Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I told myself it was only the memory of her voice, but my hands trembled as they held the wood. There might be time, yet, to keep my oath—not to Vkandis, who had never listened to me, but to Cara, for whom the oath was made.

Be careful. But careful of what—my own life? Or of what I did with it? If Vkandis would not act, that left only me and my own human choices.

For a heartbeat I hesitated, because I was human and I was scared, because I remembered Cara’s screams. But then I stepped back from the pyre, drew the torch to my chest, and called upon its fire.

White-hot flames exploded around me—only me. No one could force me to make others burn. My clothes and skin and hair all caught, yet hot as the fire was, there was time enough for pain.

Through that pain, I saw a vision: a man made of white fire and crowned in white flame. He reached for me, and I knew that when I took his hand, the pain would end.

I didn’t take it. Instead I cried out to Vkandis, Lord of Sun, of Light, of Fire: “What took you so long?”

And my God spoke to me at last. “Have you not read your writ, Tamar? I cannot interfere with the free will of my people, not until the fate of the very world is at stake.”

Why should it take a whole world to move Him? Cara had died. Wasn’t that enough? “Aren’t our lives enough?” I knew that if Vkandis withdrew his hand, I would burn forever, but still I cried out, “What kind of God are you?”

“Indeed,” Vkandis said, and his smile was terribly sad. “So what are you going to do about it? What choice will you make now?”

It is hard to see clearly by a fire’s light. Shapes distort and blur; shadows reach out of the night. The sun lights the world much more clearly.

But it is not always day. And fire is the only means we have to see in the dark.

One day, Cara says, the entire world really will be at stake, and then the Sunlord will act. But that won’t be for hundreds of years.

I did not take Vkandis’s hand. Yet still he took the pain away, though not the fire. He respected my choice, if nothing else.

Not all priests are killers. Priests also heal the sick, and comfort the poor, and overlook signs of power in their village children to try to protect them. Sometimes these priests have visions that speak through a cloud of flame. When they do, sometimes I am the flame. I am the light by which true priests see.

Sometimes, too, I am the fire that is slow to catch, the moment’s hesitation that gives a priest the time to find his courage, to say, No, I will not do this, though it means my life.

But maybe you are not a priest. Maybe you only hear a whispered voice offering advice, or else urging you to do what you already know is right.

That would be Cara then, warning you to be careful with the choices you make.

I still do not understand why Vkandis waits. I still have not forgiven Him, although He is my God. Perhaps he does not need my forgiveness.

But I am no God. I am a farmer’s son. I will do what I can, when I can, until the very world is at stake.

Dreams of Mountain Clover

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

Mickey Zucker Reichert is a pediatrician, parent to multitudes (at least it seems like that many), bird wrangler, goat roper, dog trainer, cat herder, horse rider, and fish feeder who has learned (the hard way) not to let macaws remove contact lenses. Also the author of twenty-two novels (including the Renshai, Nightfall, Barakhai, and Bifrost series), one illustrated novella, and fifty-plus short stories. Mickey’s age is a mathematically guarded secret: the square root of 8649 minus the hypotenuse of an isosceles right triangle with a side length of 33.941126.

The stench of sickness hung over Herald Charlin’s otherwise immaculate room, despite Mola’s best attempts at cleaning. It emerged from each of the Herald’s struggling breaths, from her every clammy pore; and nothing the healers did seemed to make any difference. Mola hovered over her mistress, watching for any signs of awakening, keeping the room bright with light, fragrant with flowers, and replacing damp blankets and sheets.

No matter what Mola tried, the old Herald’s condition remained unchanged, an interminable sleep on the grim border between life and death. Aside from the rattling, uneven breathing, Charlin did not seem uncomfortable. She lay in a relatively peaceful slumber, eyes gently closed, limbs still, expression serene amid the deeply etched wrinkles. Mola kept her elder’s thin, gray hair neatly combed, and blankets covered the withering limbs.

Sietra, the youngest of the Healers, slipped into the room carrying a bowl of something steaming in one hand, a cup in the other. About fourteen, she moved with a practiced grace Mola wished she could emulate. Slender, but large-boned, Mola felt like a bumbling fool in the company of the Gifted. Her thin, stick-straight hair was a common mouse-brown. Her hazel eyes lacked the striking strength of the sharp blues, grays, and greens or the gentle soulfulness of Charlin’s brown ones. Freckles marred Mola’s round face, her nose pudgy and small, her eyes narrow and closely set. She seemed grossly out of place in a world of handsome courtiers and beautiful ladies, of talented Heralds and Healers.

The sight of the food raised new hope in Mola. “Did my lady ask for these?” Mola could not imagine such a thing. She rarely left the ancient Herald’s side, and nearly a week had passed since Charlin had spoken a word. “Is she able to eat and drink?”

Sietra smiled and placed cup and bowl on the end table. “No, Mola. These are for you. When’s the last time you’ve taken in anything?”

Mola felt her cheeks grow warm, and she smiled at the healer’s thoughtfulness. “It’s been a while,” she admitted. “I haven’t really worried—”

“—about yourself?” Sietra finished. “You should. It doesn’t do Herald Charlin any good to have her handmaiden starve to death.”

Handmaiden. It was as good a descriptor as any other, Mola supposed. Describing her relationship to the Herald did not come easy. Mola’s grandmother had served as Charlin’s nanny before Elborik, her Companion, had Chosen her. They had had an extremely close relationship, more like mother and child; and Charlin had kept Mola’s grandmother with her through her training and beyond. Mola’s mother had stepped into the position next, until her untimely death only a few weeks before Mola turned eleven. For Mola, Herald Charlin had seemed as much a mother as a mistress. They had become so close, so accustomed to one another, that Mola often imagined she could hear a whisper of the Mindspeech that flew between the Herald and Elborik. When Mola tended the Companions, in field or stable, she sometimes thought she could just make out a dull rumble of conversation.

Now, Charlin lay dying. She had survived so many missions, so many valiant tours, that Mola had come to think of her Herald as ageless and immortal. Always before, Charlin had bounced back from illnesses, shrugged off injuries; and Mola could not picture her life without the woman who had shaped and raised and loved her for the last eighteen years. Charlin could not truly be slipping away. Something, or someone, had to save her. It always did.

“Thank you,” Mola said. “It’s so very kind of you to think of me when you have important work to do.” The aroma of the stew filled the room, covering the stench of illness the way the flowers had not; and Mola suddenly realized she was famished. But, before she could eat, Mola needed to discuss with someone the dream that had plagued her last few nights. Sietra seemed a likely and benign place to start. “Could you spare me another moment, Sietra?”

The Healer perched daintily on the edge of a chair. “Of course, but I’d rather see you eat.”

Dutifully, Mola seized the spoon she had just noticed through the steam rising from the bowl and stuck it into her mouth. The flavor of vegetables and gravy spiraled through her, inciting a saliva riot that nearly drove her to devour the entire bowl in an instant. Instead, she forced herself to push it aside. She needed to talk.

“How is it?” Sietra asked.

“What?”

“The stew. What do you think of it?”

“Delicious,” Mola admitted, sucking back drool that nearly leaked from her mouth. “And I promise I’ll eat every bite. But, first, I want to tell you about something.”

Sietra nodded encouragingly, long blonde braids hopping with the motion.

“I’ve been having ... a recurring dream.” Mola studied Sietra for some kind of reaction but received nothing but quiet patience. “In it, I see a mountain just south of here, still in Velvar, not a particularly high or difficult one. On it grow some unusual clovers, and a voice in the dream tells me they can strengthen—” Mola made a short