Vanyel had convened the entire Council as soon as he was able to speak coherently. The entire Council, including Randale, which meant that they met in his bedroom with Shavri in attendance.
Four stone walls surrounded them; like the Work Room, the Royal Bedchamber was an interior room, entirely windowless. Hard on Randi, who seldom got to see the sun anymore - but mandated by security. Assassins can't climb in the window if there aren't any windows.
The room was warm, but not stifling. For the sake of appearances, Randi had been moved from his bed to a couch, one as soft and comfortable as his bed, but with a padded back so that he could sit up with full support. The rest of the Councillors brought in chairs from the outer rooms of the suite, and arranged them around the couch with no regard for rank.
Most of them took in Vanyel's pronouncement - framed as a request-with a stunned silence.
All but the King.
“Absolutely not,” Randale said, actually sitting up in alarm. His voice sounded stronger than it had in months. Shavri paled a little and clutched the side of the couch. “We can't possibly spare you.”
“You can't afford not to let me go, Randale,” Vanyel replied tightly, keeping a rein on his temper. “Whoever this is, whatever his motive, he's been targeting Heralds, and that makes him an enemy of Valdemar. And if he can pick Herald-Mages off from outside the Border, he can pick off anyone, including you, any time he chooses.”
He'd hoped that personal threat would give the King pause, but Randale didn't hesitate a second. “That's not a factor. What is a factor is that you are the last Herald-Mage. Who's going to train the youngsters with the Mage-Gift?
Who would even know what the Mage-Gift looks like? And who is going to counter attacks by mage-craft on the Border if you aren't here?”
“To answer the last question first,” Van replied, “Heralds. 'Ordinary' Heralds. They're not only capable of it, I've managed to convince them that they can, which was no mean feat.”
“He has trained several Heralds in just that already,” Joshel said reluctantly. “And we've learned from our operatives that there aren't any mages on the Karsite side any more; at least, none with any power. After declaring magic anathema, they won't have anyone to train mages either -”
“As for the youngsters-” Van continued, grimly, “In case you hadn't noticed, no one has had any trainees with Mage-Gift for the past two years. It was never that common to begin with, and it seems to be appearing entirely in potential now.”
“Only in potential?” Shavri said, looking shocked, her glance going from Vanyel to Joshel and back again. “But - why? What's happened?”
Van shrugged, and rubbed his thumb nervously along the arm of his chair. “I don't know - but consider this - so far as I can tell, this enemy has picked Herald-Mages as his targets. What if he's been making his job easier by killing the children with the Mage-Gift before they can be Chosen? It wouldn't be that hard. All you'd have to do is wait for the Gift to manifest and send something to cause an 'accident.' No one would ever guess that the deaths were connected in any way.”
“That makes it all the more imperative that you stay -” Shavri began, her face settling into a stubborn scowl.
“That makes it all the more imperative that I go,” Vanyel countered, pounding the arm of his chair with his fist. “What am I supposed to do, tap into the nodes and sit around scanning the entire countryside, waiting for some spell or creature to target an unknown child somewhere? I don't even know if that's what's happening - and if it is, how do I stop it?” His throat tightened with grief and guilt, but he forced himself to continue. “The thing that got Savil spirited itself into the Palace, in Haven, and killed an experienced Herald-Mage under our very noses! Dear gods, she called to me for help, and I'm just down the hall from her and I was still too late to save her! How in the seven hells am I supposed to catch this enemy again when I not only don't know where and when he'll strike, but who? I have to carry the fight to him; it's the only way to neutralize him. And if we don't - he has to have a larger plan, he can't be doing this for the fun of it. Do we wait for him to be ready to make his move, or do we take him before he's ready? Which is better tactics?”
“I can't argue tactics with you, Vanyel,” Shavri said resentfully, as Randale collapsed back against his cushions, “But I can't see what good it's going to do you, us, or Valdemar to go haring off into the unknown after some nebulous enemy who may just be -”
Vanyel was about to interrupt her, when Yfandes stopped him. :Hold your temper, Van,: she said firmly. :We're behind you. And we're going to take care of this.:
We? he thought in surprise. But before he could ask her what she meant, the face of every Herald in the room went blank, and Shavri stopped in midsentence.
