Twelve

News, sped by Herald-, Mind- and Mage-Gifts, and Herald-guided messenger birds, moved quickly in Valdemar when the King and Circle chose. But when they didn't -

They had not chosen to speed either edicts or news in the matter of Tashir and the mysterious slaughter of the Linean Royal Family. That news moved with the same plodding slowness as it did outKingdom. And that gave Vanyel and the youngster a respite.

But it was a short respite only; Vanyel had known that from the beginning. Vanyel wasn't much surprised when a messenger arrived the day after Sovvan from Captain Lissa. He had a fair notion of just what the sealed message-tubes the courier carried contained.

And he wasn't at all surprised to be summoned to Lord Withen's study when the messenger had departed.

The door stood open; Vanyel tapped on the frame, then entered when his father looked up. Withen wore a troubled expression, the look of a man who is uneasy about things over which he had little or no control. He motioned to Vanyel to take a chair, but Van only shook his head, preferring to stand. If Withen meant to take him to task, let him do so with Vanyel in some kind of “formal” stance.

“This -” Withen settled back into his own chair and lifted a corner of one of the papers lying on his desk. “I had the messenger read it for me; I wasn't sure I wanted Radevel to know what was going on until I talked to you. It's a politely worded ’request' from Lissa for permission to move her company of the Guard to the Ashkevron personal estates. And an explanation of why she's been ordered to move.”

Vanyel nodded. Given what he had seen on his way home - the way the Linean side of the Border had been fortified in just under a fortnight - he had realized it would be only a matter of time before Liss got orders to move from the Border-section facing Baires to that facing Lineas. And the Ashkevron family land sat squarely on the only road suitable for troop movements.

Withen coughed uncomfortably. “Van, son - the boy you brought here - he's that Tashir, isn't he? Tashir Remoerdis. The Linean.”

“He is,” Vanyel replied levelly. “And the fact that he was Chosen after the Remoerdis Family died is reason enough to presume him innocent.” He straightened a little. “Father, you know I wouldn't have brought anyone dangerous here, but he needed a sanctuary, and this was the only place I could think of where no one would look for him.”

Withen interrupted him with a wave of his hand. “That's not what I'm worried about. That boy wouldn't hurt a fly, I'd swear to it myself. It's - what do I do if Liss or somebody else comes looking for you?”

“You could give us up,” Vanyel sighed, his muscles going to knots. “In fact, you should.”

“Like hell I will!” Withen rumbled. “You brought him here for sanctuary, and by the gods, he's going to get it!”

Vanyel relaxed and grinned; the expression startled his father. “Father mine,” he said warmly, “you have just eased my last worry. I was not going to foist this walking diplomatic incident on you unwilling, but if you have no qualms about continuing to shelter him -”

Withen snorted. “I'll pick up blade and defend him m'self, if I have to.”

“I hope you won't have to; I hope I'll be able to find out who really did this, and clear Tashir entirely. If you don't mind, I'll take that chair you offered.'' Withen nodded, and Vanyel lowered himself into its support gratefully. “Randale's playing a very tricky game here; Liss' troop is mostly made up of men from Forst Reach and the holdings in fealty to us. He knows damned well that no matter what the 'official' word is, they'll protect me, with silence, if nothing else, unless you - or Liss - indicate differently. Randale trusts my judgment, and he's giving me time to get this sorted out.”

Withen nodded, one eyebrow raised in tribute to Randale's cleverness.

“Don't worry, Father, I'll have word and time to get us out of Forst Reach and into hiding in the forest long before anyone dangerous could actually arrive here.''

“That was all I was worried about, except -” Withen tugged his short beard unhappily, “- is there a chance the Lineans would make a Border-war out of this?”

Vanyel weighed all the factors in his mind, including Vedric's apparent unwillingness to force the issue. He ruminated a long time, for the most part ignoring his father's increasingly gloomy countenance, before he was able to make a tentative conclusion. He stood then, hoping he looked more confident than he felt. “I don't think so, but I pledge you, Father,” he said steadily, holding Withen's eyes with his own, “before it comes to that, I'll turn both of us over to them myself.”

And I hope to Havens I never have to make good on that pledge.

The reaction to the news contained in the missive was mixed. On the whole, Vanyel's younger brothers seemed to welcome the prospect of “a little excitement” with cheerful bloodthirstiness. Mekeal alone of all of them seemed of two minds about the whole thing, first joining in the boasting and enthusiastic weaponry practices, then taking to pacing about the keep muttering about “line-of-sight” and “defensibility” with a worried frown creasing his forehead.

Withen made it very plain when the youngster's identity became generally known that he shared Jervis' conviction of Tashir's innocence, and Tashir reacted to his show of faith with disbelief at first. But when Withen himself assured him of his sanctuary, Tashir reacted with a pitiful gratitude that would have softened harder hearts than Withen's.

It was because of this that Withen actually got embroiled in a shouting match with Father Leren over Tashir and the question of his disposition, guilt, or innocence; the first time Withen had ever disagreed with the cleric to Vanyel's knowledge.

Tashir's Companion had finally come in to take up nervous residence with Yfandes. This was something of a relief to Vanyel, since Ghost had been frightening the whey out of most of the workers on the holding; they'd see only a flash of something white, usually by night, and then it would be gone, and the rumors of a “demon-horse” were spreading. Vanyel was trying to coax both the young man and the Companion into a calmer state of mind in which deeper bonding and Mindspeech between the two would be possible, but neither of them were at all willing to be calmed. Ghost, in fact, showed a marked tendency to panic if even the lower half of the outer door to Yfandes' stall was closed while he was in it. Vanyel was about ready to give it up as a hopeless task when Jervis came looking for him, a startling grin transforming his craggy face into a mask of unholy glee.

Relations between the two of them were improving again - slowly. Vanyel suspected Tashir may have had a hand in that, though whether or not that was on purpose he had no idea. But although they were speaking without daggers behind the words, Vanyel had not expected to see that kind of expression on the armsmaster's face -  ever.

“Van,” Jervis whispered, while Tashir communicated with Ghost in his own way, with brush and murmured words Vanyel couldn't catch. “If you're done here, there's somethin' you have to hear.”

Vanyel shrugged, and vaulted over the stall railings. “Tashir,” he called over his shoulder, “why don't you two work off some of that nerve in a good long ride? You're too edgy to trance and I don't blame you.”

Tashir looked relieved; Ghost lowered his head in a clear gesture of agreement. The young Companion stood steadily for Tashir while his Chosen pulled himself up onto his back, then nosed the stall door open and trotted out into the paddock.

“All right,” Vanyel said, turning back to Jervis. “What is all this about?”

“Just come with me,” Jervis said gleefully, and led Vanyel out of the stable to stand just under one of the windows in the tiny temple.

“- possessed at the best; a red-handed murderer at the worst!” Father Leren was shouting, his voice muffled by all the intervening stone.

“That boy's no more a murderer than I am!” Withen shouted back. “You were dead wrong about Vanyel, and by the gods, you're even more wrong about this boy! Van asked me for sanctuary for him, I pledged it, and I'm not taking back my sworn word!''

“You're putting your soul in jeopardy, Lord Withen,” the priest thundered, “The gods -”

“The gods my ass!” Withen roared, in full and magnificent outrage. “There isn't an evil hair on that poor boy's head! Who made you the spokesman for the gods? Last I was taught, if the gods want something done, they don't bother with a damned mouthpiece, they do it themselves - or they choose a vessel and make their power plain! I haven't seen you glowing with holy light, old man!”

Leren sputtered, incoherent, obviously taken aback by this revolt of his erstwhile supporter.

“And I'll tell you one thing more, I judge who's to be Forst Reach priest. I put you in, and I can throw you out just as easy! If you want to stay Forst Reach priest, you'll keep your mouth off Tashir - aye, and while we're at it, off Vanyel as well! When you've done as much for Valdemar as he has, you can call him pervert and catamite to your heart's content, but till you do, you keep a respectful tongue in that head of yours! He's Herald Vanyel, first-rank Herald-Mage of Valdemar and confidant of the King, and furthermore he's my son and you'd better damned well remember that fact!”

Leren tried to say something else, but Withen's roar drowned him out.

Vanyel signaled that they probably ought to move on; Jervis nodded as he stifled snickers with his hand, biting the edge of it to keep from laughing out loud as they slipped away. Vanyel was too surprised to laugh; it felt as if his eyebrows were about to make a permanent home in his hair.

It was certainly the last argument he'd ever expected to overhear.

The falling-out found Leren taking his meals with the hirelings instead of with the family, a circumstance that Vanyel tried not to rejoice in, but couldn't help enjoying. It certainly made mealtime easier for him to face. The quarrel also gave Jervis ascendancy, and as a result of that, Vanyel thought he might be detecting a certain softening of Withen's attitude toward his firstborn, although what with everything and everyone stirred up it was impossible to be sure.

That was the state of things when Captain Lissa Ashkevron rode in through the gates of Forst Reach at the head of her company.

“Lord Withen,” said the solemn hatchet-faced woman in dress blues, bowing slightly over her horses's neck in the salute of equals. She waited his response with her helm tucked at a precise angle under her left arm, her bay's reins held at an equally precise angle in her right. The blue-dyed rooster feathers mounted in a socket at the top of the light dress helm fluttered across her arm in the light breeze. Her brown hair had been braided and coiled atop her head with the same military precision that characterized the rest of her equipage.

This was the first time Vanyel had seen his sister “on duty,” or in any kind of official capacity. She was certainly a far diiferent creature from the careless, untidy hoyden he remembered her being as a child, or even the wild rogue she could become off-duty.

“Captain Ashkevron.” Withen returned her salute, visibly torn between worry and pride.

“Permission to bivouac the troops, sir.”

“Granted.” Pride won out, and Withen beamed. “The South Home Pasture's been vacated; it's all yours, Captain.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she replied formally. “Sergeant Grayse, front and center!”

A Guardsman with a brown, round face that seemed vaguely familiar to Vanyel marched crisply from the front rank to Lissa's right stirrup, and waited.

“South Home Pasture; lead the troops there and bivouac. I'll join you shortly.”

The sergeant saluted and pivoted, heel and toe, and Vanyel realized why he seemed familiar; Grayse was one of the holding families, and this solid young man must be one of the sons. He barked out a series of orders as Lissa moved her horse off the road; turned again and stepped out with the rest of the troop following as promptly as if they hadn't just spent all day on their feet. Lissa stayed on her horse at semi-attention until the last of her troop was out of sight, then grinned and tossed Vanyel her helm. She dropped her horse's reins as she vaulted out of her saddle, ground-tethering him. As soon as her feet hit the ground she made straight for Withen. Vanyel caught the tumbling helm as she flung her arms around her father's neck and kissed him soundly, and then he held it out of the way as she made it his turn for an enthusiastic embrace, an embrace which he returned one-handed.

“Weil, Father,” she said, after kissing Vanyel just as thoroughly. “What do you think of my youngsters?”

“Fine!” Withen glowed. “Damn fine! Gods, I hardly knew my little daughter, up there on her warhorse and in her uniform and all!”

“I've never seen you on duty either, Liss,” Vanyel reminded her. “I think you look wonderful.”

She hugged him again, then stood beside him with her arm around his waist. “I'm just sorry it has to be under alert-conditions,” she said soberly. “I'm sorry, Father. The last thing I ever wanted to do was -”

“Don't worry about it,” Withen interrupted. “Now, is there anybody you want to quarter at the keep?''

“My Healer; I want him to have an infirmary set up. I bivouac with the troops.”

Withen looked a little disappointed, but Vanyel found himself grinning with approval. “Good!” he said. “I didn't think it was my place to say anything, but it seemed to me down at the Karsite Border that all the best officers stayed with their troopers.”

“So I'm told,” Lissa replied. “Don't worry, Father, you'll see more of me than you think.” She hugged Vanyel hard. “Come on, little brother, help me get this nag in a stall, hmm?”

He let her go and handed back her helm. She caught up the bay's reins and walked beside him to the stable.

“Lord Marshal doesn't like the way things are shaping up,” she said in a quiet voice as soon as they got out of earshot. “Vedric has been making himself into the Linean patron saint, what with supporting their protests to Randale and all. I wish I knew what he was up to; this doesn't square with any of the intelligence I've had on him up until now. As for you, my impetuous little brother, I've got official orders that if I find Tashir I'm to take him in, but I've also got this -”

She reached into her belt-pouch and took out a much-creased note with Randale's private seal on it, and handed it to him. Vanyel noticed that it was addressed only to her, and opened it.

Captain Ashkevron; it read. Show this to your brother -  you know which one I mean. This is an order. It overrides any other orders you may receive until you hear differently under my hand and seal. You haven't seen either Vanyel or the boy Tashir Remoerdis. You won't see them until I tell you that you have. Randale.

Vanyel handed it back to her with no other comment than a slightly raised eyebrow.

“He's covering for you, Van,” she said worriedly, “but he can't do that for much longer. Have you got any idea of what you can do?”

“Not at the moment,” he told her. “But I soon will.”

His generous room seemed very crowded with both Savil and Jervis sprawled across the window seat and a chair, respectively.

“Ideas?” Vanyel asked, looking from Savil to Jervis and back again. “I've got one, but I want to hear yours first.”

Savil wedged herself in the window seat, back flat against one wall, feet braced against the opposite wall, fingers laced together across her knees. “You said you went across the Border to get answers,” she said, as if she was thinking out loud.

“And I found them - some of them,” he agreed, eyes half-closed, staring at the patterns that firelight and shadows made on her Whites.

“But you also found more questions. I'm wondering if you just weren't there long enough. And I wonder if we all really ought to go back there. With two Adept-class mages it ought to be ridiculously simple to come up with illusion-disguises for four of us.”

