Six

Damn!” Medren swore, pounding the arm of his chair. “This is stupid! I swear to you, my uncle is about to drive me mad!”

The windows to Stefen's room were open to the summer evening, and Medren was trying to keep his voice down to prevent everybody in the neighborhood from being privy to their plight. Stef evidently didn't care who overheard them. “About to drive you mad?” Stefen's voice cracked, and Medren winced in sympathy. Stef was pulling at his hair, totally unaware that he was doing so, and looked about ready to climb the walls. He shifted position so often that his chair was doing a little dance around the room, a thumblength at a time.

“I know, I know, it's a lot worse for you. I'm just frustrated. You're -” Medren paused, unable to think of a delicate way to put it.”

“I'm celibate, that's what I am!” Stefen growled, lurching to his feet and beginning to pace restlessly. “I'm worse than celibate. I'm fixated. It's not just that Vanyel isn't cooperating, it's that I don't want anyone else anymore, and the better I know him, the worse it gets!” He stopped dead in his tracks, suddenly, and stared out the window for a moment. “I'm never happier than when I'm around him. I sometimes wonder how long I'm going to be able to stand this. There are times when I can't think of anything but him.”

Medren stared at his friend, wondering if Stefen had really listened to himself just now. Because what he'd just described was the classic reaction of a lifebonded. . . .

Stef and Uncle Van? No. Not possible; not when Van has already been lifebonded once... Or is it? Is there a rule somewhere that lifebondings can only happen once in a lifetime, even if you lose your bondmate?

A lifebonding would certainly explain a great deal of Stef's behavior. Medren had long ago given up on trying to second-guess his uncle. Vanyel was far too adept at hiding what he felt, even from himself.

“So, what have we tried so far?” Medren said aloud. Stef at least stopped pacing long enough to push his hair out of his eyes and count up all the schemes they'd concocted on his fingers.

“We tried getting him drunk again. He didn't cooperate. We tried that trip to the hot springs. That almost worked, except that we got company right when it looked like he was going to break down and do something. We tried every variation on my hurting myself and him having to help me, and all I got were bruises in some fascinating places.” Stefen gritted his teeth. “We tried my asking him for a massage for my shoulder muscles. He referred me to a Healer. The only thing we haven't tried is catching him asleep and tying him up.”

“Don't even think about that!” Medren said hastily. “Listen, first of all, you won't catch him asleep, and secondly, even if you did - you wouldn't want to be standing there if he mistook you for an enemy.”

Like the last time he was home, when that idiot with the petition tried to tackle him in the bath. Medren shuddered. I know Grandfather said he needed to replace the bathhouse - but that wasn't the best way to get it torn down.

“He wouldn't hurt me,” Stefen said with absolute certainty.

“Don't bet on that,” Medren replied, grimly. “Especially if he doesn't know it's you. I've seen what he can do, and you wouldn't want to stand in the way of it. If he wants to level something or someone, he will, and anything in between him and what he wants to flatten is going to wind up just as flat as his target.”

“No,” Stef denied vehemently. “No - I swear to you, I know it. No matter what, he wouldn't hurt me.”

Medren just shook his head and hoped Stef would never have to test that particular faith. “All right,” he said after a moment's thought. “What about this -”

Vanyel closed his weary eyes for a moment, and thought longingly, selfishly, of rest, of peace, of a chance to enjoy the bright summer day.

But there was no peace for Valdemar, and hence, no rest for Herald Vanyel.

:Take a break tonight, Van,: Yfandes advised him. :You haven't had young Stefen over for the past three evenings. And I think you can afford to let the Seneschal and the Lord Marshal hash this one out without you.:

At least the news out of Karse was something other than a disaster, for a change.

“So there's no doubt of it?” he asked the messenger. “The Karsites have declared the use of magic anathema?”

The dust-covered messenger nodded. It was hard to tell much about her, other than the fact that she was not a Herald. Road grime had left her pretty much a uniform gray-brown from head to toe. “There's more to it than that, m'lord,” she said. “They're outlawing everyone even suspected of having mage-craft. Just before I left, the first of the lucky ones came straggling across the Border. I didn't have time to collect much of their tales, but there's another messenger coming along behind me who'll have the whole of it.”

“Lucky ones?” said the Seneschal, puzzled. “Lucky for us, perhaps, but since when has it been lucky for enemy mages to fall into our hands?”

“Aye, it wouldn't seem that way, but 'tis,” she replied, wiping the back of her hand across her forehead, and leaving a paler smear through the dirt and sweat. “The ones we got are the lucky ones. They're the ones that 'scaped the hunters. They're burning and hanging over there, whoever they can catch. 'Tis a bit of a holy crusade, it seems. Like some kind of plague, all of a sudden half of Karse wants to murder the Gifted.”

“Good gods.” The Seneschal ran his hand over his closed eyes. “It sounds insane -”

“How did it start?” the Lord Marshall asked bluntly, “or do you know?”

The messenger nodded. “Lord Vanyel's turning those demons back on Karse ten years ago was the start of it, but the real motivator seems to be from the priesthood.”

“The priesthood?” Healer Liam exclaimed, sitting up straight. “Which priesthood?”

“Sunlord Vkanda,” the messenger replied. “And there's not enough news yet to tell if it's only the one priest, or the whole lot of them.”

At that moment, a servant appeared with wine. The messenger took it and gulped it down gratefully. Lord Marshall Reven leaned forward over the table when she'd finished, his lean face intent, his spare body betraying how tense he was.

“What else can you tell us?” he asked. “Any fragment of information will help.”

The messenger leaned back in her chair. “Quite a bit, actually,” she said. “I'm trained by one of your Heralds. The one that started this crusade's a nameless lad of maybe twenty or so; calls himself The Prophet. No one knows much else about him, 'cept that he started on that there was a curse on the land, on account of them using mages. That was a bit less than a month ago. Next thing you know, the countryside's afire, and Karse's got more'n enough troubles to make 'em pull back every trooper they had on the Border. That was how matters stood a week ago when I left; gods only know what's going on in there now.”

“Have we heard from any of our operatives in Karse itself?” the Seneschal asked Vanyel. The Herald shook his head. “Not yet.” He was worried for those operatives - there were at least three of them, one Mindspeaking Herald among them - but his chief reaction was relief. I cannot believe that we pulled the last of the mages out less than a year ago. There is no one in there now who should be suspected of magery. . . .

“You say this situation is causing some civil disorder?” Archpriest Everet had a knack for understatement, but he was serious enough. His close-cropped, winter-white hair was far too short to fidget with, so he fingered his earlobe worriedly instead. Beneath his bland exterior, Vanyel sensed he was deeply concerned.

Not surprising; while it might look as if this was unalloyed good news for Valdemar, that fact that it was a religious crusade meant the possibility of it spilling over the Border. There were several houses of the Sunlord within the borders of Valdemar. If they joined their fellows in this holy war against mages, not only would the Archpriest be responsible for their actions, he would be obligated to see to it that they were stopped.

Which is about all he's thinking of. He doesn't see how much chaos this could cause the entire country. If the followers of the Sunlord move against Heralds -

Some of us are mages; they might also count all Gifts as “magic.”

And we have the backing of other religious orders. If the Heralds were attacked, those orders might move before the Crown and Archpriest could. What would happen if the acolytes of Kernos decided to take matters into their own hands and fight back on the mages' behalf? After all, the order is primarily martial . . . fighting monks and the like. And they favor the Heralds.

The situation, if it crossed the Border, could be as damaging to Valdemar as to Karse.

“The Sunlord's the Karsite official state religion,” the messenger reminded them. “If this Prophet has the backing of the priesthood, then he's got the backing of the Crown. When I left, that was what things looked like - but there's a fair number of people with a bit of magery in their blood, and a-plenty of hedge-wizards and herb-witches that do the common folk a fair amount of good. Not everybody can find a Healer when they need one; when the big magics are flyin' about, the lords tend to forget about the little ones that bring the rain and protect the crops. So not everybody is taking well to this holy crusade.”

“I would suggest a series of personal visits to our own enclaves of the Sunlord, my lord Everet,” Vanyel said mildly. “I suspect your presence will make cooler heads prevail, especially if you point out that this so-called 'Prophet' seems to be operating on nothing more than his charisma and his own word that he speaks for the Sunlord Vkanda.”

Everet nodded, his mouth tight. “They owe their establishments to His Majesty's tolerance,” he replied. “I shall be at pains to point that out.”

“I'll assure him that you're already working on the potential problem,” Vanyel told him, glancing at the empty throne. Barring a miracle, Randi will never use that seat again. I wonder if we should have it taken out? It's certainly depressing to have it there.

The Seneschal dismissed the messenger, who got stiffly to her feet, bowed, and limped out. “Well,” Seneschal Arved said, once the door had closed behind her, “I think we have a Situation.”

The Lord Marshal nodded. “If it stays within the Karse Border, this situation can only benefit us.”

“If.” Vanyel shook his head. “There's no guarantee of that.”

:And what about later?: Yfandes prompted. :After this crusade is over?:

:Good point.: “We use magic openly in Valdemar, sanctioned and supported by the Crown,” Van continued. “If this crusade doesn't burn itself out, if in fact it is sanctioned by the Karsite Crown, where does that leave us?”

“The deadliest of enemies,” Everet answered grimly. “It will be worse than before; it will become a holy war.”

Arved groaned, and closed his eyes for a moment. “You're right,” he said, finally. “You're absolutely right. And if that situation occurs, there's nothing we can do to stop it.”

“What we need now is information,” Vanyel told them. “And that's my department. I'll get on it. Whatever happens, we'll have a respite from Karsite incursions for a couple of weeks while they get their own house in order. We should use that respite to our own advantage.”

“Good,” Arved said, shaking back his tawny hair. “Let's take this in manageable chunks. Herald Vanyel, you get us that information, and find out what the King wants us to do with refugees. We'll see what we can do to use this involuntary truce. Tomorrow we'll put together plans to cover all the contingencies we can think of. Everet-”

“I'll be making myself conspicuous in the Vkanda enclaves,” the Archpriest said, rising from his seat. “You'll have to go on without me. I think I'd better leave as soon as I can pack.”

:He's going to be out of here within two candlemarks,: Yfandes said. :He travels light.:

“Lord Everet, I'll have a document from Randale for you before you leave, authorizing you to take whatever actions you think necessary with the followers of Vkanda,” Vanyel said. “Please don't leave without it.”

Everet paused in midturn, and half-smiled. “Thank you, Herald. I would have gone charging off trusting in my office and so-called 'sanctity,' forgetting that neither apply to the Guard.”

“Nor some highborn,” the Lord Marshal reminded him. “And unless I miss my guess, there'll be one or two of those among the Sunlord's followers.”

“Gentlemen, the Archpriest and I will get to our duties, and we'll leave you to work on this in our absence,” Vanyel told them. He and Everet pushed their chairs aside and left the Council Chamber, going in opposite directions once they reached the door.

Randi first, then get in touch with Kera. ... he thought, then Mindsent, :'Fandes, can you boost me that far?: knowing she'd been watching his surface thoughts.

:If not, we can at least reach someone stationed near the Border to relay.: She sounded quite confident, and Van relaxed a little. :We'll have inside information shortly. And don't worry about Kera - thanks to that new Web we wove, if she was in trouble, we'd know. One of us would, anyway.:

:Thanks, love.: He'd reached the door to Randale's quarters, and was such a familiar sight to the guards that one of them had already pushed the door open for him.

He thanked the man with a nod, and slipped inside.

Most of the time Randale was cold, so the room was as hot as a desert, with a fire in the fireplace despite the fact that it was full summer. The King lay on a day-bed beside the fire, bundled up in a blanket, Shavri on a stool beside him; he looked exhausted, but the pain lines about his mouth and eyes were mercifully few.

Those eyes were closed, but he wasn't sleeping. Vanyel saw his lids flutter a little the moment before he spoke. “So,” he said quietly. “What's sent you flying out of the Council Chamber this time? Good news, or bad?”

“Wish I could tell you,” Vanyel replied, dropping down beside the bed, and putting one hand on Shavri's shoulder. She brushed her cheek briefly against it, but didn't let go of Randale's hand. Van touched her dark, gypsy-tumble of curls for a moment, then turned his full attention back to the King. “We just got a messenger from the Border and the Karsites have just confirmed my belief that they're all completely mad.”

He outlined the situation as quickly as he could, while Randale listened, with his eyes still closed. The King had long ago shaved off his beard, saying it no longer hid anything and made him look like the business end of a mop, he'd grown so thin. That was the day he'd finally acknowledged his illness, and the fact that he was never going to recover from it; the day Van had been reassigned permanently and indefinitely to the Palace.

All of Randale that could be seen, under the swathings of blankets, were his head and hands. Both were emaciated and colorless; even Randale's hair was an indeterminate shade of brown. Herald Joshe, who was something of an artist, had remarked sadly that the King was like an under-painting, all bones and shadows.

But there was nothing wrong with his mind, and he demonstrated that he'd inherited his grandmother's good sense.

“Rethwellan,” he said, after listening to Vanyel. “They have mages in their bloodline; if Karse starts an anti-mage campaign, they'll be in as much danger as we. Get Arved to draft up some letters to Queen Lythiaren, feeling her out and offering alliance.” He paused a moment. “Tell him to word those carefully; she doesn't entirely trust me right now after that mess with the Amarites.”

“It wasn't your fault,” Vanyel protested, as Shavri stroked her lifebonded's forehead. Randale opened his eyes and smiled slightly.

“I know that, but she can't admit it,” he replied. “Have we got a 'limited powers' declaration around here somewhere? You'll need one for Everet.”

“I think so,” Vanyel answered, and got to his feet. After a moment of checking through the various drawers, he found what he was looking for - a pre-inscribed document assigning limited powers of the Crown, with blanks for the person and the circumstances. There was always pen, ink, and blotter waiting on the desk; in another moment Vanyel had filled in the appropriate blank spaces.

“Good, let me see it.” Randale read it carefully, as he always did. “Your usual thorough and lawyerlike job, Van.” He looked up at Vanyel, and smiled. “I hope you brought the pen with you.”

“I did.” Vanyel laid the bottom of the document over a book and held both so that Randale could initial the appropriate line. Blowing on the ink to dry it more quickly, he took the paper over to the desk and affixed the Seal of the Monarch. “What about the mages coming across the Border?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Unhindered passage via guarded trade-road into Rethwellan,” Randale told him. “But I don't want to offer them sanctuary. This would be a good opportunity for Karse to get an agent into Valdemar. We can't know which are blameless, which are hirelings, and which are spies. Send them on, unless one of them happens to get Chosen.”

“Not likely.” Vanyel left the paper where it was, and returned to Randale's side. “How has today been?”

“Shavri's beginning to understand what it is that young Bard of yours actually does,” Randale replied. “She's able to do a bit more for me. But yesterday was bad, I'd rather not give audiences today, because I don't think I can get past the door right now. No strength left.”

Vanyel touched his shoulder; Randale sighed, and covered Vanyel's hand with his own. “Then don't try,” Van said quietly. “Anything more I should do about Karse?”

“Get us inside information, then get our Herald operatives out of there,” Randale replied. “Then send a few non-Gifted agents to deliver aid to the rest, then insinuate themselves into the trouble. And let's get moving on the Rethwellan situation.”

By this time, the corners of his mouth were tight and pinched, and he was very pale. Vanyel felt a lump rising in his throat. Randale was proving a better King than anyone had ever expected; the weaker he became, the more he seemed to rise to the challenge. As his body set tighter physical limits on what he could do, his mind roved, keeping track of all of the tangles inside Valdemar and out.

Vanyel swallowed the lump that caught in his throat every time he looked at Randale. “Anything else?” he asked. “There's a lot of matters pending.”

Randale closed his eyes and leaned back into the pillows. “Compromise in the Lendori situation by offering them the contract for the Guard mules if they'll cede the water rights to Balderston. Their animals are good enough, if priced a little high. The Evendim lot has their own militia; feel them out and see if they might be willing to spare us some men. Tell Lord Preatur that if he doesn't either take that little mink he calls his daughter and marry her off or send her back home, I'll find a husband for her; she's got half my Guard officers at dagger's point with each other. That's all.”

“That's enough.” Vanyel touched one finger to Randale's hot forehead, and exerted his own small Healing ability. Shavri had told him that every tiny bit helped some. “Rest, Randi.”

“I'll do my best,” the King whispered, and Vanyel took himself out before he started weeping.

Pages and acolytes were flying about Everet's rooms like leaves in a storm, while Everet stood in the middle of the chaos and directed it calmly. Vanyel dodged a running child and handed Everet the document.

Everet read it through as carefully as Randale had. “Excellent. Enough authority to cow just about anyone I might need to.” He intercepted one of the acolytes and directed the young man to pack the document with the rest of his papers. “Thank you, Herald. Let's hope I don't need to use it.”

“Fervently,” Vanyel replied, and returned briefly to the Council Chamber to give the Seneschal the rest of King Randale's orders.

Sunlight on the water blinded him a moment. :I feel like the Fair Maid of Bredesmere, waiting for her lover,: 'Fandes Mindsent.

Vanyel squinted against the light, then waved to her; she was standing on the Field side of the bridge spanning the river separating the Palace grounds from Companion's Field. :Well, you're all in white,: he teased as he approached the bridge. :And there's the River for you to get thrown into.:

Just try it, my lad,: she reared a little, and danced in place, the long grass muffling the sound of her hooves. :We'll see who throws who in!:

:Thank you, I'd rather not.: He ran the last few steps over the echoing bridge, and took her silken head in both his hands. “You're beautiful today, love,” he said aloud.

:Huh.: She snorted, and shook his hands off. :You say that every day.: But he could tell by the way she arched her neck that she was pleased.

:That's because you are beautiful every day,: he replied.

:Flatterer.: she said, tossing her silver waterfall of a mane. Since they weren't in combat situations anymore, she'd told him to let it and her tail grow, and both were as long and full as a Companion's in an illuminated manuscript.

“It isn't flattery when it's true,” he told her honestly. “I wish I had more time to spend with you.”

Her blue eyes darkened with love. :I do, too. A plague on reality! I just want to be with you, not have to work!:

He laughed. “Now you're as lazy as I used to be! Come along, love, and let's get ourselves settled so we can make a stab at reaching Kera.”

