Page 16 of Into the West

He laughed to himself at that, but only briefly. My responsibility will always be based upon what I was there, I think. I can’t imagine myself not putting the people of Valdemar first, but I have to be realistic. Nothing stings later like a hesitant action. I’ve already felt it here at the Lake—as dire as things could be, part of me still feels like I’m taking thousands of my people on a camping trip, and that Valdemar is just—behind a tree. Over there. I haven’t cut myself off from thinking like I’m still based there and I’m missing the place that I just—abandoned. No, wait.

No.

Believed in.

Even if three-quarters of the expedition were here solely for evil deeds, the remaining quarter’s belief in what Valdemar means would overcome anything dire. As much as I frame my thinking in terms of a nation, what we are is a tribe. A resourceful tribe that has brought its bravery and faith as tools more powerful than swords or shovels. I’ve said it many times, but at this moment, I intensely know what is right—that Valdemar is a people, not a place. I believe these people can make our future incredible. I know they’ll tackle any obstacle.

Valdemar’s passion, its potential, and its past lives in me, and it’s as much a part of me as the grain of my muscles and the strain of my brow. I will be Valdemaran, wherever I go.

I hope. Oh gods, how I hope.

He took a few more breaths before turning back to face the sweet smell of the Valdemar he’d known, and the breeze went with him as he rode away, quickly enough that nobody would see his face was wet.

Furlongs later, Kordas decided that he was satisfied with the proto-village he was going to leave to the thirty-seven families who had elected to stay. Those shells of ruined buildings had been improved considerably, although if he had been planning on remaining here, he’d have just spent the winter in his barge. He’d already given orders about what provisions from the common stores he was going to leave with them, and between that and the lake full of fish, they would be fine. There were a good two-dozen stone houses standing here at the center of the crescent that now had proper roofs and half-finished floors, thanks to the efforts of anyone who had a moment or two to spare, and that pleased him immeasurably. For fifteen thousand people, this spot was inadequate. But for a few hundred, it would make a fine place to build a new life.

“All right. Clean break,” he called to the four mages waiting for his command, and dropped his arm. “Take it down now.”

Deactivating the Gate wasn’t nearly as impressive-looking as putting it up had been. It did require physical contact, though; two of the mages rowed out there in two small coracles, and put their hands to the curved wooden “horns” of the Gate. Between the horns, fog formed vertically and boiled upward like steam, hissing as the space between the uprights went from transparent to translucent. That air’s increasingly turbulent rippled-water effect wobbled, and then vanished with the sound of a tiny thunderclap. If anyone thought establishing a Gate could be dangerous, they hadn’t seen what dismantling one was like. Handle it poorly, and the survivors would testify to more than a tiny thunderclap. Before the echoes even returned, there was nothing between the two uprights but clear air.

That was the signal for the rest of the crew to come out with a long, empty barge, ropes, and grapples. One of the four mages was Dole, one of the “Six Old Men,” a cheerful fellow with an impressive head of iron-gray curls down to his shoulders, and a nose that could have doubled for a boat-prow. He was the one who would be doing the hardest work. He stood on top of the barge that would soon be holding the Gate-pillars, and held a piece of wood about as long as his forearm between his hands. It began to glow, a gentle golden color.

And so did the upright nearest him.

As the other three mages detached the pillar from its little stone island, it continued to stand upright, even past the point when it should have started toppling over sideways. When the pillar was entirely free, Dole carefully, and slowly, moved the stick in his hands until it was parallel to the water, and the gently curving pylon slowly rotated in midair until it had taken the same position above the anchor point.

Moving as slowly as a sleepwalker, Dole pivoted, and the great pillar of wood pivoted with him, then began serenely floating just above the water to the barge. As Dole stepped aside and lowered his hands, the pylon sank down onto the roof of the barge, and the barge itself dropped a couple of thumblengths into the water as it took on the whole weight of the pylon. The golden glow faded, and Dole clutched his piece of wood in one hand and doubled over, sweating.

“Are you all right?” Kordas called. “Do you need my help?”

