Sword of Ice and Other Tales of Valdemar v(-100 Page 9

  "We could move up to Haven." Jory had finished the bread and reached for the ale pitcher. "With what Car-on's willing to pay, we could start all over again."

  "This is our home."

  "Anywhere can be home." Jory's voice rose. "Unless you're too foolish to let it be."

  "Jory." Inya kept her own voice low. She wouldn't yell in front of the children. "What would you do in the city? You're a farmer."

  "My grandfather worked leather. It's a trade I could learn, if I set my mind to it."

  "We belong here."

  "You always say that!" Suddenly Jory was standing, yelling across the table. "We belong where we can make a living!"

  Mariel silently left the kitchen. Lara followed her into the bedroom. Inya let them go. It was bad enough they'd

  lost their mother. They shouldn't have to worry about losing their home, too.

  "You're a fool," Jory said, but he didn't say anything more. Somehow, with the children's leaving, the argument had ended.

  For now. Inya sighed and started clearing the table.

  She'd just finished the dishes when the door flew open and Mariel staggered in. Her clothes were soaked through; water streamed from her hair. She shivered. Thunder rumbled outside.

  Inya hurried her to the hearth. She hadn't seen Mariel leave; the girl must have climbed out one of the bedroom's shuttered windows. Inya winced. Had the argument with Jory upset her so much that she didn't want to go through the kitchen again?

  Mariel stared at the flames. Her face had a strange look, eyes very large and dark. Inya hoped she hadn't caught a chill. She put water on for tea.

  "What do you think you're doing, running around in the rain like that? You'll make yourself sick."

  "I had to feed the animals." Mariel's teeth chattered.

  "Your father would have done that."

  "I had to do it."

  The tea boiled. Inya poured Mariel a steaming mug of it, then added a spoonful of honey. Mariel took the cup eagerly. Inya poured herself a cup, as well. Just listening to the wind made her shiver. Her joints were stiffening with dampness; she knew she wouldn't sleep well.

  She sipped the hot tea, staring at Mariel over the cup's rim. Mariel's clothes and hair were drying; she'd stopped shivering, too.

  She looked a lot like her mother had at that age, from the dark eyes to the long, stringy hair. For a moment Inya thought she saw Anara sitting there, not a married woman but a girl, halfway between childhood and adulthood, staring at her through serious eyes.

  "Grandma? Are you all right?" Mariel's voice brought Inya back to the present.

  Inya brushed a hand across her face. "I'm fine. Are you warmer now?"

  Mariel nodded.

  "Why don't you go on to bed, then?"

  "Come with me." Mariel sounded suddenly young.

  "I'll be along in a moment." Inya watched as Mariel left the room. Then she stood, wincing at the weight on her knees. She walked slowly to the door, examining the worn-out hinge. She felt a tingling at the base of her skull. Some instinct made her undo the latch. She opened the door, staring out into the cold, wet night.

  The wind had died. The moon shone through the dark clouds, lighting the field. And something stood beneath that moon, too perfect to be a horse. Its white hide shone, brighter than any moon.

  Inya slammed the door shut again. The hinge creaked in protest.

  She realized she was crying. .7 can't follow you. Don't you understand?:

  The Companion didn't answer, and Inya didn't open the door again. She banked the fire and stumbled into bed.

  That night she dreamed of half-grown children—Mariel, Anara, even herself as a girl. Only all the girls had blue eyes, bright as sapphire. Inya knew that wasn't right, though in the dream she couldn't think why.

  Inya woke in the dark, not sure what had stirred her. Rain crashed against the roof; thunder rumbled. She crawled out of bed. The dirt floor was cold and damp beneath her feet, even through heavy socks. Her knees and ankles ached. She walked slowly toward the kitchen.

  Jory stood by the door, holding a lantern. The yellow light cast shadows on his face. His shoulders were tight, hunched together. He looked tired.

  Inya tensed. "What's wrong?"

  "It rained harder than I thought last night. The river's rising fast. If it doesn't crest by the end of the week, the farm'll flood out. Sooner, if the rain keeps up."