There was a long moment of silence, broken only by the sounds of non-Heralds stirring restlessly in their seats. The candles placed in sconces all around the room flickered only when someone moved, creating a momentary current in the air. Someone coughed uncomfortably.
:'Fandes?: Vanyel Sent. :What's going on?: :You have to go, Van,: she replied firmly. :This mage is too much of a threat. We - the Companions, I mean - have been talking it over since you decided to go after him, and we think you're right. So we're backing you. And if the others won't listen to their own Companions, they'll hear from all of us.: The overtones to her mind-voice sounded both smug and a little ominous. :We'll just see how long any of them can hold out against that.:
Joshel shook his head at that point. “All right,” he said aloud, breaking the silence so suddenly that the non-Heralds started. He gave Vanyel a long-suffering look. “I don't know how you managed this,” he told the dumbfounded Herald-Mage, mixed admiration and annoyance in his expression, “I've never heard of all the Companions uniting to back a Herald against King and Council before. I hope you're right, Vanyel Ashkevron - and I hope this isn't going to be too much for even you to handle.”
One by one the others gave in, Shavri the last, possibly because Shavri's bond with her Companion was the weakest.
But finally even she acquiesced, though not happily. “I hope you're satisfied, Herald Vanyel,” she said, on the verge of tears. “I thought you were our friend -”
The others of the Council looked uneasy, embarrassed, or both, at this display of “womanly vapors.” Vanyel, who knew it was more than that, dared not waver from his resolve. He knew why she was trying emotional blackmail; she was afraid for Randale and Jisa, but there was too much riding on this for him to allow her to manipulate his feelings for her, Randi, and their daughter.
“I am, Shavri. But Valdemar comes first, you know that as well as I do,” he replied coolly, bringing home to her the same lesson he'd given Randale years ago.
“Then how dare you ride off and leave Valdemar unprotected?” she cried passionately, making her hands into fists.
“Because I am protecting Valdemar,” he said, just as passionately. “This mage, whoever he is, doesn't dare leave me alive, not after the way I destroyed his creature. While he concentrates on me, he'll be ignoring Valdemar and anyone in Valdemar. You should all be perfectly safe while he brings all his resources to bear on me.”
“And what if he k-k-kills you?” Shavri said miserably. “What will protect us then?”
“Shavri,” he said, leaning toward her and catching and holding her gaze, “If I die, I'll either take him with me, or leave him so crippled he'll be no threat. So help me, I will protect Valdemar with my last breath, and if there is a way to protect her after my death, I'll find it!”
He stared into her eyes for a long moment, during which no one seemed to breathe. Then he sat back, breaking the spell himself. “But I don't intend to die,” he said, with a grim smile. “I intend to find this bastard, and make him pay for what he did to Savil and the others. And if I have your permission to do so -?”
Randale nodded wearily. “There doesn't seem to be much choice in the matter,” the King said. “For what it's worth, you have the permission of Crown and Council.”
Vanyel stood, and bowed with deliberate grace to all of them. “I'm sorry if you feel that your decision has been forced,” he said, “But I can't feel sorry that you came to it. Valdemar is more important than any one man, however powerful he seems to be. Thank you; I'll be leaving in the morning. Treven is ready to take full responsibilities as Randale's proxy and the Heir, Joshel knows how to contact my operatives in Karse, and Tantras can take over everything else I've been doing, just as he's done in the past.” He looked around at the various faces of the Councillors, his father included. “I'm not indispensable, you know,” he finished quietly. “No one is. You're all the most capable people I know, and if there's safety for anyone in this realm, it's in your hands, not mine, ultimately. Zhai'helleva, my friends.”
And with that, he turned and left the room before anyone else could break down-including himself.
Stefen slipped inside Vanyel's door and shut it behind him, quietly. Van was beside the bed, neatly folding clothing and stowing it away in his travel-packs. While he did not look up from his packing, Stefen knew that Vanyel was well aware he'd come in.