At one time there had been a grove of ancient pine trees near the bridge-the grove that had been destroyed when Herald-trainee Tylendel had lost control of his Gift in the shock following his twin brother's death. There was nothing there now except grass, a few seedlings and a couple of trees that had escaped the destruction. The dead trees had long since been cut up and used for firewood.

Since that night had been the start of the train of events that led to Tylendel's suicide, it would have been logical for Vanyel to shun the spot, but logic didn't seem to play a very large part in Vanyel's life. He still found the place peaceful, protective, and he and Yfandes often went there when they needed to work together.

There was a little hollow in the center of what had been the grove; Yfandes folded her legs under her and settled down there in the long grass. There wasn't so much as a breath of wind to stir the tips of the grass blades. Vanyel lowered himself down beside her, and braced his back against her side. The warm afternoon sun flowed over both of them.

“Ready?” he asked.

:When you are.: she replied.

He closed his eyes, and slid into full rapport with her; it was even easier with her than with Savil. He waited for a moment while they settled around each other, then Reached for Kera:

She couldn't know when someone was going to try to contact her, but Kera had to realize that they were going to do so eventually. Vanyel was counting on that, on the receptivity. He'd worked with Kera before this, so he knew her well enough to find her immediately If he could reach that far.

He strained to Hear her; to sort her out of the distant whispers on the Border of Karse. Most of those mind-voices were strident with anger; a few were full of panic. It was by the lack of both those traits that he identified Kera; that, and the carefully crafted shields about her. Savil's work, and beautiful, like a faceted crystal.

He stretched-it was like trying to touch something just barely within his grasp; the tips of his “fingers” brushed the edge of it. :Kera.: He offered his identification to her shields, which parted briefly and silently.

:Who?: came the thought; then incredulity. :Vanyel?:

She knew where he was and the kind of strain it was to reach her. Hard on that incredulity came the information he needed; exactly what was going on over in Karse, everything Kara knew about the Prophet, and that he was, indeed, backed by the full force of the Karsite Crown and the priesthood of the Sunlord.

:Get out of there,: Vanyel urged. :Go over White Foal Pass if you have to, or get out through Rethwellan, but leave. Warn the others you're leaving if you can. With a Companion around you, however disguised, you're the most likely to be uncovered.:

Fear, and complete agreement. Evidently she'd had some close calls already.

:Go,: she told him, courage layered over the fear. :I've got my plans, I was just waiting for contact.:

He released her, and dropped into clamoring darkness.

When he opened his eyes again, the last of a glorious scarlet sunset was fading from the clouds. Crickets sang in the grass near his knee, and he shivered with cold.

Not a physical cold, but the cold of depletion. Yfandes nudged him with her nose. :I got it all, and I passed it on to Joshe's Kimbry, and Joshe passed it to the Seneschal.:

“Good, 'Fandes,” he coughed, leaning on her warm strength. “Thank you.”

:I never suspected you had that kind of reach. You outdistanced me.:

“I did?” He rubbed his eyes with a knuckle. “Well, I don't know what to say.”

:I do,: she replied, humor in her mind-voice, :You're going to have a reaction-headache in a few more breaths. I suggest you stop by Randale's Healers on the way to your room.:

“I'll do that.” He got to his knees, then lurched to his feet. She scrambled up next to him, glowing in the blue dusk.

:Have you forgotten you'd invited young Stefen to your room tonight?:

“Oh, gods. I had.” He was torn, truly torn. He was weary, but - dammit, he wanted the Bard's company.

:He wants yours just as badly,: Yfandes said, with no emotional coloring in her mind-voice at all.

“Oh, 'Fandes, he's just infatuated,” Vanyel protested. “It'll wear off. If I told him to leave me alone - assuming I wanted to, which I don't - it would just make him that much more determined to throw himself in my way.”

:I think it's more than infatuation,: she responded, and he thought he caught overtones of approval when she thought about the Bard. :I think he really cares a great deal about you.:

“Well, I care about him - which is precisely why I'm going to keep this relationship within the bounds of friendship.” Vanyel tested his legs, and found them capable of taking him back to the Palace, though the threatened reaction-headache was just beginning to throb in his temples. “He doesn't need to ruin his life by flinging himself at me.”He stroked her neck. “Goodnight, sweetling. And thank you.”

:My privilege and pleasure,: she said fondly.

He began the trek back to the Palace, dusk thickening around him, his head throbbing in time with his steps. Friendship. Oh, certainly. Havens, Van, he chided himself. You know very well that you're just looking for excuses to see more of Stef.

Now, finally, a breeze blew up; a stiff one, that made the branches bend a little. He had warmed up quite a bit just from the long walk, but although the cool air felt good against his forehead, it made him shiver. Well, there's no harm in it, except to me. I'm certainly exercising all my self-control. . . .

The depth of his attraction to the Bard bothered him, and not only because he felt the lad was still pursuing him out of hero-worship. As night fell around him and the lights of the Palace began to appear in the windows, he realized that over the past few weeks he had become more and more confused about his relationship with Stefen. Stars appeared long before he reached the doors to the Palace gardens, and he looked up at them, wishing he could find an answer in their patterns.

I don't understand this at all. I want to care for him so much-too much. It feels like I'm betraying 'Lendel's memory.

He turned away from the night sky and pulled open the door, blinking at the light from the lantern set just inside it.

He entered the hall, and closed the door behind him. Great good gods, the boy should be glad I'm not 'Lendel, he thought, with a hint of returning humor. 'Lendel would have cheerfully tumbled the lad into bed long before this. Gods, I need that headache tea -

Evidently the gods thought otherwise, for at that moment, a page waiting in the hallway spotted him, and ran to meet him.

“Herald Vanyel,” the child panted. “The King wants you! Jisa's done something horrible!”

The child couldn't tell him much; just that Jisa had come to Randale's suite with Treven and a stranger. There had been some shouting, and the page had been called in from the hall. Randale had collapsed onto his couch, Shavri and Jisa were pale as death, and Shavri had sent the page off in search of Vanyel.

An odd gathering waited for him in Randale's suite; The King and Shavri, Jisa and young Treven, the Seneschal, Joshe, and a stranger in the robes of a priest of Astera. And a veritable swarm of servants and Guards. By this time, Vanyel was ready to hear almost anything; a tale of theft, murder, drunkenness - but not what Jisa flatly told him, with a rebellious lift of her chin.

“Married?” he choked, looking from Jisa to Treven and back again. “You've gotten married? How? Who in the Havens' name would dare?”

“I did, Herald Vanyel.” The stranger said; not cowed, as Vanyel would have expected, but defiantly. As he raised his head, the cowl of his robe fell back, taking his face out of the shadows. It was no one Vanyel knew, and not a young man. Middle-aged, or older; that was Van's guess. Old enough not to have been tricked into this.

“I wasn't tricked,” the priest continued, as if he had read Vanyel's thought. “I knew who they were; they told me. No one specifically forbade them to marry, and it seemed to me that there was no reason to deny them that status.”

“No reason -” Vanyel couldn't get anything else out.

“The vows are completely legal and binding,” Joshe said apologetically. “The only way they could be broken would be if either of them wanted a divorcement.”

Treven put his arm around Jisa, and the girl took his hand in hers. Both of them stared at Vanyel with rebellion in their eyes; rebellion, and a little fear.

Randale chose that moment to turn a shade lighter and gasp. Shavri was at his side in an instant; and in the next, had him taken out of the room into their private quarters.

“No reason,” Vanyel repeated in disbelief. “What about Treven's duty to Valdemar? What are we going to do now, if the only way out of a problem is an alliance-marriage?”

He addressed the priest, but it was Treven who replied. “I thought about that, Herald Vanyel,” he said. “I thought about it quite a long time. Then I did some careful checking - and unless you plan to have me turn shaych, there isn't anyone who could possibly suit as a marriage candidate, not even in Karse - unless there's some barbarian chieftain's daughter up north that nobody knows about. Of the unwedded, most are past childbearing, and the rest are infants. Of the wedded who might possibly lose their husbands in the next five years, most are bound with contracts that keep them tied to their spouse's land, and the rest are the designated regents for their minor children.” Despite his relatively mild tone, Treven's expression boded no good for anyone who got in his way. “I didn't see any reason to deny ourselves happiness when we know that we're lifebonded.”

“Happiness?” Shavri's voice sounded unusually shrill. “You talk about happiness, here?” She stood in the doorway, clutching a fold of her robe just below her throat. “You've put my daughter right back in the line of succession, you young fool! Do you have any idea how long and hard I fought to keep her out of that position? You've seen what the Crown has done to Randi, both of you - Treven, how can you possibly want that kind of pain for Jisa?”

:Shavri doesn't want the Crown, so she thinks her daughter shouldn't, either,: Yfandes observed. :Your objection is rational, but hers is entirely emotional.:

Jisa ignored her mother's impassioned speech, turning to Vanyel and the Seneschal. “If there's pain, I'm prepared to deal with it,” she said calmly, addressing them and not her mother. “I don't blame Mother for not wanting the Crown - she doesn't want that kind of responsibility, she doesn't like being a leader, and she isn't any good at it. She says that the Crown means pain, and it does, for her - but - my lords, I'm not Mother! Why should she make my decisions for me?”

The priest nodded a little, and Shavri's face went white.

“Mother -” now Jisa turned toward her, pleading. “Mother, I'm sorry, but we're two different people, you and I. I am a leader, I have been all my life, you've said so yourself. I'm not afraid of power, but I respect it, and the responsibility it brings. There's another factor here; Treven will be the King - I'll be his partner. We will be sharing the power, the responsibility, and yes, the pain. It will be different for us. Can't you see that?”

Shavri shook her head, unable to speak; then turned and fled back into the shelter of her room.

Arved was red-faced with anger. “Who gave you the authority to take it upon yourself to decide who and what was a suitable contract?” he snarled at Treven. The young man paled, but stood his ground.

“Two things, sir,” he replied steadily. “The fact that Jisa and I are lifebonded, and the fact that a marriage with anyone except my lifebonded would be a marriage in name only, and a travesty of holy vows.”

“In my opinion,” put in the priest, “that would be blasphemy. A perversion of a rite meant to sanctify. Lifebonding is a rare and sacred thing, and should be treated with reverence. It is one thing to remain unwedded so as to give the appearance of being available, provided it is done for the safety of the realm. It seems to me, however, that to force a young person into an entirely unsuitable marriage when he is already lifebonded is - well, a grave sin.”

Arved stared at the priest, then looked helplessly at Vanyel, and threw up his hands. “It's done,” he said. “It can't be undone, and I'm not the one to beat a dead dog in hopes of him getting up and running to the hunt.”

Joshe just shrugged.

Shavri had fled the room, Randale had collapsed - the Seneschal and his Herald had abrogated their responsibility. It was going to be left to Van to make the decision.

He ground his teeth in frustration, but there really was very little choice. As the Seneschal had pointed out, the thing was accomplished, and there would be no profit in trying to fight it further.

“Done is done,” he said with resignation, ignoring Jisa's squeal of joy. “But I hope you realize you two have saddled me with the hard part.”

“Hard part?” Treven asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “Trying to convince the rest of the world that you haven't made a mistake, when I'm not sure of it myself.

Seven

“I... thought you'd be pleased,” Jisa said sullenly. “You know how we feel about each other. I thought you would understand.”

Vanyel counted to ten, and sighted on a point just above Jisa's head. They weren't alone; the priest was trying to talk Shavri around, Treven hovered right at Jisa's elbow, and there were at least half a dozen servants in the room. It wouldn't do to strangle her.

The only blessing was that Arved and Joshe were gone, which meant two less edgy tempers in a room full of tension.

“Whatever gave you the idea that I'd be pleased?” he asked. “And why should I understand?”

“Because you were willing to defy everything and everyone to have Tylendel,” she replied, maddeningly. “You know what it's like to be lifebonded!” :Father,: she continued in Mindspeech, :We've done everything else anyone ever asked of us. Why should we have to give up each other? And why can't you see our side of it?:

He wanted to argue that her case was entirely different - that Tylendel was only an ordinary Herald-Mage trainee, that neither he nor 'Lendel was the Heir to the Throne -

But he couldn't. They were young and in love, and so it was useless to bring logic into the argument.

:I can't understand why Treven's Companion didn't stop him.: he replied, irritated by her relative calm.

:Father, Eren not only didn't stop him, she helped us. She's the one that found Father Owain for us.: She couldn't have kept the triumph out of her mind-voice, and she didn't even try.

“She what?” Vanyel exclaimed aloud. One of the servants picking up the clutter nearly jumped a foot, then glared out of the corner of his eye at them.

“Bloody, 'Eralds,” he muttered, just loud enough for Van to hear. “Standin' around thinkin' at each other . . . still can't get used to it.”

“Eren helped us,” Jisa persisted. “Ask Yfandes.”

“I will,” he told her grimly. :'Fandes, what do you know about all this?:

:Everything,: she replied.

:And you didn't stop them? You didn't even tell me?: He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

:Of course we didn't stop them,: she said sharply. :We approve. You would, too, if you'd take a minute to think with your head and your heart. What else would you have? Jisa will make a fine Consort, better than anyone else your stuffy Council would have picked for Treven. The boy is entirely right; there are no female offspring of a suitable age among any of the neutrals, and why should he make an alliance-marriage with someone who's already an ally? If you'd have him hang about for years without wedding Jisa, I think you're a fool. :

:But Randi-: he began.

:Randale's case is entirely different; for a start, there is - or was - a Karsite princess only a year older, and the Queen of Rethwellan is exactly his age. Before his illness became a problem, there was always the potential for an alliance-wedding. :

He was too taken aback to reply for a moment, and when he finally managed to recover, one of the pages appeared at his elbow, looking anxious.

“M'lord Herald?” the child said nervously. “M'lord, the King is doing poorly. The Healers said to tell you he was in pain and refusing to take anything and that you'd know what to do.”

“Go fetch Bard Stefen,” Vanyel told the boy instantly. “If he's not in his own rooms, check mine.” He ignored the raised eyebrows as Shavri turned away from the priest and rounded on Jisa and Treven.

“Now see what you've done -” the distraught Herald-Healer began, her hair a wild tangle around her face, her eyes red-rimmed. “You've made him worse, your own father! I -”

Vanyel put a hand on her arm and restrained her, projecting calm at her. “Shavri, dearheart, in all honesty you can't say that. Randi goes in cycles, you know that - and you know he was about due for an attack. You can't say that's Jisa's fault -”

“But she brought it on!” Shavri exclaimed. “She made it worse!”

“You don't know that,” Vanyel began, when the page reappeared with Stefen in tow.

The Bard strolled right up to the tense knot of people, ignoring the page's frantic tugs on his sleeve. He bowed slightly to Treven, and took Jisa's limp hand and kissed it. “Congratulations,” he said, as Shavri went rigid and Vanyel silently recited every curse he knew. “I think you did the right thing. I know you'll be happy.”

He finally responded to the page's efforts, and turned toward the door to the private rooms. But before he could take more than a step, Shavri seized him by the elbow to stop him. “Wait!” she snapped. “Where did you hear this?”

He looked down at her hand, still clutching his elbow, then up at her face. “It's all over the Palace, milady Herald,” he replied mildly, and looked down at her hand again.

She let go of him and pulled away, and clenched her hands in the folds of her robe. “Then there's no way we can hide this.”

“I would say not, milady,” Stefen replied. “By this time tomorrow it'll be all over the Kingdom.”

He winked at Treven as Shavri turned back to the priest. To Van's amazement and anger, Treven winked back.

:You didn't -: he Mindsent to Jisa.

The anger in his eyes was met by matching anger in hers. :Of course we did. The first thing we did was tell the servants and two of the biggest gossips in the Court, one of whom is Stef.:

:Why?: he asked, anger amplifying his mind-voice so that she flinched. :Why? To make your mother a laughingstock?:

:No!: she flared back. :To keep you and her from finding some way to annul what we did! We thought that the more people that knew about it, the less you'd be able to cover it up.:

:The Companions spread it about, too,: Yfandes said, complacently. :I was told by Liam's Orser just as you found out.: “Dear gods,” he groaned. “It's a conspiracy of fools!”

Jisa looked hurt: Yfandes gave a disgusted mental snort and blocked him out.

Stefen stepped back a pace and straightened his back, taking on a dignity far beyond his years. “You can call it what you like, Herald Vanyel,” he said stiffly, “and you can think what you like. But a good many people think that these two did exactly the right thing, and I'm one of them.”

And with that, he turned on his heel, and followed the frantic page to the doorway at the back of the room.

As the priest nodded in satisfaction and took Shavri's arm, Vanyel threw up his hands in a gesture of defeat, and left before his tattered temper and dignity could entirely go to shreds.

As the Seneschal had pointed out, it was done, and couldn't be undone. In the week following, Shavri forgave her daughter, Jisa reconciled with Vanyel - but the Council was unlikely to accept the situation any time soon. As Stefen remarked sagely, in one of the few moments he had to spare away from Randale's side, “They'd gotten used to having a pair of pretty little puppets that danced whenever they pulled the strings. But the puppets just came alive and cut the strings - and they don't have any control anymore. Younglings grow up, Van - and when they do, it generally annoys somebody. Do you want a potential King and Queen, or a couple of rag dolls? If you want the King and Queen, you'd better get used to those two thinking for themselves, because that's what they're going to have to do.”

Vanyel hadn't expected that much sense out of Stefen - though why he should have been surprised by it after all their long talks made him wonder how well he was thinking. The young Bard was showing his mettle in the crisis; not only easing Randale's pain for candlemarks at a time, but soothing Shavri's distress and bringing about her reconciliation with Jisa and Treven. That left Van free to deal with Council, Court, and outKingdom; making decisions in Randale's name, or waiting for one of the King's coherent spells and getting the decrees from him. The two of them worked like two halves of a complicated, beautifully engineered machine, and Vanyel wondered daily how he had gotten along without Stefen's presence and talents before this. The Bard seemed always to be at the right place, at the right time, using his Gift in exactly the right way, but that wasn't all he did. He made himself indispensable in a hundred little ways; seeing that no one forgot important papers, that pages were on hand to fetch and carry, and that Shavri and Randale were never left alone except with each other. He had food and drink sent in to Council meetings; saw to it that ambassadors felt themselves treated as the most important envoys Valdemar had ever harbored.