“Hide the boy in plain sight you mean?” Jervis was sitting backwards on one of the straight-back chairs, with his chin resting on his arms. He blinked sleepily while Savil spoke. Now he raised his head and looked alert. “I like that! Last place they're going to look for the boy is back where he came from!”

Vanyel nodded. “That was something of the same idea I had. We could further confuse the issue - go across the Border as, say, four Heralds making up a peace envoy to Vedric. Once outside Highjorune, we could switch to magic disguises and come into the city by pairs - Jervis and me, Tashir and Savil. One thing they won't be expecting, and that's Tashir with a woman. We meet up at an inn, say, on the better side of town. I could be a Bard this time, instead of a minstrel; you lot could be my entourage. Nose around, see what we can find out.”

“Van, I think you and I need to actually get into the palace,” Savil put in, staring up at the ceiling. “I think we ought to try and find out exactly what happened and what that attack was. If it was magic, that alone would rule Tashir out.”

“Hmm.” Moisture beaded the outside of his goblet. He ran his finger down the side, collecting the droplets, and traced little patterns on the table in front of him with a wet forefinger. “Do you think getting Tashir back into the palace might trigger his memory as well?”

“It might,” Savil said, moving her gaze down until she caught his eyes. “It's worth a try.” “Then let's do it.”

“I never thought I'd see this nag cowed!” Jervis chuckled, the rising sun at his back throwing their shadows far ahead of them on the dark-paved road. Three of the four shadows were as long-limbed and graceful as the Companions that threw them. The fourth crow-hopped from time to time as the raw-boned, ugly stud Jervis sat made his displeasure as obvious as he could.

Savil laughed. “He doesn't look too cowed to me!”

“Compared to what he was like before your two ladies chased him up and down the paddock all night, he's an angel!” Jervis chuckled, reaching out and hitting the stud between the ears with his fist when he bucked a little too hard. The gray stud squealed and laid his ears back; an answering squeal from Kellan and a showing of her formidable teeth settled him back down.

“I hate to think what Meke is going to do to me when he finds out what we've done,” Vanyel murmured. He was still feeling guilty about “borrowing” the stud without a “by your leave.”

“What else were we going to use?” Savil asked in a sweetly reasonable tone of voice, as Yfandes snorted. “That blasted stud of Meke's was the closest thing to white on the holding, besides being the only beast with the endurance to keep up with three Companions!” She chortled. “Come to that, he's a good match for Jervis as a Herald, provided you're seeing the real Jervis and not the glamour you put on him.”

Jervis did make a very unlikely looking Herald. Tashir fit a set of Vanyel's cast-off Whites, left from when he was seventeen, fairly well. Vanyel and Savil had their uniforms, of course. But for Jervis it had been a case of hasty make-do. He wore one of his own shirts, and had squeezed himself into a pair of Vanyel's white breeches, but they'd had to sacrifice a sleeveless leather tunic of Savil's, opening the seams on both sides and punching holes, then lacing it onto him. He wore his own boots - brown - but they hoped no one would notice that.

“So long as we aren't dealing with anyone who can see through the glamour we'll be all right.”

“Are you sure any spy Vedric might have on the Border won't pick this up?” Savil asked.

“Well, Heralds are supposed to feel a little of magic. A full illusion would radiate for too much, but an enhancement should pass without any trouble.”

“But won't Vedric pick up the illusion-disguises once we're in town?” Jervis said suddenly. The stud took advantage of his distraction to try to buck him off.

Yfandes nipped the stud's flank, Kellan kicked him, and Jervis bashed him between the ears, all simultaneously. Vanyel choked down a laugh.

The stud shrilled his indignation, but settled again.

“He would, if the ambient magic in Highjorune wasn't going to mask my relatively weak spells. The illusion is only going to be on the Companions, to make them something else. Hardly a whisper on the wind.”

The stud tried to rid himself of the bit. “You fixed his outside,” Jervis said wistfully. “If you could only do something about the inside of his ugly head. ...”

Held to the pace of the stud, it took them three days to reach Highjorune. To pass the gates, Kellan and Ghost became donkeys led by an old peasant woman and her son. Vanyel became a Bard on a showy gold palfrey, and Jervis his man-at-arms and general servant. If attention was to be drawn, Vanyel wanted it drawn to him.

And indeed, he drew enough attention coming through the gates to more than distract the guards from the old woman and her offspring behind them. Vanyel and Yfandes pranced and preened, sidled and danced - and in general made a thoroughgoing nuisance of themselves. Jervis grunted, looked long-suffering, and earned the sympathy of the gate guards. The stud tried to take off someone's hand and got a fist in his teeth for his trouble.

No Row taverns for Vanyel, not this time. He lodged in the best inn in Highjorune, right across from the residency of the Master of the Weaver's Guild. Not so incidentally, that put the palace and all its mage-energies and shield-spells between him and the house where Lord Vedric was staying. Hopefully, any disturbances the illusions were creating would be lost in the greater wash of the shields and the node beneath the shields.

“Somebody's tried to break the shields,” Vanyel observed, staring fixedly put the window.

“You can tell that from here?” Jervis asked, surprised, looking up from sharpening his dagger.

“Uhm - hmm.” Vanyel probed deeper, and let his eyes unfocus. “I can even tell what spells he used. And that it was a he and not a her. Nobody I recognize, but I'd bet it was Vedric.”

“Couldn't you - I don't know - get a look at Vedric so you'd know for certain?”

Vanyel turned restlessly away from the window and shook his head. “No. Probing him to get his signature would tell him I was here. Having the palace between us wouldn't hide me long if he started looking for another mage. I don't like it, though. I wish I knew for certain. And I wish I knew why whoever it was tried to breach the shields. It can't be pure curiosity, not with spells that powerful being used. Oh, I can guess that it's Vedric, and that he wants to get in there to destroy some kind of evidence, but I'd much rather know for certain if my guess is wrong or right.”

“Well, I wish Savil and the boy would get here,” Jervis growled. “I don't like the notion of us bein’ split up like this.”

“I agree,” Vanyel began, when a tap at the door interrupted him.

He whirled, but it was Jervis who answered it and with a grimace of relief let in Savil and Tashir.

“Where in Havens have you been?” he demanded. “You were s'pposed to be here long before sundown!”

“Detained,” she replied, smugly. “And what I got was worth the delay! What would you two say to a motive for the Mavelans to destroy the entire Remoerdis Royal House?”

“What? “ Jervis and Vanyel exclaimed simultaneously.

“We were playing peasants seeing the sights,” Tashir said tiredly. “One of the sights is the Great Hall of Justice. They keep important documents in there, under glass, so that anybody who can read can see them. I remembered one of them was the treaty between Baires and Lineas and told Savil, so that's why we went there.”

“It took a fair amount of Tashir playing gawker to give me time to read it; by then it was dinnertime, and they shooed us all out.” Savil threw herself down in a chair beside the table, picked up the knife Jervis had been sharpening, and examined it critically. “What it all comes down to is this: if one of the two Royal Houses dies out - and there are provisions about it being 'through misadventure, pestilence, or acts of the gods,' in other words, it can't be because of proven assassination by the other House - the surviving House gets the thrones of both. And that's all in ink and parchment under the signature and seal of Elspeth. Remember? Valdemar oversaw the treaty in the first place, and Valdemar is responsible for administering the provisions of it.”

“If I ever knew that, I'd forgotten it,” Tashir confessed into the silence.

“In other words, if Tashir is declared guilty of murder, the Linean throne gets handed over to the Mavelans - and Valdemar has to enforce this?” Vanyel said, incredulously.

“In a nutshell.” Savil replied. “Great good gods -”

“That ain't real likely to make Valdemar popular around here,” Jervis observed. “Not that they're real popular after Van runnin' off with the boy. And if that ain't a pretty good reason for the Mavelans to kill off the Linean House and slap the blame on Tashir - who's Linean, even if he was disinherited - I don't know what would be.”

“Nor I,” Savil agreed grimly. “Very tidy little plot. Well, Van, you wanted a motive.”

“I certainly got one.” He returned to the window, and stared out of it. “And I have an excellent reason for Vedric making himself so popular with the Lineans.” There was still some lingering sunset afterglow to make the sky a pearly light blue-and against it, the palace loomed ominously dark.

“Exactly. When everyone finally gets around to checking that treaty, Vedric will be the only Mavelan the Lineans will accept. And they might even do it with good grace, if he's done his job right.”

“Savil,” he said slowly, “I think our very first order of business is going to be -”

“The palace,” she supplied.

“These seals were definitely tampered with,” Vanyel observed. “A little more power behind the attacks and the shields might well have come down.”

Yfandes paced up beside him and extended her nose to the door, closing her eyes. :Blood-magic,: she judged. :Faint, but there. Most of the energy traces are ordinary sorcery, but whoever set the spells is used to using blood-magic, and that will taint everything he does. :

“Which means it's not Heraldic - which we figured. And probably not a local. Working mage-craft around here would get you into trouble with your neighbors quickly, but working blood-magic would get you caught and hung.” Vanyel licked his lips, and glanced around at the darkened courtyard. Acting on a hunch from Savil, they'd cleaned out their belongings from the inn and brought everything with them. Now he was glad they had. He raised his voice just a little. “Conference - ” he called softly.

Four humans and three Companions made a huddle. Mekeal's stud was tethered as far away as possible. “Whoever tried to break the shields used something tainted with blood-magic,” he said. “Yfandes smelled it out. Now I have a problem of defense here. Jervis, Tashir, every time we pass the threshold we're going to weaken those shields further. I think maybe we'd better change our plans because I don't think those shields are going to take much more weakening, and the only way for me to reinforce them will be from inside.”

“That won't necessarily work either,” Savil observed. “You'll just be patching. The weak spot will still be there.”

“Exactly,” Vanyel nodded. “It isn't going to be pleasant, but what I'd like to do is to just cross once, to keep the strain to a minimum.”

His immediate answer was a silence in which the sound of dead leaves skittering across the cobbles was enough to set his nerves jumping. “Set up in residence, until we figure out what happened, you mean?” Savil asked. He nodded. She pursed her lips, and gave a reluctant assent. “I'm inclined to agree. Blood-magic will break shields the way nothing else can, and I'd rather this place wasn't left open to tampering. But what about the Companions?”

“They leave,” Vanyel said unhappily. Yfandes Sent a wordless burst of protest. “I'm sorry, but I can't think of any place that's safe for them inside the city walls. The west gate stays open at night; but it's guarded. If I put a no-see, no-hear spell on them, they'll make it out all right. And if Vedric detects it, it won't matter; the stir I'm going to make by opening the shield ought to keep him thoroughly occupied.”

Jervis cleared his throat. “ 'Mother thing; we run into trouble, that way they're free t' run for help.”

Vanyel bit his lip thoughtfully. “Good point. 'Fandes, I don't like it either, but -”

:I see no other recourse,: she answered, pawing the cobbles and radiating unwillingness.

“And you'll have to look after that damned stud.” :May I kick him if he won't behave?: she asked, raising her head and ears hopefully.

Vanyel grinned to himself. Other than Jervis, Yfandes had suffered the most from the stud's behavior; the beast kept trying to induce her to mate. “As much as you have to. From here to Karse if necessary. Be my guest.”

:Then this is not altogether an unpleasant prospect. Kellan, Leshya - : She waited for the humans to remove their packs from the saddles, then trotted to the tethered stud and freed him with her strong white teeth. With heads high and eyes fixed on Vanyel with acute interest, they waited for him to cast the spell.

Since the four of them already knew that the four mounts were there, the spell had very little effect on the onlookers. But Vanyel could See them surrounded with a distorting shimmer that meant the cloaking was in effect. Yfandes Mindsent him a wordless wave of love and concern, and with the stud's reins still in her teeth, turned toward the open gate to the courtyard. Then, with squeals and nips, the three Companions drove the stallion out of the gates and into the swiftly darkening streets.

Vanyel focused his inner eye on the place where he meant to set a portal in the fabric of the shields, then moved his hands in a complicated, mirror-imaged gesture. Through closed eyelids, he Saw the energy walls of the shields part just enough to let a tall man through.

“It's open.” He looked with outer eyes again, and watched Jervis feel his way along the invisible - but patently tangible - shield-wall, until he came to the spot opposite Vanyel. Vanyel wasn't sure which was funnier, his expression when he couldn't force his way past the shields, or his expression when he found the “hole.”

“I can't hold this too long,” he warned; the other three snatched up their packs and his, and Medren's poor, battered, secondhand lute, and hurried up the stone stairs as far as the double door. They waited, white against the dark bulk of the door, while Vanyel slipped across the boundary and resealed the shields behind himself.

He took the stairs slowly, and regarded the purely physical barrier. “Tashir,” he began.

The boy looked at him in startlement.

“Young friend, this is where you see how useful that Gift of yours is. My strong suit is not Fetching, and I've only seen this door once, remember.” Vanyel folded his arms and raised an eyebrow at him. “I also distinctly recall that I barred the door behind Lores. You surely remember what the door and bar look like, and your Gift is Fetching. Let's see you raise that bar.”

“But -” Tashir began to protest. Savil looked as if she might object as well, but Vanyel silenced her with a look.

“Do it, Tashir. You're better at this than I am.”

The young man took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and took a wide-legged stance in what may have been an unconscious imitation of the one Vanyel had taken, and frowned.

Vanyel had been giving him what rudimentary instruction he could, when he could. It wasn't much. But as Vanyel had half suspected, away from the disapproval of his family and into an environment in which “magic” was actually encouraged, he'd begun practicing, probably in an attempt to get his rogue Gift under some kind of conscious control. All of them could clearly hear the grate of the bar in its sockets on the other side of the closed metal-sheathed door; Jervis clapped Tashir on the back, startling him, as the door creaked open a thumbs'-breadth.