Stef bit his lip, unable to think of how to start, what to say. Vanyel continued to ignore his presence, perhaps hoping that Stef would become discouraged and leave. The silence lengthened, as Stefen's palms grew sweaty and his throat tighter and tighter. Finally he blurted out the first words that came into his head.
“You're not leaving without me.” He tried to make it sound defiant, but it came out plaintive. He pressed his back against the wood of the door as if he could physically bar Vanyel's way and waited for Van's response.
“Stef,” Van said without turning around, “I can't take you with me, you know that.” He sounded as distant and cold as if he were on the moon.
“Why not?” Stefen asked, around the lump in his throat. He was well aware that his words were very similar to what might be coming out of a petulant adolescent, and too anxious to care. “You're not going into Rethwellan this time. There's no one to care if we're lovers! What's the difference if I'm with you or not?”
Finally Vanyel turned around; his face was set in a stony mask, and his eyes were inward-focused, as if he was trying not to see Stef, only his shadow. “The difference is that you're not a Herald, you're not combat-trained, you can't even defend yourself from one man with a sword. You're a liability, Stef. I told you when we first -”
“How am I any safer here?” he interrupted, desperately, playing shamelessly on the guilt he knew Vanyel felt over Savil's death. “Savil wasn't safe! If someone wants to use me against you, all they have to do is wait until you're gone, and take me. Anybody who can do what's been done so far could make one of those Gate-things, grab me while everybody's asleep, and be gone before I could yell for help! You said yourself I couldn't protect myself from one man with a sword - how am I going to protect myself against something like that?”
He balled his hands into fists, to keep from gouging the wood of the door with his nails. The room was much too hot, and it was very hard to breathe. Vanyel seemed to waver for a moment, the mask cracking - then his lips tightened. The fire flared up, making his face look even harsher and more masklike.
“I don't have time for this, Stef. I have a job to do, and you're only going to get in the way.” The words were deliberately hurtful, and if Stef hadn't felt a trace of contrary emotions through the bond that tied them together, he might have fled at that moment.
He's so driven - but I can crack that shell. I have to. Just enough so that he'll let me come with him . . . but it's a mistake to bring up Savil again. That's what's driving him.
“I'm coming with you,” he said stubbornly, moving away from the door and toward Vanyel. “If you won't take me with you, I'll follow you. If you set somebody to watch me, I'll get away somehow. If you won't let me stay with you, I'll ride an hour behind you.” He stopped for a moment, then made the last two steps in a rush, taking Vanyel in his arms before the Herald could evade the embrace. Vanyel held himself away, as stiffly as the night they'd first met, but Stef hid his face in Vanyel's jerkin anyway. “I don't care what you do,” he said into Vanyel's shoulder, his cheek pressed tightly against the smooth leather. “I love you, and I'm following you. I don't care what happens to me, as long as I can be with you.”
“What about Randale?” Vanyel asked in a strange, hollow voice.
“I'm not in love with Randale,” Stef replied, a little defensively. “I'm not a Herald, you said that yourself, and I don't see that I owe him anything. There're a dozen Healers that can pain-block now; three of them can do it while Randale's awake and talking. I'm just a convenience; he doesn't need me any more, and with Treven taking over full Heir's duties, he won't even have to do anything he doesn't feel up to.”
“Shavri would probably dispute that,” Vanyel said dryly, but his rigid posture was softening.
“She did,” Stefen told him, encouraged by that tiny sign. “And I told her she could force me to stay, but she couldn't force me to play. She looked like she wanted to throw something at me, but she didn't. She just told me what she thought of me. It started with 'traitor' and went downhill from there.”
“I imagine it did,” Vanyel replied with a little cough.
“She told me she'd have me demoted, that she'd have me banned from the Bardic Circle,” Stef continued, feeling that Vanyel was relaxing further. “I told her I didn't care. And I don't.” He released Vanyel a little, and looked up into the Herald's face, lifting his chin defiantly. “It doesn't matter to me. If I wanted a high position and all the rest of that, I could have gone with that gem-merchant. I used to want that kind of thing, but I don't anymore.”
“What do you want, Stef?” Vanyel asked softly, his strange silver eyes full of pain, and haunted by thoughts Stef could only guess at.
