Under the Vale and Other Tales of Valdemar (32 page)

The pressure moved, and Ree found himself remembering things he’d thought long forgotten. The smell of Jacona in the summer, clutching his mother’s skirt at a fair and watching a Mage make lights spark from people’s fingers, the cold and hunger and fear that never went away when he’d lived on the streets of Jacona, running from larger boys, hiding and hoping they wouldn’t find him, hating that they were bigger and stronger than him . . .

The magic circle, with its blur of pain and the screams that had started as two animals and him and became just him. And the fur that kept him warm after that, the claws that made it so much easier to catch food and escape gangs, at least until the searches started and the street rats got rounded up and taken away. Losing what it was to be human, bit by bit, until he found Jem, and Jem brought him back to life, made him human again.

Then the weird distance went away and the pressure was gone, and he was back in the hall, with the Mage saying something to Lenar that Ree’s ears rang too much to hear. His face fur was damp.

Whatever the Mage said, it must have been good because Lenar smiled and came over to shake Ree’s hand. “Welcome to the Empire.” He gave Ree a parchment certificate that had to have been done up before the ceremony.

The certificate didn’t say anything about whether Ree was human or not; instead, it said that Lenar had examined him and made him a “citizen of the Empire,” There was other legal-type wording there that, as Ree understood it, gave him the same rights—and responsibilities—as someone born and still human. “Thank you, my Lord.” That wasn’t a title Ree usually used, but here, now, it felt right.

He heard a soft harumph of approval from behind him and, turning around, saw that Garrad was there. He’d had two sturdy lads carry him up on a litter, and he was sitting straight on the chair in the litter, holding his stick. His eyes glittered.

When Ree went to him, he found himself pulled into an embrace by the elderly man’s frail arm. “Welcome to the family, heir,” the old man said, softly.

They buried Garrad on a bright day when the snow crunched underfoot and the wind was quiet. Ree, Jem, and Lenar had spent the day before digging beside Garrad’s long-dead wife’s grave, sharing memories and being grateful that in the end he’d gone peacefully, in his sleep.

Ree didn’t say, but he figured the old man had held on until he knew his home would pass on the way he wanted it to, then stopped fighting the call of all those who’d passed before.

When you’d outlived most of the folk you’d known, it must get lonely. He wanted to find a quiet corner to grieve, but with Jem and Lenar both barely holding together—oh, they were being strong, and family-stubborn about it, but Ree could see how brittle their control was—it fell to Ree to arrange everything and make sure Jem was too busy to let go until after the burial, when they’d have a bit of time to themselves to sort out life without the old man.

He suspected Loylla would have helped, only she wasn’t able to get about and wouldn’t be for a while yet.

It was the people that surprised him. People he’d once told off for ignoring that an irritable old man’s chimney had been smokeless for days, people Garrad had once had no use for . . .

Men stopped by the farm with wrapped pots of stew or haunches of beef, and helped with the chores without anyone saying anything, then wouldn’t let Ree or Jem thank them. And now, they trudged up the path to the farm, men, women, and children, all of them in their best clothes, even the mayor, and they seemed to Ree to be . . . well . . . to mean it.

Lenar’s priest gave a short speech, mostly asking any gods that might be listening to help Garrad’s soul get where it was supposed to be. Ree supposed that was the way the army priests did it because there were so many different religions and gods in the army that you couldn’t pick any one set of them without offending most of the men you were ministering to.

After, they lowered Garrad’s body—wrapped in an old sheet Ree and Jem had sewn into a shroud—into the ground, then all the men helped fill the grave. Ree tried not to look at the soil falling, tried not to think about Garrad down there. It felt as though they must be hurting Garrad, as though they were suffocating him in the black loamy dirt, but it wasn’t true. Wherever the old man was, he wasn’t there. That was just . . . a shell, like summer scritch-bugs left when they grew. Garrad had grown and gone elsewhere, with his wife and his brother. And there, hopefully, all the hard binding of the old shell was gone, and he was free and young again.

The men packed the soil tight, tamping it down with the backs of their shovels, then everyone helped to clean up before they left, and that was that. It was quiet, and simple, and there wasn’t any fuss, but somehow Ree was comforted by all those people coming to help.

