The Valley of Stones

Sunlight slanted across the barren escarpment, and the still air shimmered with heat. Garrin studied the array of boulders, seeking a particular outline, a tell-tale shape.

Nothing.

And yet, he felt that tingle along his nerves that told him she was near. Somewhere in this group of rocks, she was hidden.

If he unleashed a mage-bolt, he could destroy all the stones, but such an action would be harmful to this fragile land and wasteful of Garrin's own energy. Two years ago, when he'd first begun scouting the border, he might have chosen that course, but he'd learned patience in the intervening years. All he needed to do was wait.

He dropped to a sitting position in the dust. Weakening his power shields, he freed a trace of mage-glow. A faint cloud, visible to any with the Sight, rose around him. A novice wizard would cast such a shadow at all times, unable to restrain his power. But in spite of his youth, Garrin was no novice. What he did, he did deliberately. Bait for the trap.

Two young mages already this hag-demon had killed, draining their life forces along with their magic. Garrin knew, without any sense of pride, that in himself the demon would finally meet her match. When night fell and she woke from her stone dreams, his leaking aura would lure her. Irresistible as cold ale to a thirsty man.

His horse, Fanfare, wandered among the dry stubble of grass, seeking the occasional shoots of wild garlic or fairytongue that grew in the declivities. Garrin felt a twinge of sympathy for the animal. He wished now he had left the gelding at the river, half mile back, where the pickings were not so slim. But Fanfare would not suffer much; the horse had fed well this morning at the inn, a bonus of grain from the innkeeper, who had been well pleased with Garrin. The night's business had been brisk, thanks to Garrin and his harp.

The people at the inn didn't know Garrin's true name or his real purpose in the border. They thought him a wandering bard, and so they welcomed him each time he came into a village -- children ran to him, and their parents smiled.

As Sean the Bard, he was not despised.

Garrin closed his eyes, wondering why he cared what people thought. He was a wizard, gods-gifted with a talent stronger than that of any other mage now living. And he supposed that possession of such power might make many another man happy, but he took no pleasure in his gifts. Rather, the power hung on him, like a chain.

Something tickled his awareness. He glanced about, at the scattered stones, feeling an odd sense of uneasiness that had nothing to do with the demon. Last night at the inn in Daercyning, one of the customers had warned him not to venture too far north into the mountains. And this morning, before Garrin set out, the innkeeper himself had made the sign against evil and mumbled something about the valley of stones across the river. But the hills were full of superstition, and Garrin had paid no heed.

He opened his Other-Sight, attempting a full reading of whatever it was he had sensed. A surge of invading power flooded him, almost taking his breath away.

He rose shakily to his feet, fighting the urge to run. His heart thumped loudly and sweat beaded on his brow. Knowing himself and his own reactions, he was certain this terror was an artifact of whatever force haunted this valley, not a real emotion, born of his own free mind. But his body responded all the same.

The panic inside him urged him to blast the stones -- the fragile land be damned -- then mount Fanfare and flee. But he had pledged to guard the border against all magical attack -- not just against things he knew he could defeat. And no matter what people thought of him -- no matter what they whispered when his back was turned -- he had never been false to his word.

This panic is not mine. I disown it. He gulped air, then forced his breaths to a steady rhythm. The panic dissipated, like fog in the sun.

"Well done, Garrin Windson."

He turned to face the voice that had come from nowhere. The speaker wore a woman's form. Not old, but not young. Rosy rays of sunlight gleamed on the shining white fabric of her flowing robes. His highly trained mage-senses told him she was not

human, but neither was she the demon he sought. No creature of the Night could walk in daylight. Who was she, then, and what was she doing here?

He looked into the being's amber eyes but could read no emotion there. "How do you know my name?"

She smiled, an expression that conveyed neither mirth nor threat. "I know many things about you, young man."

Perhaps his entire mind was open to her. He knew mages who held this power, although he himself did not. "Who are you?"

"I am no friend to wandering wizards. You should not have come to my valley."

Her valley? Garrin tried to hide his surprise. Just what sort of being was she, to make such a claim? "I didn't mean to trespass," he said. "I didn't have a choice. I took oaths to protect this border." He pointed at the scattered boulders on the valley floor. "A demon slumbers here."

An enigmatic smile played across the being's lips. "So, you kill demons to protect the humans of the borderlands. And yet you neither hate the ones nor love the others." She stepped toward him, no longer smiling. Her robes trailed in the dirt but no dust rose in her wake. "In your soul I see no love for anyone or anything."