“Besides you? I don't know,” Stefen said truthfully. He'd intended to say “just you,” but something about the way Van had asked the question compelled him to the exact truth. “I only know that without you, no rank or fame would be worth having.”
“And what would you have done if Randale had still needed you?” Vanyel continued, holding Stefs eyes with his.
Stefen swallowed. His throat tightened again, and a cold lump formed in the pit of his stomach. “I d-d-don't know,” he replied miserably. “It's too hard a choice, and I didn't have to make it, so does it matter? He doesn't need me, and he told Shavri so.”
“He did?” For the first time since Savil's death, Vanyel smiled - a very faint smile, but a genuine one. “You didn't tell me that part.”
“You didn't let me get to it,” Stef reminded him, with an uncertain grin. “Randale told Shavri that he didn't need me, and that I'd only pine myself away to nothing if I had to stay. He said I should follow my heart, and that I shouldn't let you stop me. And that we needed each other.”
Vanyel's arms came up and slowly closed around Stefen. “I guess we do, at that,” he said in a whisper, and held Stef so tightly the Bard could hardly breathe.
“Will you let me come with you now?” he asked, when he was certain Van wasn't going to let go of him any time soon.
“Don't you ever give up?” Vanyel asked, amusement waning with exasperation, and amusement winning.
“No,” the Bard replied, sure now that he'd won. “I already told you that.” He felt Van's hand stroking his hair, and sighed, relaxing himself, the cold lump in his stomach vanishing.
“All right - but only because I think you're right.” Vanyel pushed him away enough so that the Herald could look into his eyes. “You're probably a lot safer with me than here. I can put better protections on you than I've ever put on anyone else, including myself, you'll be invisible to Mage-Sight because I'll make them all passive defenses that don't manifest unless you're attacked, and it's harder to find a moving target. But Stef - please, please promise me that if it comes to a physical battle, you'll run. You don't know anything but street-fighting, and I don't have the time to teach you enough of anything to do you any good. I've lost Savil - if I lost you -”
The look in Vanyel's eyes was not altogether sane, and reminded Stef uneasily of the expression he'd seen once in the eyes of a broken-winged bird. Stefen shuddered, and pulled the Herald back into an embrace. “I promise,” he said. “I told you, I value my skin. I won't risk it doing something stupid.”
“Good,” Vanyel sighed. “Well - I guess I should let you go pack....”
He let go of Stef, reluctantly. Stefen backed a step away, and grinned up at the Herald. He returned to the door, opened it, and pulled his packs in from the hallway. “I already have,” he said simply.
Vanyel was awake at dawn, and Stef somehow managed to shake himself into a facsimile of alertness, even though his body protested being up at such an unholy hour, and his mind refused to admit that he was actually moving about.
Van had gone completely over his packs the night before; fortunately Medren had helped Stef put his kit together, and there was nothing Vanyel insisted upon that he did not already have, and very little he insisted Stef discard. Stef had already been in bed and asleep by the time Van finished his own packing, but he could be a very light sleeper if he chose, so the night had not been entirely wasted.
Although as he yawned his way through a sketchy breakfast, he wondered if the night might not have been better spent in sleeping, after all.
It was so dark that the stablehands were working by lantern light. Vanyel saddled Yfandes with his own hands, but suggested absently to Stefen that he stand back and let the experienced grooms deal with his little filly;
They placed a different sort of saddle on her than Stef was used to; one identical to Vanyel's, with the rear and front a little higher than his riding saddle, and rings and snaffles all over the skirting. He couldn't imagine what all those fastenings could be for; especially when there weren't any straps in evidence to be attached to them.
But then he didn't know much about horses, anyway. If that was the kind of thing Vanyel wanted him to use, he and Melody would cooperate. At least, he hoped Melody would cooperate; she looked rather affronted by the rump-band.
Then the grooms brought out two of the oddest animals Stefen had ever seen. Horse-tall, spotted brown and white, as hairy as the shaggiest of dogs, they had long necks and rabbit like faces with big, round, deep-brown eyes. One of them craned its long neck in Stefen's direction, its nostrils widening and its split upper lip lifting.
