Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar by Mercedes Lackey Page B
Authors: Mercedes Lackey
Ads: Link
deserved to pronounce their judgment. He looked very solemn and serious as he said, “We guess you want to stay together?”
The twins nodded vigorously.
“You think your bond is something more than we thought, something worth nurturing and feeding.”
They nodded again.
“All right.”
The two girls screeched jubilantly and held each other, and then seemed to recall they were almost adults and settled back into their seats, still smiling.
Breda leaned over and whispered in Gavin’s ear. “I’m glad you were right. May we always learn from our students.”
He leaned over and whispered back. “If we hadn’t separated them, we would never have known how strong that bond is.”
It was Breda’s turn to speak. “You two sound like magpies. We’re not done, yet.”
Two faces surrounded by red hair looked back at her, pretending innocence.
She leaned down and pulled a box out from under her chair. She took out two new uniforms: one scarlet and one bright green.
The twins held their tongues and reached demurely for the symbols of their new status with reverent hands. Good. Maybe their adventure had helped them understand the new realities of a Valdemar without Herald-Mages. They would have to be part of the solution, as would all of the Bards and Healers and Heralds together.
Three classes of Valdemar, working together. The Power of Three. She could already hear the refrain of a song building in her head.
What Fire Is
by Janni Lee Simner
Janni Lee Simner has published nearly three dozen short stories, including appearances in Gothic! Ten Original Dark Tales , Realms of Fantasy magazine, the first Valdemar anthology, Sword of Ice , and the third, Crossroads . Her latest novel, Bones of Fairie , will be published in early 2009. Visit her Web site at www.simner.com .
All my life, fire has danced through my dreams.
Orange and red, yellow and white—I hold flames in my hands. They caress my skin and melt on my tongue, sweet as sugar on festival days.
But only in dreams. I am a farmer’s son. I am no fool.
I know well enough what fire is like.
When I was small, I told my parents about my dreams. I thought they’d be pleased. We worshiped the Sun, after all, saying prayers morning and night to the round stone disk above our hearth. (The merchant’s daughter, Cara, said her family had a gold pendant, but I didn’t believe her; no one had that much gold.)
Yet as I spoke, my father’s face grew hard as the frozen winter fields. “Don’t talk of such things, Tamar. Try to dream happier dreams.”
It was a happy dream, I thought, but before I could say so, my mother looked at me, and the fear in her eyes turned the memory of bright flames to cold ash.
“Yes,” I told them both. “Yes, I will try.”
We cannot hold fire. We cannot taste it. But we can use it.
Fire cooks our food, heats our rooms, lights our homes. After a cold winter night, fire welcomes us to morning.
With fire the day—and the day’s work—begins.
When I was older, I called fire into the waking world.
One gray winter dawn the year I turned nine, I crouched in the loft where I slept, longing for the warmth I’d held in my dreams. My palms grew hot, and a tiny orange flame sprang to life in my cupped hands.
From below my father called me down to milk the goats. The flame disappeared in a wisp of smoke, leaving behind only a small red welt.
This time I told neither of my parents what I’d seen. I told myself they were afraid I’d burn myself. They didn’t understand that I was older now and knew how to be careful.
I didn’t call the flame back again that day. I longed to, though, even when the welt blistered, even when the blister broke and wept.
The day begins with fire. And fire begins with Vkandis, our God.
Every year the Sun’s bright rays light the wood our village priest, Conor, piles on the sacred altar. Every year we carry some of that holy fire home to light our own hearths.
As the flames burn
The twins nodded vigorously.
“You think your bond is something more than we thought, something worth nurturing and feeding.”
They nodded again.
“All right.”
The two girls screeched jubilantly and held each other, and then seemed to recall they were almost adults and settled back into their seats, still smiling.
Breda leaned over and whispered in Gavin’s ear. “I’m glad you were right. May we always learn from our students.”
He leaned over and whispered back. “If we hadn’t separated them, we would never have known how strong that bond is.”
It was Breda’s turn to speak. “You two sound like magpies. We’re not done, yet.”
Two faces surrounded by red hair looked back at her, pretending innocence.
She leaned down and pulled a box out from under her chair. She took out two new uniforms: one scarlet and one bright green.
The twins held their tongues and reached demurely for the symbols of their new status with reverent hands. Good. Maybe their adventure had helped them understand the new realities of a Valdemar without Herald-Mages. They would have to be part of the solution, as would all of the Bards and Healers and Heralds together.
Three classes of Valdemar, working together. The Power of Three. She could already hear the refrain of a song building in her head.
What Fire Is
by Janni Lee Simner
Janni Lee Simner has published nearly three dozen short stories, including appearances in Gothic! Ten Original Dark Tales , Realms of Fantasy magazine, the first Valdemar anthology, Sword of Ice , and the third, Crossroads . Her latest novel, Bones of Fairie , will be published in early 2009. Visit her Web site at www.simner.com .
All my life, fire has danced through my dreams.
Orange and red, yellow and white—I hold flames in my hands. They caress my skin and melt on my tongue, sweet as sugar on festival days.
But only in dreams. I am a farmer’s son. I am no fool.
I know well enough what fire is like.
When I was small, I told my parents about my dreams. I thought they’d be pleased. We worshiped the Sun, after all, saying prayers morning and night to the round stone disk above our hearth. (The merchant’s daughter, Cara, said her family had a gold pendant, but I didn’t believe her; no one had that much gold.)
Yet as I spoke, my father’s face grew hard as the frozen winter fields. “Don’t talk of such things, Tamar. Try to dream happier dreams.”
It was a happy dream, I thought, but before I could say so, my mother looked at me, and the fear in her eyes turned the memory of bright flames to cold ash.
“Yes,” I told them both. “Yes, I will try.”
We cannot hold fire. We cannot taste it. But we can use it.
Fire cooks our food, heats our rooms, lights our homes. After a cold winter night, fire welcomes us to morning.
With fire the day—and the day’s work—begins.
When I was older, I called fire into the waking world.
One gray winter dawn the year I turned nine, I crouched in the loft where I slept, longing for the warmth I’d held in my dreams. My palms grew hot, and a tiny orange flame sprang to life in my cupped hands.
From below my father called me down to milk the goats. The flame disappeared in a wisp of smoke, leaving behind only a small red welt.
This time I told neither of my parents what I’d seen. I told myself they were afraid I’d burn myself. They didn’t understand that I was older now and knew how to be careful.
I didn’t call the flame back again that day. I longed to, though, even when the welt blistered, even when the blister broke and wept.
The day begins with fire. And fire begins with Vkandis, our God.
Every year the Sun’s bright rays light the wood our village priest, Conor, piles on the sacred altar. Every year we carry some of that holy fire home to light our own hearths.
As the flames burn
Similar Books