Vanyel did the same, a bit more gently. Tashir grinned at both of them, teeth flashing whitely in the first of the moonlight. “Good work, young man,” Vanyel congratulated him. “Now let's get ourselves under cover before somebody curious comes by.”

Savil was already pushing the door open; the rest of them followed her into the absolute darkness of the entry hall. She waited until Vanyel had closed the door and rebarred it before fashioning a mage-light and sending it upward to dance and flare above her head.

“Gods!” she hissed, shocked at the extent of the wreckage in the next room.

Jervis moved past her to stand at the top of the stairs, shaking his head. “I've seen wars and looters that weren't this thorough. What'n hell did that?”

Vanyel glanced over at Tashir, who had lost his expression of triumph and had become very pale. His eyes were shadowed; his expression haunted. Vanyel put his hand lightly on the youngster's shoulder in encouragement, and felt him tremble.

Savil joined Jervis, oblivious to Tashir's distress, walking very slowly. “I can tell you what didn't,'' she said, unexpectedly. '' Tashir.'' The youngster jerked in startlement. “You're sure?” Vanyel asked softly, feeling a tense core inside him go limp with relief. He really hadn't believed it was the boy, but still. , . .

“Positive. You get under the glare of the node-energy, and this place is dusted all over with magic.” She closed her eyes, and reached out her hand as if to touch something. “There's a very old spell tied to the node that's rooted somewhere just ahead of us. But there's a second spell overlaid on the walls themselves, and that's what caused this mess. Van, let me handle that one; it's a trap-spell, and I'd rather you didn't trigger it.”

“I'll second that. You're much better with set-spells than I am. Tashir, Jervis, did you understand that?”

Jervis nodded.

Tashir looked both frightened and hopeful. “She said that there was a magic spell on the palace that - did all this? But why does that eliminate me?”

“Because you haven't even Mage-potential. Your Gift isn't magic, as we use the term. Real magic leaves traces of itself behind, like the dust a moth's wings leave on your hands when you catch it. You couldn't have done something that would leave those traces; you're not capable of it; for you, manipulating mage-energies would be like trying to carry water in a bucket with no bottom.”

“And that's good enough evidence for Valdemar,” Jervis put in. “Trouble is, I'd bet it ain't good enough evidence for Lineas.”

Tashir's face fell. “That's only too true,” he said, crestfallen.

“So our job is to find good enough evidence for Lineas.” Vanyel took on unconscious authority. “First off, let's clean out one of the smaller chambers and set up living quarters. Then we'll get some sleep; we'll be better off working by daylight.''

Savil dropped out of her half-trance and rejoined them. “I agree. I don't want to tackle anything that tricky without a full night's sleep. Tashir, this was your home; what would be the best place for us to set up where we aren't likely to be seen or disturbed?'' She shivered in a sudden chilly draft. “And where we can build a fire; I don't fancy freezing to death in my sleep, and there's a winter bite to the air at night.”

Tashir looked about; although he had lost some of his apprehension, there was still fear and great unhappiness in him that Vanyel could Sense without effort. Small wonder. Everyone he ever knew died here.

“The kitchen, I think,” Tashir replied. “And there wouldn't have been anybody back there when -” He shuddered, and not from the cold.

“Another thing to consider,” Vanyel said gravely. “We're all likely to come on some very grisly relics, and of us all, Tashir is the least used to such things. Tashir, don't go off alone. Stay with one of us; Jervis, by preference. If at any time this gets too much for you, just go straight back to the kitchen until you get yourself settled again. I do want you to try and remember what happened that night. I don't want a repetition of what you did in Mother's bower. It's not that I think you'll hurt anybody because I know you won't.” He managed a little smile of encouragement. “It's that you'll be noisy, lad. There's not supposed to be anybody here. I'm sure Vedric has figured it out, but he might not dare act on his knowledge just yet. We want to keep him from having reasons. We don't need someone sending for your Uncle Vedric to lay the ghosts, now, do we?”

Tashir paled, and Vanyel was immediately sorry he'd mentioned either ghosts or Vedric. The youngster shook his head wordlessly.

“All right, then let's get to the first stage.” He shouldered his pack; the others did the same. “Tashir, it's up to you. Find us that kitchen.”

Thirteen

None of them slept particularly well. The first light of dawn saw three of the four lying open-eyed and tense on their sleeping mats; held prisoner by cold, nebulous fears, and waiting for someone else to make a sound that indicated rising. Vanyel was actually the last to claw his way out of uneasy half-dreams, which wasn't surprising, considering how exhausted he was. He felt the wakefulness around him after a confused moment or two and made a mage-light without thinking. Three gasps of startlement answered the first flare of the light; three pairs of eyes reflected blue flickers back at him.

“If you were all awake,” he said, still sleep-mazed and confused, “why didn't you just get up?”

He told Jervis later that - on reflection - he was surprised no one killed him for that question.

There were still usable supplies in the kitchen; dried, salted, or otherwise preserved, and the kitchen had its own pump and well, which solved the problem of where they were going to get water. Trying to ignore the nagging thought that they were robbing the dead, Vanyel helped Jervis cobble together a tolerable meal of bacon, tea, and biscuits.

They sat on folded blankets beside the hearth to eat it; the windowless kitchen was dark, and it somehow echoed more than it should. Even Jervis was affected by the somber atmosphere, casting surreptitious glances over his shoulder at the shadows behind him.

“I think we're going to have to divide our attentions,” Vanyel said quietly, as they sipped their tea from an assortment of whatever containers had come to hand. “Does anyone object to my taking charge?” He waited, but no one said anything. “Fine. Savil, I'd like you to look into the trap-spell; find out what it does, or did, if you can. And how it was set here in the first place. Jervis, Tashir, I'd like you two to start going over the palace, room by room. Jervis, you've been in and out of highborn homes for a good part of your life; you know what belongs and what doesn't. I want you to look for anything that seems odd or out of place. Tashir, you're to try and trigger your memory of that night. While you're both at it, we need candles down here, and a bit more in the way of blankets and bedding would be nice.”

“And you'll be- ?” Jervis raised a thick, grizzled eyebrow. His tone was not accusatory, just inquiring. Once again he and Vanyel had achieved a delicately balanced friendship. It was beginning to grow into something closer and less tentative, something more like a reliable partnership.

A partnership built on respect, and concern for the boy. That Tashir had confessed his fictions hadn't hurt.

“I'll be doing exactly the same, but from the bottom up; I want you two to work from the top down.” Vanyel grimaced. “I don't think things are going to be very pretty in the cellars, and, to be brutal, I'm the one of us most recently off a battle-line. I don't want Tashir to have to deal with the kind of things I may find down below. I did learn that your father wasn't holding any prisoners, Tashir, but I doubt the searchers spent much time in the cellars looking for victims.”

Tashir blanched, and took a large, audible gulp of tea.

“Eventually there's one more thing I'll be doing - I've got a hunch that the magic-node beneath the palace plays a major part in the why of all this; I want to find out just what the connection is, if I can. There has to be some kind of a connection; I cannot believe that Tayledras Adepts just left a powerful node like that undrained and unattended. That kind of carelessness goes counter to everything I know about them. Even if they were forced out, they'd have come back to release the mage-lines and drain the node - if not the original clan, then the descendants, or allied clan. I think that old spell Savil mentioned is very likely to have something to do with that.”

Tasks assigned, they parted. Vanyel had taken the cellars for another reason; he and Savil were the only ones capable of producing their own light without needing to resort to candles or lanterns. They had no such physical lights, and there obviously were no windows in the cellars.

He had cause to be grateful for a strong stomach before the morning was over. He'd been right about searchers not checking below. And Lores had not exaggerated the violence of the massacre in the least. Even this old, the shredded remains were appalling. But he had seen remains as bad, or worse, over the past year. And he began to discover a pattern: where there had been no people present, the damage to things was minimal, or nonexistent. The more people, the greater the damage.

He did find candles, and the wine cellar. The former he took up the stairs and left at the kitchen landing; the latter he sealed. Half the casks had been split and all the bottles shattered. And as for what remained intact-he rather doubted anyone would ever want to drink from casks that had been stained and spattered with-

Well, it was better not to dwell on it.

They could drink what they found in the kitchen, or water.

From the look of things, four of the servants had been drinking and dicing down there when the disaster had struck. At least, he thought it was four. There were four overturned mugs beside the dice and pile of coins, but he couldn't find more than six hands before he gave up searching.

And the hands were the only parts still recognizably human.

It was odd though; four of those six hands had worn rings exactly like the one the maid Reta had worn; dull silver with strange, dead-white stones. Reta's ring had plainly been something other than ornament, but although he Mindtouched one of the rings cautiously, Van could find nothing out of the ordinary about it.

And yet he had seen a ring identical to these acting on his behalf. They could be just the badge of the household, yet in magic-fearing Highjorune, why would the ruler's own household wear something spell-touched?

Vanyel wondered; it all tied in, somewhere, somehow. He had to find the key. But answers were not forthcoming; not yet. He lost track of time down there, and certainly under these circumstances his stomach was not likely to remind him. It felt like being on the Border again; every muscle tensed and waiting for something to leap on him from behind. And no Yfandes to guard his back. He'd never been so conscious of being completely alone before; he might easily have been the only living being in the entire palace. And it was far too easy for his overactive imagination to people the shadows beyond his mage-light with pathetic or vengeful spirits.

When he finally completed his inspection of the cellars and their occasionally grisly contents, it was with profound relief that he climbed the kitchen stairs to emerge, blinking, into brilliant light.

That was the first welcome surprise in a long while. Someone had taken it upon himself to remove the bundles of candles. That same someone had stuck them on every available surface all over the kitchen, and lit them. Light transformed the look of the place from that of a gloomy cave to a normal island of commonplace, a bright and cheerful haven of sanity. It was a profligate use of candles, but there were hundreds of candles. Vanyel stepped into the kitchen with a feeling of having left a little hell behind him.

Tashir and Jervis were by the hearth, sorting through several large bundles.

“Where's Savil?” Vanyel asked. He squinted into the light. “What time is it?”

Tashir jumped, and stared at Vanyel with a momentary expression of panic, as if he did not recognize him immediately. Jervis continued with his sorting, unperturbed. “She's tryin' to track down where that trap was set up,” the armsmaster replied. “And it's early evening. Give us a hand here, eh? We come up with some likely stuff out of closets and chests; if you get it sorted out an' made up as beds, I'll see to dinner.”

Jervis was as good as his word; by the time Savil drifted in, still a little unfocused, he had another fair meal put together.

The blankets, comforters, and sheets that Tashir and Vanyel had made into tolerably comfortable beds smelled strongly of sendle and lavender; proof enough that they'd been laid away in storage. Vanyel judged by Tashir's silence and white lips that the two had probably come across the same appalling signs and stains of slaughter that he had, though probably not the actual remains. The party that had searched the palace had most likely dealt with the actual bodies. Which was all to the good; if Tashir had seen what Vanyel had been dealing with, the boy might well have snapped. Vanyel gave Jervis high marks for unexpected sensitivity; in the state of nerves the young man was in now, one bloodstained sheet come upon in a bundle of bedding he was expected to use would likely send him into hysterics. Safer, far, to have searched out the linen closets and taken things sealed away for winter use.

And it was also probable that the pattern below had been continued above; rooms that had been occupied at the time of the massacre might not have anything usable in them anymore.

Savil wandered over to the fire and sat down absently on the bed nearest her pack. “Any luck?” he asked her. She shook off her vagueness and finally looked at him instead of through him.

“Yes and no. I think I've got the site narrowed to the second floor, and I think I know how it was set. Someone brought in a catalyst, then using that catalyst, enlarged and strengthened the spell's compass over a long period of time. With no shields on this place, it would have been apprentice work once the initial spell had been set.” She accepted a plate from Jervis without looking at it. “It's nasty stuff, ke'chara. Makes my skin crawl. Hard to force myself to probe it, now that I know it's there. Like some kind of web with something incredibly evil at the heart - and I'm over on the edge of it, trying to see into the heart without waking what's there. And there's something very, very odd about it. It reeks of blood-magic, as you might well expect, but there's 'blood' involved in it in a much subtler way.''

“Eat,” Vanyel advised, guessing that she hadn't paused for food or drink since this morning. “Jervis, did you and Tashir find anything?”

The armsmaster chewed and swallowed before answering. “Maybe. If you're done below, I'd like your word on it. It's a room, first floor, smack square in the center of this building. Not much bigger nor a closet, an' has just one thing in it; a floor-t'-ceiling pillar; same stone as the outside. Might just be a kinda kingpost for the palace, it's bigger around than I can reach, but I never seen anything like it. You said look for odd, well, that's odd.”

“Tashir?”

The young man froze in mid-bite, and stared at him like a cornered rabbit.

Vanyel felt an uncomfortable sympathy for him. His own Empathy told him Tashir was dancing on a hair-thin thread of nerve at the moment. There was no doubt in Vanyel's mind that he was trying to jar his memories loose. There was also no doubt in his mind that the youngster was, literally, going through hell. But there was no help for it; if the mystery was to be solved and Tashir cleared of guilt, it was likely to take all four of them to do it.

“Tashir, what do you know about this room Jervis found?'' he prompted.

Tashir swallowed and licked his lips. “Nothing,” he replied faintly. “They wouldn't ever let me in there. Everybody else got taken in at least once, but not Mother, and not me.”

“Tashir, that's something,'“ Vanyel chided gently. “You said 'everybody'; do you mean that literally? Servants, too?”

The young man nodded so hard he started to tip his plate off his knee. Jervis caught it before it spilled. Tashir hardly noticed, he was so intent on Vanyel. “Servants, too, Vanyel. Everybody.”

