Six

“The argument had been in full flower since Vanyel had arrived at the stable, and from all that he could tell it had evidently begun (well fertilized with invective) long before then. The stable was a good fifty paces from the keep itself, but the voices reached with unmistakable clarity well beyond the stable. The stablehands were doing their best to pretend they weren't listening, but Vanyel could all but see their ears stretching to catch the next interchange.

Havens, Savil has a strong set of lungs!

“Now listen, you stubborn old goat -”

“Stubborn!” The indignation in Withen's voice was thick enough to plow. “You're calling me stubborn? Savil, that's pot calling kettle if I ever -”

“- and provincial, hidebound, and muddle - headed to boot!”

Vanyel smothered a grin and kept the movement of the brush steady along Yfandes' glossy flank. She sighed with contentment and leaned into each stroke.

:Feel good?:

:Wonderful. All Companions should choose musicians; you have such talented hands. Speaking of which -: She flicked an ear at the open window through which Savil and Withen's argument was coming so very clearly.

:Music to my ears. If he's yelling at Aunt Savil, he can't be yelling at me. You’re looking better. Those hollows behind your withers are gone. And your coat is much healthier.: He paused for a moment to admire the shine.

:I'm recovering faster than you are.: She swung her head around to fix him with a critical blue eye. :Are you getting enough sleep?:

:If I slept any longer, I'd wake up with headaches.: He turned his mental focus up toward that open window, avoiding any more of Yfandes' questions.

The fact was, he didn't know why he was still sleeping so long, and tiring so easily. He always felt hollow, somehow, as if there were an enormous empty place inside him that he couldn't fill. But he had recovered enough that all the problems, major and minor, were starting to make him feel restless because he couldn't do anything about them.

Other problems were starting to eat at him, too.

Shavri; I like her-too much? Gods. I must think about her and Jisa every night. I loved 'Lendel. I know I loved him. But have I let Shavri get into me deeper than I'd thought? Gods, she's Randi's lifebonded. He must be my best friend in the world next to Savil. She's one of my best friends. How can I even be thinking this? Gods, gods. Am I really even shaych? Or am I something else?

The question ate at him, more than he cared to admit.

Am I avoiding Melenna because I'm shaych, or because I hate to be hunted?

He shied away from the uncomfortable thoughts, and sent out a thin, questing thought-tendril toward Savil.

:What can I do for you, demon-child?: came her prompt reply.

:Just wondering if you needed rescuing.:

The answer came back laughter-tinged. . - Havens, no! I'm enjoying this one! I'm opening your father's eyes to politics and policies under Randale. Elspeth was always conservative, and got more so as she grew older. Randale is her opposite. This is coming as quite a shock to Withen.:

Vanyel fought down another grin. :What's he up in arms about now?:

:The mandatory education law Randale and the Council just passed. :

:Remind me; I'm behind.:

:Every child in Valdemar is to be taught simple reading, writing, and arithmetic in the temples from now on; every child, not just the highborn, or the few the priests single out as having vocations or being exceptional.

Morning classes in the winter from harvest - end to first planting. And it's the duty of the Lord Holders to see that they get it.

Vanyel blinked. :Oh, my. I can see where he wouldn't be pleased. I know where Randale's coming from on this one, though; he talked it over with me often enough. I just didn 't know he'd managed to get it past the Council intact.:

:Enlighten me, I need ammunition. :

:He believes that an informed populace is more apt to trust its leaders than an ignorant populace, assuming that they feel the leaders are worthy of trust.:

:That isn't much of a problem in Valdemar,: Savil replied.

:Thanks be to the gods. Well. The only way to have an informed populace is to educate them, so they don't have to rely on rumors, so they’re willing to wait for the official written word. It was the near-panic when Elspeth died that decided him.:

:I didn't know that; good points, ke'chara. Young as he is, our Randale can be brilliant at times. As soon as your father pauses for breath -:

“Now see here, you old boneheaded windbag! Do you want those farmers of yours to be the prey of every scoundrel with a likely rumor under his hat?” Savil had the bit in her teeth and she was off again. Vanyel gave up trying to control himself, and leaned all his weight against Yfandes, laughing silently until his eyes teared.

This is ridiculous, Vanyel thought irritably, pausing for a moment on the narrow staircase. Absolutely ridiculous. Why should I have to act as though I was sneaking through enemy-held territory just to get to my own bed every night?

He took the last flight of back stairs to the fourth floor, poorly lit as they were, with not so much as the betraying squeak of a stair tread. He flattened himself against the wall at the top, and probed cautiously ahead.

No Melenna.

So far, so good.

His right eye stung and watered, and he rubbed at it with one knuckle; his eyelids were sore and felt puffy. I should have gotten to bed candlemarks ago, except every time I tried, Melenna was lurking around a corner to waylay me. I hope she's given up by now.

He peered down the dark corridor one more time before venturing out into it. This was the servants' floor, and if she were still awake and hoping to ambush him, Melenna wouldn't think to look for him up here.

He counted the doors-the fifth on the right opened, not into a room, but into a tiny spiral staircase that only went as far as the third floor. He probed again, delicately. Nothing in the staircase, or at the foot of it.

The stair was of cast iron, and in none too good repair. He clung to the railing, gritted his teeth, and moved a fingerlength at a time to keep it from rattling. The journey through the stuffy darkness seemed to take all night.

Then his foot encountered wood instead of metal, and he slipped off the staircase and groped for the door. He put one hand flat against the wooden panel and concentrated on what lay beyond it. This stair let out only two doors from his own room, and if Melenna were waiting, she'd be in the corridor.

Politeness - and Heraldic constraints - forebade Mind-searching for her, even if he had the energy to spare. Which he didn't, he had been chagrined to discover.

And anyway, the non-Gifted were always harder to locate by Mindsearch than the Gifted.

I'm getting very tired of this. I don't want to set Mother off, and I don't really want to hurt Melenna, but if this cat-and-mouse game keeps on much longer, I may have to do just that. I tell her “no” politely, and she doesn't believe it. I avoid her, and she just gets more persistent. I almost killed her two days ago when she popped out of hiding at me. He leaned his forehead against the door for a moment, and closed his aching eyes. I'm about at my wits' end with that woman. Damn it all, she's old enough to know better! I don't want to hurt her; I don't even want to embarrass her.

Well, there was no sign of her in the corridor. He relaxed a little and stepped out onto the highly polished wood of the hall of the guest rooms, where the brighter lighting made his smarting eyes blink and water for a moment.

He opened the door to his own room -

And froze; hand still on the icy metal of the doorhandle.

Candles burned in the sconces built into the headboard. Melenna smiled coyly at him from the middle of his bed. She allowed the sheet to slide from her shoulders as she sat up, proving that she hadn't so much as a single thread to grace her body.

Vanyel counted to ten, then ten again. Melenna's smile faltered and faded. She tossed her hair over one shoulder and began to pout.

Vanyel snatched his cloak from the peg beside the door, turned on his heel without a single word, and left, slamming the door behind him hard enough to send echoes bouncing up and down the corridor.

:'Fandes, beloved,: he Mindsent, so angry he was having trouble staying coherent. :I hope you don't mind sharing sleeping-space.:

Straw was not the most comfortable of beds, although he'd had worse. And he'd spent nights with his head pillowed on Yfandes' shoulder before this. But “day” for the occupants of the stable began long before he'd been getting up. The stablehands had no reason to be quiet -  and neither did the horses. Meke's famous stud was the worst offender; he began cow-kicking the side of his stall monotonously from the moment color touched the east.

. - Stupid brute thinks that if he keeps kicking, somebody will come to let him out,: came Yfandes' sleepy thought. :I usually move out under a tree about now.:

Vanyel raised his head and yawned. He'd gotten some sleep, but not nearly as much as he would have liked. :You move. I think I'll go back to my room. If Melenna hasn't taken herself off to her own room by now, I swear I'll throw her out. Maybe a dose of humiliation will convince her to leave me alone.:

:Sounds as good a plan as any.: Yfandes waited for him to move out of the way, then got herself to her feet and nudged open the outside door. Vanyel stood up, shoulders aching from the strange position he'd slept in, and brushed bits of straw off his clothing. He ignored the startled glances of the stablehands, picked up his cloak and shook it out as Yfandes ambled out into her meadow.

:Go get some more sleep, dearheart,: she Mindsent back toward him.

:I'II try,: he replied, smoldering. :Maybe I'll bring my sleeping roll down here. Maybe when word gets around that I'm sleeping with horses she'll stop this nonsense.:

:And if she's stupid enough to try and waylay you down here, I'll chase her around the meadow a few times to teach her better manners,: Yfandes sent, irritation of her own coloring her thoughts a sullen red. :This is getting exasperating. I don't care if she thinks she's in love with you, that doesn't excuse imbecilic behavior.:

Vanyel didn't reply; he was too close to temper that could do the woman serious damage. He folded his cloak tidily over his arm, pretending he didn't notice the whispers of the stablehands as he let himself out of the stall and shut the door behind him.

“There was a problem with my bed last night,” he told Tarn, the chief stableman and Withen's most trusted trainer.