Wordlessly Dole waved him off, taking slow, deep breaths as he steadied himself. Finally he straightened. “I’m fine. But I am going to want to lie down after the second one.”

Satisfied that the dismantling of the Gate was well in hand, Kordas mounted his horse and headed back to the corral.

With Arial turned loose in the corral after a good rubdown, Kordas headed for the family barge, knowing he was already late for supper and had missed the boys eating. Isla and Restil were watching for him, and the other two boys burst out of the barge at Restil’s call of “Father!”

Being pounced on by three enthusiastic little boys was not a new experience at this point, but it definitely never got tiresome, no matter how exhausted he himself might be. He scooped up Jon to ride on his shoulder while the other two romped alongside him in the loping gait that children everywhere adopt when they are pretending to be horsemen. With a sudden shriek of “I’m a gryphon!” Hakkon put up fingers like they were fearsome talons, and gave chase with them raised high. “I’ll eat you! Rarrh!”

“Gryphons don’t eat people!” came the running retort, and the now-a-gryphon yelled back, “Not you! I’m after your horse!” Their chase escalated, but was suddenly dropped because of an important question.

“Papa! Papa! Are you going to tell us a story? Your stories are better than anyone else’s!” Hakkon clamored—although, truth to tell, his “clamoring” was neither loud nor unwelcome.

“If you go to your beds and let your father eat his supper in peace, he’ll come and tell you a story when he is finished,” Isla said firmly.

All three of them cheered, and the two older boys sped ahead, vanishing into the barge like a couple of young otters diving into their den. Kordas followed, stooping a little to get through the door without hitting his head. The warmth of the barge was welcome after the damp chill of the breeze outside. He set Jon down just inside, and let him follow the other two back to their room. But Jon paused just long enough to throw himself at his father’s legs for an enthusiastic hug before retreating.

“I still can’t believe that they just accepted us as their real parents so easily,” he marveled, as he sat down to a decidedly cold and congealed mess of stew and a soggy bread bowl. But that was no matter, not for a magician. A little concentration, and the brief sensation that energy was draining from him—because it was—and the food looked exactly as it had when Isla had gotten it from the common kitchen.

It was a simple, easy spell for magicians to use, and had a lot of practical applications, even if it couldn’t be used on anything still alive. Most mages just saved it to reheat a hot drink or renew their food, though he had used it several times to put a thrown shoe temporarily back on a horse, or mend a girth strap for long enough to get back home.

“We weren’t exactly absent from their lives,” Isla pointed out. “Where Hakkon mostly was. Every time we saw them, we were kind, with gentle authority, and we didn’t ignore them or act as if they were a bother. I’m not gifted with Mind-magic, but I can imagine it’s possible that they used to fantasize that we actually were their parents, which would make the revelation more like a dream come true than a shock.”

“Have they ever said anything to you about it?” he asked, spooning up hot stew before the bread bowl turned soggy for a second time. It wasn’t as good as Sai’s stew, but it was quite palatable, and hunger made it taste even better.

“Not yet,” Isla said, pouring him a second cup of clover tea after he had quickly downed the first. “I must say that Delia is taking to being sent on with the scouts better than I feared.” She frowned a little. “This is harder on her than it is on us. We’ve spent our entire lives in the service of the Plan, and we knew what we were getting into. She—didn’t.” Isla sighed. “The life of a young woman of noble birth doesn’t prepare you for this kind of life.”

“True. And she hasn’t complained at all, even though I very much doubt she had any idea at all what she was getting herself into.” Stew gone, he took a big bite of the chewy, gravy-soaked bread. “I was prepared to send her back to Merrin and bribe him with horses to set her up in his household, perhaps as lady-in-waiting to his wife. I’d have done it if she looked in the least unhappy, but she seems to be doing just fine.”

“Oh, she would have been traumatized by your stinging rejection, no doubt. She certainly seemed cheerful enough to me when she turned up this afternoon asking for advice on what to take with her. Do you think she might have an interest in Ivar now?” Isla asked, as he finished his meal.