“That's more than odd; that's smacking of a mystery.” He brooded for a moment, staring at the crackling flames in the hearth. He was greatly tempted to seek the place out now, this instant.

But then he thought of the empty rooms filled with wreckage and the long, haunted halls he'd have to traverse to get there. He hesitated, and shivered. Strong stomach, battle-trained or not, there was a limit.

I don't think so. I'm not up to it. Besides, I'd rather not chance a light being seen from outside. It'll be there in the morning.

“D-d-d-do you want to go there tonight?” Tashir stuttered, patently not relishing the thought at all.

“No, Tashir, not tonight,” he replied, half-smiling as a rush of relief brought a little more color to the youngster's cheeks. “Not tonight,” he repeated, echoing his own thought. “We've all had enough for one day. It's been there all this time; it'll be there in the morning.”

Jervis broke the silence that followed. “Van, I was noticin' something. Rooms where there wasn't any folks, hardly anything's smashed. Maybe a curtain torn, chair broken, that kind of thing. Rooms where there was people, they're wrecked. The more people, the worse.”

“It's the same down below,” Vanyel told him, as Jervis continued demolishing his dinner thoughtfully. “Savil, does that kind of pattern suggest anything to you?”

She scowled with concentration. “Yes, but I can't think what. Damn!”

Vanyel followed a stray thought. “Tashir, when they broke in and found the mess, where were you?”

“Th-the Great Hall,” he faltered. “I just sort of woke up and I was there.”

“And the worst wreckage was in the Great Hall?” Vanyel turned to Jervis for confirmation.

“Near as I can tell from what I've seen so far.”

As he tried to trigger his own memory, he had a momentary flash of that dream he'd had, of being surrounded by a whirlwind of devilish creatures. He realized with a start that made him sit up straight that that dream actually had an echo in his recent experience. The fire flared on the hearth, and with it, memory.

He'd been playing bait, at the beginning of the Karsite ampaign, sitting all alone in an old keep just behind the Border.

The keep was supposed to be held by nothing more formidable than an old man and a handful of retainers. Certainly the Guard was days away at the best forced march pace, though that shouldn't have mattered. Because no one was supposed to know that the keep was held so weakly. And no one was supposed to know that it guarded a very strategic supply route.

But someone did know; someone had been leaking information to the Karsites. Poorly-guarded keeps of strategic importance behind the Valdemar lines were being decimated, the occupants slaughtered, leaving holes the strategists didn't learn about until it was too late. Or worse w en the strategists checked on their supposed holdings, they found keeps somehow occupied by hostile forces.

Vanyel read the signs of magic, and had known only magic could counter these attacks. So Vanyel had ridden Yfandes to exhaustion to reach this one, a likely target. He'd cleared out the old man and his following, and waited.

And the attack had come, in the form of a gretshke-Swarm; demi-demonic creatures (mostly head, teeth, and appetite) that, taken individually, were inconsequential. An ordinary fighter could deal with one - or  two; and they certainly were not immune to cold iron. But a Swarm - that was another matter. The Swarm contained hundreds, if not thousands, of the creatures. You could kill them by the dozens, and still they would overwhelm you, like encountering an avalanche of starving rats.

A mage didn't control a Swarm; he just unleashed it. When the food was gone, or when they were sated, they would return to their own plane if they were given an exit. So a mage using them would customarily lure a Swarm to the Portal to their plane that he had opened within his target area and cast a shield about the target to keep the Swarm from escaping. He would wait an appropriate length of time - usually no more than a candlemark; the Swarm was fast - and open the Portal again to pull whatever of the Swarm remained back to their own plane. He would take the shield down then, and an occupying force could move in.

All this required someone on the level of Adept; which made it likely that the mage in question was one of the three Adepts the Karsites had hired when they began this. One of the three had threatened, then launched the brutal incineration of an entire town; the town had been saved, but in stopping him Mardic and Donni had called the flames on themselves in a desperate attempt to confine them.

It had worked. It had been a brave, unselfish-and ultimately fatal - ploy. The best that could be said was that their pain had been mercifully short.

Vanyel had been determined that before he was pulled off the lines, he would have that particular mage's life. By preference, given the other things they'd done, he would have all three, but he wanted that one.

The only problem was, the mages themselves refused confrontation; striking time and time again where he wasn't. By the time of this ambush he'd had enough. He had begun hunting them with the patience and stealth that would eventually earn him the name “Shadowstalker” when he tracked down the second Adept.

But that was in the future; at that moment, the first step on his self-appointed road of revenge, he had been waiting in the darkened keep, fueling the delicate illusion that made it appear to that unknown enemy that only the old man and his dozen retainers and fighters were within those walls, and all were asleep. He felt the shields go up; he felt the portal open. The Swarm descended on the Hall of the keep, where he waited for them beside the firepit in the center. And he threw up his own shield, abandoning the illusion, and watched as the Swarm ravened outside it, tearing the scant furnishings of the Hall to shreds in frustration, unable to reach the meat so tantalizingly out of reach.

While he smiled grimly and set up a second shield between the Swarm and the portal. When the mage opened the Portal again, then established a probe to check on the results of his work, Vanyel would seize on the probe before he could withdraw it, and use it to send him an unexpected surprise.

It was the image of the Swarm shredding cushions, furnishings, and tapestries that interested him now; an image he sent swiftly to Savil, who seized on it with an exclamation. Jervis raised his eyebrow.

“We think we may have an explanation for all the destruction,” Vanyel explained absently, as he and Savil conferred in Mindspeech. “It's complicated, and there's a lot of 'ifs' and 'buts.' It may take us a while to unravel them, but the explanation fits the current evidence.”

Jervis just shook his head. “If that's magery, then it's too much for me, Van,” he said, yawning. “I'll leave that to you. I'll just show you that room and let you deal with it, eh?”

“I'll do that,” Vanyel replied, then turned his mind to looking for the traces that would tell him what kind of things had torn the hall to shreds-because that would tell him a great deal about how strong the enemy was - and importantly, might even give a clue as to who.

But in the end, he and Savil sought their beds without any answers but one. How strong was very. Adept at least.

Because the traces that would have distinguished what the trap-spell had unleashed had been skillfully wiped away. All that remained was the heavily camouflaged spell itself (which only an Adept could have detected under the camouflage) and the bare traces of magic that had alerted them in the first place.

Jervis and Tashir were already asleep when they gave up.

“Sleep?” he asked Savil, hoping she'd answer in the affirmative.

“We might as well. We aren't going to get anything more tonight.” She stretched once, and began burrowing into her blankets, practically radiating exhaustion. Vanyel realized then what kind of strain she was under - all this complicated, involved sorcery, and maintaining her position as the Web's Eastern Guardian. He resolved to take more of the burden from her as soon as he could. This was not fair to her, nor was it good for her.

I wonder if there's a way to tie all the Heralds into the Web, as power-source at least. That would take fully half the burden off the Guardians.

“Want me to put out the candles?” he asked, glancing around at the burning tapers still bedecking corners of the kitchen.

She opened one eye thoughtfully. “No. Just leave them, if you would. It isn't as if we need to hoard them, and I don't think I want to go to sleep in darkness for a while.”

Vanyel thought it over a moment, and nodded. “You know what, teacher-mine?” he said softly. “Neither do I.”

She chuckled wearily, and closed her eyes again. “Absurd, isn't it? Here we are, two of the ranking Herald-Mages in Valdemar - afraid of the dark.''

He wrapped himself up in his own blankets. “If you promise not to tell anyone, I won't either.”

A light snore was his only answer, and he fell asleep with the comforting glow of the candles all about them.

The tiny room vibrated with power.

It was a round room; stone-walled and wooden-floored-and-ceilinged. The walls were pale sandstone, the rest pale birch. The pillar of stone clearly reached higher than the ceiling and lower than the floor. And the room, with barely enough space to walk around the dark pillar was, very clearly, set up with permanent shields, like those in the communal magic Work Room at the Palace in Haven. Small wonder neither he nor Savil had detected this artifact before. Vanyel set a cautious hand to the pillar of charcoal-gray, highly polished stone, as Tashir and Jervis watched him curiously. It was warm, not cool, and felt curiously alive.

And very familiar.

This was a Tayledras heart-stone. The Vale of k'Treva had such a stone, a place where the physical, material valley itself merged and melded with the energy-node and intersection of power-flows “below” it. Such a stone was the physical manifestation of the energies fueling the Tayledras magics, and this physical manifestation was peculiarly vulnerable to tampering. So the heart-stones were guarded jealously - and always deactivated when Tayledras left a place.

This one should not be here, except, perhaps, as a dead relic of former inhabitants. It should not be alive, and more, responding to his touch, physical and magical, upon it.

“This -” he faltered, and pulled his hand away with a wrench. “Jervis, you were right. This is not something I would expect here. I'm going to have to Mindtouch it.”

“Anything we can do to help?” the armsmaster asked quietly.

“To tell you the truth, I'd rather you took Tashir out to the Great Hall to see if you can help him remember,” Vanyel said, trying to keep the fascination of the heart - stone from recapturing him. “There isn't much you can help me with, and you two being here would be a little distracting. But if you'd poke your nose in here from time to time -”

“Anything I should watch for?”

“Well,” Vanyel replied wryly, “if I'm turning blue, that's probably a sign something's wrong. Other than that, trust your own judgment.”

Jervis' answering laugh was gruff, and sounded a little like churning gravel, but it proved that of the four of them, he was the one least affected by their macabre surroundings. “All right, let me take the boy out, and we'll see if we can make some progress.”

“Thanks.” And thank you, Jervis, that we can trust each other now. I don't think I could be doing this otherwise. Without waiting to see them go, Vanyel turned back to the stone pillar, and placed both palms and his forehead against it -

And it took him into itself.

For a very long time he was conscious only of the incredible, seething maelstrom of the energy-node itself. It was like plunging into the heart of the sun, and yet remaining curiously unscathed and untouched. It was different from tapping into the node; there he was outside, separate from the energy he sought to control, and he was dealing with a single, thin stream of force. Now he was a part of the force, with no intent - or chance - to control it. But control was not what he wanted; he wanted only observation, and answers.

But to have an answer, one must first ask a question. He framed it in his mind, carefully inserting all the nuances into it he could.

In words, it would have been a simple, “Who left this here?” In thought it was infinitely more complex than that; asking “who” specifically, and “who” as a class. The heart-stone was not an intelligence, but it remembered. And every question that was balanced by an answer would call that answer out of the stone. Vanyel got a very clear picture of Tayledras Adepts; several of them, all of them radiating great power, including one with the peculiar blue-green aura of the rare Healer-Adept. That particular Adept was much clearer, and lingered longer in the mind, and the implication was that it was this Healer-Adept that was responsible for having left both stone and node still in their active state.

If Vanyel could have started with surprise, he would have. Although they could, and on occasion did, act as ordinary Healers, Tayledras Healer-Adepts concerned themselves with Healing, not people, but environments. At restoring the balance nature had intended. At Healing the hurts that either magic or the hand of man had dealt there. That a Healer-Adept would have deemed it necessary to leave this potentially disastrously-dangerous energy source in lands soon to be settled by ordinary humans - that seemed to indicate that there was a terrible need that overrode all other considerations.

“Why?” he asked, urgently.

And felt himself being drawn down - deeper - below the bedrock, and into the roots of the earth itself. And he realized with a shock that the pillar was that deeply rooted, too.

There was tension here, a tension that increased as he went deeper, a vast pressure to either side of him that squeezed him until he could scarcely breathe. And still the force that had seized him to answer his question drew him deeper, and deeper still, to a point where the rock began to warm about him.

Then he saw it. Running from north to south, invisible from above, yet carrying implied within it such peril that his blood ran cold, was a crack in the last layer of rock itself. A fault; a place of slippage, following the river bottom.

That was natural enough; what was not natural was the hole punched through the fault down to the molten core of the planet, something probably left from the Mage Wars. That was what the heart-stone was planted above. And all of Highjorune was built directly on that fault. More, it extended the width of Lineas and out into the unsettled lands. If it slipped -

And it was only a matter of time before it slipped and caused a catastrophe that would destroy the city in fire and earthquake-and much of the surrounding country beside. Vanyel could not imagine why it hadn't happened before this - until he Saw where the energy of the node was going.

It was feeding into a complicated spell so convoluted and involved he could never have set it himself. It could only be the handiwork of that Tayledras Healer-Adept - and it looked to be the masterwork of an entire lifetime as a mage and an Adept. It was holding the wound closed, and keeping the fault from slipping.

More, it would, given time enough, Heal the wound and the fault, redistributing the strain elsewhere, until this was no longer an area of instability. But it would take time, hundreds of years or more, and any great siphoning away of the node-energy would deprive the spell of needed power. And if that occurred - depending on the amount of energy stolen from its proper usage, there would come anything from a minor tremor to the major, devastating disaster the Adept had been trying to prevent.

The force that had him let him go, and he drifted back to the “surface” more than a little dazed.

But he still had one more question. What was the connection between Tashir's family and this artifact at the heart of their palace?

That answer came immediately, and almost as words.

They were the Guardians.

And with that came a rush of knowledge that rocked him physically away from the stone. He opened his eyes to find himself pressed back against the wall, staring at the pillar of dark, volcanic basalt, with his mind seething with information.

He staggered out of the tiny room, carefully closing the door behind him, and made his unsteady way into the kitchen, bypassing the Great Hall entirely. He wanted to lie down, very badly. This was not the first time he'd queried a heart-stone, but it was the first time one had responded with such a flood of facts and memories. The heart-stones he'd merged with had been slow, old, and so peaceful that the answer you wanted might take candlemarks to drift within grasping. By contrast, this one practically flung responses at you before you finished the question.

