Dedicated to:
Elizabeth (Betsy) Wollheim
Who said - ”Go for it”
The blue leather saddlebags and a canvas pack, all a-bulging with filthy clothing and miscellaneous gear, landed in the corner of Vanyel's room with three dull thuds. The lute, still in its padded leather case, slithered over the back of one of the two overstuffed chairs and landed with a softer pumph, to rest in the cradle of the worn red seat cushion. Once safely there it sagged, leaning over sideways like a fat, drunken child. The dark leather lute case glowed dully in the mid-morning sun still coming in the single eastward-facing window. Two years of mistreatment had not marred the finish too much, although the case was scuffed here and there, and had been torn and remended with tiny, careful stitches along the belly.
Vanyel grimaced at the all-too-visible tear. Torn? No, no tear would be that even. Say cut, or slashed and it would be nearer the truth. Pray nobody else notices that.
Better the lute case than me ... that came closer than I really want to think about. I hope Savil never gets a good look at it. She'd know what that meant, and she'd have a cat.
Herald-Mage Vanyel took the other chair gracelessly, dropping all his weight at once into the embrace of comfortable upholstered arms.
Home at last. Havens, I sound like the pack hitting the corner.
“O-o-oh.” Vanyel leaned back, feeling every muscle in his body crying out with long-ignored aches and strains. His thoughts fumbled their way into his conscious mind through a fog of utter exhaustion. He wanted, more than anything, to close his gritty eyes. But he didn't dare, because the moment he did, he'd fall asleep.
Someday I'm going to remember I'm not sixteen anymore, and keep in mind that I can't stay up till all hours, then rise with the dawn, and not pay for it.
A few moments ago his Companion Yfandes had fallen asleep, standing up in the stable, while he was grooming her. They'd started out on this last leg of their journey long before dawn this morning, and had pushed their limits, eating up the last dregs of their strength just to get to the sanctuary of “home” the sooner.
Gods. If only I would never have to see the Karsite Border again.
No chance of that. Lord and Lady, if you love me, just give me enough time to get my wind back. That's all I ask. Time enough to feel like a human again, and not a killing machine.
The room smelled strongly of soap and the beeswax used to polish the furniture and wall paneling. He stretched, listening to his joints crack, then blinked at his surroundings.
Peculiar. Why doesn't this feel like home? He pondered for a moment, for it seemed to him that his modest, goldenoak-paneled quarters had the anonymous, overly-neat look of a room without a current occupant. I suppose that's only logical, he thought reluctantly. They haven't been occupied, much. I've been living out of my packs for the last year, and before that I was only here for a couple of weeks at a time at most. Gods.
It was a comfortable, warm-and quite average-room. Like any one of a dozen he'd tenanted lately, when he'd had the luxury of a guest room in some keep or other. Sparsely furnished with two chairs, a table, a desk and stool, and a wardrobe, a curtained, canopied bed in the corner. That bed was enormous-his one real indulgence: he tended to toss restlessly when-and if-he slept.
He smiled wryly, thinking how more than one person had assumed he'd wanted that particular bed for another reason entirely. They'd never believe it if I told them Savil gets more erotic exercise than I do. Oh, well. Maybe it's a good thing I don't have a lover; he'd wake up black and blue. Always assuming I didn't strangle him by accident during a nightmare.
But other than that bed, the room was rather plain. Only one window, and that one without much of a view. It certainly wasn't the suite he could have commanded-
But what good is a suite when I hardly see Haven, much less my own room?
He put his feet up on the low, scarred table between the chairs, in defiance of etiquette. He could have requisitioned a footstool-
But somehow I never think of it until I'm five leagues down the road headed out. There's never enough time for-for anything. Not since Elspeth died, anyway. And gods-please let me be wrong about Randale.
His eyes blurred; he shook his head to clear them. Only then did he see the pile of letters lying beside his feet, and groaned at the all-too-familiar seal on the uppermost one. The seal of Withen, Lord of Forst Reach and Vanyel's father.
Twenty-eight years old, and he still makes me feel fifteen, and in disgrace. Why me? he asked the gods, who did not choose to answer. He sighed again, and eyed the letter sourly. It was dauntingly thick.
Hellfire. It-and every other problem-can damned well wait until after I've had a bath. A bath, and something to eat that doesn't have mold on it, and something to drink besides boiled mud. Now, did I leave anything behind the last time I was here that was fit to wear?
He struggled to his feet and rummaged in the wardrobe beside his bed, finally emerging with a shirt and breeches of an old and faded blue that had once been deep sapphire. Thank the gods. Not Whites, and I won't be wearing Whites when I get home. It's going to be so nice to wear something that doesn't stain when you look at it. (Unfair, nagged his conscience-properly treated, the uniform of Heraldic Whites was so resistant to dirt and stains that the non-Heralds suspected magic. He ignored the insistent little mental voice.) Although I don't know what I'm going to do for uniforms. Dear Father would hardly have known his son, covered in mud, stubbled, ashes in his hair.
He emptied the canvas pack on the floor and rang for a page to come and take the mishandled uniforms away to be properly dealt with. They were in exceedingly sad shape; stained with grass and mud, and blood-some of it his own-some were cut and torn, and most were nearly worn-out.
He'd have taken one look and figured I'd been possessed. Not that the Karsites didn't try that, too. At least near-possession doesn't leave stains . . . not on uniforms, anyway. What am I going to do for uniforms? Oh, well-worry about that after my bath.
The bathing room was at the other end of the long, wood-paneled, stone-floored hallway; at mid-morning there was no one in the hall, much less competing for the tubs and hot water. Vanyel made the long trudge in a half-daze, thinking only how good the hot water would feel. The last bath he'd had-except for the quick one at the inn last night-had been in a cold stream. A very cold stream. And with sand, not soap.
Once there, he shed his clothing and left it in a heap on the floor, filled the largest of the three wooden tubs from the copper boiler, and slid into the hot water with a sigh-
-and woke up with his arms draped over the edges and going numb, his head sagging down on his chest, and the water lukewarm and growing colder.
A hand gently touched his shoulder.
He knew without looking that it had to be a fellow Herald-if it hadn't been, if it had even been someone as innocuous as a strange page, Vanyel's tightly-strung nerves and battle-sharpened reflexes would have done the unforgivable. He'd have sent the intruder through the wall before he himself had even crawled out of the depths of sleep. Probably by nonmagical means, but-magical or nonmagical, he suddenly realized that he could easily hurt someone if he wasn't careful.
He shivered a little. I'm hair triggered. And that's not good.
“Unless you plan on turning into a fish-man,” Herald Tantras said, craning his head around the partition screening the tub from the rest of the bathing room and into Vanyel's view with cautious care, “you'd better get out of that tub. I'm surprised you didn't drown yourself.”
“So am I.” Vanyel blinked, tried to clear his head of cobwebs, and peered over his shoulder. “Where did you pop out of?''
“Heard you got back a couple of candlemarks ago, and I figured you'd head here first.” Tantras chuckled. “I know you and your baths. But I must admit I didn't expect to find you turning yourself into a raisin.”
The dark-haired, dusky Herald came around the side of the wooden partition with an armload of towels. Vanyel watched him with a half-smile of not-too-purely artistic appreciation; Tantras was as graceful and as handsome as a king stag in his prime. Not shay'a'chern, but a good friend, and that was all too rare.
And getting rarer, Vanyel thought soberly. Though, Havens, I haven't exactly had my fill of romantic companionship either, lately . . . well, celibacy isn't going to kill me. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Gods, I should apply for the priesthood.
There was concern in the older Herald's deep, soft eyes. “You don't look good, Van. I figured you'd be tired-but from the way you passed out here-it must have been worse out there than I thought.”
“It was bad,” Vanyel said shortly, reluctant to discuss the past year. Even for the most powerful Herald-Mage in the Circle, holding down the positions of five other Herald-Mages while they recovered from magical attack, drainage, and shock was not a mission he wanted to think about for a long while, much less repeat. He soaped his hair, then ducked his head under the water to rinse it.
“So I heard. When I saw you playing dead in the tub, I sent a page up to your room with food and wine and sent another one off for some of my spare uniforms, since we're about the same size.''
“Name the price, it's yours,” Vanyel said gratefully, levering himself out of the tub with a groan and accepting the towel Tantras held out to him. “I have nothing worth wearing right now in the way of uniforms.”
“Lord and Lady-” the other Herald swore, looking at him with shock. “What have you been doing to yourself?”
Vanyel paused in his vigorous toweling, looked down, and was a little surprised himself at the evidence of damage. He'd always been lean-but now he was whipcord and bone and nothing else. Then there were the scars- knife and sword scars, a scoring of parallel claw marks on his chest where that demon had tried to remove his heart. Burn marks, too-he was striped from neck to knee with three thin, white lines where mage-lightning had gotten through his shields. And there were a few other scars that were souvenirs of his bout with a master of mage-fire.
“My job. Living on the edge. Trying to convince the Karsites that I was five Herald-Mages. Playing target.” He shrugged dismissively. “That's all. Nothing any of you wouldn't have done if you could have.”
“Gods, Van,” Tantras replied, with a hint of guilt. “You make me feel like a shirker. I hope to hell it was worth what you went through.”
Vanyel compressed his lips into a tight line. “I got the bastard that got Mardic and Donni. And you can spread that as official.”
Tantras closed his eyes for a moment, and bowed his head. “It was worth it,” he said faintly.
Vanyel nodded. “Worth every scar. I may have accomplished something else; that particular necromancer had a flock of pet demons and I turned them back on Karse when I killed him.” He smiled, or rather, stretched his mouth a little. “I hope it taught the Karsites a lesson. I hope they end up proscribing magic altogether on their side of the Border. If you can believe anything out of Karse, there's rumor that they're doing just that.”
Tantras looked up again. “Hard on the Gifted-” he ventured.
Vanyel didn't answer. He was finding it very hard to feel sorry for anyone on the Karsite side of the Border at the moment. It was uncharitable, un-Heraldic, but until certain wounds healed-and not the physical ones-he was inclined to be uncharitable.
“There's more silver in your hair, too,” Tantras observed, head to one side.
Vanyel made a face, just as glad of the change in subject. “Node-magic. Every time I tap into it, more of my roots go white. Moondance k'Treva was pure silver by the time he was my age; I guess I'm more resistant.” He smiled, it was faint, but a real smile this time. “One nice thing; all those white hairs give me respect I might not otherwise get!”
He finished drying himself and wrapped the towel around his waist. Tantras grimaced again-probably noting the knife wound on his back-and handed him another towel for his hair.
“You already paid that forfeit, by the way” he said, plainly trying to lighten the conversation.
Vanyel stopped toweling off his hair and raised an eyebrow.
“You stood duty for me last Sovvan.”
Vanyel clamped down on the sudden ache of loss and shrugged again. You know you get depressed when you’re tired, fool. Don't let it sink you. “Oh, that. Any time, Tran. You know I don't like Sovvan-night celebrations, I can't handle the memorial services, and I don't like to be alone, either. Standing relay duty was as good as anything else to keep my mind off things.”
He was grateful when Tantras didn't press the subject. “Think you can make it to your room all right?” the other asked. “I said you don't look good; I mean it. Falling asleep in the tub like that-it makes me wonder if you're going to pass out in the hall.”
Vanyel produced something more like a dry cough than a laugh. “It's nothing about a week's worth of sleep won't cure,” he replied. “And I'm sorry I won't be able to stand relay for you this year, but I have the Obligatory Familial Visit to discharge. I haven't been home in- gods, four years. And even then I didn't stay for more than a day or two. They're going to want me to make the long stay I've been promising. There's a letter from my father waiting for me that's probably reminding me of just that fact.”
“Parents surely know how to load on the guilt, don't they? Well, if you're out of reach, Randale won't find something for you to do-but is that going to be rest?” Tantras looked half-amused and half-worried. “I mean, Van, that family of yours-”
“They won't come after me when I'm sleeping-which I fully intend to do a lot of.'' He pulled on his old, clean clothing, reveling in the feel of clean, soft cloth against his skin, and started to gather up his things. “And the way I feel right now, I'd just as soon play hermit in my rooms when I get there-”
“Leave that stuff,” Tantras interrupted. “I'll deal with it. You go wrap yourself around a decent meal. You don't look like you've had one in months.”
“I haven't. They don't believe in worldly pleasures down there. Great proponents of mortification of the flesh for the good of the spirit.” Vanyel looked up in time to catch Tantras' raised eyebrow. He made a tragic face. “I know what you're thinking. That, too. Especially that. Gods. Do you have any idea what it was like, being surrounded by all those devastatingly handsome young men and not daring to so much as flirt with one?”
“Were the young ladies just as devastatingly attractive?” Tantras asked, grinning.
“I would say so-given that the subject's fairly abstract for me.”
“Then I think I can imagine it. Remind me to avoid the Karsite Border at all costs.”
Vanyel found himself grinning back-another real smile, and from the heart. “Tran, gods-I'm glad to see you. Do you know how long it's been since I've been able to talk freely to someone? To joke, for Lady's sake? Since I was around people who don't wince away when I'm minus a few clothes?”
“Are you on about that again?” Tantras asked, incredulously. “Do you really think that people are nervous around you because you're shaych?”
“I'm what?” Van asked, startled by the unfamiliar term.
“Shaych. Short for that Hawkbrother word you and Savil use. Don't know where it came from, just seems like one day everybody was using it.” Tantras leaned back against the white-tiled wall of the bathing room, folding his arms across his chest in a deceptively lazy pose. “Maybe because you're as prominent as you are. Can't go around calling the most powerful Herald-Mage in the Circle a 'pervert,' after all.” He grinned. “He might turn you into a frog.”
Vanyel shook his head again. “Gods, I have been out of touch to miss that little bit of slang. Yes, of course because I'm shay'a'chern, why else would people look at me sideways?”
“Because you scare the hell out of them,” Tantras replied, his smile fading. “Because you are as powerful as you are; because you're so quiet and so solitary, and they never know what you're thinking. Havens, these days half the Heralds don't even know you're shaych; it's the Mage-Gift that makes them look at you sideways. Not that anybody around here cares about your bedmates a quarter as much as you seem to think. They're a lot more worried that-oh-a bird will crap on you and you'll level the Palace.”
“Me?” Vanyel stared at him in disbelief.
“You. You've spent most of the last four or five years in combat zones. We know your reflexes are hypersensitive. Hellfire, that's why I came in here to wake you up instead of sending a page. We know what you can do. Van, nobody I've ever heard of was able to take the place of five Herald-Mages by himself! And the very idea of one person having that much power at his beck and call scares most people witless!”