He gazed into those odd, amber eyes, wanting to deny what had been said. But he could not, without telling a lie. A talent too strong to forsake bound him to the Order of Wizards. A separate and private oath kept him loyal to a wastrel king. But

love? No. That he did not feel. "I am not without feelings, lady."

The smile flicked back into place. "That is not what I said."

He stared at the woman's form that stood before him. Proud, like an old matriarch of a hill tribe. Splendid, in her way. "What is that you want from me?"

"What I want is of no consequence. But you are another matter. You are dangerous, Garrin Windson, more dangerous than you know."

He stiffened. For years the rumors had dogged him, blame for a crime he had not committed. "I have done no wrong."

She eyed him coldly. "It is not what you have done but what you might do that I fear. You have entered my valley and you will receive my judgment."

The being raised a hand, and Garrin felt a surge of warmth along his spine. "You are free," she said. "Free to do as you will."

He raised his hand, pushing out with his mage-strength, and saw nothing. No flare of light. No burst of power. He tried again. Nothing. He felt neither anger, nor sorrow. Only a dull sense of something lost.

"If you leave my valley, your mage-gift will stay with me." She pointed to the crimson sun. "In less than an hour, the demon will wake. Human blood is not as attractive as mage-power, but in the absence of better, it will do."

Garrin glanced at the sun, then looked across the valley where Fanfare poked lazily among the litter of stones. In an hour, they could be over a dozen miles away, well on their way to the inn. A sturdy stall and a good feed of oats for the horse. Cool ale and an admiring audience for the man. And he would be released, free of the gift that bound him to king and Order, free to pursue the talent that did bring him joy. Free to be Sean the Bard.

A thousand possibilities presented themselves to him, flashing in and out of his thoughts, all of them taking less than a second to dismiss.

He strode across the valley to the place where Fanfare grazed and unfastened his saddle bags and the case that held his harp. The bags he let drop to the dirt, then placed the harp case gently atop them. "Fanfare, to post." He slapped the horse's rump with the heel of his hand, and the animal trotted off in the direction they had come.

Garrin watched the dust kicked up behind the gelding's hooves. Not long after dark, Fanfare would reach the inn in Charlihold, where Garrin knew it would be treated well until he could reclaim it. If Garrin never returned, the innkeeper would be glad of the horse, which was a valuable animal.

When Fanfare was completely out of sight, Garrin picked up his bags and harp.

The being intercepted him. She stared at him, her amber eyes wide and unmoving. "What have you done?"

Garrin returned her stare with a level gaze of his own. "I was given a job and I will complete it. I didn't want to place the horse at risk. Animals have blood, too, lady."

She shook her head. "Don't you understand? Your powers are gone. The demon will have you for dinner."

"I know about demons, lady." In the two years since he'd earned the title of Wizard of the Ways, he'd killed over a dozen demons. Indeed, he knew them well, the shades of their cunning, the limits of their understanding. With skills other than magic -- and a little luck -- he could perhaps defeat this one. He scanned the area, seeking a place to build a fire.

The being didn't move from his path. "You risk your life to reclaim powers you don't want? You are either very brave or very foolish."

"Perhaps I am neither, lady." Garrin shrugged. "If you'll excuse me, I'd better get on with my plans. To delay any longer would be foolish, indeed."

She continued to study him, her eyes fixed on his in a gaze that made him feel the weight of some judgment she did not speak. He bowed and moved away, stepping nimbly past her. A moment later, when he looked over his shoulder, she was gone.

#

Clouds of strongly scented smoke rose from the skillet into the dusky air. With a long, wooden spoon, Garrin stirred the mixture of chopped garlic and sunflower-seed oil, flattening the bulbs into a paste. The oil he'd happened to carry with him; the garlic he'd dug from the banks of the river. On a kerchief spread on the ground before him, he'd arranged a half dozen slices of the flat waybread he'd taken from the inn. He removed the skillet from the fire, set it on the sand, and spooned the garlic paste over the bread.

When the paste cooled, he ate. One slice after another, with neither enjoyment nor appetite. The bread made the paste more palatable, but it was not the kind of thing he cared to eat. His skin he had already rubbed with fairytongue, and the pungent odor of that herb mingled with the scent of garlic, almost making him ill.

