A Bouquet of Gifts, or The Culinary Adventures of Rork

Michele Lang

It all started with the moonberry scones.

The lovely, delicious, Sparrowtastic scones. Sometimes great magics start with the littlest things. Rork’s moonberry scones, they were just ordinary pastries, but they had their own special hertasi magic also imbued within them.

Rork had gotten the news that his best friend in the world, Sparrow, was returning to the Vale from a Bondbird, who heard it from a long-traveling crow, who heard it from a singing Bard in a tavern on the royal road from Haven.

The news leaped to his heart like a frog’s tongue to a fly. Delicious!

How he missed his best friend; it was a secret hurt he carried every day. Just the thought of her coming back filled Rork with the purest of delight.

It was a visit to the Vale in honor of her birthday, and Sparrow planned to stay in her little family ekele for at least a week. Being a hertasi in good health and standing, of course Rork’s first impulse was to bake his best friend a batch of her favorite scones.

It would be the very least he could do to welcome his dearest friend home once again. After all, the darling lady was immersed in helping other people, and her beloved heartmate Cloudbrother. And she was dedicated to her son Thistle, her delightful little man who was now at the training Collegium for the Heralds himself. Sparrow traveled the ups and downs of all of Valdemar and beyond, on a mission to help those who were helpers.

In fact, his dear sweet friend was very like unto a hertasi herself. Or at least, Sparrow possessed strong hertasi-like tendencies. This, despite the fact that of course no self-respecting hertasi would wander the length and breadth of the kingdom the way Sparrow did.

Still and all, she loved home as much as any hertasi tending their hearth before moonrise. So Rork wanted to celebrate her return in the hertasi way. With beauty, and comfort, and warmth, and brightness, and joy, and peace, and . . . and . . . and . . .

Scones. As a start.

Moonberry, her very favorite.

The very morning he heard the news, Rork visited her ekele (he of course had an open invitation) and tidied up the already clean and orderly space. And then without any further ado, he started baking an enormous triple batch, more than she could ever eat.

And while he considered her visit and, with his iridescently scaled, wiry arm, whipped the moonberries into the great bowl of batter . . . that gave him a marvelous, irresistible idea . . .

Why not celebrate Sparrow’s return with all the people who loved her? She never realized it, but she was adored, by the local guild of Healers, by the members of her heartmate’s adopted clan, by her son, by her heartmate’s Companion, everybody.

Well, maybe not everybody . . . there once had been some elemental demons and other fell creatures who would’ve hated Sparrow if they had survived long enough to learn her name.

How surprised she would be by the celebration. How delighted (maybe). Perhaps she would be secretly overwhelmed by all the attention, but her shyness would certainly wear off. Besides, Sparrow had most decidedly come out of her maternal shell in the years since she had little Thistle. Now that he was a Trainee, she was downright unleashed.

So Rork contemplated, as he whipped the batter under his strong, webbed fingers, wielding the mixing bowl and the wooden spoon. The mouthwatering scent of moonberries overwhelmed the tiny kitchen of Sparrow’s tiny ekele as the first batch baked up perfectly.

By the time the second batch was done, Rork had hatched his audacious plan. And as he gathered the extra scones into a clean dish towel and plopped them into a wide wicker basket, he knew where he would host the party.

Sparrow would want the ekele, of course. But too many people would come to toast the prodigal Mom, there must be a space of size. Instead of a hall or an ekele of meeting, Rork would ask the local Healers in the Vale if he could use their Healing Temple near the hot springs.

The guests could dine, dance, sing, and jump in the springs under the silvery moonlight. It would be unforgettable, magical!

The scones would entice them, the Healers, they had no chance. The scent of the moonberries would seduce them into his plan. Without Sparrow, there was nobody to serve tea and scones in bed. And it caused poor Rork actual pain to go without the baking of moonberry scones. Rork would share the relief, share the joy, and the Healers, masters of shifting energies and balance restoration, would embrace Rork, his scones, and his marvelous, celebratory scheme.