Vanyel was caught without a reply; he stared at Tantras with the towel hanging limply from his hands.
“I'm telling you the plain truth, Van. I wish you'd stop wincing away from people with no cause. It's not your sexual preferences that scare them, it's you. Level the Palace, hell-they know you could level Haven if you wanted to-”
Vanyel came out of his trance of astonishment. “What do they think I am?” he scoffed, picking up his filthy shirt.
“They don't know; they haven't the Mage-Gift and most of them weren't trained around Herald-Mages. They hear stories, and they think of the Mage Wars-and they remember that once, before there was a Valdemar, there was a thriving land to the far south of us. Now the Dhorisha Plains are there-a very large, circular crater. No cities, no sign there ever was anything, not even two stones left standing. Nothing but grass and nomads. Van, leave that stuff; I'll pick up after you.”
“But-” Vanyel began to object.
“Look, if you can spend most of a year substituting for five of us, then one of us can pick up after you once in a while.” Tantras took the wet towels away from him, cutting off his objections before he could make them. “Honestly, Van.”
“If you insist.” He wanted to touch Tantras' mind to see if he really meant what he said. It seemed a fantastical notion.
But Tran had not invited, and a Herald did not intrude uninvited into another's mind, not unless there was an overriding need to do so.
“Is ... that how you feel?” he asked in a whisper.
“I'm not afraid of you, but let me tell you, I wouldn't have your powers for any reward. I'm glad I'm just a Herald and not a Herald-Mage, and I don't know how you survive it. So just let me spoil you a little, all right?”
Vanyel managed a weak smile, troubled by several things-including that “just a Herald” business. That implied a division between Heralds and Herald-Mages that made him very uneasy. “All right, old friend. Spoil me. I'm just tired enough to let you.”
The fog of weariness came between him and and the corridor, and he was finding it all he could do to put one foot in front of the other. Lady, bless you for Tantras. There aren't many even among the Heralds I trained with that will accept what I am as easily as he does. Whether it's that I'm a Mage or that I'm fey-although I can't see why Mage-powers would frighten someone. We've had Herald-Mages since there was a Valdemar.
I wish he was as right about that as he thinks he is; I still think it's the other thing.
The stone was so cool and soothing to his feet; it eased the ache in them that was the legacy of too many hours-days-weeks-when he had slept fully clothed, ready to defend the Border in the blackest, bleakest hours of the night.
That reminder brought bleaker thoughts. Every time he came back to Haven it was with the knowledge that there would be fewer familiar faces to greet him. So many friends gone-not that I ever had many to begin with. Lancir, Mardic and Donni, Regen, Dorilyn. Wulgra, Kat, Pretor. All gone. Not many left besides Tran. There's- Jays. Savil. Andy, and he's a Healer. Erdane, Breda, a couple of the other Bards. How can I be anything but solitary? Every year I'm more alone.
True to Tantras' promise, Vanyel found an overflowing plate waiting for him beside the pile of letters. It held a pair of meat pies, soft white cheese, and apples, and beside the generous plate of food was an equally generous pitcher of wine.
I'd better be careful with that stuff. I'm not used to it anymore, and I bet it'll go straight to my head.
He stifled a groan as he sagged down into the empty chair, poured a goblet of wine, then picked up the topmost letter. He broke the seal on it, gritted his teeth, and started in.
To Herald-Mage Vanyel from Lord Withen Ashkevron of Forst Reach: My dear Son-
Vanyel nearly dropped the letter in surprise, and reread the salutation to be certain that his eyes hadn't played tricks on him.
Great good gods. “My dear Son?” I haven't been “dear,” much less “Son” for-years! I wonder what happened-
He took a long breath and continued.
Though you might find it difficult to believe, I am pleased and grateful that you are going to be able to find the time for an extended visit home. Despite our differences, and some hard words between us, I am very proud of my Herald-Mage son. I may not care for some aspects of your life, but I respect your intelligence and good sense. I confess, Vanyel, that your old father has need of some of that good sense. I need your help in dealing with your brother Mekeal.
Vanyel nodded to himself with cynicism. Now we come to it.
He has made some excessively poor judgments since I turned over the management of some of the lands to him, but this spring he has outdone himself. He's taken the cattle-good, solid income-producing stock-off Long Meadow and installed sheep down there instead!
Vanyel chuckled. Whoever Withen had roped into being his scribe on this letter had reproduced his father's tones perfectly. He could feel the indignation rising from the page.
And as for that so-called “Shin'a'in warsteed” he bought-and a more ill-tempered, ill-favored beast I never saw-the less said, the better! All these years I spent in building up the Forst Reach line-and he'll undo it all with one unmanageable stud! I feel sure he'll listen to you; you're a Herald-the King himself trusts your judgment. The boy has me ready to throw him down the blamed well!
Vanyel shifted a little and reached for a wedge of cheese. This letter was proving to be a lot more enlightening than he'd had any reason to expect.
This is no time for Meke to be mucking about; not when there may be trouble across the Border. Maybe you remember that alliance marriage between Deveran Remoerdis of Lineas and Ylyna Mavelan of Baires? The one that brought a halt to the Linean-Baires war, and that brought that minstrel through here that you were so taken with as a boy? It doesn't seem to be working out. There've been rumors for years that the oldest child was a bastard-now Deveran seems to have given substance to those rumors; he's disinherited the boy in favor of the next in line. In some ways I can't blame him too much; even if the lad didn't look so much like his uncle-I've seen both the boy and the man, and the resemblance is uncanny-the rumors alone would have been enough to make his inheritance shaky. I wouldn't trust that entire Mavelan family, frankly. A pack of wizardly snakes, the lot of them, the only time they stop striking at each other is when they take on an outsider. I only thank the gods that they've stayed at each other's throats all this time. But there've been some nasty noises out of them about Tashir's disinheritance and if it gets to be more than noises, we may have trouble across the Border. Your brother is all fired up for a war, by the way. Gods, that is the last thing we need. I just thank the Lady that Randale had the good sense to send a plain Herald into Lineas as envoy, and not a Herald-Mage. A good solid Herald might be able to keep this from growing into another feud like the one the marriage was supposed to stop in the first place. The Lineans will certainly be far more inclined to listen to a plain Herald; they don't trust anything that smacks of wizardry, and given what the Mavelans did to them, who can blame them ?
Vanyel bit his lip, the half-eaten scrap of cheese dangling forgotten from his fingers. Withen was showing a great deal more political astuteness than he'd ever given his father credit for. But this business in Lineas -
Please, he sent up a silent prayer. Not now -
It's evidently worrisome enough that Randale sent your sister Lissa and her Guard Company to keep a cross-Border eye on the Mavelans. You'd know what that would mean better than your old father, I think. If we're lucky and things stay calm, perhaps she can slip off for a few days' visit herself. I know you'd both like that. By the way - I hope you aren't planning on bringing any of your -friends-home with you, are you? You know it would upset your mother. You wouldn't want to upset your mother. By the hand of Radevel Ashkevron and my seal, Lord Withen Ashkevron.
Vanyel grimaced, dropped the letter back down on the table, and reached for the wine to take the bitter taste of those last words out of his mouth. He held the cool metal of the goblet to his forehead for a moment, an automatic reaction to a pain more emotional than physical.
:He doesn't mean to hurt, Chosen.: Yfandes' mind-voice touched the bitterness, but could not soothe it.
:Awake again, dearling? You should sleep-:
:Too much noise,: she objected. .'Equitation lessons, and I'm too tired to find a quiet corner of the Field. I'll just stand here by the stable and let the sun bake my sore muscles and wait for the babies to go away. Your father truly does not mean to hurt you.:
Vanyel sighed, and picked up a meat pie, nibbling the flaky crust listlessly. :I know that. It doesn't stop it from hurting. If I weren't so tired, it probably wouldn 't hurt as much. If I weren't so tired, it might even be funny,: He swallowed another gulp of wine, painfully aware that even the simple act of chewing was becoming an effort He put the pie down.
:You have nothing left,: she stated. :No reserves at all. :
:That's ridiculous, love. It's just that last push we made. And if I haven't anything left, then neither have you-:
:Not true. I may be spent physically, but you are spent emotionally, magically, mentally. Chosen, beloved, you have not spared yourself since Elspeth Peacemaker died.:
:That's because nobody had a choice,: he reminded her, reaching for a piece of cheese, but holding it up and staring at it, not eating it, seeing other times and places.
:Everybody else has been pushed just as hard. The moment poor Randale took the throne that fragile peace she had made for us fell to pieces. We had no warning it was going to come to that. Mardic and Donni-:
The cold hand of grief choked his throat. The lifebonded couple who had been such steadfast friends and supporters to him had been two of the first victims of the Karsite attacks. He could feel the echo of his grief in the mourning of Yfandes' mind-voice.
:Poor children. Goddess hold them-:
:'Fandes - at least they died together. I - could wish-: he cut off the thought before he could distress her. He contemplated the white wedge of cheese in his hand as if he had never seen anything like it, and then blinked, and began nibbling at it, trying to force the food around the knot of sorrow blocking his throat. He had to eat. He'd been surviving on handfuls of parched corn, dried fruit, and dried beef for too long. He had to get his strength back. It wouldn't be long before Randale would need him again. Well, all he really needed was a couple of weeks of steady meals and sleep. . . .
:You ask too much of yourself.:
:Who, me? Strange thoughts from a Companion. Who was it who used to keep nagging me about duty?: He tried to put a measure of humorous teasing into his own mind-voice, but it felt flat.
:But you cannot be twenty places at once, Chosen. You are no longer thinking clearly. :
The cheese had finally migrated inside him, and most of the lump in his throat was gone. He sighed and reached for the meat pie again. With enough wine to help, he might be able to get that down, too.
The trouble was, 'Fandes was right. For the past few months he'd been reduced to a level where he really wasn't thinking much at all-just concentrating on each step as it came, and trying to survive it. It had been like climbing a mountain at the end of a long and grueling race; just worrying about one handhold at a time. Not thinking about the possibility of falling, and not able to think about what he'd do when he got to the top. If he got to the top. If there was a top.
Stupid, Herald. Looking at the bark and never noticing the tree was about to fall on you.
The sun coming in his window had crept down off the chair and onto the floor, making a bright square on the brown braided rug. He chewed and swallowed methodically, not really tasting what he was eating, and stared at the glowing square, his mind going blank and numb.
:Randale uses you beyond your strength, because of the nodes,: Yfandes said accusingly, breaking into his near - trance. :You should say something. He'd stop if he realized what he was doing to you. If you were like other Heralds, unable to tap them-:
:If I were like other Heralds, the Karsites would be halfway to Haven now, instead of only holding the disputed lands,: he replied mildly. :Dearest, there is no choice. I lost my chance at choices a long time ago. Besides, I'm not as badly off as you think. All I need is a bit of rest and I'll be fine. We're damned lucky I can use the nodes- and that I don't need to rest to recharge.:
:Except that you must use your power to focus and control-:
He shook his head. :Beloved, I appreciate what you're, telling me, but this isn't getting us anywhere. I have to do what I'm doing; I'm a Herald. It's what any of the others would do in my place. It's what 'Lendel-:
Grief-he fought it, clenching his hand hard on the arm of his chair as he willed his emotions into control. Control yourself, Herald. This is just because you're tired, it's maudlin, and it doesn't do you or anyone else any good.
:I could wish you were less alone. :
:Don't encourage me in self-pity, love. It's funny, isn't it?: he replied, his lips twitching involuntarily, though not with amusement. :Dear Father seems to think I've been seducing every susceptible young man from here to the Border, and I've been damned near celibate. The last was-when?: The weeks, the months, they all seemed to; blur together into one long endurance trial. A brief moment of companionship, then a parting; inevitable, given his duties and Jonne's.
:Three years ago,: Yfandes supplied, immediately. :That rather sweet Guardsman.:
Vanyel remembered the person, though not the time.
“Hello. You’re The Herald-Mage, aren't you ?''
Vanyel looked up from the map he was studying, and smiled. He couldn't help it-the diffident, shy smile the Guardsman wore begged to be answered.
“Yes-are you-''
“Guardsman Jonne. Your guide. I was born not half a league from here. “ The guileless expression, the tanned face and thatch of hair, the tiny net of humor lines about the thoughtful hazel eyes, all conspired to make Vanyel like this man immediately.
“Then you, friend Jonne, are the direct answer to my prayers,” he said.
Only later, when they were alone, did he learn what other prayers the Guardsman had an answer for-
:Jonne. Odd for such a tough fighter to be so diffident, even gentle. Though why he should have been shy, when he was five years older and had twice my -uh- experience-:
:Your reputation, beloved. A living legend came down off his pedestal and looked to him for company.: Yfandes sent him an image of a marble saint - statue hopping out of its niche and wriggling its eyebrows in a come - hither look. There was enough of a tired giggle in her mind-voice to get an equally tired chuckle out of him. But he sobered again almost immediately. :And that lasted how long? Two months? Three? Certainly not more.:
:You were busy - you had duties-both of you. It was your duties that parted you.:
:I was,: he replied bitterly, :a fool. More than duties would have parted us in time. I know exactly what I'm trying to do-when I admit it to myself. I'm trying to replace 'Lendel. I can't; I can't ever, so why do I even bother to try? A love like that happens once in a lifetime, and I'm not doing myself or my would - be partners any favor by trying to recreate it. I know it, and once the first glow wears off, they know it. And it isn't fair to them.:
Silence from Yfandes. There really wasn't much she could say. He was left to contemplate the inside of his own thoughts, as faint sounds of distant people and a bit of birdsong drifted in his window.
Damn it, I'm feeling sorry for myself again. Heralds are all lonely; it isn't just me. We’re different; made different by our Gifts, made even more so by the Companions, then driven even farther away from ordinary people by this fanatic devotion to duty of ours. Herald-Mages are one step lonelier than that. He couldn't help himself; the next thought came automatically, despite his resolution not to fall into a morass of self - pity. Then there's me. Between the level of my Gift and my sexual preferences--
He buried his face in his free hand. Gods. I am a fool. I have 'Fandes. She loves me in a way no one else ever will or ever did, except 'Lendel. That ought to be enough. It really ought-if I wasn't so damned selfish.
She interrupted his thoughts. :Van, you almost need a friend more than a lover. A different kind of friend than me; one that can touch you. You need to be touched, you humans -: Her mind-voice trailed off, grew dim, in the way that meant she was losing her battle to fatigue and had fallen asleep again.
