27

Val coughed. Gave a sudden great shudder, then startled awake, having been truly unconscious for the first time in his life. Felt like someone who'd had most of his blood replaced with fey ichor… which wasn't that far from the truth, actually.

He was in bed, a bit fuzzy on recent happenings. Alive, at any rate. Looking around, he saw a colorful noble pavilion that rattled and snapped in the wind, its hangings swaying with each gusty surge. There were rugs on the floor and a mage fire crackling away in a tall golden brazier. The center pole was gilded; carved with capering griffins and dragons. Soft tones filled the air; less music than occasional, very pure, soothing notes.

Someplace elvish and safe. Someplace that his other self, the Val he'd (hopefully) rescued, considered familiar. All very good, very pretty, but also confusing. There were too many memories in his head, seen from two separate angles. Following both as far as they'd take him, Valerian recalled what had happened, and who had put him into this bed, in the first place.

"Struck me," the high-elf whispered, voice growing rougher as he went on. "That son of an overused whore and a half-wit father struck me from behind."

…with Gildyr right there, looking on. Maybe laughing.

Val leapt from his bed, spied the camp healer and got his temper back under control. Found himself wearing not very much, but enough to conceal the essentials. A folded stack of fine clothing lay close at hand on a low garnet table.

"My apologies," he said to the healer, his voice still a bit surly. "I did not mean to rage unchecked before others. It's just… the son of a wall-eyed tavern wench attacked me!"

The healer looked, then dropped her gaze to the carpeted floor. Said,

"It was an unworthy blow, and we are most fortunate that My Lord has recovered."

"He shall not hold himself fortunate," grumped Valerian, signaling impatiently for her help with dressing. (Yes, he could do it himself, with magic. No, he did not, as a general rule. Not with a servant about.) "That makes two that I have to track down and fight… although maybe not kill the Tabaxi. He seems a good enough fellow, once you've got past the strong smell and bad manners… also, Lady Salem is rather attached to him… Wait, no… three, rather," he amended with a scowl, recalling Kaazin. "But the last one may already be dead."

At least, it was difficult to imagine the drow prancing about with much energy, after major burns, stab wounds and an axe to the head.

The healer's warm eyes brushed his gaze and then drifted back to the red and gold carpet.

"It appears that My Lord will be kept very busy," she remarked, stooping to lace up the booted foot that he placed on a stool before her.

"Your lord would far rather be out in the countryside, fishing… but matters have contrived themselves otherwise," he sighed, losing most of his anger, like a becalmed ship with suddenly drooping sails.

Smythe lay by the bed on a cloth of red silk, he noticed; still utterly dark and inanimate. Dead.

Said the healer, whose hair was pale brown streaked very lightly with gold,

"Will… will My Lord have anything else?"

Val considered a moment, tugging at his stiffly embroidered new garments. Very fine, but a little uncomfortable, having not yet adapted to their wearer's size and activity.

"Yes, please," he asked. "Day-brew, if there's aught to be had… and any breakfast at all except dried meat, hard tack or apples."

Which he now despised, right down to their final few lint-covered crumbs in the sack.

"Of course. My Lord has but to speak his pleasure."

She arranged a meal, hovering nearby, busying herself with her simples and herbs until the food and drink tray arrived. Directed servants in setting up a table and chair for his lordship's repast, then sent them away.

Custom said he should wait to be formally summoned to meat… but Valerian was too hungry for custom. He sat himself down and began tucking in, pointing to a nearby chair.

"Sit, if you please, and talk. Start anywhere, discuss anything at all of interest. I am a stranger here, and dread to make a fool of myself before others of rank. Your conversation will help me to learn."

The healer hesitated momentarily, then took the indicated seat, as well as the cup and sweet roll that magically wafted her way.

"I… yes. Well, then, Milord… there is some confusion as to why there appear to be two of you," she began, red-faced and clearly not wishing to pry.

Val paused in his barely-polite tearing of food. This seemed to be one of those situations where the truth required a certain amount of massaging. Of elasticity. Maybe best not to mention that Sherazedan had sent him here at his own request, the high-elf reflected.