• • •

Not so fast.

When Rork arrived at the Temple, all was in an uncharacteristic frenzy. Rork, who had his own hertasi methods of maintaining his health and immense beauty, was not a frequent denizen of the Temple. He had no need of their Healing arts.

But he was sure a madly swinging chandelier and a little dyheli running around on fire was not in the usual healing mode of the place.

:What in the actual what?!: Rork expostulated into the mind of the baby dyheli.

:AIIII!!: was the only answer he received.

Before he could leap to the little one’s aid, a curtain of water shot from a bucket directly over Rork’s head, slaking the flames before they could do more than singe the little one’s lovely, dappled white hide.

Rork caught the thrust of the dyheli’s flight as he sank his blockhead forehead deep into Rork’s scaly belly. His armor protected him from any harm, but he, and his basket of scones, sailed high into the air.

Before he could land, a strong set of arms caught him midflight. The basket kept going.

“Hail, Sir Hertasi,” Melia said. She was the senior Healer attached to this gentle place, and her clear baritone vibrated healing and calm. “I see you are unharmed.”

“Why yes, dear Healer, yes, yes. I am not sure of my gift to you, alas.”

Their attention turned to the basket, which was rolling around the perimeter of the round ekele-Temple of Healing. And rolling. And rolling.

They watched the circumnavigation of the wicker basket in silence. Clearly, this was not normal scone basket behavior. It kept going, flying in the face of all reason and science.

It was mesmerizing. It was some strange, bizarre little magic.

Fortunately, Rork had securely tucked the scones in with the dish towel before he had set out for his mission. But the tucked in towel would not hold the scones in forever . . . perhaps the centripetal force would be enough.

The dyheli, soaking wet, shook his head clear and trotted out the entrance to the temple, snorting. :Farewell!: he sang out as he left. :I am fine, I will dry in the sun! Good day!:

Melia gently lowered Rork to the ground. “What kind of Healing Temple are you running here, my dear?” he asked, only half-joking. “You certainly healed the little one. But who lit him on fire in the first place?”

“It was an accident,” Melia replied, but her broad, good-natured crone’s face was wrinkled in thought. “It was a freak accident. But we have been having many of these lately.”

She sighed and shook her head. “But never mind the oddities of my day, Sir Hertasi. Welcome, and we are honored for your presence. How may I assist you this beautiful day?”

Rork took in the sight of the Chief Healer with a long, approving glance. She wore the Valdemar Healer’s Greens, but Melia had taken the time and loving attention to embroider them with intricate patterns of leaves, fruits, flowers, and Bondbirds, an unspoken love letter to the Vale.

How he loved humans who loved the world as much as he did, and who celebrated their love with large and small acts of beauty and kindness!

“Dear Melia,” he replied. “I have brought you a gift, rolling and rolling still, a basket of fresh-baked scones. A healing for the Healers, please enjoy them in bountiful good health.”

And Rork went on to explain that Sparrow, friend of Healers and Heralds like, was returning to the Vale for an extended visit.

Melia enthusiastically endorsed Rork’s plan. Then, she galloped the perimeter, chasing the runaway scones, which still eluded her grasp. Rork finally ran in the other direction and cornered the wicker basket as it rolled into his arms.

It stopped with another butt in his well-protected belly, the wicker quivering and warm. “Uncanny!” Rork murmured. “I don’t think the scones are affected by their wild ride, dear lady. But you may want to examine them with your Healing arts to make quite sure of them.”

Melia burst into a deep belly laugh. “No, I am sure they are fine. In the last few weeks, we have had a rash of odd, unpredictable, and downright amusing mishaps going on in this place. We cannot figure it out . . . nothing has come to harm, and we forget about each incident until the next one occurs. Shall you join us for tea? We can share this nice big basket with all the Healers and the assistants too.”

Rork was all too glad to fortify them, a delightful band of humans, dedicated to the idea of bringing balance and peace to the world. The large ekele vibrated with the aura of deep healing and restoration. Clearly, the shenanigans permeating the place were not malicious ones. But they were certainly mysterious, beyond the reach of a hertasi’s understanding.