“You humans.” That phrase said it all. That was the telling difference, he realized suddenly. The telling lack.
Yfandes was not human-and she never felt exactly the way a human would. There was always the touch of the | “other” about her, and the strange feeling he got, some - times, that she was hiding something, some secret that she could only share with another Companion. It was not a comfortable feeling. He was just as glad she wasn't awake to pick it up from him.
He dragged himself up out of the depths of his chair to rummage paper and a pen and inkpot out of his desk. He slouched back down into the cushions and chewed thoughtfully on the end of the pen, trying to compose something that wouldn't set Withen off.
To Lord Withen Ashkevron of Forst Reach from Herald-Mage Vanyel Ashkevron.
So far, so good.
Dear Father: I'm sorry I've had to put off spending any length of time at home - but duty must always come before anything else, and my duty as a Herald is to the orders of my King.
He licked his lips, wondering if that was a bit excessively priggish. Probably not. And I don't think I'll say anything about how visits of less than a day keep Mother from having vapors at me. He reached for the goblet again, and another swallow of wine, before continuing.
As for Meke, I'll do my best with him, Father. You must remember though, that although I am a Herald I am also his brother - he may be no more inclined to listen to me than he does to you. With regard to your news about Baires and Lineas - may the gods help us - I have seen far too much of conflict of late. I was praying for some peace, and now you tell me we may have a Situation on our very doorstep. Unless Randale asks me to intervene, there isn't much I can do. Let us hope it doesn't come to that. I promise I will try to put some sense into Meke's head about that as well; perhaps when he has heard some of what I have seen, a war will no longer seem quite so attractive. Perhaps when he sees some of what war has done to me-| no, Father, I was not badly hurt, but I picked up an injury or two that left scars. It may be that will impress him.
He closed his eyes and carefully picked out the least loaded words he could think of for the next sentence. When he thought he had it, he concentrated on setting it carefully down on the paper so that there could be no mistake.
With regard to my - friends; I promised you ten years ago that I would never indulge in anything that you did not approve of or that made you uncomfortable under your roof. Do you still find it so difficult to believe that I would keep my word?
He nobly refrained from adding “Odd, no one else seems to have that problem.” That would not serve any purpose, and would only make his father guilty, and then angry.
I do have a request to make of you, and a reminder of a promise you made to me at the same time. You pledged to keep Mother from flinging young women at me - under other conditions I would not feel that I needed to remind you of this promise, but I truly cannot handle that particular situation this time, Father. I'm exhausted; you can't know how exhausted. All I really want is some peace, some quiet time to rest and catch up with the family matters. Please do me this one small favor; I don't think it's too much to ask. Yours, Vanyel.
He folded the letter and sealed it quickly, before he had a chance to add a postscript to that temptingly empty space at the bottom. All I want from you and Mother is to be left alone. I need that rest. Before I fall on my face.
He picked up the second letter, and heaved a sigh of relief. Liss. Oh, bless you, big sister. My antidote to Father.
To Herald-Mage Vanyel Ashkevron from Guard - Captain Lissa Ashkevron: Dearest Van - if half of what I've been hearing about you is true, I'm tempted to abandon my command and kidnap you and hide you someplace until you've had some rest! Thank the gods somebody saw enough reason to give you a leave! And before you bleat to me about “duty,” just you remember that if you kill yourself with overwork you won't be around to do that duty!
Vanyel smiled, biting his lip to keep from chuckling. Good old Liss!
I should tell you what's going on out here, since you may be riding right into another hotbed of trouble. Deveran of Lineas has disinherited his eldest. The boy supposedly has mage-power, which, since his mother does not, is being read that he is probably a bastard. The Uneans in any case are not likely to allow anyone with Mage-Gifts to rule over them-but this Tashir is altogether too like his Uncle Vedricfor comfort. And Vedric is protesting the tacit slur on his “good name” - not that he has one - and is being backed by the entire Mavelan Clan. I suppose it is a bit much to imply that your brother-in-law was fornicating with his own sister before your marriage to her. Havens bless - talk about soiled goods!
At any rate, I suspect there's far more to it than that; what, I don't know, but the Mavelans seldom unite for anything and they're uniting on this one. I much doubt it's over concern for Vedric's reputation or tender feelings for Tashir. My guess is there's another attempt at acquiring Lineas in the offing - but since they're both clients-by-alliance to Valdemar, the Mavelans can't just begin flinging mage-fire over there. Randale would definitely take exception to that.
So here we are, camped on the Border, and watching for one false note. What really worries me is that it's Vedric who's fronting this; they're all snakes, but he's a viper. The only reason he's not Lord Mavelan is because his brother's been very lucky - or smart enough to buy some really good spies and bodyguards. Vedric is definitely the most ambitious of the lot; my guess is he's been promised Lineas if he can get it quietly. Through Tashir, perhaps.
Vanyel found his eyebrows rising with every sentence. Lissa had come a long way from the naive swordswoman who had accepted that commission in the Guard. She was a lot more politically astute than Van would have dreamed-which gave him the second surprise of the day. First Father, then Liss - no bad thing, either. No one living in the days of King Randale could aiford to be politically naive.
I hope to steal away long enough to spend at least a little time with you, love, but don't count on it. There's nothing going on overtly, but the whole thing feels very touchy to me; like the moments before the storm hits. If I feel the situation has calmed down enough, I'll come. Be well. Love, Liss.
That was by far and away the easiest letter to answer he'd had in a long time. He scrawled a quick reply of affection, including the fact that he missed her badly, sealed the note, and laid it with the other.
There were two or three other letters, all nothing more than invitations to various entertainments; hunting parties, mostly, at noble estates, parties meant to last a week or more. Despite the fact that he never attended these things - wouldn't have even if he'd had the time - the invitations never stopped coming. He wrote brief, polite notes, and sat back again, staring at the packs in the corner. He knew he had to sort things out of his traveling kit for his trip home - and he just couldn't muster the energy. It was so much easier just to sit and let all the kinks in his muscles respond to the soft – motionless - chair.
A rap at the door interrupted his lethargy; it was the page sent by Tantras, with the promised uniforms. And one more thing; a note - and Vanyel recognized Randale's handwriting on the outside.
Oh, gods - no, no! For a moment he tensed, fearing another call to duty on the eve of his promised chance to rest. Then he saw that it wasn't sealed, not even by Randale's personal seal.
He relaxed. No seal meant it wasn't official. He took it from the wide - eyed page and motioned to the youngster to stay for a reply.
Vanyel; come by after Court and say good-bye - don't come before then; if I'm not being official, I don't have to find something for you to do. Or rather, I don't have to assign you to one of the hundred messes that needs dealing with. I'm sorry you aren't staying, but I understand, and if you weren't planning on leaving, I'd probably tie you to Yfandes and drive you off before I work you to death. But do come by; Jisa wants to see her “Uncle Van” before he vanishes again. Randale.
:If you don't make the time to see her, I'll bite you when you try to saddle me.:
Vanyel had to smother a laugh. :Woke up again, did you? Why is it anything about Jisa snags your attention like nothing else does?:
:Because she's adorable - as most six-year-old humans are not. Besides, she's your daughter.:
:I'm just grateful she doesn't look anything like me,: he replied, sobering. :If she'd gotten these silver eyes of mine, for instance - or black hair when both Randale and Shavri are light brown. Don't you dare let that slip to anyone!:
:Not even another Companion,: she reassured him. :I'm not sure I understand what the problem could be, though. Shavri won't let Randale marry her, so should it matter who Jisa's father is?:
:It would disturb some folk, because they're lifebonded. Besides, we don't want anyone to know that Randale's sterile. If he has to make an alliance marriage - that could ruin it. And there are damn few people even inside the Heralds who would understand someone wanting a child badly enough to go to bed with someone other than her lifebonded.:
Yfandes' mind-voice was hesitant. :Truth, Chosen - in seems to bother you. :
Vanyel leaned farther back into the chair, scrawling replies to the invitations with half his attention. It did bother him, and in a way that made him reluctant to even think about Shavri, sometimes. :It's not that,: he temporized. :lt's just that I'm worried about them.:
But the uneasy feeling continued, an uncomfortable unhappiness that he couldn't define. So he continued hastily, :Poor Shavri; you can't know how much she wanted that child. That was the only reason we did it.:
:You like her. :
:Of course I like her!: he answered-again, just a shade too quickly. :She and Randale-they’re friends; how could I have told them no?: He shied away from examining his feelings too closely. :Besides, it was never anything more than a physical exercise for either of us. No more involved for me, certainly, than dancing. Shavri being a Healer, she could make sure she “caught” the first time. Neither of us were emotionally involved, or ever likely to be.:
:I suppose that could have been a problem,: she replied.
:Exactly. That's why Shavri and Randale asked me to help in the first place: I was perfect; a Herald, already a friend, physically able, and not going to get romantically entangled.:
:Don't you . . . want the child, sometimes?: Yfandes sounded wistful. Vanyel was a bit surprised.
:Frankly, no. I'm not very paternal. It takes more than seed to make a father, love. Great good gods, can you see me as a parent? I'd be awful. Randale has what I lack in that department.: His thoughts darkened, as he recalled what had been bothering him since he scanned the palace when they rode in. :'Fandes, I'm worried about them. When Lancir died - truth, I almost expected Taver to Choose me King's Own. Instead-instead he chose Shavri, and I'm desperately afraid it wasn't because she was Randale's lifebonded. I'm afraid it was because she's a Healer.:
There was a long silence on Yfandes' part. Then, :Why haven't you said something before this?:
:Because - I wasn't sure. I've been wrong about things so many times - and I didn't really want to think about it. Shavri told me once that she was afraid that Randale's sterility was a symptom of something worse. I didn't know what to say, so I told her not to worry about it. But now -you know how sensitive I am; follow my line to Rondale - :
Vanyel could “feel” every Herald and Herald-Mage in Haven, all tied to him by a kind of tenuous network of lines of life-energy, with every identity as plain to him as if he could see the faces. Most Herald-Mages could follow the line to anyone who had shared magic with them; Vanyel could follow the line of anyone who had “shared magic” just by virtue of being a Herald. He had the line that led to Randale without even thinking about it, and “felt” Yfandes follow it down with him, Seeing what he Saw.
:There's-something not right,: she said, after a moment's study. Something out of balance. Physically, not mentally or emotionally. But I can't tell what it is. :
:Exactly,: he agreed. :I felt it as soon as we came in; he wasn't like that when we left. I wish I was a Healer-Adept like Moondance k'Treva or even little Brightstar. They're much better at understanding imbalances than I am.: He rubbed his forehead, his headache starting again.
:I don't think I will ever forget the look on Shavri's face!, when you told her this wasn't the first time you'd done someone the favor of – uh - stud service.: Yfandes' mind-voice colored yellow with laughter, and he was just as pleased to change the subject.
:Moondance and Starwind wanted a child to raise, and neither of them can function with a female,: he reminded her, :and Snowlight was willing to have twins, one for her, one for them.:
:You certainly produce lovely children.:
:Brightstar is a good lad,: he said, shyly. :They’re rightly proud of him - and that's their doing, not mine. But I'm beginning to think I ought to rent myself out. Do you think I could command the same fees as a Shin'a'in stud?:
:Oh, at least,: she giggled, as he reached for pen and paper. :Double if your Gift and beautiful silver eyes breed true!:
He smothered a chuckle, and turned all his attention to the reply the page was waiting for. Dearest friends; of course I'm coming by. Don't you realize that you're my last taste of sanity before I spend the fall with my lunatic family?
He sealed this last note and handed them all to the page to take away. He stood and hauled the packs over to his bed, resisting the temptation to throw himself there instead of his belongings, and began sorting out the items he'd need for his visit home.
There was an awful lot of money in there - money he didn't remember getting, but it all seemed to be in those silly little sealed “stipend” bags, most of them still unopened. At least a half-dozen. Then again - he hadn't had much to spend it on, going from post to post like a madman, never getting regular meals, seldom sleeping in a real bed. He combined all the bags into one, and tossed the empties onto the table for the servants to collect. Then had second thoughts, and added some coins to the pile of empty bags. No harm in leaving a little something for the ones who kept things picked up for him; they did a good job. They could have just sealed the room up until he returned, but they kept it open and aired, even though that meant extra work. He'd acquired a much greater appreciation for good servants since he'd become a Herald.
He returned to his packs; there were a lot of small, valuable trinkets he just barely remembered being gifted with in there.
:Why do people insist on giving me all this stuff?: he asked Yfandes, a little irritably. :It isn't bribery; I'd have sensed that and given it back. :
:I told you,: she replied. :They wanted something of the excitement of your life to rub off on them, so they give you things. That's what it means to be Herald Vanyel, second only to King's Own.:
He made a sound of contempt, as he sorted through the things; jewelry mostly. :I bet they think I have everything I could want. I suppose on a lot of levels, I do. I'm ungrateful, I guess. I don't know why I'm not happier.:
:Vanyel Ashkevron, you are being an idiot,: she replied acidly. - .Stop feeling guilty about feeling like you’re overworked and unhappy! You’re only human!:
:Beloved, I think you know me better than I know myself. : He laughed to keep from wincing; she was cutting a bit too close to the truth. His hand fell on more jewelry, and he changed the subject. :Ah, now these I remember; I bought them honestly.: He selected the three trinkets that he had thought would please Randale, Shavri, and Jisa when he'd seen them; a cloak - clasp for Randale in the form of a vine of Heal-All twining around a beryl the green of a Healer's robes-a pendant that matched for Shavri - and a wonderful little articulated carving of a Companion complete with formal panoply for Jisa. The rest went back into the pack; he would need presents for the mob at Forst Reach, and there was surely enough there to make a start. He paused with the last piece, a crystal mage-focus stone (rose-quartz, sadly, and not a stone he cared to work with) still in his hand.
:Think Savil would like this?:
:You know she would. Rose-quartz is her Prime Focus, and you don't often see a crystal that big or that clear.:
:Good.: He put it with the little gifts on his bedside table.
The bed looked better than ever.
