Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

“How were things worse when you were wandering around Forst Reach?” the Herald asked, clearly confused. “It’s not nearly as cold; there are far more inns and alehouses to sing at. I’d think you’d be happy there. Granted, it was annoying sometimes to find you in the villages on our circuit. Lyle in particular always worried about you.”

“I wasn’t happy,” she said, forcing a smile. “But after what happened the night of my first performance here—” she indicated with a sweep of her hand the otherwise empty common room of the Langenfield Inn “—I too thought that I’d been better off sticking to the Exile’s Road.”

The outhouse door clapped shut behind Lelia, and she started the short, slippery walk across cobblestones icy from the evening’s thaw-and-freeze. The sky was free of clouds, the luminous moon gazing down from her heaven.

Warm fire, Lelia thought muzzily. Blankets. And then breakfast. Her mouth watered. Bright Lady, let there be bacon.

Something cracked behind her—a fallen branch, or a tree splintering under the chill of winter. She glanced back reflexively but could see nothing. She took another step without looking, and suddenly there was no ground, just her body tumbling head over appetite.

She threw her arm out, but she knew instinctively that the angle was off. She landed seconds before it seemed she should have, every dram of breath driven out of her. The snap of the little bones in her left hand was not unlike the crackle of the fire-devoured logs in the inn’s hearth. The pain that followed was certainly fiery, a white-hot shock that whipped up a frenzy of realizations, starting with something is not right, followed by is it broken? and finally oh, gods, no.

She screamed, as much in despair as agony.

“The worst part,” Lelia said to the Herald, “was that it could have been so easily avoided.”

“But it kept you here.”

“Yes.”

“That turned out to be a good thing in the end, right?”

She frowned, not wanting to answer. “Olli heard my screams. He found me in the snow—”

Lelia flatly refused to cry. She sat in the inn with clenched teeth as Olli hovered and a gray-haired woman poked at her hand.

“Broken,” the woman said. Her worn voice seemed familiar. Her disheveled hair bespoke an unexpected rousing from bed.

“Oh?” Lelia replied in a tight voice.

“Mm-hm.” The woman raised her eyes. “Healing Temple is a week away.”

“Is that so?” Lelia replied, feeling alternately faint and nauseated.

“In good weather.”

“Ah.”

“Healer just left here, in fact.”

“Mmhm.”

“Won’t be due back for another month or more.”

Lelia pressed her eyes shut. “I see.”

“You—”

“Stop.” Lelia raised her good hand. “Just a moment.” She took a deep, steadying breath. “Okay.” She opened her eyes. “Can you set it?”

The old woman nodded.

“I mean, really, truly, can you do this? Not—I did it once with a goat and well, Havens, I think I got it right because the goat sure never complained, tee hee.” The old woman’s brow lifted, but Lelia drove on regardless. “Really, honestly, truly, can you set this right?”

The old woman pursed her lips, then nodded again.

“You are certain?”

A third nod.

“Okay.” Lelia thrust out her good hand. “Hi. I’m Lelia, what’s your name?”

The old woman took her hand and shook. “Artel.”

“Right.” Lelia looked her makeshift Healer square in the eye and held the faded blue gaze as firmly as she gripped her hand. “Artel, I believe you.” She released the crone’s weathered grip. “Now set my hand.”

“I am not too proud to admit that I passed out,” Lelia said, not looking up from her growing pile of papers.

“Of course.”

“But I did so with immense heroism.”

“Naturally.”

“Some of the greatest heroes I know have passed out at least once.”

“Carry on, O Brave One.”

Lelia woke up on a pallet between a row of barrels and canvas sacks of grain.

“Hellfires, Lyle,” she said to the air. “What now?”

“Fall three times, stand up four?” She could even hear her brother’s warm, friendly voice saying it. She wished she could also imagine him helping her up, but no such luck. The best she could do was a mental image of him kneeling by her side, smiling encouragingly.

She sat, then stood, her arm pressed tightly to her chest to keep from inadvertently using it. She suspected that she was in a storage room at the inn, and confirmed her deduction as she passed through a hallway leading to the common room.

“Ah, there she is!” Olli leaned on his broom amidst a heap of rushes. “Gave us quite a fright, little sparrow.” In a gentler tone, he asked, “How d’ya fare?”

“My hand’s broken,” Lelia replied blankly.

He winced and made no reply.

She looked behind her at the hallway she’d emerged from. She thought about slogging through the snow to the Healing Temple. She thought about trying to build a fire with one hand, or what would happen if she fell again, or unwrapping food, assuming she even had food to unwrap.