Tarn was no fool, and he'd been quietly on Vanyel's side since Van was old enough to ride. He was one of the few at Forst Reach who hadn't changed his behavior toward Vanyel when the nature of Vanyel's relationship with Tylendel became known at the holding. Since his wife was one of the cooks, he was quite conversant with “house” gossip. He smiled slowly, showing the gap where he'd had three teeth kicked out. “Aye, milord Van. I ken. There's some invites a body wish t' give hisself.”

Van winced inwardly a little, knowing that this was going to do Melenna's reputation no good at all once this tale got around the keep.

The stablehands went back to their chores, and he wound his way past them, out into the yard between the outbuildings and the keep. He blinked at the sunlight, seeing just one other person, a vague, unidentifiable shadow in the door of the armory.

“Vanyel,” called a raspy, far-too-familiar voice. “A word with you.”

Jervis. The armsmaster moved out past the door of the armory to stand directly in his path and Vanyel felt his stomach start to churn. In no way could he successfully avoid a confrontation this time. Jervis was between him and the keep.

“Yes, armsmaster?” he said.

“I left you messages, Meke told me he'd passed them on.” Jervis moved closer, a frown making his seamed and craggy face more forbidding than usual.

Vanyel kept his own feelings behind an expressionless mask. “That you wanted to spar, yes I know. He did tell me. I'd rather not, thank you.”

“Why not?”

“Frankly, because I don't feel up to it,” Vanyel replied with cool neutrality, though his back was clammy with nervous sweat. Because I know damned well it won't stay polite exercise for long. Because I know you’re going to push me just as far as you can, armsmaster. I'm going to have to hurt you. And dammit, I don't want to let you do that to me.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Jervis growled, his face darkening. “You think this old man isn't good enough for you?”

“I'm worn out, for one thing. I just spent the night in the stable because there was an unwelcome visitor in my room; that's not my bed of choice, and Meke's damned stud makes more noise than a herd of mules. For another - Jervis, I've been on a battle-line for the last year. Youwere a mercenary, what does that tell you?”

I don't want to inflict more pain when I don't have to. And I'm on a hair-trigger; gods, think about this, you old bastard! Remember what it was like, how some things became reflex, no matter how hard you tried to control them.

Jervis narrowed his eyes. “You look in good enough shape to me. There's nothing you can do, young Vanyel, that I can't handle. Unless you're really no better than, say, young Medren, no matter what all those songs say about you.”

The reminder of the treatment Medren was receiving at Jervis' hands was the spark to the tinder. Vanyel's temper finally snapped. “On your head be it,” he growled. “I take no responsibility. You want to spar so badly, all right, let's get it over with.”

He stalked off toward the armory, a sturdy wooden building between the stables and the keep, with Jervis at his heels. He had a set of practice gear here, made up soon after he returned from k'Treva, gear put together at Withen's insistence and unused until now. It was gear unlike any other set at Forst Reach: light, padded leather gambeson; arm, thigh, and shin guards; main - gauche and heavy rapier; and a very light helm, all suited to his light frame and strike-and-run style.

The armory was not dark; there were clerestory windows glazed with bubbly, thick third-rate glass; stuff that wouldn't admit a view, just light. Vanyel found the storage chest with his name on it. He pulled his gear out and stripped off yesterday's tunic, pulling on the soft, thick linen practice tunic, strapping on the gambeson and guards, and gathering up his helm and weighted wooden practice blades.

This armory was new; built since Vanyel had left home. There was enough room for sparring inside; most of the interior had been set up as a salle. Vanyel was just as pleased to see that. The older building had been so small that all practices had to be held outside. So far as Vanyel was concerned, the fewer eyes there were to witness the confrontation, the better he'd like it.

He was shaking and sick inside; he was going to give Jervis a lesson the old man would never forget, and the very idea made his gut knot. He was not proud of what he was going to do.

But the old man asked for it. He wouldn't take “no,” and he wouldn't back down. Dammit, it's going to be his fault, not mine!

Van dwelled on that while he armed up; a sullen anger making him feel justified, and burning the knots out of his gut with self-righteousness and a growing elation that he was finally going to pay Jervis back for every bruise and broken bone.

Until he realized where that train of thought was leading him.

I'm rationalizing the fact that I want to beat him bloody. That I want revenge on him. Oh, gods.

The realization made him sick again.

He went to the center of the practice area, crossing the unvarnished wooden floor with no more noise than a cat. Jervis looked around after donning his own gear - much heavier than Vanyel's - as if he had actually expected Van to have slipped out while he was arming. He seemed surprised to see Vanyel standing on the challenger's side, waiting for him.

I'II let him make the first move, Van thought, keeping himself under tight control. He's probably going to give me a full rush, and I wouldn't be surprised if he tried to hurt me. Damned bully. But I will not lose my temper. I can't stop my reflexes, but I can keep my temper. I will not let him do that to me.

But Jervis astonished him by simply walking up to his side of the line, giving a curt salute that Vanyel returned, and waiting in a deceptively lazy guard position.

Dust tickled Vanyel's nose, and somewhere in the building a cricket was chirping. Well do something, damn you! he thought in frustration, as the moments continued to pass and Jervis did nothing but stand in the guard position. Finally the waiting was too much for his nerves. He rushed Jervis, but he pulled up short at the last second, so that the armsmaster was tricked into overextending. There was a brief flurry of blows, and with a neat twist of his wrists, Vanyel bound Jervis's blade and sent it flying out of his hands to land with a noisy clatter on the floor to Vanyel's left.

Now it comes. Vanyel braced himself for an explosion of temper.

But it didn't. No growl of rage, no snatching off of helm and spitting of curses. Jervis just stood, shield balanced easily on left arm, glaring. Vanyel could feel his eyes scorching him from within the dark slit of his helm for several heartbeats, while Vanyel's uneasiness grew and his blood pounded in his ears with the effort of holding himself in check. Finally the armsmaster moved only to fetch the blade, return to his former position, and wait for Vanyel to make another attack.

Vanyel circled to Jervis' right, bouncing a little on his toes, waiting for a moment when he could get past that shield, or around it. Sweat began running down his back and sides, and only the scarf around his head under his helm kept it out of his eyes. He licked his lips, and tasted salt. His concentration narrowed until all he was aware of was the sound of his own breathing, and the opponent in front of him.

Jervis returned his feints, his blows, sometimes successfully, sometimes not. Vanyel scored on him far more often than vice versa. But every time he made a successful pass, Jervis would back out of reach for a moment. It was maddening and inexplicable; he'd just fall completely out of fighting stance, shuffle and glare, and mutter to himself, before returning to the line and mixing in again.

This little series of performances began to wear on Vanyel's nerves. It was far too like the stalking he used to get when Jervis wanted to beat him to a pulp and didn't quite dare - and at the same time, it was totally unlike anything in the old man's usual pattern.

What's he doing? What's he waiting for? Those aren't any love-taps he's been giving me, but it isn't what I know he's capable of, either.

Finally, when he was completely unnerved, Jervis made the move he'd been expecting all along - an all-out rush, at full-strength and full-force, the kind that had bowled him over time after time as a youngster - the kind that had ended with his broken arm.

Blade a blur beside Jervis' shield and the shield itself coming at him with the speed of a charging bull, the horrible crack as his shield split - the pain as the arm beneath it snapped like a green branch.

But he wasn't an adolescent, he was a battle - seasoned veteran.

His boot-soles scuffed on the sanded wood as he bounced himself out of range and back in again; he engaged and used the speed of Jervis' second rush to spin himself out of the way, and delivered a good hard stab to Jervis' side with the main - gauche as the man passed him -

- or meant to deliver it. For all his bulk, Jervis could move as quickly as a striking snake. He somehow got his shield around in time to deflect the blow and then continued into a strike with the shield-edge at Vanyel's face.

Vanyel spun out of the way, and let the movement carry him out of sword range. But now his temper was gone, completely shattered.

“Damn you, you bullying bastard! Preach about honor and then turn a shield - bash on me, will you!” His voice cracked with nerves. “Come on! Try again! Try and take me! I'm not a child, armsmaster Jervis. I'm not as easy to knock down and beat up anymore! You can't make a fool and a target of me the way you do with Medren! I know what I'm doing, damn you, and my style is a match for yours on any damned field!”

Jervis pulled off his battered helm with his shield hand, and sweat - darkened tendrils of gray - blond hair fell into his eyes. “That's enough,” he said. “I've seen what I wanted t' see. Seems those songs got a grain of truth in 'em.”

Vanyel choked his temper down. “I trust you won't require any more sparring sessions, armsmaster?''

Jervis gave him another long, measuring look. “I didn't say that. I'll be wantin' t' practice with you again, master Vanyel.”

And he turned on his heel and left Vanyel standing in the middle of the salle, entirely uncertain of who had won what.

Have we got a truce ? Have we ? Or is this another kind of war?

“My Shadow-Lover, bear me into light,'' Vanyel sang softly, as the odd, minor chords blended one into another, each leaving a ghost of itself hanging in the air for the next to build from. This new gittern did things to this particular song that carried it beyond the poignant into the unearthly. He paused a moment, brushed the last chording in a slow arpeggio, and finally opened his eyes.

Medren sat on the edge of the bed, his mouth open in a soundless “O.”