Sunflower seeds. Garlic. Fairytongue. The ingredients of a demon-bane. When he was a boy, growing up in a mountain village far to the west of this valley, he'd learned from an old healer woman how to make herbal simples. Jianne was dead, like everyone else in Avenore, but he carried her teachings in his heart.

Garrin picked up his water skin and took a long drink, but the water could not dispel the heavy flavor of garlic and oil. But the taste, Garrin knew, was a small price to pay for the protection offered. The demon would not be able to set a hand on him as long as the bane held. He hoped it would buy him enough time to carry out the rest of his plan.

Years ago, he'd learned the nature of hag-demons, how they lured a man with the promise of rapture, and then drained blood and power from the victim. The bane he had prepared would keep him safe from that type of attack but demons also worked other forms of magic. She could kill him for spite if he failed to amuse her. Or if she suspected his motives.

The sky darkened. From his saddle-pack, Garrin pulled a packet of powder and tossed a handful into the fire. Natural- looking smoke rose in a thin column and spread in a flat cloud above him, making the twilight just a bit darker. He studied the cloud with a critical eye. Enough. It would be enough.

He put the packet of powder on the sand by the fire, and settled himself to face east, his harp in his lap. He wondered if he was perhaps insane, to attempt to best a hag-demon without the use of magic. Or maybe he simply didn't care, one way or the other, if he himself lived or died. Two years he had lived under the shadow of blame. Two years he had walked the mountain trails, feeling only half alive.

Two years since the burning of Avenore.

If the hag-demon defeated him, Sean the Bard might be missed in the mountain inns. But Garrin Windson, Wizard of the Ways, would be mourned by none.

Across the valley, something moaned. Garrin tensed, waiting, as the demon woke. Where a rock had been, a form arose, taking shape in the darkness.

Garrin put fingers to his harp and began to play. His voice rose in accompaniment, the song of Ardoline, the legendary witch-queen of Krell. He knew the power of his voice, a strong baritone that reached to tenor range. He poured his heart into the song, and as he sang, he rewrote the words, turning the

legend on its head. Lord Balil was not the hero of this saga, but rather the witch herself -- wronged, betrayed by a foolish mortal who didn't understand the gift she offered.

Something walked across the valley. Garrin heard the footsteps crunching on the dry sand. Looking up, he saw her standing at the other side of his fire. She had taken the guise of a beautiful young woman. A leather vest bound her high, rounded breasts. Flowing skirts of red silk wrapped themselves about her legs. Long, blond hair flowed across her slender shoulders. Her dark eyes met his.

In town after town, from the seaside to the mountains, women had offered themselves to Garrin, wanting to steal a trace of his power. He had taken none of them, fearing the trap that could lie behind the gentle gazes. For the first time in two years he was tempted to yield. Those eyes promised a paradise he would never find in this world. "My lady." He bowed his head.

"Bard." Her perfect lips curled into a smile. "Your voice is better protection than your herbs. Go and bathe yourself in the river, so that I can draw near."

For a moment, he wavered, drawn by the promise in her eyes. But then she tossed her hair, and Garrin caught a glimpse of the truth beneath the glamour. Here was a danger far worse than any mortal woman could ever present.

His lust died. "No, my lady." He echoed her smile. "But I will sing for you, if you will. My body would bring you only a moment's pleasure. My voice can bring you a fame greater than Ardoline's."

The demon wet her lips, and a dark cunning flashed in her eyes. Cunning and greed. She raised her hands above her head. Lines of power, much like those he once commanded, flowed from her fingertips, arching into the distance. Strong, but his would have been stronger, if he had not lost his gift. She turned slowly. The fire danced as the wind rose. Sand bit Garrin's exposed skin and he closed his eyes against the sting of it.

And then came water. Showering down upon him in a great sheet, soaking his face and arms, plastering his thin, cotton shirt to his chest. He sputtered and pushed wet hair from his eyes, fear mounting as he realized what she had done. She was clever, this one. More clever by half than any demon he had ever met.

The garlic he had eaten would sweat from his pores for days, but the scent of fairytongue no longer rose from his skin. Garlic alone might discomfort the demon, but it would not protect him from her.

Her smile widened and her teeth elongated into fangs. "You are a fool, young bard. I would have given you a pleasant death if you had done as I commanded. Now you will die slowly and in pain."

She took a step toward him. He met her gaze, facing down the unexpected fear that rose in him. "If you kill me now you will not hear me sing your praises. I wish to sing of your fame, lady. I have sought you, praying for the chance to meet you face to face."

