Changing the World: All-New Tales of Valdemar

“ ‘Meet me in the Collegium Library’,” Kyran quoted. “You apologized—you! Standing there, in your grays, cursing the Bardic Council. I think I fell in love right then and there, with your dark hair and flashing eyes and the scent of violets . . .” Kyran tilted his head back, so very serious as he looked up into the trees. “Why is it that we remember the pain of our lives more than the joy?”

Her breath caught in her throat. “I don’t know, beloved.”

“Then know this, Elspeth, Queen of Valdemar and my love,” Kyran’s voice was low and strong. She hung on every word, as he intended, no doubt. “Valdemar has been at peace since your father’s time, and you are the reason. Everything you have done, everything you have suffered, has been worth every moment. Your people are safe and prosperous, your kingdom secure.”

Elspeth shrugged. “I worry that it will end on my death. I worry that my grandson will not be able to—”

“Randale will be fine,” Kyran said firmly. “You’d worry a wart off your hand.” He spread his hands over the coals. “Do you suppose your father worried that you’d ruin the kingdom?”

“I doubt that,” Elspeth snapped. “He knew that I’d always put Valdemar first above all else.”

“Would Randi do less?” Kyran asked.

Elspeth caught her breath, then scowled. “Do you have to be so . . . so . . .”

“Irritating? Aggravating?” Kyran smirked. “Rational? Accurate?”

Elspeth growled, trying to stay angry, but he just gave her that innocent carefree look. “It’s why you love me,” he assured her.

“I suppose . . .” Elspeth said.

“Well, that and my lute.” Kyran wagged his eyebrows.

Elspeth laughed out loud. “Your lute’s not quite as in tune as it once was, my love. Any more than my sagging breasts and wrinkled skin.”

“Alas, time’s passage takes its toll. Still, it’s ever yours to command. And finger. And fondle, if your majesty so desires. And as to your breasts—”

“Enough,” Elspeth snorted. “I cry mercy.”

“Then I cry enough melancholy, my love.” Kyran said. “All the years, all the pain and the joy—I would not change a thing for fear I’d change what lies between us.”

The tears started again, but not with sorrow. “I love you.”

“And I, you.” Kyran said. “And on the morning when you do not wake, I’ll not be far behind.”

Elspeth’s heart leaped in her throat, but then common sense intervened. “You’re freezing.”

“I am. Come. You’ve a court dinner and even Queen Elspeth the Peacemaker had best not anger the cooks.” Kyran stood and offered his arm.

She stood, stepped close to him.

“You still smell like violets,” Kyran whispered. He held out his arm.

Elspeth placed her hand on his wrist, stroking his cold skin with her fingers tips. As they started down the path, Kyran flipped his hand, and for a brief, sweet moment their fingers intertwined, before returning to their proper places.

“Meredith is on duty in my inner chamber tonight,” she offered the bit of information with a sly look.

“Really?” Kyran arched an eyebrow at her. “Meredith likes me. If an old worn out Bard were to appear at your chamber door late at night, she’d open it and none the wiser.”

“True,” Elspeth said. “I’d even welcome an old, worn-out Bard to my chamber, away from prying eyes and whispering tongues.”

Figures moved in the glow behind the windows. As they grew closer, the door opened, letting warm air wash over them.

“I’ll let you strum my lute,” Kyran whispered as he bowed her into the room, eyes bright.

Joy rose in her heart as Elspeth laughed.

The Reluctant Herald

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

Mickey Zucker Reichert is a pediatrician, parent to multitudes (at least it seems like that many), bird wrangler, goat roper, dog trainer, cat herder, horse rider, and fish feeder who has learned (the hard way) not to let macaws remove contact lenses. Also she is the author of twenty-two novels (including the

Renshai

,

Nightfall

,

Barakhai

, and

Bifrost

series), one illustrated novella, and fifty plus short stories. Mickey’s age is a mathematically guarded secret: the square root of 8649 minus the hypotenuse of an isosceles right triangle with a side length of 33.941126.

Lubonne’s wooden sword cut through the ice-grained air of early spring, and his feet stamped evergreen needles deeper into the muck. Sharp, brown burrs clung to his britches and the hem of his tunic, prickling through the fabric as he moved. His bandy legs switched directions with sharp precision, their shortness belying their strength and speed. His relatively long arms supplied a reach that never failed to surprise opponents. The practice blade skipped around his homely features: his eyes small and pallid, his nose broad and overarching, his mouth thin lipped but wide. Mouse-brown hair, cut short, framed his features, unwanted curls fluffing it at the back.

A voice interrupted Lubonne’s solitary practice. :Hello there.: It left an impression of femininity and strength, yet it felt strangely ephemeral, as if he sensed rather than heard it.