Vanyel shook off the melancholy of the song with an effort. “How long have you been there?” he asked, racking the gittern on its stand, and uncoiling from his window seat.

“Most of the song,” Medren shivered. “That's the weirdest love song I ever heard! How come I never heard it before?”

“Because Treesa doesn't like it,” Vanyel replied wryly, stretching his fingers carefully. “It reminds her that she's mortal.” He saw the incomprehension on Medren's face, and elaborated. “The lover in the song is Death, Medren.”

“Death? As -” the boy gulped, “- a lover?”

The stricken look on the boy's face recalled him to the present, and he chuckled. “Oh, don't look that way, lad. I'm in no danger of throwing myself off a cliff. I have too much to do to go courting the Shadow-Lover.”

The boy's face aged thirty years for a moment. “But if He came courting you-”

I'd take His kiss of peace only too readily, Vanyel thought. Sometimes I'm so damned tired. He thought that - but smiled and said, “He courts me every day I'm a Herald, nephew, but He hasn't won me yet. What brings you here?”

“Oh,” Medren looked down at his hands. “Jervis. Some of the other kids - they told me he's got something special going today. For me.”

Vanyel thought of the “sparring session” and went cold. And a seed of an idea finally sprouted and flowered. He stood, and walked slowly to the bed, to put his hand lightly on Medren's shoulder. “Medren, would you rather deal with Jervis, or be sick?”

“What?” The boy looked up at him with the same incomprehension in his eyes he'd shown when Vanyel had spoken of the Shadow-Lover.

“I have just enough of the Healing-Gift that I can make you sick.” That wasn't exactly what he would do, but it was close enough. “Then I can keep you sick; too sick to go to practice, anyway.” There was measles in the nursery; that would keep the boy down for a good long time.

“Will I lose my voice?” The boy looked up at him with the same complete trust Jisa had, and that shook him.

He grinned, to cover it. “No, you'll just come out in spots, like Brendan. In fact, I want you to sneak into the nursery and spend a candlemark with Brendan when I 'm done with you.” As much as I'm going to depress his body, if he isn't fevered by nightfall I'll eat my lute. “Make sure nobody sees you, and go straight to your mother after and tell her you have a headache.”

“As long as I won't lose my voice,” Medren said, grinning, “I think I can take spots and itching.”

“It won't be fun.”

“It's better than being beat on.”

“All right.” Vanyel put his hand on Medren's shoulders, and focused down and out -

“Funny about Medren,” Radevel said, “coming down with spots so sudden-like. I would've sworn he had 'em once already.''

Vanyel just shrugged. He was in Radevel's room following another “sparring session” - this time one in which he sparred with Rad under Jervis' eye. It had been easier to deal with than the last one, but Jervis was still acting out of character. We have a truce of sorts. I don't know why, but I won't take the chance that it will extend to cover Medren. I daren't.

Radevel had invited him here afterward in a burst of hearty comradeship, and Vanyel had decided to take him up on it. Over the past hour he'd come to discover he liked this good - natured cousin more than he'd ever dreamed.

“‘Mother funny thing I can't figure,” Radevel continued, feet propped up on a battered old table, mug of watered wine in hand. “Old Leren. Saw him watching you an' Jervis an' me at practice this afternoon, an' if looks were arrows, you'd be a damned pincushion. What in hell did you ever do to him?''

Vanyel shrugged, took a long drink of the cool wine, and turned his attention back to repairing his torn leather gambeson with needle and fine, waxed thread in a neat, precise row of carefully placed stitches. The past four years had seen him out more often than not beyond the reach of the Havenbred comforts and the servants that saw to the needs of Heralds. He'd gotten into the habit of repairing things himself, and around Radevel, that habit (which Radevel shared) made itself evident at the smallest excuse. “Don't know,” he said shortly. “Never did. I would almost be willing to pledge to you that he's hated me from the moment he came here. Mother swears it's because I asked too many questions, but I thought priests were supposed to encourage questions. Our old priest did. I may have been only four when he died, but I remember that.''

Radevel nodded agreement. “Aye, I remember that, too. Jervis always said that Osen was a good man. Made you feel like taking things to him, somehow. 'The gods gave you a brain, boy,' he'd say. 'If you want to honor them, use it.' Never made you feel like you were beneath him.” He brooded over his mug, his plain face quiet with thought. “This Leren, now - huh. I dunno, Van. You know, I stopped going to holydays here a long time ago - hike down into the village with Jervis when we feel like we need a dose of priest-talk. Tell you something else - young Father Heward down in the village don't care much for Leren either. He did his best not to let on, but he was downright gleeful to see us come marching down to the village temple, an' I know he don't care much for fighters, being a peace-preacher. Figure that.”

“I can't,” Vanyel replied.

He “felt” Savil's distinct “presence” coming up to the door of Radevel's room, so he didn't jump when she spoke. “Is this a 'roosters only' discussion, or can an old hen join?''

Vanyel did not bother to turn around. Radevel grinned past Vanyel's shoulder at Savil, and reached - without needing to look - into the cupboard over his head for another mug. “I dunno,” he mused. “Old hens, welcome, but old bats-?”

“Give me that, you shameless reprobate,” she mock-snarled, snatching the clean mug out of his hand and pouring herself wine from the jug. She tasted it and made a face. “Gods! What's that made of, old socks?”

“Standard mere ration, milady Herald ma'am, an' watered down, too. Grows on you, though. Got into liking it 'cause of Jervis.”

“Huh. Grows on you like foot-rot.”

Vanyel stuck the needle under a line of stitches and moved over to make room for her. She sat down beside him, careful to avoid unbalancing the bench. She sipped again. “You're right. Second taste has merit - unless it's just that the first swallow ate the skin off my tongue. What was all this about Leren?”

“Radevel said he was watching me and Rad spar with Jervis this afternoon,” Vanyel supplied, frowning at his work. The leather was scraped thin here, and likely to tear again if he wasn't careful where he placed his stitches.

“To be precise, he was watching Herald Van, here. Like he was hoping me or Jervis would slip - up like and break his neck for him,” Radevel said. “I'll tell you again, I do not like that man, priest or no priest. Makes my skin fair crawl with some of those looks he gives.”

“I've noticed,” Savil said soberly. “I don't like him either, and damned if I know why.''

Radevel held up one hand in a gesture of helplessness. “I spent more time around him than either of you, and I just can't put a finger on it. Treesa doesn't like him either; only reason she goes to holyday services is 'cause she reckons herself right pious, and facing him's better'n not going. But if she had her druthers, he'd be away and gone. It's about the one thing I agree with that feather-head on. Pardon, Van.”

“Mother is a featherhead; I won't argue there. But - Savil, did you realize that she's very slightly sensitive? Not Thought-sensing, not Empathy, but like to it - something else, some kind of sensitivity we haven't identified yet. The gods only know what it is; I haven't got it nor have you. But it's a sensitivity she shares with Yfandes.”

“Treesa? Sensitive like a Companion?” Savil gave him a look of complete incredulity. “Be damned! I never thought to test her.”

He nodded. “The channel's in 'Fandes, wide open. The same channel Treesa has, only hers is to 'Fandes the way a melting icicle is to a waterfall. I don't know what it is, but I'd say we shouldn't discount feelings of unease just because Treesa shares them. She could very truly be feeling something.”

“Huh,” Radevel said, after a moment. Then he grinned. “I got a homely plain man's notion. That mare of yours ever dropped a foal?”

“Why, yes, now that you mention it. Two, a colt and a filly-both before she Chose me. Dancer and Megwyn. Why?”

“Just that about every mother I ever saw, human to hound, knew damned well when somebody had bad feelings toward her children, no matter how much that somebody tried to make out like it wasn't true. Even Milady Treesa.” He grinned as Vanyel's jaw fell, and Savil's expression mirrored his. “Now Savil, you never had children, and it'd take a miracle from the Twain themselves to make Van a momma. So, no - what you call - channel. Make sense?''

“Damned good sense, cousin,” Vanyel managed to get out around his astonishment. “For somebody who has no magic of his own, you have an uncanny grasp of principles.”

Savil nodded. “You know, this enmity could also be partially that the man was pushed into the priesthood by his family and hates it. A priest with no vocation is worse than no priest at all.”

“Could be,” Radevel replied. “One thing for sure, it wasn't this bad 'fore Van came home. It's like something about Van brings out the worst in the old crow. Thought I'd say something.” He shrugged. “I don't like him, Jervis don't like him. Jervis's got a feel for things like enemies sneakin' up on your back. You might want to keep an eye on Leren.”

Oh, yes, cousin, Vanyel thought quietly. If you are seeing the hint of trouble, stolid as you are, I will surely keep an eye on him.

:Things in your bed again?: Yfandes asked sweetly.

Vanyel snarled, hung the lantern he was carrying on a hook, climbed up on the railings of the box, and hauled his bedroll down from the rafters above her stall. “This is not my idea of a good time,” he replied. “I didn't come home with the intention of sleeping in the stable!” The bedroll landed on the floor, and he jumped down off the top rail to land beside it. “Here I thought I'd get past her by getting dinner with the babies and sneaking up to my room at sunset, and there she is waiting for me, bold as a bad penny. Not nude this time, but in my bed. 'Fandes, this is the third night in a row! Has the woman no shame? And I locked the damned door!”