He made the kitchen easily enough, and spent some time sticking up new candles and lighting them before wobbling back to his bed and falling facedown into the blankets.

He must have slept, because the next thing he knew, the others were clattering about the kitchen, there was a smell of frying bacon, and his stomach was declaring war on his backbone.

He rolled over on his back, stiffly, painfully, and Savil immediately knelt at his side and peered into his eyes. “You were in shock-sleep,” she said. “We couldn't wake you. I hope to hell you got something worth it.”

He took a deep breath, and discovered that his ribcage was sore, that all his muscles ached. He must have held them tensed for hours. He nodded. “Answers,” he said-croaked, rather. “I got answers. I got answers. Savil, that's a heart-stone in there. And it's awake!”

Her mouth had dropped open the moment he'd said the words “heart-stone.” She shut it again with a snap. “Eat first, and get something to drink. Then tell us.”

He sat up slowly, more than ever grateful for all the soft comforters to cushion his aching body from the stone floor of the kitchen. There was a fire in the hearth, and the other three seemed warm, but he was cold - cold.

Jervis shoved a plate into his hand, Tashir a cup of tea into the other. Savil and Jervis then pretended to deal with the remnants of their dinners. Tashir made no such pretense, hovering at Vanyel's side and watching every mouthful he took with impatience.

It was a little embarrassing, but Vanyel could not find it in his heart to blame him.

When he put down the empty plate, the other two gave up all pretensions and hovered around him.

“I'll try to make this short,” he said, feeling a little awkward with all their attention so fixed on him. “This palace is situated on top of a place where several lines of magical energy meet and collect - we call that a 'node.' Nodes - the very powerful ones, that is - frequently aren't natural. They can be created artificially by a particular group of Adepts called the Tayledras - the 'Hawkbrothers.' “ At Jervis' and Tashir's look of blank nonrecognition, he added, “They live in the Pelagirs. Most people have never heard of them. Fewer still will ever see them. Savil and I are among the few.”

Savil nodded. “They're very secretive, and for a good reason. They do - almost as naturally as breathing - something damned few other mages are even capable of imagining. They manipulate the energy fields of the world around us.”

Vanyel interrupted her gently. “They do two things, really; they drain magic left from the old wars away from lands that ordinary people are moving into, and they use that magic both to Heal those lands and to create sanctuaries for magical creatures that are displaced by the folk moving in. When they settle in a place, they generally create a node under it to use. When they leave that place they always - or so I always thought - deactivate and drain the node, and reroute the power-lines running to it.”

“That's what Starwind always told me,” Savil agreed, shifting her position so that she rested her chin on her knees.

“Well, they didn't this time,” Vanyel replied. “The node is still fully active, and the heart-stone that is the physical link to it is still alive. That's what that pillar is, Tashir, the heart-stone. And that brings me to why.”

He licked his lips and closed his eyes for just a moment, to center himself. “Some time when people first moved into this area, Tashir, one of the Tayledras remained behind, and selected your remote forefather to be the hereditary guardian of the heart-stone. He charged him to keep it safe, and to see that no one in Lineas ever dabbled in magic. That charge has been passed down to everyone with the blood of the Remoerdis Family - because that blood carries Mage-potential with it, and because that very wise ancestor of yours saw no reason to limit the guardianship to a favored few. The more guardians, he thought, the safer - and I think he was right. After all, this has gone on for generations without any inkling of the power here leaking outside of Lineas. That's the meaning of those rings everyone - except you and your mother - wore. They link the wearer to the heart-stone and the guardianship, and the spell that binds wearer to ring and to the guardianship allows the stone to act upon the wearer to keep them safe, and to safeguard itself. I actually saw that last in action - your mother's maid Reta was moved by the heart-stone to tell me some of what I needed to know. It was quite uncanny; she acted for all the world as if someone had put a second-stage Truth Spell on her. Back to the subject. You didn't get one, and weren't sealed to the stone, because your father didn't believe you were of his blood. To settle that question, the stone says otherwise. The stone recognized you as being of the blood the moment you entered the room. You are the true-born son of Deveran Remoerdis of Lineas. And if your father had ever conquered his own doubts and suspicions, and allowed you into the room, even as an infant, he would have known that, too.”

Tashir hung his head, and Vanyel could see his shoulders shaking. He laid his hand on top of one of the youngster's, and Jervis put his arm around the young man's shoulders for a moment.

“Now - the reason why the node was left active; there's an instability underneath Lineas; right underneath Highjorune. The node is literally holding it together. If it were to be disturbed, especially if it were to be drained, as a careless or ignorant mage might manage, Highjorune would certainly be destroyed by a terrible earthquake, and quite probably all of Lineas, a good section of Baires, and even some of Valdemar. That is why the people of Lineas have been trained to shun and discourage mages. That is what your people have held in trust for centuries - and I think that the power of the node is also why the Mavelans want Lineas. Unfortunately, I suspect they see only the powerful node, and have made no effort at discovering why it is there.”

“I doubt they'd care,” Savil said dryly.

“I wish I knew differently.” He put down his mug, and rested his forehead on his own knees. “Gods,” he said, his voice muffled. “Well, we have part of the puzzle.”

He felt a hand on his shoulder;  Savil's.   “Tired, ke'chara?” she asked.

“Not tired, precisely,” he replied, raising his head and smiling into her eyes. “Just a little - divided. You know what querying a heart-stone is like; you become part of it. It's hard being a rock; they have such a strange sense of time - and priorities.” He shook off his feeling of disorientation and patted her hand. “No matter, now that I've got that solved, I can help you with that trap-spell. If you can get me safely inside it, I think I can unravel the components enough to tell what triggers it and what it acts on.”

“We're getting somewhere, too,” Jervis put in diffidently. Tashir raised his head and sniffed, once, then scrubbed the tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand and nodded. “You want to tell 'em, Tashir, or you want me?”

“I can,” he said, though his voice quavered a little. “I remember why those things couldn't get me the way they got the others. I was - pushing them away with my head. I remember doing that; I remember them trying to get at me, and I remember just shoving - like this -”

He screwed up his face with effort, and Vanyel found himself being pushed across the floor, away from the boy, bedding and all. When he reached out his hand, he encountered what was almost a surface, as if the air itself had solidified.

Tashir dropped the effort with a gasp. “It hurts to do that,” he said, “but it hurt less when I was scared.”

Vanyel nodded. “And the reason that the others held their attackers off for a little while - which was why the rooms with people in them were torn apart - was because of the rings. The stone told me that there's some limited protections spelled into the rings by the ceremony of binding. Unfortunately those protections were mainly meant to be used against someone trying to probe a guardian's mind, not against someone trying to kill him.”

“One more day should see us with all the answers,” Savil observed.

“Let's just hope they aren't answers we don't want to hear,'' Jervis replied grimly.

Sensitized by the heart-stone to what magically should and should not be associated with the palace itself, Vanyel took the lead the next morning, making a check of every room in the palace. Once they found the trap-spell catalyst, they would have a much better chance of unraveling the roots of the spell itself.

There was nothing on the first floor, and nothing in the private quarters, not even Ylyna's. But when they reached the guest rooms -

The taste of evil was in the air of the primary suite so thick that Vanyel could hardly believe that Savil didn't sense it, too. This was a set of five rooms reserved for the most important of visitors, the suite that the Mavelan representatives had undoubtedly occupied during the signing of the treaty and the wedding. The effluvium of wrong was strongest in the reception chamber, a room of linen-paneled walls hung with weaponry and the heads of many dead animals, and furnished with a variety of impractical and uncomfortable unpadded wooden chairs, and one large desk. He traced it, growing more and more nauseated by the moment, to of all things, an ornamental dagger hung in plain sight on the wall above the hearth.

He didn't touch it - he couldn't bear to - but he didn't need to. It had been there for years; perhaps as long as eighteen or twenty. The spell had been given plenty of time to permeate through the physical fabric of the palace like a slow poison in the veins of an unsuspecting victim.

“That's it?” Savil said incredulously. “I must have passed this room a dozen times.”

Vanyel shrugged, and found himself a marginally comfortable chair. They were likely to be here a long while, once Savil got started. “Did you test that dagger, or were you looking for something hidden?” he asked.

“Something hidden,” she admitted ruefully, walking slowly and reaching for - but nor touching - the dagger. Her eyes unfocused. “That's it,” she replied after a moment.

“All right. I'll link to you, and you slip me inside the spell,” Vanyel told her, bracing himself in the chair. “Get out as soon as you can; you've been draining yourself quite enough as it is.”

“Not as much as you, ke'chara,” she retorted, her lips thinning, as she took a seat on the floor at his feet, and laid her hands over his wrists.

“But I'm not a Web-Guardian,” he pointed out with ruthless logic. “Come on; let's get this over with.”

He closed his eyes and evoked a light trance-state; centered, then reached for a deeper level of Savil than he touched in Mindspeech.

Like hand taking hand, he linked with her; followed her blindly through a twisting, torturous maze of fire and shadow and confusing shapes in which the slightest misstep would mean things he preferred not to think about. Savil knew what she was doing; if she couldn't weave her way through this thing, no one outside of k'Treva could.

:Brace yourself, love. I'm going to toss you in.:

He “made” himself as compact and small a “bundle” as he could - and felt himself hurled -

He crawled on hands and knees into consciousness. He opened burning eyes, his stomach in knots, his head pounding, and wanting a bath more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life. He felt filthy inside as well as out.

Savil was still kneeling beside him, holding both of his cold hands in hers, staring intently into his eyes. “You're back,” she said.

“I'm back,” he replied, swallowing bile. “You won't like it.”

“I don't like it now.” She released his hands, and he rubbed his eyes with his knuckles.

“Remember what you said, about 'blood' being involved very subtly in this? It is; and given what I found out about the guardianship of the heart-stone it's sicken - ingly logical. When this spell is triggered on someone, it not only goes for them - but for everyone sharing blood - relationship with that person that is also a mage or carries the potential. Everyone, right down to babes in the womb.”

Savil's face grayed a little. “So whoever did this -”

“I've got that, too. Last person to trigger it was dear Uncle Vedric Mavelan. Last person targeted was Tashir. So much for all his protests about wanting to help the lad.”

“Tashir?” Her voice rose at least half an octave. “But then - that means that Vedric knew the boy wasn't his!” Vanyel grimaced, and tried to sit up straighter. “Exactly. He knew it all along, and made no attempt to clear either his sister, or the youngster. Now, I have a few guesses as to why there seem to be inconsistencies. The biggest is why the maid Reta I spoke to survived. My guess is that Vedric shielded the palace to avoid blood in the streets and the question of why Tashir would murder people he didn't even know existed. If he hadn't, it's pretty likely that people would have looked elsewhere for a perpetrator, rather than to Tashir. And that shield would explain why the Mavelans weren't attacked, since they were related to Tashir through Ylyna.”

“And why Ylyna was killed with everyone else; she must have been carrying Mage-potential,” Savil mused aloud.

“The thing is - this is a trap that resets itself. Until we destroy the maker, anyone that knows how can set it against anyone else.''

He sat bolt upright, as the shields on the palace buckled and weakened under a furious attack.

“Did you -” Savil exclaimed, blanching. “- gods, of course you felt that; they're your shields. There's somebody out there trying to get in!”

“Will get in,” Vanyel corrected grimly, launching himself out of the chair. “It's Vedric. He knows we're in here. He's probably figured out that we know what happened-or soon will. He can't afford to let us escape.”

The shields shrieked in his mind as another attack battered at them. Vanyel started down the hall at a run, followed by his Aunt.

:Yfandes!: he called, snaking the Mindtouch around Vedric, hoping the mage would be too preoccupied with his attack to sense it.

:Here-:

Grateful that thought took less time to send than words, he told her all they'd learned. :Time to run for it, love. Have Kellan stay with the stud, you and Ghost head over the Border at top speed. Vedric's on to us. If we lose this -:

:I will see that the Kingdom knows,: she replied grimly. :I will see you avenged. Then I will come to you. :

She cut him off before he could protest, and there was no more time to spare for protests.

“We have,” he cast over his shoulder at Savil, “maybe a candlemark or two to figure out what we're going to do.”

Fourteen

They skidded into the Great Hall, feet slipping on the  debris, startling Jervis and Tashir considerably as they came to a halt beside them. Savil held her side and panted a little.

“What -” Jervis began.

“Vedric's out there,” Vanyel interrupted him. “He's trying to break through the shields. I expect he knows we're in here; I expect he figures we've learned the truth of what happened. He's the one that triggered the trap-spell; he used Tashir for the target, and the damned thing's set to take anyone of the bloodline of the target with Mage-potential.”

Tashir had been sitting on a cleared space on the floor. He stood, slowly, his expression frozen, his face drained. “I remember,” he said, his voice tight and strained, “I remember now. '' He turned away from them, and pointed a shaking hand at the door that led to the second-floor stairs. “I was running down those stairs. I was going to run away. I told Father that - I told him that I'd rather dig ditches than go to Baires. He laughed at me, he said he doubted I had the spine - and I hit him. I didn't mean to, but it just happened. I was afraid he'd do something horrible and I ran. I ran through here and out the door, and – and -I couldn't get out! It was like hitting a wall! I didn't even think, I just turned around and started running for the stable door, and when I got here -” He pointed at his feet. “I – it - happened. Like, I don't know, like a whirlwind, only there were all these teeth and eyes, and pretty soon it was filling the whole room and tearing everybody and everything around into shreds -”

His voice spiraled up into hysteria, and Jervis shook his shoulders.

“Tashir, come on, lad, we've got troubles now, don't you fall apart on me.”