Melia swooped the large basket up, the large handle resting on her formidable forearm as she led the way into the Healer’s private chambers, away from their patients in need of healing. A spacious room served as both lecture hall and lunchroom, and this was the place Rork had envisioned as large enough to hold everyone he intended to invite to Sparrow’s party.

Melia knew Sparrow from her training at Haven; their time at the Collegium had almost perfectly coincided, so she was as happy to hear of her return as Rork had been and gladly agreed to the hertasi’s plan.

The midday meal was still cooking when they swept through the hall into the semiattached kitchen area. Delicious things simmered in a half-dozen pots arrayed around a stove covered by an awning in the open air. Above their heads, heavy pink and purple flowers swayed as the afternoon heat rose languorously around them. The cooing and squawking of birds, brightly colored as the flowers, provided improvisational background music to the culinary process that was unfolding.

An apprentice Healer, assigned kitchen duty for that day, stirred the different pots with an assortment of short and long wooden spoons, so intent upon his task he didn’t notice Melia or Rork until they had come up directly behind him.

“Mr. Rork has brought dessert for tea,” Melia said, her voice low and gentle.

Despite this, the apprentice jumped, and a wooden spoon shot into the air like a dragonfly. He whirled, his eyes wide, his hair sticking out. “My bells and whistles!” he said, his voice shaking. “My nerves are worn to a frazzle . . . never mind me, Healer Melia. I’m not my best self.”

“Peace,” Melia replied, her eyes twinkling. “No fear, not here in the kitchen or anywhere else. Zan, you are set to a hair-trigger today.”

“I can hear the leaves growing today, the caterpillars climbing the trunk of the passionflower tree over there. I am so alive my nerves are on fire!”

Melia’s brow furrowed. “That sounds like too much of a good thing, Zan. Take a candlemark to restore yourself, my love, and I will complete the lunch. You took it nearly to the finish, I can just babysit it until it’s ready. Thank you.”

“Oh, no, I am sorry, Melia, I am really okay. I didn’t mean to complain!”

“Zan, now I am speaking as your chief. Something is going on here, something I need to figure out. Please, go lie in your quarters, in the dark if possible, and see if you start to feel better.”

Gratefully, Zan nodded, and slipped away. Rork watched him go, wondering at the deep strangeness of humans. They were so social . . . and yet, so limited in their ability to communicate with one another. So individualized, so out of touch. And so busy all the time!

As he often did, Rork gave thanks for being a hertasi while watching the antics of humans, especially his favorite ones.

“Please, join us for lunch, Sir Rork. We can plan for the celebration of Sparrow together.”

Watching the hapless Trainee had settled Rork’s mind. “No, thank you, dear Melia. This food for humans does not suit me well, excepting my scones, but of course. I am so appreciative of your hospitality and kind ways. Instead, I will go home to Sparrow’s kitchen now and plan her menu. Many different creatures will attend, and I will need to plan a menu all will enjoy. I am thrilled!”

Melia smiled, and another of her deep, satisfying laughs rumbled deep in her chest like happy thunder. “Let me send you an assistant, at least. That is a heap of cooking and planning for one person. We can help!”

“I don’t know . . .”

Before he could commit, Melia rang a little bell that she wore on a necklace chain. “Rose, dear.”

And quick as a whip, out of nowhere a little wiry girl appeared in the kitchen. It was as if she were a lizard that had scurried out from behind the outcropping of rocks near the back entrance to the ekele.

Rork loved this girl immediately. She had a wild, untamed energy to her that reminded him of lightning, of a rushing creek, of gusts of wind. Rose was a little lizard of a girl . . . so quick, so alert, quicksilver darting alive.

“Rose, are you a hertasi?” he asked.

The girl chuckled and shook her head no. “I’m just Rose,” she said, her voice surprisingly husky and low.