:Courtesy calls,: Yfandes reminded him. :Then you can’t take a nap. Lazy.:
He groaned. :Too true. Oh, well: He picked up the! crystal and slipped it into his pocket. :Savil first. She'll put me in a good mood for the others.:
There was a touch of smile in Yfandes' mind-voice when he slipped out his door and down the hall-still barefoot. :You don't really need to be put in a good mood for Jisa do you ?:
He grinned; although she couldn't see it, she would feel the rise in his spirits. :No-but if Randi ends up giving me an assignment anyway, I won't feel so bad about it!:
Vanyels room was in the “old Palace,” the original building dating back to King Valdemar; in the oldest section still used for Heralds' quarters. Savil's suite was in the new wing added some fourteen years ago. She no longer occupied the suite he'd had when he first was put in her custody by Lord Withen - she didn't teach more than one pupil at a time these days, so having no use whatsoever or a suite with four bedrooms, she'd moved instead to another suite, still on the ground floor, though without an outside door to the gardens; Moving had been something of a relief to both of them; her former quarters held too many sad memories, memories of the painful weeks following Tylendel's suicide.
Vanyel had helped with that move, since it had coincided with their return - him in full Whites - from the Pelagir Hills and the Vale of the Tayledras k'Treva. The touchiest part had been moving the magic Work Room: a transfer of energies rather than physical furniture. Savil had left that to him; since they'd shared magic so intimately and so often he knew her “resonances,” and more importantly, her protections “recognized” him.
The magical transfer had been a kind of graduation exercise for him-not to prove to Savil that he could do it, but to prove his ability - and his training-to the rest of the Herald-Mages. He could still remember Jaysen Kondre's face, when he'd stood in the middle of the new Work Room and “called” the shields and protections - and they'd swarmed up and followed him like bees with a migrating queen, settling into place as solidly as if they'd been cast on the new room from the beginning. Jays had looked as if he'd just swallowed a live fish.
Savil's suite now was of four rooms only; her protages' bedroom, and her bedroom, sitting room and Work Room.
:Van-: Yfandes said sleepily into his mind. :Ask Jays to get you a Work Room this time. You need a Work Room.:
:I thought you were asleep. How many times do I have to tell you that I don't need one before you'll believe me?: he replied.
:But - : Even after all these years, Yfandes still wasn't used to the idea that Vanyel's methods weren't quite the same as the other Herald-Mages'.
:I can use Savil's if I'm working formal magic. When I'm in the field, I don't have time to muck about with formalities.:
:But-:
He shook his head, glad that the only other people about were used to Heralds and the way they seemed to mutter at themselves. When he'd been in the field, he'd frequently gotten knowing looks and averted eyes. :Go back to sleep, 'Fandes.:
She gave up. You ought to know by now that you can's out-stubborn me, sweetling.
Savil was still his master when it came to magic that required long, painstaking setups. Vanyel's talents lay elsewhere. He had neither master nor even peer when a crisis called for instant decision and instant action. It was that ability to use his powers on a moment's notice that made him second - rank to no one in power, and second only to Shavri in the Heraldic Circle; that, and the ability to use the lines and currents of power, and the nodes where they met, as the Ancients had done and the Tay-ledras could still do, though none of the other Herald-Mages except Savil could.
He squinted against the light as he entered the new wing. The paneling of the new section had not had time to darken with age: the halls here seemed very bright, though they no longer smelled “new.”
This section feels even emptier than the old quarters; I don't think more than half the ground-floor rooms have
claimants, there's less than that on the second floor, and none at all on the third. I can't see how we'II ever fill it.
The hall was so quiet he could hear the murmur of voices from one of the farther suites without straining his ears at all. A quick Look gave him identities; Savil and Jays. He paused for a moment and sent the tentative little mind - probe on ahead of him that was the Thought - sensing equivalent of a knock on the door, and got a wave of welcome from both minds before he had taken two steps.
Now sure of his reception - and that he wasn't interrupting anything - he crossed the remaining distance to Savil's door and pushed it open.
Savil, her silver hair braided like a coronet on the top of her head, was enthroned in her favorite chair, a huge, blue monstrosity as comfortable as it was ugly. Tall Jaysen (who always looked bleached, somehow) was half-sprawled on her couch, but he rose at Vanyel's entrance- then did a double take, and staggered back a step, hand theatrically clutched to his chest.
“My heart!” he choked. “Savil, look at your nephew! Barefoot, shaggy - headed, and shabby! Where in Havens has our peacock gone?”
“He got lost somewhere south of Horn,” Vanyel replied. “I last saw him in a tavern singing trios with my mind and my wits. I haven't seen either of them in a while, either.”
“Well, you surely couldn't tell it from the reports we got back,” Jaysen answered, coming quickly forward and clasping his forearms with no sign of the uneasiness he'd once had around the younger Herald. “There's three new songs about you out of your year down south, in case you didn't know. Very accurate, too, amazingly enough.”
Vanyel sighed. “Gods. Bards.”
Jaysen cocked his graying head to the side. “You should be used to it by now. You keep doing things that make wonderful songs, so how can they resist?” He grinned. “Maybe you should stop. Become a bricklayer, for instance.”
Vanyel shook his head and groaned. “It's not my fault!”
Jaysen laughed. “I'd best be off before that trio wrecks my workroom. Did Savil tell you? I've been given the protégés you'd have gotten if you hadn't been in a combat zone. Count your blessings - one's a farmgirl who had much rather be a fighter than a Herald-Mage, thank you; one's a very bewildered young man who can't for a moment imagine why he was Chosen and as a result has no confidence whatsoever; and the third is an overly confident sharpster who's actually a convicted lawbreaker!”
“Convicted of what?” Vanyel asked, amused at the woebegone expression on Jaysen's face.
“Chicanery and fraud. The old shell-and-pea game at Midsummer Fair; he was actually Chosen on the way to his sentencing, if you can believe it.”
“I can believe it. It's keeping you busy, anyway.”
“It is that. It's good to see you, Van.” Jaysen hesitated a moment, and then put one hand on his shoulder. “Vanyel-” He locked his pale, near-colorless blue eyes with Vanyel's, and Van saw disturbance there that made him, uneasy. “Take care of yourself, would you? We need you. I don't think you realize how much.”
He slipped out the door before Vanyel could respond. Van stared after him with his mouth starting to fall open.
“What in the name of sanity was that about?” he asked, perplexed, turning back to his aunt, who had not left the comfortable confines of her chair. She looked up at him measuringly.
“Have you any notion how many Herald-Mages we've lost in the last four years?” she asked, her high - cheekboned face without any readable expression.
“Two dozen?” he hazarded.
Now she looked uneasy. Not much, but enough that he could tell. “Slightly more than half the total we had when you and I came back from k'Treva. We can't replace them fast enough. The Mage-Gift was never that common in the first place, and with a rate of attrition like that - “ She grimaced. “I haven't told you about this before, because there was nothing you could do about it, but after the deaths of the last year, you should know the facts. You become more important with each loss, Van. You were the only one available to send to replace those five casualties on the Karsite Border. You were the only one who could replace all five of them, all by yourself. That's why we couldn't relieve you, lad, or even send you one other Herald-Mage to give you a breather. We simply didn't have anyone to send. Speaking of which - “ She raised one eyebrow as she gave him such a penetrating look that Vanyel felt as if she was seeing past his clothes to count his ribs and mark each of his scars. “ - you look like hell.”
“Can't anyone greet me without saying that?” he complained. “You, Tran, Jays - can't you tell me I'm looking seasoned? Or poetic? Or something?''
“Horseturds; you don't look 'seasoned,' you look like hell. You're too damned thin, your eyes are sunken, and if my Othersenses aren't fooling me, you've got no reserves - you're on your last dregs of energy.”
Vanyel sighed, and folded himself up at her feet, resting his back against the front of her chair and his head against her knee. That was “home,” and always would be - as Savil was more his mother than his birth-mother ever could be. “It's nothing,” he replied. “At least nothing a little sleep won't cure. Come on, you know how you feel at the end of a tour of duty. You're still your old tactful self, Savil.”
“Tact never was one of my strong traits, lad,” she replied, and he felt her hand touch, and then begin stroking his hair. He closed his eyes and relaxed; muscles began to unknot that must have been tensed up for the past year. For the first time in months there was no one depending on him, looking to him for safety. It was nice to feel sheltered and protected, instead of being the shelter and protection. There are times when I'd give anything to be a child again, and this is perilous close to one of them.
“I am mortally tired, Savil,” he admitted, finally. “I need this leave. It won't take long to rest up - but I do need the rest. You know, I didn't ask for this. I didn't want to be a Herald-Mage, I wanted to be a Bard. I sure as Havens didn't ask to be 'Vanyel Dragonsbreath,' or whatever it is they're calling me.”
“Demonsbane.”
The increasingly shrill tone of his own voice finally penetrated his fog. “Savil, I - am I whining?”
She chuckled throatily. “You're whining, son.”
“Hellfire,” he said. “I swear, every time I lose a little sleep, I turn fifteen. A bratty fifteen, at that. I'm amazed you put up with me.”
“Darling boy,” she said, her hand somehow stroking his headache away, “You've earned a little whine. You're thinned out in more ways than one.” She sighed. “That's the one thing I regret most about the past few years - you never do or say anything anymore without thinking about it. That's good for Herald-Mage Vanyel, but I'm not entirely certain about Vanyel Ashkevron.” There was a long silence behind him, then - “There's no joy in you anymore, ke'chara. No joy at all. And that bothers me more than the circled eyes and thin cheeks.”
“We've all endured too much the last five years to be able to afford to do things without thinking. As for joy - is there joy anywhere, anymore? We've all lost so much - so many friends gone - “
Another long silence. “I don't know.”
He cleared his throat, and changed the subject. “I didn't feel a third here. You aren't teaching?”
“Can't; don't have the stamina anymore. Not and be Guardian, too.”
He'd half expected that. And he half expected what quarter. “So they made you Guardian? In whose place?”
“Lancir's. Shavri can't; she tried, and she can't. The four Guardians have to be Herald-Mages. We'd hoped Healing-Gift was close enough, but she didn't pass the last trial. I think she's relieved. It's a pity; the Guardian of the East has always been King's Own, but - “
“In that case, the present I brought you may be handy.” He shifted so that he could get at his pocket, and pulled out the crystal. He closed his hand around it, feeling all the smooth planes and angles pressing into his palm. “Don't you need a Prime Focus stone of your own to set in the Web? I thought you didn't have a good Prime to use for anything but personal stuff.''
“You do, and I put a stone there, but it was a Secondary Focus, an amethyst, and not what I'd have-”
He raised the hand holding the crystal above his head, parting his fingers so she could see it, but not opening his eyes or moving his head.
“Sunsinger's Glory!” she breathed. “Where did you find that?”
“Gifted me,” he said, as the weight left his hand. “People keep giving me things, Savil. An opal or amber I could have used - still - you can use it, so do.”
“I shall.” Her hand began to stroke his hair again, and he heard the little click as she set the stone down on the table beside her. “That will make my job a bit easier.” She chuckled richly. “I thought I was so lucky when it turned out my resonances worked best with rose-quartz-not like Deedre who was stuck with topaz, or Justen, with ruby. Nice, cheap stone, I thought. Won't have to go bankrupt trying to get a good one. Little did I know how hard it was to find a good, unflawed, large crystal!”
“Little did you know you were going to turn out a Guardian,” he replied drowsily.
“Hmm, true.” Her mind touched softly on his. Vanyel, ke'chara, you are not well. There's more silver in this lovely black hair.:
He couldn't lie mind-to-mind, not to her, so he temporized. :The silver's from working with the nodes; you should know that. As for the rest - I'm just weary, teacher - love. Just weary. Too many hours fighting too many battles, and all of it too much alone.:
:Heart - wounded?: Her Mindvoice was etched and frosted with concern.
:No, heart - whole. Just lonely. Only that. You know. I haven't time these days to go courting a friend. Not on battle - lines. And I won't ask for more than friendship - gods, how could I ask anyone to make an emotional commitment to somebody who's out trying daily to get himself killed? I'm better off alone.:
The hand on his hair trembled a little, and rested.
:I know,: she replied, finally. :There are times when I wish with all my heart I could take some of that from you.:
:Now, now, don't encourage me in my self-pity. Honestly, you and 'Fandes-: “If wishes were fishes, we'd walk on the sea, teacher - love,” he said aloud. “I'd rather you could keep Father and Mother off when I'm home.” “So you're finally making that major visit they've been plaguing you for?” She took the unspoken cue and switched to less - intimate vocal speech.
“Randale sent me word just as I was leaving the Border. Several weeks leave of absence at least. And I must say, that while I'm looking forward to the rest, I'm not at all sanguine about this little sojourn in the bosom of my loving family.”
“Out of experience I'm forced to tell you: even if they behave themselves, you're all too likely to find yourself the court of appeal for every family feud that's been brewing for the last ten years,” she said, and laughed. “And no one will like your judgments and everyone will accuse you of favoritism.”
He opened his eyes and moved his head around, propping his chin against the seat cushion. “And Mother will haul every eligible female for leagues about in on 'visits,' and Father will go cross-eyed trying to see if I 'm attempting to seduce any of the young men on the estate. And dear Father Leren will thunder sermons about fornication and perversity every holy day, and glare. Jervis will snipe at me, try to get me angry, and glare. And Mother's maid Melenna will chase me all over the property. And on and on.” He made mournful eyes at her. “If I hadn't promised, I'd be greatly tempted to take my chances with Randale finding another emergency and stay here.”
“I thought Lissa was stationed right near Forst Reach. She always used to be able to protect you.” Savil gave him a half smile. “She was a very good little protector when you were a child.”
“I don't think she's going to feel she can leave her assigned post,” he said. “It seems that Border is heating up.”
“Just what we need. Another Situation.”
“Exactly.”
“You could have dealt with this earlier, I suppose.”
He snorted. “Not likely. That whole monstrous mess of tangled emotions and misconception is why I never have spent more than a day at home if I can help it. If it isn't Mother flinging women at me, it's Father watching me out of the corner of his eye.” He throttled down savagely on the wave of bitterness that crawled up his throat, but some of it emerged despite his good intentions. “Gods, Savil, I am so damned tired of the whole dance. I really need to take a couple of weeks to rest, and where else can I go? You know I daren't stay here; if I do, Randale will recruit me. He won't want to, he won't mean to, but something will come up, and he'll have to-and I won't be able to say no. If I went to Liss-assuming she has someplace to put me -she'd end up doing the same thing. I'm a tool, and neither of them dares let a tool stand idle, even when it might break.”
“Easy, lad,” Savil cautioned, her face clouded and troubled.
