of questioning a subject.

“I just wanted to know,” Lelia muttered.

“So what are you going to do now?”

Lelia thought about it for a moment. “Seduce him,” she said decisively.

“Please tell me you jest.”

Lelia wiggled her eyebrows.

“Well, you have fun.” Malesa stood up, collecting her scrolls. “I’m off to practice the bridge of my stunning piece of genius.”

“Fine, leave me to my misery.” Lelia waved her off, then leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling.

“This,” she said to no one in particular, “is going to be a challenge.”

Lelia was anxious and fidgety all through class and morning chores, most of which involved restringing harps and lutes. The humidity had broken with a brief rain, but the result had been many out-of-tune instruments and much trainee busywork.

At the lunch bell, Lelia skipped the Bardic common room and instead retrieved a bandolier of knives from her quarters and took herself out to the practice salle. Even the Weaponsmaster had to eat sometime, and there was no one outside to watch her as she threw over and over, the handleless blades landing dead center more often than not.

“Nice grouping,” a voice behind her said as she was pulling her last knife out of the wooden target. “Didn’t know they were teaching Bards these things.”

Lelia spun, startled. Standing behind her, his face half in and out of the salle’s shadow, was Herald Wil.

She regained her composure quickly. “My parents are gleemen.” She pushed damp, sweaty hair out of her eyes. “I learned knife-tricks from my grandmother.”

His brows lifted. “I see.”

She tucked the knives away into their sheaths; anything to keep herself from fidgeting. “Um . . . about yesterday.”

“Yes, about that.” He pushed away from the salle. “I behaved coarsely. I . . . apologize.”

She nearly squealed with glee, and had to resist the urge to fall on her knees and praise the Bright Lady. You do exist! she thought.

“Does that mean I can ask you some questions about Daryann?” she asked.

He smiled warmly, turned around, and started to walk away.

“Herald?” she called, her hopes crashing to the ground once more. “Is that a no?”

“I just wanted you to know that I’m not angry at you, and I’m sorry if I acted like a brute,” he yelled back, waving his hand. “Good day, trainee.”

“Wait—” she called desperately to his departing back.

He stopped, looking over his shoulder at her.

“I—” Her mouth opened and closed. “I really need a song.”

“Do what every Bard-trainee does,” he replied. “Write about Sun and Shadow.”

And then he laughed.

He laughed.

She sat down in the grass, watching him disappear.

“Oh,” she said, her eyes narrowing, “I think not.”

Later, as Wil was taking an early evening stroll through the Field with Vehs, he caught a flash of red out of the corner of his eye.

It was the Bard-trainee girl. She was charging toward him as fast as the tall grass and her own short legs would let her.

“What . . . ?” he said.

“Herald!” she yelled. “I just want to ask you a few questions!”

“Good gods,” Wil blurted.

:That famous Bardic stubbornness.: Vehs actually sounded amused.

“Get me out of here,” Wil mumbled, swinging up onto his Companion’s back.

:At your service, m’lord.:

As Wil was coming out of the library after a satisfactory read, he heard the slap of boots behind him.

“Herald!” a familiar voice called. “Herald, just a moment of your time!”

His legs were longer than hers, and in better shape. He outran her, but only just.

Alone in a hallway and coming back from lunch, Wil was startled when the girl popped out from behind a velvet curtain and flung herself on him.

“I just want to know!” she panted as he wrestled out of her grip. “I just have a few questions to ask!”

He managed to escape to his room again, and threw the latch in case she grew more ambitious.

After that, he was on the lookout for any trace of rust-red or boots peeking out from under curtains and tapestries, and quick to avoid the small, persistent girl the moment she came into view.

“I have to question the ethics of this—”

“Question all you want,” Lelia said, tossing her hair and giving Malesa a glare. “He laughed at me.”

“And you’re inquiring about his dead sister. That’s called tasteless.”

“It’s been ten years, Malesa!” She flailed her arms frantically. “Ten! Years! He has to have found peace with it by now.”

“Would you if it was Lyle?”

Lelia flinched, but ignored the question, muttering, “She deserves a spot in the Bardic repertoire.”

Malesa eyed her. “Are you saying that because you actually believe it, or because it justifies your behavior?”

Lelia snorted derisively.

“Besides, even if you think it,” Malesa continued, “he obviously doesn’t.”

“He laughed at me. A Herald!” She pushed her head out of a window and yelled in the direction of Companion’s Field: “Just what kind of people are you Choosing nowadays?”

A passing page gave her a strange look. She growled back, sending the boy scurrying away with a squeak.

“You worry me,” Malesa said.

“Oh, go get Chosen already. You sound like my brother.” Lelia stopped at a door. “Speaking of which . . .”

She opened it and stepped inside. Lyle never did lock his door; he was just so damn trusting, sometimes. Many of his belongings had already been moved to his new suite, but a few things remained. And yes, there at the foot of his bed was a chest, and inside—

Lelia laughed darkly as she pulled out a gray shirt and pants.

“Astera bless a fool,” Malesa moaned.

Wil sat down at a table apart from the others. There was really no quiet place in the common room, but this was far enough away that he could hear Vehs think if he needed to.

He also had an excellent vantage of all entrances. The moment he saw a rust-red figure walk in, he would walk out.