Changing the World Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  The One Left Behind

  For Want of a Nail

  Softly Falling Snow

  The Reluctant Herald

  A Storytelling of Crows

  Waiting To Belong

  The Last Part of the Way

  Midwinter Gifts

  Wounded Bird

  Defending the Heart

  Matters of the Heart

  Nothing Better to Do

  The Thief of Anvil’s Close

  Twice Blessed

  Be Careful What You Wish For

  Interview with a Companion

  RAVES FOR THE PREVIOUS VALDEMAR ANTHOLOGIES:

  “Fans of Lackey’s epic Valdemar series will devour this superb anthology. Of the thirteen stories included, there is no weak link—an attribute exceedingly rare in collections of this sort. Highly recommended.”

  —The Barnes and Noble Review

  “This high-quality anthology mixes pieces by experienced

  author and enthusiastic fans of editor Lackey’s

  Valdemar. Valdemar fandom, especially, will revel in

  this sterling example of what such a mixture of fans’ and

  pros’ work can be. Engrossing even for newcomers to

  Valdemar.”

  —Booklist

  “Josepha Sherman, Tanya Huff, Mickey Zucker Reichert, and Michelle West have quite good stories, and there’s another by Lackey herself. Familiarity with the series helps but is not a prerequisite to enjoying this book.”

  —Science Fiction Chronicle

  “Each tale adheres to the Lackey laws of the realm yet provides each author’s personal stamp on the story. Well written and fun, Valdemarites will especially appreciate the magic of this book.”

  —The Midwest Book Review

  NOVELS BY MERCEDES LACKEY available from DAW Books:

  THE NOVELS OF VALDEMAR:

  THE HERALDS OF VALDEMAR

  ARROWS OF THE QUEEN

  ARROW’S FLIGHT

  ARROW’S FALL

  THE LAST HERALD-MAGE

  MAGIC’S PAWN

  MAGIC’S PROMISE

  MAGIC’S PRICE

  THE MAGE WINDS

  WINDS OF FATE

  WINDS OF CHANGE

  WINDS OF FURY

  THE MAGE STORMS

  STORM WARNING

  STORM RISING

  STORM BREAKING

  VOWS AND HONOR

  THE OATHBOUND

  OATHBREAKERS

  OATHBLOOD

  THE COLLEGIUM CHRONICLES FOUNDATION

  BY THE SWORD

  BRIGHTLY BURNING

  TAKE A THIEF

  EXILE’S HONOR

  EXILE’S VALOR

  VALDEMAR ANTHOLOGIES:

  SWORD OF ICE

  SUN IN GLORY

  CROSSROADS

  MOVING TARGETS

  CHANGING THE WORLD

  Written with LARRY DIXON:

  THE MAGE WARS

  THE BLACK GRYPHON

  THE WHITE GRYPHON

  THE SILVER GRYPHON

  DARIAN’S TALE

  OWLFLIGHT

  OWLSIGHT

  OWLKNIGHT

  OTHE R NOVELS :

  GWENHWYFAR

  THE BLACK SWAN

  THE DRAGON JOUSTERS

  JOUST

  ALTA

  SANCTUARY

  AERIE

  THE ELEMENTAL MASTERS

  THE SERPENT’S SHADOW

  THE GATES OF SLEEP

  PHOENIX AND ASHES

  THE WIZARD OF LONDON

  RESERVED FOR THE CAT

  And don’t miss:

  THE VALDEMAR COMPANION

  Edited by John Helfers and Denise Little

  Copyright © 2009 by Mercedes Lackey and Tekno Books.

  All Rights Reserved.

  DAW Book Collectors No. 1494.

  DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA).

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  All resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  First Printing, December 2009

  DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED

  U.S. PAT. AND TM. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES

  —MARCA REGISTRADA

  HECHO EN U.S.A.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-18498-1

  S.A.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  “The One Left Behind,” copyright © 2009 by Mercedes Lackey

  “For Want of a Nail,” copyright © 2009 by Rosemary Edghill and

  Denise McCune

  “Softly Falling Snow,” copyright © 2009 by Elizabeth A. Vaughan

  “The Reluctant Herald,” copyright © 2009 by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “A Storytelling of Crows,” copyright © 2009 by Elisabeth Waters

  “Waiting to Belong,” copyright © 2009 by Kristin Schwengel

  “The Last Part of the Way,” copyright © 2009 by Brenda Cooper

  “Midwinter Gifts,” copyright © 2009 by Stephanie D. Shaver

  “Wounded Bird,” copyright © 2009 by Michael Z. Williamson

  “Defending the Heart,” copyright © 2009 by Kate Paulk

  “Matters of the Heart,” copyright © 2009 by Sarah A. Hoyt

  “Nothing Better to Do,” copyright © 2009 by Tanya Huff

  “The Thief of Anvil’s Close,” copyright © 2009 by Fiona Patton

  “Twice Blessed,” copyright © 2009 by Judith Tarr

  “Be Careful What You Wish For,” copyright © 2009 by Nancy Asire

  “Interview with a Companion,” copyright © 2009 by Ben Ohlander

  The One Left Behind

  by Mercedes Lackey

  Mercedes Lackey is a full-time writer and has published numerous novels, including the best- selling Heralds of Valdemar series. She is also a professional lyricist and licensed wild bird rehabilitator.

  Marya was doing her shopping when the Heralds rode into the village, and the flash of white and sudden turning of heads in the corner of her vision made her stomach twist into an angry knot, her jaw tighten, and her fists clench. She knew what it was. Only one thing could be that white in the middle of a village in the middle of a rainy spring.

  “Done,” she said, cutting off her bargaining abruptly and leaving Druk Pelan, the egg seller, open-mouthed in astonishment. She shoved the coppers at him, took up her basket and the eggs, and strode quickly back toward her house at the east edge of the village without getting any of the other things she’d meant to buy.

  The house, inherited from her mother, which had been her parents’ before her, was really more of a cottage. They hadn’t needed much space: the loft bed for her, the bedroom her mother had slept in once she inherited the place until the day she died, and one big room that served as kitchen and work space and held her baskets of yarn and the big loom. So far as Marya knew, the cottage had been built around the loom; she couldn’t imagine how some of the big beams had been brought in otherwise. The windows were all positioned to give the person sitting at the loom the best possible light, all day. The kitchen was almost more of an afterthought; more often than not, Marya, her mother, and her grandparents had eaten food cooked at the baker’s or cold meats, raw vegetables, bread and cheese. Well she would have to make do with what she had, now.

 
; The plain linen warp was half full of colorful woof threads now, with the cartoon beneath, for Marya was not just any weaver; she was a weaver of tapestries. So her mother and grandparents had been. People sent commissions to her from all over Valdemar, mostly from extremely wealthy households, for when you wanted to really impress people, there was nothing like an enormous tapestry hung against the wall. Ordinary arras hangings would do to keep down drafts, but a tapestry! That meant something.

  This one was of some fancy family or other’s coat of arms, a pair of stags fighting on their hind legs. Some tapestry weavers sent out for their cartoons or used images that they kept carefully folded and put away. Up in the loft, there were stacks of those, some going back a hundred years or more. Her family had relied on such aids since they had begun weaving.

  Not Marya. Marya drew her own. The sketch she’d been sent had been no bigger than her hand. The cartoon was twice the length of the loom, and that was only half of it. She’d flip it for the other half, the mirror image of the stag she was working on now, and carefully sew the two halves together for the finished whole. And an impressive backdrop to a head table that would be, too.

  But she was not thinking of that. She was thinking of the Heralds in the village square and wondering angrily how long they were going to be in the village. Not long, she hoped. Because she had no intention of leaving her house while they were here, or she just might be tempted to—

  She froze at the polite knock at her open door.

  Surely not.

  She turned slowly, but the reflection of white in the pots on the kitchen wall told her who it was before she actually finished the turn.

  “Marya Bannod?” the older of the two Heralds asked.

  She nodded curtly, unable to trust herself to speak.

  “We’d like to ask for your hel—” he began.

  She exploded. “Oh, you’ve a lot of nerve coming here and asking for my help!” she hissed, hands balled into fists at her side. “Whatever it is, you can damned well just go and take care of it yourselves, you with your great minds and fine ways! Get off my stoop!”

  And she slammed the door in their astonished faces.

  Then she let out a breath. That had felt good. Not as good as flinging some kitchen things at them, but good. Now they’d go away, and get on their white horses and—

  There was another knock.

  Surely not—

  She opened it. They were still there.

  Briefly, she entertained a fantasy of snatching up the beater from the loom and driving them down the street with it, cudgeling their heads and shoulders the whole time. But . . . no. These particular Heralds hadn’t done her any harm.

  Just Heralds in general.

  “You’re not wanted here,” she said, folding her arms over her chest and glaring at them. “Get out.”

  “Perhaps you didn’t—”

  “You think I’m feebleminded?” she snapped. “I understood perfectly. You’ve got some sort of tangle. You think I can sort it out for you and save you some time and effort. No. I realize that you don’t hear that very often. Perhaps you should; it would do you good. No. What part of no do you not understand?”

  She slammed the door again. This time when the knock came, she didn’t answer it. Instead, she went to her loom and began work on the tapestry, singing out the color changes as loud as she could to a tune of her own invention. It helped her concentrate, and it soothed her nerves a little.

  She heard the sound of voices at her door; four of them. She sang louder. Eventually the talking stopped; then there were footsteps going away.

  She kept working.

  She didn’t stop until it became too dark to distinguish between different shades of the same colors. By then her arms were weary, and her back was stiff. She didn’t usually work that long at a stretch on the loom without taking breaks, but she had been so angry that she hadn’t dared stop, or she was sure she would have smashed something.

  She had started a fine pea soup with a ham bone in it this morning; it would be ready now. She’d wanted fresh bread to go with it but . . . oh well. She’d just have to bake her own bannocks or griddle cakes until the Heralds left. She was not leaving her house, and they couldn’t make her.

  The soup was perfect. She ladled herself out a bowl, set some tea to steep, and was about to sit down when—

  There was another knock at the door, and her anger flared like lint caught in a fire. She snatched up her frying pan and stalked to the door, flinging it open. “I told you—”

  “Now, now Marya—” The mayor of the village, Stefan Durst, held up both hands placatingly. “Don’t go hitting me with that. I need the few wits I have left.”

  She snorted, but she let the hand with the pan in it fall to her side. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to come in and explain to me why I need to do what their lordships think I should.”

  “Well . . . in a word, yes.”

  “You can come in. But I’m having my supper, and I’m not feeding you.” She glared at him. “You eat better than I do.”

  Stefan just sighed and looked put-upon. She moved out of the way to let him in but closed the door firmly behind him, lest some Herald think he could sneak in when she wasn’t looking.

  She sat back down at her tiny table and began to eat her soup. Stefan looked about for some place to sit, and eventually he took the loom bench. Stefan, a balding, plump man with mouse-colored hair, looked down at his well-groomed, clean hands.

  “Marya, they’re Heralds,” he said plaintively.

  “I know they’re Heralds,” she snapped. “I’m neither blind nor feebleminded.”

  “They’ve got the Queen’s mandate.” There was a whine to his voice. He’d been whiny as a child, and he hadn’t lost the habit.

  “They can have the Queen’s crown and underwear for all I care. I’m not helping them.” She put her spoon in the empty bowl and glared at him again. “And you, of all people, should know why. What have Heralds ever done for me but make my life a misery?”

  He moved his hands a little, helplessly. “Yes, but—”

  “Do you have any idea what it was like to grow up without a father? To have every other child in this village mock me by telling me he’d run off to rid himself of me and mother? To watch my mother write letter after letter that was never answered, and go from hopeful to hopeless to bitter?” She’d held this pent up for too long. “And then, then, when a man from this village takes a shine to me, and there’s talk of weddings, along comes another one of those damned white horses, and there am I left in the rain like my mother, and the letters start to say ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ and then they stop coming altogether.” The very words were bitter on her tongue. “At least I wasn’t left pregnant and alone. Just alone.”

  She got up and washed the bowl and spoon in the sink.

  “Well . . . that’s what they’re here about. Danet, that is.”

  She turned, slowly. He was twisting those too-clean hands together and staring at them. With guilt, she thought.

  “What do you mean, they’re here about Danet?” Her voice was dangerously soft.

  “All I know is what they told me,” he replied, cringing a little. “They’re here about Danet, and they need your help. That’s all.”

  “You can pick yourself off that bench and you can march yourself back to them, and you can tell them from me that Danet Stens can rot in hell for all I care, and there’s an end to it!” She was unaware that she had picked up her sharpest kitchen knife and was holding it, until Stefan’s eyes went to it, and he gave a little yelp. She slapped it down on the table. He jumped. She pointed with her chin. “The door’s that way.”

  He took the hint and scuttled out.

  She moved her chair closer to the fire and took up her knitting. It was soothing; she never did patterns and never had more than one color on the needles, although she would use up all the little ends of her weaving by making them into crazy-colored knitted blankets and scarves. After
all the intricate pattern weaving she did during the day, it was restful to be doing something with no pattern and no counting except to cast on. She made smocklike sweaters out of rectangular shapes that needed only to be sewn together. In winter she could layer on as many of those as she liked to keep warm. It wasn’t as if anyone cared what she looked like.

  It wasn’t as if she wanted anyone to. One heartbreak in a lifetime was enough.

  Oh, she remembered Dan, all right. Handsome, witty, charming . . . everyone liked him, and she had been so flattered when he started to pay attention to her. Though her mother had eyed him with suspicion and disfavor whenever he showed up, she’d been absolutely and utterly sure that her mother was suspicious for no reason at all. Who wouldn’t love Dan?

  Oh,it was true that he didn’t seem to do a lick of work, but why would he need to? He did what he did best for his father, bring in business to the little tavern with his ready stories and skill at games. He didn’t get paid for that, of course, but that didn’t matter. She was already doubling the family business with her weaving. Once it became widely known that she wasn’t just copying old cartoons for her tapestries, that she was making original images, she’d be turning business away. He could do what she couldn’t: flatter and please the customers, so she could concentrate on the weaving.

  She had it all planned out in her mind.

  And then, between one day and the next, he was gone.