Melia reached her ample arms out to give the girl a big hug. “Listen to you!” she said, so lovingly Rork blinked his eyes to keep back a surge of emotion. She hugged the girl close and gazed over her head directly at Rork.

:She has been through a lot,: Melia said to Rork’s mind, the words blurry, almost incomprehensible. :She just came here. She usually doesn’t speak.:

Clearly, the Healer had sent her message with a great deal of effort and was not adept at the art of Mindspeech. It had been important to keep her message between the two of them, so as not to embarrass the child.

:That is my favorite kind of person,: Rork replied, his Mindspeech crisp and clear compared to Melia’s wavering blurriness. :I’m sure she will be a fine assistant. Thank you, Melia.:

“Rose, Rork here needs some help in his own kitchen. We are planning a big party for our friend, perhaps you could go back and assist him?” Melia’s voice was casual, almost too casual, just tossing off the idea.

Rose wiggled out of Melia’s arms, looked back and forth between Healer and hertasi. “No, nothing’s wrong,” Melia hastened to add, and she smoothed the girl’s tangled chestnut hair gently back out of her wild hazel eyes. “You are not in trouble, please don’t think so. Quite the opposite . . . Rork needs a good, strong helper. I’m picking you special.”

A low blush worked up from Rose’s bony chest up her throat and into her cheeks. Her lips curled in a small, perfect smile. Rose swallowed, nodded. And she reached her hand out to shake Rork’s own. He was careful to keep his sharp claws well out of the way of her little palm.

“Rose, let’s give you some lunch here, then I will tell you where to find Rork and you can meet him after.”

Rose didn’t let go of Rork’s clawed, scaly hand. Instead, she gently squeezed, and her smile broadened.

Rork didn’t want to let go, either. “Or how is this, I will get her some lunch at my headquarters,” he said. “I get the sense this child loves the quiet the same way I do. We will have a quiet time first, and then we will get started.”

Rose nodded, her eyes sparkling now. “Thank you,” she said, her voice scratchy and warm.

“It’s decided then,” Melia said. “You are doing a great good deed, Rose. The party is not for another day. You may stay with Rork if you prefer, or come back to the Temple at night when your work for the day is done.”

“I will stay,” Rose whispered.

The girl was a mystery. Rork loved mysteries, as long as they stayed that way and didn’t trouble him about his daily business. The world was full of these delightful, inexplicable beauties. Why did the flowers open in the morning, then close at night? Why was there a moon? Rork did not want to destroy the mystery by taking it apart. He enjoyed the not-knowing tremendously.

And now this lovely, shy, mysterious, little lizard girl was coming to stay. Rork would be happy to spend some time with her, and unlike the strange mayhem in the Healer’s Temple, their time together would be peaceful, uneventful, and entertaining.

That was his plan. But, oh, how wrong he was.

• • •

They traveled through the Vale in the heat of the midday. A large yellow and white tufted squirrel with blue eyes followed them as they went, swinging low, staring at them then running away into the looping vines overhead.

“Do you know him?” Rork asked.

Rose shook her head. So the squirrel was a stranger. But quite an attentive one. He disappeared for a while, as they followed the blue path east toward Sparrow and Cloudbrother’s ekele. But once they turned to the red path, going north, the squirrel reappeared.

He clambered down from the trees and stood directly in their path. Most unsquirrel like.

:May I help you?: Rork Spoke, his aura a touch droll.

:I LOVE YOU!: the squirrel shouted back, giving Rork an instant, gigantic headache.

Rork and the squirrel stood across from each other on the path, blinking at each other. It was as if Rork were looking into a squirrel-shaped mirror at a tiny, furry, very loud, and insistent version of himself. It was uncanny, unlike any experience in his life.

Rork shook his head impatiently. “I have important business to conduct, little furry one,” he said, knowing that in all likelihood the little fuzzball would not understand his common speech. “If you would like to join us, be my guest, but we have a busy couple of days ahead of us. Kindly step aside.”

The squirrel blinked, scratched his fuzzy little underarms, but didn’t budge.

