Blue Heart

Blue Heart

by Philip M. Austin and Mercedes Lackey

Philip M. Austin is currently an inmate at Soledad prison in California. About this story, he writes, 'Misty Lackey is the one who made this story come alive. She deserves the majority of the credit and all of my thanks, [She] has been a good friend and mentor. She's been non-judgmental and helpful in so many ways. Through her good offers I've been able to dream of a future. A creative future without walls and bars. That dream is worth more than any monetary reward.'

'There's a Herald to see you, Your Majesty,' the page called quietly from the doorway of the Queen's private suite.

Selenay sighed and put down the silver pencil she had been using to scribe a design for an illuminated initial. 'Can it wait until tomorrow?' she asked without hope. She was technically supposed to be asleep, not getting her fingers paint- and ink-stained, copying one of Daren's favorite poems. She cherished her time alone; all too rare and much needed. She understood why Elspeth needed that shed out in the back gardens, and the feeling of clay under her fingers. Her own hobby of calligraphy and illumination was very similar, intensely physical and requiring complete concentration, and gave her brief respites when she could forget the responsibilities of crown and country.

'He says to say that it's your shadow, Majesty,' the page replied, clearly baffled by the enigmatic message.

But if the page was baffled, Selenay was not. She sat

up quickly and put away her implements. 'Tell him to come in, and see that we're not disturbed.'

'Her shadow' was an enigma; a Herald who never, if he could help it, appeared as himself. Very few people — Kerowyn, Alberich, her own husband Daren — even knew he existed, much less what he really looked like. This was a necessary precaution for his special and demanding duties. He, like Skif, was a spy and an assassin ... her own special tool to use as needed, and always with reluctance.

When she did not need him, he sometimes requested leave — a day, a week, a month. She never asked him why. Usually it was innocuous, and he returned with tales of his Companion's doings — for it was often his Companion who wanted the leave, and not him. Sometimes, though, it was not; and when he reported for duty, his eyes told her she did not want to know what he had been doing, despite the fact that she must hear it. Whatever he did, he did it because she needed it done, whether or not she knew it. Never had she found a reason to even rebuke him for his private missions, and she knew that agonizing over whether to tell her before or after the fact must often cause him sleepless nights. He had requested leave some few weeks ago, and she searched his expression for some clue as to his mood.

But this time, he came as himself, an ordinary man with a pleasant face, unmarked and unremarkable, except for his haunted eyes. She relaxed as she read relaxation in his posture. So; it had been a true holiday, then, and not some secret mission of his own.

'Come in, sit down,' she invited, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes, and forced down the shiver that always came when he looked at her. She did not know his history; she did not know if anyone knew it. But whatever his past had been, it had left dreadful scars on his soul. 'I hope you enjoyed your Midwinter holiday.'

'Pilane appreciated it as much as I, if not more,' he said with a smile, as he gracefully lowered himself into the chair. 'He indulged himself in his passion almost as much as he wanted to!'

Selenay laughed. 'Sometimes I think he Chose you because you are the only Herald in Valdemar willing to sit and turn pages for him — and to take dictation from him and be his hands! But he is a most remarkable writer. I have copies of all of his books in my personal library, in fact.' She relaxed a little more, sitting back hi her chair. 'I fear, though, I pay far more attention to the drawings and illustrations than I do to his scientific discourse.'

'I won't tell him, Your Majesty,' the young man laughed. 'He does take his hobby quite seriously.'

Selenay chuckled. 'I'm sure he, does. But what brings you here? Especially so late at night? You could — should! — have given yourself an evening of rest before reporting to me.'

'I have a story to tell you, Your Majesty.'

Selenay stiffened, folding her hands in her lap to hide their sudden trembling. She'd half expected to hear those words.

Too often, the story he had to tell was the dark and deadly result of what he was. For some reason, he preferred to give his reports as 'stories.' It was as if he tried to maintain some kind of fiction that she was innocent of his actions. She was not, and could never be. She gave him orders and the freedom to act; she was as culpable as the archer who looses an arrow. That she did not always know where it would land made her more responsible, not less.