Mercedes Lackey - Sword of Ice and Other Tales of Valdemar

Tirens watched as his grandson rode off down the road to the south. And two candlemarks later, he watched as his granddaughter, Liksani, and six of his seven servants rode off down the road to the north and west. With them, rode the Herald, whose true name Tirens still did not know.

He knew that the Herald was a man of honor. That was all he needed to know.

The sun was directly overhead, the birds singing all about his favorite pavilion, as his one remaining servant served him his finest wine from a fragile crystal goblet. He sipped it with appreciation as he turned the crystal to admire the way it sparkled in the sunlight. This had been one of a set of two, from which he and dear Sareni had drunk their marriage-wine. The shards of the other lay with Sareni in her grave.

Sareni would have approved, he thought, as he drank the last of the wine, and slipped his frail old hand into the bowl of figs where a tiny, rainbow-striped snake was curled. He stirred the figs until he felt a slight sting on

his hand, then a sudden lethargy. The goblet fell from his nerveless fingers and shattered on the pavilion floor. He lay back in his couch, watched the snake slip away under the rosebushes, and wondered if Vkandis liked gardens.

Clarrin stirred his noodles with his fork, and stared at nothing at all.

"Captain!" his Corporal-Orderly said sharply, making him jump.

"Yes, Esda?" he replied, wondering if he looked as guilty as he felt.

Evidently not. Esda pouted at him, hands on side-cocked hips, a petulant expression on his face. "Captain," he complained, "you've hardly touched your meal, and I worked very hard making it! What is bothering you?"

Clarrin grinned in spite of himself at the burly corporal's burlesque of a spoiled girl. "Esda, you lie! You never work hard at anything. Not in the ten years you've served me, anyway!"

Esda grinned back. "Too true, Captain. That's why / picked you for my officer."

Clarrin shook his head at his Orderly's unrepentant grin. "Here," he said, shoving the plate of noodles across the table toward Esda. "Sit down, finish my meal for me, and let me use your common sense." He made it less of an order, and more of an invitation.

Esda's grin faded immediately, and the grizzled veteran's expression was replaced by one of concern. "You are troubled, Captain," he observed, taking the seat, but ignoring the food, his eyes fixed on damn's.

Clarrin shrugged. "I have some questions to repeat to you—and a dream to tell you about," he said, slowly.

"A dream!" Esda lost every trace of mockery. "Dreams are nothing to disregard, Captain." Esda had served the Temple for longer than Clarrin had been alive—he had seen three Sons of the Sun come and go. And he was both a skeptic and a believer; if anyone

knew where Temple politics began and true religion ended, it would be Esda.

"Yes, well, see what you think when I am done."

For the next candlemark, Esda sat and listened without interruption as Clarrin recounted the discussion in the garden and little Liksani's dream.

"You know we serve at the Cleansing," he finished.

"Aye, and I know you mislike the assignment," Esda replied gruffly. "But—is it Vkandis you blame for—"

"No!" Clarrin exclaimed, cutting him off with a slam of his open palm on the wooden table. "Never! I cannot believe that the Lord of all Life would ever countenance taking life, that is all! It is the priests and their minions that I mistrust and fear! I believe they serve themselves, not Vkandis! And I fear that they use magic, and call it 'miracle,' to order to puff up their own importance!"

"Well, then bugger them all, Captain!" Esda grinned, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. "Whatever you decide to do, just remember that poor, overworked, old unappreciated Esda will be there to pick up your soiled linen!"

The roar of laughter that followed made the rest of his personal guards turn their heads, wondering what outrageous thing Esda had said to him this time.

Esda moved quietly among the guards, speaking with them one at a time, over the next two days, while Clarrin pretended that he did not notice. And over the next two days, every one of his men approached him quietly, one at a time, to offer their personal fealty to him. Clarrin was touched and humbled by their trust. But he still did not know what he was going to da In ten days, Clarrin was back in command of his troop of Temple Lancers. In fifteen days, they paraded for the Ceremony of Cleansing, conducted by Red-priestess Beakasi. The Temple square was crowded with worshipers and spectators at two sides, behind the lines of the temple guards. Clarrin's Lancers dosed the third side of the square. The low Sun Altar, flanked by priests and

priestesses in order of rank, filled most of the fourth side.

At damn's signal, the lancers knelt as one at their horses' heads, lances grounded, with the shafts held stiffly erect. The red pennons at the crossbars moved lazily in the warm afternoon air.

Red-priestess Beakasi, flanked by her torch-bearers, mounted the altar-platform, and turned to face the crowd and the setting sun behind them. Her arms stretched out toward the sun, and her red robes matched the red clouds of sunset.

At that signal, lesser priests brought the two who were to be cleansed to the steps: a boy who looked to be hi his early teens, and a girl somewhat younger, dark-haired, with a pretty, gentle face.

damn's breath caught in his throat. She could be Lik-sani, he thought in anguish. The words of his niece's dream kept repealing, over and over, in his head.

The flame is the blessing and not life's ending. Children should live, and laugh, and play,

The boy was shoved forward onto the platform. He stood there looking frightened and confused.

"Vkandis! Sunlord!" Beakasi sang. "Grant your miracle! cleanse this tainted one with your holy fire!"

She brought her hands together over her head, closing them on the iron shaft of a torch held there by a Black-robed priest. He let it go, and she held it high above her head, flame flickering.

"Witness the Sunlord's miracle!" she sang. "Tremble at his power!"

The torch flame flared, and grew suddenly to man-height, then bent toward the boy. He started to scream, but remained where he was, frozen with fear. Another Red-robed priest pointed, and the boy's scream was cut off; he remained where he was, a wide-eyed, open-mouthed, living statue. Flames flowed from the torch to the boy, arching overhead like water from a fountain, in a long, liquid stream. They touched him, then engulfed him, turning him into a column of searing, white-green fire that grew to three times the boy's height. A vaguely

human-shaped form turned slowly in the upper half of the column of fire, as if bathing in it.

Clarrin's heart spasmed, and his gorge rose.

Slowly the flames diminished and flowed back into the torch, until it burned normally once again.

The boy was gone, and there was only a small pile of ashes to mark where he had stood.

The priestess waited until the original bearer had his hands on the torch, before she removed hers, spreading her arms wide. Looking somewhere above the heads of the onlookers, she called out into the silence.

"Hail Vkandis, Sunlord!"

"Hail Vkandis, Sunlord!" the crowd roared in response. Beakasi signaled for the girl to be brought forward.

'The flame is the blessing and not life-ending," Clar-rin murmured, his eyes bright with tears. "Children should live, and laugh, and play!"

He was standing now, moving to his saddle in slow, sluggish motion, warring within himself.

The flame is the blessing, and not life-ending. He reached for the saddle-bow and swung up into place, feeling as if he were trapped in a fever-dream. Children should live, and laugh, and play!