With a sigh, Rork advanced upon the squirrel, Rose closely in tow, and gently they sidestepped the squirrel blocking the way. The girl paused as she drew up alongside, and with a careful pointer finger she traced down the squirrel’s tufted little back.

“Good day,” Rork said, a little nervously. He hoped the squirrel wasn’t ill.

The squirrel yawned, stretched, then started marching alongside them, imitating Rork’s bowlegged stride almost perfectly.

Rork’s headache deepened. “Oh, dear. Oh, little squirrel. If you must . . .”

His voice trailed off as he admitted the squirrel couldn’t understand him, and probably didn’t care to understand. Oh, well. He didn’t mean any harm, and certainly there was more important business afoot than an over-friendly rodent.

They drew close to Sparrow’s ekele, and Rork forced his mind to consider the menu for the impending festivities. He would need fish, a goodly haul of fish, and bread, and fresh fruit, and a nice roast, and sweetmeats, and . . .

A little sneeze interrupted his musings. It was Rose, scratching the head of the squirrel and smiling quietly to herself.

Her smile sparked a sudden surge of happiness inside Rork’s hertasi heart. “We must see to a little delight of something for your lunch,” he said, his spirits brimming with happy solicitude. “What could be more important than lunch, and a little visit?”

Rose nodded and smiled more broadly, and right at him. “Would you teach me how to cook?”

“Why, yes! And how to make it beautiful too, that is the most fun part.”

• • •

After a lovely lunch taken outside, Rork and Rose decided upon a short nap in the midday heat. Rork found a sunny spot to bask in, while Rose took a sleeping mat from the ekele into the shade. The squirrel, who had feasted upon grapes and moonberries at lunch, nestled into the crook of the little girl’s neck, and in a trice both had fallen fast asleep, the leaves casting dappled shadows over their peaceful faces.

Rork basked, his eyes half closed against the midday glare. And he considered this girl, this Rose growing in the shade near Sparrow’s ekele.

He considered her mystery.

And then he fell asleep.

• • •

An elaborate smashing sound called Rork out of his slumber. “Rose?” he mumbled, and snorted salt from his nostrils.

Rork cracked his eyes open. And awoke to minor chaos.

The sun had moved from high in the sky to hanging in the trees like a massive golden ball. A cacophony rose from the depths of the ekele in the wake of the crash. It sounded like a multispecies chorale combined with a cattle stampede.

With a groan, Roark stretched his spine in the stimulating heat, flicked his tail in the dirt until he came to full consciousness. He stood to his full height, flourished his pointed snout in the air like a trumpet, fanned out his dewlap, admired the shine of his scaled forearms.

He was Rork. He would indeed prevail. No matter what mayhem he was about to find.

Much restored by his sleep, he turned his attention to the interior of the ekele, though inwardly he braced for the scene that would match the commotion. After a few moments adjusting his eyesight to the relative darkness of the ekele, the setting within filled him with amazement.

Clearly, a lot of somebodies had started helping. “Helping.” They had started by decorating in the main living area, rearranging the comfy chairs and sofas into a massive pillow fort, feathers everywhere, pawprints all over the floor.

The pawprints and bird footprints were multicolored. Red, purple, white, green. Very pretty, until you remembered you were looking at your best friend’s living space, and not a patchwork quilt stitched together by wild beasts.

“Rose . . .” Rork called, his voice unsteady.

He followed the trail of creature prints from the living area into the kitchen set at the back of the ekele. And here he stopped, and could not help laughing. It was either that or scream and run away.

In addition to the squirrel, a gryphon, a baby dyheli (probably a different baby dyheli than the one on fire at the Temple, but Rork wasn’t sure), a murder of crows, and a couple of young humans had joined the party. While Rork had basked, and slept, the small army had gotten into Sparrow’s ekele kitchen and expanded on their “helping” project.

