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Inherit the Wind	By : Ash_Gray_Kitsune Category: S through Z > Valdemar Series Views: 1128 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Valdemar Series. It's rather obvious that I make no money.

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"Momma." The woman turned and smiled brightly, reaching down to pick him up, her hands stained permanently from the dyes she made for the village. He always liked to look at her hands; they were an ever-changing map of colors, from soft blue to a flashy red, sage green to a jaundiced yellow. Today, they were purple; she was adamant that such a royal color should be diluted as soon as possible from the fungi she'd harvested this morning. He giggled as she nibbled on his ear, her hands crooking into claws.

"You are so cute, I could eat you up!" His giggles turned into shrieks of laughter, as she moved to his belly, blowing raspberries and tickling him, though they were interrupted by a curt knock at the door.

"Madam Dyer? I must have words with you." With a sigh that saddened her smile, she set him down and smoothed the folds of her long tunic; she always wore breeches and an old shirt while dying, usually cinched in with a sturdy belt. The villagers never minded, but the occasional travelers almost always frowned at her; their women wore long skirts and tight bodices, too constricting for any but the simplest of embroideries. She didn't care much for the ladies, but she knew how to sell as many of her dyes to them as possible...when their husbands weren't leering at her, or looking down their noses. She was a widow with a small boy; she was pretty, had a small house of her own, and had a thriving business...and not a male relative in sight to 'control' her. It was only when he was older that he understood the words she had written about those days...

The diary's pages were translucent in the warm morning light filtering through the stretched calfskin that served as their window, and just as fragile as they looked. Stormyr sighed, and leaned back against the wall, tipping his chair up a little. They'd been here a week, and the five of them were nearly completely healed; he had three more visits with the lady-Healer, and another three or for days before their stay at the Bell was in need of an extension. He winced as his shoulder grated; it was set, and the bones knitting, but the muscular damage was still very much there. He sighed and looked over the delicate, curving hand of his mother's copperplate, only now wondering where she'd learned it from. The village had been nearly entirely literate, even if it was in varying degrees, but her handwriting was by and far the best of the lot, better than even the priest's. Nobility, at the very least of the minor set. And I know she came from a different land; she said that Da had brought her back with him...Ah, well. His mother had had her skills, even after his father's death, and he'd helped her every way that he could. He sighed again, rubbing his scar with one hand. Why think about her now? Why drag this tiny book out of its oilskin and read through the last entries over and over again? He knew she'd gone; he even knew why.

Viena Dyer had been taken away by the Altvari City-Guard, on counts of extortion and embezzling, leaving her tiny son the weather the storm of her passing. She had left calmly, perhaps too aware that her child would be terrified and likely hysterical if she was, and left him in the care of the Innkeeper and his wife...and the whole village, having loved them both so deeply, took charge of the boy, and ensured not only his survival...but his growth, and happiness. He had repaid them in kind, taking up the art of cultivating the herbs and fungi his mother had used, and occasionally creating cakes of dye for the village women, but never more than that. He had no desire to end up the gaol himself. Then the traders came through again...and he'd met Yungan. He felt a faint sadness at that; he missed the old man, deeply, and he hoped that he was going down the right road. He didn't want to let it be another mistake...

"Stormyr Dyer?" He looked up over the page he wasn't reading, and stared at the doorway, confused. He'd taken over the common parlor, confident that he'd be left alone...safe for the tall man in white. All white, too; bleached white leathers that had to have been horrendously expensive, his long blond hair tied back in a braid not unlike his own. He closed the diary, slipped it into its oilskin, and put that in the bag at his feet, then stood up, a little uneasily. The man must have sensed it, for he hastened to take a step forward, offering his hand in the western style of greeting. "My apologies, Mr. Dyer. I didn't mean to bother you, but I believe you are the man I've been looking for." His eyes must have widened in confusion, because the other man sighed and smiled sheepishly. At least his grasp of the trader tongue was nearly accentless. His own accent was thicker, but because of the way the priest had taught him, his diction was perfect; he only slipped into the slang around Mikka.

"There's someone I'd like you to meet; she's been waiting a long time for you."

"I...do not understand."