If it hadn't been for Stefen, Vanyel would never have survived that week.

As it was, by the time the crisis was over, both of them looked like identical frayed threads.

And that was when the second shoe dropped.

Vanyel opened the door to his room, and stared in surprise at Stefen. The Bard was draped over “his” chair, head thrown back, obviously asleep. As Vanyel closed the door, the slight noise woke Stefen, who raised his head and rubbed his eyes with one hand.

“Van,” he said, his voice thick with fatigue. “S-sorry about this. Shavri sent me out; they got two Healers that can pain-block now - they finally caught the trick of it this morning.” He shifted around and grimaced as he tried to move his head. “I couldn't make it back to m'room. Too damned tired. Ordered some food for both of us and came here. Didn't think you'd mind. Do you?”

Vanyel threw himself down in the other chair and reached for a piece of cheese, suddenly ravenous. “Of course I don't mind,” he said. “But why in Havens didn't you take the bed if you were so tired.”

Stefen frowned at him. “I put you out of your bed once. I'm not going to do it again. There's your mail.” He pointed to a slim pile of letters weighed down with a useless dress-dagger. “Just came as I dozed off. Pass me some of that cheese, would you?”

Vanyel passed the plate to him absently and used the paperweight to slit the letters. He worked his way down through the pile, and then froze as he saw the seal on the last one.

“Oh, no,” he moaned. “Oh, no. I do not need this.”

“What?” Stef asked, alarmed. “What's the -”

Vanyel held up the letter, wordlessly.

“That's the Forst Reach seal,” Stefen said, puzzled. Then comprehension dawned and his expression changed to a mixture of amusement and sympathy. “Oh. That. One of your father's famous missives. What is it now - sheep, your brother, or your choice of comrades?”

“Probably all three,” Vanyel said sourly, and opened it. “Might as well get this over with.”

He skimmed through the first paragraph, and found nothing out of the ordinary. “Well, Mekeal's doing all right with his warhorse project, which means that Father's grousing about it, but can't find anything to complain about. Looks like the Famous Stud has a few good traits-well hidden, I may add.” The second paragraph was more of the same. “Good gods, Meke's first just got handfasted. What's he trying to do, start his own tribe? Did I -”

“Send something? What about that really awful silver and garnet loving-cup I've seen around?” Stefen had curled up in the chair with his head resting on the arm and his eyes closed. “Savil told me you kept things like that for presents, and the worse they are, the better your family likes them.”

“Except for Savil, my sister, and Medren, the concept of 'good taste' seems to have eluded my family,” Vanyel replied wearily. “Thank you. Hmm. The last of the sheep has succumbed to black fly, and Father is gloating. Melenna and - good gods!”

“What?” Both of Stefen's eyes flew open, and he raised his head, staring blindly.

“Melenna and Jervis are married!” Van sat there with his mouth hanging open; the very idea of Jervis marrying anyone -

“Oh,” Stef said indifferently. “There's a lot of that going around. Maybe it's catching.” He put his head back down on the armrest, as Vanyel shook his head and proceeded to the third and final paragraph.

“Here's the usual invitation to visit home, which is invariably the prelude to something that kicks me in the -” Van stopped, and reread the final sentences. And read them a third time. They didn't make any more sense than they had before.

I suppose you know we've heard a lot about you from Medren. He's told us you have a very special friend, a Bard. 'Stefen' was the name he gave us. We'd really like to meet him, son. Why don't you bring him with you when you visit?

“Van?” Stefen waved a hand at him, and broke him out of his daze. “Van? What is it? You look like somebody hit you in the back of the head with a board.”

“I feel like that,” Van told him, putting the letter down and rubbing the back of his neck. “I feel just like that. There has to be a trick to it -”

“Trick to what?”

“Well - they want me to bring you with me. They want to meet you. And knowing my father, he's already assumed the worst about our friendship.” Vanyel picked up the letter again, but the last paragraph hadn't changed.

Stefen yawned and closed his eyes. “Let him assume. He asked for it - let's give it to him.”

“You mean you'd be willing to go with me?” Vanyel was astounded. “Stefen, you must be crazed! Nobody wants to visit my family, they're all insane!”

“So? You need somebody they can be horrified by so they'll leave you alone.” Stefen was drifting off to sleep, and his words started to slur. “Soun's like - me - t'me. . . .”

I couldn't, Vanyel thought. But - he's worn away to nothing. They do have two Healers to replace him, and those two can train more. Randi is as much recovered as he's going to get, and the Karse situation is stable. So - why not?

“Why not?” Savil said, and chuckled. “He's certainly asked for it.”

Vanyel had finally prevailed on her to have her favorite chair recovered in a warm gray; she looked like the Winter Queen, with her silver hair and her immaculate Whites. Taking her out of the Web had done her a world of good; there was a great deal more energy in her voice, though she still moved as stiffly as ever.

“But Savil,” Vanyel protested weakly, “He thinks Stef is my lover! He has to!”

Savil leveled the kind of look at him that used to wither her apprentices. “So what if he does? He is the one who issued the invitation, entirely unprompted. Call his bluff. Then confound him. Tell you what. I'll come with you.”

“Kernos' Horns, Savil, what are you trying to do, get me killed?” Vanyel laughed. “Every time you come home with me, I wind up ears-deep in trouble! I might as well go parade up and down the Karsite Border in full panoply - it'd be safer.”

“Nonsense,” Savil scoffed. “It was only the once. Seriously, I daren't travel by myself anymore. And I could certainly use the break. They can't afford to let Herald-Mages retire anymore, there aren't enough of us.”

“True,” Van acknowledged. “You know, this really isn't a bad idea.”

:Stef is a sack of bones and hair,: 'Fandes chimed in. :The Healers are threatening mayhem if someone doesn't take him away for a rest. Savil needs one, too, and so do you, and neither of you will get one unless you're out of reach.:

“Fandes thinks it's a good idea,” he mused. “And to tell you the truth, Mother and Father have been fairly civilized to me the last couple of visits. Maybe this will work.”

“Give me two days,” Savil said, looking eager.

“Don't take more than that,” Vanyel told her, as he got up and headed for the door.

“Why?” she asked. “You don't take that long to pack!”

“Because if you take longer than that,” he called back over his shoulder, “my courage will quite melt away, and you'll have to tie me to Yfandes' back to make me go through with this.”

Two days later, they were on the road out of Haven, with Stefen riding between them on a sleek little chestnut palfrey, a filly out of Star's line. Vanyel's beloved Star had lived out her life at Haven, a pampered favorite whose good sense and sweet nature bred true in all the foals she'd thrown. Star had, in fact, been Jisa's first mount. And although once he'd been Chosen Van had no more need of a riding horse, there had been trusted friends (and the occasional lover) who did - so Star, and Star's offspring, had definitely earned their keep. One of Star's daughters, this palfrey's dam, was now Jisa's mount.

Vanyel had made a present of this particular filly, Star's granddaughter Melody, to Stefen. Stef had reacted with dubious pleasure-pleasure, because it meant he'd be able to accompany Van on his daily exercise rides with 'Fandes. Dubious, because he didn't know how to ride.

Van had been surprised until he thought about it, then felt like a fool for not thinking. Stef had seldom had anything to do with a horse as a child; he was born into poverty, and in the city, so there was no reason for him ever to have learned how to ride. While Van, who had been tossed onto a pony's back as soon as he could walk, was a member of a privileged minority: the landed - which meant mounted - nobility.

He didn't often think of himself that way, but Stefen's lack of such a basic - to Van - skill made the Herald rethink a number of things in that light.

And then he'd seen to it that Stef learned to ride, among other things.

“He was actually glad that Stefen was still such a tyro; it gave him a good excuse to stop fairly early each day. Savil wasn't up to long rides either, but she would never admit it. But with poor, saddle-sore Stefen along, she could be persuaded to make an early halt long before she ran into trouble herself.

By the third day of their easy trip, Stef was looking much more comfortable astride. In fact, he looked as though he was beginning to enjoy himself, taking pleasure in his mount and her paces. The chestnut filly was a good match for his dark red hair, and the two of them made a very showy pair.

:I imagine they'd attract quite a bit of notice if we weren't around,: Yfandes commented, echoing his thoughts.

:Don't look now, beloved, but they attract quite a bit when we are around.: With the late summer sun making a scarlet glory of the chestnut's coat and Stef's hair, and the two White-clad Heralds on their snowy Companions on either side of him, Stefen looked like a young hero flanked by savants.

:It's a good thing he isn't the clothes-horse I was at his age,: Van continued. :Otherwise he'd outshine all of us.:

:He is rather striking, isn't he?: There was a note of fondness in Yfandes' thoughts that pleased Vanyel. She didn't always like his friends; it was a relief when she did. One thing that helped was that Stef shared a habit with Jervis, the former armsmaster of Forst Reach. He talked directly to Yfandes, never talked about her in her presence, and included her in on conversations as if she could understand them-which, of course, she could.

Stefs filly snorted at a butterfly and pranced sideways, tossing her mane and tail playfully. Stefen laughed at her, and reined her in gently. A few weeks ago he would have clutched at the reins, probably frightening her and himself in the bargain. There was a patience and a confidence in the way he handled her that spoke to Vanyel of more than riding experience.

He's matured, Vanyel thought, with some surprise. He's really grown up a lot in the last few weeks. He looks it, too, which is probably just as well. It's bad enough that my father is assuming he's my lover - if they knew how young he really is, my tail would truly be in the fire!

He squinted ahead, trying to make out a distance post or a landmark through the bright sun. Another week at most, even at this easy pace, and we'll be there. I wish I knew how much of a strain this was really going to be. It could be worse, I suppose. At least they're making an effort to be polite.

The filly fidgeted, but Stef held her down to a fast walk, talking to her with amusement in his voice. Savil caught Vanyel's eye and grinned, nodding her head toward the young Bard.

:A month ago she'd have put him on his rump in the dust. Boy's doing all right, Van. I like him.: Her grin got a little wider. :Beats the blazes out of some “friends” you've had.:

He made a face at her. :Now don't you start! I've told you; we're just friends and that's the way I intend to keep it.:

She just gave him a look out of the corner of her eye that implied she knew better.

He ignored the look. By his reckoning, even if his parents were willing to admit that he was shaych that didn't imply they were minded to aid and abet him.

They're willing to meet my friends but they won't want to know they're more than friends. I'll bet they keep half the hold between my room and Stefs, he thought wryly. Little do they know how much I'm going to appreciate that. It's been hard enough keeping things cool between us, and if they're going to help, that's just fine with me.

Stefen slowed his filly and brought her alongside Yfandes. “If this is the way traveling always is, I'm sorry they jumped me out of Journeyman so quickly,” he said, as Vanyel smiled. “I could get to like this awfully fast.”

“You should have talked more with Medren,” Van told him. “You're lucky. This is a good trip; the roads are fine, it hasn't rained once, and it's late summer. I'd say that on the whole, the bad days outnumber the good two to one. That's what it feels like when you're stuck out on the road, anyway.”

Yfandes snorted and bobbed her head in agreement. Stef looked down at her.

“That bad, is it, milady?”

She whickered, and snorted again.

“I'll take your word for it. Both of you, that is. But this trip has been - entirely wonderful. I feel like a human being for the first time in weeks.” He tilted his head sideways, and gave Vanyel a long, appraising look. “You look a lot better yourself, Van.”

“I feel better,” he admitted. “I just hope Joshel can hold things together for a few weeks.”

“Huh,” Savil said, entering the conversation. “If he can't, he's not worth his Whites.”

“That's not fair, Savil,” Vanyel objected. “Just because Joshe isn't a Herald-Mage -”

“That's not it,” she replied. “At least, that's not all of it. You left him a clean slate, if he can't deal with it -”

“Then I'm sure we'll hear from someone,” Stefen interrupted firmly. “I don't think it matters. They know where we are; if they really need you, they can contact you, Van. Why not relax?”

Stef was right, he thought reluctantly. He really should relax. This was another in a string of absolutely perfect summer days; the air was warm and still, without being sultry. They encountered a number of travelers, and all were completely friendly and ordinary, farmers, traders, children on errands - not a one had aroused his suspicions or Savil's. Birds chirped sleepily as they passed, and when the sun grew too oppressive, there always seemed to be a pleasant grove of trees or a tiny village inn to rest in for a little.

Maybe that's what's bothering me. It's too perfect. I mistrust perfection. I keep waiting for something to go wrong.

This afternoon was identical to the rest; at the moment they were passing through an area completely under cultivation. Open fields left fallow alternated with land under the plow. There were usually sheep or cattle grazing in the former, and farmfolk hard at work in the latter. The sheep would either ignore their presence or spook skittishly away from the road-the cattle gathered curiously at the hedgerows to watch them pass. Insects buzzed on all sides, in the fields and the hedges.

This is the way it should be, Van thought a little sadly, thinking of the burned-over fields, and ravaged villages of the South. This is how Valdemar should be, from Border to Border. Will I ever see it that way in my lifetime? Somehow I doubt it. Dear gods, I would give anything if I could ensure that day would come. . . .

Stefen gave the filly her head, and she danced away ahead of them, her hooves kicking up little puffs of dust.

Vanyel shook his head. No use in brooding. I'll just do what I can, when I can. And keep Stef at arm's length until he comes to his senses.

The Bard let his filly stretch into a canter, outdistancing both the Heralds. Van chuckled; the filly was headstrong, but hadn't learned her own limits yet. He and Savil would catch up to the two of them eventually, probably resting in the shade of a tree.

With any luck, this whole trip may end up with Stef doing just that - learning his limits. Especially after he meets Mother and Father. Chasing me is one thing, but trying to do so around them - and having to play little politeness games with them - He chuckled to himself, and Yfandes cocked an ear back at him. Oh, Stef, I think you may have met your match. “Many's the marriage that's been canceled on account of relatives.” This might be exactly what's needed to make him realize that he's been throwing himself at a legend, not a ftesh-and-blood human. And when he sees that this human comes with a package of crazed relations, I won't seem anywhere near as attractive!

They rode into Forst Reach in the late afternoon of the one day that hadn't been completely perfect. Clouds had begun gathering in late morning, and by mid-afternoon the sky was completely gray and thunder rolled faintly in the far south. Fanners were working with one eye on the sky, and Stefen's filly fidgeted skittishly, her ears flicking back and forth every time a peal of thunder made the air shudder.

Nevertheless, there was the usual child out watching the road for them, and by the time they came within sight of the buildings of Forst Reach the multitude had assembled. Withen Ashkevron had given in to fate, and begun adding to the building some ten years ago; now two new wings spread out from the gray granite hulk, sprawling untidily to the east and north. And scaffolding on the southern side told Van that yet another building spree was about to begin. The additions had totally altered the appearance of the place; when Vanyel was first a Herald it had looked foreboding, and martial, not much altered from the defensive keep it had originally been. Now it looked rather like an old warhorse retired to pasture; surrounded by cattle, clambered upon by children, and entirely puzzled by the change in its status.

And it appeared, as they drew nearer, that the entire population of the manor had assembled to meet them in the open space in front of the main building. Much to Van's amusement, Stefen looked seriously alarmed at the size of the gathering.

“Van, that can't be your family, can it?” he asked just before they got in earshot. “I mean, there's hundreds of them....”

Vanyel laughed. “Not quite hundreds; counting all the cousins and fosterlings, probably eighty or ninety by now. More servants, of course. Farewells can take all day, if you aren't careful.”

“Oh,” Stefen replied weakly, and then the waiting throng broke ranks and poured toward them.

The filly shied away from the unfamiliar scents and sounds, but the people pressed closely around her were all well acquainted with the habits of horses. The children all scampered neatly out of the way of her dancing hooves, and before she could bolt, Vanyel's brother Mekeal took her reins just under the bit in a surprisingly gentle fist.

“This one of Star's get?” he asked, running a knowing hand over her flank. “She's lovely, Van. Would you consider lending me her to put to one of the palfrey studs one of these days? We're still keeping up the palfrey and hunter lines, y'know.”

“Ask Bard Stefen; she's his,” Vanyel replied, and dismounted, taking care to avoid stepping on any children. Not an easy task, they were as careless around adults as they were careful around horses. He moved quickly to help Savil down before she could admit to needing a hand, a service that earned him a quick smile of conspiratorial gratitude.

Stefen dismounted awkwardly in a crowd of chattering children and gawky and admiring adolescents, who immediately surrounded him demanding to know if he was a real Bard, if he knew their cousin Medren, if he knew any songs about their cousin Vanyel, and a thousand other questions. He looked a little overwhelmed. There weren't a great many children at Court, and those that were there were usually kept out of sight except when being employed as pages and the like. Vanyel debated rescuing him, but a moment later found himself otherwise occupied.

Withen bore down on him with Treesa in tow, plowing his way through the crowd as effortlessly as a draft horse through a herd of ponies. He stopped, just within arm's reach. “Van -” he said, awkwardly. “- son -”

And there he froze, unable to force himself to go any further, and unwilling to pull away. Vanyel took pity on him and broke the uncomfortable moment. “Hello, Father,” he said, clasping Withen's arms for just long enough to make Withen relax without making him flinch. “Gods, it is good to see you. You're looking indecently well. I swear, some day I'm going to open a closet door somewhere, and finally find the little wizard you've been keeping to make your elixir of youth!”

Withen laughed, reddening a little under the flattery; in fact, he was looking well, less like Mekeal's father than his older brother. They both were square and sturdily built, much taller than Vanyel, brown-eyed, brown-haired, brown-completed. Withen's hair and beard were about half silvered, and he'd developed a bit of a paunch; those were his only concessions to increasing age.

Withen relaxed further, and finally returned the embrace. “And as usual, you look like hell, son. Randale's been overusing you again, no doubt of it. Your sister warned us. Kernes' Horns, can't we ever see you when you haven't been overworking?”

“It's not as bad this time, Father,” Van protested with a smile. “My reserves are in fairly good shape; it's mostly sleep and peace I lack.”

“But don't they ever feed you, boy?” Withen grumbled. “Ah, never mind. We'll get some meat back on those bones, won't we, Treesa?”

Vanyel held out his hands to his mother, who took both of them. Treesa had finally accepted the onset of age, though not without a struggle. She had permitted her hair to resume its natural coloring of silver-gilt, and had given up trying to hide her age-lines under a layer of cosmetics.