The young man shivered like a trapped rabbit, but he nodded, and there was still some sense in his eyes.

“I repeat; Vedric's out there.” Vanyel shuddered as he felt his shields buckle a little more. “He'll be in here soon. I sent the Companions out of here; Kellan's minding the stud, she and Ghost and Yfandes are going for home. One way or another, the truth is going to get out, but there's only one way out now for us. Savil, I'll hold him, while you build a Gate and get Jervis and Tashir out of here.”

She nodded, face gray and grim. “Where?”

“Haven, by choice; no one is going to extract him from Randale's hands once he hears the whole story.” He was only giving half his attention to the conversation; the other half was busy weaving reinforcements to his disintegrating shields.

“But - ” she protested.

“Dammit, Savil, just do it; I can't. Gating that far would probably kill me!”

“Vanyel,” she interrupted urgently, “what happens when he triggers the trap on you?'''

He felt himself pale, felt his spellcasting falter. “Oh, gods - let me think - you should be all right if I can just hold him off long enough for you to alert somebody to protect you. Medren is Bard-Gifted with no Mage-potential, he should be safe enough. My sibs - no potential. Father!”

“Is safe,” she told him. “How do you think I got half these white hairs? I spent a week in the nodes weaving protections for him when I first met Starwind. When I realized how powerful an Adept I was, I also realized that very few enemies were going to be able to come at me directly, so they might choose to come at me through my brother. I made sure there was no chance of that while I had the energy and leisure. Is there anybody else?”

“No,” he said. But his mind was screaming the real truth at her even as his lips formed the lie. :Savil! Jisa - oh, gods, the children -:

:What?:

He grabbed her shoulders so tightly it surely must have hurt enough to leave bruises as his fingertips dug into the flesh. :I have three children. Brightstar and his twin are in k'Treva, under their own shields, Starwind's and Moondance's, so they're safe enough, but Jisa -

:Jisa? How? Why?:

His thoughts were not particularly ordered or coherent, but he did his best to get the sense across to her. :Savil, don't ask; she's mine by blood, Randale and Shavri wanted it, that's all you need to know. She's not under shield.: He wanted to pound the fear he felt for them into Savil. :And Shavri's at risk through Jisa. I don't know if Shavri's got the potential or not. You have to get back there - gods - I never meant anyone else to know, but there's no choice - Jays. Trust Jays. Tell him the truth; I think he'll understand. No one else. Gods, if Randale was only a mage - go, Savil!: The battering at his shields grew fiercer. :Just go! I can't hold him much longer!:

He released her shoulders, and Savil turned without another word and faced one of the open doorways. She held up her hands, and Vanyel felt the slight disorientation that always accompanied the moment when someone invoked Gate-energy around him. He left the little group of three and sprinted across the wreckage-strewn hall and up the staircase to face the door and try to keep Vedric in check long enough for them to escape.

He fought silently, fighting as he had never fought before, fighting not only for himself, but for his friends - and for his land, for without Shavri, Randale would fall to pieces. The last of his shield reinforcements cracked and fell away just as he felt the wave of dizziness that signaled the opening of the Gate itself. And the outer door exploded open, breaking two of its hinges and shattering every window in that wall, just as he felt a wash of pain -

Pain that signaled the Gate being traversed, and then going down again. That pain nearly did him in; he was barely able to get his own personal shield up in time to deflect the lightnings Vedric called down on him.

“Hold him, boy!” came an urgent voice behind him. “He knows we know - he doesn't dare let us live!”

“Jervis!” Vanyel tapped recklessly into the node, and flung fire into Vedric's face. He didn't dare look around, but he spat a stream of heartfelt curses in four languages at the armsmaster. “Damn you,” he screamed, deflecting a paralysis-dagger and countering with an ice-storm. “Get under cover! What in the hell do you think you're doing?”

“What Savil told me,” came the unperturbed voice from behind and to his right, as Vanyel tried to shatter Vedric's shields with hammering blows of pure force. Vedric turned them, though not easily; Vanyel could spare no more attention to the armsmaster. To deal with Vedric would take every scrap of concentration.

They were equals, or so close as made no difference. Vanyel had the node to draw on, but Vedric was being fed from somewhere outside himself, too. The entryway shook; the glass of the windows that had been shattered in the first exchange rose up and flew at him. He pulverized the flying shards of death with a single blow. Now flakes of stone and plaster rained down on them, and the paving beneath their feet cracked. Then Vedric smiled-and triggered the trap-spell. Hastily Vanyel extended his shield to cover Jervis. A whirlwind Swarm of creatures - as Tashir had described, seeming mostly teeth and eyes -circled them, screaming their outrage at not being able to reach them. They weren't the gretshke beings he'd encountered - they were at once less hungry and more evil. The Swarm he knew attacked to feed, these things attacked only to rend and tear, to maim and destroy, for the pleasure of destruction and the pain it caused.

Shrieking in frustration, the Swarm spiraled up and away, passing through the ceiling unhindered - and were gone.

Vedric smiled again. “Well, Herald Vanyel - I presume that is who you are - aren't you going to try to rush off to the rescue of your family, your kindred?''

Vanyel just laughed at him.

That was not the response Vedric had expected, and it shook him. But what shook him even more was the backlash a moment later as his Swarm attempted to find victims, and were thwarted again - and again - and again -

Failed spells recoiled on their caster; that was one of the first lessons Starwind had taught him. And a spell this powerful, if backlashed, should have knocked Vedric to his knees. But it didn't.

It seemed as if the Mavelan mage-lord took the backlash, and siphoned it off somewhere.

That was when Vanyel realized exactly where Vedric was getting his unprecedented power. The entire Mavelan family had united (for once) and was feeding this, their chosen representative, with all their combined powers. Vanyel could hammer at him until dark with no effect. He deflected another lightning-strike, and thought frantically. Even if he defeated Vedric, that wouldn't take care of the rest of the family unless he could somehow get at them through the linkage to the mage-lord. Then he knew how to manage that. Raw node-power.

Only Tayledras-trained or an Adept with the dearly-bought control he and Savil shared could handle it. He remembered how, when he had defeated the changeling-mage Krebain, he had nearly killed himself by flooding it through his system. Only one thing had saved him; the fact that Moondance, a k'Treva Healer-Adept, had gotten to him within heartbeats after he'd blasted himself. If he poured that through Vedric and into the meld before they realized what he was doing, there would be no saving of any of them. Without being prepared to handle that kind of power, they would be destroyed.

But to do that, he would have to drain the node to a level where he might trigger a quake. And he would have to touch Vedric.

He had been very carefully avoiding looking at the mage-lord. Now he looked across the space intervening between them and saw -

Tylendel. As Tylendel would have looked now, had he survived into full manhood. He froze.

The momentary pause in the parry-riposte of the mage-duel broke Vedric's rhythm and concentration. He looked up and stared at Vanyel as if wondering what the other was up to.

That broke the grip of heartache holding him, for nothing could have been less like the Tylendel Vanyel had loved than the creature that looked at him out of the mask of Tylendel's face. There was craft there, and guile - and a terrible cruelty. The kind of cruelty that would see nothing wrong with setting an innocent boy up to be abused and neglected most of his life. A heartlessness that had finally served the helpless boy up as a sacrifice, as the expendable tool that gave Vedric power, and never once felt a twinge of guilt or regret.

A strengthening surge of anger galvanized him, and he reengaged with every resource he had, fighting his way through lightning, fire, force-walls, everything Vedric could throw into his path. He could see the puzzlement in Vedric's eyes as he won each step across the room, paying for each fingerlength in pain when Vedric's weaponry penetrated his shielding and scored on him, but taking those fingerlength gains despite the pain. He forgot Jervis, forgot Tashir, forgot everything but the fight to win to within arm's-reach of the mage-lord.

Multicolored curtains of power danced in front of him, barring his way. They scorched him as he parted them. Two steps to go. One.

He reached out and seized Vedric's arms, and at that moment the mage seemed to figure out what his goal was. Panic spasmed across his face. But it was a realization that came too late. Vanyel opened himself up to the node completely, and let the power use him as a channel, as he had when he melded with the heart-stone. It poured through him, meeting no resistance- And into the meld that was the Mavelan family.

Vedric's spine arced; his mouth opened, but no sound emerged. For one moment he glowed like a young sun -

- Vanyel's mind rocked under a multivoiced scream of agony that seemed to go on and on forever - Then it was gone, and so was Vedric. There was nothing left but a pile of white ash at Vanyel's feet and two handfuls of ash that he dropped onto the pile.

Vanyel stared at the ash, dully - and when the entryway swayed, he thought for a moment that it was his own fatigue that made him stumble and lose his footing.

But as Jervis scrambled toward him to grab his arms and shake him, he understood. The node - he'd drained enough power so that the fault had gone unstable.

The building rocked again, as Jervis continued to shake him. “Come on, you damned fool!” he shouted, right into Vanyel's face. “Those damned shields that Vedric set up t' keep us from gettin' away are still there! Gate us outa here before the building comes down on our heads!”

He wrenched himself out of Jervis' hands and faced the ruined outer door, holding up his hands and beginning the Gate-spell, while around him the room bucked and heaved like a boat in a storm.

The pain was incredible.

Letting the node-force use him had left him raw; it was only knowing that Jervis would perish with him that kept him going. He could see the court beyond the door - or rather, what the quake was leaving of it. The palace was disintegrating around them, and nothing living was going to stay that way for long here.

Finally the Gate was complete; the courtyard winked out with a wrench that felt as if someone had torn Vanyel's guts out, and in its place was the corridor just outside the Ashkevron family chapel.

Vanyel's knees gave out and he collapsed. He had just enough energy to wince a little as half the wall collapsed between him and the Gate.

There was nothing but pain now; and he lacked even the strength to weep.

Jervis was shaking him; he tried to push the man's hands away, but it was like a babe trying to push away the hand of an adult. “Go,” he panted, too spent even to moan. “Can't - hold it - stable.”

There's nothing left. I overestimated again -

He could feel the Gate pulsing with the beating of his own heart. In a moment it would collapse.

“Go - now,” he tried to urge the armsmaster. He was so tired; he'd give anything to be able to rest, beyond the pain.

Shadow-Lover -

Death had long since lost any fear for him. He had been courted by the Shadow-Lover for so long that His embrace would be welcome, if only it would bring him peace. There was nothing left - not even his will.

But Jervis had enough will for two.

“I'm not goin' without you!” the old man growled, as the palace walls cried in a hundred agonized voices around them. “You remember what you said about giving up? Dammit, Van, don't do it now! There's nobody to pick up your load if you give up on me!”

The words reached through the haze of pain and weakness as nothing else could have. He struggled to his feet, Jervis supporting him, as the palace bucked around them. Jervis started for the open Gate, more than half dragging him over the rubble, and finally draped his arm across his own shoulders and carried him through the Gate itself.

He'd thought there could be no worse pain than passing that Gate.

He discovered a heartbeat later that he was wrong.

There was a flash of light on metal as Jervis' boots clattered onto the stone of the corridor floor. It was training, a training that refused to admit to having no strength, that made him squirm sideways in Jervis' grip.

But it wasn't quite enough. There was a rush of dark cloth toward them, and the hard impact of something driving into his stomach and jerking upward-

“Leren!” Jervis roared. “What in - ”

And pain that blacked out everything else sent him bonelessly to the floor as Jervis let go of him.

Somewhere - in some other world beyond the pain -  there was a sound of scuffling. All he knew was the pain, the agony that was the center of him, as he lay on his side and clutched his stomach, something hot and wet trickling between his fingers.

Heal - I have to Heal myself- He had just enough Healing-Gift to save himself. He reached, feebly, - no strength -

:Chosen!: Yfandes' mind-voice, faint and far-off - and a brief, unsteady surge of energy from her to him, all unlooked-for; energy that could Heal him.

But something else brushed his mind, a sense of dark and evil wings.

It was with Leren. A dark force that ruled Leren, and it was poised to strike at the armsmaster.

He had a choice; save himself - or save Jervis.

Which was not a choice at all.

No!

Vanyel took that borrowed strength and hurled it at the unprotected, unsuspecting darkness like a spear of light.

It penetrated.

But it did not kill. The darkness fled, wounded, but not conquered, as Vanyel began fading into a darkness of his own.

Gods – Leren - controlled.

Jervis' voice. “Bastard got distracted. Got him with a chair,” the man said, from that other world. “He won't be going anywhere for a while. Boy - boy, did he mark you?”

It was becoming very hard to breathe; his frantic gasps after air just made the pain worse, and didn't seem to be bringing anything into his lungs.

Someone rolled him onto his back and he cried out.

“Lady's tits!” Jervis swore. “Bloody bastard!”

Vanyel opened his eyes, but he couldn't see anything but a tiny spot of brightness in a sea of black. The blackness called him -

Jervis slapped his face lightly, and the blackness receded for a moment. “Don't leave on me, boy,” he said urgently, supporting Vanyel in his lap. “Stay with me!”

Vanyel did his best to obey, as Jervis bellowed somewhere over his head for a Healer, but he was cold, and getting colder, and there didn't seem to be any room for anything but agony.

He tried to open his eyes again, when he heard frantically running feet. There was a strange Herald in Whites on his left, and a swirl of green robes as a Healer dropped down beside him on his right.

“Gods!” he heard the latter swear, in an audible panic. There were hands pulling his away, and a wash of weakening that followed a gush of something, warmth that poured out of him, and over the hands that replaced his. “I - oh, gods, we're losing him!”

“Like hell!” ''I - “

Everything - voices, vision, even the pain - began to fade. Everything except the stranger kneeling at his left side. Though his face remained oddly shadowed, there was a soft, argent glow about him, like starlight, that brightened with each passing moment.