The demon hesitated. Garrin saw the play of her emotions: vanity warring with greed. She seated herself on the opposite side of the fire, folding her limbs compactly. Her eyes conveyed a mild amusement. Cat to his mouse. "Sing then. Amuse me and I will give you joy in death. Waste my time and you will taste the torments of Hell."

He adjusted the harp in his lap, relieved to find that the soaking had done it little harm. "Tell me your name, lady."

She smiled again, this time without fangs. "Some call me Lauralare."

Garrin's mind moved quickly, searching for flattering rhymes. He was damp and uncomfortable, but in spite of that, his ideas flowed well, bringing him the notes of his first song. The tense muscles in Garrin's shoulders relaxed slightly as he began to sing.

#
He paused to drink water. Hours of song had rubbed his throat raw, taking his voice from tenor to bass baritone. Every deed of hers that he had learned through the days of tracking her, he had put to rhyme -- her escape from the dark mage who'd called her, her journey across Alworyn, the deaths of the two novices. His mind, as well as his fingers were numb. And still the sky was black. He put down the water skin and sat in silence, unable to shape another song.

The demon regarded him with measuring eyes. "You sing well, bard." Her nose twitched, and she grimaced. "A pity about the garlic, but I will give you pleasure in death all the same. Reward for your efforts." She moved toward him, placing one slim hand on his bare forearm. Her fingers felt warm against his skin. Warm and soft. But his flesh crawled all the same.

He looked into her eyes and saw his death. And if he died, she would remain free to ravage the border. How many others would she kill? Desperation lent him strength. "Wait, lady. I have one more song. My best. I would have you hear it."

She took her hand off his arm. Her gaze traveled slowly along his form. "What will you sing of now, bard?" The demon's brows rose and her lips pursed, her face so beautiful he nearly laid down the harp. A mockery of womanhood, he reminded himself. Her beauty no more than an illusion. If he had his mage-sight, he would see death hanging about her shriveled heart. His own death, surely, if he failed.

And he had run out of songs. His mind wheeled and turned, sifting his memories, searching for one last theme. He smiled as an idea caught. A single word, thrown at him that afternoon. "I will sing of love."

At the horizon came the faintest tinge of gray. Almost dawn. He leaned toward the fire, pretending to adjust a log, but all the while reaching for the powder he had placed on the ground. And here was the bit of luck he needed. The packet of powder had not blown away, nor had it been dampened by the water the witch had summoned. While adding a log to the fire, he put a handful into the flames.

The witch glanced at the blackness above their heads, as if measuring the time. "One more song." She seated herself again. "Make it worth my while or I will change my mind about the pleasure. There are many ways to die, bard."

His throat ached; his shoulders throbbed with weariness. His shirt had dried stiff upon him, chafing the skin under his arms. But he knew he must find the strength to make this song worth more than any other he had ever played. Either that, or he would die. And he found, when it came to it, that he really didn't want to die. Not now. Not yet.

Someone had burned his village and made it seem like his doing. Someone, somewhere should pay.

His fingers plucked the strings, finding a likely progression. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth, putting everything into his song. At first he sang to the demon, the emotion in his voice a sham as he poured out flattery, praising her charm and grace. But as the verses formed, his heart stirred at the sound of his own words. In his mind, he no longer sang to this creature, but to someone he had never met. Someone who could love him for himself alone, not for the power he wielded.

Years of yearning filled his song. Verse after verse spilled from his throat, breaking upon the valley like waves. Tears flowed down his cheeks, but his voice never faltered.

Sunlight tickled his closed eyelids. Day.

Feeling slightly foolish, he brushed the tears from his eyes. Across from him, on the other side of the smoldering fire- pit, a new boulder rested on the sand. This time, there was no mistaking the shape. He rose to search for more firewood.

#

"You live."

As before, the voice appeared without warning. He didn't look up. With a grunt, he pushed the large stone he'd been heating from the fire, using a long stick of green wood as a lever. When the stone came to a rest on the sand, he dropped the stick and picked up the water skin he had filled with cold stream water. He emptied the skin on the rock. Steam rose from the sizzling surface, blinding him. But he heard a satisfying pop. When the steam cleared, he saw that the rock had shattered into three large pieces. The demon would haunt the border no longer. He had done his job.

"You are a clever man, Garrin Windson. And brave, although you say you are not."