Yet it seemed to Van that there might have been a little less discontent in her face than there had been the last time he was here. He hoped so. It surely helped that Roshya, Mekeal's wife, was accepting her years gracefully, and with evident enjoyment. Whatever stupid things Mekeal had done in his time - and he'd done quite a few, including the purchase of a purported “Shin'a'in warsteed” that was no more Shin'a'in than Vanyel - he'd more than made up for them by wedding Roshya. At least, that was Van's opinion. Roshya stood right behind Treesa, a young child clinging to her skirt with grubby hands, giving Treesa an encouraging wink.

“Run along dear,” Roshya said to the child, with an affectionate push. The child giggled and released her.

Treesa smiled tentatively, then with more feeling. “Your father's right, dear,” she said, holding him at arm's length and scrutinizing him. “You do look very tired. But you look a great deal better than the last time you were here.”

“That's mostly because I am,” he replied. “Mother, you look wonderful. Well, you can see that I brought Aunt Savil - and -” he hesitated a moment. “And the friend you wanted to meet. My friend, and Medren's. Stef -”

He turned and gestured to Stefen, who extracted himself from the crowd of admiring children and adolescents.

Van steeled himself, kept his face set in a carefully controlled and pleasant mask of neutrality, then cleared his throat self-consciously. “Father, Mother,” he said, gesturing toward Stefen, “This is Bard Stefen. Stef, my Father and Mother; Lord Withen, Lady Treesa.”

Stef bowed slightly to Withen, then took Treesa's hand and kissed it. “Mother? Surely I heard incorrectly. You are Herald Vanyel's younger sister, I am certain,” he said, with a sweet smile, at which Treesa colored and and took her hand away with great reluctance, shaking her head. “His mother? No, impossible!”

Withen looked a little strained and embarrassed, but Treesa responded to Stefs gentle, courtly flattery as a flower to the sun. “Are you really a full Bard?” she asked, breathless with excitement. “Truly a Master?”

“Unworthy though I am, my lady,” Stef replied, “that is the rank the Bardic Circle has given me. I pray you will permit me to test your hospitality and task your ears by performing for you.”

“Oh, would you?” Treesa said, enthralled. Evidently she had completely forgotten what else Stef was supposed to be besides Van's friend and a Bard. Withen still looked a little strained, but Van began to believe that the visit would be less of a disaster than he had feared.

Thunder rumbled near at hand, startling all of them. “Gods, it's about to pour. Meke, Radevel, you see to the horses,” Withen ordered. “The rest of you, give it a rest. You'll all get your chances at Van and his f-friend later. Let's all get inside before the storm breaks for true.”

Treesa had already taken possession of Stefen and was carrying him off, chattering brightly. Van turned protectively toward Yfandes, remembering that his father never could bring himself to believe she was anything other than a horse.

But to his immense relief, Meke was leading Stefs filly to the stables, but his cousin Radevel had looped the two Companions' reins up over their necks and was standing beside them.

“Don't worry, Van,” Radevel said with a wink. “Jervis taught me, remember?” And then, to the two Companions, “If you'll follow me, ladies, one of the new additions to the stables are proper accommodations for Companions. Saw to 'em m'self.”

Vanyel relaxed, and allowed his father to steer him toward the door to the main part of the manor, as lightning flashed directly overhead and the first fat drops of rain began to fall. Good old Rad. Finally, after all these years, I get one of my family convinced that 'Fandes isn't a horse!

Eight

So, that's the situation,” Withen continued, staring out the bubbly, thick glass of the crudely-glazed window at the storm outside. “I don't think it's going to change any time soon. Tashir is turning out to be a fine young man, and a good ruler. His second eldest is fostered here, did I mention that?”

Thunder vibrated in the rock walls, and Vanyel shook his head. “No, Father, you didn't. What about farther north though, up beyond Baires?”

Withen sighed. “Don't know, son. That's still Pelagir country. Full of uncanny creatures, and odd folks, and without much leadership that I've been able to see. It's a problem, and likely to stay one. . . .”

Vanyel held his peace; the Tayledras weren't “leaders” as his father understood the term, anyway, although they ruled and protected their lands as effectively as any warlord or landed baron.

Rain lashed the outside of the keep and hissed down the chimney. He and his father were ensconced in Withen's “study,” a room devoted to masculine comforts and entirely off-limits to the females of the household. Withen turned away from the window and eased himself down into a chair that was old and battered and banished to here where it wouldn't offend Treesa's sensibilities; but like Withen, it was still serviceable despite being past its prime. Van was already sitting, or rather, sprawling, across a scratched and battered padded bench, one with legs that had been used as teething aids for countless generations of Ashkevron hounds.

“So tell me the truth, son,” Withen said after a long pause. “I'm an old man, and I can afford to be blunt. How much longer does Randale have?”

Vanyel sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck uneasily.

“I don't know, Father. Not even the Healers seem to have any idea.” He hesitated a moment, then continued. “The truth is, though, I don't think it's going to be more than five years or so. Not unless we find out what it is he's got and find a way to cure it, or at least keep it from getting worse. Right now - right now the Council's best hope is to be able to keep him going until Treven's trained and in Whites. We think he can hang on that long.”

“Is it true the boy's wedded that young Jisa?” Withen looked as if he approved, so Vanyel nodded. “Good. The sooner the boy breeds potential heirs, the better off we'll be. Shows the lad has more sense than his elders.” Withen snorted his disgust at those “elders.” “It was shilly-shallying about Randale's marriages that got us in this pickle in the first place. Should have told the boy to marry Healer Shavri in the first damn place, and we'd have had half a dozen legitimate heirs instead of one girl out of the succession.”

Withen went on in the same vein for some time, and Vanyel did not think it prudent to enlighten him to the realities of the situation.

“About the Pelagir lands, Father,” he said instead, “The last few times I've visited home, I've heard stories - and seen the evidence - of things coming over and into Valdemar. Are they still doing that?”

When Withen hesitated, he began to suspect that something was seriously wrong. “Father, are these – visitations - getting worse? What is it that you aren't telling me?”

“Son,” Withen began.

“No, Father, don't think of me as your son. I'm Herald Vanyel, and I need to know the whole truth.” He sat up from his sprawled position, looked his father straight in the eyes. Withen was the first to look away.

“Well - yes. For a while they were getting worse.” Withen looked at the fire, out the window - anywhere but at Van.

“And?”

“And we asked Haven for some help. For a Herald-Mage.” Withen coughed.

“And?”

“And they said there weren't any to spare, and they sent us just a plain Herald.” Withen's mouth worked as if he were tasting something bitter. “I won't say she was of no use, but - but we decided if Haven wasn't going to help us, we'd best learn how to help ourselves, and we sent her back. Let her think she'd taken care of the problem after a hunt or two. Had a talk with Tashir's people - after all, they've been doing without mages for one damned long time. Found out the ways to take out some of these things without magic. Worked out some more. Finally the things stopped coming across altogether. I guess they got some way of talking to each other, and let it be known that we don't like havin' things try and set up housekeeping over here.”

“There's been no more sign of anything?” Van was amazed - not that there were no signs of further incursions, but that the people here had taken on the problem and dealt with it on their own.

“No, though we've been keepin' the patrols up. Tashir's people, too. But -”

“But what, Father?” Vanyel asked gently. “You can say what you like. I won't be offended by the truth.”

“It's just - all our lives we've been told how we can depend on the Herald-Mages, how they'll help us when we need them - then when we need them, we get told there aren't any to spare, they're all down on the Karsite Border or off somewhere else - and here one of our own is a Herald-Mage - it just goes hard.” Withen was obviously distressed, and Vanyel didn't blame him.

“But Father - you were sent help. You said so yourself. They sent you a Herald,” he pointed out.

“A Herald?” Within scoffed. “What good's a plain Herald? We needed a Herald-Mage!”

“Did you give her a chance?” Vanyel asked, quietly. “Or did you just assume she couldn't be of any help and lead her around like a child until she was convinced there wasn't any real need for her?”

“But - she was just a Herald -”

“Father, nobody is 'just' a Herald,” Vanyel said. “We're taught to make the best of every ability we have - Heralds and Herald-Mages. The only difference in us is the kinds of abilities we have. She would have done exactly as you did. She probably would have been able to help you, if you'd given her the chance. She wouldn't have been able to invoke a spell and destroy the creatures for you, but it's quite probable a Herald-Mage wouldn't have been able to either. I have no doubt she could have found the ones in hiding, perhaps, or uncovered their weaknesses. But you didn't give her a chance to find out what she could do.”

“I suppose not,” Withen said, after a moment. “I - don't suppose that was very fair to her, either.”

Vanyel nodded. “It's true, Father. There aren't enough Herald-Mages. I'm afraid to tell you how few of us there are. I wish there were more of us, but there aren't, and I hope when you are sent help next time, you won't think of that help as 'just' a Herald.”

“Because that's the best help Haven can give us,” Withen concluded for him.

But he didn't look happy. And in a way, Van understood. But there was that stigma again - ”just” a Herald - when there were Heralds who had twice the abilities of some of the Herald-Mages he'd known.

It was a disturbing trend - and unfortunately, one he had no idea how to reverse.

“Father, which would you rather have in a pinch - a Herald with a very strong Gift, a Gift that's exactly the kind of thing you need, or a Herald-Mage who may be able to do no more than you could on your own?” He paused for effect. “There have been no few Herald-Mages killed down on the Karsite Border precisely because they were mages, and because of that they tried to handle more than they were capable of. If I were spying on the enemy, I'd rather have a strongly Mindspeaking Herald doing it for me than a Herald-Mage who has to send up a flare of mage-fire when he needs to talk! If I were hunting up magical creatures, I'd rather have a Herald with powerful FarSight than a weak Herald-Mage who'd light up like a tasty beacon to those creatures every time he uses his magic.”

“I never thought about it that way,” Withen mumbled. “But still -”

“Please do think about it, Father,” Van urged. “And please talk to others about it. Valdemar is short of friends and resources these days. We have to use everything we can, however we can. You have a powerful influence on the way people think in this area -”

“I wish your brother thought that,” Withen mumbled, but he looked pleased.

“If you decide that I'm right, you can make an enormous difference in the way things are handled the next time. And that just may save you a great deal, including lives.”

Withen sighed, and finally met his eyes. “Well, I'll think about it, son. That's all I'll promise.”

Which is about as much of a concession as I'm ever likely to get out of him. “Thank you, Father,” he said, hoping it would be enough. “That's all I can ask.”

Dinner proved to be entertaining and amazingly relaxing. Only the immediate family and important household members assembled in the Great Hall anymore - there wasn't room for anyone else.

Vanyel was partnered with the priest who had replaced the late, unlamented Father Leren; a young and aggressive cleric with a thousand ideas whose fervor was fortunately tempered with wit and a wry good sense of humor. The young man was regrettably charismatic - before the meal was over, Van found he'd been lulled into agreeing to broach a half dozen of those ideas to his father.

Treesa had kidnapped Stef and enscounced him at her side, with herself and Withen between the Bard and Vanyel. Since that was pretty much as Van had expected things would go, he ignored Stefs mute pleas for help throughout the meal. Given how much effort he'd been going to in order to avoid the less platonic of Stefs continued attentions, he found it rather amusing to see the Bard in the position of “pursued.”

Immediately following dinner, Withen claimed his son for another conference. This time it included Withen, Radevel, Mekeal, and two cousins Vanyel just barely knew. That conference left him with a profound admiration for how well the folk in this so-called “Border backwater” were keeping up with important news. They knew pretty well how much impact Treven's marriage was going to have on situations outKingdom, had good guesses about what concessions Randale was likely to have to make with Rethwellan in order to gain their Queen's aid, and had a fair notion of the amount of help Tashir was likely to be able to offer Valdemar.

What they wanted to know was the real state of the situation with Karse. “We heard they'd outlawed magery,” Radevel said, putting his feet up on the low table they all shared, “and there was rumors about fightin' inside Karse. All well an' good, if it's true, an' what's bad for Karse is likely to be good for us 'twould look like, but what's that really gonna do to us? That gonna end up spillin' across the Border, you reckon?”

Vanyel put his drink down on the table, and dipped his finger into a puddle of spilled ale. “Here's the Karsite Border,” he said, drawing it for them. “Here's Rethwellan, and here's us. Now this is what we know so far -”

In a few sentences he was able to sum up his own and Randale's analysis of the situation, and the reasons why the alliance with Rethwellan was all the more necessary.

“So we end up takin' hind teat if there's trouble out here, hmm?” one of the cousins said cynically, around a mouthful of bread and cheese.

“To be brutally frank,” Vanyel felt forced to say, “unless it's a major incursion, yes. I wish I could tell you differently.”

Radevel shrugged philosophically. “Somebody's gotta take second place,” he pointed out. “No way around that. Seems to me we've been doin' pretty well for ourselves; we got some Guard, we got our own patrols, we got Tashir an' his people. So long as nobody brings up an army, we should be all right.” Withen nodded, and refilled all their mugs, letting the foam run over the tops with casual disregard for the state of the furniture.

“l can do this much for you,” Vanyel told them after a moment's thought. Five sets of eyes fastened on him. “You know I have limited Crown authority. I can authorize a general reduction in taxes for landholders who keep their own armed forces. And I can get you weapons - and I think some trainers. We've got some Guards that are minus legs or arms that would still make good trainers, even if they can't fight.”

All of them brightened at that. Mekeal looked as if he was counting something up in his head.

:Probably would-be young heroes,: Yfandes said cynically. :And he's reckoning how much he can get taken off the tax-roles by encouraging young hotheads to take their energy off to the Guard.:

:Probably,: Van replied, thinking a little sadly of all the aspiring heroes who had found only early graves on the Karsite Border. And how many more he'd send there, if indirectly. . . .

But the fighters had to come from somewhere. Better that they came as volunteers, and well-trained. “I can probably even authorize tax credit if you send trained fighters for the Guard instead of cash or kind at tax time,” he continued. “Randale's pretty loath to hire mercenaries, but he wants to avoid conscription, and right now the ranks down South are getting thinner than we'd like.”

“I got another thought,” Mekeal put in. “Give that credit across Valdemar, an' send the green'uns to us for training an' seasoning. We'll get 'em blooded without the kind of loss you get in combat.”

That made him feel less guilty. “Good gods,” Vanyel replied, “I'm surrounded by geniuses! Why didn't we think of that?”

Meke shrugged, pleased. “Just tryin' to help all of us.”

:It's an excellent solution to getting youngsters used to real combat at relatively low risk,: 'Fandes observed, with approval. :I like the way your brother thinks.:

:So do I, dearling.: He nodded at Meke. “That will help immensely, I truly think.”

They discussed other matters for a while, but it was fairly evident that they'd touched on all the topics the others considered of the most import. Vanyel got to his feet and excused himself when the conversation devolved to small talk about hunting.

“I'll make an effort to get in touch with Herald Joshel and get confirmation on everything we covered,” he told them, and grinned, seeing a chance to bring a point home. “That's the advantage of having a strong Mindspeaking Herald around when you need answers in a hurry. Joshe is actually a stronger Mindspeaker than I am, and he's taking my place with Randale while I'm gone. I know when he'll be free tomorrow, and I'll contact him then.”

He was surprised at how late it was when he left them. The halls were quiet; the servants had long since gone to bed, leaving every other lamp out, and the ones still burning turned down low. His room would be the guest room he'd used every visit he'd made home, and he knew exactly where it was, despite the additions to the manor and the darkness of the halls.

He found himself yawning as he neared his door. I didn't realize how tired I was, he thought sleepily. It's a good thing I didn't drink that second mug of ale Father poured. I wonder what room they put Stef in? I hope it wasn't the one overlooking the gardens; ye gods, he'll be up all night with mocker-birds screaming at his window. I'll take the old room any time, even if it isn't as cool in the summer. Havens, that bed is going to feel good. . . .

He reached for the door handle and pulled it open just enough to slip inside. Some kind soul had left two candles burning, one above the hearth, one beside the bed. The gentle candlelight was actually quite bright compared to the darkened hallway; shadows danced as the candleflames flickered in the draft he had created by opening the door. As he stepped away from the door, he glanced automatically toward the right side of the hearth, beside the bed- the servants always left his luggage there, and he wanted to make sure his gittern was all right before he went to bed.

And he froze, for there were two sets of packs, and two gitterns. His - and Stefen's. And - he looked beyond the luggage to see if the furnishings had been changed; but they hadn't - only one bed.

Behind him, someone shot the bolt on the door.

He whirled; Stefen turned away from the door and faced him, the warm gold of candlelight softening his features so that he looked very young indeed. His loose shirt was unlaced to the navel, and his feet were bare beneath his leather riding breeches.

“Before you ask,” he said, in a soft, low voice, “this wasn't my idea. This seems to have happened on your father's orders. But Van - I'm glad he did it -”

Vanyel backed up a step, his mind swimming in little circles. “Oh. Ah, Stefen, I'll just get my things and -”

Stef shook his head, and brushed his long hair back behind his ears with one hand. “No. Not until I get a chance to say what I have to. You've been avoiding this for weeks, and I'm not letting the one chance I've had to really talk to you get away from me.”

Vanyel forced himself to relax, forced his mind to stop whirling as best he could, and walked over to one of the chairs next to the hearth. He stood beside it, with his hands resting on the back so that Stefen could not see them trembling. He glanced down at them; they seemed very cold and white, and he wondered if Stefen had noticed. “Ah . . . what is it you need to talk about that you couldn't have said on the road?” he asked, as casually as he could.

“Dammit, Van!” Stefen exploded. “You know very well what I want to talk about! You - and me.”

“Stefen,” Vanyel said, controlling his voice with an effort that hurt, “you are one of the best friends I've ever had. I mean that. And I appreciate that friendship.”

Stef’s eyes were full of pleading, and Vanyel forced himself to turn away from him and stare at a carved wooden horse on the mantelpiece. “Stef, you're very young; I'm nearly twice your age. I've seen all this before. You admire me a great deal, and you think -”

There were no footsteps to warn him; suddenly he found Stef's hands on his shoulders, wrenching him around, forcing him to look into the young Bard's face. Stef s hands felt like hot irons on his shoulders, and there was strength in them that was not apparent from the Bard's slight build. “Vanyel Ashkevron,” Stef said, hoarsely, “I am shaych, just like you. I've known what I am for years now. I'm not an infatuated child. What's more -” Now the Bard flushed and looked away, off to Vanyel's right. “I've had more lovers in one year than you've had in the last ten. And - and I've never felt about any of them the way I feel about you. I - I think I love you, Van. I don't think I could ever love anyone but you.”