He grimaced. “Did it again. Sorry. I won't break. I'm not sure I can break. The fact is, I still look all right, and I really don't want Randi to guess how drained out I am. If he knows, he'll feel guilty, and there's nothing he can do. He has to do what he does to me. So - “ Vanyel shrugged. “The strain doesn't show; it won't take long to put right. I'm as much to blame for the overload as Randi. I could say 'no' - but I never have the heart to.”
“Maybe you should choose somewhere to go besides Forst Reach. Or only stay there for a day or two, then go off visiting friends, or by yourself.”
“I don't want to go off somewhere alone, I'll just brood. And I haven't anyone to go to; k'Treva is too far away. You, at least, have had Andy for longer than I've known you.” He sighed. “I'm sorry, I'm whining again. I can't seem to help it, which might be a symptom of how on edge I am. That is the only thing that really worries me; I'm hair - triggered and dangerous, and I need some peace to get balanced again. All I can hope is that Mother and Father decide that I look as bad as you and Jays think, and leave me alone for a bit. Long enough to get some reserves back, anyway.”
It was the closest he'd come to admitting that he wasn't really certain how much - or how little - reserves he still had, and he quelled the rest of what he almost said.
“You don't look good, even they should see that, ke'chara.'' She toyed with a bit of his hair, and worried at her lower lip with her teeth. “You know, I haven't been back in - ye gods, not since I checked you all for Mage-Gift! My Familial Visitation is more than overdue.”
“But - you're a Guardian - “ Hope rose in him. If only Savil would be there, he'd have one kindred soul in the lions' den! He had no doubt she was more than up to the trip; he could feel her strength even as he leaned on it.
“Won't take me but a day to set my focus in the Web and then I can Guard from Forst Reach as easily as from here. It's only a matter of Sensing threat and sending the alert, you know. It's not as if I actually had to fight anything. And it's only because I need to keep that little corner of my mind tuned to the Web waking and sleeping that I don't have a protégé - ten years ago I could have done what Jays is doing; Guard and teach three.” She nodded. “This is no bad notion. Provided you don't mind having me there-”
“Mind?” He seized her hand and kissed it.
“Then expect me in about - oh, two weeks after you arrive. It'll take Kellan a little longer to make the trip than you youngsters.”
“Savil, if you only knew how grateful I am - “
“Pish. I'm selfish, is what I am.” A smile started to twitch at the corners of her mouth. “We can guard each other's backs this way. I'm counting on you to save me from Withen as much as you are counting on me to save you.”
He rose and kissed her forehead. “I don't care what you say, it's the most generous, unselfish thing anyone's done for me in a year. And you just may save this visit from becoming the legend of how Herald Vanyel went berserk and left his entire family tied to trees with rags stuffed in their mouths! About what time is it? I'm all turned round about from being so far south.”
She checked the angle of the sun coming in her window. “I'd guess just after Court.”
“Good; I have to catch Randale and Shavri and say
good-bye. He promised if I didn't come when he was being 'official' he wouldn't find something for me to do.”
“Then off with you, ke'chara, and I'll see you at Forst Reach-and thank you for thinking of me,” she finished, touching the stone on the table beside her.
“Because you think of me, love.'' He kissed her cheek, then her forehead again, and left her suite.
He stopped first at his room to change back into a set of Tran's Whites and put on the soft, low boots Heralds wore indoors; not as comfortable as going barefoot, but they beat the riding boots hands down. And if he didn't change, he might not be let into the King's quarters - every time he came back, it seemed fewer folk knew his face.
That accomplished, and now every inch his usual neat self, he headed down to the oldest part of the Palace, the extensive set of rooms shared by King Randale; his lifebonded and King's Own, Shavri; and their daughter.
He had scarcely crossed the threshold of the sparsely furnished audience chamber-his unfamiliar face giving a moment's apprehension to the two Guards posted at the door-when a six-year-old, curly-headed, miniature whirlwind burst through the farther door and flung herself across the audience chamber at him, evidently blithely certain he would catch her before she fell.
Which he did, and swung her around, up and over his head while she squealed with excitement and delight. “Uncle Van!” she crowed at the top of her lungs. “UncleVanUncleVanUncleVan!”
He started to put her down, but she demanded a hug and a kiss with the same infectious charm her “father” Randale could display whenever he chose. Vanyel hoisted her into a comfortable carrying position and complied without an argument, thinking as he did so that it was a good thing that she was still so tiny.
“Now how did you know I was coming?” he asked her, as her bright brown eyes looked solemnly down into his.
“Felt you,” she said, giving him another hug. “Felt you in my head, all blue - glowy and swirly.”
He nearly dropped her in shock. That was surely the most vivid-and accurate-description of his aura he'd ever heard out of anyone but another high - ranking Herald-Mage.
“Or a Healer,” said Shavri, coming up beside him as he gaped at the child, and Jisa giggled at the face he was making. “Healers see you that way, too, Van. And no, I wasn't eavesdropping on your thoughts-they were plain enough from that poleaxed look on your face.” There was strain and fear under Shavri's light tone, as if she walked a narrow bridge above a bottomless chasm. “Besides, you aren't the only one she's 'felt in her head' during the last three months. Let's start this greeting over; hello, Van, have you a hug for me?”
“Always.” He was already bracing himself for trouble; with that look on her face there was something seriously wrong. And that meant he'd have to be the strong one.
He included Shavri in his arms, while Jisa flung her arms around both their necks and cuddled. “Jisa sweet, can I put you down long enough for presents?''
“Presents?” Jisa was no different from any other six-year-old when that word came up. She squirmed a little, and he set her down, then extracted the little Companion-figure from his pouch and handed it to her. She shrieked with delight, and ran outside to show it to the two Guards. Shavri watched her go, her gypsy-dark eyes darker with unconcealed love - and something else. Something secret and profoundly unhappy. His first reaction was to want to hold her, protect her, make that unhappiness go away.
Randi's lifebonded -
“That's quite a little impling you're raising, Shavri,” he said, instead. “Incredibly unspoiled, given that I'd lay odds she's the pet of the Circle.”
“You say that every time you see her, beast,” she replied, flashing an uncertain smile, startlingly bright in her sober, dark face.
“Well, it's true.” Vanyel Looked quickly around, ascertained that they were going to be alone for a few moments, and asked quickly, “How is he?”
The smile vanished, and the fear and unhappiness were plain for anyone who knew her to read. :Oh, gods-Van, he's sick, I can't make it go away, and I think he's dying. And I don't know why. :
:What?: He gathered his scant resources to support her-and to hide the fact that her fear was making him tremble inside.
“He's well enough,” she said lightly, but Mindspoke him with a vastly different tone. :There's something wrong; it isn't affecting him much at the moment other than steady weakness and a dizzy spell now and again – but it keeps getting worse with each spell. And - oh, Van - I'm so afraid - :
He tightened his arm around her shoulders. :Easy, flowerlet - : “Then it sounds like there's no problem with my taking this leave.” :How long has this been going on?:
Her unshed tears knotted both their throats. :Eight months. It's something I can't Heal, the gods know I've tried!:
He felt chill creep over him. :Forgive me, Shavri, but I have to ask this. Given worst case - if it is something life-threatening, and it keeps getting worse, how long do you think he has ?:
:If he keeps weakening at the same rate? Fifteen years-maybe less, certainly not more. Gods, Van, he won't even see fifty - he won't even see his grandchildren! Elspeth was seventy-six when she was Called!:
There was another thought, unspoken-but Vanyel felt it, since it touched so nearly on his own private loneliness.
I'II have to go on alone-
He held her close to his chest, with her face pressed into his shoulder as she struggled not to cry, and clamped down a tight shield to prevent any stray thought from reaching her and frightening her. Savil supported you. You support Shavri the same way, he told himself, below the threshold of her ability to Mindhear. Let her know she won't be alone. Gods, gods, they're both so young, not even twenty-five . . . and so sheltered all their lives. Oh, Shavri - your pain hurts me-
“Easy, love,” he murmured into her hair. :Does he know ?:
:No. Not yet. Healer's Collegium does; they’re working on it. We don't want him to know until it's certain. Now you know why I won't marry him. Van, I couldn't, I'm not strong enough, I can't rule! Not alone! And when he dies - and I won't have Jisa forced onto the throne too young, either.: Her mind-voice strengthened with stubbornness. :So long as we're unwedded, it can't be forced on me nor on Jisa until all the collateral lines are exhausted. I - :
He felt the surge of terror and grief, and tried to project strength to her, not allowing her to see how fragile that strength was at the moment. With grim certainty he knew that she would not be able to cope if the worst came - unless someone she trusted was there to help. And the only one she trusted to that extent - the only one Randi trusted - was him. Gods. They really think I can do anything - and I'm no more ready for this than she is.
He pushed the thought away, concentrated on trying to ease some of that fear. . - Gently, sweet. Don't borrow trouble. Don't assume anything. You may cure him yet; this may turn out to be something ridiculous - and you both may get run over by a beer-wagon tomorrow!:
That startled a weak chuckle out of her, and she blinked up at him through tears she was doing her best not to release.
:Worry about tomorrow when it comes; enjoy now. Now, what's all this with Jisa “feeling people in her head?”:
Footsteps made both of them look up. “Are you seducing my lady, Herald Vanyel?” asked Randale, King of Valdemar, holding out his arms to embrace both of them.
“I'd rather seduce you, you charmer,” Vanyel replied coyly, batting his eyelashes at the King. But there was an edge of bitterness there in his banter, and despite his best intentions it must have crept into his voice. He saw a hint of startlement, then of worry, creep into both their expressions.
Lighten up, dammit, he told himself angrily. They've got their own problems – they don't need yours.
He grinned and winked, and both of them relaxed again.
Randale laughed heartily, and hugged him hard, taking Shavri away from Vanyel as he did so. And Vanyel felt a strange twinge; another flash of uneasiness.
Gods, what's wrong with me?
He didn't stop to think about it. The hug wasn't as hard as it had been a year ago - and there was a transparency about Randale that made Vanyel's heart lurch. Randale had grown a neat brown beard - was it to hide the fact that his cheeks were a little hollower? Was that tidy-to-a-fault brown hair a little lackluster? There were shadows under his dark eyes; were they there from lack of sleep, or some more sinister reason? Within a few breaths Vanyel had noted a dozen small signs of “something wrong” - all of them little things, things that someone who saw him day - in, day-out might not have noticed. But Vanyel had been away for a year, and the things he saw shook him. Gods, gods - my King, my friend - Shavri is right. You’re ill, at the very least -
Randale was not a Herald-Mage; his Gift was FarSight, and his Mindspeech was not as sure a thing as Vanyel's and Shavri's. For once Vanyel was grateful for that lack. He changed the subject before Randale could note his unease.
“It seems your little shadow is developing precocious Gifts,” he said. “At least she said she 'felt me coming in her mind.'“ Jisa ran back in, and attached herself to Vanyel's leg. “Didn't you, imp?” He looked down at her, surprised by the surge of love he felt for the child.
She nodded, very well pleased with herself.
“We thought about taking her to Savil, but she's been so busy,” Randale replied, shrugging. “I don't suppose you'd test her, would you? That's a major spell for anyone else but you and Savil.”
“Now I see the reason for all the concern that I stop by!” Vanyel teased. “Not that you've missed me!” “Van - ” Shavri said indignantly. “I never - ”
Randale chortled, and she hit his shoulder. “You can just stop that, you beast.”
Jisa giggled, and Vanyel looked down at her. “Hold still for a minute, impling,” he said. “I'm about to make your head feel funny, like Mama did when you had the measles.”
“All right,” Jisa said calmly, and Vanyel had the sudden unsettling feeling that she would permit her totally-trusted “Uncle Van” to chop off her hand if he wanted to.
He rested his palm on the top of her brown curls, and focused out and down -
-and came out again, blinking. “Well.”
“Well, what?” Shavri and Randale demanded in the same breath.
“She won't be a Herald-Mage, not unless she gets blasted open the way I did - which I do not recommend,” he added lightly, trying to catch his breath. Even that little magic had been more of a strain than he had thought it would. “But she's carrying the potential in a double dose; she'll certainly pass it to her children. She will be a MindHealer; she is an active Empath, and her Mindspeech center is opening early, too. With that combination, Randale, she'll very likely be King's Own after Shavri.”
Gods, she is so like me. Right down to the Mage-potential. Jisa, sweetling, I swear I will do anything to keep you safe -
Shavri trembled, and Randale's arm tightened around her shoulder. “Is she likely to be Chosen anytime soon?”
Vanyel did not answer immediately. :'Fandes?: he called, softly. :Are you awake?:
:And following the conversation. Yes, provided it's needful for her to get the training and she stays as sweet as she is. I'd say by age ten. Maybe sooner, two years from now. :
“Yfandes guesses that if she needs the training, between age eight and ten. Remember, for the presumptive King's Own, that won't be a bonded Choosing - she won't bond until - until she gets the office. Then she'll bond with Taver.'' Vanyel ignored both Shavri's frightened face and Randale's elation. “So, given that - there's a little something she and I ought to do.”
He focused himself down again, pulling on Yfandes' strength to assist his own, and thanking the gods he could do so, because Jisa should not remain as open as she was now. This time he did not close his eyes, but locked them with the child's, and showed her without words - for she did not yet have sufficient Mindspeech to use words- how to shield herself from unwanted thoughts and emotions, and unshield again at will. He was, he feared, the only person who could have taught her at this stage; Empathy not being a normal Heraldic Gift, and most Healers not using it in the way a Herald-Mage could.
He showed her how to find her center - she knew with an instant of studying him how to ground. The fundamentals it had taken him so long and so painfully to learn came to her with the ease of breathing, perhaps because learning was as easy as breathing at her age, and perhaps because his learning had come at the cost of so much loss and pain that had nothing to do with his Gifts.
“ - there. That should hold her until she's got enough to be taught formally. Teach her yourself, Shavri. You won't find anyone in the Heralds with Empathy as strong as hers. When she's got it at full power, she'll be able to control a mob in full cry.”
Shavri had herself back under control again, and the smile she gave Vanyel was genuine. “Thank you, love.”
He shrugged. “No thanks needed. Before I forget it - I brought you two some 'pretties' also.”
Shavri took the pendant with an exclamation of genuine delight as he handed the matching cloak-brooch to Randale. “Van, you shouldn't have - ” she began.
“Of course I should have,” he said. “Who else have I got to bring things to?” It came out bleaker than he intended.
“Oh, Van - ” Her eyes softened, and Randale cleared his throat and blinked. They reached out in the same moment and each took one of his hands. He closed his eyes, and for an instant allowed himself to feel a part of their closeness.