"A puzzle, indeed. Strong magic involved, no doubt. I recommend further study. But, erm… what of yourself? How came you to the position of healer in the Tarandahl court?"

She said, looking down at her half-nibbled pastry,

"I could expect nothing better, My Lord. I am an elf… but my parents are both of them half-elves. I have thus neither clan, nor rank amongst the true people."

Oh. Like his guard friend Londo's woman; the one who had designed and crafted his formal wear, back in Karellon. Sometimes such pairings resulted in half-elves. Sometimes in lost and unmoored elves. Other times, to the sorrow of all who would far outlive their child, in a full-blooded human. Val nodded.

"And your parents are still…"

"Alive, yes, thank you, Milord. In service with High Lord Arvendahl. It was deemed best that I leave, so my folk scraped up coin to pay for training in heal-craft… and then your grandfather, Lord Galadin, had an opening after the last healer perished of not saving a patient. Fate-linkage is a definite spur to good work, but a harsh one. Not that… I meant no disrespect to His Lordship," she said in a rush, sounding alarmed.

But Valerian wasn't offended. He'd spent too much time among the servants, growing up. Her concerns were very familiar.

"I would have gone into something less hazardous," he mused. "Horses or hounds, I think. Or groundskeeping. One might spend a whole lifetime taking care of the gardens and stocking the ponds," Val remarked, tossing the healer a plum and some cherries. Then, changing the subject,

"I have not learnt your name, although you know mine."

She raised her face again, glowing with something very like happiness.

"I am called Sylvia, My Lord… and I would never presume to use your name." Think it, yes. Sing it a hundred times inside herself, absolutely. But never speak it aloud, like the irrational, unending secret name of a god.

"Well, it seems handier than 'my lord' all the time," said Valerian, starting on a last slice of buttered toast. "This was good. Five or six more such meals, and I might begin feeling myself, once again."

Then, getting back to the point,

"What of the household? These are clearly Tarandahl colors and ensigns. I find myself at home. Almost. But, before I commit some irretrievable blunder, I would know how matters stand with the family, Sylvia."

As he magically topped up her day-brew, Valerian glanced all around at the luxurious private pavilion.

"Is all of this here for just me?" he wondered aloud.

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"Of course, My Lord. You are a son of the House," the healer replied, seeming puzzled.

Val got to his feet. Stretched and turned a full circle, looking around at all of that sumptuous space. Then he said,

"It's just… at the sorcerer's keep, back in Karellon, I inhabit a cramped cell by the raven loft. With magic, I've linked a few points… campsites, mostly… so it's become larger… but still just an unheated stone garrett. At home, as I visit so rarely, they have never yet moved me out of the nursery, and… and you're laughing at me," finished Valerian, coloring slightly.

"No," protested Sylvia. "I would never laugh… nor presume to say that I find My Lord most charming. So very different from…"

"From the one you desire," he concluded, finally getting it. "My life's history, written in brief."

Val was saved from this terribly awkward situation by the arrival of a servant, who rang the tone, outside. He went to the shielded portal himself, leaving the healer time to regain her composure.

It was a half-elf in Tarandahl colors, one of the family footmen, back-lit by shimmering sigils of honesty and defense. To be trusted implicitly, in other words.

"My Lord," said the Feen, bowing respectfully. "Milord and Milady request the honor of your presence at mid-meal, if… I was bidden to say… if Your Lordship feels well enough."

Val knew the young man; had diced and practiced at arms with him, back home… but none of that seemed to have happened, here.

"I thank you for bearing the message, Anton. Kindly relay my acceptance. I shall be there, with greatest pleasure."

The Feen startled a bit at the use of his name, then recovered enough to reply, saying,

"I shall so inform them, My Lord. Good day, and glad tidings."

"To you and to yours, as well," replied Valerian, nodding politely.

Anton Footman Feen Tarandahl backed the prescribed three paces from Val, bowed and then left, his face no longer a rigid mask. And so word began spreading, throughout the back camp, that something had changed.

The young healer was gone when Val reentered his pavilion (which had partitions and actual separate chambers). The foodstuffs and dishes had vanished, as well. He would have packed the whole business up and stuffed it away for never, only something yet lay on the garnet table. A small gift box, wrapped in shining paper of Arvendahl green.