He looked back up at Vanyel. The Herald could only gaze back into the darkened emerald of Stefen's eyes, eyes that seemed in the dim light to be mostly pupil. Vanyel was utterly stunned. This - this was considerably beyond infatuation. . . .

“Bards are supposed to be so cursed good with words,” Stefen said unhappily, looking into Vanyel's eyes as if he was looking for answers. “Well, all my eloquence seems to have deserted me. All - all I can tell you is that I think I'd love you if you were a hundred years older than me, or a deformed monster, or - or even a woman.”

The Bard's voice had lost any hint of training; it was tight and rough with tension and unhappiness. For his part, Vanyel couldn't seem to speak at all. His throat was paralyzed and his chest hurt when he tried to breathe. He felt alternately hot and cold, and his heart pounded in his ears. Stefen didn't notice his unresponsiveness, evidently, for he continued on without looking away from Van.

“Since you aren't any of those things,” he said, his voice unsteady with emotion, “since you're w-wonderful, and w-wise, and beautiful enough to make my heart ache, and dammit, not old, I - I can't take this much longer.”

A single then proved that the sweet giving and receiving the Bard had just taught him was only the beginning. ...

Overhead, sky a dead and lightless black. To either side, walls of ice - He turned to the one standing at his side. 'Lendel -

But it was Stefen; wrapped in wool and fur, and so frightened his face was as icy-pale as the cliffs to either side of them.

“You have to go get help,” he told the Herald - no, the Bard -

“I won't leave you,” Stef said, stubbornly. “You have to come with me. I won't leave without you.”

He shook his head, and threw back the sides of his cloak to free his arms. “Yfandes can't carry two,” he said. “And I can hold them off for however long it takes you to bring help.”

“You can't possibly -”

“I can,” he interrupted. “Look, there's only enough room at this point for one person to pass. As long as I stand here, they'll never get by -”

Blink - Suddenly he was alone, and exhausted; chilled to the bone. An army filled the pass before him, and at the forefront of that army, a single man who could have been Vanyel's twin, save only that his eyes and hair were deepest black - a dark mirror to Vanyel's silver eyes and silvered hair, and as if to carry the parody to its extreme, he wore clothing cut identically to Heraldic Whites, only of ebony black.

“I know you,” he heard himself say.

The man smiled. “Indeed.”

“You - you are -”

“Leareth.” The word was Tayledras for “darkness.” The man smiled. “A quaint conceit, don't you think?”

And Vanyel knew -

He woke, shaking like a leaf in a gale; his chest heaved as he gasped for breath, clutching the blanket.

He was cold, bone-cold, yet drenched with sweat. It was the old dream, the ice-dream, the dream where I die - I haven't had that dream for years -

Stefen lay beside him, sprawled over the edge of the bed, oblivious to Van's panting for air. Though the candles were out, Van could see him by moonlight streaming in the window. The storm had blown itself out, leaving the sky clear and clean; the moonlight was bright enough to read by, and Vanyel saw the bright points of stars glittering against the sky through the windowpane.

Vanyel controlled his breathing, and lay back, forcing his heart to slow. He blinked up into the dark canopy of the bed, still caught in the cold claws of the nightmare.

I haven't had that dream for years -except this time it was different. This time, it wasn't 'Lendel that was with me. Except - except it felt like 'Lendel. I thought it was 'Lendel until I turned around, and it was Stef. . . .

The young Bard sighed, and turned over, bringing his face into the moonlight. Lying beside Stef, for a moment - for a moment it had been, it had felt like being beside Tylendel, his love and lifebonded.

Lifebonded.

Only then did he realize why Stefen “felt” like Tylendel. The tie was the same; Vanyel was not only in love with the Bard, he had lifebonded to him. There was no mistaking that tie, especially not for an Empath.

No -

But there was no denying it, either. Vanyel suppressed a groan; if being attracted to Stefen had been a betrayal of 'Lendel's memory, then what was this? He couldn't think; he felt his stomach knot and a lump in his throat. He had loved 'Lendel; he still did.

He thought that he would lie awake until dawn, but somehow exhaustion got the better of confused thoughts and tangled emotions, and sleep stole over him. . . .

:It's about time you got here,: Yfandes said, with a knowing look. :Honestly, Van, you make things so complicated for yourself sometimes. Well, come on.:

She turned adroitly, and flicked her tail at him, looking back at him over her shoulder. :Well? Aren't you coming?:

“Where am I?” he asked, looking about himself. There wasn't anything to be seen in any direction; wherever he looked, there was nothing but featureless gray fog. He and Yfandes were all alone in it, so far as he could see.

:Where are you?: she repeated, her mind-voice warm and amused. :You're dreaming, of course. Or rather, in Dream-time. There is a difference. Now are you coming, or not?:

He followed her, having nothing better to do; the peculiar fog thickened until he could hardly see her. He tried to catch up with her, but she always managed to stay the same distance ahead of him. Finally, all he could make out of her was a vague, glowing-white shape in the swirling fog.

A tendril of fog wrapped around his head, blinding him completely. He faltered, tried to bat it away -

And stumbled into an exact duplicate of the grove in Companion's Field where he and 'Lendel had spent so many hours. The same grove that 'Lendel had destroyed. . . .

“Well, ashke,” said a heartbreakingly familiar voice behind him. “You certainly took your time getting here.”

He turned, slowly, afraid of what he might see, especially after what he and Stef had done.

“Don't be an idiot,” Tylendel said, shaking back hair as gold as the summer sun filtering through the pine boughs above him. “Why should I mind?”

Tylendel lounged against the rough trunk of a tree with his arms crossed over his chest, looking little older than when he'd died, but dressed in the Whites he hadn't yet earned in life. He raised one golden eyebrow quizzically at Van, then grinned. “Why, Van - that's twice in one day you've been moonstruck. Is this getting to be a habit?” Then, softer, “What's wrong Vanyel-ashke?”

As Vanyel stood, rooted to the spot, Tylendel pushed himself away from the tree, crossed the few feet between them and took him in his strong, warm arms. Sharp scents rose from the crushed pine needles beneath their feet. Vanyel returned the embrace; hesitantly at first, then, with a sob that was half relief and half grief, held his beloved so tightly his arms hurt.

“Here, now,” 'Lendel said, holding him gently. “What's the matter? Why should I be angry with you because you found someone to love who loves you?”

“Because - because I love you -” It seemed a foolish fear, now-

“Van-ashke, what's the point in suffering all your life for one mistake?” 'Lendel let go of him and stepped back a little, so that he could look down into Vanyel's eyes. “You don't give up a chance at happiness just because you've already been happy once in your life! Havens, that's like saying you'll never eat again because you've been a guest at one grand feast!”

'Lendel chuckled warmly; as his smile reached and warmed his brown eyes, Van found himself smiling back. “I guess that is kind of stupid,” he replied with a touch of chagrin. “But I never did think too clearly when my emotions were involved.”

'Lendel's smile faded a little. “Neither of us did,” he said, soberly. “Me especially. Van - you know, I didn't love you enough, and I'm sorry.”

Vanyel started to protest; 'Lendel put one finger on his lips to quiet him. “This is honesty; I didn't love you enough. If I had, I would have cared more about what was good for you than what I wanted. I'm sorry, ashke, and I think perhaps I've learned better. I hope so. Because - oh, Van - I want to make it up to you more than anything. If you can believe in anything, please, believe that. And believe that I love you.”

He bent down and touched his lips to Vanyel's.

Vanyel woke with a start, wrapped in Stefen's arms. For a moment, he thought he could still smell the scent of crushed pine needles, and feel the breeze on his cheek.

“- love you,” Stefen whispered in his ear, then subsided into deep breathing that told Van he was still really asleep.

'Lendel. That was 'Lendel. What in hell did all that mean? Van wondered, still slightly disoriented. What in hell did all that mean? He stared, wide-eyed, into the darkness. He would have liked to talk to Yfandes, but a gentle Mindtouch showed her to be deep in slumber.

The next time Stef turned over, releasing him, he eased out of bed, far too awake now to fall back asleep. The room was chilly; the storm had cooled things off in its passing. He slipped into a robe and began slowly pacing the floor, trying to unravel his dreams and nightmares, and making heavy work of it.

That second thing didn't feel like a dream, he thought, staring at the floor while he paced. That felt real; as real as the Shadow-Lover, and I know He was real. It was 'Lendel, it couldn't have been anything I conjured up for myself out of guilt. Could it? I've never done anything like that before this. . . .

And the old ice-dream has changed. I thought I'd gotten rid of it - thought I'd purged it away after I faced down Krebain. Why has it come back?

The square of moonlight crept across the floor and up the all, then vanished as the moon set. And still Vanyel was wide awake, and too intent on his own thoughts to feel chilled. He kept pacing the floor, pausing now and again to look down on Stefen. The Bard slept on, his lips curved in a slight smile, sprawled over the entire bed.

After a while, as the impact of the two dreams - if they were dreams - began to wear off, that posture of Stefs began to amuse him. I never would have believed that someone that slight could take up that much room all by himself, he thought with a silent chuckle. He's like a cat; takes up far more space than is even remotely possible under the laws of nature.

It was nearly dawn; the pearly light of earliest morning filled the room, making everything soft-edged and shadowy. Vanyel continued to stare down at Stef; not thinking, really, just waiting for some of his thoughts to sort themselves out and present themselves to him in an orderly fashion.

Stefen stirred a little, and opened his eyes. He blinked confusedly at Van for a moment, then seemed to recollect where he was. “Van?” he asked, sleep bluring his voice. “Is something wrong, Vanyel-ashke?'

Vanyel froze. The words, the very tone, brought back the second dream with the impact of a blow above the heart.

Tylendel leaning up against the shaggy tree trunk, a slight smile on his lips, his arms crossed over his chest. “What's wrong, Vanyel-asbke?”

Ashke - it was the Tayledras word for “beloved,” and Tylendel's special name for him, a play on Vanyel's family name of “Ashkevron.”

But 'Lendel had been fluent in Tayledras; Savil had insisted that ‘Lendel and Vanyel both learn the tongue, as she had always intended to take them to the Pelagir Hills territory claimed by her Hawkbrother friends as soon as Tylendel was ready for fieldwork. She didn't even offer the lessoning to Donni and Mardic, her other two pupils.

Stefen, on the other hand, knew only one word of pidgin-Tayledras; shaych, the shortened form of shay'a'chern, which had become common usage for those whose preferences lay with their own sex. He couldn't ever have heard the word he'd just used, must less know what it meant.

Wild thoughts of hauntings and possessions ran through Vanyel's mind. He'd seen so many stranger things as a Herald - “Stef,” Vanyel said, slowly and carefully. “What did you just call me?”

“Vanyel-ashke,” Stefen repeated, bewildered, and plainly disturbed by Van's careful mask of control. “Why? Did I say something wrong?”

“Is there a reason why you called me that just now?” Vanyel didn't move, though the hair was rising on the back of his neck. First the dreams, and now this ... he extended a careful probe, ready at any moment to react if he found anything out of the ordinary.

“Sure,” Stef replied, blinking at him, and rising up onto one elbow. “I've -” he blushed a little “- I've been calling you that to myself for a while. Comes from your name, Ashkevron. It - it seems to suit you. You know how a Bard likes to play with words. It has a nice sound, you know?”

The probe met with nothing. No resistance, no aura of another presence. Vanyel relaxed, and smiled. It was nothing, after all. Just an incredible coincidence. He wasn't being haunted by the spirit of a long-dead lover, nor was this love in any danger of being possessed or controlled by the last.

Not that 'Lendel would ever have done that, he reminded himself. No, I'm just short on sleep and no longer thinking clearly, that's all. And so used to jumping at shadows that I'm overreacting to even a perfectly innocent pet-name.

“Did I say something wrong?” Stefen asked again, more urgently this time, starting to sit up as he pulled tangled hair out of his eyes with both hands. “If you don't like it - if it bothers you -”

“No, it's all right,” Vanyel answered him. “I was just a little startled, that's all. Ashke is the Tayledras word for 'beloved,' and I wasn't expecting to hear that from you.”

“If you'd rather I didn't -” Stef hastened to say, when Vanyel interrupted him.

“I do like it - just, I had some odd dreams, and coming on top of them, it startled me. That's all.” Vanyel touched Stefen's shoulder, and the Bard flinched.

“Havens, you're freezing,” Stef exclaimed. “How long have you been up? Never mind, it's probably too long. Get in here before you catch something horrible, and let me warm you up. After all,” he added slyly, as Van shrugged off his robe and slid into bed beside him. “Whatever you catch, I’ll probably get, and you wouldn't want to have the guilt of ruining a Bard's voice on your conscience, would you?”

“Anything but that,” Van replied vaguely, then gasped as Stef curled his warm body around Van's chilled one. “Oh?” the Bard said archly. “Anything?”

Nine

After Stefen had warmed him and relaxed him - among other things - they both fell asleep for a second time as the first light of the sun sent strokes of pink and gold across the sky. This time Vanyel slept deeply and dreamlessly, and Stefen actually woke before him. Van awakened to find Stef lounging indolently next to him, watching him with a proprietary little smile on his face.

“Well, what are you looking at?” Van asked, amused by the Bard's expression. “And a copper for your thoughts.”

Stefen laughed. “ 'Acres and acres, and it's all mine,' “ he said, quoting a tag-line of a current joke. “If you had any idea of the number of times I've daydreamed of being right where I am now, you'd laugh.”

“You think so?” Van smiled, and shook his head. “Oh, no, I promise, I wouldn't laugh.”

“Well, maybe you wouldn't.” Stefen searched his face for a moment, looking as if he wanted to say something, but couldn't make up his mind how to say it. Vanyel waited patiently for him to find the words. “Van,” he said, finally, “I have to know. Are you sorry? I mean, I'm just a Bard, I haven't got Mindspeech; I can't, you know, mesh with you when we -” He flushed. “I mean, does that bother you? Do you miss it? I -”

“Stef,” Vanyel interrupted him gently. “You're laboring under a misapprehension. I've never had a lover who shared his mind with me, so I wouldn't know what it was like.”

“You haven't?” Stefen was flabbergasted. “But - but what about Tylendel?”

“My Gifts were all dormant while he was alive,” Van replied, finding it amazingly easy - for the first time in years-to talk about his old love. “The only bond we had that I could share was the lifebond.”

“Do you miss that, then?” Stef asked, shyly, as if he was afraid to hear the answer, but had to ask the question.

“No,” Vanyel said, and smiled broadly. “And if you look inside yourself for a moment, you'll know why.”

“If I -”

“Stef, you're a trained Bard; Bardic Gift is enough like Empathy for you to see what I mean.” Van sent a brief pulse of wordless love along the bond, and watched Stef's face change. First surprise - then something akin to shock - then a delight that resonated back down through the bond they shared.

“I never dreamed -” Stef's voice was hushed. “I never- How? Why?”

“I don't know, ke'chara, and I don't care.” Vanyel shook his head. “All I know is that it's happened, it's real. And I know that if we don't get out of bed and put in an appearance, we're never going to do so before noon - I'm afraid they might break the door down and find us in a very embarrassing position.”

Stefen laughed. “You know, you're right. We should spare them that, at least. It's only fair.”

Vanyel grinned wickedly. “Besides, if I know my mother, she's dying to carry you off to perform for her and her ladies. So come on, Bard. Your audience awaits.”

Stefen struck a pose, and held it until Vanyel slid out of bed and flung his clothing at him.

“I warn you, you'd better hurry,” the Herald advised him, “or I'll send her in to fetch you.”

“I'm hurrying,” Stefen replied, pulling on his breeches. “Trust me, I'm hurrying -” Then he stopped, with his shirt half on. “Van, about your mother - is she-ah, serious?”

Vanyel knew exactly what Stef was trying to ask, and laughed. “No, she's not really chasing you. She would probably be horrified if you took her seriously; in her way, she really loves Father, I think. She's just playing The Game.”

Stefen heaved an enormous sigh of relief. “I couldn't tell, she's a little heavier-handed at it than the ladies at the Court.”

“Not surprising,” Van replied, checking his appearance in the mirror. “She's playing by rules that are thirty years out of date.” He straightened his hair a little, then turned back to Stef, who was struggling into his tunic. “Under all the posing, she really has a good heart, you know. She was the one that saw that Medren had talent, even if she couldn't recognize the Gift, and saw to it that he got whatever training was available out here. Not much, but it was enough to give him a start.” He crossed the room, to tug Stef's tunic down over his head. “She could have ignored him; he was nothing more than the bastard son of one of her maids, even if his father is my brother Meke. She could have dismissed Melenna; she didn't. Granted, she was holding Melenna as a last effort to 'cure' me, but still - she did her best for both of them, and that's a great deal more than many would have done.”

Stef solved the problem of his tousled hair by shaking his head vigorously, then running his fingers through his mane a couple of times. “Then I'll get along fine with her. Anyone who's done anything for Medren gets my nod.”

Vanyel chuckled. “Don't misunderstand me; Treesa's far from perfect. She can be selfish, inconsiderate, and completely featherheaded. She didn't dismiss Melenna, but that was at least partly because she'd have had to train a new maid and take care of all the things Melenna had until the new one was trained. And the gods know she's a shrewd one when it comes to her own comforts; she knew Melenna would be so grateful that she'd have devoted service out of the girl for years. But for all of that, she's good at heart, and I love her dearly.”

Stef unlocked the door, with a sly smile over his shoulder for Van. “You know, this business of having a family takes an awful lot of getting used to. I have to confess it kind of baffles me.”

Vanyel laughed, and followed Stefen out into the hall. “Stef, I hate to tell you this, but for all the privileges I grew up with, there have been any number of times I'd have traded places with any orphaned beggar-child on the street. My life would have been a great deal simpler.”

Stefen grimaced. “I'll keep that in mind.”