:Why didn't you just put her out the door?:

He glared at her, and heaved the bedding into the stall. “I do not,” he said between clenched teeth, “feel like engaging in a wrestling match with the woman. Dammit, there's going to be frost on the ground in the morning. It's getting chilly at night.”

:Poor abused baby. I know somebody who 'II gladly keep you warm.:

He glared at her again, poised halfway over the railings of the box - stall, one foot on either side. “ 'Fandes, you're pushing my patience.”

:Me.:

“Oh, 'Fandes. ...” His tone cooled a little, and he swung his leg over the top rail of the stall, and hopped down beside her to hug her neck. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't take the fact that I'm ready to kill her out on you.”

She rubbed her cheek against his, her smooth coat softer than any satin, and nibbled at his hair. Her breath puffed warm against his ear, sweet, and hay-scented. Farther down in the stable, beyond the light of Vanyel's lantern, one of the horses whickered sleepily, and another stamped.

:I'm rather selfishly glad to have you with me,: she said, watching him heap up straw and spread his sleeping roll on it. :I like having you here with no danger to keep us wakeful, a quiet night, nothing to really disturb us.

Remember how you used to spend nights out in the Vale with me, watching the stars?:

“And waiting for Starwind to take a header out of his treehouse!” Vanyel laughed, with her rich chuckle bubbling in his mind. “You're right; that was a good time, even if I did spend the first few months of it in various states of hurting. Gods of Light, 'Fandes, I miss them. It's been far too long since I last saw them. Brightstar must be-what-nearly ten? I wish we had time to go back there.”

They don't shake me to my shoes the way Shavri and Randi do. Is it only because I don't see them too often, or -

Yfandes' interrupted his thought.

:'You 'd have to Gate, or else spend months on the road.: she replied sadly. :We daren't take the time, and I won't let you Gate yet, not unless it's an emergency. You’re still drained. :

Her tone cheered him a little. “Yes, little mother,” Vanyel chuckled, climbing into his crude bed, good humor fully restored. And to prove that he wasn't quite so drained as Yfandes seemed to think, he snuffed the lamp with a thought.

:Show-off,: she teased, settling down carefully next to him so that he could curl up beside her, for all the world like a strange sort of gangly foal. He wriggled himself and blankets in against her warm, silken side, and slipped one hand out to rest on her foreleg.

He yawned. With his anger gone, his energy seemed to be gone too. “ 'Night, dearheart,” he mumbled, suddenly unable to keep his eyes open.

She nuzzled his cheek. :Goodnight, beloved.:

They howled around him, trying to crawl inside his mind. Horrible, vile, they made him retch to look at them, but he couldn't look away from their distorted faces and maimed bodies. They drove fear before them and raised terror about them, making a whirlwind with himself in the center; they had knives for teeth and scythes for claws, red eyes full of madness and an insatiable hunger he could feel beating at his frail shell of protection in waves of heat. They were shadows, deadly, kitting shadows, and they couldn't get at him, but they could and would find other prey. They howled off and away on the wind, and he screamed (or tried to) and hid his head and made himself as small as he could while the killing and dying began. And he wept with terror and shrieked-

Vanyel shook off the grip of the nightmare and came up out of it with a rush, choking against the black bile of fear in his throat. He clawed his way out of his blankets, and lay panting and unthinking against Yfandes' side in the aftermath of all-consuming horror, while his heart pounded in his ears.

The night about him was quiet, peaceful, undisturbed.

On the surface. But -

Beneath the surface?

Automatically he reached out with his Othersenses, to touch the energy currents that lay beneath the material night.

No, it hadn't been a nightmare; his Othersenses showed him the new, churning eddies in the currents of power all about him. Something had happened tonight. Somewhere out there something had used Power, used it freely, and to a terrible end. His nightmare had only been the far-off echo of something much, much worse. There was evil on the Otherwinds-and the world beneath shivered to feel it.

If I'd been in my room, I'd never have felt this, he realized, coming fully awake. My room is shielded and so is Savil's. But I never shield when I'm with Yfandes. That means Savil hasn't felt this. I'm the only one who knows there's something wrong.

“ 'Fandes?” He reached out for her shoulder; the muscles were bunched with tension, and her head was up, sniffing the crisp breeze.

:Hush. Listen.:

Faint, and far off - a mind-cry for help? Or just a mind crying in despair? It wavered maddeningly in and out of his sensing-range.

:That's because he's bonded. It's a Companion, a young one. He's Chosen, and his Chosen is emperiled. I can hardly hear him.: She stretched her neck out, as if simply trying harder could make what she sensed clearer. :That's - he 's caught in his Chosen 's fear, and he's nearly hysterical. :

“Which, Companion or Chosen?” Vanyel scrambled completely out of his bedroll, and flared the lamp to life with a blink of thought. We'd better deal with this. We may be the only ones close enough to hear them.

:Both - the Companion, at least.: She lurched to her feet, her eyes black with distress. Moonlight poured in through the open upper half of the door to the paddock, silvering her. :Vanyel, please - we must go to them!:

“What's it look like I'm doing?” he demanded, throwing her blanket over her, then pulling down the saddle itself. “I'll have you saddled in half a moment. Where is this?”

:Lineas. Highjorune. :

“The Linean throne-seat.” He made a quick check of his mental maps. “That's relatively near our Border. Can we be there by dawn? “

:Before. : All her attention was back on the West.

“Good, because I have the feeling what we're about to do isn't legal, at least by Linean standards, and I'd rather not break laws while people are awake to catch me. Kellan!”

A stamp and a whicker told him that Savil's Companion had heard him.

“Get Savil awake and tell her what we know and where we're going. And why.”

Snort of agreement.

“ 'Fandes, wait a minute, I'd better change.” He began stripping his clothing off, cursing the laces that wouldn't come undone, and snapping them when he realized how much time this was taking.

She swung her head around to stare at him frantically. :We can't afford the time!:

“We can't afford not to take the time,” he said reasonably. “Think about it, love. I had damn well better be in uniform. Even the Lineans will think twice about stopping a Valdemar Herald, but a man on a white horse won't rate that second thought. I am something less than fond of being a target, even a moving one.” He rummaged in the saddlebags, coming up with a slightly crumpled set of Whites. “Thought I left those here. Thank the gods for battle-line habits.” He shrugged on the breeches and tunic and belted them tight; pulled on the boots he'd pulled off when he'd wormed into his blankets. “Good thing I've only got the one pair of boots. Damn, I wish I'd thought to leave a sword here.”

:Meke left one in the tack bin by the stud.:

“Bless you -”

He vaulted the railings to fetch it; it was not a good blade, but it was serviceable. He strapped it and his long dagger on, inserted the short ones into their pockets in his boots.

His cloak-he looked for it quickly; he'd need it out there. There it was, half tangled with the blankets. He pulled it out of the tangle, shook it out, flung it over his shoulders, fastened the throat-latch, and returned to the task of harnessing Yfandes. He swung the saddle onto her back, gave a quick pull of the cinch, got chest- and rump-bands buckled and snugged in - she was ready.

He snatched her hackamore off its peg and tossed it over her head; he mounted while she shook it into place as the bells on it jangled madly. She booted the bottom of the door into the paddock open with her nose while he grabbed for the reins and brought them over her neck, and then with a leap a wild deer would envy she was off into the darkness.

Seven

Gods, it's like another Border-alert. Though Yfandes was frantic with the call in her mind, Vanyel kept his wits about him and reached out with a finger of power to snuff the lantern as they cleared the stable-door.

Yfandes raced across the black-velvet of the paddock, hooves pounding dully on the turf, uncannily surefooted in all the moon-cast, dancing shadows. He'd forgotten for a moment that their path out was going to be blocked. He glanced ahead barely in time to see the fence at the far end coming at them and set himself instinctively when he felt her gather under him. They flew over the bars and landed with a jar that drove his teeth together and threw him against the pommel of the saddle. He fought himself back into balance and felt her begin to hesitate in mid-stride.

:Van?:

He clenched his teeth and wrenched himself into place. :Just go - I'm fine.:

She stretched out flat to the ground and ran with all the heart that was in her. Vanyel pulled himself down as close to the level of her outstretched neck as he could, kept his silhouette low and clean, and balanced his weight just behind her shoulders where she could carry it easiest. And fed her with his power.

No one except another Herald could know how exhausting “just riding” could be, especially on a ride like this. He was constantly moving, altering his balance to help her without thinking about it. It was work, and involved tiny muscle adjustments to complement her exertions.

He kept his cloak tucked in all around, but it didn't help much; the wind cut right through it, and chilled him terribly. His hands and face were like ice before a candlemark had passed. The wind whipped his hair into snarls and numbed his ears, and there was nothing he could do except endure it all, and keep his Othersenses alert for trouble.

I'll have to do something about the Border Guards when we get there. Something that isn't intrusive.

