Mercedes Lackey: Blue Heart

by Philip M. Austin and Mercedes Lackey

"There's a Herald to see you, Your Majesty," the page called quietly from the doorway of the Queen's private suite.

Selenay sighed and put down the silver pencil she had been using to scribe a design for an illuminated initial. "Can it wait until tomorrow?" she asked without hope. She was technically supposed to be asleep, not getting her fingers paint- and ink-stained, copying one of Daren's favorite poems. She cherished her time alone; all too rare and much needed. She understood why Elspeth needed that shed out in the back gardens, and the feeling of clay under her fingers. Her own hobby of calligraphy and illumination was very similar, intensely physical and requiring complete concentration, and gave her brief respites when she could forget the responsibilities of crown and country.

"He says to say that it's your shadow, Majesty," the page replied, clearly baffled by the enigmatic message.

But if the page was baffled, Selenay was not. She sat

up quickly and put away her implements. "Tell him to come in, and see that we're not disturbed."

"Her shadow" was an enigma; a Herald who never, if he could help it, appeared as himself. Very few people — Kerowyn, Alberich, her own husband Daren — even knew he existed, much less what he really looked like. This was a necessary precaution for his special and demanding duties. He, like Skif, was a spy and an assassin ... her own special tool to use as needed, and always with reluctance.

When she did not need him, he sometimes requested leave — a day, a week, a month. She never asked him why. Usually it was innocuous, and he returned with tales of his Companion's doings — for it was often his Companion who wanted the leave, and not him. Sometimes, though, it was not; and when he reported for duty, his eyes told her she did not want to know what he had been doing, despite the fact that she must hear it. Whatever he did, he did it because she needed it done, whether or not she knew it. Never had she found a reason to even rebuke him for his private missions, and she knew that agonizing over whether to tell her before or after the fact must often cause him sleepless nights. He had requested leave some few weeks ago, and she searched his expression for some clue as to his mood.

But this time, he came as himself, an ordinary man with a pleasant face, unmarked and unremarkable, except for his haunted eyes. She relaxed as she read relaxation in his posture. So; it had been a true holiday, then, and not some secret mission of his own.

"Come in, sit down," she invited, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes, and forced down the shiver that always came when he looked at her. She did not know his history; she did not know if anyone knew it. But whatever his past had been, it had left dreadful scars on his soul. "I hope you enjoyed your Midwinter holiday."

"Pilane appreciated it as much as I, if not more," he said with a smile, as he gracefully lowered himself into the chair. "He indulged himself in his passion almost as much as he wanted to!"

Selenay laughed. "Sometimes I think he Chose you because you are the only Herald in Valdemar willing to sit and turn pages for him — and to take dictation from him and be his hands! But he is a most remarkable writer. I have copies of all of his books in my personal library, in fact." She relaxed a little more, sitting back hi her chair. "I fear, though, I pay far more attention to the drawings and illustrations than I do to his scientific discourse."

"I won't tell him, Your Majesty," the young man laughed. "He does take his hobby quite seriously."

Selenay chuckled. "I'm sure he, does. But what brings you here? Especially so late at night? You could — should! — have given yourself an evening of rest before reporting to me."

"I have a story to tell you, Your Majesty."

Selenay stiffened, folding her hands in her lap to hide their sudden trembling. She'd half expected to hear those words.

Too often, the story he had to tell was the dark and deadly result of what he was. For some reason, he preferred to give his reports as "stories." It was as if he tried to maintain some kind of fiction that she was innocent of his actions. She was not, and could never be. She gave him orders and the freedom to act; she was as culpable as the archer who looses an arrow. That she did not always know where it would land made her more responsible, not less.

"I thought — on a night like this one, in the deeps of winter — you would enjoy this," he continued, and smiled. "It is the story of the Blue Heart, Your Majesty; a regional legend of the mountains near White Foal Pass."

Selenay sighed, and relaxed again. Just a story, after all____

And oddly enough, she was suddenly in a mood to hear a story.

"In those mountains," the Herald continued, "there is a small and isolated village. Its population is less than two hundred, and most of them make their living from the fine wool of the long-haired goats they raise."

"I know that wool!" the Queen said in surprise. "Very soft and fine, and very expensive."

The Herald nodded. "It is indeed. And it is with that wool that the story begins...."

The trader examined the sample of wool cloth with pleasure and delight. It was soft as a puff of down, warm and light as a purring kitten, and a lovely shade of blue-gray. He'd never seen such cloth, nor anything of so fine a weave. Plush was the word he'd put to it, and he was already calculating his profits. He already had a customer in mind, a man of wealth and power in military and secular service of Sunlord Vkandis. Baron Munn — who had led his own private, household troops against the Unbelievers, and as a consequence was high in the favor of the Son of the Sun. The Baron made no attempt to conceal his fondness for luxuries, and he was a good, if choosy, customer.

"It will be hard to find customers for so unusual a weave, but I can take all you have at ten coppers the bolt," he said, expansively, with a condescending smile as if he were doing the rustics a favor.

But the village headman only shook his head sorrowfully. "Oh, Trader Gencan, that giving a mood we're not in," he said, just as condescendingly, and sighed. "It's a been a hard year, that it has. We need so many things, so many things, or there'll be no wool for next year, for we'll have had to eat our goats to stay alive." His voice hardened as he bent to the bargaining. "Thirty coppers it'll have to be, or nothing at all."

"What?" Gencan yelped, taken by surprise. Why — that was exactly what he'd expected to sell the stuff for! These mudfoots weren't nearly so green as they looked!

And neither was his former competitor, from whom he'd stolen — ah — acquired this trade route. Perhaps this was why he had not fought to retain it. There was nothing worse than a tradesman who knew the value of his goods!

He bent to the bargaining with a will, and sweated until he'd brought them down to something reasonable.

Something a man could make a decent profit on. Sixteen coppers a bolt was one copper more than he'd wanted to pay, but at least it allowed him a profit margin....