True to Vanyel's prediction, Treesa descended upon them once they reached the Great Hall, and appropriated Stefen to perform for her and her ladies as soon as they'd finished a sketchy breakfast.

That left Vanyel alone, which was exactly what he wanted right now. He strolled out the side door, heading ultimately toward the stables, taking care not to take a route that would put him along halls used by anyone except children and servants, or, once outside, under anyone's window. He wanted some time to think things through, and he'd had enough of family conferences for a while.

But there was someone who deserved his attention, first. :'Fandes,: he Mindsent, :Good morning, love.:

:Good morning, sleepy,: she Sent back, her mind-voice so full of pleased satisfaction that he chuckled. :I trust you enjoyed yourself last night.:

:You trust correctly,: he replied, just a tiny bit embarrassed.

:Good,: she said. :It's about time. I want you to know that I heartily approve of this and I commend the lad's patience. The only question is, now what are you going to do?:

He paused for a moment beside the mews, noting absently the chirrs and soft calls of the hooded raptors inside. :That's something I need to work out, love. Would you be terribly hurt if I borrowed one of the hunters and rode off without you for a little bit? I want to be alone to think this through properly.:

He caught a moment of surprise from her, and half-smiled. It wasn't often that he was able to catch her off-guard anymore. :I suppose that makes sense,: she said after a long pause. :This really affects you a great deal more than me. No, I won't be hurt. Just don't make any stupid decisions like trying to get rid of the lad, will you? You need him, and he needs you, and you are very, very good for each other.:

He laughed aloud, one of his worries taken care of - he was afraid that while she approved of Stef as a friend, she might not be as approving of the new relationship. :I doubt I could remove him now with a pry-bar, love. And - thank you for understanding.:

She Sent him a reply, not in words, but in emotion; love, trust, and shared happiness. Then she released the link.

He managed to reach the stables without being intercepted by anyone, though there were a couple of close calls avoided only because he saw Meke and his father before they saw him. Fortunately the stables weren't far; the double doors were standing wide open to catch every breeze and he walked inside.

Mekeal's famous Stud still had the best loose-box in the place, and the years had not improved the beast's looks or temper. It laid its ears back and snapped at him as he passed, then cow-kicked the side of its stall in frustration when it couldn't reach him. The only ones who had ever succeeded in riding the beast were Radevel and Jervis, and it was a fight every step of the way even for them.

“Watch it, horse,” he muttered under his breath, “or I'll turn 'Fandes and Kellan loose on you again.”

The horse snorted as if it could understand him, and backed off into a corner of its box.

Meke's warhorse mares were in this stable, along with the foals too young to sell. They watched him calmly as he passed them, some whickering as they caught his scent and recognized him for a stranger. That brought him the attention of one of the stablehands, a scruffy young man who came out of a loose-box at the sound of the first mare's call, grinning when he saw that it was Vanyel.

“Milord Herald,” he said. “Can I serve ye?”

“I just want to borrow a hunter,” he said. “ 'Fandes is tired and all I want to do is take a ride through Wyrfen Woods. Has Father got anything that needs exercise?”

“Oh, aye, a-plenty.” The stablehand scratched his sandy head for a moment, thinking. “Habout Blackfoot yonder?” He pointed about three stalls down at a sturdy bay hunter-mare with a fine, intelligent eye. “Not too many can handle her, so she don't ever get all th' workin' she could use. She got a touchy mouth an' goes best neck-reined, an' she's a spooker. Needs some'un with light hands an' no nonsense. Reckon ye can still ride abaht anything, eh?”

“Pretty well,” Vanyel replied. “I gentle all of the foals out of Star's line, if I have the time. I like your watchdogs, by the way -” He waved at the warhorse-mares, who were still keeping an eye on him. “- they're very effective.”

“They are, that,” the stablehand agreed, grinning, and showing that he, like Vanyel's old friend Tam, had lost a few teeth to the hooves of his charges. “Better at night. Anybody they dunno in here, an' they be raisin' a fuss. Leave one or two loose, and they be out o' their boxes - heyla!” He illustrated with his hands and the handle of his rake for a wall. “Got us one thief an' three o' them uncanny things that way. That old Stud breeds better'n he shows.”

“I should hope!” Vanyel laughed, and went to fetch saddle and harness for his assigned mount.

Blackfoot was exactly as predicted: very touchy in the mouth, and working well under pressure of neck-rein and knee. Vanyel took her back to the stable long enough to switch her bridle for a bitless halter; as far as he was concerned, with a beast that touchy, it was better not to have a bit at all. If he had to rein her in, he was strong enough to wrestle her head down, and no horse out of Withen's hunter-line would ever run when she couldn't see.

He took one of the back ways into the Wood rather than the road through the village. Right now he didn't feel sociable, and the villagers would want him to be “Herald Vanyel Demonsbane,” which was particularly trying. So he followed the bridle path out through the orchards, which were currently in fruit, but nowhere near ripe, so there was no one working in them. The apple trees were first, then nut trees, then the hedge that divided the orchards from the wild woods.

Riding a horse was entirely different from riding Yfandes; the mare required his skill and his attention. She tested him to see what she could get away with most of the way to the Wood, and subsided only when they had passed through a break in the hedge and the bridle path turned into a game trail. The silence of the Wood seemed to subdue her, and she settled down to a walk, leaving Vanyel free to turn most of his concentration inward.

Wyrfen Wood was still avoided by everyone except hunters and woodcutters, and those who had to pass it traveled the road running right through the middle of it. The place had frightened Van half to death the first time he'd ridden through it; even dormant, he'd had enough Mage-Gift to sense the old magics that had once permeated the place. Those energies were mostly drained now, but there was still enough lingering to make anyone marginally sensitive uneasy. Animals felt it certainly, birds were few, and seldom sang, and Blackfoot's ears flickered back and forth constantly, betraying her nervousness.

Vanyel had made a fair number of exploratory trips into the Wood over the years, and he was used to it - or at least as used to residual magics as anyone ever got. He was aware of the dormant magic, but only as a kind of background to everything else, and a possible source of energy in an emergency. For all that Wyrfen Wood was an eerie place, it was relatively harmless.

Except that it attracted things from outside that were not harmless, and gave them an excellent place to hide. ...

Which brought him right around to one of the very things he needed to think out.

The mare had slowed to a careful walk, picking her way along a game trail that was a bare thread running through the dense undergrowth. Vanyel let her have her head, settled back in the saddle, and spoke his thoughts aloud to the silent trees.

“There aren't enough Herald-Mages. There won't be enough Herald-Mages for years, even if Karse stops being a major threat tomorrow. That means the Heralds are going to have to start taking the place of Herald-Mages. Right?”

Blackfoot's ears flicked back, and she snorted.

“Exactly. Most people, including the Heralds themselves, don't think they can. But that's because they're looking at Heralds as if they were-were-what? Replacements? No . . . substitutes. And when you substitute something, you're usually replacing something superior with something inferior, but - you substitute something like the original. And Heralds aren't necessarily like Herald-Mages at all.”

He thought about that, while Blackfoot picked her way across a dry creek-bed.

“The point is that they aren't Herald-Mages. The point is to get Heralds to use their Gifts the best they possibly can, rather than trying to do something they can't. I'm a tactician. Where's the tactical advantage in that?”

The game trail widened a little, and they broke into a clearing, a place where lightning had set fire to a stand of pines last year to create a sizable area of burnoff. Now the secondary growth had taken over; grass stood belly-high to the mare, lush and tangled with morning-trumpet vines and bright golden sun-faces. A pair of deer that had been grazing at the farther end looked up at the noise they made, and bounded off into the deeper woods.

“The tactical advantage,” Vanyel told their fleeing backs, “is that most mages don't have strong Gifts in anything other than sensing and manipulating magical energy. Which means - that they won't think of things like that. They won't be protected against a FarSeer spying on their work - or a ThoughtSenser reading their minds. Or a Fetcher moving something they need for a spell at a critical moment. That's it - that's it! I've got to do something to get the Heralds to stop thinking of themselves as second-rate mages and start thinking of themselves as first-rate in the areas of their Gifts. And we have to start matching the need exactly to the Gift, and not just throw the first Herald who happens to be free at the need.”

It wasn't the entire answer, but it was a start. It was more than they had now.

Blackfoot had reacted to the lush meadow before her precisely as any horse would have; she put her head down and began grazing greedily. Vanyel was so used to Yfandes that the move took him completely by surprise. He started to pull her up, then thought better of the idea. The grass would keep her occupied while he contacted Joshe, and the residual magics made a good pool of energy to draw on so he wouldn't have to use his own strength. Right now Joshe should be with Randale, going over what the Herald would need to cover at the Council meeting. This would be an ideal time to contact him.

He let her graze while he closed his eyes, getting used to the sounds around him so that he would be alerted by anything out of the ordinary. There weren't many; a light breeze in the branches high overhead, an air current that did not reach the ground, a few crickets and a locust singing, and the noise of Blackfoot tearing at the juicy grass and chewing it. Once everything was identified, he extended his Mage-Gift and made careful contact with the trickle of magic directly underneath him.

:??:

A curious touch, and one he did not expect. But not hostile; he identified that much immediately.

:??:

The touch came again; he caught it - and began laughing at himself. “Caught by my own trap!” he said aloud, and opened his eyes. Nothing to be seen-until he invoked Mage-Sight. There, right in front of him, hovered a little cloud, glowing a happy blue. A cloud with eyes: a vrondi.

“Hello,” he said to it. It blinked, and touched him a second time. This time he sent back the proper reassurance.

:!!: it replied, and-well, giggled was the closest he could come to it. Then it vanished, leaving him free to tap the magic current again.

So far as Van knew, the Herald-Mages of Valdemar were the only ones to have ever discovered the vrondi. Their touch was not something that outKingdom mages would recognize, and even their appearance only showed that they were air elementals, and nothing more. Air elementals were the ones most commonly used as spies or scouts, which would only reinforce the impression he was trying to give. And even he, who had set the spell in the first place, had found that unexpected contact alarming. So a strange mage would feel something watching him as soon as he invoked any aspect of Mage-Gift or set any spell in motion. He wouldn't be able to identify it, he wouldn't know why it was watching him, and Vanyel heartily doubted he'd ever be able to catch it-vrondi were just too quick, and they were incredibly sensitive to hostility. Van decided he could almost feel sorry for that hypothetical future mage. The vrondi would drive him crazy. Yes, he could almost feel pity for someone faced with that situation.

Almost.

He settled back again; Blackfoot chewed on, happily oblivious to the magics going on around her, intent only on stuffing herself with the sweet grass. Oblivious - or ignoring them; with an ordinary horse, it was often hard to tell which. First she gets spooky because she feels magic, then she totally ignores it going on above her ears. Stupid beast. But 'Fandes would have been laughing at him by now for forgetting his own protection-spell, so Van wasn't entirely unhappy that she wasn't with him at the moment.

He Reached carefully for Joshe, drawing on the little stream of magic he'd tapped to boost him all the way to Haven.

:Vanyel?: came the reply. He caught at the proffered contact and pulled Joshe in, strengthening Joshe's faltering touch with his own augmented energies. The line between them firmed and stabilized.

Concern, overlaid with the beginnings of foreboding. :Vanyel - is there anything wrong?:

:No,: he said quickly, :No, just some things came up out here and I need limited Crown authority to guarantee the things I promised. Is Randi up to that?:

Relief, and assent. :He's been better, but he's been worse. We've got Treven in full training, poor lad. I don't think he sees Jisa until bedtime, and he's up at dawn with the rest of us. A little more seasoning, and he'll be sitting in for Randale on the Council. What is it you need?:

Vanyel explained as succinctly as he could. He sensed Joshe's excitement over the notion of taking more recruits in lieu of taxes, and then sending them to the Western Border for toughening instead of throwing them straight into combat after training.

:It's good, Van, all of it. Hold up a moment.: Van sensed Joshe's attention going elsewhere for a moment, then the contact strengthened as it came back. :King Randale gives you full permission; the official documents will get drafted today or tomorrow, and go out by regular courier. He also said to tell you he thinks your family is slipping. They're not only degenerating into becoming normal, they're getting sensible. He says he's not sure how to take that - it sounds to him like the end of the world can't be far away.:

So Randi was feeling good enough to make a joke. That was an improvement over the state he'd been in following Jisa's revolt. :Tell him it isn't the end of the world, it's merely the result of my own patient application of a board to their heads for the last several years. Even they get the hint eventually.:

Joshe's Sending was a simple laugh.

:l've also got some thoughts for you and the rest of the Heraldic Circle. I'd like you to call a meeting and put this before them, if you would. I really think it's important, especially now.:

He explained his own thoughts on the dichotomy, perceived and actual, between the Heralds and Herald-Mages, the problems he could see it causing, and his own tentative ideas for a solution to the problems. Joshe was silent all through his explanation, and for a short time afterward. Finally he answered.

:I'm surprised you noticed,: he replied slowly, with thoughts just under the surface that Vanyel couldn't quite read. Most of the other Herald-Mages either don't see it - or agree with the common perception that Heralds are some kind of lesser version of a Herald-Mage.:

The bitter taste to his reply told Vanyel that this was something Joshe himself had encountered, and it hadn't gone down well. Joshe was immensely competent, and a match for Van in any number of spheres, and Vanyel didn't blame him for feeling resentment.

:It's a problem, Joshe,: he said, as carefully as he could. :It's part of my peculiar mind-set to see problems. I think it needs to be dealt with now, before it causes serious damage. We can't do much about the perceptions of the general populace until we start to fix things in our own house.:

Something followed that comment that was like a mental sigh of relief that follows after a far-too-heavy burden has been removed. Van nodded to himself, and pursued his advantage.

:You'll never have a better time than now. The King is a Herald, the Heir is a Herald, the Herald-Mage in charge of the Karsite Border is much more Gifted in Fetching than magery and knows it, and you're sitting in for me. Savil will be sensible about this. You can keep this on the table as long as you need to in order to get the others to see that it is a problem, and you can call on the Heralds in the Circle to submit examples.:

Now Joshe's resolution wavered. :Do you think it's that important? It seems so trivial with everything else in front of us. The Karse situation, Randi's health. . . .:

:It's important,: he replied grimly. :And it's only going to get more so. I think you can make the rest of the Circle see that. Point out the attrition among the Herald-Mages, and then quote what happened out here. People are supposed to trust us, and how can they if they think of some of us as being better than others?:

:Good point. Consider it on the boards.: Vanyel knew that once Joshe made up his mind about doing something, he pursued it to its end. He felt a breath of relief of his own. The problem wasn't solved, but it would be. At least a start was being made.

:Then I leave it in your capable and efficient hands. Wind to thy wings, brother.:

:And to yours.: Vanyel felt Joshe break the contact, and dropped his end of it with a sigh.

Blackfoot was still stuffing herself, and showed no signs of stopping any time within the decade. He hauled her head up; she fought him every thumblength of the way, and returned to the game trail sullenly, and with ill grace.

I wish I had as clean an answer to what I should do about Stef, he thought uncomfortably. Gods, there's no denying what I feel about him - or the lifebond. But if I accept all that, and do so publicly, it flaunts the fact that I'm shay'a'chern in the faces of people I have to handle very carefully. Can I afford that? Can Valdemar? Or will knowing I have my weaknesses actually put me at an advantage? It might . . . I know that an awful lot of people come to me with the idea that I'm some kind of supernally wise and powerful savant, and that I can't possibly be interested in their problems. Knowing I have problems and weaknesses of my own might make me more accessible.

But it also puts Stef right where I don't want him - in a position as an easy target for anyone who can't come directly at me. And he doesn't have any way to protect himself from that.

Maybe I ought to give him up. I don't know that I can afford a liability like that. Just make this a wonderful little idyll out here where it's safe to do so, then send him on his way when we get back to Haven. I'll make him understand, somehow. Maybe we could pretend to quarrel. . . .

No - I can't give him up. I can't. There has to be another way.

He was so intent on his own thoughts that he barely noticed when Blackfoot left the game trail for the road, and turned herself back toward Forst Reach.

Why is it I can solve the problems of the Kingdom, but can't keep my own life straight? Gods, I can't even control a stupid horse. He let her go for a moment, then reined her in to turn her back onto one of the game trails. He was still in no mood to face his fellows, and intended to return home the way he'd left.

He got her turned, though not without a fight. She had gotten her fill of picking her way through the brush, and let him know about it in no uncertain terms. She balked when they reached the break in the blackberry hedges that lined both sides of the road, and he finally had to dismount and lead her through.

That was when the spell of paralysis struck him, pinning him and Blackfoot where they stood.

One moment everything was fine; the next, with no warning at all, he was completely unable to move. Every muscle had locked, rigid as wood, and beside him Blackfoot shivered as the same thing happened to her. Magic tingled on the surface of his skin, and Mage-Sight showed him the cocoon of energy-lines that held him captive. It took him completely by surprise.

But only for half a breath; he hadn't spent all those years on the Karsite Border without learning to react quickly, even after being surprised.

His body was trapped, but his mind was still free - and he used it.

He tested the barrier even as he searched for the flare of mage-energy that would betray the location of his enemy as the other mage held the spell against him.

There -

And it was someone who was reacting exactly as he'd postulated ordinary mages would when faced with a Herald; armored to the teeth with shieldings to magic, but completely open to any of the Heraldic Gifts.

Van could use his own magic, and not the Mind-magic, of course. The stranger was nowhere near Vanyel's ability, and Van knew he could break the spell with a simple flexing of his own power, if he chose. But if he did that, the man might get away, and Van had no intention of letting him do that. Too many enemies had come back, better equipped, for second tries at him. Mages were particularly prone to doing just that, even one who was as outranked as this one.

Perhaps - especially this one. Because this was one whose power was stolen; siphoned from others with neither knowledge nor consent. Van saw that the instant before he struck. That may have been the other's motivation; to catch Vanyel off-guard and steal his power. There was no way of knowing until Van had him helpless and could question him at length.

Which - Vanyel thought angrily, as he readied his mental energies for a mind-to-mind blast-would be very shortly now. . . .

No mage of ill-intent should have been able to concentrate long enough to set a trap, he thought, looking down at the trussed-up body of his would-be captor, lying on his side in a bed of dead leaves. Especially not in my home territory. The vrondi should have had him so confused and paranoid that he should have been firing off blasts at nothing. At the least he should have been leaking mage-energy sufficiently enough for me to detect him. I can't understand why he wasn't. Or why the vrondi didn't reveal him.