The Border - friendly in name only, neutral in truth - was guarded by sentries and watchtowers. They reached it at just about midnight, and Vanyel blinked in amazement when the first of those towers loomed up above the trees on the horizon, a black column against moon - whitened clouds. He'd had no way to judge Yfandes' speed in the dark; only the wind in his face and the thin, steady pull of power from him, power that he in turn drew from the nodes and power-streams they passed as they came into sensing range. Her speed wasn't natural, and required magic to sustain over any distance.

:The watchtowers-: That was the first time she'd Mindspoken him since they'd leapt the paddock fence, and her mind-voice, though preoccupied, was dark with apprehension. :The Border Guards-:

:I've got it figured,: he told her; got a wash of relief, and then felt her turn her attention back to the race and her footing, secure in the belief that he would handle the rest.

He closed his eyes against distractions, and Looked out ahead. He found and identified each mind that could possibly see them passing - those who were awake and those who were not - he left nothing to chance anymore. Not after he'd once been detected on a crawl through the enemy camp by a cook who happened to head for the privy-trench at just the wrong time. So, calling on more of that node-energy he'd garnered on the run, he built a Seeming that touched all those minds.

There is nothing on the road, his mind whispered to theirs. Only shadows under the moon, the drumming of a partridge, the hooves of startled deer. You see nothing, you hear only sounds you have heard before. There is nothing on the road.

There were plenty of circumstances that could break this Seeming. It was too delicate to hold against a counterspell and it would certainly break if they had the misfortune to run into someone physically. But anyone touched by the spell would see only shadows, hear only sounds that could easily be explained away.

More importantly, they would feel a subtle aversion to investigating those sounds, a bored lassitude that would keep them in the shelter of their posts.

They passed the Border - guard station, vaulting the twin gates that barred the road, Valdemar and Lineas sides, as lightly as leaves on the wind. The Linean Guard was actually leaning on the gatepost, lounging beneath a lantern, his face a startlingly pale blur above his dark uniform. He looked directly at them, and Vanyel felt him yawn as they leaped the gate. Then he was lost in the dark behind as they raced on. Vanyel did not look back, but set the spell to break the moment they were out of sight. He would cloak his own passing; he would not leave the Border to spell-mazed guardians.

He spent no more magical energies in such spells; he didn't particularly care if the common folk of Lineas saw them. They were familiar enough with the uniform of the Heralds. If any Lineans saw him, they would assume, reasonably enough, that he'd been properly dealt with at the Border and belonged here.

Yfandes raced on, through pocket-sized villages in tiny, sheltered river-hollows, even through a larger town or two. All were as dark as places long abandoned. Finally, in the dead hours of the night, the time when death and birth lie closest, they came to Highjorune.

Most of the city was as dead and dark as the villages, but not all; no city slept the night through. More and stronger magic would be required to get them to their goal - whatever it was-without being stopped. Vanyel reached, seeking node-energy to use to pass the city gates as they had the Border, and recoiled a little in surprise.

For a place so adamantly against mages and their Gifts, Highjorune was crawling with mage-energy. It lay on the intersection of three - five - seven lines of force, none of them trivial, all flowing to meet at a node beneath it, liquid rainbows humming the random songs of power, strong enough for even new-made Adepts to use, provided they had the sensitivity to detect them-though the node where they met would be too wild, too strong for any but an experienced Adept.

:Yfandes, stop a bit.:

Yfandes obeyed. He raised his hands, preparing to spin out a true spell of illusion and sound - dampening; taking the power directly from the closest stream, bracing himself for the shock as his mind met the flow of energy.

The city gate was too well-guarded and well-lit, and the city itself too crowded with people to chance the kind of spell he'd worked on the Border Guards. He wanted to hurry the spell, but knew he didn't dare. Careful - he told himself. This is Savil's area of expertise, not yours. Rush it, and you could lose it.

Yfandes fidgeted, her bridle - bells chiming, her hooves making a deeper ringing on the hard paving of the road. :Hurry,: she urged, her own Mindvoice dense with fear. :Please. He'll die, they'll die - there's another Companion, she's nearly gone mad, she can't speak -:

: 'Fandes, don't interrupt. I'm working as fast as I can, but if I don't pull power now, I won't have anything when we need it.: The raw power was beginning to fill him, fill all the echoing emptiness. Natural, slow recovery had not been able to do this! He was going to have to wait until the achingly empty reservoirs of power within him were full again before he could spin a shield this complicated, though at this rate it wasn't going to take long. Besides, he was all too likely to need power. If everything went to hell and he had to Gate out of here -

Gods. It's like - eating sunlight, breathing rainbows, drinking wind - Force poured into him, wild and untamed, and for the first time in months he felt complete and revived. There was nothing this strong anywhere near Forst Reach.

No mystery now why the Mavelans wanted Lineas, not with this kind of power running through Highjorune going untapped and unused. He could almost pity the mage-lords. It must be like living next to people who mined up precious gems with their copper, and threw the gems out with the tailings, but wouldn't let you in to glean them. Got to hurry this. We're running out of time.

Cautiously he pulled at the power, until it responded, flowing faster into him.

That's it. Now I make it mine.

He tapped into the wild power he'd taken; learned it, tamed it to his hand.

He was sweating now; both with effort and impatience. Gods, this takes too much time, but I can't afford any surprises.

Slowly, carefully, he began to spin the energy out into threads, visible only to his Othersight, making a cocoon of the threads that would absorb sound within it, and send the eyes that lit upon it to looking elsewhere. Layer on layer, thread on delicate thread, this was a spell that required absolute concentration and attention, for the slightest defect would mean a place where the eye could catch and hold, where sound could leak out. Yfandes stood like a statue of ice in the moonlight, no longer fidgeting.

Finally, with a sigh of relief, he completed.the web. He replaced what he had spent, then cut off his connection to the mother-stream.

His arms hurt, but he had the feeling that more was going to hurt than his arms before this was over.

:Go!: he told Yfandes, who leaped off into the dark, heading for the open city gates ahead of them.

He grabbed for the reins and pommel as she shot forward, a white arrow speeding toward a target only she knew.

:'Fandes! Where are we going?:

:The palace!:

The streets wound crazily round about, with no sense and no pattern; some were illuminated by torches and lanterns, some only by the moon. They sped from dark to light to dark again, Yfandes' hooves sliding on the slippery cobbles. They splashed through puddles of water and less pleasant liquids. He could hear her hooves, oddly muffled, beneath him; and both intriguing scents and noisome, foul stenches that met his nose only to be snatched away before he could recognize them. There were people about; street cleaners, beggars, whores, drunks, others he couldn't identify. The spell held; the eyes of the townsfolk they passed slid past the two of them with no interest whatsoever.

:The first Companion, the young one - I can't even reach him now, he's too crazed, Van, he's so frightened!: Yfandes was not particularly coherent herself; stress was distorting her mind-voice into a wash of emotion through which it was hard to pick up words. :The second one - she's - her Chosen - she can't bear what he's doing, she's shutting everything out. :

Vanyel clung to the pommel and balanced out sideways a bit as Yfandes rounded a corner, hindquarters skewing as her hooves slipped a little. This “second one”-she was probably the Companion with Randale's envoy. But what could a Herald be doing that would stress his Companion to the point of breakdown?

Vanyel didn't have long to wait to discover the answer; they entered a zone of wider streets and enormous residences; homes of the noble and rich. The streets were near daylight - bright with cressets and lanterns of scentless oils. The palace can't be far, he thought, and just as he finished the thought, they pounded around a corner and into a huge square, then down a broad avenue. At the end of that processional avenue was a huge structure, half fortress, half fantasy, looming above the city, a black eagle mantling above her nest against the setting moon. And at the eagle's feet, an egg of light-the main courtyard, brightly lit. Vanyel banished the spell of unsight as they thundered in the gilded gates.

The dark-charcoal palace walls cupped the courtyard on three sides, the wall they'd just passed beneath forming the fourth. There must have been a hundred lanterns burning.

He only got a glimpse of confusion; to his right, half a dozen armed and armored men, and a Companion down and moaning on the black cobbles. To his left-a younger Companion, blood streaked shockingly red on his white coat, teeth bared and screaming with rage and battle - fury; a blond boy clinging dazedly to his back, and-

It was like something out of his worst nightmares. A Herald, with a heavy carter's whip, beating the stallion until his skin came away in strips and blood striped bright on the snowy hide, trying to separate him from the boy.

Yfandes literally rode the Herald down, swerving at the last moment to shoulder him aside instead of trampling him. Vanyel leaped from her saddle as he had so many times before in Border - fights; hit the cobbles and tumbled to kill his momentum, and sprang to his feet with sword drawn.

He didn't give the other Herald a breath to react. Whatever insanity was going on here had to be stopped. Without thinking, Van reversed the grip on the sword in his hand.

And lashed up to catch the stranger squarely on the chin with a handful of metal.

The other Herald went flying backward, and landed in an untidy heap.

Damn, he's still moving.

Vanyel put himself in righting stance between the young stallion and his abuser. He touched the young ones' minds just long enough to try and get some sense out of either the boy or the stallion - but from the first picked up only shock, and from the second, fear that drowned everything else out.

