Mary Herbert - Valorian

Valorian deliberately chose to be the last clansman over the pass. He brought Hunnul to a stop on the highest point of the stony trail and watched the last wagon, several riders, and the warriors of the rear guard pass by him and move on down the trail toward a broad, flat plateau where the Clan was setting camp for the night.

He couldn’t have described his feelings to anyone at that moment if he had tried. His entire being was a jumble of memories, dreams, and emotions that washed through him in an uncontrollable flood. Foremost, he decided, was gratitude to the Mother Goddess. Without Amara, they would still be scratching out a bare survival in Chadar.

The memory of his discovery of the stone temple on the mountain peak far to the north brightened in his mind, and he suddenly decided that the Clan would begin to leave their own legacy here and now. They would build a monument of their own to Amara, a symbol of their journey and their gratitude that would remain for generations to come.

Perhaps down there on the wide plateau would be a good place.

At that moment, a soft wind blew up around him, lifting Hunnul’s mane and tugging at Valorian’s clothes. It bore a fragrance of incredible delicacy and sweetness that Valorian had only smelled once before in his existence. The flower that shattered the stone. The power of life.

“Amara,” he breathed.

The wind wafted past, tickling his face. He felt the same feeling of comfort and familiarity that had nurtured him previously in Amara’s presence, and he looked around, trying to see her.

Hunnul tossed his head, neighing a welcome.

You have done well, my son, the wind whispered in his ear.

“Because of you,” Valorian replied.

The voice laughed like a breeze dancing through leaves . I gave you the tools; it was you who put them to use.

The man felt himself grow warm from the goddess’s praise, but there was still something he had to know. “Is it true,” he asked, “that you have given this talent to my son?”

To all of them. And to their children after them.

Unfamiliar tears sprang to Valorian’s eyes. The goddess had entrusted him with a great gift, and he had ruined it with his weakness and stupidity. “Then the gorthling was right,” he murmured.

Yes, my son, and his curse cannot be revoked, for it was spoken by an immortal. But I will give you this promise: Not all of your blood will be destroyed. A few I can save, and ; when the time is right, they will return your gift to the Clans.

He hung his head and whispered, “Thank you.”

In a sudden, gusty twirl, the wind whisked away with its fragrance and its comfort, leaving Valorian and Hunnul alone on the pass.

The chieftain raised his fist in farewell, then he and the black stallion left the Tarnish Empire behind forever and walked the path to join the Clan.

The last word of Gabria’s tale fell softly away into silence. Gently she touched the cheek of the golden mask on her lap and looked up at her audience. The tale had taken several hours in telling, but everyone was watching her in rapt attention, the spell of her story still coloring their imaginations. A few people began to stir and stretch. They blinked, and soft voices spoke into the quiet.

Yet one person was staring at her as if he realized a truth he had known but never believed until that moment.

She looked down at him fondly. “What is it, Savaron?” she asked him softly.

The young man sat up, his eyes looking from her to his father and back again. “It’s you, isn’t it?” he asked with a hint of awe. “That story is also about you.” Gabria glanced at Athlone, and their eyes met in understanding. The same thought had come to them in the past, but they weren’t presumptuous enough to completely believe it. The will of the gods was often incomprehensible and obscure to mere mortals.

But Savaron was overwhelmed by the possibility. “It all fits,” he cried as he bounced to his feet. “Mother, you and Father are blood descendants of Valorian. That’s why you have the talent to wield magic. And it was the two of you who brought sorcery back to the Clans. Amara’s promise has been fulfilled!”

Gabria bowed her head to hide the flush that crept up her cheeks. “Perhaps,” she said, and her fingers lifted the death mask of Valorian to face Savaron. “If that is so, my son, then it is to you that Valorian’s legacy is passed.” She looked up at him again, her green eyes as bright as gems. “Treat it with care and respect, for it is a gift of the gods.”

Savaron couldn’t contain himself any longer. With a whoop of delight, he dashed across the hall and flung open the doors to greet the evening. Fresh air poured in and sent the lamps and torches dancing.

Outside, a black Hunnuli horse neighed at the young man as it trotted up to meet him. With a wave to his parents. Savaron sprang to the horse’s back.

For just a moment, Gabria fancied he looked just like Valorian as he rode away down the hill. Then she smiled to herself and put away the mask of the revered hero-warrior.