:Take my hand, Herald Vanyel.:

Vanyel blinked, struggled against his fading sight, tried to hold to consciousness.

:My hand.: The strange Herald held his right hand out to Vanyel, and there was entreaty in that mind-voice. :Will you not take it?:

The urgency in the request pulled at him; this was important. Important that he fight past the pain to obey the stranger. Moved by some deep conviction that he didn't understand, he found a tiny crumb of strength; just enough to move the fingers of his left hand and place them, sticky and warm with his own blood, into the stranger's outstretched palm. The stranger's hand closed over his, and his lips curved in a smile of triumph.

He was standing. The pain was gone.

So was the wound. The strange Herald still held his hand, but about them was - nothing. Only a kind of peaceful, tranquil gray emptiness.

The stranger's face was still shadowed - except for the eyes, a blazing glory of sapphires and light, a light never seen in Vanyel's world.

Not in the mortal world that Vanyel knew. Not the natural world.

Therefore this was not the natural world - and this was no mere Herald.

Vanyel released the stranger's hand and sank slowly to one knee, unable to look away from those incandescent eyes. Then the stranger smiled, and the smile was as brilliant and overpowering as the gaze. That smile was no sight for mortal eyes, and Vanyel managed to drop his gaze before he was lost to it. He bowed his head over his knee in profound obeisance to the Power that had chosen to wear the guise of a human, and a Herald.

“Lord,” he whispered, unable to muster enough coherent thought to say anything more.

“Vanyel, no,” replied a voice of amber, silk, and steel.

He felt hands, gentle hands on his shoulders, hands that drew him up to his feet. He dared a glance at the Power's face, and was caught again, a moth in sapphirine flame.

“No, Vanyel,” He said, shaking His head, denying Vanyel's assumption. “Not 'Lord.' Only a messenger, a servant. You mustn't kneel to me.''

The longer he looked into those eyes, the easier it became. “I'm - dead,” he said steadily, feeling nothing at the words except a soul-deep relief, that it was finally over, that he could rest.

But the Other shook His head again. “No. Not yet, Vanyel.” He hesitated a moment, and His eyes were shadowed with pity. “Vanyel, because of what you are, what you have become, and that you stand at the crossroads of many possibilities, it is given to you to choose.”

“Choose?” he said, honestly bewildered. “Choose how?”

“Life,” replied the Power, His eyes dimmed, as if with unshed tears, “Life, or -” He touched His hand to His own heart. “- or myself.”

Then he understood what stood with him in this timeless nothingness, what gazed at him with eyes of sorrow; beautiful, perfect, and serene.

The Shadow-Lover.

“Ask me what you will,” Death said, eyes radiant, and voice soft with compassion. “You must choose in full knowledge of what your choice will mean.”

“What do I go to,” Vanyel asked, marveling at his own steadiness, as he ached for the peace those eyes promised him, “if I choose to live?”

“Pain,” Death replied, bowing His own head so that Vanyel could no longer see those eyes. “Loss. You will see good friends die, one by one, until you are alone. You will find yourself growing apart from others, day by day, until there seems to be nothing but loneliness and your duties. You will receive hurts and will not die of them, though you may long to. And the end - will be only more pain.”

“And - the alternative.”

“For you - peace. And an end to pain and loneliness and grieving.”

Vanyel felt all the burdens of his existence heavy upon him; felt taxed beyond his strength. But he had not missed that subtle phrasing, and he asked a further question, though he knew in his heart that he would hate the answer.

“And what of those I leave behind?”

Death looked up again, and held his gaze with those brilliant, depthless eyes - and was it his imagination, or did a sad, proud smile touch those sculptured lips for a moment?

“They will come to me,” Death said quietly. “And sooner, and in greater numbers, than if you choose to live. The Valdemar you knew will be no more; her people will struggle to maintain their freedom in a shrunken land, bereft of allies and hemmed about by enemies. You are not the only hope, Vanyel, but you are Valdemar's best hope.”

Vanyel closed his eyes in a spasm of despair, struggling to maintain his composure. He was so tired - so very tired. So tired of pain, of loneliness, of a life that seemed harder to endure each day. But what he had told Jervis was no less than the truth. He could no more leave his duties unfulfilled than he could repudiate Yfandes. Especially not now - not knowing, by the word of a Power that would not tell him false, that there was no one else to do what he could do.

But he was so tired.

“What is magic's promise, Vanyel?” asked the vibrant voice. “You thought you knew the answer once. Is it still the answer you would give now?”

He rose out of his own soul-deep weariness, and realized that-no, the promise of magic's power - to a Herald - was not what he had thought at seventeen. And that was the difference between what he was, and what those of Vedric and Krebain's ilk were.

“It isn't a promise made to me,” he replied, slowly opening his eyes and meeting Death's unblinking, steadfast gaze. “It's a promise made to those who depend on me, on my strength; it's a promise I haven't fulfilled, not yet, not completely.” He closed his eyes again, and bowed his head, feeling tears of weariness slipping from beneath his lashes and not wanting the Other to see them and his weakness. “It's a promise that gives me no choice. I - have to go back. No matter how - tired - I am -”

There was a whisper of sound, and a feather-light touch on his jaw. He opened his eyes, and Death's hand lifted his chin so that his gaze again met those beautiful eyes. There were tears in Death's eyes, tears that matched his own, and a tender, sorrowful smile on Death's lips.

“I have never been so grieved - and so glad - to lose,” he said, and touched his lips to Vanyel's. Their tears mingled on his lips as Vanyel closed his eyes; he tasted them in the kiss, his own salt, bitter tears - and Death's sweet -

Strong arms closed about him, supporting him, holding him against a comforting shoulder, as Death held him with all the sensitivity of the lover that He could be.

Vanyel yielded to the greater strength, and crumpled in his arms, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Gentle hands caressed his hair, and gentle words came to his ears.

“Not yet, beloved,” Death murmured, breath moving against his ear, lightly stirring his hair. “There is no time here, while I will it so. You need not take up your burden until you feel ready to meet your life again.”

So he wept out his weariness, his longing for respite. He wept, and then he rested on Death's shoulder.

“Vanyel, is it only duty that calls you back?”

“No.” He found another tiny crumb of strength and slowly straightened in the Power's arms. “No - it's more than that. Moondance said it a long time ago. I lost my own hearth-fire, but that's no reason why I can't warm myself at the hearths of my friends, not when they've offered that warmth.” He blinked, and realized that he was smiling. “Not so many friends,” he said, half to himself, “But all of them - good friends.”

“Worth returning for, Vanyel?”

“Yes,” he replied simply.

Death actually laughed softly. “So long to learn what Moondance meant?”

“Sometimes I'm a bit dense.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “For some reason I never had any trouble figuring out what death was all about; but life -  that's taken me until now.”

The Power held him for a moment longer, then let him go. He met the compassionate, luminous blue eyes for one final time, and saw them flare with a strange mixture of pride, grief, and joy. “Vanyel,” Death whispered. “One thing more - there is one who would make his farewell to you.”

Vanyel felt someone behind him, a lesser presence than the Shadow-lover, and turned.

“Hello, Vanyel,” said Jaysen, holding out his hand. “Or - I guess it's good-bye.”

“Jays?” Vanyel took the hand, momentarily stunned. “Oh, Jays, no - I didn't -”

“No, you didn't. Don't go all guilty on me.” Jaysen actually smiled, ruefully. “It was my own stupid fault for being so distracted by the fact that you went and fathered our little pet that I gave those things of Vedric's a chance to get at me.”

Tears burned his eyes. “But -”

“Stop that. I knew you'd take it that way, that's why I asked - Her - Lady Death - to let me see you. It's not your fault. Now listen to me, neither of us have much more time.”

“The Web - you're the Northern Guardian -”

“Exactly. You'll have to take my place. More than that, remember what you were thinking earlier? About making all the Heralds the power source? Do that, Van. Figure out how.” Jaysen squeezed his hand urgently. “It's important. Figure out how to change the Web-spell so that it doesn't need Guardians anymore, just the Heralds themselves. You're the only one of us that can do that. I'm charging you with that, Van.”

He nodded, and met Jaysen's eyes evenly. “I promise.”

“I -” Jaysen's eyes softened for a moment. “There's something else. She told me I could tell you. Maybe it'll help. She said you won't be alone.”

He released Vanyel's hand, and stepped backward, already beginning to fade.

“She promised, Van. And I promise.”

Then he was falling, falling -

For a confused moment after he opened his eyes, he thought that the slumped form in Whites in the chair beside his bed was the Messenger -

But his hiss of pain as he tried to move woke the other, and he saw that it was a mortal and a friend, after all.

“Tran?” he whispered. “Tantras? What are you -”

Tantras' face was lined with exhaustion, and his eyes were red with weeping.

“Van, I have to tell you -”

“We lost Jays,” he whispered, remembering, feeling the emptiness.

Oh, gods - He was not aware that he was weeping until a sob shook him and made him gasp with pain.

Tantras just handed him a square of linen, and, moving to sit gingerly on the side of the bed, held him until exhaustion left him no more tears to weep.

“We thought you ought to hear it from a friend,” Tantras told him, helping him to lie back. “I should have known you already knew.”

“How?” Vanyel whispered. “He didn't tell me how.”

“He couldn't keep the Swarm off - so he and his Companion - you know better than me how that works.”

“Final strike,” Vanyel answered numbly. “Take your last target with you. Oh, gods - if I'd just been there.”

“What good would you have done?” Tantras chided. “No one can be two places at once, Van. Not even you. Lady Bright, we came within a hair of losing you, and that's something I'd rather not think about. Lissa's Healer still doesn't know how he pulled it off. He swears he had divine help at the last moment.”

Vanyel just stared at him, rinding it hard to imagine a world without Jaysen in it.

A gentle tap broke the silence between them, and a maid hurried in, face blank -

Hiding fear.

“Milord Herald-Mage?” she faltered, holding a pitcher.

Not “Vanyel, “or even “milord Van, “ he thought, with a catch in his throat. Now I terrify even the ones who grew up with me around. I'm a stranger even to my own.

“Yes, Sondri?” he said, as gently as he could.

“I brought ye summat t' drink.”

“Thank you.”

She left the pitcher and glass beside the bed, and hurried out.

Fear. Vanyel felt another wrench inside. And there was only one way to deal with the pain of it.

Tantras had enough Empathy to feel something of his withdrawal. “Van - ” He touched Vanyel's shoulder. “Van, what are you doing?”

Van looked at him bleakly. “You saw her,” he whispered. “It's just like you told me. I frighten people. And now even more than before. I wiped out the entire Mavelan family, or at least all of the ones in the meld. I had divine aid in being Healed, or at least that's what they're telling each other out there. I frightened them before, now I terrify them. It hurts, Tran. It hurts to feel that fear.''

“So you're withdrawing behind walls again.” Tantras shook his head. “Van, that's not the answer.”

“What is?”

Tantras only shook his head dumbly.

“At least my walls give me a little peace. And I won't wall my friends out, I promise.” He tried to smile, at least a little.

“But you won't look for new friends either. Or love. Van, you're making a serious mistake.”

“It's mine to make.”

“I can't stay,” Tantras said, after a long silence. “I have to courier messages back. I only waited to tell you.”

Vanyel nodded, grief too profound to be purged with one spate of weeping rising to block his words. “Duty; we all have it. That's what kept me, Tran, that, and finally figuring out what I'm doing here. And that's what Jays died for - duty, and protecting the ones we all love.” He stared at a spot on the opposite wall while his eyes burned and blurred. “Thanks for waiting to tell me.”

Tantras eased off the bed, and squeezed his hand. “Rest. When there's more to tell, we'll get the word to you.”

“Thank you,” he murmured, closing his eyes. He heard soft footsteps crossing the floor; heard the door open and close. Then knew nothing more for a very long time.

The Healer had done his best, but the wound Father Leren's knife had left was only half healed, and still very sore. Vanyel had just discovered that getting from his bed to the chair beside his table was a sweating and pain-filled ordeal. The Healer had sternly warned him about the consequences of tearing open half-healed tissues, and Vanyel was inclined to take him very seriously, given the way he was hurting. He didn't want to make a bigger mess of his midsection than it already was. As it was, he'd have an L-shaped scar for the rest of his life. Gut wounds were definitely not on his list of favored ways to earn a little rest.

Getting dressed had been an ordeal, too, but the Healer had said he could have visitors, and he wasn't going to see them bundled in bed like an invalid.

He eased himself down into the chair with a hiss as someone knocked on the door to his room. “Come,” he called, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

It was not anyone he had expected. It was Melenna.

A much subdued, sobered Melenna.

“I came to see if you were really all right,” she said, shyly, “and to ask Herald Vanyel for a favor, and some advice.”

Herald Vanyel. Not Van. And the fear is in her, too.

“Please, Melenna, sit down. I can't imagine why you'd want my advice, but -”

She remained standing. “Vanyel,” she said softly. “You - and me. There's no hope, is there?”

He looked up, and the honest longing in her eyes made his heart go out to her, the anger and frustration of the past few weeks evaporating. The gods knew, he knew exactly how it felt to long for something you'd never have - or never have again. “I'm sorry, Melenna, but I won't lie to you. It was hopeless from the start. A woman can never be anything more than my friend. I do value you as a friend, and the mother of my very young friend Medren, but I can't offer you any more than that.”

She bent her head, and quickly wiped her eyes, all coquettishness gone. “I - you know how I feel. Couldn't you - pretend? It would make Lady Treesa and Lord Withen awfully happy. And I wouldn't mind, really I wouldn't.”