Vanyel pulled on the power within him, feeling it leap, wild and undisciplined, as the other Herald staggered to his feet, bleeding from a split lip, and prepared to lash out with the whip again. Flinging out his left hand, Van sent a lash of his own, a lash of lightning from his outstretched finger to the whipstock. The spark arced across the space between them with a crackle and the pungent smell of burning leather, and the dark, sallow-faced Herald dropped the whip with an exclamation of pain. Behind him, Yfandes was holding off the armsmen with squeals, lashing hooves and bared teeth; faced with her anger, they were not inclined to come to the Herald's rescue.

“What in hell do you think you're doing?” Vanyel thundered, letting the other feel his outrage, a wave of red anger. The older man backed up an involuntary pace. “What in the name of the gods themselves is going on here?”

Vanyel sheathed his sword then. The other Herald drew himself up, nursing his injured hand against his chest, rubbing the blood off his bruised chin with the other. “Who are you to interfere -” he began, his face a caricature of thwarted authority.

Vanyel tried to Mindspeak, but the other's channel was weak, and he was blocking it besides. And the personality was not one for much hope of compromise. Stolid and methodical - and affronted by the stranger's intervention in his jurisdiction. The young stranger, too young, surely, to have any authority.

Gods bless - I'm going to have to pull rank on this thickheaded idiot. And he's never going to forgive me for that.

And the only reason I didn't put him out is because he's so damn thick - headed!

“Herald-Mage Vanyel Ashkevron,” Vanyel cut him off. “Called Demonsbane, called Shadowstalker, First Herald-Mage in Valdemar. I outrank you, Herald, and your damn fool actions tonight called me out of my bed and across the Border. You've exceeded your authority, and I'm ordering you to let this boy be. Who in hell are you?”

Vanyel could feel the older man's resentment and smoldering anger, heavy and hot, a ponderous weight of molten emotional metal. “Herald Lores,” he said sullenly, rubbing his hand. “King Randale's envoy to the court of Lineas.”

Over his shoulder, Vanyel watched Yfandes backing away from the armsmen. She cautiously nudged the downed Companion's shoulder-still keeping one eye on them. After a couple of false tries, the other mare managed to get back to her feet, but stood with her head down and her legs splayed and shaking.

: 'Fandes?:

:She 's Hearing again, and Speaking, a little; when you got her Chosen to stop, it resolved the conflict inside her -

but she is not well. She is still in turmoil, and her heart bleeds. :

:Take care of her.: He turned his attention back to Lores. “Tell me – slowly - just what you thought you were doing, taking a whip to a Companion, trying to drive him away from his Chosen.”

Lores snarled. “That boy is a bloody-handed murderer, and that thing you call a Companion is his demon shape - changed! He called it up and was trying to escape on it.”

“What?” Vanyel backed up a step, inadvertently bumping into the young stallion, who snorted in alarm but stood rock - steady, ready to protect his Chosen against anything, be it man, beast, or creature of magic. Vanyel reached out, still keeping his eyes on Lores, and laid his hand along the stallion's neck. If anyone in the wide world would know what a demon “felt” like, he did, after having them close enough to score his chest with their claws, and after turning them back against Karse! He extended his mind toward the young stallion's, and touched again, gently. No demonic aura met his mind, only the pure, bright, blue - white pulsing that was the signature of a Companion, an aura that only a Companion, of all the creatures he had ever Mindtouched, possessed.

Anger rose in him, as his hand came away bloody, and the young stallion shivered in fear and pain. He clenched his fist and stared at the older Herald. “You -” he groped for words. “If I didn't know Randale, and know that neither he nor Shavri would send anyone at all unbalanced out here as an envoy, I'd say you were insane.” The man gaped at him, taken completely aback. “As it is, I'm forced to say I've never encountered anyone so incredibly stupid in my life!” He relaxed his clenched fist and patted the stallion's neck without looking around, then advanced on Lores with such anger filling him that he was having trouble keeping his voice controlled. “What in hell makes you think this youngster is a demon?”

“You could be fooled, spell-touched-”

“Not bloody likely! And a demon could never fool my Companion, nor yours. Gods, man, if they wouldn't know. After she Chose, and after - her Chosen - was pressed past all sanity. It has no bearing on what happened here. You would not listen to your own Companion try to tell you the truth.”

He took a step toward the other, bloody finger pointed in accusation. “You blocked her out with your anger and your fear. You allowed your emotions to interfere with your ability to see the truth. You blocked her so you couldn't hear what you didn't want to hear.”

Lores' resentment smoldered in his eyes, but he could not deny Vanyel's accusations.

:Van - the boy -:

Vanyel spun, just in time to see the young man losing his death grip on his Companion's mane, sliding to the ground. He sprinted to the boy's side, startling the young stallion so that he threw up his head and rolled his eyes, and caught the boy in mid - collapse, draping the boy's arm over his own neck and shoulder, supporting him, and looked around for an open door - any door-

:Your left,: Yfandes prompted: one of the double doors into the main entranceway was cracked open. He half-carried, half-dragged the boy there, with Lores following sullenly behind, and kicked the door open enough to squeeze through.

It was pitchy dark in the palace - which was damned odd for the throne-seat, even at a few hours till dawn. Even odder, all that commotion in the main courtyard had brought no one out to see what the ruckus was about. Van couldn't see a thing past the little light coming in the doorway. The building might just as well have been deserted.

First things first; they needed light. So - Be damned to local prejudice, he thought, and set a globe of blue mage-light to spinning above his head. Behind him, he heard a stifled gasp as Lores watched it appear out of nowhere.

They were in a bare entryway; that was all he had time to notice in his brief glance. Someplace to put this boy - A seat was what he was looking for, and he spotted one: a highly-polished wooden bench, bare of cushions and bolted to the floor, over against the wall just clear of the door. Presumably it was for the use of low-rank servants waiting for something or someone at the main entrance. Whatever, it was a seat. He supported the boy over to it, and got him seated, shoved his head down between his legs, and worked the little Healing he knew to clear the shock out and get him conscious again.

The boy was aware enough to interpret that as some kind of coercion or confinement; he tried to fight, and raised his head into the light.

And Vanyel saw his face for the first time.

It was Tylendel's face, dazed with shock and vacant-eyed, that looked up at him in confusion beneath the blue mage-light.

Vanyel choked, and the floor seemed to heave beneath him. Only one hand on the wall saved him. For a moment he thought that his heart had stopped, or that his mind had snapped.

His eyes cleared again, and he took a closer look, reached out to tip the boy's face into the light, and almost Mindtouched -

But he stopped himself, as he began to see the little differences. The boy couldn't be more than sixteen, and looked it; 'Lendel had always looked older than he really was. The boy's nose was snubbed, or more than 'Lendel's had been; the eyes were farther apart and larger, the chin rounded and not squared, the hair wavy, not curly, and darker than the golden-brown of Tylendel's. Subtle differences, but enough to let him shake off his ghosts, enough to tell him that this was not Tylendel.

Whatever the boy in turn saw or sensed in his eyes, it reassured him enough that he stopped fighting, and obeyed Vanyel's half-audible order to keep his head down.

Not now, he told himself. Deal with your ghosts later, not now.

For the first time since entering the gilded door, he looked around to see if there was finally anyone coming. He looked past the barren entryway - and froze at the sight of the wreckage in the mage-light.

He'd seen less destruction after the sacking of a keep.

No wonder no one came, he thought, dumbly. Nobody human could have survived this.

Vanyel stood at the edge of the staircase and stared. This entry was hardly more than twenty feet long, and made of the same black stone as the exterior, but polished to a reflective shine; it led to a short stone stair that in turn led down into the wood-paneled Great Hall. This Hall had been a reception area - lit by chandeliers and wall sconces, hung with tapestries, lined with dark wood tables and chairs polished to mirror-brightness. It was demolished.

The chandeliers had been torn from the beams, tapestries ripped from the walls. The walls, the floor, the ceiling beams themselves were scored and gouged as though with the marks of terrible claws. The tapestries had been shredded, the furniture reduced to splinters, the wreckage scattered across the floor as though a whirlwind had played here.

Vanyel remembered his dream, and felt his hair rise and a chill creep up his backbone.

“What -” His voice cracked, and he tried again. “What happened?”

Lores' lip lifted a little, but he answered civilly enough. “That boy - that's Tashir. You know who he is?”

Vanyel nodded. “Tashir Remoerdis. Deveran of Lineas' oldest child.”

“You know Deveran figured him for a bastard, the worst kind, fathered on Ylyna by her own brother, so they say.”

“Is that really germane?” Van looked back at the wreckage.

“Damn right it's germane.” Lores lifted his lip scornfully. “It's why the brat did all this.”

“Lores, you'd better tell me everything you know.” Vanyel requested simply, still trying to take in the implications of the wrecked palace.

Lores snorted and rambled on. “Ylyna was no virgin, though in honesty the Mavelans never claimed she was. Still, fourteen's a bit young to have been as - let's say - experienced as she was. Tashir was born eight months after the wedding. That's suspicious enough. Boy looks like his uncle Vedric and nothing like Ylyna or Deveran did. That's the second reason; another is that he's known to have Gifts; Fetching, for one-things have been flying around when he got upset ever since he was thirteen. No Gifts manifested in Ylyna, and there's never been any in Deveran's line. The locals called it wizardry and pressured Deveran to disinherit Tashir.''

