Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar (26 page)

 

Lelia stopped, her narrative stalled.

“What?” the Herald asked.

“I am debating whether this bit is relevant,” she replied. “I was definitely hallucinating. My brother. Maresa . . .”

You.
She toyed with the pendant around her neck.

“Too much time alone,” he said sagely.

“That, and I was half-starved, I couldn’t feel my extremities, and I’d been walking for candlemarks in the wind. My head had all sorts of reasons for dipping me into a vat of crazy.”

Her hand trembled with the name it was still poised to write—then she set the paper aside and reached for a clean sheet.

“Might be relevant,” she muttered to herself. “Might not. I’ll know later.”

She picked up the story a little further down the road.

 

“Lelia, you need a warmer jacket, and you should eat more.” The hallucination had kindly returned to being her brother, his lips curved in a beatific smile. “You can’t suffer for your work if you’re dead.”

“You think about yourself!” she growled back. “I’m not the one hoofing it around Evendim Sector under the tutelage of the Herald most likely to smother a burning orphanage with his own body!”

“Hickory,” Lyle replied.

“What?” she said, whipping her head in his direction—but no, he really
wasn’t
there. There may have been twins born with bonds strong enough to let their minds touch across massive distances, but Lyle and Lelia’s was not one of them.

This may all be delirium, but at least it’s a
sensible
delirium,
she thought. The hallucination was right—it killed her to spend money on anything, but if she didn’t acquire a better jacket, it would just flat out kill her.

She shut her eyes against the glowing white snow and breathed in deeply.

A whiff of woodsmoke—hickory—caught her olfactory attention. Too real to be another waking dream. Squinting northward, she was pretty sure she could see a smudge of smoke against the horizon.

Village. Fire. Inn? Hopefully. Someone to make me clothes? Maybe.
Her mouth watered.
Food.

It took another half-candlemark for the promise of a village to resolve into something other than woods-moke and hope. It was not unlike many in this region: slate-roofed, large enough to sport a palisade, and with a central building in the square that was most certainly an inn.

She’d have wept for joy, if not for the fact that she was pretty sure her tears would have frozen on her cheeks.

 

“That’s how you wound up in Langenfield,” the Herald said.

“I was aiming for Waymeet.”

Stony silence.

She sighed. “I
know
. I missed by a few miles.”

A polite cough.

“Okay, I missed by
a lot.
” She took a long draught of ale. “Doesn’t matter. The ultimate goal is to get to Sorrows.”

“About that.
Why?
”

She shrugged. “One of my teachers at the Collegium always drilled into me to
live
Valdemar.
Go
to the battle sites, the weird forests, smell the smoke in the resin down at Burning Pines. I wanted to do that.”

She turned her mug. It was only one side of the jewel of truth. Just enough to convince an inquisitive Herald.

“And, as always, I wanted a song,” she added, flashing another facet.

“Oh?”

“Found it, even.” She grimaced. “I just didn’t know it when I first met her.”

 

Lelia staggered into the inn, and the middle of an argument.

“You ain’t listening!” a tall, powerfully built young man was saying to a petite blonde woman with greasy hair, tunic, and trews. He wasn’t quite yelling, but it was clear he was building up to that point. “There’re no bones on my hearth and none in my scrap pile!”

The girl flushed. “You were cooking a ham just last night—”

“I said I ain’t got any, and even if I did, I don’t know that I’d sell ’em to you! What part of that don’t you conjugate?”

“The p-part where y-you’re lying,” the blonde said in tones that could have frozen spirits of wine, even with her frustrated stammering. “And the w-word is c-c-
cogitate
, you country o-oaf!”

She spun and stormed toward the door, her warpath bent on bisecting Lelia—until she actually saw the Bard and stopped dead.

“Can I help you?” the young man said.

“A Bard?” whispered the blonde.

“That’s me!” Lelia said cheerfully, mustering what she hoped was a disarming grin and not a grim, half-frozen rictus. “Does your innmaster have room for one? I don’t have much money—”

“Bright Havens!” the man said, rushing over to relieve her of her pack. She kept his big, clumsy hands away from her gittern—no one handled Bloom but her—but gladly gave him the rest.

“If you’re playing, you’re staying!” he went on, and from what she gathered, he
was
the innmaster—just an awfully young one. “Hellfires, even if you’re not playing, you can still stay—how fares the Queen? The last we heard, there was a hunting accident!”

That’s the official story, yes,
Lelia thought as she recounted what she knew—officially—to the innmaster, even as she edged toward a stool by the fire. The savory aroma of fennel sausage and sage nearly swept the strength from her knees.

Lelia sat, taking the opportunity to smile at the openly staring blonde. “And you are?”

The blonde’s nostrils flared. She turned and walked out.

Well,
Lelia thought.
Nice, friendly locals.

“Ah, I’m sorry, m’lady Bard,” the Innmaster said, hurrying over to a keg and taking a mug off a shelf. “That’s Herda and she’s ...” He shook his head. “Different. You’d do best to just ignore her.”

I would, but the argument you two were having actually sounded interesting.
“Village madwoman?”

“Something like that.” The young man grinned, bringing her a brimming cup. “I’m Olli, and I’m the innmaster you’re looking for—you mind ale?”

Lelia raised her brows. “Good sir, you could serve me trough-water and I’d ask for more!”

He chuckled. “My brew’s not
that
bad! Now, you get warm here, m’lady Bard. I’m going to go get the word out that you’re in town!” He swept a heavy woolen cape down from a wooden peg by the door and hurried out into the dusk before she’d taken so much as a sip.

Lelia appraised the inn silently as she drank. Shabby but clean. It looked like it would hold a fair amount, though nothing like the alehouses in Haven, where more sensible Bards like Maresa made their names.