But it was their closeness, not his.
And I have no right.
“Mama, I have lessons,” said a small voice, still at I Vanyel's knee.
“Bright Havens, so you do!” Shavri exclaimed “Van - “
“Go,” he said, wrinkling his nose at her. “I'll be back in a few weeks, and maybe this tyrant of a King will let me stick around for a while this time.”
She shooed Jisa out and followed her with the light step of a young girl. Randale's gaze followed both of them.
“You sire wonderful children, Van,” he said softly.
“You raise better ones,” Vanyel replied, uneasily. “You are Jisa's papa, don't you ever forget it. I was nothing more than the convenient means to a rather attractive little end.”
The King relaxed visibly. “I keep thinking you're going to want her back-especially now that she's showing Gifts. She's more like you than you know.”
Vanyel laughed. “Whatever would I do with her? Great I good gods, what kind of a parent would I make? I can't even train the palace cats to stay off my pillow! No, Randi, she's all yours, in everything that counts. I would rather be Uncle Van, who gets to spoil her.”
Randale reached out without looking and snagged a chair with one hand. He swung it around and put it in front of Vanyel. “She'd make a good Queen.”
“She'd make a very bad Queen,” Vanyel replied, draping himself over it as Randale took another. “The things that make a good Monarch's Own are weakness in the Monarch.”
“Like?”
“Empathy. She'd be vulnerable to everyone with a petition and the passion to back it. She'd be tempted to use projective Empathy on her Council to make them vote her way. MindHealer are drawn to the unbalanced; but a Monarch can't waste time dealing with every Herald in trauma she encounters.” Vanyel shook his head. “No. Absolutely not. Jisa is going to be a lovely young woman and a good Monarch's Own; be satisfied with that.”
Randale gave him a wry look. “You sound very sure of yourself.”
“Shouldn't I be?'' Vanyel folded his arms over the back of the chair and rested his chin on them. “Forgive me if I sound arrogant, but other than Savil, I am the expert in these things. Ask my aunt when I'm not around and I'll bet money she'll tell you the same thing.”
Randale shrugged, and scratched the back of his head. “I guess you're right. I was hoping you'd back me, though-”
“Why?” Vanyel interrupted. “So you can have something else to pressure Shavri into marrying you?”
Randale winced at his bluntness, and protested weakly, “But that's - I mean-dammit, Van, I need her!”
Gods, so young . . . so uncertain of himself, of her. So afraid that without bonds he won't hold her. “You think she doesn't need you? Randi, she's your lifebonded, do you really need any further hold on her than that? She'd rather die than lose you!”
Randale studied the back of his hand. “It's just ... I want something a little more-”
“Ordinary?” Vanyel finished wryly. “Randi, Heralds are never ordinary. If you wanted 'ordinary,' you should have become a blacksmith.”
Randale shook his head.
Vanyel gritted his teeth and prepared to say to Randale what no one else could - or would. “Now you listen to me. You're making her miserable with the pressure you've been putting on her. She's doing exactly what she should; she's putting Valdemar and Valdemar's King ahead of her own wishes.”
Mostly.
“She knows the situation we have just as well as you do, but she's willing to face it. Things went to pieces when your grandmother Elspeth died, and they've been getting worse since-steadily.”
“I'm not blind, Van,” Randale interrupted. “I - ”
“Quiet, Randi. I'm making a speech, and I don't, often. I want you to think. There's a very real probability that you'll have to buy us peace on one of our Borders with an alliance marriage - exactly how your grandmother bought us peace with Iftel. And why do you think she never married Bard Kyran after your grandfather died, hmm? She knew her duty, and so should you. You have to stay free for that.”
Randale was flushing; Vanyel didn't need Empathy to know he was getting angry. “So what business is it of yours?” he burst out. “I thought you were a friend - ”
“I am. But I'm a Herald first. And my first duty is to Valdemar, not to you.” Vanyel sat straight up and let his face grow very cold; knowing what he was doing and hating himself for it. Randi wanted his friend, and at some levels, needed his friend. He was going to get Herald-Mage Vanyel Ashkevron. “You, Herald-King Randale, cannot permit your personal feelings to interfere with the well-being of this kingdom. You are as much Herald as I. If you cannot reconcile yourself to that - give up the Crown.''
Randale slumped, defeated. No one knew better than he that there was no Heir or even Heir-presumptive yet. The Crown was his, like it or not. “I ... I wish I . . . there's no one else, Van. No one old enough.”
“Then you can't resign your Crown, can you.” Vanyel made it a statement rather than a question.
“No. Damn. Van-you know I never wanted this-”
Memory.
Balmy spring breezes played over the lawn. Randi laughing at something, some joke he had just made- Shavri playing with the baby in a patch of sun. Bucolic, pastoral scene -
Shattered by the arrival on a lathered horse of a Queen's Messenger. In black.
Randi jumped to his feet, his face going white. The man handed Randale a sealed package wrapped in silk, but Randi didn't open it.
“Herald Randale - your grandmother the Queen sends me to tell you that your father - ”
The package fell from Randale's fingers. The blue silk wrappings unwound from the contents.
The silver coronet of the Heir.
An accident. A stupid accident - a misstep on a slippery staircase in full view of everyone-and the Heir, Herald-Mage Darvi, was dead of a broken neck. And Randale was Heir.
Vanyel's heart ached for him. And he dared not show it. Pity would be wrong at this moment, but he softened his voice and his expression.
“I told you Jisa would make a bad Queen. I meant every word. Shavri knows all this, too, you can bet on it. And I'm telling you you're tearing her in pieces, putting her between love for you, and what she knows is her duty.” Randale looked at him as if he wanted to interrupt. “No, hear me out - you've sympathized often enough with me and my matchmaking mother. How in Havens do you think Shavri feels with you putting that same kind of pressure on her?”
“Not good,” Randale admitted, after a long moment.
“Then stop it, before you put her under more pressure than she can take. Leave her alone. Let it lie for another ten years; if things haven't come to a conclusion one way or another, then bring it up. All right?”
“No,” Randale said slowly. “It's not all right. But you're absolutely correct about there being no choice. Not for any of us.”
Vanyel rose, and swung the chair he'd been slouched over out of the way. Randale did the same.
“Don't spoil what you have with what you only think you want, Randale,” he said softly, taking his friend and King's arm. “This is experience talking; the one thing about the brief time I shared with my love that I have never regretted is that I never consciously did anything to make him unhappy. Had our time been longer, maybe I would have; I can't ever know. But at least I have no memories of quarrels or hard words to shadow the good memories.”
Randale took his hand. “You're right; I'm wrong. I'll stop plaguing her.”
“Good man.”
Rand I -oh, Randi - Close; Randale was coming too close. It was beginning to hurt - Then Randale's servant entered behind him, the King's formal uniform draped over one arm, the royal circlet in the other hand, and a harried expression on his face.
Vanyel forced a laugh, and took the welcome opportunity to escape. “Now unless I haul myself out of here, I'm going to make your man there very unhappy.”
“What?” Randale turned, startled. “Oh. Oh, hellfire. I have got that damned formal audience before dinner, don't I?”
“Yes, sire,” the servant replied, as expressionless as a stone.
“Then I'd better get changed. Vanyel -”
Vanyel put his arm around the younger man's shoulders and gave him an affectionate embrace. “Just go do your duty, and make her happy. That's what counts. I'm off; I'll see you by Midwinter, certainly.”
“Right. Van, be well.” Randale looked at him - really looked at him, for the first time. He started to reach for Vanyel's arm with an expression of concern; Vanyel ducked his head to conceal the signs of weariness.
“I'm never ill. Go, go, go-before your man kills me with a look!''
Randale managed a grin, and followed the servant back into the private rooms of the suite. Vanyel spent a moment with his eyes closed in unvoiced prayer for him, then took himself back to his own room and his longed - for reunion with his bed.
Morning. Vanyel woke slowly, surrounded by unfamiliar warmth and softness, and put bits of memory together as they drifted within reach.
He vaguely remembered getting to his room, surrounded by fatigue that increasingly fogged everything; recalled noting a brief message from Tran, and getting partially undressed. He did not remember lying down at all; he didn't even remember sitting on the bed.
By the amount of light leaking around the bedcurtains it was probably midmorning, and what had wakened him was hunger.
His soft bed-clean sheets, a real featherbed, and those wonderful dark curtains to block out the light-felt so good. Good enough to ignore the demands of his stomach and give preference to the demands of his weary body. He'd had a fair amount of practice in shutting off inconvenient things like hunger and thirst; there'd been plenty of times lately when he'd had no other choice.
He almost did just exactly that, almost went back to sleep, but his conscience told him that if he didn't get up, he'd probably sleep for another day. And he couldn't afford that.
Clothing, clothing, good gods, what am I going to do about clothing?
There was no way his uniforms would be cleaned and mended, and he was going to need to take a few with him even if he didn't plan to wear them. And he had to have uniforms to travel in, anyway; technically a Herald traveling was on duty.
Wait a moment; wasn't there something in that note from Tran about uniforms?
He pushed off the blankets with a pang of regret, pulled the bed curtains aside, winced away from the daylight flooding his room, and sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for leftovers from half - recollected dreams to clear out of his brain. His shoulders hurt.
Have to do something about that muscle strain before I start favoring that arm . . . remember to put liniment on it, and do some of those exercises.
Birds chirped news at each other right outside his win - dow. It had been a very long time since he'd paid any attention to birdcalls - except as signals of the presence or absence of danger.
The musical chatter was quite wonderful, precisely because it was so sanely ordinary. Ordinary. Peaceful. Gods, I am so tempted just to fall back onto the mattress and to hell with starting for Forst Reach today.
But a promise was a promise. And if he delayed going one day, it would be easy to rationalize another delay, and another, all of which would only lead to Randale's recruiting him. Which was what the trip was supposed to prevent.
He pulled himself up out of bed with the aid of the bedpost and reached for one of Tantras' uniforms. Clean, Lord and Lady, clean and smelling of nothing worse than soap and fresh air. Once he managed to get himself started, habit took over.
He reached with one hand for one of yesterday's leftover apples in their bowl on the table, and Tantras' note with the other.
Go ahead and take my stuff with you. I don't need these; they're spares that were made before I put on all that muscle across the shoulders. A bit tight on me, they ] should be just a little big on you. Tell me what you want done and get out of here; I don't mind taking care of some of your paperwork for you. I'll see that your new uniforms are ready by the time you get back; Supply told me there's no chance of salvaging your old ones. Tran.
More than a little big, Vanyel thought wryly, standing up and surveying himself in the rather expensive glass mirror (a present from Savil) on the back of the door. He'd had to tie the breeches with an improvised drawstring just so they'd stay up, and the tunic bagged untidily over his belt. He looked - except for the silver in his hair - rather like an adolescent given clothing “to grow into.” They'd have been all right a year ago, but - oh, well. Nobody's going to see me except the family. I certainly don't have anyone to impress!
But Tran's volunteering gave him a notion about some other things he needed. He rummaged out the pen and paper he'd used yesterday; by now he reckoned those notes were well on the way to the Border and Forst Reach. Another reason to hail out of here. If I don't arrive soon after the letter, they'II worry. His letters should beat him to the holding by a few days, at least.
He wrote swiftly, but neatly; “neat as a clerk,” Tran was wont to tease. Order me new cloaks, would you? And new boots. I need them badly; I'd be ashamed to stand duty the way they are now.
And since you're being so kind as to keep track of this, ask Supply to work me up a set of spare uniforms to leave here, and have them keep a set here at all times. Next time there might not be anyone my size with extras for me to borrow! Thanks, Van.
He packed quickly, without having to think about what he was doing, now that he'd finally gotten his momentum. After the last four years, he could pack fatigue - drunk, pain - fogged, drugged to his eyebrows, or asleep-and he had, at one time or another.
He swung his cloak - it was more gray than white, and a little shabby, but there was nothing to be done about that - over his shoulder, picked up his packs, plucked his lute off the chair, and headed out. In the dark and echoing hall on his way to Companion's Field and the stable, he intercepted a page, gave the child the note for Tantras, and asked for some kind of breakfast to be brought to him while he saddled Yfandes.
She was already waiting calmly for him at the entrance to the tackshed. :They've cleaned all my tack,: she told him, :but the saddle needs mending and the rest isn't what it should be. I wouldn't trust the chestband to take any strain at all, frankly.:
:Swordcuts and bums aren't fixed with saddlesoap,: he reminded her. :We'll just have to - wait a moment - what about your formal gear? That's next thing to brand new. Gods know we've used it what - once? Twice?:
Her ears went up - her sapphire eyes fixed on him -
And he had that curious and disorienting doubled image of her that he'd gotten sometimes in the past, the image of a dark, wise - eyed woman, weary, but smiling with newly - kindled anticipation, flickering in and out with the graceful white horse.
Gods, if I needed a sign of how dragged-out I am, that's it. Hallucinating again. Dreaming awake. Got to be because I never really think of her as a “horse” even when I'm riding her.
He blinked his eyes and forced himself to focus properly as she replied, as excited as a girl being told she could wear her holiday best- :Chosen, could we use it? Please?:
He chuckled. :You like being dressed up and belled like a gypsy, don't you?:
She tossed her head, and arched her neck. :Don't you? I 've heard you preening at yourself in the mirror of a morning, especially when there was someone to impress!:
“You fight dirty,” he said aloud; and went in search of her formal tack, grinning.
One of the kitchen wenches, a bright-eyed little brunette, barely adolescent, brought him hot bread and butter, cider, and more apples about the time he managed to find where Yfandes' formal panoply had been stored. The saddle was considerably lighter than the field saddle, and fancier; it was tooled and worked with silver and dyed a deep blue. The chest and rump bands had silver bells on them, as did the reins of what was essentially an elaborate hackamore. The reins were there more for his benefit than his Companion's, and more for show than either. There was light barding that went along with the outfit, but after regarding it wistfully for a moment, Yfandes agreed that the barding would be far more trouble than it was worth and Vanyel bundled it away.
He paused a moment and bit into the bread; it was dripping with melted butter, and he closed his eyes at the unexpected pleasure the flavor gave him.
Oh, gods - fresh bread!
The taste was better than the manna that the priests said gods ate. “Bread” for the past year had meant rock-hard journey-bread at best, moldy crusts at worst, and anything in between - and it was never fresh, much less hot from the oven. There had been butter – sometimes - rancid in summer, as rock-hard as the journey-bread in winter.
