Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar

“So why compete?” Lelia railed on, ignoring her best friend and year-mate. “There are other story jewels to plunder.” She picked up another volume, this one bound in brown leather. “Like this.”

Malesa finally looked up. She frowned. “That’s a journal.”

“The journal of Herald Daryann, to be exact. It’s fantastic.”

“Sure.” Malesa looked back at her sheath of papers. “Except for the fact that she dies at the end. And while it’s many things, it’s not a story.”

“It is so—”

“No, it’s a journal. A diary. A collection of events without a discernable plot, antagonist, or resolution.” She lifted her head and raised a brow. “Or did you miss that class?”

Lelia scowled and thumped Daryann’s journal with her knuckles. “Story or not, it’s the untold stuff between the lines that matters. Look.” She flipped the book open to a point near the end. “Here. She mentions that her brother, Wil, got Chosen, too. And how proud she was of him. And then two pages later—last entry. Right before the raiders got her and her Companion.”

Malesa leveled a look at her. “So?”

“Can you imagine being him? Wil, that is.” Lelia’s eyes glazed over. “I bet he’s got a story, and I bet it’s no Sun and Shadow.”

“And I bet it’s very sad. Why is it you have this morbid fascination with dead Heralds anyway?” Malesa asked suspiciously. “It’s always Vanyel this, Lavan that . . .”

“Hey—if the Bards were right, Vanyel was quite a catch.”

Malesa sighed and shook her head, glancing back at her parchments. “I’m done.”

“What?” Lelia squeaked.

“I’m done. Eight verses, one bridge, and a melody already in mind.” She looked up coyly. “You?”

Lelia groaned and buried her face in her arms.

“Oh, ’Lia,” Malesa stood and patted her on the shoulder. “Just write the song and get it over with.”

“But I don’t know what to write,” Lelia wailed into the table.

“You’re a Bard—”

“—trainee—”

“—with a brother who’s a Herald—”

“—trainee—”

“—I’d think you could cobble up something if you’re so opposed to borrowing from the classics.”

Lelia moaned inarticulately.

Malesa patted her shoulder again. “It’ll come to you.” She clutched her papers to her chest. “I’m off to practice my masterpiece.”

Alone in the Library, Lelia lifted her head and stared at the scuffed leather cover of Herald Daryann’s journal.

What did you do, Wil? she thought. What did you feel, when you found out she was gone?

She sat with her thoughts and her blank parchments until the Herald-Chronicler came around to put out the lights.

The next day didn’t get any better.

It started with waking up.

Lelia emerged from a fitful slumber to the sound of someone knocking on her door. She sat up, papers sliding off her chest to the floor, and stared blearily forward as the knocking droned on. She knew with a grim, growing certainty that when she did manage to convince her legs to move, it would be to open the door and throttle whoever had chosen to wake her on a rest day.

“One moment,” she moaned, coaxing her weary arms to pull on a lounging robe. She’d spent all night trying to pry a song out of her head, and bits of parchment with half-scribbled lyrics and notations were strewn here and there. They crunched underfoot as she crossed the room.

She knew before her hand dropped to the handle who was on the other side of the door. The warm touch of the bond she shared with her twin easily cut through her stupor.

The door swung open. Her brother stood in the hallway, dressed from head to toe in Whites.

“Is this some sort of joke?” she blurted.

“I did it!” he whooped, crushing her in a hug. “They voted this morning! Me and all my year-mates!”

“Gnhrr,” she replied.

He set her down, grinning from ear to ear. She sat down slowly on her bed, her hands trembling. Whites. He’d finally earned his Whites. He’d be on Circuit soon enough. He’d . . .

Terror struck her, fast and hard. She managed to regain her composure as he shut the door, picked his way across the floor, and took a seat in the only chair in the room.

“You look great,” she said at last. It hurt to smile, but she forced one onto her face. “Really . . . good.”

His grin faded. “What’s wrong?”

Their twin bond wasn’t legendary, but it was strong enough. He knew she was worried about something. And she knew he wouldn’t stop until he found what that something was.

“Enh.” She scrambled for an excuse. It was ironic, really. Her whole training rested on communication, and yet she couldn’t tell him that his becoming a full Herald was the one thing she feared most.

Her eyes lighted on the drifts of discarded paper. She couldn’t talk about her worry. She couldn’t lie to her twin. But she could be creative.

“I’m supposed to write a song,” she said, looking more than passably worried. “And—”

“Can’t write it?” A knowing look lit his face.

“Mm. And I know it’s going to affect the Bardic Council’s voting on whether I should be made a full Bard.”