Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

“I’ve been having ... a recurring dream.” Mola studied Sietra for some kind of reaction but received nothing but quiet patience. “In it, I see a mountain just south of here, still in Velvar, not a particularly high or difficult one. On it grow some unusual clovers, and a voice in the dream tells me they can strengthen—” Mola made a short gesture toward Charlin, uncertain how much the Herald could still hear and understand.

Sietra continued to look askance at Mola, clearly expecting more.

“That’s about it,” Mola said. “But it seems so real, more real than any dream I’ve ever had before. And ... I’ve had it every night since ... my lady ... lapsed.”

As Sietra still said nothing, Mola asked directly, “What do you think?”

“I think,” Sietra said with obvious caution, “that you love and miss your lady.”

That being self-evident, Mola continued to press, “Do you think it’s possible there is such a ... a healing clover?”

Sietra went even more quiet, but she seemed to be giving the matter significant thought, so Mola waited. Finally, Sietra spoke her piece, “Mola, have you ever had prophetic dreams before?”

Mola lowered her head. “Of course not. I have no magic of any kind. I’m only ... what I am.”

“You mean a devoted, sweet, kind, and generous person? With courage and hope and intelligence? Because I’d hardly use the word ‘only’ when explaining that.”

The warmth in Mola’s cheeks increased to a bonfire. “That’s ... that’s so very nice of you to say. I’m not Gifted, though. Not in the sense of a Herald or a Healer or a Bard or anything. But this dream. It’s telling me—”

“—to do something.” Sietra shrugged. “Then, perhaps, you should do it.”

“Me?” Mola laughed, the sound odd to her ears. She could not recall the last time she had managed such a thing. “Slopping through swamps? Climbing mountains? That’s a job for Heralds, not hand-maidens.”

Sietra’s slender shoulders rose and fell. “You’ll have a hard time convincing a Herald to go on a fool’s mission on no better pretext than a servant’s recurring dream. Even if the servant is as wonderful as you.”

It was exactly what Mola had figured, the very reason she had not yet told her dream to anyone else. “I have to try.”

Sietra rose. “I understand. And I wish you the best of luck.” She headed for the door. “Please eat, Mola.”

“I will,” Mola promised, immediately turning her attention to the stew. She could not have resisted it if she had tried, and she fairly drank it, without bothering to chew.

Mola washed and curried Elborik until her coat shined, though the old Companion never bothered to open her eyes. She lay in the pasture, fetlocks grass-stained and ragged, chestnuts marring the perfect, snowy lines of her legs. Mola had rubbed and oiled her hooves until they gleamed like metallic silver. The mane and tail lay spread in beautiful waves, combed to silky perfection. Even so, brushing could not hide the moth-eaten patches of fur, the ashen eyelashes, and the slumping frame incapable of standing. The Companion was dying slowly, along with her Herald.

Spotting Corry playing with his own Companion, Rexla, in the field, Mola gathered her supplies and dumped them into her pack. She embraced Elborik’s neck and kissed her soft nose and furry muzzle. Then, tossing her tack bag over one shoulder, Mola walked toward Corry.

Sun rays turned the blades of grass into sparkling jewels, and the cloudless warmth made a negative mood nearly impossible. As she headed toward Corry and Rexla, Mola found herself smiling for the first time in many days. The all-consuming darkness lifted from her soul, as well as her eyes, as she watched the playful dance of man and animal. Heralds worked hard, and she did not begrudge them their moments of play, even with her own heart so heavily burdened.

Seeing her coming, Corry waved in greeting, and Rexla trotted to her, snuffling her pockets for the sugar and carrots she usually carried. The stallion’s blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight, mischievous and joyful, two states she had not experienced in what seemed like months.

Mola shoved the Companion’s face away, then found herself immediately drawing him back for a warm hug and a nose kiss.

“Hey,” Corry shouted, running toward them. “Save some of that affection for me.”

Mola studied her feet. Corry was thirty years old, a Collegium-trained Herald, and far above her station. Yet, he always treated her with great kindness. She found him nearly irresistibly attractive and wondered why he had never bonded with anyone other than his Companion. True, he had a generous, hawk-like nose that had been broken once or twice, and his sandy hair fell in greasy clumps, always into his eyes; but she saw those as endearing characteristics rather than flaws.

When he arrived, Corry threw his arms around Rexla and began plastering the Companion with kisses. The stallion stomped his feet and tossed back his head, mane flying.