It's the little things we miss the most - I swear it is! Ordinary things, things that spell “peace” and “prosperity.“ He thought briefly of the sword-comrades he'd left on the Border, and sent up a brief prayer. Brightest gods, grant both, but especially peace. Soon, before more blood is shed.
After that he alternated between bites of food and adjusting of harness. The kitchen wench lingered to watch him saddle Yfandes, draped over the open half - door of the stable, squinting into the sunlight. There was something between hero-worship and starry-eyed romance in her gaze; finally Vanyel couldn't stand it any longer and gently shooed her back to her duties.
He noted out of the corner of his eye - with more than a little alarm-that she was clutching the mug he'd drunk from to her budding bosom as though it had been transformed into a holy chalice.
:Looks like you've got another one, Chosen,: Yfandes commented sardonically as he fastened his packs behind her saddle.
:Thank you for that startling information. That's just what I needed to hear. :
:It's not my fault you have a face that breaks hearts.: :But why - oh, never mind.: He gave the girth a last tug and swung up into the saddle. :Let's get out of here before someone else decides she's fallen in love with me.:
They got through the city as quickly as they could, and out onto the open road where it was possible to breathe without choking on the thick cloud of dust and other odors of the crowded city. It was a little strange to ride with the soft chime of the bells marking every pace Yfandes took; it made him nervous for the first few leagues, until he managed to convince his gut that they were in friendly territory, and in no danger of alerting enemy scouts with the sound. After that, the sound began to soothe him. Like muted, rhythmic windchimes -
I've always adored windchimes. And I never get to meditate to them anymore.
He slowly began to relax. Yfandes was in no great hurry, although her “traveling” pace would have run a real horse into the ground after half a day. This had been a gentle summer, turning into a warm and even gentler fall, just enough frost to ensure that the harvests ripened, not enough yet to turn the leaves. Once out of Haven, Exile's Road wound lazily through rustling, golden grain - fields, and fields of sweetly ripening hay. The morning air was slightly cool, but the sun was warm enough that Vanyel soon rolled his cloak and bundled it behind his saddle.
It was very hard to stay awake, in fact. His muscles relaxed into the familiar configurations of riding.
Memory flicker - the k'Treva Vale. Savil, schooling him on Yfandes. “You think you're a rider now, lad. When I'm done with you, you'll be able to do anything ahorse that you can do on the ground.''
Himself, slyly. “Anything?”
She threw a saddlebag at him.
From here to the Border the land was the next thing to flat; long, rolling hills covered with cultivated fields, interrupted by fragrant oak groves that occasionally amounted to small forests.
:You really could sleep, you know,: Yfandes chided him. :I'm not going to let you fall off. It won't be the first time you've taken a nap that way.:
“I'm hardly going to be company for you like that.”
She shook her head, and the bells on her halter laughed for her. :Your presence is company enough, Chosen. I ran lone for ten years before you bonded to me. Just having you with me, whole and healthy, is pleasure; you needn't think I need entertaining when we aren't working.:
With a brief flash of pain and pleasure he remembered how he had never needed anything but Tylendel's presence either....
:Yes,: she agreed, following the thought. :Exactly.: So he hooked his leg around the saddle pommel, crossed his arms and tucked the ends of his fingers into his belt, then sagged into a comfortable slouch; chin on chest. It didn't take long.
He came awake all at once, his hand reaching automatically for the sword he wasn't wearing. There was an instant of panic before he remembered where he was going, and why he was going there.
“Why did you stop?” he asked Yfandes, who had come to an unmoving halt-which was what had waked him-in the middle of the completely deserted road. There was nothing but open meadow on either side of him, dotted with sheep, though there was no sign of the shepherd. Crows cawed overhead, and the sheep bleated in their pastures; otherwise silence prevailed. The sun was low enough ahead of them to force him to squint. It must be late afternoon, early evening.
:There's an inn just beyond the next curve, sleepy one,: Yfandes said, a hint of amusement tingeing her thought. :It's later than lunch and earlier than dinner, but I'm tired and I'd really like to stop before I go any farther.:
“Havens, love, you should have-”
:No, I shouldn't have. This is the first time you've really relaxed in I don't know how long. Have you thought about the way we resonate?:
He saw instantly what she meant. “So - you were relaxing with me.”
:In very deed, and reveling in it. First journey I've been able to enjoy in a while. But I would like to stop now. :
“Then so would I.” He unwrapped his leg from the pommel and stretched it; she waited until his foot was back in the stirrup, then resumed her easy amble, not quite a walk, not quite a canter. “Is this a temporary halt, or are we stopping for the night?''
:The night?: she asked, wistfully. There was a hint of something more there than she was sending.
“You're not telling me everything,” he accused. “Why this inn?”
:Well-you won't be the only Herald there. Herald-Courier Sofya is there-:
“Chosen by?” He had a shrewd hunch where this was leading.
She curved her neck coquettishly, and looked up and sideways at him out of one huge blue eye. :Gavis. :
He shook his head at her. “Ah, yes-the one that has been setting all the courier-records lately. Why this penchant for over-muscled courier-types, all legs and no brains-”
:He is not over-muscled,: she replied indignantly, breaking into a teeth-rattling trot to punish him.
“But brainless?” he taunted, feeling unusually mischievous.
:He just doesn't speak up unless he has something to say. Unlike certain Herald-Mages I know.: She kicked once, jarring every vertebra in his spine, before settling, all four feet braced in the dust of the road, and plainly going nowhere.
He reached forward before she could stop him, and tweaked her ear. “Well, since you want to arrange a little assignation, don't you think you'd better get the cooperation of your Chosen?”
:I can't imagine why,: she replied.
“We could move out of the center of the road, and I could groom you so that you looked your usual lovely self when we rode into that inn yard, instead of being all covered with road dust. I could even braid your tail up with some of the blue and silver cord that was with the barding. If I felt like it.”
:- Vanyel-I-: she floundered.
“And I do feel like it, you ridiculously vain creature,” he said, leaning down and putting both arms around her neck, resting his cheek on her crest. “And to think that they call me a peacock! Has it been so long since I teased you that you've forgotten what it sounds like?”
:Oh, Vanyel - it has been a long time.:
“Then we'll have to remedy that.” He dismounted, still a bit stiff from his long doze, and opened the pack with the currycomb in it. Something else occurred to him as he wormed his hand down inside the pack. “Just-do me a very big favor, sweetling-”
:Hmm?: She turned her head and blinked back at him.
He fished out the comb and the cords. “Please, please remember to shield me out of your trysting, all right? You forgot to, the last time. Here, let's get out of the road.” He stifled a sigh, as they moved under the shade of tree beside the roadway. “I don't grudge you any pleasure at all, but it's been a very long time since I did any number of things - and teasing you is only one of them.”
Yfandes twitched, the closest to blushing a Companion could come.
Vanyel allowed no hand to tend Yfandes but his own, no more than he would have permitted a stranger to see to the comfort of his sister, the cloistered priestess. 'Fandes frequently protested this wasn't necessary, but this afternoon she wasn't complaining. Especially not when young Gavis pranced up to the fence of the inn's open wagon - field with a proud curve to his neck and a certain light of anticipation in his eye. Vanyel kept his amused thoughts to himself as Yfandes flirted coyly with the handsome Companion, and wished her nothing more risque than a “pleasant evening” when he opened the gate into the meadow for her.
She gave him a long look over her shoulder. . - Vanyel, you aren't made of stone. I wish you would find a - comrade. You would be much happier.:
He winced away from the idea. :I've been over this with Savil. And you. Until I can stop trying to replace 'Lendel, I'm not going to cheat myself and my would-be partner. :
:I don't see that. If you're friends, it wouldn't be cheating . . . never mind.:
:Go, and enjoy yourself.:
:Oh, I think I can manage that,: she said with deliberate innocence, gave him a slow wink, then frisked off with Gavis in close attendance.
The tack he did entrust to the stableboy, though the lad's wide - eyed awe in his presence left him feeling just a bit uneasy. “Awe” was not something he wanted aimed in his direction. It felt too close to “fear.”
He stepped into the open door of the inn's common room with his packs over one shoulder, and stood blinking in the sawdust - scented gloom, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The lean and nervous innkeeper was at his elbow in a breath, long before Vanyel could see anything other than shadows, more shadows, and a dim white form in one corner that was probably Herald Sofya. It seemed as if he and the other Herald were the only guests this early in the afternoon, but this was harvest-season. The locals were undoubtedly making the maximum use of every moment of daylight.
“Milord Herald, an honor, a pleasure. How may this humble inn serve you, milord?”
“Please -” Vanyel flushed at his effusiveness. “Just dinner, a room if you've one to spare, use of your bathhouse, food for my Companion - I took the liberty of turning her loose with Companion Gavis.” Now his eyes had adjusted enough that he could see what he was doing; he fumbled in his belt-pouch and pressed coins into the innkeeper's hand. “Here; I'm on leave, not on duty. This should cover everything.” Actually it was too much, and he knew it - but what else did he have to spend it on? The man gaped at the money, and began babbling about the room: “Royalty slept there, indeed they did, King Randale himself before his coronation -” Vanyel bore with it as patiently as he could, and when the man finally wound down, thanked him in a diffident voice and entrusted everything but the lute to the hands of one of the servants to be carried away to the rented room.
Now he could make out Herald Sofya in the corner; a dark, pretty woman, quite young, quite lean, and not anyone he recognized. She was paying studious, courteous attention to her jack of ale; Vanyel drifted over to her table when the innkeeper finally fled to the kitchen vowing to bring forth a dinner instantly, which - from the description - would have satisfied both the worst gourmand and the fussiest gourmet in the Kingdom.
“Herald Sofya?” he said quietly, and she looked at him in startlement. He surmised the cause, and smiled.
In all probability her Companion had been so taken up with Yfandes that he'd neglected to tell his Chosen Vanyel's identity. Or else she wasn't much of a Mindspeaker, which meant Gavis wouldn't be able to give her more than images. She had probably assumed the same was true for him. “Your Gavis Mindspoke my Yfandes on the road, and she told me both your names before we arrived. Might I join you?”
“Certainly,” she replied, after swallowing quickly.
He sat on the side of the table opposite her, and saw the very faint frown as she took in the state of his Whites. “I apologize for my appearance.” He smiled, feeling a little shy. “I know it won't do much for the Heraldic reputation. But I only just got leave, and I didn't want to wait for replacement uniforms. I was afraid that if I did, they'd find some reason to cancel my leave!”
Sofya laughed heartily, showing a fine set of strong, white teeth. “I know what you mean!” she replied. “It seems like all we've done is wear out saddle - leather for the past three months. There're four of us on this route, and the farmers are beginning to count on us like a calendar; one every three days, out to the Border and back.”
“To Captain Lissa Ashkevron?”
“The same. And let us hope the Linean Border doesn't heat up the way the Karsite Border did.”
Vanyel closed his eyes, as a chill crawled up his backbone and shivered itself along all of his limbs. “Gods spare us that,” he said, finally.
When he opened his eyes again, she was staring at him very oddly, but he was saved from having to say anything by the appearance of the innkeeper with his dinner.
Vanyel started in on the smoked-pork pie with an appetite he didn't realize he'd had until the savory aroma of the gravy hit him. Sofya leaned back against the wall and continued to nurse her drink, giving him an odd and unreadable glance from time to time.
He'd been too numb from the long, grueling ride to appreciate his meal yesterday. He'd stowed it away without tasting it, as if it had been the iron rations or make-do of the combat zone. But this morning - and now - the home fare seemed finer than anything likely to be set before Randale.
“I hope you don't mind my staring,” Sofya said at last, as he literally cleaned the plate of the last drop of gravy, “but you're going after that pie as if you hadn't seen food in a week, and you're rather starved-looking, and that seems very odd in a Herald-unless you've been standing duty somewhere extraordinary.”
He noticed then the “blank” spot in the back of his mind that meant 'Fandes was keeping her promise and shielding him out. He grinned a little to himself; that probably meant that Gavis was doing the same, so Sofya's curiosity about him must be eating her alive.
“I've seen nearly no food for a week,” he replied quietly, and paused for a moment when the serving girl took the plate away and replenished his mug of cider. “I don't know if you'd call my duty extraordinary, but it was harder than I expected. I've been on the Karsite Border for the last year. Meals weren't exactly regular, and the food was pretty awful. There were times I shared 'Fandes' oats because I couldn't even attempt eating what they gave me; half-rotten meat and moldy bread aren't precisely to my taste. All too often there wasn't much to go around. And, to tell you the truth, sometimes I just forgot to eat. You know how it is, things start happening, and the next thing you know, it's two days later. That's why -” he gestured at his too - large uniform, and grinned wryly. “The situation was harder on clothing than on stomachs.”
Her sable eyes widened, and softened. “You were on the Karsite duty? I don't blame you for running off,” she replied, with a hint of a chuckle. “I think I would, too, Herald - you never did give me your name.”
“Vanyel,” he said. “Vanyel Ashkevron. Lissa's brother. I know, we don't look at all alike -”
But her reaction was not at all what he had expected. Her eyes widened even farther, and she sat straight up. “Herald-Mage Vanyel?” she exclaimed, loud enough that the farmers and traders who'd begun trickling in while Vanyel was eating stopped talking and turned to look with their mouths dropping open. “You're Vanyel?” Her voice
carried embarrassingly well, and rose with every word. “Vanyel Demonsbane? The Shadow Stalker? The Hero of - “
“Please -” Vanyel cut her off, pleadingly. “Please, it - yes, I'm Vanyel. But - honestly, it wasn't like you think.” He groped for the words that would make the near-worship he saw on her face go back to ordinary friendliness. “It wasn't like that, it really wasn't - just - things had to get done, and I was the only one to do them, so I did. I'm not a hero, or -I'm just - I'm just - another Herald,” he finished lamely.
He looked around the common room, and to his dismay saw the same worship in the expressions of the farmfolk around him. And something more. Fear.
An echo of that fear was in Sofya's eyes as well, before she looked down at her ale.
He closed his eyes, settling his face into a calm and expressionless mask, that belied the ache that their fear called up in him. He'd wanted - acceptance, only that.
Tran, Tran, you were right, I was wrong. “Be careful what you ask for, you may get it.'' Gods, I asked for signs that Tran was right. And now I have them. Don't I?
He opened his eyes again, but the reverence and adulation hadn't vanished. There was a palpably clear space around him where the “common folk” had moved a little away, as if afraid to intrude too closely on him. Even Sofya.