The house seemed terribly empty after everyone had left, with just him and Jem and Amelie—sniffling a bit, but not actually crying—and Meren.

No one said anything, just . . .they all wanted comfort, and they all held each other, standing in front of the fireplace.

“Don’t think I don’t know what this is doing to you,” Jem said roughly. “Don’t you ever think I don’t appreciate you.”

Ree hadn’t even considered that. He’d just been doing what had to be done. That Jem wanted him, preferred him over any of the village girls, that was a daily miracle.

Meren tugged at his pants; Ree bent to lift the boy and set him against his hip. Meren’s face fur was so wet it lay flat against his skin. Amelie tried to wipe her eyes with a soaked handkerchief, then gave up and rubbed her arm against her face.

Ree held them all as tight as he could, feeling the weight of his family even more now. Not that Jem didn’t do as much as he, but right now . . . Well, that was how it was. If he wasn’t fit for something, Jem carried the weight.

Shared between them, it wasn’t that much.”Come on,” he said in a voice that only shook a little bit. “We should get dinner. There’s enough left from what folks brought that we needn’t cook.”

They’d get better. After a while it wouldn’t hurt so much to look at the spot where Garrad wasn’t, and maybe they’d even be able to laugh again and smile when they remembered him.

Later, in a month or two, he and Jem would move into Garrad’s room and give Amelie their old room. She was getting too old and too much of a lady to sleep in the attic, separated by only a thin partition from Meren’s room.

Later, there would be other challenges. The children would grow. And perhaps there would be other children who didn’t have any place to go. Later, Jem would go away to do his duty by his Emperor, in one way or another, and he would come back. Ree looked between his lashes at Jem. Yes, he would come back, one way or another, because this was his heart’s place. Maybe his affections would change, who could tell that, but he would never deny Ree this place they’d built together. And if he did, Ree would make him see he was wrong. And if someone, enemy soldier or courtier, tried to keep Jem away from home, Ree would go and get him, no matter what the peril or the suffering.

Garrad would want that. He’d want them to be his family, stubborn beyond reason and too damn pigheaded to give up when they were beat, and loving and caring for those who needed it, too.

It was a good legacy to leave.

Family Matters

Tanya Huff

“As there’s no need to wait for a reply from Verain, you’ll have time to stop by and visit your grandmother before you head back to Haven.”

Ryal Verain’s holding wasn’t far from the forest settlement where Jors had been raised and where most of his extended family still lived, but the Dean of the Herald’s Collegium did not assign Heralds the task of visiting their grandmothers. “Sir?”

“She’s not likely to live forever, you know.” The Dean’s lips twitched, the movement nearly, but not quite, hidden by his beard. “And at her age, she’d rather not go another two years without seeing you.”

“Sir?”

“She was quite insistent I do something about that in the letter. Also, your cousin . . .” He pulled a much folded and ragged-edged piece of vellum off a pile on his desk, held it at arm’s length, and frowned. “. . .your cousin’s daughter at any rate, Annamarin, could benefit from your experience. What particular experience, she doesn’t say.”

“My grandmother . . .” Jors shook his head, trying to get the words to settle into an order that made actual sense. “My grandmother wrote you a letter?”

“Herald Jennet picked it up when she stopped by on her last Circuit.” The vellum flopped limply as the Dean waved it, and Jors thought he saw the faded lines of old accounts on the back. “From the sound of it,
quite insistent
is a fairly good general description of your grandmother.” Sitting back in his chair, the Dean looked measuringly up at Jors, his dark eyes narrowed. “Is there a reason you haven’t been to see your family in almost two years, Herald Jors?”

“It isn’t . . .I mean, I don’t . . .I’ve just . . .” Jors ran a hand back through his hair. “I’ve been busy?”

“Are you asking me? No? Good. Because I’m aware of how busy you’ve been and while the country certainly couldn’t survive without you . . .”