Pots and pans had been flung everywhere. The baby dyheli’s little nubs of twirling horns were decorated with long, limp strands of egg noodles, festooned with wild abandon all over his tufted dappled white hide and angled head. The crows flapped around the half-enclosed space, periodically whapping into the woven palm frond roof and squawking madly. Their feet were dyed with multicolored, vivid rainbow hues, and streaks of color streamed down their backs and over their wings.

Giggles from a small pack of children abruptly stopped when Rork cleared his throat.

“Rose?” his voice was conversational, casual even, but Rork’s nostrils flared and his head bobbed rapidly up and down, the movements of an aggravated male who was agitated and ready to fight.

A small stream of grubby, barefoot human children, the local young inhabitants of the Vale, slipped silently out of the kitchen enclosure and into the thick forest undergrowth obscuring the flagstone path leading to the black stone way.

One of them, a little blond boy Rork recognized, rubbed glittery streaks of some kind of liquid out of his eyes and onto the back of his hands.

“Sorry,” he mumbled under his breath as he sidled away.

Only Rose was left, her face furiously blushing as red as her flower namesake. The baby gryphon sat next to her, contentedly warbling to itself, completely oblivious to the widespread scene of destruction he reposed in.

The little squirrel had completely disappeared.

“What is going on here?” Rork asked.

Rose’s eyes widened into alarmed, lash-fringed circles.

“I-I don’t know,” she stammered in reply. “You went to sleep, and I woke up, and the squirrel and I decided to surprise you by getting started early. The squirrel got very busy, so did I, and somehow, all of a sudden, all of these . . . friends showed up to help.”

Slowly, very slowly, Rork closed his eyes. Took a deep, cleansing breath, cracked his knuckles and swished his tail.

He opened them again. Looked around.

And he just couldn’t help himself for one minute longer.

He burst out laughing, great belly laughs that he hadn’t felt to laugh since his best friend went away, to be a Great One doing Great Things in faraway, unknown, probably life-threateningly dangerous lands.

It was a huge relief. It was a gift.

“If Sparrow could only see you now, oh my goodness!” he finally spluttered, blinking tears out of his great amber eyes, wiping them with the back of his ornately clawed, slender hands.

“I’m sorry, truly, I’m so sorry!” Rose burst into tears. “Why am I such a troublemaker!”

That ended Rork’s flight of merriment dead in its tracks.

Despite his fearsome, toothy appearance, Rork had a huge soft spot for humans in emotional trouble; small, helpless humans the most of all. This little one misunderstood his outburst, and he suspected her tears had a deeper source than their current predicament.

Without a word, Rork drew the girl into his arms, hugged her gently. The murder of crows wheeled around them at high speed, sending dead leaves and spices into the air, whirling like a small dust devil as they funneled up and away.

:We’ll be back for the party!: they collectively Called into Rork’s mind. Crows reminded him of hertasi, in that they spoke in Hive as well as individually. Rork had but recently come to understand the vast majority of humans, even Mages, did not know how to do this themselves.

:We will bring gifts!:

He beamed at his multicolored, madcap visitation of corvids with delight. They, at least, understood the chaos Rose had helped to unleash was fine, because nobody had been hurt, and it was nothing an enterprising hertasi couldn’t set to rights again.

Rork watched them go, the top of the girl’s head tucked securely under his chin, draped in his soft dewlap. Her tears poured out, a tiny bubbling spring of sadness.

Once they were gone, and the gryphon squawked a friendly goodbye and set off as well, Rork drew her gently out. She sniffled and tried to stop crying, but failed.

“You are not a troublemaker, Rose,” he said, his voice soft. “You are a mystery. A magical one, and no mistake. But you do not mean to make trouble. Anybody with eyes in their head to see, can tell.”

“But trouble likes to . . . chase me.”

“Trouble likes to chase everybody. We all have a shadow, my dear, nobody can wish it away. And, honestly, who would like to lose such a constant companion? Trouble has the most to teach us, love. No fear. We will whip this festival of Sparrow into shape. And there will be a great celebration, a great bouquet of gifts. And you and I, we’ll be the chief givers.”