And the room had taken on the silence of a chapel. I'm about to ruin their evening as well as mine. Unfair, unfair - there must be something I can do to salvage this situation, at least for them.
“You know,” he said, with forced lightness, “if there was one thing I missed more than anything, it was a chance for a little music -”
He reached blindly down beside him for the lute he'd left leaning against the wall, stripped the case off it and tuned it with frantic speed. “ - and I hate to sing alone.
I'll bet you all know 'The Crafty Maid,' don't you?”
Without waiting for an answer, he launched into the song. He sang alone on the first verse - but gradually other voices joined his on the chorus; Sofya first, with a kind of too-hearty determination, then a burly peddler, then three stout farmers. The local folk sang timidly to begin with, but the song was an old and lively one, and the chorus was infectious. By his third song the whole room was echoing, and they were no longer paying much more attention to him than they would have to a common minstrel.
Except between songs.
And except for Sofya, who worshiped him with eyes that sent a lump of cold to live in the bottom of his throat. She waited on him herself, as if he was some kind of angel, to be adored, but not touched.
He slipped out of the room early, when she was getting something; another musician had joined the crowd, a local, and he used the lad's talent as a screen to get out during a particularly rowdy song. He thought he'd gotten away without anyone noticing, but the innkeeper intercepted him in the hallway.
“Milord – Vanyel -” The tallow candles lighting the hall smoked and flickered and made the shadows move like the Shadows he'd once hunted. The memory knotted his stomach. He concentrated on the innkeeper, but the man gulped and would not meet his eyes. A breath of cooked onions drifted up the hall from the common room. “Milord, if I'd known who it was I was serving, I'd have made you special fare, and I'd not have accepted your coin.”
“Please,” Vanyel interrupted, trying to conceal his hurt. The innkeeper jumped back a pace. “Please,” he said; softly, this time. “I told you, I'm not on duty, I'm on leave. I'm just another traveler. You fed me the best meal I've had in months, truly you did. You've earned every copper I paid you, and honestly.”
“But milord Vanyel, it was nothing, it was common plowman's pie - surely you'd have preferred wine to cider; venison or a stuffed pheasant - and you paid me far too much -”
Vanyel felt a headache coming on. “Actually, no, inn-keeper. The truth is I've been on iron-rations for so long anything rich would likely have made me ill. And venison - if I never have to see another half-raw deer - Your good, solid fare was feast enough for me. I'll tell you what -” He decided on the lie quickly. “I've been too long within walls. I have a fancy for trees and sky tomorrow; if you'll have your excellent cook make me up a packet for breakfast and lunch, I'll consider us more than even. Will that serve your honor, good sir?”
The innkeeper stared, chewing his mustache ends nervously, as if he thought Vanyel might be testing him for some reason, and then nodded agreement.
“Now I - I'm just a little more tired than I thought. If I could use the bathhouse, and get some sleep, do you think?”
To the man's credit, he supplied Vanyel with soap and towels and left him alone. In the steamy quiet of the bathhouse Vanyel managed to relax again. But the cheer of this morning was gone.
He sought release in sleep, finally, in what must have been the finest room in the inn - a huge bed wide enough for an entire family, two featherbeds and a down comforter, and sheets so fresh they almost crackled, all of it scented with orris and lavender. Far below he could still hear the laughter and singing as he climbed into the enormous bed. He blew out the candle then, feeling as lonely as he had ever been in his life, and prayed that sleep would come quickly.
For once his prayers were answered.
“I wish I dared Gate,” he mused aloud, carefully examining, then peeling a hard-boiled egg. Yfandes had not said anything about his early-morning departure from the inn, or the fact that he had not waited for breakfast. It was chilly enough that he needed his cloak, and there was a delicate furring of frost on some of the tall weeds beside the roadway. “Gating would shorten this trip considerably.”
:You try and I'll kick you from here to Haven,: Yfandes replied sharply, the first time she'd spoken to him this morning. :That is absolutely the stupidest thing you've said in months!:
He bit into the egg and looked at her backward - pointing ears with interest. “Havens, ladylove - didn't your tryst go well?”
:My “tryst” went just fine, thank you,: she replied, her mind-voice softening. :I just get sick every time I think about what happened the last time.:
“Oh, 'Fandes, it wasn't that bad.”
:Not that bad? When you were unconscious before you crossed the threshold? And hurting so badly I nearly screamed?:
“All right, it was bad,” he admitted, popping the rest of the egg into his mouth and reaching into the “breakfast packet.” “And I'm not stupid enough to Gate without urgent need.” He studied a roll, weighing it in his hand. It seemed awfully heavy. As good as the food had been so far, it didn't seem likely that it was underbaked, but he was not in the mood to choke down raw dough. He nibbled it dubiously, then bit into it with a great deal more enthusiasm when it proved to have sausage baked into the middle of it. “It would just be very convenient to not have to stop at inns.”
:Don't tell them your real name,: she interrupted.
“What?”
: If reactions like last night bother you, you don't have to tell them your real name. Tell them you're Tantras. Tran won't mind.:
“ 'Fandes, that's not the point - never mind.” He finished the last of his breakfast and dusted his hands off. A skein of geese flew overhead, honking. The farmers already out in the fields beside the road, scything down the grain and making it into sheaves, paused a moment and pointed at the “v” of birds. “Tran was right, and I'm going to have to get used to it, I guess. And I can't do that hiding behind someone else's name.” He managed a wan smile. “It could be worse. They could be treating me like a leper because I'm shay'a'chern, instead of treating me like a godlet because I'm Herald-Mage Vanyel Demonsbane.” He grimaced. “Gods, that sounds pretentious.”
She slowed her pace a trifle. :It isn't that important - is it?:
“It's that important. I'm a very fallible mortal, not an Avatar. Magic is a force - a force I control, no more wonderful than a Mindspeaker's ability, or a Healer's. But they don't see it that way. To them it's something beyond anything they understand, and they're not sure it can be controlled.” He sighed. “Or worse, they think magic can solve every problem.”
:You thought that, once.:
“I know I did. When I was younger. Magic seemed to offer solutions to everything when I was nineteen.” He shook his head, and stared out at the horizon. “For a while - for a little while - I thought I held the world. Even Jays respected me, came to be a friend. But magic couldn't force my father to tell me I'd done well in his eyes - or rather, it could force him, when I wanted the words to come freely from him. It couldn't make being shay'a'chern any easier. It couldn't bring back my Tylendel. It was just power. It's dividing me from ordinary people. Worse than that - it seems to be doing the same between me and other Heralds - and 'Fandes, that scares the hell out of me.”
:You won't be getting any of the godlet treatment from your kin, I can promise you that.:
“I suppose not.''
It was getting warmer by the moment. He bundled his cloak, and wondered if he should get out his hat. Gods! Change the subject-before you brood yourself into depression again. “Do you think Father will be able to keep Mother off my back?”
:Not to put too fine a point upon it, no.:
“I didn't think so.” His shoulders were beginning to hurt again. He clasped his arms behind him and arched his back, looking up at the blue, cloudless sky. “Which means she'll keep trying to cure me by throwing every female above the age of consent within leagues at me. I could almost feel sorrier for the girls than I do for myself.”
:You ought to, Van.:
He looked down at Yfandes' ears in surprise.
:Did it ever occur to you that you could well have broken a fair number of susceptible young hearts?:
He raised an eyebrow, skeptically. “Aren't you exaggerating?”
:Think! What about the way you charmed that poor little kitchen girl back at the Palace?:
He winced a little, recalling the romance in her eyes, but then irritation set in. “ 'Fandes, I've never done anything other than be polite to any of them.”
She snorted. :Exactly. Think about it. You're polite to them. Gallant. Occasionally even attentive. Think about the difference in your station and that kitchen maid's. What in Havens do you think she was expecting when you were polite to her? What does any young man of rank want when he notices a servant or a farmer's daughter?:
Now he was something more than irritated. “I don't suppose it's occurred to you that it might just be the simple fact that I'm a Herald, a safe sort of romance object? Great good gods, 'Fandes, I doubt she had any notion of my rank!”
:Well what about all those young women your mother parades before you - telling them they're prospective brides? What do they think that gallantry is?:
“I would imagine that Mother tells them plenty,” he replied with heat, beginning to flush, and very glad there was no one about to overhear this conversation.
:Well, you imagine wrong. Talking to servants is beneath her. As for the others, all she ever tells them is that you - and I quote - ”lost your first love tragically. “ Now what in the Lady's name do you think that makes them want to do?:
“Gods, 'Fandes, is that somehow my fault? Was I supposed to interrogate them while they were chasing me?”
:You,: she said, ice dripping from every word, :never asked. Or bothered to ask. Or wanted to ask. It never occurred to you that Withen might not want it spread about the neighborhood that his first-born son prefers men ?:
“ 'Fandes,” he replied, after a long, bitter moment of silence. “I don't see where it's any of your business. It has nothing to do with my duties as a Herald.”
Silence on her part. Then, :You're right. I'm sorry. I . . . overstepped myself. I - I just wanted you to think about what was going on.:
“Is that what I've been doing?” he asked quietly.
:Well - yes.:
“Then I should apologize. I can't afford to react automatically to things - not even in my personal life. And - gods. Not when I'm hurting people.”
A wash of relief. Then a tinge of sarcasm. :You're thinking. And about time, too. Now are you going to enjoy a long wallow in self-accusation?:
Something about the tone of her mind-voice - and the exact wording she'd used - made him pause for a moment. “Wait a minute - let me look at this from another angle.” He made a mental checklist of all the young women Lady Treesa had pushed off on him, and what they'd done when he'd failed to succumb to their various charms. And the more he thought about I t-
“You are exaggerating, aren't you?” he accused.
:Well - yes. But the situation exists. What are you going to do about it?:
“Be careful, I suppose. But I'll have to watch what I say.”
:Good. You're still thinking.:
“The ones Mother keeps flinging at me are the hardest. If I tell them the truth, I'll hurt Father. I'll shame him, at the least. Even if I pledge them to silence, it'll get out.”
:So?:
“I don't know. But I'll think about it.”
:Now that is the Vanyel I Chose.: Her mind-voice was warm with approval. :You’re not “just” reacting anymore. :
“Havens, I've been going numb between the ears for the past year, haven't I?”
: Well - yes. You had reason but -
He nodded, slowly. “This last year - I've gotten into a lot of habits.”
:Exactly. You can't let your heart or your habits control you. Not when you're who you are, and wield the power you do. Think about reacting emotionally in a battle situation. Think about even reacting reflexively, instead of tactically.: He did, and shuddered.
He always stopped at Halfway Inn - the name, he'd learned since, was a conscious pun - the hostelry that sat in the middle of the forest that cut Forst Reach off from the rest of the Kingdom.
In a way, what he had become had started here. The Inn had certainly marked his passage into a different world, though young Vanyel Ashkevron, more than half a prisoner of his escort, had not gotten the attention that Herald-Mage Vanyel got now.
It was an enormous place, and in the normal run of things very few travelers even saw the Innkeeper. A Herald was an exception. The Innkeeper himself saw to Vanyel's every whim - not that there were very many of those. The Inn was quite comfortable even for those who were less noteworthy than Vanyel.
There was less of the hero - worship here than there had been in other inns along the road. Vanyel was “local”; everyone attached to the inn and most of those staying there knew his family, his holding. They seemed to regard him with proprietary pride rather than awe, as if the things he had done were somehow reflections on them; as if his fame brought them fame. And as if they had something to do with what he had become.
In a way, perhaps they had. If events that occurred here had not made him feel so utterly alienated from the rest of the world he might not have responded as strongly as he had to Tylendel.
He left Halfway Inn just after dawn, hoping to reach Forst Reach by early afternoon at the very latest. He had always made excellent time on this last leg of his journey every other time he'd made his trips home - though he always left much faster than he arrived. . . .
But he stopped Yfandes before they had traveled more than a candlemark, while fog still wreathed the undergrowth and it was dark beneath the silent trees. The air was damp-smelling, with the tang of rotting leaves, and a hint of muskiness. No birds sang, and nothing rustled the fallen leaves underfoot or the branches overhead. This forest was always quiet, but this morning it was too quiet,
“Something's wrong,” he said, straightening in his saddle, and pulling his cloak a little tighter around his shoulders.
:I can feel it, too,: Yfandes agreed, :but it's very subtle.:
This forest-unnamed, so far as he knew - had frightened him to the point of near-hysteria the first time he'd traveled this road. Now he knew why; there was magic here, old magic of the kind that the Tayledras used, that they frequently drained off in order to weaken it, and open the lands to more ''normal” human settlements The kind of magic that made the Pelagir Hills the changeling-haunted places they were. Anyone with so much as the potential for the Mage-Gift could feel enough to make them unhappy and uncomfortable.
But this magic had been dormant for a very long time.
“I'm going to probe,” he said, and closed his eyes going in, then opening out -
The magic was still there, but it lay even deeper below the fabric of the forest than it had the last time he had passed this way. Now that his Gift was fully trained, he could even see the traces that told him it had been drained by the Tayledras at least twice, which meant it should be “safe.” The Hawkbrothers never left wild magic behind when they abandoned an area.
But that draining and abandonment had been long ago - very long ago.
Yes, the magic still slept, deeper than the taproots or the trees and harder to reach - but it slept uneasily. All magic was akin, and all magic touched all other magic - an affinity that made the Gate-spell possible. But close proximity meant stronger ties to magics that neighbored one another; disturbance to one site frequently disturbed another.
Vanyel could feel that disturbance in the magics here A resonance with another pole of power at a distance - probably across the Border, and most probably in Baires given that the ruling family was composed of mages Something somewhere was powerfully warping kindred magic fields, and this field housed in the forest was resonating to that disturbance, like a lute string resonating to a touch on the one beside it.
But it was too far away, and the resonances too tenuous, for Vanyel to determine who was causing it, or where it originated, or even what was being done. Although -
Vanyel brought himself up out of his scanning-trance, and bit his lip in thought.
“ 'Fandes, did you get anything?”
:No more than you,: she replied uneasily, resuming her pace without his prompting. - .Except - the root of all this is evil.:
“And I know better than to ask you to probe anything I can't reach. But I don't like it either. I like it even less now, with the Border uneasy. It makes me wonder if someone is forcing an issue - and if so, what, and to what end?”
:Tell Lissa. That's all you can do for now.:
He glanced uneasily to either side of him. “I'm afraid you're right, ladylove,” he agreed. “I am afraid you're only too right.”