“I'd heard about the Gift,” Vanyel said, looking back at the boy to see if he'd overheard them. They were only twenty paces away, and Lores was making no effort to keep his voice down. Tashir was still sitting where they'd left him, head and hands dangling between his knees. “How did the boy take being disinherited?”

“The boy?” For a moment Lores seemed puzzled. “That was the odd part; boy seemed relieved. It was Vedric Mavelan that made all the fuss. But tonight - something happened at dinner, and I'm not sure exactly what.” Lores wrapped his arms around his chest, and his expression turned introspective, and a little fearful.

“Were you there?” Vanyel asked.

Lores nodded. “Always, as the Valdemar envoy. Tonight...” He looked into the distance, frowning. “I remember I was chatting with Deveran's armsmaster and the boy came up to the high table to say something to Deveran. Next thing I knew, they're at it hammer and tongs, screaming at each other, the boy going white and Deveran going red. Then Deveran backhanded the boy, knocked him to the floor.''

Vanyel chewed his lip. “Was that unusual?”

Lores shrugged. “Well, it had never happened in public before. Deveran asked us all to leave in the kind of voice that makes an order out of a request. We left - don't look at me like that, what else could we do?”

“I don't know,” Vanyel replied soberly. “I wasn't there. But I don't think I would have left a situation that volatile.”

“Well I left; it's not Valdemar and it wasn't my business. I went out to the stable and Jenna, was outside with her for a while.” He shook his head. “They'd moved the fight up to Deveran's study, toward the back of the palace; I could hear 'em both shouting at each other through the window. Then it got real quiet for a bit - and then all hell broke loose.” He gestured at the wreckage in the Great Hall, and his expression became strained. “You can figure what that sounded like; enough screaming for a war. Nobody wanted to break in on that, and anyway we found out that the doors were all like they were welded shut.”

His voice was casual, but he was trembling and sweating, and his skin was dead white.

“It didn't last long. Then it was quiet again, sudden, like everything had been cut off. Me, the outside servants, and Deveran's armsmen from the palace, and the town guard and a couple of the town council with some courage in them, we all broke the doors open.”

“And you found?”

“That's what we found. The boy knocked out under that bench, and when we went to look for bodies - gods. Everyone inside these walls... was dead. The boy's sibs, the servants, everybody. Torn to pieces, just like . . . that stuff. Nothing bigger than palm-sized pieces of everybody else.” He was shaking now, his teeth chattering, and his pupils dilated. “Nothing,“ he repeated.

“You're not saying Tashir did all that?” Vanyel said incredulously. “That's impossible - it's insane!” The mage-light flared a little, setting shadows shrinking and growing again, flickering as he whirled to look at the boy, and his attention wavered.

Lores turned away from the wreckage, clutching his arms against his chest, and gradually stopped trembling. His eyes fell on Tashir again; just the sight of the boy seemed to reawaken his anger. “What's insane about it?” he demanded. “Fetching can wreck, or even kill. I should know that better than you, it's my Gift.”

“It's one of my Gifts, too, you damned fool!” Vanyel growled. “And at one point I almost got out of control, but my Gift was blasted open and I was in pain enough to drive a strong man mad. Nothing like that happened here! This boy never showed a hint of anything on this scale! And he was untrained? Not bloody likely!”

“How do we know he was untrained?” Lores demanded, his eyes reflecting blue glints from the mage - light over Vanyel's head. “He was the only one left alive! He had to have done it!''

Vanyel had a dozen retorts on the tip of his tongue, but none of them seemed wise.

So how did you come to be such an expert on Gifts and magic, you idiot? And did you search to find someone who might have hidden himself - or herself - until you 'd found and dealt with Tashir? Or did you identify everyone, or at least count all the bodies and come up with the same number as those known to be in the palace ?

He kept his teeth shut on all those questions. It was obvious that this had been bungled from the start, and dressing down this fool wasn't going to undo the bungling.

“We couldn't really believe it, not at first,” Lores admitted reluctantly. “We thought it must have been - oh, something out of the Pelagir wilderlands, or even something cooked up by the Mavelans. We really didn't know what it could have been, especially not the Lineans, but there wasn't anyone or anything else, and when we tried to question Tashir, the boy wouldn't answer. At first he was - dazed-like. Then he just refused to speak except to say he didn't remember.” Lores shook his head. “Not remember? How could he not remember something that did that? Unless he was lying, or he'd done it in anger and had blanked it out of his mind.” Lores clasped his folded arms still tighter against his chest, as if he was trying to protect himself. “What could we do? The guards were spooked, nobody wanted something like that on their hands. In the end, we just threw him in the guardhouse at the front gate there, since the townsfolk didn't want him in their jail and nobody wanted to have to go down to the cells under the palace. We sent off a messenger for Vedric, since he was the one making all the fuss about the boy in the first place. He may be a Mavelan, but he's not going to be able to talk the boy out of this mess. He'll have to deal with him, and he is a mage. We reckoned it was better for one mage to deal with another. Especially a murderer.”

“That's not proved.”

Lores glared at him. Vanyel repeated his words stubbornly. “That's not proved. Nothing is proved. And furthermore, I'd like to know how the hell a Herald could come to attack a Companion.”

Lores began pacing, four steps away from Vanyel, four steps back. “We shoved him in there, picked up the bodies - what was left of them. Things quieted down. Then, less than a candlemark ago, that demon showed up.”

“Companion.''

Lores wheeled to glare again, but the look in Vanyel's eyes cowed him. “That Companion showed up; he began breaking down the door. The guard got me, I sent for reinforcements - I thought it was a demon - more men showed up about the time the de- Companion got the door smashed in and started to run off with the boy. That whip was in the guardhouse and I grabbed it - figuring demon or not, it was horse-shaped.” He shrugged. “You know the rest.”

“Didn't you even try the boy under Truth Spell?” Vanyel snarled, out of patience with the lack of thought, the complete bullheaded stupidity of the man.

Lores looked baffled. “ 'Truth Spell'? Why? What's that got to do with me?”

“Goddess Incarnate! Any Herald can work first-stage Truth Spell! Didn't your mentor ever -” Vanyel paused at the dumbfounded look on Lores' face. “Your mentor never told you?”

Lores shook his head.

“Gods,” Vanyel strode over to the adolescent, who was still slumped over his own knees. “Tashir?” he said, gently, kneeling beside him. He braced himself when the young man looked up, it still made his heart lurch to see those eyes, that face - and that dazed, lost, and pleading expression. “Tashir, do you remember anything that happened tonight? Anything at all?''

Tashir's eyes were still not focusing well; he shook his head dumbly.

Vanyel shook him gently. “Think. Dinner. Do you remember your father calling you up at dinner?”

“I...” The boy's voice was quite low, almost a match for Vanyel's baritone. “I think so. Yes. He ... wanted me to go somewhere.”

“Where, Tashir?” Vanyel prompted.

“I ... don't remember.”

“Do you remember arguing with him?”

A hesitant nod. There were shadows under Tashir's eyes that had nothing to do with the way the light was falling on him. “I didn't want to go. He wanted to send me somewhere. I don't remember where, I just remember that I didn't want to go. I told him I wouldn't. He hit me.”

“Did he hit you very often?”

The eyes cleared for a moment, bright with fear. “Often enough,” the boy confessed cautiously. “When I was around too much. I tried not to get in his way. Sometimes he'd get mad about something, and take it out on me. But not in front of people, not before tonight.”

“So he hit you. Then he sent everyone else away. What then?”

“He . . . came around the table. He grabbed me before I could get away, twisted my arm up behind my back, and made me go with him to his study. And ...”

The eyes clouded again.

“And?”

“I don't remember!” Tashir wailed softly. “Please, I don't remember!”

Vanyel set in motion the spell that called the vrondi, the mindless air elemental that could not abide the emotional emanations associated with falsehood. In his hands, because he could give it energy beyond its own, the vrondi would be able to settle within the youngster's mind: he would be incapable of lying so long as it was there. Vanyel watched the vrondi settle into place, a glowing blue mist like a visible aura about Tashir's head and shoulders. He would not see it, but Vanyel and Lores certainly could. He glanced over at Lores, and saw the older man's lips compress, his face grow speculative.

“Are you sure, Tashir?” he urged. “Think. Your father took you up to his study; what happened in the study?”

'I don't remember!” Tashir whimpered. “I don't!”

Vanyel sighed, and dismissed the vrondi with a word. The mist dissolved, faded away, but slowly, not all at once as it would have if it had met with a lie. There was only one other thing he could try. He reached out tentatively with a Mindtouch.

Tashir should not have been able to detect it. But suddenly he jerked away, his eyes wild and unreasoning, and a shield snapped up so quickly Vanyel barely had time to pull back his Touch.

“Look out!” Lores cried, diving for die floor, as half a vase rose from the wreckage, flung itself across the room and smashed against the door. More fragments followed it, all rising from the wreckage to smash against the door, creating a rain of flying shards that pelted them both like fine hail.

Vanyel didn't move so much as a hair. He clenched his jaw, and reached out with his own power to damp Tashir's Gift with an external shield.

Sudden silence.

