Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

no.

She screamed, as much in despair as agony.

“The worst part,” Lelia said to the Herald, “was that it could have been so easily avoided.”

“But it kept you here.”

“Yes.”

“That turned out to be a good thing in the end, right?”

She frowned, not wanting to answer. “Olli heard my screams. He found me in the snow—”

Lelia flatly refused to cry. She sat in the inn with clenched teeth as Olli hovered and a gray-haired woman poked at her hand.

“Broken,” the woman said. Her worn voice seemed familiar. Her disheveled hair bespoke an unexpected rousing from bed.

“Oh?” Lelia replied in a tight voice.

“Mm-hm.” The woman raised her eyes. “Healing Temple is a week away.”

“Is that so?” Lelia replied, feeling alternately faint and nauseated.

“In good weather.”

“Ah.”

“Healer just left here, in fact.”

“Mmhm.”

“Won’t be due back for another month or more.”

Lelia pressed her eyes shut. “I see.”

“You—”

“Stop.” Lelia raised her good hand. “Just a moment.” She took a deep, steadying breath. “Okay.” She opened her eyes. “Can you set it?”

The old woman nodded.

“I mean, really, truly, can you do this? Not—I did it once with a goat and well, Havens, I think I got it right because the goat sure never complained, tee hee.” The old woman’s brow lifted, but Lelia drove on regardless. “Really, honestly, truly, can you set this right?”

The old woman pursed her lips, then nodded again.

“You are certain?”

A third nod.

“Okay.” Lelia thrust out her good hand. “Hi. I’m Lelia, what’s your name?”

The old woman took her hand and shook. “Artel.”

“Right.” Lelia looked her makeshift Healer square in the eye and held the faded blue gaze as firmly as she gripped her hand. “Artel, I believe you.” She released the crone’s weathered grip. “Now set my hand.”

“I am not too proud to admit that I passed out,” Lelia said, not looking up from her growing pile of papers.

“Of course.”

“But I did so with immense heroism.”

“Naturally.”

“Some of the greatest heroes I know have passed out at least once.”

“Carry on, O Brave One.”

Lelia woke up on a pallet between a row of barrels and canvas sacks of grain.

“Hellfires, Lyle,” she said to the air. “What now?”

“Fall three times, stand up four?” She could even hear her brother’s warm, friendly voice saying it. She wished she could also imagine him helping her up, but no such luck. The best she could do was a mental image of him kneeling by her side, smiling encouragingly.

She sat, then stood, her arm pressed tightly to her chest to keep from inadvertently using it. She suspected that she was in a storage room at the inn, and confirmed her deduction as she passed through a hallway leading to the common room.

“Ah, there she is!” Olli leaned on his broom amidst a heap of rushes. “Gave us quite a fright, little sparrow.” In a gentler tone, he asked, “How d’ya fare?”

“My hand’s broken,” Lelia replied blankly.

He winced and made no reply.

She looked behind her at the hallway she’d emerged from. She thought about slogging through the snow to the Healing Temple. She thought about trying to build a fire with one hand, or what would happen if she fell again, or unwrapping food, assuming she even had food to unwrap.

She thought about bandits and could not contain a shiver.

She gathered her wits, turning to regard the innmaster. “How much would it cost me to stay here and convalesce?”

Olli rubbed his chin. “Your voice still works, yeah?”

“Clearly.”

“So then, you can still sing.” His wildly unkempt brows rose. “And maybe help a little with the picking up?”

“So long as the picking up in question only requires one hand.”

He grinned. “Mugs and plates, bread and bowls. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Olli, I am forever in your debt.”

He snorted. “I’ll be in your debt, before it’s over. A Bard—even a broken one—is going to make me money.”

“Well, when you put it that way—how much are you going to pay me?”

His eyes twinkled. “How does a room in the back sound?”

She made a show of thinking about it. “Sounds glorious.”

“Sounds like a deal.”

“That, too.”

“Being a Bard without an instrument,” Lelia said, setting the quill down and flexing her fingers, “really makes you rethink your repertoire.”

The Herald said nothing.

“I did a lot of duets, changing my voice for the different roles.” She cocked her head. “Conversations with myself seem to be a specialty, now that I think about it.”

He chuckled.

“I decided not to look at it as a restriction so much as a chance to explore other avenues. I used to have to play an instrument to really get my Bardic Gift going.”

“Now?”

“Just talking a certain way lets me use it.”

“Interesting.”

“Attendance slacked off after the first three nights, but Olli said it was still more business than usual.” She eyed the pages of writing she’d already done. “Herda came nearly every night.”

“But never said anything?”

She shook her head. “She lurked. I got the feeling she wanted to talk, and a few times I initiated, but she’d always scurry off. At first I was relieved—she was weird, you know—but after a while, I got curious.” She felt her mouth stretch in a grim smile. “You know that I met the Ashkevron Bard?”

“Really? Or did you just imagine it?”

“No, I really, truly did.” She traced one of the knife marks in the table. “At an inn in Forst Reach. After he assured me there was no chance in hell I was going to inherit his position—” The Herald coughed delicately, and Lelia grinned. “—he gave me some useful advice. He told me any idiot could write a song about a hero. It takes real skill to dig the stories out of the commonfolk. They all have stories, he said; you just need to ask the right questions and then frame the answers.”

“So . . . ?”

“I started asking questions.”

“She can talk to wolves, and chickens squawk in terror when she walks by!”

“I hear there’s a colddrake in her stable. She drinks its blood, and that’s why she doesn’t need a coat in the