Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

“Ooops, sorry,” Corry said in mock apology. “Wrong one.” With dexterous ease, he switched from his mount to Mola, hugging her with the same warmth and exuberance.

It was all Mola could do to keep her balance as Corry planted a welcoming kiss directly on her lips.

Mola found herself incapable of breathing. Though chapped, his lips felt spongy, delightful. She wanted nothing more than to suck his tongue into her mouth, to wind herself around him, to become lost in his embrace. But she was only a servant, and he was so much more.

“Sleep with me,” Corry said.

Mola disengaged and slapped him. “Stop teasing me, you lizard. I’m in no mood for games.”

Corry rubbed his face, becoming appropriately somber. “I understand. I shouldn’t joke around while Charlin . . .”

Reminded of the cause of her anxiety, Mola felt tears forming in eyes too sore to hold any more.

Cursing himself under his breath, Corry took Mola into his arms again, this time more gently. “I’m sorry, Mo. So sorry. But Charlin is so very old, and the Healers can’t do anything more.”

Alerted by the change in mood, or by some mind-magic from Corry, Rexla returned to grazing. Corry led Mola to a grassy hill, where he pushed her down, then sat beside her. “Mola, life goes on. They’re not going to send you away just because your—”

Mola stiffened. She had not even considered that possibility. “You mean they might send me away?”

Corry cringed, obviously realizing he had worsened, rather than soothed, her distress. Again. “No, no. Of course not. There are plenty of jobs, and no one would consider such a thing.”

You just did. Mola did not speak the words aloud. Corry felt bad enough without her aggravating his guilt and discomfort. “Corry, do you think it’s possible that the healers missed something? That there’s an herb or plant or magic out there somewhere that might save Herald Charlin?”

Corry studied her in silence for a moment.

Mola stared back. “Corry, don’t try to figure out what I want to hear. Just speak the truth.”

Corry cleared his throat. “Well. Mola.” So far, he had done nothing but delay. “I’m an open-minded man. I’m taught to believe anything is possible. Such a thing might exist.”

Mola hung on every word.

Corry stopped talking.

Mola dodged his gaze. “Would you be willing to look?”

“Mola ...” Corry started.

Mola could tell by his tone that he was going to say something she did not want to hear. “I mean, if you had reason to believe such a thing existed. And someone told you where to find it.”

Corry squeezed his eyes shut. “Mola, our Healers are some of the best and as well-trained as Healers come. I trust them.”

“But if you had reason to believe,” Mola insisted.

Corry turned and took both of her hands in his. “Mola, if a trusted, magical source told me where to find a cure for Charlin, I’d ride to the ends of the world for it. But, Mola, there is no cure for old age. Some few mages have managed to greatly extend their lives; but, ultimately, time catches up even to them.”

Mola could deal in hypotheticals no longer. “I’ve been having this dream. Every night for four nights now. There’s a healing clover growing on the mountainside. That one there.” She pointed southward toward the nearest of the few scattered peaks in the distance. “It’s barely a few hours’ travel by Companion. Couldn’t you, at least, check for me?”

Corry’s lids glided shut again, and he gritted his teeth. “I’m sorry, Mola. I have a mission that starts just after midday meal, and I’m not sure how long it will take.”

The tears dripped from Mola’s eyes, down her cheeks.

“Mola, please. If it’s that important, I can get a horse for you.” Corry opened his eyes, saw the tears, and cringed.

Mola freed her hand to wipe them away fiercely. “I can’t climb mountains. I’m not Gifted. I’m not even trained to use a simple weapon. How could I possibly go on such a trip alone?”

A light flashed through Corry’s eyes, then disappeared. “Mola, there’s a reason these dreams are coming to you, not to me. Whether that reason is only your concern for your mistress, or if it is something more, it’s still your challenge and you must face it however you choose.” He unfastened a knife and its sheath, from his belt. “Keep this for me while I’m gone, and use it as you see fit. If you wish, I’ll have a horse ready for you at the stable, as well as a pouch of provisions.” Glancing toward the rising sun, he sighed. “I have to go now. What you do is up to you, and no one could fault you for dismissing a dream ... or for following it.”

Corry leapt to his feet, saluted a good-bye, and headed to ready Rexla.

A damp breeze stirred Mola’s hair, and she reveled in the motion of the sturdy little chestnut mare Corry had chosen for her. She patted the knife at her belt, then the sack of provisions tied securely behind the saddle. Her mission should not take long. With any luck, she would return by bedtime.