Val could have ignored it and been on about his activities. He could have opened the box then and there, or taken it up and put it away in a warded faerie pocket.

He did not belong here and could not long stay. His actions would reflect good or ill on the Valerian of this place. He had no business fanning a spark… but picked up the gift and tucked it into his formal day-coat's heart pocket, where one normally kept a talisman of health and protection. What better shield was there than love? Even if unrequited.

There was time before mid-meal, so Val went over to Smythe. Gently picked up the great, clumsy weapon and brought it across the main room to a pillow-strewn couch.

(Seriously… all of this space, just for him?)

Sat down, with the blade laid on his lap, then conjured oil, rags and a whetstone. Set to work, because doing things kept him from thinking of all that had happened.

"I realize," said Valerian, as he labored to grind a fine edge, "that we got off to a very rough start. Admittedly, I was unworthy, and only the worst of possible circumstances reduced you to seeking me out… but I would do my best to repair all my shortcomings, if you might see your way clear to returning. No need to reply now. Think it over. In the meantime, I shall practice, striving with all my might for betterment at arms."

"That is not how it works," said a new voice, one he'd last heard as a young boy, and thought never to hear again, short of Oberyn's call. "The sword chose you, and thought you worthy to die for," said Galadin, stepping fully into his near-grandson's pavilion. He was unarmoured, now. Dressed in casual clothing, white hair unbound.

Valerian hastened to rise, levitating sword, oil flask, whetstone and rags as he did so.

"My Lord," he said, bowing deeply with hand at his heart. "I apologize. I had not expected…"

"I did not announce," Lord Tarandahl cut him off. "You may keep at your work, boy. I would not interrupt you, but…" here his voice dropped to a weary sigh. "I find formal meals tedious, and no way at all to actually talk. It is your grandmother who delights in such foolishness."

Val, as the host, summoned a chair and then spoke an order for food and drink to the listening air. Moments later, both appeared.

"My Lord, please be seated and join me at table," Valerian formally requested, adding, "It is… more than I can express, to see you. I… Grandmother is here, too?"

It had been so very long.

"Yes," said Galadin, around a big mouthful of bread and cheese. As Val had remembered, he liked a plain, filling meal. "She is here, preparing prodigies of food craft and host arts for mid-meal. It seemed safest to stay out of her way."

Val looked aside, lest he grin disrespectfully. He and Granddad had been close, before the end.

"The female of the species…" he began.

"...is a subtle and dangerous creature," his grandfather concluded, feelingly. Draining a third cup of wine, Galadin said,

"About the sword, though… Vesendorin has gone, his task here completed. He is now with our fathers, awaiting the call."

"Then I've killed him," said Val, barely whispering.

"No. Better to say, you've released him," corrected Galadin. "He deemed you worth dying to save, as Oberyn's sword saved him, thousand-years past. This great, clumsy thing is a relic of knightly service to the Strider, going all the way back to Arrival. Vesendorin had all but fallen in battle when the spirit of Oberyn which animated the weapon saved him from death."

"Then how… My Lord, how was Vesendorin able to bring back its life?" asked Val.

"By becoming that life. With continual use in battle, despite its ungainly length and weight, Vesendorin altered and woke the blade. Not so much attuning the weapon as making it his. More wine!" Galadin snapped at the air. "And roast lamb with gravy and vegetables. Copious gravy." Muttering, "Done with finger food," as a wrap-up.

"Then… I am going to end up haunting the sword of the Tarandahls?" Val wondered aloud.

"Afraid so," replied his grandfather, making a handmeal of bread, cheese and just-arrived lamb. "On the other hand, there are worse afterlives. I believe that your cousin Eldaran is still serving time as one of Titania's meddlesome cats. Suits him. Besides, it isn't permanent. You'll be in service until…"

"... Some other idiot winds up in trouble."

But Granddad shook his head. Swallowed a bit of his gravy-dunked sandwich, washed it down with more wine and said,

"Not just any idiot. One whose gallantry and courage earns them a second chance."

Val looked down at the empty sword. His future home, so it seemed.