"Please, come outside with me. I guarantee that it will be a good thing." He sighed for a moment, then squared his shoulders and pulled the bag up onto his uninjured one. He wondered who this man was as they passed through the inn, for the innkeeper and his wife smiled brightly and gave him little bows of immense respect, and the children stood patiently in awe of him, lighting up and fair dancing in place when he ruffled first the boy's, then the girl's hair. But that someone was looking for him? His mother had supposedly died in gaol; his closest friends were out at the bazaars, happily spending their new wealth on new mounts and remounts, tack, and armor and weapons. He was the only one sitting in his shabby brigandine and brooding about the past.

"What have I to do? Please, lead on." It was a short walk out into the sunlight, and bright though it was, Stormyr couldn't mistake the two white horses in the courtyard. Both were slim, built for speed and stamina...and to his surprise and delight, one seemed to take to him immediately, nuzzling close enough that he could look into her...blue...eyes...He fell, headlong into an embrace unlike any other he'd ever felt, every grief and sorrow he'd ever felt melting in the enormous love that encircled him, grounded him...and held him in the highest of regards...and love.

:Stormyr, my dearheart, I Choose you...Oh, your arm!: His attention belatedly settled back on his shoulder, and he stroked the horse's...no, Catrea's neck, soothing her, a smile smoothing the lines on his young face.

"It's nothin', my lady; it'll be healed soon enough..." The blond man chuckled, and settled over his own Companion's withers, idling scratching the stallion's neck.

"Catrea's been in a right state since we started out on this road to find you; my own Olli was getting to where he wanted to plant a hoof at your backside for making him deal with her. Well, Cat, does he fit the role we've been looking for?" Watching her bob her head up and down, Stormyr had to laugh a little, though the thread of unease made his stomach curdle a little again.

"Role? What role?" Bright blue eyes turned his way, and he heard a chuckle in the back of his mind.

:The role of the King's Special Messenger, of course.:

:Still thinkin' ya got th' wrong 'un.:

:And I'm thinking that I'm right. If Olli and the others had their say, they'd agree, and tell you to give up, my love.: Stormyr rolled his eyes as Catrea stepped primly through the muddy morass that was the road to Valdemar. He'd never even visited this wondrous country, save through Cat's memories, and a few of those, he didn't quite believe. Really, a King who would, willingly, talk to the lowest of his subjects? About something so mundane as bollborers? Not possible... :It is too!:

:Would ya keep outta my head? Aye, I love ya, but I ain't gonna go ta yer precious Valdemar iffen ya don't! My men would still faller me, and my horse's waiting in the trader's paddocks.: She startled at his growled mind-voice, and turned to look up at him, blue eyes wide and slightly incredulous. Olli's rider...Herald, he had to remember that Genn wasn't just an ordinary traveler, turned in his saddle to look back at them, breaking into laughter at Stormyr's angry, stubborn face. Genn and Olli made their way back to the Trainee, and Genn clapped Stor on the shoulder.

"Olli gave me the gist of what she said, and so I thought I'd let you in on a little bit of a secret we Heralds know." Stormyr quirked an eyebrow. "Your Companion is just that; your partner, your friend, your confidant. What they are not are masters; you'd do well to remember that, Catling. And your Herald looks to be a fair bit more stubborn than your instructors ever were. Stormyr, I did want to ask you, though; we've been on the road a week now, as Herald and Trainee. I know I explained roughly what it is we do in Valdemar, and what duties you'll likely be given once we make it back to Haven. Since it's a good six moons to Valdemar, even on Companions, I asked permission that your Internship and classes be counted towards this journey; by the time we walk into Haven, I intend for you to be ready for your Whites. But I need to know, to a nicety, exactly what you know. About Valdemar, I knew we'd be teaching you most everything, but everything else is little more than Peligiris mist to me." Stor pondered Genn's words, nodding despite his nagging doubts that this was still a mistake, and sighed, drawing himself upright in the saddle. He smiled, just a little; he was still taller than his mentor, though Genn was hardly more than two years older than he, and it was rather funny that for the first time in his life, he was bigger than a teacher. He sighed faintly, brows furrowed.