“Tashir,” he reached out for the youngster, with his hand this time, not his mind. “Tashir, I want to help you. I believe you. I will not allow anyone to harm you, or to imprison you for something you didn't do.”

The adolescent's eyes slowly calmed; grew saner. He stared at Vanyel for a long moment, then buried his face in his hands and began sobbing, trembling on the jagged edge of hysteria.

“I-don't-remember -” he choked. “Oh, please, I don't, I really don't.”

Before he could do anything to comfort or calm the youngster, Vanyel heard a noise in the distance, muffled by the door, that made his hair stand on end.

The sullen, angry roaring of a mob -

Lores' head snapped up, and a look of grim satisfaction spread over his face. “The armsmen,” he said smugly. “They must have spread the word. That's the people of Highjorune out there, Milord Herald-Mage. You don't rank them, and they aren't likely to listen to you. What's your plan now? They're going to want the boy. I think you should let them have him.”

Tashir gave a kind of choking gasp, and looked straight into Vanyel's eyes, his whole body pleading for rescue. His eyes were swollen, tears smeared across his face, and hair tumbled into one eye, his expression was tragic and hopeless.

Vanyel could no more have resisted a boy who looked like that than he could have given up Yfandes.

“I still outrank you, Lores,” he said coldly. “You are still under my orders. Get out there and do what you can to keep them off.”

“Keep them off? You're madder than he is!”

“Move!” Vanyel snapped, rising to his feet, as the flickering of torches lit the gap in the open door Lores made no further protest; he snorted, and stalked across the entryway to the door, his backbone stiff with unspoken resentment.

Vanyel followed him as far as the door, and once he had barely cleared it, slammed it shut practically on his heels. He heard a muffled exclamation, and the muttering of the mob grew louder and nearer. Vanyel threw the bolt into place across the door; it was metal, but it was not going to hold up against a concerted attack.

“That . . . isn't going to hold them for long,” Tashir said fearfully, brushing the hair out of his eyes with the back of one hand.

“It won't have to,” Vanyel answered absently, moving his Othersenses out and down and hoping that it was no coincidence.

There was that node, the most powerful node he'd ever encountered outside Tayledras lands. Given that Highjorune was situated on top of the convergence of those energy - streams, given that the node had to be around here somewhere. . . .

Had the palace been built where he'd have put it?

It was no coincidence. The palace was situated directly over the node; a node so strong it roared in Vanyel's mind.

“Now that pompous peabrain is going to find out why I outrank him,” he growled to himself, and reached -

The current-power had been wild; it was nothing to this. He had compared channels in his mother and Yfandes to a dripping icicle and a waterfall. This was to those streams what a raging Firestorm was to a campfire. But Vanyel knew its secrets and how to control it, and it raged to his will.

He set his mind in the spell-cycle; he murmured a few words, gathered his will, and cupped his hands, unconsciously mirroring the shape he wanted to create.

Then he snapped his hands open, crying out a single word of command.

A flash of light made his closed eyelids burn red for a moment. Tashir cried out fearfully.

Absolute and complete silence descended on them like sudden deafness.

He opened his eyes; a steady, yellow glow on the outer walls was just barely visible to his Othersight.

He had erected a mage - barrier about the palace that would keep out anything he didn't want in, including such intangibles as thought - or other magic. He could pass through: so could anything he brought with him. No one and nothing else.

With effort his thoughts passed it.

:Yfandes? How are you and the stranger?:

:They are ignoring us,: she said. :You have frightened the Young One, and angered Lores. The mob has not made up its mind.:

:Even if they do, it won't get them anywhere. Give me a moment to make up my mind.:

Vanyel severed the connection between himself and the node. He could control it, yes, but at a price. He'd just earned himself another scattering of silver hairs. Among other things.

He opened his eyes and saw Tashir huddled up against the wall, shaking so hard his teeth rattled. He walked stiffly to the bench, and touched the young man's shoulder. He got no response. He turned Tashir's face into the light, and saw his eyes glazed over in withdrawal.

“Damn.” Vanyel sat down heavily beside him. “Now what?”

He thought hard for a moment; made up his mind quickly, and reached for the node again.

The shock as he touched it the second time was a little less. When he could catch his breath again, he used the node-energy to boost his own Mindspeech far beyond what he could have reached alone, sending his mind out questing for a Mindpresence so dear and familiar it could almost have drawn him on its own.

Touch.

Startlement. :Who?:

:Savil?:

Recognition and relief. :Gods! Ke'chara, what has been bloody going on? Where are you ?:

He told her everything that had happened, from the time he'd been awakened by the nightmare. He compressed as much of it as he could, warned her in advance before he Mindsent her an image of Tashir, and even so, the close resemblance to Tylendel came as a shock to her that mirrored his own. He had been Tylendel's lover - but Savil had been mentor, friend, confidant, and near-mother to Tylendel, the role she filled now for Vanyel.

:So,: she sent, after she regained her mental balance. :Plans?:

:I'm taking him into protective custody, and getting him out of here.:

:How, with a mob - oh, gods.: Realization and fear. Flatly-:You're going to Gate.:

:Do you see any other choice?: he asked. :Even if the mob weren't there-I tried to remember what little I've heard about investigative procedures. Preserve the evidence. If I break the shield-spell to get out, anybody can get in, and I don't have the power to set a second spell, not this solid, not from the outside. From the inside I can tap the node, but the interference I'd create with the shield would keep me effectively out of the node. You know that. Shields are permeable to the creator, but they still resist penetration. We have to find out what happened here, and we won't if anyone can get in and muddle things up.:

Her mind-voice was gritty and gray with grim concern. :Far too logical to make me happy, love. But you rank me these days, and there's reasons enough for that for me to follow your lead. Where are you coming in?:

He'd thought about that very carefully. :The door to the old chapel. It's on sanctified ground, it's one of the few doors inside Forst Reach big enough to use as a Gate-terminus, but it's not under constant use, and I know it as well as I will ever know any place. So be ready for me, because I'm not going to be worth much when I come through. :

:As if I didn't know. Be careful - please.:

:I'll try.:

He cut the connection to the node, which dropped him out of the link with Savil, and turned his mind to one nearer at hand.

:Brightlove-:

:Chosen-:

:I'm Gating myself and Tashir out of here. You and the Young One make a run for it. If that damned fool calling himself a Herald can't take the hint, it's not my fault; I've got too many balls in the air as it is.:

She trembled with concern. :I will warn Jenna; if she can get him to mount, she can carry him off whether he likes it or not. I won't tell you not to use that means of escape, only - take care!:

He touched her with a mental caress. :I shall.:

He opened his eyes, and considered the possibilities, finally deciding on the open archway onto the stairs as his best bet. Putting a Gate-terminus on the outer door where the shield was would be risking more magically than he cared to. At full powers, maybe. Not now.

But first - He shoved outward a little, chuckling nastily as the expanding shield shoved Lores down the stairs and into the courtyard. There. That should keep them quiet for a bit.

He walked to the center of the hallway, raised his hands, and began.

He spun bits of himself, his stored powers, into the structure. He could not tap the node for this; the only possible way to use external mage-energy for a Gate would be - at least as far as he had learned - if two mages were lifebonded, for at some deep level, two lifebonded were one. And, as always, as soon as he had formed the Portal around the edge of the archway, his uniquely sensitized channels began to burn painfully as he resonated to Gate-energy. When the Gate was complete, he'd be in torment.

But that was something he had learned to accept and work around. The Weaving - He spun himself, his own substance, out into threads that quested for the unique place he sought, the place where he would build the other end of the Gate. At some point he was no longer having to send those searching filaments; they were pulling on him, and it was all he could do to keep them from spinning away from him and taking everything that was him with them. Then, finally, one of them found the chapel door – another - a third - There was a flare of light, not so bright as the one when he'd built the shield, and his knees gave.

Oh, hell- he thought dazedly. I wasn't as ready as I thought I was.

He crouched on the filthy, shard-covered floor, panting in pain, for a long, long moment before he had the strength to look up. But when he did, he saw, not the wreckage of the Highjorune Great Hall, but the welcoming, familiar corridor that led to the old Forst Reach chapel. And thrice-blessed Savil, tunic on backward, waiting. The pain -

I ... think I'm in trouble. I've never . . . been this drained... before, he thought, somewhere under the red wash of burning. Oh, gods - if I'd known it was going to be like this, I'd never have had the courage. . . .

He got to his feet, somehow; he staggered like a mortally - wounded drunk trying to get to Tashir. He was so dizzy he could hardly see, and only concentrating on each step, one at a time, enabled him to cross the hallway to the young man.

“Ta-shir,” he croaked, and prayed for a little intelligence in those eyes. His prayers were answered this time; the young man stared at him with a kind of foggy awareness, though he still trembled in every limb. “Go ... get up ...” His feeble tugs on Tashir's arm were answered, the young man stumbled to his feet. “Go ... there ...”He pushed Tashir toward the Gate, every step bought with black - red waves of pain.

Maddeningly, Tashir stopped, right on the edge.

Vanyel screamed in frustration and torment, and shoved, sending the young man stumbling through, and unable to keep his balance, fell right through after him.

Fell from torment into agony; strength gone, control gone, sight, sound, all senses. There was only the pain -

And then there was nothing.