"I am… not certain whether to wish for amazing descendants or utter catastrophes," he mused.

Galadin snorted, reaching across the food-laden table to mage-punch his shoulder.

"Perhaps a bit of both," said High Lord Tarandahl, just as grandmother, Lady Alyanara, appeared.

There was beauty. There was loveliness, bird song, flowers and spring bursting through snow… and there was Alyanara bin Tarandahl, handmaid of the Dawn.

Val and Lord Galadin both stood and bowed, in the presence of one to be worshiped, and not merely loved.

Alyanara stepped forward, her feet gracing the carpets with the barest of touch. Her footprints glowed on the cloth, as the sheen of the fey-wilds lit her like sunshine.

"Val," she said, smiling and reaching for this second form of her grandson. Then, searching closer, her pure violet eyes probing his face, she whispered, "but you are bereft, have lost nearly everyone… Oh, no… oh, Little Love…"

And then she brushed food, table and sword gear aside with a magical gesture, leaving them to drift like the bits in a snow-globe as she rushed to embrace Valerian.

He hugged her right back, feeling the sudden release of something pent for so long that he'd almost forgotten it. But the last, final stroke, the thing that unmanned Valerian, was the whirlwind, yapping arrival of Skipper, his grandfather's black and white dog.

Barking excitedly, Skipper leapt at everyone in the pavilion, winding up in Val's arms. Skipper, who'd perished at sea in his own plane, along with Lord Galadin. Val could do nothing but bury his face in dog hair and cry.

Galadin cleared his throat once or twice, then went off to examine the pavilion's furnishings, half-eaten sandwich in hand. Alyanara held her lost grandson until he'd managed to pull himself together. Cleansed him with a spell, at which point Lord Tarandahl came over once more.

"So," said the tall elf, "you are not truly ours…"

"But we can be yours," cut in Grandmother, placing a hand on her lord-husband's wrist. "What do you require of us, Little Love, to help set things right, in your plane?"

For, of course, she'd already guessed nearly everything. Straightforward enough, only, like he'd been faced with an unusually benevolent djinn, Val hardly knew what to ask for.

"I would not speak of ill fortune in this fair place," he hedged, setting Skipper back onto the ground. Granddad's last magic, in his own world, had gone toward keeping as many of his crew above stormy water as possible, but Skipper wouldn't stay on the mage-raft. He'd jumped back in after Galadin.

"Here, everyone is well and alive and still happy. Elsewhere, not so. I suppose… supplies, mounts and safe-passage, in order that I might reach Starloft here and then cross back over to Starloft there. At least, if I've understood the old li… Sherazedan's hint correctly."

Galadin frowned slightly, moving as though to speak and then stilling himself. It was Ayanara who broke the ensuing silence with,

"Your plane is quite different. Sorrowfully so. Provisions and horses are but the smallest of matters. You shall need assistance in this other realm, Little Love. Gone to the fey-wilds, has she? Well, there is a time when grief becomes mere self-indulgence. It has been long enough, if I read matters correctly, and she is ignoring genuine need. Perhaps I shall go have a word with my malingering other self."

Valerian inclined his head, knowing she meant what she'd said, for Lady Alyanara was a powerful sorceress. Beside and slightly before her, Galadin's face underwent a series of swift expression changes, smoothing over completely when his lady wife placed a hand on his arm.

"By your leave, Milord?" she petitioned the stoic elf lord.

"Naturally," he said in reply. "And I shall ward the last row, whilst the Matriarch travels." He was a great player of the Crown Game, and had gifted Val his first child's set.

It was just then that a large contingent of wood-elves arrived. Archers, mostly, with a unit of spearmen and slingers along to balance things out. The high-elf encampment soon rang with horn blasts and marshaling cries, as children, servants and the Snowmont folk were all brought into the warded camp circle.

Galadin armored up with a spell, looking grimly pleased. At a flick of his lordship's gauntleted hand, Valerian found himself dressed for war, in armor he'd have been on bread and thin soup for ten cycles to pay for. As for weapons, he had Nightshade, and Granddad helped him to sheathe and buckle on Smythe, his once and future sword.

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