Disclaimer: Nope, Valdemar isn't mine (sigh).

Author's Note: This takes place a little after the Vows and Honor books, before Roald was crowned. This story was inspired by THE RAGING QUIET by Sheryl Jordan, which is a book that everyone should read because it's absolutely fantastic.

Herald Ryara heaved a sigh of relief as the town came into view. Her second circuit—her first alone—and she'd gotten one that stretched all the way to the far north of Valdemar. She'd never been anywhere near this far north of Haven, in all her twenty-two years. Up here, in the winter, towns and Waystations were few and far between. This one looked small, and was probably full of backcountry prejudices, but it would have an inn and a warm bed. That was all she cared about right now.

:Pray for a warm stable too,: her Companion Arilee added. :I'm almost as tired as you are saddle-sore.:

:Nothing comes close to how saddle-sore I am,:  the Herald retorted.

:Not even how much you love me?:

:Well...maybe that.:

:Aww, thank you.:

Ryara ruffled Arilee's mane between her ears. :I'll get you a warm stable if it means I have to sleep there myself.:

:Wow. Now that's devotion. I love being pampered.:

:Yes, I know. Why do you think I do it?:

:Because you love me.:

:That too. Now that we've gone over the fact that I adore you, o picturesque-beauty-of-a-Companion-who-is-adored-by-all-the-stallions, do I get some flattery?:

Arilee tossed her head mischievously. :No. Your ego doesn't need swelling.:

:As if yours did, horse.:

:I am not a horse!: Arilee snapped.

:Alright. Mule, then.:

Arilee broke into a bone-jarring trot that made Ryara's already sore behind ache all the more. She winced. "I take it back! Stop trotting! Who's the one who promised you a warm stable, you stupid horse?"

As Arilee slowed, reminding her Chosen once more that she was not a horse, Ryara reached into a saddlebag and pulled out a strip of leather to tie back her shoulder-length brown hair with. She didn't want to appear too uncouth for the townspeople—Heraldic reputation was hard earned and hard to keep. Ryara herself was nothing special physically—on the pretty side of plain, with clear blue-gray eyes and a multitude of freckles sprinkled across her sharply pointed nose. She was exceptional with a sword, moderately good with a bow, but if armed with any other weapons, it was better for her to run in the opposite direction of the fight. She had two magical Gifts: Mindspeech and Firestarting. The latter was weak and only good for lighting campfires and anything smaller, though that in itself was a blessing, but the former was strong and well developed, though she refused to use it in a fight unless her life or the lives of others depended on it. Luckily, she hadn't been in any truly deadly situations yet. She hoped this particular circuit wouldn't be the first to put her in such a position.

They reached the town soon enough. Arilee carried Ryara straight to the only inn, a cozy looking place full of locals who welcomed her nicely. Arilee was given her warm stall, and Ryara was seated to a large dinner in the center of the common room. As soon as she finished, she was bombarded with requests for news from the capital. Ryara gave it all willingly, trading stories with the friendly villagers late into the night.

Finally, as snow fell softly in the cold, crisp night—a lovely sight from inside, though none would like to go out into that weather—Ryara leaned back in her chair and asked, "So, are there any disputes to be settled? Surely you've come up with something in the twenty-odd years it's been since a Herald came up here!" This area had been sorely neglected of late—and before. Everyone back at Haven had been appalled when they found how long it had been since this place had been seen to.

One man opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment, the door opened and another man stumbled in.

Ryara's mouth fell open. His clothes were rags, and he had no shoes. He looked to be about her age, maybe a year or so older. His hair was black and shaggy, and his ice-green eyes were wild. He was shivering with cold, arms wrapped around his painfully skinny body. He looked at her, and  that intense, almost animal-like gaze pierced her heart.

Ryara stood to bring him inside, assuming that this was a stranger to the town and hoping that the townsfolk would treat him as well as they had her.

To her shock, she heard someone laugh. "'Tis only Elryl."

"Get 'im outta my inn!" the innkeeper cried.

Two burly young men advanced on the newcomer, Elryl, who opened his mouth as if to speak, but only garbled nonsense came out. As they came close, he tried to dodge away, but one of them grabbed his shoulder in a grip of iron. The other took a firm hold of his shirt. As Elryl tried frantically to escape, the thin material tore and he ran off into the freezing night, tripping and falling into the snow. Everyone laughed.

Ryara was shaking with fury. "What the hell did you do that for?" she cried.

The innkeeper turned to her in surprise. "That were Elryl. He's mad, he is, always talkin' nonsense. An' he don't listen when he's called. True madness, 'tis. He's not simple, don't think. Just half-devilish."

Ryara gasped in rage. "I've never heard of anything so ridiculous in all my life! This is absolutely ludicrous! I am going after him myself and bringing him back here, and you will treat him as if he were a guest from the king!"

She turned on her heel and tromped off into the night.

Shyr ran, ran as he had never run before. The time had finally come! He pounded down the road, a flash of silver-white in the darkness, the snow not even touching him. He wouldn't have felt the cold if it had—the time had finally come! He was going to Choose. He knew who his Chosen was, knew exactly where to find the young man whose Gifts were awakening so late. But they were as powerful as they were belated—more so. And on the verge of explosion with the frustration, fear, and rage that burned so fiercely within him.

Shyr ran faster. His Chosen needed him.