He turned to face the being in woman's shape. This morning, her robe was the color of the morning sky, and her face was young. "I have done what I said I would do. Nothing more."

"I gave you freedom. Why didn't you take it?"

He thought of a dozen sour replies, and discarded them. Whoever this being was, she deserved respect. "If you knew me as well as you claim, you would have the answer to that question."

She closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, they focused not on his face, but on the horizon. "Duty." "Duty," he repeated. "I was sent here to perform a certain task. I swore to do it, without conditions. And so I have. Now, if you'll give me my powers back, I'll be on my way. It's a long walk to Charlihold and I had no sleep last night."

The arched brows rose in the unearthly face. "What makes you think I intend to give you your powers back?"

He dropped the empty water-skin he was holding. "You said --"

"I said that if you left this place last night, you would not get your powers back. I never said you would have them if you stayed."

His hands clenched. Once. Briefly. And he shrugged. "No. You did not."

She eyed him thoughtfully. "You're very calm."

"I learned calm years ago. My anger can kill."

Her lips curved. "No. It cannot. Not any longer. You are not a mage."

"Ha!" He surprised himself by laughing. "Of course not. But I seem to have lost the habit all the same."

"What will you do now, Garrin Windson?"

He imagined himself explaining to the Wizards' Council how he'd lost his powers. And then going to the king, asking a release from his bond. "I don't know. I have taken oaths. And those who hold those oaths will decide my fate. I'm still not free. Powers or no."

The being shook her head. "You will never be free. It is not your fate." Amber eyes regarded him solemnly. He met her gaze but read no answers there. "I am sorry about your village, Garrin Windson. Someday you will find the answers you seek. That is all I can promise you."

His throat spasmed in dry pain. "Who? Tell me who."

"Beyond my power," she said. "In time you will learn and clear your name. In time."

He let out his breath in a long exhale. Here at least was hope. "Thank you."

"And if you could choose to have your mage-gift returned, would you take it?"

He nodded. Once, slowly. "I would."

The being raised her hand and Garrin felt the same warm tingling along his spine he had felt the day before.

He turned his hand and light flowed from it. The burden of his power settled on him again. His burden, and he realized now that he did not wish to give it up, for all the pain it cost him. "Why have you returned my gifts? Because I held to duty?"

She shook her head. A breeze blew across the valley, but it didn't seem to touch her hair or robe. "Duty is a sad conceit, young man. I returned your powers because I heard your song. Despair has not entirely poisoned your heart."

Heat rose in his face as he remembered the tears that had flowed unchecked down his cheeks. His weakness. This longing he could not satisfy for something beyond duty and vows.

"Love is not a weakness." Something like compassion glinted in her eyes. "It is a strength. Learn to use all your gifts -- heart as well as mind -- and you will fulfill the promise the gods see in you."

"The gods --" He broke off, shaking his head. "Is that what you are? A god?"

"Once I was what you humans call a god. No longer. I am bound to this valley as surely as you are bound to your duty."

"Ah." He knew her then. One of the Old Ones, who lingered in secluded places. Sleeping through centuries, awakening only rarely. He had been blessed to see her.

Or cursed, he thought, remembering the night's business.

Her robe fell in good, clean lines from her shoulders to the ground. Her eyes sparkled with wisdom more ancient than the stones of the valley. Her hands came together. Long, thin fingers barely touching.

Blessed, he decided. "Pray for me, lady."

"I will, Garrin Windson." As she spoke, she turned transparent, her robe spreading on the hot wind. "I will pray you learn to love."

The last words came from the valley itself. The Old One had vanished. For a full fifty beats of his heart, Garrin stared at the place where she had been standing. Strength. Duty. Pain. These things he knew. But not love.

He collected his belongings and walked from the valley. Behind him, the wind piped a wild chord across the stones. He held his harp tucked under one arm, and carried his bags slung across one shoulder. Heavy but he didn't mind their weight. In spite of the night he had passed, he no longer felt weary.

Summer in the mountains had its own kind of peace. The hot wind stirred the branches of the pines. Birds sang in the distance, light trilling calls.

He would reach Charlihold by dinnertime. A crowd would come to hear him sing. Harp in hand in the common room of the inn, he would taste the freedom he had given up. He knew he would have regrets. Always, inevitably, choice brought regret. But choice was freedom of a kind, and he believed he had chosen well. He smiled as he walked, settling into a steady rhythm as the miles glided effortlessly beneath his boots.

The End