He looked away from those sad, sad eyes. The offer was terribly tempting. But ultimately, a lie. “I know it would make them happy, but I'm a Herald, Melenna. I can't tell lies - how could I live one? And you would care, eventually. It would make you very unhappy. There are other men - shay'a'chern - who've talked with me, who tried just what you're suggesting. In the end, instead of two people who were only moderately happy most of the time, there were two people who were desperately unhappy all the time. The wife was jealous of his lovers, and his lovers were jealous of her, and it went downhill from there.” He shook his head. “No, my friend, it won't work. I'm sorry.”

She wiped another tear away. “I'm sorry, too,” she said. “But to tell you the truth, I'm mostly sorry for myself, and a little bit for Treesa.” She sighed. “Can I - ask you a favor? And you can say no. It's about Medren.”

“If it's about Medren, the answer is probably 'yes,' “ he said. “Your son is a delight to any musician, and a charmer all by himself.”

“Would you - sort of be his guardian until he's settled? He's never been away from home at all. I know he isn't shy, but that's the problem. He seems a lot older than he really is, and that's my fault, I guess. He could get in with a faster crowd than he can handle.”

He stared at her, astounded. “You'd trust me - ?”

She returned his astonished stare levelly. “I'm not very clever, sometimes,” she replied, “but I listen, I listen a lot. You're very honorable, and in all the stories about you and - others, there's only been men. Not boys. Besides, Medren told me how he offered to pay for lessons, and how you turned him down. Yes, I trust you. I'll always trust you. I've loved you, Vanyel ... for a very long time.”

Greatly moved, Vanyel took her hand and kissed the back of it gently. “Then I will be very honored to see Medren settled properly,” he replied. “And I can only pray that I will always be worthy of your trust.”

She got up before he could say another word, and headed for the door - Only to be run over by the rush of people crowding in, as the door slammed open.

“Now look, you peabrain - ” Savil was shouting, as Vanyel's head began to spin.

“Look yourself,” Withen shouted back, shaking his finger at her. “The damned Lineans won't accept anything but the boy!”

“But he's a Herald,” Lores wailed over the din.

Vanyel's head began to spin, and he clutched the edge of his table. Rescue came from an unexpected source.

“Shut UP!'' Jervis roared, in a tone of voice that hearkened back to the parade ground.

Silence descended so suddenly that Vanyel's ears rang.

“Would someone mind explaining what all this is about?” he whispered into it.

“Let me see if I have all this straight,” he said, after everyone had said his or her piece - except Melenna, who'd found herself trapped by the influx of people and hadn't had the courage to push past them to escape. “Tashir now holds both thrones according to the treaty. Now that he's been acquitted, the Lineans are willing to accept him, and the Bairens are willing to take about anybody so long as it isn't a Mavelan. The problems with this are: first, he's a Herald, which means he has to be trained, and would normally mean he'd abdicate lands and titles; second, he doesn't want to be a King; third, he's very young, which would be a temptation to others to come and attack, and would drag Valdemar into defending his kingdom for him.”

“Something like that,” Withen admitted, as the others nodded.

“Why me?” he demanded. “Why am I suddenly the arbitrator?”

Savil flourished a piece of parchment. “Because according to this little piece of paper I have, under Randale's official seal, you understand the problems, so you're appointed full and final authority.”

:I'II get you for this, Savil. :

:You can try.:

He massaged his temples, and wished for wine. “All right, let's take this slowly. First of all, we've waived the rules for Heralds before when they were the only heirs. It isn't done often, but I think it's called for in this case. Lores, your Gift is Fetching, right?”

Startled, the Herald nodded.

“Fine, I hereby appoint you Tashir's mentor, to stay with him and teach him until you feel he's ready for Whites. You can serve double duty that way; mentor and envoy. Now - Tashir, would you be willing to take the ruling seat if we arranged for you to make the two lands a vassal-state? That means you are holding the lands of Randale, and it would make them part of Valdemar.''

Tashir considered that for a moment, his face sober. “D-does it have to be - do I have to be a King? I don't want to be a King. It's pretty stupid, anyway, to be a King of something you can ride across in a few days.”

“Provided you can get your people to agree, I can't see what difference it makes.”

“Then I'll be a Baron,” Tashir replied, sitting up very straight. “Lord-Baron of the March of Lineas-Baires. If there aren't any straight-line heirs, it all goes back to Valdemar.''

Vanyel sighed his relief. If Tashir hadn't been willing to take the damned power seat - civil wars were not what Valdemar needed on the Border.

“Now, when there's a ruler as young as you, he usually has a Council of older people to advise him - ”

“There isn't one,” Tashir interrupted. “Father had one, but they all died.”

“True. Have you any objections to my appointing you one?”

Tashir shook his head, and Vanyel plowed on before anyone could stop him. “First Councilor and Chamberlain, Herald Lores. Second Councilor and Seneschal, Kaster Ashkevron. He's Meke's right hand, Father, and he's Meke's accountant. Any objections so far?”

Withen snapped his mouth shut on whatever he was going to say, and shook his head.

“Right. Third Councilor, have somebody sent over from your local temple - pick a scholar. Fourth Councilor, the current Chief Elder of Highjorune. Fifth Councilor - huh. You'll need a Marshal, a good military advisor, I would think. Jervis.”

“Huh?” Jervis responded, “I what?”

“He'll be very good,” Vanyel continued before he could object, “and Radevel is certainly capable of taking over here as armsmaster. And since you're a bachelor, you'll need a Castelaine - otherwise you're never going to have cooked meals or clean shirts.” He went blank for a moment-until his eyes fell on Melenna.

“ 'Lenna?”

She jumped.

“Think you'd be able to keep Tashir in roasts, herbs, and clean linen?”

“Me?” she squeaked. “Me? Castelaine?”

“Of course, there's a catch.” Vanyel was beginning to enjoy this. “You'll have to be ennobled, but Randi did give me full powers.” He saw with a hidden smile that Tashir was beginning to look happier. Melenna had stood up for him once already and she was the mother of his good friend Medren - two points already in her favor, at least in his eyes.

“But - but I - but I don't know a thing about - ”

“B-beanshucks,” Withen rumbled, changing his epithet in mid-syllable. “You've been doing Castelaine duty here for years. Treesa'll have vapors, of course.”

Savil interrupted him. “Let her have vapors. If she doesn't want to mind Forst Reach, let Meke's lady deal with it. I know young Roshya. She's a bright little thing, and I know she's been properly trained. That's one of your worst problems here, Withen - too many trained hands and not enough jobs for them.”

Melenna turned anxious eyes toward Vanyel. “Herald Vanyel? Do you think that I - could-”

“I think you'll do just fine. Now - does that solve all the problems?”

Because I'm about to run out of brilliant ideas, energy, and the ability to hold off pain.

“I think so,” Savil replied. “I think we can start off by collecting Kaster and showing Tashir something of what he'll be dealing with.”

“You won't need me, will you?” Jervis asked suddenly.

''Probably not - at least not for a while.''

“Then I need a word or two with young Van here. Could you send to fetch me when you need me?”

Savil raised one eyebrow, but nodded.

The mob left, and Vanyel sagged as Jervis put a pitcher down on the table before him.

“Gods. That was a hell of a way to spend my first day out of bed.” He cast a wistful glance at the pitcher. “I don't suppose that's wine, is it?” The Healer, used to fighters, who would use the infirmary as a good place to hold an impromptu party, had forbidden him wine. He was getting very tired of cider.

Besides, the drugs the Healer had given him were too strong. He wasn't taking them except to sleep, and the pain-dulling effects of alcohol would have been welcome.

“Well-cider,” Jervis said slyly, “and help.” He reached inside his jerkin and held up a little bottle of apple brandy. “Couldn't get wine past that snoop, but I could this. Figured you could use it. Little bird told me you probably weren't taking those pills.”

He poured a generous dollop of brandy into each mug before adding the cider; Vanyel accepted his gratefully. “What little bird?”

“One name of Lissa. I've been playin' her eyes an' ears over here.”

“She could be right,” he admitted. “She knows I hate to be muddle-headed these days.”

Jervis grimaced. “Anybody been on front-lines hates t' be muddle-headed. Wish them Healers'd figure that out.”

“Have you heard anything out of Highjorune? Like about the palace, and the heart-stone?”

“Buried, and gonna leave it that way. Seemed safest. Van, you really think I should do this?”

“Why? Don't you?”

Jervis chewed his lip. “I dunno,” he said after a moment. “Tashir trusts me. I'm getting too old to try and beat sense into more young heads than one at any one time. What do you think of the notion? Too damned foolish to believe?”

“I think you'd make a good Marshal,” Vanyel replied honestly. “You've certainly proved that you aren't too old to change.”

Jervis snorted. “You say that after I nearly ruined your life for you?”

“But you saved it,” Vanyel pointed out. “If you hadn't been there, I would either have let the palace bury me, or I'd have gone down under Leren's knife. I'd have been dead before anyone found me. I think we're even.”

“Huh.” They drank in silence for a moment. The pain of Vanyel's wound seemed a bit eased.

“About Leren - you heard anything yet?”

Vanyel shook his head. “I was hoping you'd get around to him. I have some information for you, since you're relaying to Liss. Leren was mage-controlled.”

Jervis swore under his breath. “So he was tryin' t' take us both out a purpose. If he hadn't gotten distracted - ”

“Exactly - and I'm the one that distracted him for you; there was - I felt something about him, but it got away from me.”

Jervis shook his head. “Damn. We found out he was planted on us by the Mavelans. And now the priests of Astera are sending 'finders' into every damn temple along the Border here, to see how many more there are like him. Seems the Mavelans bought themselves a temple-school. The High Prelate is not what you'd call pleased. But I guess Leren's even twistier than we thought?''

Vanyel nodded. “I told Savil this morning and she relayed it to Haven, but Liss might as well get it from you. He may have been serving the Mavelans, but he was serving somebody else, too. And I don't know who or what. It was no power I recognized.''

“And you won't ever find it from him. Liss couldn't get it out of him, and whoever it was killed him before she could turn him over to Heralds.”

Vanyel swore creatively and descriptively in Tayledras. “Savil didn't tell me that.”

Jervis grimaced.  “She didn't know.  Liss'  sergeant found him dead in his cell just this mornin', guts torn out, and nobody next or nigh him since they'd brought him dinner. But Savil an' Lores an' Tashir showed up right after that, an' that kinda got lost in tryin' t' figger out what to' do 'bout Tashir.”

“Magic.”

“Seems so.”

Vanyel pondered for a moment. “Did you ever find out why he tried to kill me?”

“Oh, aye. That was easy enough. Leren knew what was goin' on here; that Mavelan bastard was keepin' him briefed. That much Liss got outa him afore he got his insides tore out. Vedric figured you were getting too close to the truth about the boy. When he breached the shields, he didn't know we'd unraveled everything. He had it figured that his spell was too good to unravel. What he meant to do was send you Gating home, and the boy with you. Leren was supposed to knife you both. They figured you'd use the same place to Gate into as last time, so Leren was waiting once Vedric contacted him. What they didn't figure on was Savil and me bein' there, nor you and Savil splitting up, and they didn't figure on me bein' with you an' not the boy.”

“I'm glad you were,” Vanyel said, softly. “If it hadn't been for you throwing my own words back in my face -  well, I wouldn't be here.”

“Is that a thing to thank me for?” Jervis asked unexpectedly. “How much you going to take before you crack?”

“As much,” Vanyel replied deliberately, “as I have to.”

Jervis pondered that a moment. “Van - are we friends now?''

Vanyel closed his eyes. “We're friends. And I think I know what your next question is going to be. You want to know why I'm sending you away with Tashir.”

“Somethin' like.”

“I'm trying to scatter my targets. I had a lot of time to think, the past couple of days. I figured out something. Enemies might not be able to get me, but they can get at me through the people I care for. Some of them - they're pretty well protected. But ordinary people, like you, Medren - ” He shook his head. “So I'm trying to send you all away - far away from me. The farther away you are, the safer you are. Either you'll be too distant to get at, or it will look as if I don't care. Either way, you'II be all right.”

“And you'll be alone.”

“That's better than knowing you took a mage-bolt because someone wanted to rock me,” he retorted, and swallowed the contents of the mug at a gulp.

Silence, then Jervis reached out and refilled his mug. Vanyel found himself getting a little light-headed. “Let me ask about something inconsequential; how's Medren? Is he going to forgive me for wrecking his old lute?''

“Lute?” Jervis chortled. “He'd have forgiven you for wrecking Forst Reach so long as you came back safe. Funny thing; remember you said Medren'd be safe from the Swarm because he was Bardic-Gifted and not Mage?

You was almost right. Seems like the instant the Swarm tried t' find a target here, ev'ry one of his lute strings snapped. How's that for strange?”

Vanyel shook his head. Too close. Too damned close. I was right.

“Anyway, he's safe at Bardic; word came back from a Bard called Breda that 'if there's any more at home like him, they're staging a raid.”

“So he's doing well?”

“Better than well. I think that's the reason Melenna decided to take that Castelaine position. I think she's startin' to look at being something other than 'Somebody's lady' or 'Somebody's momma.' I think maybe she wants to take a shot at being Somebody, herself.”

“Good,” Vanyel said, and meant it.

“You know,” Jervis raised one eyebrow, “your father still don't half believe but what you were after Tashir's tail the whole time. Aye, and Medren, too.”

Vanyel snorted.

“In fact,” Jervis continued, “to hear him in his cups, you've had half the boys in Valdemar.”

Vanyel put his mug down. “If that's a question,” he replied acidly, “you can tell him from me that it's been so damned long that both you and those damned sheep in Long Meadow are starting to look good!”

Jervis gave him a long, thoughtful look, and Vanyel wondered if he'd said too much, too freely. He tried to ready an apology-when Jervis gave him a long, slow grin.

“Stick to the sheep,” the armsmaster advised impudently. “They don't snore.”