"Brother Herald! We go now? What you got?" His hands and Dory's together closed the bundle.
"It's a surprise," Dory said, her cheeks crimson. "For later."
"Not for now?"
"No."
"Okay." He took Calida's reins and stood waiting patiently while Jors tied the bundle behind Gervis' saddle. :You seem upset, Chosen.:
:I can't tell her Brock's not an actual Herald while he's standing there. He'll say he is, I'11 say he isn't, and I'm not sure that in this place at this time, I'd win the argument.:
:You shouldn't argue.:
:Oh, that's helpful.:
:Thank you.:
* * *
The whole family went with them to the bridge. Jors didn't know why the rest came, but he was certain Aysa just wanted to make sure they were off her land. He wanted to say something, something that would convince them they didn't have to live inside the darkness of an old woman's anger, but before he could think of the right words, Brock hugged Dory.
And Simen. And Enric. And Kern.
Then he scrambled up into the saddle and, from the safety of Calida's back, took a deep breath, looked Aysa in the eye, and spoke directly to her for the first time. "Why don't you love your babies?"
Her lip curled. "I buried my babies, half-wit."
He nodded toward the three young men standing to her right. "Not them."
She turned, looked at her sons, looked back at
Brock and muttered, "Half-wit." But there was little force behind it.
Jors had no idea he was going to do what he did until he did it.
* * *
"Jors, you hugged mean lady."
"Yeah. I know." Although he still couldn't believe it. "Everyone else got hugged, I just..."
She'd pushed him away with such force that he'd slammed back into Gervis' shoulder.
"You are the bravest Herald. Ever, ever."
"Thank you."
Then she'd snarled something incomprehensible, turned, and stomped away.
He'd probably accomplished nothing at all by it. The bundle Dory had given him pushed against the small of his back.
* * *
The weather remained clear and cool and just as the sun was setting, they stopped outside the village. "Gate will close when sun is set," Brock warned. "I know. Brock, I think you should go back to Haven with Isabel."
"Lots of Heralds in Haven?"
"Yes."
Brock sighed and shook his head. "No. I have to stay here. I am the only Herald."
"Brock, you're not..." He couldn't say it.
Brock waited patiently for a moment then smiled. "Is it later?"
"Yes..."
"What's Dory's surprise?"
"Um...it's um..."
Both Companions turned their heads to look at him. Their expression said, this is up to you.
:He believes he is a Herald.:
:Yes, but..:
:And he acts accordingly.:
* * *
"I couldn't do it, Isabel. They're just clothes and I know that but if I gave Brock those whites, then there'd be fake Heralds showing up all over the place."
"A bad precedent to be sure," the older Herald agreed.
"There has to be a line and that line has to be the Companions. Sometimes it seems like we're barely keeping order in chaos now. I couldn't...No matter how much..." Jors ran both hands back through his air, he couldn't believe how much the decision, the right decision had felt like betrayal. "It wouldn't make any difference to Brock. He knows who and what he is, but for the others in the village, those who made fun and called him names..."
"Come here, I want to show you something." Isabel took his arm and pulled him to the window. "What do you see?"
Jors squinted down into the stable yard. "Brock's grooming Gervis again."
"While you four were gone, I talked to a lot of people. Seems that whenever a Herald comes into this village, the Companion manages to spend time with Brock. Even if it's only a moment or two." They watched as Calida crossed the yard and tried to shoulder Gervis away. Brock laughed and told her to wait her turn. "You were right not to give him the Whites," Isabel continued, "but you were also right when you said it makes no difference. He couldn't be Chosen because, as Heralds, we have to face dangers he'd never understand, but the Companions know him. All Brock needs from us is our love and support. Now, since Healer Lorrin has finally allowed me out of bed, what do you say you and I go down there and give our brother a hand with the fourfoots?"
Jors grinned as Brock gamely tried to brush both tails at once.
Heralds wear shiny white.
Brock wore his Whites on the inside.
TRUE COLORS
by Michael Longcor
Michael Longcor is a writer and singer-songwriter who recently wrote a dozen songs for the Mercedes Lackey album, Owflight. Aside from writing and per-forming, Michael has also been an insurance investigator, employment counselor, news reporter, fencing instructor, and blacksmith. His more exotic hobbies include donning medieval armor and competing in the bruising tournaments of the Society for Creative Anachronism.
He also once placed third in a cricket-spitting contest. He currently shares a 130-year-old farmhouse outside of West Lafayette, Indiana, with a variable number of pets and guitars.
It had worked again.
The sun was well up as Rin rode out of Goldenoak. Summer light filtered through the trees, dappled the white coat of his mount, and sparked off the hilt of the sword bouncing gently at his side. It also showed the grimy spots on his white tunic and leggings.
It had been a good visit. Good for Rin, that is. The take included four solid meals, road rations, several pots of the local beer, and a few kisses stolen from the hamlet's daughters.
There's something about a man in uniform, he mused. Fine-boned, even features, blond hair, and blue eyes helped, too. If you can't be big and burly, slight and handsome will have to do. Too bad I couldn't manage some coin.
But coinage was almost as scarce as Heralds among the tiny settlements scattered along Valdemar's Northern Border. Out here, the forest's dangers combined with distance to isolate the villages. Other than infrequent sweeps for brigands, people this far out never saw much of the Militia, let alone Valdemar's regular Guard, especially since the recent problems in the South. Even less often, they might glimpse a legendary Herald. They and their spooky-white horses were near-mythical heroes. Rin figured folks should get to meet their heroes on occasion, and show a little hero worship. It wasn't his fault if the real Heralds were too busy saving the Kingdom to take time to share a few meals, drinks, and kisses with the salt of Valdemar's earth.
Two months back he'd made his break from Torto's Traveling Show, a ratty handful of stickmen, peep shows, and crack-throated minstrels, ruled by the beefy, sadistic Torto. The show had about as much resemblance to a true traveling troupe of gleemen as a weed does a rose. In Torto's Show, you rarely saw the same town twice. After swindling and stealing everything that wasn't nailed down on one end, they packed up in the night and moved on to fresh marks. Rin ran shell games with the best of them, developed a healthy contempt for the townies, and never stopped hating and fearing Torto. The night he'd made his break they were between towns in western Iftel. Rin hoped he'd truly cracked the drunken Torto's head with that tent stake, but with Torto's thick skull, he doubted it.
Rin had started this Herald game less than a month back after crossing Iftel's border with Valdemar. It wasn't much, but it beat being a cup-and-ball man in the towns. With luck, it would get him somewhere more comfortable, where constables didn't know him and Torto couldn't trail him.