Changing the World: All-New Tales of Valdemar

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.

Lubonne’s wooden sword cut through the ice-grained air of early spring, and his feet stamped evergreen needles deeper into the muck. Sharp, brown burrs clung to his britches and the hem of his tunic, prickling through the fabric as he moved. His bandy legs switched directions with sharp precision, their shortness belying their strength and speed. His relatively long arms supplied a reach that never failed to surprise opponents. The practice blade skipped around his homely features: his eyes small and pallid, his nose broad and overarching, his mouth thin lipped but wide. Mouse-brown hair, cut short, framed his features, unwanted curls fluffing it at the back.

A voice interrupted Lubonne’s solitary practice. :Hello there.: It left an impression of femininity and strength, yet it felt strangely ephemeral, as if he sensed rather than heard it.

Lubonne hid his startlement behind a feigned-deliberate sword stroke. It bothered him that while he practiced martial maneuvers, he had allowed someone to sneak so close through his defenses. He had heard stories of fey and magical creatures inhabiting these and other woodlands, tales of spirits and drakes, of humans taking beast- form and -nature, yet none of them involved friendly voices shocking through a young man’s mind in broad daylight. Keeping the mock weapon raised, he glanced around the clearing.

As usual, Lubonne squinted, the sun painful in his too-light eyes. Trees and shrubbery flashed through his vision as he turned, then something brilliant white seized his full attention. It was large and horse-shaped, its forelock and mane snagged with the same type of burrs that clung to his clothing. One enormous blue eye, nearly as pallid as his own, studied him. His gaze went immediately to its back, where no rider or saddle perched, not even a dirt-smudge to suggest one ever had. It wore no bridle or halter, either.

Lubonne lowered his sword. “What’s this?” He had seen only one animal this magnificent: the stallion Herald Walthin rode whenever he came to town. Has something happened to Walthin? Suddenly alarmed, he called out sharply, “Herald Walthin! Are you all right?”

:Walthin has decent hearing, but I doubt your voice will carry all the way to Valdemar.:

Lubonne went utterly still, his next shout frozen on his lips.

The voice in Lubonne’s head recited the answers to questions he had not yet thought to ask. :Yes, a white horselike creature is speaking to you. No, there’s no other human around. Yes, I’m speaking directly into your mind.: It paused, apparently hoping he would take his turn.

Lubonne found himself still incapable of action, except to pinch himself through the fabric of his britches, where his buttock met his right leg. He idly wondered where this convention had originated and how it had become cliche. Surely, a man could dream he had pinched himself, a detail far less shocking and strange than what faced him at the moment.

The creature seemed to read his mind. :Oh, and don’t risk injuring your backside. You’re not dreaming, Lubonne.:

That finally jarred his jaw loose, though Lubonne asked the least important of the myriad questions now bounding through his mind. “How do you know my name?”

The animal studied Lubonne. :Why do you ask? Is it a deep dark secret?:

“Of . . . of course not. I just . . . don’t have the . . . um . . . pleasure of . . . of your . . .” Lubonne looked around, wondering if someone was playing a cruel joke. His brothers probably crouched, snickering, behind a nearby bush.

:Carthea.: The beast bowed, one long leg extended forward, the other curled beneath its broad chest. Lubonne could no longer convince himself that the voice came from any other source. :I’m your Companion.:

“Well, yes. At the moment, I suppose you are,” Lubonne managed to sputter out, marveling at how stupid he suddenly seemed to have become. What does one say to a talking horse?

:Your Companion,: she repeated. :With a capital “C”.:

“Oh.” Still stupid. Lubonne pinched himself again, with the same result. Even if I am dreaming, I can at least try to act like I have something more substantial than rocks in my head. Discovering no more words, he left the conversation to the Companion again.

The beast stomped a snowy hoof. :This is the part where you squeal, “Oh, I’ve always dreamed of the chance to become a Herald of Valdemar, leap joyfully upon my back, and take a smooth and magical journey to the Collegium to train.”:

“It is?” Gah! I still sound like a total moron. Lubonne shook his head, trying to clear it.

:It is.: Carthea bobbed her head once, forcefully and with finality.

At last, Lubonne discovered his wits. And his tongue. He bowed, as if to royalty. “No, thank you.”

The Companion merely stared. :What do you mean, “No, thank you?”:

Now who sounds like a moron? “I wasn’t aware that ‘no, thank you’ required explanation. I appreciate your generous offer, but I decline it. While you are an inarguably beautiful animal with clear, amazing abilities, I have no wish to ride to Valdemar, to attend a Collegium, nor to become a Herald.”

Carthea planted all four feet in the mud left by the spring-melted snow. :You can’t refuse. I’ve Chosen you.:

Lubonne waved and started to turn. “I’ll forget it, if you will. Just go and choose someone else. Who will be the wiser?”

:It doesn’t work that way.:

Lubonne sighed and reluctantly looked back. Real or dream, he hated to disappoint what seemed like a wonderful and decent animal. “Listen, Carthea. My answer is ‘no,’ and I won’t change my mind. I have the perfect life here. I’m the third son of wealthy parents. My older brothers inherit the land and the responsibilities that go with it. I get money and no duties, free to spend it as I please. I’m engaged to an exquisite woman. My life is happy, and I have no intention of changing it.” With that, he turned on his heel and left, intending to walk out of Carthea’s life forever.

Lubonne never looked behind him as he strode toward the village, the wooden sword tucked rakishly into his belt. His route took him from forest to beaten path to cobbles; and it was not until he reached the latter that he heard the steady clop of hoofbeats behind him. He stepped to the side and stopped, making room for the rider to pass him. But, the instant he went still, the noise ceased as well. I’ve got horses on the mind. Lubonne continued on his way. With his first new step, the hollow, unmistakable sound of hoof on stone resumed.

Lubonne whirled to find himself nose to nose with Carthea. She studied him curiously through one eye, neck gracefully arched, head tipped. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself entirely clear—”

Carthea raised her well-muscled neck and snorted. :You did.:

Lubonne glanced around to make certain no one could hear him talking to a horse. Seeing no one all the way to the edge of the village, he continued, “Then why are you still with me?”

:Because you are mine, Chosen One. And I am yours. We are a team, bonded until— :

“No!” Lubonne waved his hands in broad gestures. “We are not a team. We are . . . barely nodding acquaintances.”

:Ride me.:

The temptation was great. Lubonne had known how to ride a horse as long as he could remember, most often bareback and on boyish whim. He suspected he had molded the shape of his buttocks from Old Rinny’s back. He knew a great animal when he saw one, and Carthea’s conformation impressed him mightily. He could imagine the powerful legs bunching beneath him, the silky mane stroking his face, the thrill of its wild gallop, the closest thing to human flight. “I certainly will not ride you. You’ve already told me you’d carry me off to Valdemar.”

:Yes!: