Under the Vale and Other Tales of Valdemar Read online

  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.

  :Hillside covered in shorn sheep, only a few left in the pen—it wasn’t hard to work out.:

  :So it was an offer without meaning,: Gervais snorted.

  :Nothing of the kind. I made it to acknowledge the value of his work; in turn, he acknowledged the value of mine.:

  :Your family values you.:

  Hand up under Gervais mane, Jors paused mid-scratch. :We weren’t talking about my family.:

  Gervais snorted again.

  :I t
hink that could be arranged.:

  “No, they’re tougher than those sheep of the Holderkin. They’re hardy, ours. Can forage on their own all over these hills, even though the land’s rougher than a . . .” Cheeks flushing, suddenly becoming aware of who he was talking to, Raymond, Verain’s eldest son, cleared his throat and continued without the profanity he’d been about to add. “They don’t need supplemental feeding and they may be small, but I saw a ram take down a wolf once. Well, a young wolf. They’re not much for goring, not with their horns turned back so . . .” Grinning, he sketched the ram’s horn’s curl over his own ears. “. . .but they’ve heads like rock, and if they charge you, you’ll know it. We don’t have a lot of trouble with wolves; they tend to stay clear where there’s people about, and these sheep, they’re smart enough to stay out from under the trees for the most part, though they head for the highest ground about if they can. Expect to be chasing them down from the High Hills some season. You saw how they didn’t have wool on their faces or legs, Herald? That’s to help them move through brush,” he continued before Jors could answer. “They don’t get caught up so easily. And their fleece . . .ah, the fibers are fine and soft, not so long and coarse as those of the Holderkin. We shear them twice a year, spring and fall. Give us a few years to get this flock well established, and the finest woolens at Court will be from our sheep.”

  “Are they all black?” Jors wondered.

  “You’re thinking it’s wool that won’t take dye much.” Rodney nodded. “True enough, but they throw gray on occasion, and I’ve a mind to breed to white. Still, nothing wrong with black woolens is there, Herald?” He waved a hand at Jors’ Whites, then back at his own dark clothing. “Black’s slimming, they say.”

  “Husband! Did you just say Herald Jors looks fat?”

  Rodney turned to look up at his wife, opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again, although no words came out. Just as Jors was about to protest for him, her lips twitched. Rodney roared with laughter, caught her around the waist, and dragged her down onto his lap, where he kissed her soundly. “I said nothing of the kind, and well you know it,” he declared when they parted long enough for speech. “Now, did you actually have something to say, or are you just interrupting our talk to cause trouble?”

  Twitching her tunic back into place as she slid off his lap, she nodded across the great room to where Verain stood talking to a younger version of himself. “Ryan came in to say that ewe you’re so fond of has led another revolt. If you want to keep her out of the stew pot, you’d best get over there and mount a spirited defense.” When Rodney–who’d surged up onto his feet at the news–glanced down at Jors, she tugged him back to her lips by his beard and murmured, “Go. I’ll entertain the Herald.”

  For a big man, Rodney could move quickly when he had too. He was almost across the room, already gesturing at his father and brother, by the time his wife dropped into his chair. She shook her head at the crusts left behind by his empty bowl, then turned to Jors and said, “Elane. I imagine you were introduced to a dozen people all at once, shoved into a chair, and told to eat up, so I don’t expect you to remember.”

  He didn’t actually. “Your husband is the younger son?”

  “Middle. Ryan is older and Ricard . . .” Elane pointed to where a young man walked up and down by the windows, a squalling infant on one shoulder. “. . .Ricard is two years younger. The family runs to boys, but I’ve five sisters so I’m hoping . . .” Her hand dropped to her belly. “. . . to even the odds.”

  There was only one thing that could mean. “Congratulations.”

  “What?” Her gaze dropped to her hand. “Oh. Thank you. I haven’t known long; it’s still so new. We haven’t been married a year yet.” She half-turned in the chair to smile at her husband, and when she turned back, she frowned. “Are you all right, Herald Jors?”

  He schooled his expression before she could define it, hurriedly raising his mug. No one would ever smile across a room that way at him.

  :My lips do not move in such a way, Heartbrother.:

  A moment later, ignoring the smug, self-satisfied reaction from his Companion, Jors accepted the cloth Elane offered and coughed out an apology.

  She waved it off. “Please, you got very little on me. And besides, we were almost relatives, you and I. My father is Dominic Heerin . . .”

  Jors nodded in the pause. Heerin owned the mill his uncle brought their logs to.

  “. . . and your cousin Hamin was courting my sister Tara. Came to nothing, though. I remember when we heard you’d been Chosen. It was all anyone could talk about. I’d just turned twelve, and I spent all that summer out by the track with flowers braided into my hair hoping another Companion would come by and Choose me. Eventually, my eldest sister dragged me home by the ear and told me Companions preferred useful people over those who shirked their chores.”

  Elane shared her husband’s fondness for monolog-ing, Jors noted, and he wondered what their conversations with each other must be like. “This must have been different for you,” he said. “From a house full of sisters and lumber to so many men and sheep.”

  “A little different, yes. But not so hard to get used to. Rodney loves this land, for all its rock and hills and the dangers of the forest so close. At first I loved it for his sake, but I’m growing to love it for its own. And the sheep, well, you’ve already noticed their main failing, but he’s determined to breed to white–that ewe he’s defending threw gray twins this season–and he admires them for their toughness as much as the fine wool of their fleece. My sisters say when they see me now, I’ve nothing to talk of but sheep and Rodney. Well, Rodney and sheep.” Her laugh drew her husband’s head around, and he paused in his argument long enough to toss a smile in her direction. “It’s always the way, though, isn’t it, as you move between birth family and found family. This is what made me . . .” She held out one hand palm up and then the other. “. . . and this is what I am. And I’ll tell you this much, Herald Jors . . .” She winked and stood as her father-in-law approached. “. . . shepherds have much softer hands than men who toss lumber about all day.”

  The waystation was empty and quiet–although Jors supposed that, given the former, the later went without saying. Hands cupped around a mug, he sat in the doorway and watched Gervais grazing, his coat gleaming silver in the twilight.

  Beyond the Companion, in under the trees, it was already night. At the settlement, the gates would be closed, animals and people penned in safely; the youngest and the eldest would be preparing for bed, and everyone else would soon follow. Lamplight might extend the day in Haven, but out here sunrise and sunset still defined people’s lives.

  Not so different from where he’d just come. Barring the differences between trees and sheep. And the difference between Herald Jors and Jors with a Companion.

  :There is no difference between Herald Jors and Jors with a Companion. They are both you.:

  “My grandmother would agree. Although she’d think they both mean Jors with a Companion.”

  Gervais lifted his head and turned to stare. Jors wished, not for the first time, he could pick up his Companion’s thoughts as easily as Gervais picked up his. Finally, the young stallion snorted and bent back to the grass. :If you are still annoyed with her about the letter, tomorrow you many tell her it was inappropriate.:

  “Yeah.” Jors drained the mug and set it to one side. “Like that’ll happen.”

  He didn’t recognize the girl running down the track toward him until she skidded to a stop, bowed elaborately–one plait surrendering, spilling her dark blonde hair down over her face–looked up, and grinned. “Herald Jors. Wonderous One.”

  :I like her.:

  Jors returned the grin and swung out of the saddle. “Annamarin.”

  In the time he’d been gone, she’d crossed from child to girl. She’d be eleven now, almost twelve, the same age Elane had been when she’d spent the summer with flowers in her hair waiting for a Companion. Instead of flowers, Annam
arin’s hair held a trio of feathers stuffed into the top of the remaining braid.

  “You weren’t waiting out here hoping to be Chosen, were you?” Grandmother’s letter had said Annamarin could benefit from his experience.

  “No! No offense,” she added quickly to Gervais, dipping into another elaborate bow. “Companions Choose as Companions will, and Companions will as Companions please.”

  :I really like her.: Gervais said as Jors worked that through.

  “May I give you greetings, cousin?”

  “May you what?”

  She sighed, a simple exhalation defining her as the most put-upon creature in these woods. “Can I hug you?”

  “Why couldn’t you?”

  “You’re a Herald! In Whites! And I’m tragically soiled, though tis naught but good clean dirt.”

  “Tis naught?”

  Annamarin rolled her eyes. “It means it isn’t. Sort of. Wait . . . my pipes!” She pulled a set of reed pipes out from behind her waistband. “I don’t want them to be tragically crushed! I made them myself,” she continued after an emphatic hug that rocked Jors back onto his heels. “Well, Lyral–she got stuck here for almost a week during fall storms, when the mud was up over her boots–she showed me how. But I made them. Mostly.”

  “Lyral?” As they walked toward the settlement, Jors ran through the names of the Bards he knew and came up short.

  “She’s a minstrel. She travels. She sings. She’s the best. I wanted to go with her when she left, but Mama said no. Papa said good riddance.” Annamarin blew across the top of the pipes and back. The rise and fall of the twelve notes sounded like a giggle. “He was kidding.”

  “What did Lyral say when you said you wanted to go with her?” It wouldn’t be the first time a “minstrel” had discovered a talent in a child and made promises in order to lure that child away. If Lyral was one of those predators–however unsuccessful this time—Jors needed to find her. He’d be in and out of the settlement so quickly his grandmother would no doubt feel herself justified writing another letter to the Dean. Beside him, Gervais had both ears flicked forward.