Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar

Vulshin nodded, his seamed face gray and weary. “It’s as we both dreamed,” he corrected. “The baby’s breached; Shersi can’t make it turn, and Dierna’s lost a lot of strength and a lot of blood just getting this far. Now the baby’s in trouble. It can’t breathe and there’s nothing Shersi can do.” He sighed deeply. “It’s only a matter of time.”

Trey picked up the largest of the stones, squeezing it in his fist with a helpless gesture before dropping it once more. “How long?”

“Dusk. No later.”

Both men glanced up at the sun already well into its trek towards the horizon.

“Once there were so many of us,” Vulshin noted sadly. “The voices of our people sang in my dreams like a chorus of sparkling water flowing down the mountains sides. Not like this pitiful little trickle,” he sneered, waving a gnarled hand at the rivulet of water. “But like a torrent. Now sickness and clan-fighting have silenced their voices, one by one, until the Goshon are no more.”

“The people are scattered,” Trey allowed.

“The people are no more,” Vulshin repeated sharply. “Their voices have left my dreams, I tell you. We are the last, and when Dierna and her child pass from this world so will the Goshon pass.” Scooping the stones and bones into a small, hide bag, he fixed Trey with a stern expression. “When this is over, I want you to leave this place; you and Bayne and young Kellisin. There’s nothing left for you here.”

Trey gave the old man a worried glance. “There’s yourself and Shersi, Shaman,” he said.

Vulshin shook his head. “No. Shersi is old,” he said wearily. “Old and sick. The winter was very hard on her. Too hard. And with our grandson Aivar’s death coming before his child could even draw breath, the strength to carry on has left her.”

His expression drew inward. “She used to love the meadow flowers in springtime, you know,” he said, more to himself than to the younger man. “When we were children, so many years ago, we would go out seeking the earliest spring blossoms, even if we had to sweep the snow away to find them. Sometimes our fingers would be red and stiff from searching, but she would never return until she could bring a handful home to plait into our ponies’ manes. Now she couldn’t walk as far as the edge of the camp to find them, and my vision’s so poor I couldn’t see to fetch them for her even if I tried.” He blinked a sudden welling of tears from his eyes. “She only waited this long to help Dierna bring her child into the world, but now . . .” He paused, and the two men glanced unwillingly toward the tent where Dierna’s cries had become noticeably weaker. “Now, my Shersi won’t last the week.”

“Then we’ll wait a week, and afterward you’ll break camp with us.”

“No.”

“Shaman, you must. We need you.” Trey scowled at the desperate sound in his voice but kept his eyes on the older man’s face regardless.

Vulshin patted his arm with slightly more force than necessary. “No, you don’t,” he replied. “I’ve taught you all I can, Trey. Bayne will stand beside you as he always has, and Kellisin would follow you into a fire pit if you told him he could learn its nature. Rely on Bayne’s strength, Kellisin’s mind, and your own gifts, and you’ll be fine.”

“But my dreams aren’t like yours,” Trey insisted, trying to curb the sudden panic he felt at the thought of losing the old man’s guidance. “They’re hazy and unclear. And even when they’re not, they don’t make any sense.”

“They will when you trust that they will. You’re strong, so are your dreams; strong enough to lead the three of you to a new life.” Vulshin passed a hand through the rivulet of water once again. “I have only one dream left now, and I don’t want to see it through without my Shersi. I’ve never been without her, you see; I wouldn’t know how.” He raised his eyes to the sky. “In this dream I saw a storm of unusual fury bury the hills again as if it were the middle of winter. It will be our funeral storm. We’ll wait for it and ride it into death like a mountain pony together, hand in hand.” He returned his attention to the younger man. “By that time, you’ll have reached the pass; it will be open, and you’ll be safe.”

“Pass?”

“The Feral Pass that leads south to the High Hills and the Terilee River.”

Trey blinked. “The Goshon do not travel south, Shaman,” he reminded him gently.

“Teach your grandmother to suck eggs,” Vulshin snapped. “You’ll travel south if I tell you to.” His gaze drew inward again. “South to the river and farther still to a place of stone and timber where music and sunlight stream in equal magnificence, and where creatures of such magic and poetry as would take your breath away run freely over lush, green meadows; far away in the young kingdom of Valdemar.”

Trey mouthed the unfamiliar word with a frown. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“As I said, it’s a young kingdom, and you’re an even younger man.”

“What clan holds its territory?”