Jors could feel his cheeks flush. He hadn’t meant to imply he’d been busier than any other Herald but, in all fairness, he hadn’t just been hanging around the Collegium. Since he’d last been on Circuit, he’d taken every courier run he could get, and on those days he’d been stuck in Haven, he’d helped the Weaponsmaster teach the archery classes, run the Grays through a few basic tracking exercises, and had his butt handed to him consistently in the practice ring.

“. . .but you have a responsibility to your family as well. Things are quiet right now, and we can find you if we need you. I think seven days should be long enough to sooth your grandmother’s justifiable irritation.” A raised hand cut off Jors’ barely formed protest. “And I’m sure she’ll inform me if you cut the visit short.”

:But you don’t like Haven,:
Gervais reminded him as they made their way through the city toward the gate. Head up, neck arched, he pranced a little as a group of children called enthusiastic greetings.
:I thought you’d be happy to stay away for a while.:

:
That’s not the point.:
Jors forced a smile and waved at the children
. :The point is, my grandmother wrote Dean Carlech complaining about how long it had been since I’d been home.:

:Perhaps she misses you..:

:Also not the point. My grandmother wrote the Dean!:

:And because she did, we don’t have to return immediately to Haven.:
Gervais turned his head just far enough that he could fix Jors with one sapphire eye
. :If you had been to see your family, she wouldn’t have had to write.:

:We were busy!:
It was a weak defense, and Jors knew it. :
You have no idea how embarrassing this is, do you?:

:Nerial didn’t believe her Herald was angry with you. She said he seemed amused.:

Jors gave serious thought to standing in the stirrups and beating his head against the sign they were passing under. The Dean’s Companion thought the Dean was amused. The legendary, mystical protectors of Valdemar gossiped like a flock of crows, and, given the isolating nature of the job, there was nothing Heralds like to talk about as much as other Heralds. He was never going to hear the end of this.

Ryal Verain’s expression matched that of the small, black sheep jostling about in the pen behind him–not distrustful but definitely wary. The scent was similar as well, but Jors was careful not to let that thought show as he handed over the oilskin packet.

Pale eyes narrowed, Verain cracked the seal. “Well, that’s that then,” he grunted as he finished reading. The wariness had vanished, replaced with satisfaction, so Jors assumed the news was good. “I can’t deny the news takes a load off, but I admit I’m surprised they sent it out with a Herald.”

My grandmother wrote the Collegium.

When it became clear Jors was not going to explain, Verain nodded. “I’ve no reply needs sending, Herald, but if you can give us time to finish this pen, we’d be pleased to have you share a midday meal with us before you go. Where
are
you going?”

“Forest settlement, out from Greenhaven.”

Verain’s eyes narrowed again. “You’re Trey Haden’s nephew.”

Jors fought the urge to remind Verain he was a Herald–his instinctive response to being his uncle’s nephew, his father’s son, his grandmother’s grandchild–and said only, “Yes.” Verain had, after all, only made a statement, not the first move on an emotional battlefield. Lagenfield, the village closest to Verain’s land, was close enough to Greenhaven that his family might have supplied wood had a closer forester not had what was needed.

“Well, then, you’ll have time to reach the Greenhaven Waystation after you eat and no time to get much farther if you don’t.”

He was still speaking to a Herald, not to Trey Haden’s nephew. No one with sense rode into the forest after dark. “I’d be happy to stay and share your meal.” Jors shrugged out of his jacket. “If you’ll let me share in your labor.”

The half dozen men mixed in with the sheep, every one of whom had stopped working when Gervais trotted into the compound, shared a reaction Jors couldn’t hear above the bleating, but, given the laughter, he assumed it was at his expense. Speculative laughter, though, not dismissive.

Heavy brows rose until they disappeared under the thick gray curls. “Thank you for the offer, Herald, but we’re nearly done. Just this lot to send out to join the rest.”

The rest were dotted over the hillside behind the compound, like a spatter of ink against the new green, surprisingly sleek without their fleece. He had had no idea that lambs actually gamboled.

“You settle your Companion, Herald Jors.” The oilskin crinkled as Verain’s grip tightened around it. “You’ve done what you do.”

:You knew he was almost finished, didn’t you?:
Gervais asked as they headed over toward the stables.