  Inya bit her lip. She'd known the water was high, but she'd thought they had more time.

  There hadn't been a flood since she was a girl. People had come from the village, then, helping her parents build floodwalls of mud and wood. Together, they'd held the water back.

  Jory ran a hand through his hair. "Soon as the sun's up, I'm going to start digging."

  Inya nodded, suddenly wide awake. "Ill send the children into town with word that we need help."

  Jory nodded. He opened the door again. The sky was dark, still more black than gray. Rain fell in icy sheets. There was no moon, no Companion standing in the field. Perhaps she had given up and gone away.

  Jory stepped back out, closing the door behind him. Inya went to wake the children.

  Mariel was already up. Lara poked out from under the blankets, yawning and rubbing her eyes. Inya explained, as quickly and calmly as she could, while the sun rose and thin light crept around the shuttered windows.

  "Will we have to swim?" Lara sounded so worried that Inya didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

  "Of course not." Inya spoke as gently as she could. "We're going to sit down and have breakfast, same as always. Then I'm going to send you into town with a message for the mayor." As a child, Inya had taken a similar message to the mayor's grandfather. River's Bend hadn't had a mayor back then, but there had been a village council, and he'd been on it.

  While the girls munched on reheated soup and cold bread, Inya wrote the message. Then she bundled Lara and Mariel into warm clothes and followed them outside. The rain had let up, and pale yellow light filtered through the clouds. The warm rays felt good on Inya's face.

  She didn't have time to stand around, though. The dishes needed washing, and the door needed mending. She had to check for new leaks in the roof, too. And with Jory and the girls out all morning, she needed to make something warm for lunch.

  She went back inside, closing the door behind her.

  * * *

  The rain started again soon after the girls left. No thunder this time, and not much wind; just a steady drizzle that stole all the warmth from the air. Inya found herself shivering, even inside. She worked slowly, knees and ankles complaining as she did.

  Lara didn't return until well past noon. She pulled off her boots, sat down by the hearth, and stretched out her feet to warm them. "Where's Mariel?"

  "She's—" Lara hesitated. "She's outside helping Dad."

  Inya nodded. She put water on for tea, then sat down beside Lara.

  "They made me wait a long time," Lara said. "They wouldn't let me see the mayor, but they took the note to him, and came back with an answer. It's in my pocket." Lara pulled out a sheet of wet, crumpled paper. The ink ran, but Inya could still make out the writing. She read the letter slowly. Then she read it again, unable to believe the words.

  Much of it was formal, meaningless prose, thanking her for writing and expressing concern for her family. But two lines told her what the message really meant.

  While we share concern for your property and safety, the village has not gone unaffected by this rain, and our own affairs occupy most of our time. I can make no promises, though we will send what help we can, when we can.

  Anger blurred Inya's sight. What help we can, when we can. That meant there'd be no help at all. And, our own affairs. That meant the farm's affairs were not the village's affairs, not their concern at all.

  Things had been different when Inya was a girl. The farm and village had worked together; in her grandmother's day, the farm had even been the larger of the two. There'd been no question, then,
about whether the villagers would help hold the water back. They had helped. Just like Inya's family had helped the villagers, during hard winters, supplying food and charging only what they could afford.

  Inya wondered when things had changed. She wondered why she hadn't noticed. She'd been busy—raising children, raising grandchildren, working on the farm— but how could she have missed what was happening around her?

  She threw the message into the fire. The wet paper hissed, then burst into flames, turning to ash as she watched.

  She found Jory by the river, ankle-deep in mud, leaning on his shovel and staring at the water. A wall of dirt and wood began upstream, beyond the house, and extended to where he stood.

  The current swirled swiftly by, carrying tree branches, loose reeds, clumps of grass. Something that looked like a broken chair floated past. Inya shuddered.

  Jory shook his head, splattering water around him. "I can save the house," he said. His voice was hoarse. "But not the barn and the rest of the land. Not without help."

  "There won't be any help." Inya told him about the mayor's note.