"...Of language, I know two with ease, and another with enough of a grasp to not look like a total fool. Of weapons, I know the sword, long and short, horsebow, javelin, and sling. I've been taught mapmaking, some leatherwork, sewing, and know the arts of both creating dyes and the dying itself. I am a passable salve-maker and fletcher, and know how to bandage wounds. Of cultures, I know nothing of northerners and their ways; this is the farthest my feet have traveled since I began riding with the traders five years ago." Genn and Olli both heaved a sigh of relief; Catrea responded when he looked confused, her voice subdued.

:They are happy that you don't need to be taught how to survive. Just history and language lessions, I think, and some legal things you need to know. But mostly, you'll be a messenger.:

:A...Special Messenger, right?:

:Exactly so. We have a great need for a Herald with knowledge of the cultures outside of our borders, and since you have traveled so much, especially in the southern regions, you know what to look for that we might not even consider. You will have to know about Karse and Rethwellen, and probably Hardorn as well...it's going to be a long ride...:

:Why's it gonna take so long? All th' maps say three moons, if we was traveling wit' a train.: He had to chuckle at her sigh, and reached down to scratch her mane. She arched her neck in wordless pleasure, and took her time in answering.

:Because Genn wants to make sure that we have you completely prepared. Once we set foot in Haven, you and I will be in high demand; King Alear is up to his eyeballs in small dukedoms and kingdoms wanting to join Valdemar, and the normal postal routes are completely and utterly packed with highborn messages.:

:Highborn?:

:Our slang for the wealthy folk, the Counts and Dukes and Councilers. Master Craftsmen, Guildmasters, essentially everyone possessing a great deal of money and wealth from family pocketbooks. Some folk have come into their wealth within just their lifetimes, and for the most part, are good, humble folk...but some others aren't quite so engaging. We will be running a Herald's Post, save that our duties are to be used for the Crown exclusively. Now, if we are in a village where one of the local folk need a letter or two delivered, and our destination is the next village over, then we'll likely simply take the letters on as a normal Herald and allow news to travel as fast as possible. But when the King has an important document that absolutely requires his attentions, then it is our duty to ensure its delivery...no matter the danger.: She must have felt his shiver, because he had the sense that a warm arm was clasping his shoulders. :Worry not, Chosen; if you don't feel that you're up to this, then we will find another position for you, no less important. Not every Herald has the strength to endure that role; for that matter, not every Companion can handle that amount of strain.:

:But you can?: He felt vaguely ashamed; she was perfectly willing to dive headlong into this dangerous business, and he was so cautious it was almost laughable.

:I can. It was Taver who suggested that I might be best suited for such. You noticed when you first saw me that I was built for speed, correct?:

:Oh, aye, that I did. Yer about the most beautiful lady I ever met.:

:Oh, thank you, my dear, thank you...even if I am covered with mud up to my withers. I'm also built for stamina and endurance; what Olli can do in short distances, I can do for hours. I'll be utterly useless afterwards, but in emergancies, I'm priceless.:

:You're not useless, Catling.:

:Mm...Well, no matter what, you and I are a team, no matter where we end up. If you want to be a plain old Herald, then I'm perfectly happy with that. If you want to be the Messenger...then I'm behind you, all the way.: Catrea purred up at him, mimicking her nickname, and he smiled. :Besides...you're a handsome Herald; I know a few stallions whose mindmates are of the female persuasion...: He coughed in surprise, and winced away from those little thoughts. Not that the ladies she sent images of weren't pretty, but...well...he just wasn't the kind of man who cared for womanflesh! His reluctance to even look at them seemed to pique her curiosity, and she startled as she followed his train of thought, though it was with a laugh, not a sneer of disgust. :Oh, goodness! I'm sorry, Chosen! Now, if you'd told me that little tidbit, I would have done a little more research the other way!: He laughed a little at her, feeling incredibly sheepish, and suddenly glad that he could Mindspeak with his Companion. He couldn't imagine having to have a conversation like that aloud, even if it was only Genn and Olli.

:...I've ne'er put too much thought ta it, Catling. Th' traders were ne'er too open wit' themselves, an' my men preferred th' wenches. Was forest-born, m'self, so ne'er had lotta folk around ta get used ta that sorta thing.:

:Tell me about your forest; I'd like to visit it with you some day...: As the day passed in a warm, if muddy fashion, Stormyr found himself opening up more and more to the beautiful creature beneath him, and soon enough, began doing the same with the man who was so patient and kind with his questions...
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Inherit the Wind