That seemed to do the trick. Rose sniffled, sneezed, and the tears dried up and faded away. Her eyes were puffy, but she was going to be all right.

“And another thing,” Rork said. “If ever you do face a shadow, a trouble, remember you never need to face it all alone. Your friends will help you, even if they are far away.” He thought of Sparrow and sighed fondly. “Your friends are always traveling with you, in your heart. And if you ask for help, you will always receive.”

A low hum interrupted him, and he smiled, Rork’s great, toothy, terrifying smile. “Exhibit A . . . my lovely, lovely Hive. They are here to help. Just like your friends the crows, and the squirrel, and the dyheli, and the gryphon, and the little boys and girls. I called to my clan in my delight and need this morning, and they have come.”

Suddenly, the glade in the Vale was filled with a veritable living gallery of hertasi. Sparrow would have gasped to see them . . . she had never seen so many in one place, and Rork would dare to say that very few humans in the Vale, or anyplace, had ever seen such an assemblage of hertasi appear together, in all of their glorious greatness.

There were his Burtle cousins from the far Purple Swamp. Murk and Burble from the Heartstone Rock crumble. The mighty-tongued Great Blue Skink from the Raven Clan’s great meeting house. And so many more.

Their collective voice sang in a great harmony in Rork’s mind, so perfectly that his forked tongue flickered with pure emotion.

:Dinner! Dinner! Lovely, lovely! Celebration!:

Rork had all the helpers he needed, they could clean and decorate Sparrow’s ekele, then source the food, cook it, plate it, and present it at the Healer’s Temple, in plenty of time for the Great Celebration to proceed.

Now he could relax. And so could Rose.

• • •

It was Sparrow herself who solved the mystery of Rose. Well, not solved, but set to rights, the mystery held securely in a prong like a gem set in a gleaming ring.

The banquet was magnificent, legendary. Acrobats, dancing crows, mischievous squirrels (their friend had brought some of his friends to crash the party), singing hertasi (nobody there had realized how beautifully they could sing, like tropical frogs), feats of Magery, japes and riddles, lots and lots of delicious Sparrow-inspired treats.

And moonlight swimming in the springs.

And at the end, during the party after the feast, Rork introduced his young assistant Rose to the guest of honor. Sparrow was charmed by the girl, of course. And Rork told the story of their culinary adventures, and Sparrow listened gravely, her lips only occasionally tickled with a smile.

“And it all came off perfectly,” Rork finished.

“I am still a troublemaker, but Rork says that’s a good thing,” Rose added helpfully.

Sparrow considered her, smoothed a runaway lock of hair back behind her rosy little shell of an ear. And then she laughed.

“It is indeed good, Rose. You are not beset by many troubles, don’t think of it that way, no. No you have a Gift. A veritable bouquet of Gifts, my girl. You came to the Healers by no accident. Mages have their magics, as do hertasi, as do crows.

“I see it clear,” Sparrow continued. “Your magic is to make the magic of others more. This is a rare and mysterious Gift, one I have never heard of before. Please, come back with me and Cloudbrother and his Companion Abilard to Haven . . . for you truly have a Gift. For Healing, or Magery, or something else, I am not sure. But it is a beautiful mystery. It is uncanny.”

Sparrow did not have to set the gem of Rose’s Gift any more than this, for there was a sudden hush in the merry company of the feast. Rork glanced at the wide-open entrance to the Temple.

There stood Abilard, Cloudbrother’s Companion.

Along with another, smaller Companion, with twinkling eyes and a lush, curling mane.

:Merry!: Abilard Spoke in introduction, clearly into Rork’s nimble mind.

:Welcome Noble Companions!: Rork replied. :I take it you seek a little Rose to adorn your mane, Merry? Look no farther.:

And Rose was Chosen, before all the gathered company. Now, the celebration was not just for Sparrow’s homecoming, but for Rose being Chosen, as well. At long last, Rose would begin the process of coming home to herself, as a Herald.

Not a bad conclusion to a hertasi’s triple batch of moonberry scones.