Under the Vale and Other Tales of Valdemar (7 page)

Carjoris Lor was a happy man. Why shouldn’t he be, when the whole world was his treasure sack? From the moment he’d made up his mind to come west to find his fortune, Fortune had found him.

He’d always lived by his wits. He’d grown up traveling from farm to farm, following the work, and a quick tongue and a gift of invention had saved young Carjoris from countless beatings. In his itinerant world, theft had few consequences: it would be a year and more before a laborer’s caravan returned, and by then the theft would have been forgotten.

He was not clever enough to see—not then—that the things a child might steal were small and easily forgotten . . . but that the theft of clothes or boots or coin would be mourned and long remembered. He’d been shocked when, upon their return to a place he’d nearly forgotten, his family was accused of stealing—and outraged when they cast him out.

You never cared where things came from. In all the years I brought you things, you never asked. But in the end, you cared more about being welcome back in some mudhole than you did about me.

But it was an old injury now, half forgotten. He wasn’t sure when it was that the lies he told as he wandered from town to town began to be taken for truth. At first he thought it was his cleverness—or their stupidity.

But later he came to realize it was
magic
. Whatever he said—whatever he
wanted
—would be taken as truth.

It was a pity it never lasted long. Once he was out of sight, his victims remembered their own truths. No matter how hard he tried to settle down, he’d always had to keep moving.

Then one day he’d heard that in Valdemar no one believed in magic.

People who didn’t believe in magic would surely be ripe for the plucking.

When he reached Valdemar, he’d been careful and cautious at first, using his magic for small things, things no one could say did them any harm. But the fact it worked had made him bolder. A country fair was just the place to test his powers. And after that . . .

A fine horse and fine clothes and a pocket full of gold—and no one ever again telling me what to do.

Today Carjoris decided to visit the horse fair. He did not fear arrest—even the guardswoman who’d chased him yesterday hadn’t been immune to his magic. If anyone accused him, all he had to do was say he was innocent. They’d believe him. He moved quickly past the lines of mules, the broken-down hacks, the plow horses and cart horses. There, at the end of the street, were the creatures he sought. Their coats gleamed like satin and silk, and a man who rode one of those fine mares or geldings would be seen instantly for a man of wealth and stature.

And a man who looked to buy would be feted like a prince.

He passed a shaggy unkempt fellow loitering nearby—obviously some poor fool looking to exchange a day’s work for a meal and a bed.
Perhaps I shall hire a servant,
he thought as he walked toward the horse seller, his mind on a pleasant afternoon of wine and flattery.

Then something struck him, and Carjoris knew nothing more.

He did not know how long it had been when at last consciousness returned. He was lying on the ground with a sack on his head. He groaned and rolled over with a grunt. Someone had put a
sack
over his
head
. He pawed it away and sat up, wincing at the brightness of the sun.

“Hello,” a voice said pleasantly.

Carjoris blinked. The voice belonged to the ruffian he’d seen near the horse seller’s. The man was sitting on a rock holding a wineskin. A white horse—superior to any of the beasts Carjoris had been admiring—stood behind him, though since it had neither saddle nor bridle, it clearly didn’t belong to the stranger.

The rock was in the middle of a field, and the field was in the middle of nowhere.

“What happened to me?” Carjoris asked. His mouth was dust-dry; he spat to clear it.

“I hit you over the head with a club,” the stranger said. “I’m Gaurane. Who are you?”

Carjoris blinked, certain he could not have heard correctly. “I’m thirsty. Give me the wine.” He held out his hand.

But instead of handing over the wineskin, Gaurane laughed. “Sorry, Thirsty. I don’t share.”

“It’s mine,” Carjoris said. “Give it to me.”

Gaurane simply shook his head. “Save your breath, my son. Your tricks aren’t going to work on me.” He tapped the side of his head. “Deaf as a post.”

Carjoris got to his feet painfully and looked around. They weren’t alone here, as he’d first thought. In the distance he could see three people watching them.

“I’m leaving now,” he said.

