Changing the World: All-New Tales of Valdemar

“Loved his boy, though,” Helena added, glancing over to the pallet where Torbin lay asleep with a child close to his own age and a large orange cat. “I expect he’d have come back to people when the boy got a bit older. It’s one thing to mourn while rocking a baby, it’s another thing entirely when that baby’s running you ragged.”

“Then he should’ve been heading for people a couple of months ago,” Jors sighed.

“I’m sure you did your best, Herald.” Helena smiled as she refilled his mug. “But what do you know about babies, a young man like you. And your Companion’s a stallion too, isn’t he? Never mind, my grandson’s near enough to Torbin’s age as to make no difference, and we’d be happy to take him in.”

All his instincts said these were good people, and Jors knew Torbin would be happy here. He could get on with doing what he’d been trained to do.

Except . . .

“I promised his father that I’d take Torbin to his aunt in Rabbit Hole.”

“Dylan wanted him sent to Mirril, did he? Makes sense, she was as near broke up when Tiria passed as he was. Girls grew up together.”

It occurred to Jors as he finished his bowl of stew that it was good thing these foresters knew Torbin’s aunt. Had they not, he could have spent days trying to find her, wandering around Rabbit Hole looking for a woman related to a dead charcoal burner with very blue eyes. Well, maybe not days, Rabbit Hole wasn’t that big, but it was still going to be a lot easier going in with a name. And facing another two days on the trail with Torbin, Jors was looking for all the easier he could get.

“There’s a spring where you’ll be stopping, so chill any milk you have left in it overnight, and it should be good until he drinks it all. There’s six hard boiled eggs in the pack; as long as the shells don’t crack, they’ll be fine for two days, but it probably wouldn’t hurt to chill them in the spring as well. Let’s see, what else . . .” Helena frowned, bouncing Torbin on one hip. “Oh, yes. I’ve put six cloths in the pack, but let him spend as much time without anything on his bottom as possible. It’s just baby poop,” she snickered, as Jors failed to prevent a reaction. “After he goes, take the cloth off him and pay attention. If he starts to pee, dismount.”

“Or point him out over the trail,” Allin added.

That got a laugh from most of the gathered adults and a delighted shriek from Torbin, although he couldn’t have understood he was the subject of the discussion.

After checking the girth one last time—any further checking of his tack would start to look like a deliberate delay—Jors swung up into the saddle. “I’ll return when I’ve placed him safely with his aunt.”

“There’s no hurry, Herald. Do what you have to.”

:Ready?:

Gervais shook his head. He’d had his mane braided the night before, and the early morning sunlight painted ripples into some of the strands. :As ready as I am capable of being.:

“Ossy!”

“All right.” Deep breath. “Hand him up.

Jors spread the sixth cloths out over the bushes and hoped at least one of them would be dry by morning. He’d done his best, but there was a limit to how much he could get out with spring water and a stick.

“Point him over the trail,” he muttered heading back to the camp—he’d moved downhill to do Torbin’s laundry in the hope of avoiding contamination. It might be, as Helena had said, just baby poop, but as far as he was concerned, there was no just about it. :How is it possible for him to expel more than he’s taken in?:

:Are you counting vomiting?:

During one of their stops, Torbin had eaten a handful of leaves he’d ripped from a bush by the trail. And some dirt. And a bug. A little further down the trail, he’d brought them all back up again. Jors had been happy—by certain specific definitions of the word happy—that he’d changed back into his stained uniform. Gervais had insisted they stop immediately and clean his mane.

:Chosen!:

He’d have never heard an actual verbal call over the shrieking.

Arriving at the campsite at a dead run, Jors found Torbin straining against Gervais’ hold on the back of his smock, the Companion’s teeth gripping a fold of the fabric as the child fought to get to the spring.

:He ate another bug.:

“Ossy!”

Jors scratched at a welt across his bare chest and sighed. :At least he’s not a fussy eater.:

Wrapped up in the fluffier of the two blankets Jors had taken from the charcoal burner’s hut, thumb tucked deep in his mouth, eyelashes a dark smudge against the upper curve of chubby cheeks, Torbin looked as though he would never consider trying to throw himself off a Companion’s back causing that Companion’s Herald to temporarily stop breathing. As though he’d never try to poke his own eye out with a stick. As though he’d never drop a half-dead cricket into someone else’s supper.