Stef tried to back out of its reach, but Melody was in the way and he was hemmed in by stalls on either side. The grooms were so busy loading the beasts with packs that they didn't notice what the one nearest Stef was trying to do.
He braced himself, waiting for the thing to try and bite him, hoping he could dodge out of the way before it connected.
But the creature only snuffled at him, stirring his hair with its warm, sweet breath. Melody twitched the skin of her neck and turned her head to see what was disturbing her. Stefan fully expected her to have a fit when confronted by the odd beast, but she didn't even widen her eyes. She just snorted in equine greeting, and the beast stretched its neck still further to touch noses with her before going back to snuffling Stefen's hair as if in fascination.
Finally the groom looked up from strapping the last pack down, and saw what the creature was doing. “Here now,” he said, slapping its shoulder lightly. The beast pulled its head back, and turned a gaze full of disappointment on its handler.
“Don't you go a-lookin' at me like that, missy,” he said. “Them's not roses you was a-smellin', 'twas the young lad's hair.”
She sighed, as deep and heartfelt as any crestfallen maiden, and closed her eyes. The groom pulled the final strap tight, and turned toward Stef. “Chirras,” he said, shaking his head. “Curious as cats, they are. You watch this 'un; she likes flowers, an' anything that's bright-colored she'll go sniffin' at just in case it might be some posy she ain't never seen afore.” He grinned. “Some fool Herald name of Vanyel gave 'er a snow-rose once, an' ever since she's been lookin' fer flowers where there can't be none.”
“She'd just carried my packs through a blizzard, Berd,” Vanyel replied without turning around. “I thought she deserved a reward, and I didn't have any sweets with me. Listen, we plan to leave these two at the Border, at the last Guard post. Is that all right?”
“What're you gonna do for supplies?” the groom asked skeptically.
“What I generally do; live off the land.” Now Vanyel turned to face them. “I wouldn't have asked you for them now except that Stef isn't used to this kind of trip, and I don't want to make it too hard on him at the beginning.”
“Whatever you say,” the groom replied. “The Guard post is fine. Next replacement to come back down can bring 'em with.”
“That's pretty much what I thought.” Vanyel took the lead-rope of the other chirra from a young boy and fastened it to the cantle of his saddle, while Berd did the same with the flower-loving chirra and Melody's saddle. Van mounted once his chirra was secure, and Stef followed his example.
“You take care, m'lord Van -” Berd called after them, as they rode out into the dark and cold. Vanyel half-turned in his saddle to wave, but he neither replied nor smiled.
Outside the walls of the city, there was nothing to be seen except snow-covered hills and a farmhouse or two. By the time they were a candlemark from Haven, the sky was as light as it was likely to get for the rest of the day. The clouds hung low, heavy, and leaden; the air felt a little damp, and the only place Stef wasn't cold was where his legs were warmed by contact with his horse.
Vanyel lifted his head and sniffed the light breeze, a few strands of silvered hair escaping from the hood of his cloak. “Smells like snow,” he said, the first words he'd spoken since leaving the Palace grounds. Stef sampled the air himself, but it didn't smell any differently to him. “How can you tell?” he asked, his voice sounding loud over the snow-muffled footfalls of the beasts on the road.
“It just does,” Van replied. “Like rain, only fainter and colder.” He looked back at Stef, and got Yfandes to slow so that they were riding side by side. “I won't stop for you, and I won't hold my pace back for you, Stef,” he said warningly. “I don't dare. I'm holding back enough as it is, taking chirras for the first leg. The only reason I'm catering to your inexperience on this first stage is because my enemy is going to assume I'm coming straight for him at a Companion's pace, and I hope this will throw him off.”
“I understand,” Stef hastened to say. “I won't hold you back. I'll keep up.”
“You might, but your filly isn't a Companion,” Van began. Then he got that “listening” expression that meant his Companion was talking to him. “ 'Fandes says she'll help,” he replied, looking a little surprised. “I don't know what she plans to do; maybe do something so that Melody can keep up with her. I hope so; a Companion is good for a lot more in the way of speed and endurance than an ordinary horse. I bred both those qualities into Star's line, but there's still only so much a horse can do.”
