Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

The days were no better. Every step took her further from Rhiannon. She tried to be effective for the villagers who needed her. Sometimes she did all right, but nothing like what she knew her best work to be. Mari had needed to help her with every major Healing. Dionne could manage on her own if someone just needed to talk or to have a few herbs from her stores—the simpler things that village wisewomen knew. But the Gift that had earned her the second-highest ranking of her class had become almost inaccessible.

Gavin and Breda were both respected teachers. But what if they were wrong?

After a particularly hard day when Dionne had actually made an old woman’s headache worse, Mari built them a fire in a small grove of trees just between villages. The big raven-haired journeywoman twisted her large hands in her lap and looked at the fire for a while before saying simply, “I can’t stand it anymore. Your pain. Your power is all leaking down whatever thread you have with your sister, and I can feel it draining away from you. I’m going to take you back to Haven soon if you can’t figure this out.”

And Dionne would never get her Greens.

“I am trying. Really I am.”

“Try harder.”

Mari’s slightly condescending tone made Dionne’s fists clench, but she tried to keep her voice even. “I’m just as tired of failing as you are of me failing. What if Rhiannon and I are just meant to be together?”

“Don’t you want families of your own someday?”

Dionne shook her head. “We never have. It’s always been us, and that’s always been what we need.”

“I guess I don’t understand.”

“I know.” Mari was an Empath, and surely Dionne’s pain gave her pain. But knowing that just made Dionne hurt more. She threw a stick onto the fire, sending sparks scrambling for the sky.

Halfway across Valdemar, Rhiannon’s fingers ran scales in front of a different and slowly dying fire. They were camped in a small copse of trees very near the border and had kept the fire low to avoid unwanted attention. The scales kept her hands supple and warm in spite of the cool night and provided a steady beat to keep her wandering thoughts from going too far. Tomorrow, they were supposed to finally meet up with one of the border Heralds, a man named Deckert. Maybe that would jolt her out of her malaise.

So far on this trip, she’d barely sounded better than a local minstrel at any of the taverns or village squares they’d sung in, and for the last two nights she’d done no better than play a good backup to Lleryn’s soaring soprano.

But even if she couldn’t sing, surely she could interview a Herald and gather information. Even though she’d tried again and again, her will for singing and performing seemed to have stayed behind with her sister. But the ability to create music was her strongest gift, and surely it hadn’t deserted her, too.

At least Lleryn had already crawled into their shared tent, so she didn’t see the tears tracing down Rhiannon’s cheeks as she sang a new lament she’d penned for far-away Dionne. The night, and her voice, and even the delicate instrument in her lap felt heavy. As she finished the song, even the stars bore down more closely, adding to her melancholy.

“You’re very sad.” The male voice coming from behind her made her jump. She clutched her instrument to her chest and turned to face the intruder. She saw an old man in Whites, and behind him, a bit like a ghostly image in the darkness beyond the campfire, the outline of his Companion.

She flicked the tears from her face. “Herald Deckert?”

He smiled. “Deck.”

“We didn’t expect you until tomorrow.” She thrust a hand out. “I’m Rhiannon.” She stepped aside. “Care to sit by the fire? Shall I wake Lleryn?”

“Don’t bother anyone. But warming my old bones would be nice.”

“Of course.” This was one of the people she was supposed to be singing about, the saviors of Valdemar. She felt awkward. At least the fire had fallen low enough that the old man wouldn’t see her blush. “How has the border been?”

He added two dry branches to the fire, so it brightened merrily and warmed her. “The border has been ... busy. But not as sad as your song. Care to talk about it?”

She shook her head. She’d sound like a spoiled child saying she couldn’t bear to leave her sister.

“Well,” he said, “I hope whatever the hurt is doesn’t trouble a pretty Bard like you for long.”

He was old enough his words were simply sweet. As he sat with his hands out in front of him, warming them, the firelight illuminated a nasty scar crisscrossing his left cheek. A hero. He turned back to her. “Did you write that song? Does it have a name?”

She nodded. “I call it the Lament for Twins.”

“It is ... affecting.”

He looked sad. Hopefully it wasn’t her fault for singing the lament where he could hear it. “What about your Companion? Won’t he or she want to get warm, too?” she asked.

“You’re camped on the very border. Ashual will be happy enough to stand guard and keep us safe.”