  Jory brushed a hand across his dirt-streaked face. "Doesn't surprise me. That's how people are, you know. Watch out for themselves first, and for everyone else if they have any time left over."

  But people weren't like that, Inya thought. Not everywhere. They hadn't been in River's Bend, not when she was a girl. She stared at Jory, not sure what to say. If he assumed people only cared about themselves, no wonder he wanted to move. One place was the same as another, if you saw the world like that.

  An awful thought crossed Inya's mind. If the people in River's Bend didn't care, did that mean it was time to leave, to find a place where they did?

  "I'll finish securing the house tonight," Jory said. "And see what I can do about the fields in the morning."

  Inya nodded. "At least you've had Mariel helping you."

  "Mariel?" Jory squinted. "I haven't seen her all day."

  "What do you mean?" Ice trickled down Inya's spine. "Lara said she was with you."

  Jory shook his head. "I'll go look for her. You talk to Lara."

  Inya hurried toward the house, boots squishing in the mud. She slowed down when her legs began to ache. Sweat trickled down her face, in spite of the cold. She threw the door open and went inside. Lara still sat by the fire.

  "Where's your sister?"

  Lara started. "I promised not to tell."

  "Lara—"

  "She's in the barn." The girl's words tumbled over one another. "It's not my fault. She made me promise."

  Relief washed over Inya. Of course Mariel was all right. She'd been silly to think otherwise. The girl had probably run off to be alone. Anara had done the same at Mariel's age.

  "How long has she been there?"

  "All day."

  Well, Inya would have to talk to Mariel about that. The girl had no right to send Lara into town alone.

  "Don't tell her I told," Lara begged.

  Inya didn't answer. She gulped down a mouthful of warm tea and went back outside.

  She found Jory in the barn, staring at the ground. Mariel was nowhere in sight.

  "Look at this." Jory's voice was strained.

  Cold dread settled in Inya's stomach. She followed his gaze.

  The muddy barn floor was covered with Mariel's boot prints. But there was a second set of prints, too, and those weren't human.

  Hoof prints. Inya knelt to have a closer look. The prints were large, larger than any horse Inya had owned. She examined a print more carefully. Short, white hairs were scattered in the mud. They were bright and fine, and even hi the mud hadn't gathered any dirt.

  Inya caught her breath. The Companion had left—and had taken Mariel with her. Inya smiled, though she felt a tinge of sadness, too.

  "You see anything down there?"

  "Yes." She told Jory about the Companion, leaving out her own role in the tale. It was Mariel's story now, after all. As it should be.

  Jory didn't smile. In a thin voice he asked, "Do you think she's all right?"

  Mariel was Chosen, Inya thought; of course she was all right. But she realized she didn't really know what happened after someone was Chosen. The Companion would head to Haven and the Collegium, but that was more than a week away. What would Mariel eat? Did she have warm clothes? Why had she left without saying good-bye?

  Inya examined the prints again. They led out of the barn, toward the river. Mariel never mounted, just continued alongside the Companion. Didn't Heralds always ride?

  Probably everything was all right. Probably Inya was just a crazy old woman, worrying too much. But probably wasn't enough.

  "We have to find her. Bring her some food. Make sure she's all right."

  Jory nodded. But then he looked back toward the river, and Inya knew what he was thinking. If he went after Mariel, they might lose the farm.

  "I'll go," Inya said.

  "That's crazy." Jory brushed his hands against his breeches.

  "No it isn't." Inya spoke fast, afraid she might believe him if she didn't. "On horse I can make decent time, even with my knees. What I can't do is keep the farm from flooding out. You can."

  "It'll be dark soon."

  "I'll bring a lantern. I can carry it and walk, once the sun goes down." Inya didn't know how long she could manage on foot, but she'd worry about that later. She stared at Jory, hoping he'd see that she was right.

  "I don't like it." Jory looked at Inya through tired eyes. He needed to rest, much more than Inya did. He'd been building walls all day, after all. "I'll take another look around the farm," he said. "Maybe she hasn't gone all that far." "I'll start packing," Inya told him.