But it had seemed a grand adventure at first when Lelia decided to do as the Masters did: see, experience, integrate. A chance to find a song and change her scenery, to pursue a different kind of romantic notion—the kind that didn’t end in wine cups and broken hearts.

But blisters were not romantic. Fumbling around with numb fingers for dry firewood was not romantic. Eating snow to stave off hunger—downright
prosaic
.

“Should have been a Herald,” she muttered, turning her face toward the fire. “Should have saved a few brats from drowning and made one of them blue-eyed horsies Choose me. Then I’d have a convenient mount
and
I could melt brains with the Truth Spell.” She grinned, drowsing away into a happy fantasy where she could get any story anytime she needed it.

The inn filled with alarming speed. Lelia picked out farmers, housewives, and a few artisans, taking time to move through them and share brief exchanges, getting a feel for what jokes and performances would work with these folk. Her chats revealed that the village wasn’t big enough for a permanent Healer or even a priest, but it saw enough trade that not everyone made their living from the earth.

Herda’s “welcome” was no indication of her fellow villagers—everyone Lelia met seemed genuinely grateful to see her. Bards and skilled gleemen didn’t travel these roads often, and she and they knew it. She threw herself wholly into her performance, giving them her boisterous best. There was dancing and foot stomping. The wooden shutters shook, and the rafters rained dust.

Six pints, two sets, and three encores later she finally flopped over on the hearthstones, convincing the room that, yes, it was really over this time. Sleepy locals filed out, leaving her alone with the innmaster’s enormous cats, already drawing up plans to colonize her head and belly.

“Time to go, Herda,” she heard Olli say.

“I w-wanted to talk to the B-bard,” the familiar voice of the stammering Herda responded.

“Oh,
now
you want to talk?” Olli replied with flat stubbornness. “Come by tomorrow morning and
talk
then.”

“But it’s three miles from here to my home—”

“Herda.” Another voice, one worn with age. “Come along, dear. The Bard’s tired.”

Lelia heard the heavy door thud shut and the bar drop across it, accompanied by Olli’s grunt. Lelia continued emulating a hearth-puddle.

“A fine set tonight, Bard,” the innmaster said cheerfully. She could hear the scrape of the benches across the rush-strewn wooden floor as he put the room to rights again.

She raised her sore and throbbing right hand in a gesture of agreement and thanks.

“How long are you in town for?” he asked.

“Only as long as it takes me to acquire fresh provisions.” She liked phrasing it that way. It made it sound like she’d headed north with all the proper gear from the get-go.

“It’s been a long while since we had a Bard visit,” Olli said. “We’ve seen hard times.”

She raised her head a little. “Oh?”

“Snow fever. Last year. We’re only really recovering from it now.”

“I’m sorry.” She understood now why the innmaster was such a young man.

“Life on the Border. We’re just glad to have you. Bards remind us that there are other lights, other fires burning in the long nights.” He doffed an imaginary hat. “Sleep well, Bard. We’ll see you well fed in t’morning.”

“Thanks, Olli,” she replied. When she was sure the innmaster was abed, Lelia dragged herself up and sifted through the coins that had landed in her boot. She’d earned enough to commission a coat, as well as set some aside for what she liked to think of as the “stormy day” fund, or possibly the “buy an old pony” fund. She was not quite yet at “buy an Ashkevron destrier,” but hope sprang eternal.

She tucked the coins into various places on her persons before curling up on the stones. A cat landed on her side and oozed over her narrow hips.
Hope you like sleeping on bones, furfoot.

Lelia herself didn’t care for sleeping on mortared stones, but they were warm, and she was exhausted. She fell asleep to the crackle of the fire and the droning purr of the hearthcats.

 

“Wine cups and broken hearts?” the Herald asked as Lelia reached for her drink to wet her throat.

“Did I say that?” Lelia asked, alarm in her voice. She scanned the sheaf of papers and grimaced. “Hellfires, I did.” She made a clucking noise. “Sorry, song lyric I’ve been working on. Crept right in, didn’t it? I mean, that was just plain
gratuitous
. And
really
not relevant.” She realized she was babbling and shut her mouth.

“How were things worse when you were wandering around Forst Reach?” the Herald asked, clearly confused. “It’s not nearly as cold; there are far more inns and alehouses to sing at. I’d think you’d be happy there. Granted, it was
annoying
sometimes to find you in the villages on our circuit. Lyle in particular always worried about you.”

“I wasn’t happy,” she said, forcing a smile. “But after what happened the night of my first performance here—” she indicated with a sweep of her hand the otherwise empty common room of the Langenfield Inn “—I too thought that I’d been better off sticking to the Exile’s Road.”

The outhouse door clapped shut behind Lelia, and she started the short, slippery walk across cobblestones icy from the evening’s thaw-and-freeze. The sky was free of clouds, the luminous moon gazing down from her heaven.

Warm fire,
Lelia thought muzzily.
Blankets. And then breakfast.
Her mouth watered.
Bright Lady, let there be
bacon.

Something cracked behind her—a fallen branch, or a tree splintering under the chill of winter. She glanced back reflexively but could see nothing. She took another step without looking, and suddenly there was no ground, just her body tumbling head over appetite.

She threw her arm out, but she knew instinctively that the angle was off. She landed seconds before it seemed she should have, every dram of breath driven out of her. The snap of the little bones in her left hand was not unlike the crackle of the fire-devoured logs in the inn’s hearth. The pain that followed was certainly fiery, a white-hot shock that whipped up a frenzy of realizations, starting with
something is not right,
followed by
is it broken?
and finally
oh, gods, no
.