Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

“What?” she said, whipping her head in his direction—but no, he really wasn’t there. There may have been twins born with bonds strong enough to let their minds touch across massive distances, but Lyle and Lelia’s was not one of them.

This may all be delirium, but at least it’s a sensible delirium, she thought. The hallucination was right—it killed her to spend money on anything, but if she didn’t acquire a better jacket, it would just flat out kill her.

She shut her eyes against the glowing white snow and breathed in deeply.

A whiff of woodsmoke—hickory—caught her olfactory attention. Too real to be another waking dream. Squinting northward, she was pretty sure she could see a smudge of smoke against the horizon.

Village. Fire. Inn? Hopefully. Someone to make me clothes? Maybe. Her mouth watered. Food.

It took another half-candlemark for the promise of a village to resolve into something other than woods-moke and hope. It was not unlike many in this region: slate-roofed, large enough to sport a palisade, and with a central building in the square that was most certainly an inn.

She’d have wept for joy, if not for the fact that she was pretty sure her tears would have frozen on her cheeks.

“That’s how you wound up in Langenfield,” the Herald said.

“I was aiming for Waymeet.”

Stony silence.

She sighed. “I know. I missed by a few miles.”

A polite cough.

“Okay, I missed by a lot.” She took a long draught of ale. “Doesn’t matter. The ultimate goal is to get to Sorrows.”

“About that. Why?”

She shrugged. “One of my teachers at the Collegium always drilled into me to live Valdemar. Go to the battle sites, the weird forests, smell the smoke in the resin down at Burning Pines. I wanted to do that.”

She turned her mug. It was only one side of the jewel of truth. Just enough to convince an inquisitive Herald.

“And, as always, I wanted a song,” she added, flashing another facet.

“Oh?”

“Found it, even.” She grimaced. “I just didn’t know it when I first met her.”

Lelia staggered into the inn, and the middle of an argument.

“You ain’t listening!” a tall, powerfully built young man was saying to a petite blonde woman with greasy hair, tunic, and trews. He wasn’t quite yelling, but it was clear he was building up to that point. “There’re no bones on my hearth and none in my scrap pile!”

The girl flushed. “You were cooking a ham just last night—”

“I said I ain’t got any, and even if I did, I don’t know that I’d sell ’em to you! What part of that don’t you conjugate?”

“The p-part where y-you’re lying,” the blonde said in tones that could have frozen spirits of wine, even with her frustrated stammering. “And the w-word is c-c-cogitate, you country o-oaf!”

She spun and stormed toward the door, her warpath bent on bisecting Lelia—until she actually saw the Bard and stopped dead.

“Can I help you?” the young man said.

“A Bard?” whispered the blonde.

“That’s me!” Lelia said cheerfully, mustering what she hoped was a disarming grin and not a grim, half-frozen rictus. “Does your innmaster have room for one? I don’t have much money—”

“Bright Havens!” the man said, rushing over to relieve her of her pack. She kept his big, clumsy hands away from her gittern—no one handled Bloom but her—but gladly gave him the rest.

“If you’re playing, you’re staying!” he went on, and from what she gathered, he was the innmaster—just an awfully young one. “Hellfires, even if you’re not playing, you can still stay—how fares the Queen? The last we heard, there was a hunting accident!”

That’s the official story, yes, Lelia thought as she recounted what she knew—officially—to the innmaster, even as she edged toward a stool by the fire. The savory aroma of fennel sausage and sage nearly swept the strength from her knees.

Lelia sat, taking the opportunity to smile at the openly staring blonde. “And you are?”

The blonde’s nostrils flared. She turned and walked out.

Well, Lelia thought. Nice, friendly locals.

“Ah, I’m sorry, m’lady Bard,” the Innmaster said, hurrying over to a keg and taking a mug off a shelf. “That’s Herda and she’s ...” He shook his head. “Different. You’d do best to just ignore her.”

I would, but the argument you two were having actually sounded interesting. “Village madwoman?”

“Something like that.” The young man grinned, bringing her a brimming cup. “I’m Olli, and I’m the innmaster you’re looking for—you mind ale?”

Lelia raised her brows. “Good sir, you could serve me trough-water and I’d ask for more!”

He chuckled. “My brew’s not that bad! Now, you get warm here, m’lady Bard. I’m going to go get the word out that you’re in town!” He swept a heavy woolen cape down from a wooden peg by the door and hurried out into the dusk before she’d taken so much as a sip.