The man stirred and moaned; he was going to have a dreadful headache for the next several days. The bolt Van leveled him with had been at full-power, just under killing strength. Van could kill with his mind - in fact, he had, once. It was something he never, ever wanted to do again. It had left him too sick to stand for a month, and feeling tainted for a year afterward. Even though the mage he'd destroyed had been a self-centered, power-hungry bastard, without a drop of compassion in his body, and with no interests outside his own aggrandizement, experiencing his death directly, mind-to-mind, had been one of the worst things Vanyel had ever endured. No, unless there was no other way, he didn't ever want to do that again.

Maybe he's unusually good at concentrating. Or maybe he's already so paranoid that having the vrondi watching him didn't make things any worse for him.

The mage at Van's feet was ordinary enough. He looked no different, in fact, from any number of petty nobles Van had encountered over the years; sandy hair and beard, medium build, a little soft and certainly not much accustomed to exercise or physical labor. His nondescript, blue-gray woolen clothing was that of “minor noble” quality, though cut a little differently from what was currently popular in Valdemar, and of heavier materials.

He must have come in over the Western Border; he certainly isn't from around here. Van waited impatiently for the mage to regain consciousness. He wanted to scan his mind, and wouldn't be able to do that effectively unless the mage was at least partially awake. The best information came when people reacted to questions, especially when they had something to hide.

The mage opened brown eyes that reflected his confusion when he felt he was tied up, and realized that he was lying in a pile of last year's leaves. Van moved closer, stirring the branches, and the mage focused on him immediately.

With no outward sign whatsoever of recognition.

But inside-the man's mind was screaming with fear.

Thoughts battered themselves to death against the inside of the mage's skull, none coherent, none lasting more than a breath. The only thing they had in common was fear. After a few moments of attempting to make sense of what was going on in there, Vanyel gave up and withdrew.

The mage was completely insane. There was no reason for his action, because he wasn't rational. He had trapped Vanyel because he had detected Van's use of magic the way the vrondi had, and thought that Van was after him. But then, he thought everyone was after him. His life for at least the past month had been spent in constant flight.

He didn't leak energy, because he couldn't, he had himself so wrapped up in mage-shields that nothing would leak past them. And the vrondi's constant surveillance was only confirmation of what he already knew, that everybody was after him. And they were probably so confused by his insanity that they hadn't been able to make up their tiny minds about revealing him.

Vanyel sighed - then felt a twinge of guilt, and a sudden suspicion that sent him back to the mage's mind, probing the chaotic memories for confirmation he hoped he wouldn't find.

But he did. And this time he retreated from the chaos still troubled. The man had never been more than a hedge-wizard, but had convinced himself that “someone” was thwarting him from advancing beyond that status. To that end he began stealing power from others, specifically those whose Gift was even weaker than his. But since he really wasn't terribly adept or adroit, he failed to clean that power of little bits of personality that came with it. ...

For at least the past four years, he'd been going progressively closer to the edge of insanity. He'd have gone over eventually, of that Vanyel had no doubt. But he had still been clinging to the last shreds of rational thought, when he crossed the Border into Valdemar and used his powers to search for another victim.

That had triggered Vanyel's Guardian spell, and the vrondi swarmed on him. It was at that point that he lost his grip on reality.

“In other words,” he told the man, who stared at him blankly, “I might well be the one who sent you mad, in a roundabout fashion. Damn.”

He crossed his arms, leaned back against the trunk of a tree, and thought over what he was going to have to do. Blackfoot snorted her disgust at being tied to a bush for so long with nothing she wanted to eat within reach. When Van didn't respond, she stamped her hooves impatiently. He continued to ignore her, and she heaved an enormous sigh and turned as much as her reins would allow to watch a moth fly past.

“I guess I'm going to have to take you back to Forst Reach,” Vanyel said, reluctantly. “If I leave you with Father Tyler, he can find a MindHealer to set you straight - and power-theft is really more in the provenance of the clergy than it is mine, since you didn't actually do any of that inside Valdemar. I really hate to have to take you there, but there's no place else.”

With that, he hauled the mage to his feet, ignoring the man's struggles. He'd learned a thing or two on the Border, and one of those things was the best way to immobilize a prisoner. Blackfoot snorted with alarm when they approached her, but Van ignored her alarm as well as he ignored the man's attempts to struggle free.

At that point, Vanyel gave the man a taste of his own medicine; a touch of the paralysis spell he'd set on Van. With the man completely helpless, Vanyel was able to haul him bodily to lie facedown over Blackfoot's saddle, like an enormous bag of grain. He felt the curious touch of the vrondi, attracted by his use of the spell, but ignored the creature; when he didn't invoke magic again, it got bored and vanished.

He was sweating and annoyed when he finally got the man in place; he considered using the spell to keep him quiescent during the walk back - but decided against it. It would be a waste of energy, since the ropes tying feet to hands under Blackfoot's belly would hold him perfectly well.

With a glance of annoyance at him, and a swat for Black-foot, who decided to rebel against this unexpected burden, Vanyel took the reins and began leading the hunter along the game path, heading back to the manor.

And he couldn't help wondering if every half-mage in the Kingdom was going to take it into their heads to go mad.

The prospect was not an appetizing one.

Ten

“Lamentable,” said Father Tyler, regarding the trussed-up mage, who was propped against a corner of the low wall surrounding the father's stone cottage. From the look of things, the mage was neither happy nor comfortable, not that Van was inclined to wish him either of those states.

Father Tyler shook his head again, his tightly-curled blond hair scarcely moved. “Most regrettable.”

“I wouldn't feel too sorry for him, Father,” Vanyel said sourly, rubbing a pulled shoulder. The man had somehow gotten heavier when the time came to get him off Black-foot's back, and Van had wrenched his back getting the mage to the ground. “He brought at least two thirds of this on himself. Maybe more; mages aren't supposed to cross into Valdemar without registering themselves, but I doubt you'll find a record of this one. Be that as it may, his problem stems from power-theft. He's certainly guilty of that, and he's managed to do as much harm to himself as he ever did to his victims.”

“Just how serious is power-theft?” the priest asked, rubbing his chin, a look of intense concentration on his long face. “I admit the seminary never covered that.”

“Somewhere between rape and larceny,” Vanyel replied, absently, wondering if he could get Blackfoot back to the stables without running into his relatives. “Power becomes part of a mage; it has to, if he's going to be able to use it effectively. Because of that, having your power stolen is a little like rape; there's a loss of 'self that's very disturbing on a purely mental level. But that's why this fool ran into trouble. He wasn't good enough to cleanse the power he stole of all the personality overtones, and they became part of him. Pretty soon he never knew if what he was thinking stemmed from his own personality, or what was from outside, and he couldn't control what was going on in his dreams and random thought processes anymore. He put on tighter and tighter shields to stop the problem, which only made it worse. The pressure in there must have been intolerable. Then the vrondi started spying on him, and he snapped completely. But if he hadn't stolen the power in the first place, this never would have happened.”

“Well, it is your job to judge, Vanyel,” the priest said, with a smile that made it clear he intended no insult. “But it is part of mine to forgive, and mend. I'll see what can be done for this poor fellow.”

That only succeeded in making Van feel guiltier, but he smiled back and thanked the priest. He thought about warning him that the mage was strong and far from harmless -

But Father Tyler was younger than Vanyel himself, quite as strong as any of the stablehands; besides, he was the successor to Father Leren. He had been part of the united Temples' effort at cleansing their own ranks and was probably quite well acquainted with all the faces of treachery.

He'll be all right, Vanyel told himself as he made his farewell and took Blackfoot's reins. She was quite willing to go; in fact she tried her best to drag him to the stable. He would have been amused if he hadn't been so preoccupied.

He held Blackfoot to a walk by brute force, and turned again to his personal dilemma. The problem of Stef was no closer to a solution. Van still couldn't see how he would be able to reconcile all the warring factors in his life.

“What would you do?” he asked the mare, who only strained at the reins on her halter and tried to get him to quicken his pace. “Oh, I know what you'd do,” he told her. “You'd eat.”

She ignored him, and tugged impatiently as they crossed the threshold of the stable. Several of the stalls that had been occupied were empty when Blackfoot hauled him back to her loose-box. So luck was with him - it looked like the masculine contingent of Forst Reach had taken themselves off somewhere, en masse. And since Treesa had Stef as a semi-captive provider of entertainment, she wouldn't be looking for her son.

Vanyel unsaddled the mare and groomed her; evidently she was one of those animals that liked being groomed, as she leaned into his brushstrokes and sighed happily, behaving as charmingly as if she hadn't spent most of the ride fighting him. While he curried her, Van tried to think of somewhere about the keep he could go to think. What he needed was someplace where he could be found if someone really went looking for him, but a place no one would go unless they really were looking all over for him.

Then it occurred to him: the one side of the manor that hadn't yet been built on was the side with that relatively inaccessible porch. It was tree-shaded and quite pleasant, but since the only entry was through a pantry, hardly anyone ever used it. It was too open for trysting, and too awkward for anything else. Which meant it should be perfect for his purposes.

Blackfoot whickered entreatingly at him and rattled her grain bucket with her nose.

“You greedy pig - I'm surprised you aren't as fat as a pony!” he exclaimed, laughing. “Well, you don't fool me. I know the rules around here, girl, and you don't get fed until after evening milking.”

She looked at him sourly, and turned her back on him.

“And you don't get to lounge around in your stall, either,” he told her, as he swung the door to the paddock open. “It's a beautiful day, now get out there and move that plump little rear of yours.”

He swatted her rump; she squealed in surprise and bolted out the open door. She dug all four feet in and stopped a few lengths into the paddock, snorting with indignation, but it was too late. He'd already shut the door.

He laughed at the glare she gave him before she lifted head and tail and flounced out into the paddock.

Then he turned tail himself, and headed back to the keep, and a great deal of thinking.

Once he'd fetched his instrument from their room, Stefen expected Treesa to lead him straight to the solar. That room was normally the ladies' sanctum - or at least it was for all the ladies he knew. But she didn't head in that direction; in fact, she led him outside and down a path through the gardens. The path was very well-used, and led through the last of the garden hedges and out into a stand of trees that continued for as far as he could see.

“Lady Treesa?” he said politely. “Where in Havens are we going?”

“Didn't Van tell you?” she asked, stopping for a moment to look back over her shoulder at him.

He shook his head and shrugged. “I am quite entirely in the dark, my lady. I expected you to take me to your solar.”

“Oh - I'm sorry,” she laughed, or rather, giggled. “During the summer we don't work in the solar unless there happens to be a lot of weaving to do - we come out here, to the pear orchard. No one is working in it at this time of year, and it's quite lovely, and cool even on the hottest summer days. The keep, I fear, is a bit musty and more than a bit damp - who would want to be indoors in fine weather like this?”

“No one, I suppose,” Stef replied. At about that moment, the rest of the ladies came into view between the tree trunks. They had arranged themselves in a broken circle in the shade, and were already at work. Sure enough, they had their embroidery frames, their cushions, and their plain-sewing, just as if they were working in the heart of the keep. Spread out as they were on the grass beneath the trees, they made a very pretty picture.

They came up to the group to a chorus of greetings, and Lady Treesa took her seat - she was the only one with a chair, an ingenious folding apparatus-which, when Stef thought about it, really wasn't unreasonable given her age.

Now Stefen was the center of attention; Treesa let her ladies stew for a bit, though they surely must have known who he was likely to be. After an appropriate span of suspense, Treesa introduced him as “Bard Stefen, Vanyel's friend,” and there were knowing looks and one or two pouts of disappointment.

Evidently Van's predilections were now an open secret, open enough that there were assumptions being made about what being Vanyel's “friend” entailed. Stefen ignored both the looks and the pouts; smiled with all the charm he could produce, and took the cushion offered him at Treesa's feet, and began tuning his gittern, thankful that he'd put it in full tune last night and it only required adjusting now. The twelve-stringed gittern was a lovely instrument, but tuning it after travel was a true test of patience.

“Now, what is your pleasure, my lady?” he asked, when he was satisfied with the sound of his instrument. “For giving you pleasure is all my joy at this moment.”

Treesa smiled and waved her hands gracefully at him.

“Something fitting the day,” she said, “Something of love, perhaps.”

For one moment Stef was startled. She can't possibly have meant that the way it sounded. She can't possibly be alluding to Van and me, can she?

Then a second glance at her face told him that she was just “playing The Game” of courtly love. She'd meant nothing more than to give him the expected opening to flatter her.

Well, then - flatter her he would.

“Would 'My Lady's Eyes' suit you?” he asked, knowing from Vanyel that it was Treesa's favorite.

She glowed and tossed her head coyly, and he congratulated himself on reading her correctly. “It would do very nicely,” she replied, settling back into the embrace of her chair, not even pretending an interest in her needlework.

Stefen smiled at her - only at her, as The Game demanded - and launched into the song.

By the third song he had grown to like Treesa quite a bit, and not just because she was so breathlessly flattering to his ego, nor because she was Vanyel's mother. As Van himself had said, she had a very good heart. When he paused to rest his fingers, she asked him for news of Medren; and not just out of politeness' sake. Ignoring the sidelong glances of her ladies, she asked him several questions about her wood's-colt grandson after Stef's initial answer of “he's fine.”

“Has he gotten advanced from his Journeyman status?” she asked, after several close inquiries to the state of Medren's health and progress - a question voiced wistfully, or so it seemed to Stef.

He paused for a moment to think, as the breeze ruffled his hair and sent a breath of cool down the back of his neck. “Not when we'd left, my lady,” he replied, “But I honestly don't think it's going to be much longer. He's very good, my lady, and I'm not saying that just because he's my friend. The Council of the Bardic Circle is really waiting for the fuss to die down about my getting jumped to Master so quickly before they promote anyone else. And if you want to know the truth, I think they might have been waiting for me to leave so that no one could accuse me of using my influence to get him his full Scarlets.”

“Bard Stefen,” she said, and hesitated, looking at him oddly. This time he was certain that expression was of hope. “Do you think when he gets it, he would be willing to come here for a permanent post?” She smiled, and blushed a little. “I'm perfectly willing to trade shamelessly on his family ties if you think he'd be willing. Forst Reach would never rate a Master Bard, else.”

Stefen pondered his answer for a moment before replying. Treesa was entirely right; Forst Reach was too small a place to demand the attentions of a Master Bard. Certainly there would be no chance for advancement here, under normal circumstances. But Forst Reach was also on the Border, and within reach of the newly-combined “kingdoms” of Baires and Lineas which were now ruled by Herald Tashir. Remarkable things had happened here - in fact, the solving of the mystery of who slaughtered Tashir's family was the subject of Medren's own planned Masterwork - and it was entirely possible that more remarkable things might occur. These were the sort of events that the Bardic Circle really preferred to have a full Bard on hand to record.

Furthermore, Medren had never shown the kind of ambition Stef harbored - he'd never talked about advancing in Court circles or gaining an important patron. It might well be that he'd be happy here.

“I think it might be worth asking him, my lady,” Stefen replied with perfect truth. “And I know that if he wants it, the Circle would grant him leave to be here. Especially if you'd agree to share him with Tashir.”

“I'd share him with anyone if it meant we'd have a Bard here,” Treesa exclaimed. “And Tashir is such a dear boy, I'm certain he'd work out schedules with me so that we wouldn't both need Medren at the same time. It shouldn't be that hard even for seasonal celebrations - if I scheduled ours a bit early, and he scheduled his a bit late. ...” Her voice trailed off, and she tapped her lips with one finger, obviously deep in thought. Stefen held his peace until she spoke again.

“Then I'll request it formally,” she said aloud, and turned to Stef with both hands out in entreaty. “Would you -”

“I'll speak to him, my lady,” Stefen assured her.

The dazzling smile she bestowed on him showed him something of the beauty she must have had in her prime. He bowed slightly to her, reinvoking The Game before she could get him to promise more than he could deliver. He had the distinct feeling that if she exerted herself, she could do just that.

He heard the sound of hooves on dry ground behind him at that moment, the steps slow and unhurried. He was about to turn to see who was riding out here, when Lady Treesa looked over his shoulder and smiled a second dazzling smile.

“And here is the other reason we meet out-of-doors in fine weather when Vanyel is at home,” she said happily. “Especially if we can get Van to perform for us, or we have some other musician available. Welcome, Lady Yfandes! It would certainly present some difficulties attempting to get you up to the solar, would it not?”

Stefen turned; sure enough, it was Yfandes, who bowed - there was no doubt of it - to Lady Treesa, and whickered with what sounded like amusement. The Companion made her stately way to a spot that had evidently been left empty just for her, and folded herself down to it. That was the only way Stefen could think of the movement - it was a great deal more graceful than the way a horse would lie down, and was strongly reminiscent of a lady slowly taking a seat on the ground while minding all her voluminous skirts.

“Lady Yfandes is as fond of music as I am,” Treesa told Stefen seriously. “When Vanyel finally told me that, the thoughtless boy, I couldn't see any reason why she shouldn't be able to join us when she wished.”

Stefen realized then, with a bit of shock, that Treesa was speaking of Yfandes as if she were a lady-guest, and doing so completely naturally. It seemed she had no problem with accepting Yfandes as a “person” and not a horse.

Which is a little better than I can manage at the moment, he thought ruefully. I have to keep reminding myself that she's not what she seems. And I'm a Bard, so I should know better!

“Well, in that case, my ladies all,” he said, with a slight bow to Yfandes and another special smile for Treesa, “allow me to take up my gittern, and resume amusing you.”

In fact, he was greatly enjoying himself. The entire little group seemed to be enthralled with having the talents of a full Bard at their disposal. Some of Treesa's ladies were quite pretty, and although Stef had no intention of following up on his flirtations, when they fluttered coyly at him, he preened right back. That was an accepted part of The Game, too. Best of all, none of this was work - he used only the barest touch of his Gift to enhance his performance, hardly enough for him to notice, unlike the deep-trance, draining effort he'd been putting out for the King.

It was a pity that Van had decided to vanish somewhere, but Stef was getting used to that. Van broods, he thought wryly. And I must admit, he's had a lot to brood about lately. If I know him, no matter what we managed to build between us last night, he's going to have to agonize over it before he can accept it. Thank the gods he can't repudiate a lifebond, or I'd probably spend every night we're here reconvincing him he's not going to be rid of me. Of course, that could be quite enjoyable - but it could also be exhausting.

