Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

Riga moved away, not wanting to see it again. She hung her clothes, mounted her mail and helm on their stand, and set about cleaning her sword.

Before she took over the ledgers, she might have to be a warrior. She’d trained for it all her life, but she’d never thought to actually use it, beyond a tavern brawl or a mob of thieves at quayside, the occasional bandits or brigands. It was a cold thought.

Meanwhile, she was home with her family, a soft bed, her toys and crafts, and a chance to be a girl again, for the little time she could.

Broken Bones

by Stephanie D. Shaver

Stephanie Shaver lives in St. Louis, Missouri, with her cats and her computers. When she isn’t working, cooking, wrestling with her lawn, or writing, she’s out in the woods climbing something or frantically checking for ticks. Her day job involves creating online games for Simutronics, where she acts as a lead designer and creative know-it-all for the fantasy-based MMORPG

Hero’s Journey

. You can find out more about her at her website,

www.sdshaver.com

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“So. There I was—”

“A likely story.”

The Bard paused, inky nib poised over parchment. She hadn’t even written two words. “Do you want this report or not?”

She could hear the smirk in the Herald’s voice. “Can’t you just skip to the good part?”

“They’re all good parts!”

“Oh, fine then. You may continue.”

“You,” she said, stabbing her quill at the air, eyes still fixed on the parchment, “could test a Companion’s patience.”

“And often do.”

Lelia resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She took a big gulp of ale, then a deep breath, and squared her shoulders.

“So,” she said, scribbling once more. “There I was. Halfway to the middle of north nowhere, freezing my delicate Bardly bits off.”

Lelia’s teeth would not stop chattering. She had tried clenching them to make it stop, but that only made her feel like her teeth were going to crack from the strain.

I don’t remember the north being this cold when I was younger, she thought as she trudged forward. Mid-morning had started out warm, the snow melting a little, but by afternoon the temperature had plummeted, freezing what had thawed. Irregular gusts howled out of Sorrows to the north. Sunset threatened, casting hues of apricot and blush across the road.

“Sweet Kernos,” she muttered into her scarf, “I’m too young and precious to die.” Every breath she took tasted of greasy wool and the cold egg and onion pie she’d eaten for breakfast.

“I’m sure your overall adorableness is an important deciding factor for Lord Death,” a sweet voice said.

Lelia glanced in the direction of the speaker, and felt only a distant and winter-numbed surprise at seeing her best friend from the Collegium walking beside her, dressed out in the lightest summer Scarlets.

“Oh, hey, Maresa,” Lelia said. “Out for a stroll?”

Maresa snorted.

“I know. You’re not really here.” Lelia returned to focusing on trudging through the snow.

“Ah, but maybe I am?”

The voice had changed, and when Lelia looked again, it was her brother Lyle—more appropriately dressed in leather Whites—forging down the road with her.

“Really doubtful,” she replied to her figment, “but nice try. Still, I know you wouldn’t go anywhere without your horse.”

Her twin smiled at her, that heartbreaking, guileless smile that made her want to beat him over the head with a gittern and tell him to be more careful, dammit. He was safely out of gittern range, however, riding the Exile’s Road on the tail end of his first circuit with his mentor, Herald Wil.

“Oh, I could really be here,” Lyle said. “You’ve read enough stories. You know that strange things regularly transpire between twins.” The vision blurred, and he became a shade taller, his features sharper and his gray eyes less trusting. The Whites stayed the same. In his place was—

Lelia stopped, her narrative stalled.

“What?” the Herald asked.

“I am debating whether this bit is relevant,” she replied. “I was definitely hallucinating. My brother. Maresa . . .”

You. She toyed with the pendant around her neck.

“Too much time alone,” he said sagely.

“That, and I was half-starved, I couldn’t feel my extremities, and I’d been walking for candlemarks in the wind. My head had all sorts of reasons for dipping me into a vat of crazy.”

Her hand trembled with the name it was still poised to write—then she set the paper aside and reached for a clean sheet.

“Might be relevant,” she muttered to herself. “Might not. I’ll know later.”

She picked up the story a little further down the road.

“Lelia, you need a warmer jacket, and you should eat more.” The hallucination had kindly returned to being her brother, his lips curved in a beatific smile. “You can’t suffer for your work if you’re dead.”

“You think about yourself!” she growled back. “I’m not the one hoofing it around Evendim Sector under the tutelage of the Herald most likely to smother a burning orphanage with his own body!”

“Hickory,” Lyle replied.