  By the time she was ready to leave, the sun was low, casting gold light through the drifting clouds. Jory hadn't found Mariel—both her boot prints and the Companion's hooves followed the river, disappearing upstream.

  Jory didn't argue any further. He saddled the dappled horse and helped Inya mount. Her knees ached, unused to being twisted out for riding, but she gritted her teeth and ignored the pain. Her hips complained, too, at the way they stretched across the saddle.

  Inya reminded Lara to listen to her father, reminded Jory that there was some reheated soup on the fire. Then she left, following the tracks past the edge of the farm.

  The sun soon dipped below the horizon, but the light stayed with her for a while. The moon rose above pink and orange clouds. Inya's breath came out in frosty puffs.

  The scattered trees grew thicker beyond their land, until Inya rode at the edge of a forest. The mud deepened, and she had to slow down.

  Inya stopped just as the last light faded. She didn't want to dismount, but she needed to rest and get something to eat. Better to go slow than to wear herself out.

  She eased herself out of the saddle. Her legs wobbled as she hit the ground. She hadn't realized that getting off would hurt more than getting on.

  She ate by yellow lamplight, munching on some bread while the horse grazed nearby. By the time she was ready to move on, the moon had slipped behind a cloud.

  Taking the horse's reins in one hand and the lamp in the other, she started walking.

  Inya tired much more quickly on foot. Every can-dlemark, it seemed, she had to stop, rest, and eat something.

  Small swirls of water appeared in the mud, and the swirls turned into puddles. Mud coated her boots; water soaked through her socks. Cold air numbed her face and fingers. She pulled out the scarf and gloves she'd packed. The next time she stopped, she'd change her socks as well. She was glad she'd packed extra clothes. When she was younger, she probably wouldn't have bothered. But back then she could have managed, in spite of her foolishness. She didn't have that luxury now.

  The puddles widened, until Inya had to veer into the woods to get around them. She lost track of how long she walked.

  Then she saw that the sky had turned from black to dark gray. It was almost morning. The very thought made her tired. She stopped to rest, wo
ndering how much farther Mariel had gone.

  The gray sky lightened; a thin band of color appeared along the horizon. Birds chirped across the treetops. There was another animal, too, farther away, but Inya couldn't hear it as well. It made a low sound, more like a cry than anything else.

  A child's cry.

  Fear tingled down Inya's spine. "Mariel!" She took off upstream at a run.

  Her legs protested, but she ignored the pain, shut it away to deal with later. In the growing light she saw that the ground had turned uneven. In spots the water surrounded small islands of land.

  She found Mariel on one of those islands.

  The girl stared at the water, eyes wide. Her clothes were rumpled and muddy, as if she'd slept on the damp ground. The water wasn't very wide, but it was still— and therefore deep.

  "Grandma!" Mariel looked up, red-eyed. "I fell asleep. There wasn't any water when I fell asleep."

  Inya wanted to reach out and hug her. Instead she just called out, "I'm here, Mariel," as calmly as she could. A distant corner of her mind wondered where the Companion had gone. She'd worry about that later, after she got Mariel off the island.

  "You'll have to swim. You can throw your shoes across to me first; that'll make it easier."

  "I can't." Mariel choked on a sob.

  "Of course you can. I'll be right here, waiting for you."

  "No." Mariel began to cry. "I can't swim. I don't know how."

  For a moment Inya didn't believe her; she was sure she'd taught Mariel to swim herself. But no, Anara was the child she'd taught. She'd assumed Anara had taught her children in turn.

  Inya might be able swim to the island herself, but she couldn't make it back, not while carrying someone. And the damp logs on the ground were too soft and slippery to walk across.

  In the distance, the dappled horse let out a nervous nicker. If the horse could swim, it could carry them both across, but the mare had a terror of water that no one had broken.

  "Grandma?" Mariel shivered, drawing her arms around herself. Inya felt cold too—frozen, unable to move, unable to think what to do next.

  Her skull tingled. There was a sudden flash of sapphire, bright and deep, gone before Inya was certain she saw it. The sky was gray, with pale streaks where the light filtered through.