“Did you know Elade’s from Sensolding?” Gaurane asked. Something in his voice made Carjoris hesitate. “Sensolding, that’s Holder lands. Harsh country. Hard people. I suspect none of that means much to you, but try this: She learned to use a great bow almost before she could walk. The range on it is . . . well, from where she’s standing to here. That’s her over there.” Gaurane waved, and one of the figures waved back. “Walk away from me, son, and she’ll put an arrow into you.”

“That’s murder,” Carjoris said.

“Only if she kills you,” Gaurane said. “Now sit down. I have a few things to say to you.”

Carjoris looked from the figures in the distance to Gaurane, and he sat.

“You aren’t from here, are you?” Gaurane asked.

There wasn’t anything to do but answer,and hope he could find a way out of this. “Iftel.”

“Ah. So, likely you think you have some kind of magic power. But you see, magic doesn’t work in Valdemar. We call what you can do a Gift.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Carjoris said.

“Oh, I don’t think so. Elade doesn’t think so—you used your power on her, you know. Meran doesn’t think so—he saw you take the purse at the scentseller’s stall. And me, I really don’t care. But my friends do, so we’re going to make sure you don’t do things like that any more. Stealing is wrong,” he added virtuously.

“I won’t ever do it again—I promise!” Carjoris said desperately. If he could convince the man that he repented and get the maniac to let him go—

“Well, here’s the thing,” Gaurane said. “I don’t believe you. And using a Gift to trick people, that’s even more wrong. But it’s tempting, isn’t it?”

“I never took anything anybody needed!” Carjoris said. “They were rich!”

“Ah, well, that’s a matter of perspective,” Gaurane said. “Now me, I think you’re a nasty little bully, and I wouldn’t lose a moment’s sleep over slitting your throat. Hedion’s got standards, though. So I suppose we could just dose you up with something that shuts down your Gift—oh, don’t look at me like that; this is Valdemar, they understand the mind-gifts here—and send you off to Haven. They’d put Truth Spell on you, you know. And when you’d told them what you’d been up to, why, they’d get someone to burn your Gift out of you before they sent you off to prison. Or we could just do what Elade suggested, and slit your tongue. Hard to talk people into things when you can’t talk.”

Carjoris looked at him for a long minute, trying to judge how serious he was. When Gaurane did not so much as blink, Carjoris knew there was no escaping this disaster. “Please,” he said, covering his face with his hands. “Please.”

“And then there’s Meran,” Gaurane said, as though Carjoris hadn’t spoken. “Did you know he grew up on the streets in Haven? A beggar and a thief. But one day a Bard found him and took him off to the Collegium, and he never stole again. He didn’t have to. The question is, would
you
steal if you didn’t have to?”

Carjoris lifted his head and stared at Gaurane at that ray of potential salvation. “I wouldn’t! I won’t!” he said desperately.

“Ah,” Gaurane said sighing. “Never lie to a drunk, boy. We’re good at seeing the truth. Of course, you have a third choice.” He reached down into the grass beside him and picked something up. Carjoris couldn’t see what it was before Gaurane tossed it at his feet.

He looked down at it, and could not believe his eyes. “You want me to wear—a collar?” The silver flashed in the sun.

“It’s even got a lock,” Gaurane said cheerfully, bouncing a small object in his hand. “And the thing about this collar is—oh, I don’t suppose you can read, so let me tell you about it—the engraving on it says you should be handed over to the next Herald who rides by. You’ll recognize them. They’ll be the ones riding something that looks like that.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the white horse standing patiently behind him. “And those things are smart, and you can’t trick them, and they aren’t horses, no matter what they look like. And you’ll find yourself in Valdemar before you can blink. They’ll probably hire you out as a laborer there so you can pay back what you stole. After they burn out your Gift, of course.”

“If—If I wear that, you’ll let me go?” Carjoris stammered. Once he was away from here, he could surely find a blacksmith to strike the collar off. Only what if they read it first? What if they chained him up and gagged him and delivered him to one of these Heralds?

The white horse snorted, and Gaurane gave a sharp bark of laughter.

“Or you wear that and come with us. Do what you’re told. We work hard, harder than you’ve ever worked a day in your life, but the reward is well worth the labor. We’ll put you to work, teach you what you need to know in order to be of use. If you’re a good boy, we might even get someone to teach you the
right
way to use that Gift of yours someday, once we’re convinced you’re done misusing it. Run, try to compel any of us, make any trouble—and you’ll wish I’d let Elade put an arrow into you now.”