He wondered what the Companion was making of all this. It would certainly help if Yfandes was on his side. He cast a brief glance at her; glowing white against the green of the orchard grass, and obviously watching him, her head nodding in time to his music. There was no doubt that there was a formidable intelligence behind those soft blue eyes.

Maybe the fact that she came out here is a sign that she likes me, he thought, when he couldn't detect any sign of hostility in her posture or her conduct. I hope so. It would make my life so much easier. . . .

Shortly after his second rest, Yfandes got up - doing so with a quiet that was positively unnerving; nothing that big had a right to move that silently! - and meandered off by herself. Stefen took that as a basically good sign. If Van was having trouble thinking things through, 'Fandes was probably going to him. And no matter what was wrong, Stefen was certain that 'Fandes would help her Chosen get his head and emotions straightened out.

Just as he was about to begin again, Stefen spotted someone coming toward the little group on a wagon-road that bisected the grove of trees. He was moving slowly, and as he neared, Stef could see why; he was carrying two heavy baskets on a pole over his shoulders. A farmworker, then, not someone coming to look for himself or Treesa, and nothing to concern them.

He continued to exchange news of the Court with Treesa, while the other ladies leaned closer to listen, but there was something about the man that vaguely bothered him, though he couldn't put his finger on what it was. He watched the stranger draw closer out of the corner of his eye and could not figure out what it was about the man that gave him uneasy feelings.

Certainly none of the others seemed to think there was anything out of the ordinary about him. They ignored him as completely as if he didn't exist.

Then - I thought Treesa said that no one works out here at this time of year. So what's he doing out here?

He took a second, longer look at the stranger, and realized something else. Something far more alarming.

The man's clothing was of high quality-actually better than Stef's own Bard uniform.

What is that peasant doing dressed like that?

The feeling of wrongness suddenly peaked, and Stefen reacted instinctively, flinging himself at Treesa and her chair and knocking both to the ground.

Just in time, for something small, and with a deadly feel to it whizzed over both their heads, cutting the air precisely where Treesa had been sitting -

Vanyel leaned out over the edge of the balustrade. The granite was warm and rough under his hands; solid, and oddly comforting. I want solid things around me, he thought slowly. So much of my life is in flux - so much depends on luck and the things others do. I'd really like to have one point of stability; something I could always depend on.

Or someone. . . .

The balustrade overlooked nothing; bushes were planted right up against it with trees beyond them, and had been allowed to grow until they blocked whatever view there might have been. With trees on all three open sides and the wall of the keep behind him, the porch wasn't good for much except the occasional lounger.

Sun beat down on Vanyel's head, warming him even though his Whites were reflecting most of the heat away. He stood so quietly that the little yellow-and-black birds that nested year-round in the branches of the bushes resumed the chatter he'd disturbed when he came out onto the porch, and actually began flitting to sit on the balustrade beside him.

:Brooding again, are we?:

He blinked, and came out of his nebulous thoughts. Yfandes was below him, barely visible through the thick branches of the bushes, a kind of white shape amid the green.

:I suppose you could call it brooding,: he admitted. :It's about -:

:Stefen, of course,: she interrupted. :I thought you'd probably had enough time to stew over it and make your insides knot up.:

:Huh.: He raised an eyebrow. :Dead in the black. Am I that predictable?:

:On some topics, yes. And I expect by now you've laid to rest the fact that you're lifebonded, and that he really does love you on top of that. And that you love him. So what is it that's turning you inside out?:

He sighed, and looked up at the clouds crossing the cerulean sky. :Danger, love. To him, and to me. To me, because he can be used as a hostage against me. To him, because he's going to be in harm's way as soon as it's obvious we're a pairing. I don't know that I can afford that kind of liability, and I don't know that it's right to put him at that kind of risk.:

Yfandes withdrew for a moment. :Well, as to the first - he's assigned to Haven, and a very valuable commodity, even with the Healers learning how to duplicate what he does. They still have to be in physical touch, and their subject responds best if both parties are in a trance. Try conducting negotiations that way, and see how far it gets you!:

He chuckled at the mental image that called to mind.

:So far, Stefs the only answer to keeping Randi on his feet and functioning when he's in pain,: she continued. :And as such, he'll have the best guards in Haven. And as for your second question - Stefen's a grown man. Why don't you ask him if he's willing to take the risks that come with being your lover?. My bet is that he's already thought about them, and accepted them as the price he pays for having you.:

He pushed away from the balustrade and folded his arms across his chest. :Do you really think so?: he asked, doubtfully.

He heard her snort in exasperation below him. :Of course I think so, I wouldn't have said it otherwise! You know I can't lie mind-to-mind!:

He felt comforted by her matter-of-fact attitude, and by her solid presence. No matter what happened, no matter what went wrong in his life, 'Fandes was always there for him. It made all of this a little easier-

In a single moment, the feeling of comfort vanished, to be replaced by one of immediate danger. All his internal alarms shrilled, and without a second thought, he leaped the balustrade and crashed through the intertwined bushes to land in a crouch at Yfandes' side.

She felt it, too - they were so closely linked she couldn't have ignored it. In the next second he had vaulted onto her back -

She evidently had signals of her own, for she plunged forward through the undergrowth, aimed toward the orchards, as soon as he was securely on her back. That gave him a direction: he clamped his legs around her barrel and twined his fingers in her mane, and invoked FarSight and Mage-Sight together.

Magic -

Strong, controlled, and near at hand.

Dear gods - his mind screamed. The pear orchard!

'Fandes leaped the hedge surrounding the gardens-they hurtled through, her hooves tearing great gouts of turf from the lawns - she leaped the second hedge on the other side and flew into the orchard.

Women were screaming at the tops of their lungs, and scattering in all directions - not with any great success, at least not the highborn. Their heavy skirts encumbered them, and they fell as much as they ran. The serving maids had already hiked their dresses above their knees and taken to the dubious shelter of tree trunks. Cushions were tumbled every which way, and the air was full of feathers where one or two of them had burst.

It was obvious whom they were fleeing, as a brown-clad stranger with his back to Vanyel and Yfandes raised his hands above his head.

A mage - and his target was equally obvious. Treesa and Stef lay sprawled helplessly just before him, and Van felt the gathering forces of energy as the mage prepared to strike them where they lay.

But - that's the man I caught -

Yfandes screamed a battle-challenge just before the man let loose a bolt of mage-fire. He half-turned in startlement at the noise, and the bolt seared the turf just beyond Bard Stefen and Vanyel's mother.

He was quicker than any mage Van had ever encountered in his life, at least in combat; before Vanyel could ready a blast of his own, he'd let fly with a second - just as Van realized that he and 'Fandes were completely unshielded.

Vanyel expanded the core of his own energies with a rush outward in a shield to cover the two of them, but just a fraction too late. Yfandes writhed sideways as she tried to evade the bolt, but was only partially successful. The edge of it hit them both.

He was protected; the shielding had covered that much - but Yfandes squealed as the bolt clipped her. She collapsed, going down in mid-leap, falling over onto her side. A sudden blank spot in Van's mind told him that she'd been knocked unconscious.

'Fandes!

He wanted, needed to help her. But there was no time - no time.

He managed to shove himself clear of her as she fell; hit the ground and rolled, and came up with mage-bolts of his own exploding from both hands. His hands felt as if he'd stuck both of them in a fire, but he ignored the pain.

The stranger dodged the one, and his shields absorbed the other. He struck back; a firebolt.

Vanyel sidestepped his return volley and let fly with a crackle of lightning at the stranger's feet. As he'd hoped, the mage's combat-shields did not extend that far down, and Vanyel's lightning found a target. The stranger shrieked and danced madly, but would not budge from his position, which was far too close to Stef and Van's mother for safety -

Vanyel sent a sandaar, a fire-elemental, raging straight for the enemy's face. He flinched, but stood his ground, and blew the elemental away with a shattering blast of power. That gave Van enough respite to take the offensive. Before the other mage had a chance to ready a counterblast, Van let fly three levinbolts in succession, and succeeded in driving him back, one step for each bolt.

When Van saw that the ploy was working, that the mage was being driven away from the Bard and Treesa, he Reached for energy in a frenzy, and sent bolt after bolt crashing against the enemy's shields. Though nothing penetrated, the force of impact was enough to continue to drive him backward, deeper into the orchard.

Van continued to fire off levinbolts as his own body shook with the strain of producing them out of raw magic, and his Mage-senses burned with the backlash of power. His whole world narrowed to the flow of energy, the target, and a vague awareness of where Treesa and Stefen lay.

Finally the enemy mage came exactly opposite the two lying on the ground. He didn't seem aware of them; certainly Van was keeping him occupied in defending himself. A few more steps, and Van would be able to include them in his own shielding - Treesa chose that moment to struggle erect, though Stefen was trying to keep her down and protected with his own body. Her movement caught the mage's attention -

He looked directly into Vanyel's eyes, and smiled.

And reaching down into a pocket at the side of his boot, cast, not a weapon of magic or force, but one of material steel, following that with a levinbolt of his own. But not at Vanyel. At his mother.

“NO!” Vanyel screamed, and threw himself between Treesa and the oncoming blade -

And felt the impact in his shoulder as he crashed into his mother, sending them both to the ground -

And then a shock that twisted the world out of all recognition in a heartbeat, picked him up by the scruff of the neck, shook him like a dog shakes a rag, and flung him into the darkness.

Stef was trying to get Treesa down on the ground again, when another of those blinding flashes of light went off practically in the Bard's face. He cried out in pain as it burned his eyes; cried out again as two bodies crashed into his.

Can't see - can't breathe. Got to get out -

He struggled to get out from underneath them, his eyes streaming tears, with everything around him blurred.

He tried to make his eyes work. The only person still standing was the brown blot that was the mage that had attacked them. It raised two indistinct arms, and Stef struggled harder still to get free, knowing that there was nothing to stop him this time - that somehow he'd gotten rid of Van -

“Hey!”

A hoarse yell. The mage started, and turned just as Stef's eyes refocused. The mage's mouth opened in shock, and he tried to redirect the power he had been about to cast at his three victims.

Too late.

Radevel was already on him; he swung his weighted practice blade down on the mage's head as he tried to fend off the blow - or possibly hit Radevel with the mage-bolt meant for the others. It didn't matter. The blunt-edged metal sword snapped both his arms like dry sticks, and continued with momentum unchecked. When the blade connected, it hit with a sound unlike anything Stef had ever heard before; the dull thud of impact, with a peculiar undertone of something wet breaking - like Rad had just smashed a piece of unfired pottery.

The mage collapsed, and Stef swallowed hard as his gorge rose and he fought down the urge to vomit. He'd seen any number of people dead before this - of cold, hunger, disease, or self-indulgence - but he'd never seen anyone killed before. It wasn't anything like that in songs.

He was having trouble thinking; vaguely he knew he should be looking for Vanyel, but he couldn't seem to get started. Finally he noticed that Van was one of the two people collapsed on top of him.

Van - he's not moving -

Yfandes struggled to her feet and shook her head violently, then looked around for Vanyel. She spotted him and the downed mage; pounded over and shouldered Radevel out of the way with a shriek of rage, and began trampling the body with all four hooves.

II he wasn't dead when he hit the ground, he is now.

Radevel stuck the blunt sword into his belt and turned. Half a dozen white-faced young men and boys walked slowly toward him from behind the trees - the sound of retching told Stef that there were probably more of them out there who weren't in any shape to walk yet.

“I hope you were paying attention,” Radevel said matter-of-factly. “If you get the value of surprise on a mage about to spellcast, that's the best way to take him. Get his attention and interrupt his magic, then rush him before he has a chance to redirect it. Go for his arms first - most of 'em seem to have to wave their arms around to get a spell off. If you can, you want to keep 'em alive for questioning.”

He glanced back over his shoulder at Yfandes, who was still squealing with rage and doing her best to pound what was left of the mage into the dirt.

“Of course,” he continued, “when family or Heralds are involved, that usually isn't practical.”

His expression didn't change, nor did the tone of his voice, but Stef noticed (with an odd corner of his mind that seemed to be taking notes on everything) that Radevel's eyes widened when he'd looked back at Yfandes, and he was retreating from her a slow, casual step at a time.

Servants had materialized as soon as the mage was down, and pulled Stef out from under the Herald and his mother. They ignored Stef, concentrating on trying to revive Lady Treesa and Vanyel. Radevel gathered his group of students and plowed his way through them to get to his aunt and cousin's side.

“What happened?” One of the ladies grabbed Radevel's arm as he passed. “Where did this man come from?”

“Van brought him in,” Radevel said shortly, prying her hand off his arm. “Bastard jumped him, and Van thought he was crazy. Left 'im with Father Tyler. Must not've been as crazy as Van thought; first chance he got, once Tyler left him alone, he cut himself loose and stabbed the priest. Me, I was on the way to practice with this lot, and I found him - good thing, too, he'd've bled to death if I hadn't found him when I did. Anyway, just about then I saw Van pelting off this way, and I followed.”

Radevel shook the lady off before she could ask him anything more, and knelt down beside Stef.

Stefen didn't know what to do; Van was as white as snow and about as cold, and Treesa wasn't much better off. He watched the servants trying to bring them around, and felt as helpless and useless as a day-old chick. Radevel looked at the haft of the tiny knife in Van's shoulder, but didn't touch it; laid his hand to the side of Treesa's face.

“Something's wrong here,” he said to Stef. “This isn't natural. We need an expert. You -” he reached out and grabbed one of the older servant-women. “You keep anybody from muckin' with 'em. And don't nobody touch that knife. I'll get the Healer.”

“I'll get Savil -” Stef offered, glad to find something he could do, getting unsteadily to his feet. He set off at a dead run before anyone could stop him, ignoring the way his eyes kept blurring and clearing, and the dizziness that made him stumble.

His breath burned in his throat, and his sides ached by the time he was halfway across the garden.

There seemed to be something wrong - he shouldn't have been that winded. It felt like something was draining him. ...

Savil was already on the way - he was practically bowled over by Kellan in the entrance to the gardens. Her Companion stopped short of trampling him, and he scrambled out of the way, just barely avoiding her hooves.

“What happened?” Savil asked, reaching down to grab his arm, missing, and seizing his collar instead.

“A mage,” Stef panted, holding his side. “He attacked me and Treesa - no, that's not right, he attacked Treesa, and I was just in the way. Van took him out, but he got Van - gods, Van is hurt and - and we can't get him or Treesa to wake up -”

“Enough, that's all I need to know for now.” She turned away, dismissing him, and Kellan launched herself across the garden, leaving him to make his own way back.

He arrived winded and unable to speak; Savil was kneeling beside the Healer, and examining Vanyel's shoulder.

“I've been treating them for poison,” the Healer said in a flat voice, “I thought Lady Treesa might have gotten nicked by one of those knives. But they aren't responding, and I don't know why.”

“It's because you're not fighting poison, lad, you're fighting magic,” Savil muttered, as Stef limped up and collapsed on the ground beside her with a sob. “It's a good thing you didn't try to pull that knife, you'd have killed him.”

She looked up - in Stef's direction, but more through him than at him. “We can't do anything for them here,” she said, after a moment. “Let's get them back to their beds. I hate to admit this to you, but I'm out of my depth. Van could probably handle this, but - well, that's rather out of the question at the moment.”

Stef clutched his side and stifled a moan of panic, and she glanced sharply at him. “Don't give up yet, lad,” she said quietly. “I'm out of my depth, but I'm not ready to call it finished.”

Stef clenched his jaw and nodded, trying to look as if he believed her, while Van lay as pale as a corpse on the ground beside her.

Savil completed a more thorough examination than she was able to give in the orchard, and sat back in her chair, watching Van and thinking.

He wasn't prepared for a magic weapon, so he wasn't shielded against it. But something's got the thing slowed down considerably. Damned if I know what. Huh. A leech-blade. That's something I've only read about. I didn't know there was anyone that was enough of a mage-smith to make one anymore.

She glanced over at Stefen, who was recovering from magic-induced shock adequately on his own. Savil hadn't done anything to help him mostly because she reckoned that the lad could do with a little toughening. But he hadn't recovered as quickly, nor as completely as she'd expected, and Savil didn't know why that was happening either.

He sat on the other side of the bed, holding Vanyel's hand, in a pose that reminded her poignantly of the way Van had held 'Lendel's when her trainee was coming out of the trauma his twin's death had induced.

There was something else there that was poignantly like Van and her protege.

When it finally occurred to her, it was such an astonishing thought that she double-checked with her Companion to make sure she wasn't imagining things.

:Kell! Would you check with Yfandes and ask her if that boy's gone and lifebonded to Van?:

:If he's -: A moment of surprise. :She says he has.:

:Damn. Would that be why the leech-blade isn't draining Van as fast as I thought it would?:

:It's a good guess.: A pause. :She says probably; something as deep as a lifebond is hard to monitor. She says Van is being fed from somewhere besides her, anyway.:

:Sunsinger's Glory.: She invoked Mage-sight and stared at the evil thing. It's working its way deeper, but slowly enough that I can take my time. He's got a couple of days before it'll do any lasting harm. Stef said it was thrown at Treesa; I wonder what it was supposed to do to her? Take her over, maybe; we'll never know now. So. I may be out of my depth, and Van may be out of reach, but I haven't exhausted the quiver yet. The only problem is that all the others that can handle this kind of weaponry are Tayledras. And I certainly can't take Van through a Gate in his condition; it would kill him.

Well, that just means they're going to have to come to him, if I have to truss them up and drag them.

She heaved herself out of her chair, and saw Stefs eyes flick briefly to her before returning to Vanyel.

“Stefen,” she said. “I want you to stay with him. Don't let anyone move him, and especially don't let anyone touch that blade. I'll be back shortly.”

“Where are you going?” he asked, his head jerking up, his expression panicked.

“To get help,” she replied. “Just remember what I told you, and do it.”

And before he could get himself organized enough to stop her, she limped out of the room, and ducked down a side stair only an Ashkevron would know about.

I'II bring them, all right, she thought grimly, as she made her way down the twisting little staircase entirely by feel. Whether they like it or not.