Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar (14 page)

 

 

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

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 gesture toward Charlin, uncertain how much the Herald could still hear and understand.

Sietra continued to look askance at Mola, clearly expecting more.

“That’s about it,” Mola said. “But it seems so real, more real than any dream I’ve ever had before. And ... I’ve had it every night since ... my lady ... lapsed.”

As Sietra still said nothing, Mola asked directly, “What do you think?”

“I think,” Sietra said with obvious caution, “that you love and miss your lady.”

That being self-evident, Mola continued to press, “Do you think it’s possible there is such a ... a healing clover?”

Sietra went even more quiet, but she seemed to be giving the matter significant thought, so Mola waited. Finally, Sietra spoke her piece, “Mola, have you ever had prophetic dreams before?”

Mola lowered her head. “Of course not. I have no magic of any kind. I’m only ... what I am.”

“You mean a devoted, sweet, kind, and generous person? With courage and hope and intelligence? Because I’d hardly use the word ‘only’ when explaining that.”

The warmth in Mola’s cheeks increased to a bonfire. “That’s ... that’s so very nice of you to say. I’m not Gifted, though. Not in the sense of a Herald or a Healer or a Bard or anything. But this dream. It’s telling me—”

“—to
do
something.” Sietra shrugged. “Then, perhaps, you should do it.”

“Me?” Mola laughed, the sound odd to her ears. She could not recall the last time she had managed such a thing. “Slopping through swamps? Climbing mountains? That’s a job for Heralds, not hand-maidens.”

Sietra’s slender shoulders rose and fell. “You’ll have a hard time convincing a Herald to go on a fool’s mission on no better pretext than a servant’s recurring dream. Even if the servant is as wonderful as you.”

It was exactly what Mola had figured, the very reason she had not yet told her dream to anyone else. “I have to try.”

Sietra rose. “I understand. And I wish you the best of luck.” She headed for the door. “Please eat, Mola.”

“I will,” Mola promised, immediately turning her attention to the stew. She could not have resisted it if she had tried, and she fairly drank it, without bothering to chew.

 

Mola washed and curried Elborik until her coat shined, though the old Companion never bothered to open her eyes. She lay in the pasture, fetlocks grass-stained and ragged, chestnuts marring the perfect, snowy lines of her legs. Mola had rubbed and oiled her hooves until they gleamed like metallic silver. The mane and tail lay spread in beautiful waves, combed to silky perfection. Even so, brushing could not hide the moth-eaten patches of fur, the ashen eyelashes, and the slumping frame incapable of standing. The Companion was dying slowly, along with her Herald.

Spotting Corry playing with his own Companion, Rexla, in the field, Mola gathered her supplies and dumped them into her pack. She embraced Elborik’s neck and kissed her soft nose and furry muzzle. Then, tossing her tack bag over one shoulder, Mola walked toward Corry.

Sun rays turned the blades of grass into sparkling jewels, and the cloudless warmth made a negative mood nearly impossible. As she headed toward Corry and Rexla, Mola found herself smiling for the first time in many days. The all-consuming darkness lifted from her soul, as well as her eyes, as she watched the playful dance of man and animal. Heralds worked hard, and she did not begrudge them their moments of play, even with her own heart so heavily burdened.

Seeing her coming, Corry waved in greeting, and Rexla trotted to her, snuffling her pockets for the sugar and carrots she usually carried. The stallion’s blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight, mischievous and joyful, two states she had not experienced in what seemed like months.

Mola shoved the Companion’s face away, then found herself immediately drawing him back for a warm hug and a nose kiss.

“Hey,” Corry shouted, running toward them. “Save some of that affection for me.”

Mola studied her feet. Corry was thirty years old, a Collegium-trained Herald, and far above her station. Yet, he always treated her with great kindness. She found him nearly irresistibly attractive and wondered why he had never bonded with anyone other than his Companion. True, he had a generous, hawk-like nose that had been broken once or twice, and his sandy hair fell in greasy clumps, always into his eyes; but she saw those as endearing characteristics rather than flaws.

When he arrived, Corry threw his arms around Rexla and began plastering the Companion with kisses. The stallion stomped his feet and tossed back his head, mane flying.

“Ooops, sorry,” Corry said in mock apology. “Wrong one.” With dexterous ease, he switched from his mount to Mola, hugging her with the same warmth and exuberance.

It was all Mola could do to keep her balance as Corry planted a welcoming kiss directly on her lips.

Mola found herself incapable of breathing. Though chapped, his lips felt spongy, delightful. She wanted nothing more than to suck his tongue into her mouth, to wind herself around him, to become lost in his embrace. But she was only a servant, and he was so much more.

“Sleep with me,” Corry said.

Mola disengaged and slapped him. “Stop teasing me, you lizard. I’m in no mood for games.”

Corry rubbed his face, becoming appropriately somber. “I understand. I shouldn’t joke around while Charlin . . .”

Reminded of the cause of her anxiety, Mola felt tears forming in eyes too sore to hold any more.

Cursing himself under his breath, Corry took Mola into his arms again, this time more gently. “I’m sorry, Mo. So sorry. But Charlin is so very old, and the Healers can’t do anything more.”

Alerted by the change in mood, or by some mind-magic from Corry, Rexla returned to grazing. Corry led Mola to a grassy hill, where he pushed her down, then sat beside her. “Mola, life goes on. They’re not going to send you away just because your—”

Mola stiffened. She had not even considered that possibility. “You mean they might send me away?”

Corry cringed, obviously realizing he had worsened, rather than soothed, her distress. Again. “No, no. Of course not. There are plenty of jobs, and no one would consider such a thing.”

You just did.
Mola did not speak the words aloud. Corry felt bad enough without her aggravating his guilt and discomfort. “Corry, do you think it’s possible that the healers missed something? That there’s an herb or plant or magic out there somewhere that might save Herald Charlin?”

Corry studied her in silence for a moment.

Mola stared back. “Corry, don’t try to figure out what I want to hear. Just speak the truth.”

Corry cleared his throat. “Well. Mola.” So far, he had done nothing but delay. “I’m an open-minded man. I’m taught to believe
anything
is possible. Such a thing might exist.”