Carjoris shook his head, trying to make some kind of sense out of all this. “Why—Why—Why—” he stuttered.

“Maybe you deserve a chance to be someone better. Maybe you were born with your Gift for a reason. Maybe all you need is somebody to show you how to be a hero. Maybe I’m tired of listening to Elade bitch about doing all the work around the camp. Or maybe I bet Hedion you’d rather take your chances in Haven than do an honest day’s work. But like I said, it’s your choice.”

“Who . . .
Who do you think you are?
” Anger got the better of caution, of the hard-learned lesson that the only way to survive was to smile and give soft words no matter what words were said to you.

“Me?” Gaurane said. “I’m nobody. But I
was
somebody—for a while. And it’s a funny thing, but if you give someone a thing worth doing, well, sometimes that’s worth quite a lot.” He got to his feet, grunting with the effort. “Time’s up, youngster. Choose.”

“I . . .” He looked down at the collar at his feet. Trapped, and trapped well, that much was certain. He could run and take his chances with the woman’s aim. He could put on the collar and take his chances with finding someone to strike it from around his neck. He could give himself up to one of their Heralds and take his chances that their punishment would be lenient and easily survived.

But Gaurane was watching him, a little smile lingering at the edges of his lips. He looked like a man who held a secret. And Carjoris suddenly, desperately, wanted to know what that secret was.

A hero. He liked the sound of that.

“My name is Carjoris,” he said. His hands shook as he reached for the collar. It was lined in leather, and the metal was warm from the sun. But it still felt cold and heavy as he closed it around his throat.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Gaurane said, without irony.

He tossed the lock into Carjoris’s lap. It clinked against the metal as Carjoris threaded it through the clasp and squeezed it shut.

“Come on.” Gaurane was holding a hand down to him. Carjoris took it, and Gaurane pulled him to his feet.

“What—What happens now?” Carjoris asked. He knew he ought to feel afraid, or even angry at having been trapped so neatly. But he didn’t.

He didn’t know what he felt.

“Now we go back to the fair—should be there by dark—and you hand over everything you’ve stolen, and Meran goes and finds a Herald to give it all back. And tomorrow we buy you a horse and whatever else you need. Did I mention we spend our time living rough up on the Border? You’ll get used to it.”

He turned and began to walk toward the others. The white horse followed. As it passed him, it turned its head and gave Carjoris a penetrating look.

“Come on if you’re coming!” Gaurane called, and Carjoris found himself running to catch up.

“You’ve lost me a five-mark piece, you know,” Gaurane said when he reached him. “Ah, well, maybe I can get Hedion to go double or nothing. Over a moonturn, you know. To give him a sporting chance.”

“You’ll lose,” Carjoris said with sudden confidence.

They walked on.

In an Instant

Elizabeth A. Vaughan

The thick yellow dust caught in her throat, right next to her heart.

The euphoria of their victory over Ancar of Hardorn was starting to pass, the ragged cheers starting to fade. Selenay remembered all too well what happened next. The cold harsh wind of dealing with the aftermath. She’d managed to keep herself together this long. Her officers could handle the next few minutes without her.

“I just need a moment,” Selenay whispered to her guards, seeking the privacy of her tent. They nodded, taking up their positions. They probably thought she wished to thank her gods or see to her own needs. But the truth was not so simple.

Once the flap was raised, once she’d retreated into the darkness of its shelter and its relative silence, her emotions overwhelmed her. She stumbled past the table of maps into her sleeping area and collapsed on her stool. She dropped her head to her hands,and fought to hold back tears. This could not be happening, not here, not now, not ever.

He is his brother.

She gasped then, pulling in stale air, and shivered.

She was a Queen, a mother, a Herald, for the love of all the gods. She was in the middle of a war, fresh from a battle she never thought they’d win. She should be rejoicing at their victory and dealing with the consequences thereof. The dead, the injured, the damages to the land. Her people, her land, her kingdom. Instead, here she was like some silly girl weeping over—Her heart skipped a beat.