“I'll keep up,” Stef repeated, vowing to himself that he'd die before he complained of soreness or fatigue.
He's so strange, he thought, so cold. It's like there's nothing in the world that's important except getting this enemy of his. I've never seen him like this before. Is he always like this when he's working, I wonder?
“I have to stop this mage,” Vanyel said quietly, as if he'd heard Stefen's thoughts. “I have to, Stef, it's the most important thing I've ever had to do. Can you understand that? I'm sorry if it seems as though I'm being cold to you -”
Stefen shook his head. “No, it's all right,” he said hastily, even though it didn't feel all right. “I told you I wouldn't fall behind, and I won't. You'll have no reason to feel that bringing me along was a bad idea.”
“I hope you're right,” Van replied bleakly. “Although I must admit that it looks as though the weather is going to be a bigger factor in our progress than you are.”
Even as he spoke, the first big, fluffy flakes began falling from the lowering clouds. Stef looked up in puzzlement. “It doesn't look that bad,” he protested, shifting in his saddle to relieve strained muscles inside his thighs.
Vanyel's eyes were closed, and his brows knitted with concentration. “It's not bad now,” he said slowly. “But it could get that way very quickly, very easily. This storm system goes all the way up to the Border, and the balances in it are quite delicate. Right now it looks as though it's going to snow steadily, but things can change that balance all too easily.”
“Oh,” Stef replied. “I didn't know you could predict weather like that.”
Vanyel opened his eyes and raised an eyebrow at him. “I can't,” he said. “I can only read weather, I can't predict what it's going to do. It's one of the first things I was taught after I got control of my Mage-powers. The kind of magic I can do often disrupts weather patterns, and I need to know if I'm going to kick up a storm if I build a Gate or something of that nature.”
“Oh, like when 'Lendel died -” Stef replied absently, lost in his own worries.
But Vanyel stiffened, and turned completely in his saddle to face the Bard. “How did you know that?”
Stefen brushed snow away from his face, and felt an odd little chill down his spine at the tone of Vanyel's voice and the odd expression he wore. Van actually looked frightened. Mostly startled, but a little frightened.
“Savil must have told me, or maybe Jisa,” he said, trying to make sense of his own muddled memories and Vanyel's reaction. “I remember somebody must have told me there was a big storm caused mostly by the Gate being made. It was probably Savil, since there was a lot of stuff about how magic works involved in the explanation. I know Savil talked to me about it after I asked her -”
“Why?” Van asked. “Why did you ask her?”
“Because it's a part of you that's important,” Stefen replied in a quietly defensive tone. “I never asked you about it because it seemed like you avoided the subject - I didn't want to hurt you or anything. So I asked Savil if she'd mind talking about it, and she said no, it had been long enough ago that she didn't mind anymore. That was while you were getting back to yourself after that mage attacked us.”
Vanyel relaxed, and lost his haunted look.
“I talked to your parents a lot, too,” Stef said. “I hope you don't mind.” He tried to muster up a hint of mischief. “Treesa and I have a lot in common; she says I'm more fun to have as company than any of her ladies. I helped her get herself settled in when they got here, you know.”
“I didn't know,” Vanyel replied with a kind of absent-minded chagrin. “I just saw Father taking to the job of Councillor like a hound to the chase, and I guess I just assumed Mother would be all right.”
She wasn't all right; she got here and found out that she was in the same position Savil said you were in when you first came here - a provincial noble from the backwater, twenty years behind the fashions, with no knowledge of current gossip or protocol, Stef thought. She saw less of you than before. She was terribly lonely, and if there had been a way to get home, she'd have taken it.
“I thought she was fine. It just seemed like after the first couple of weeks, she was as happy as Father,” Van continued, peering through the curtain of snow at the road ahead. “Every time I'd see her she was the center of attention, surrounded by others.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Was that your doing?”
“Some of it,” Stef admitted. “I coached her, and I introduced her to Countess Bryerly and Lady Gellwin. You probably hadn't noticed, but there isn't much 'court' at Court with Randi so sick and Shavri's time taken up with it. The real Court, the social part, has pretty much moved out of the Crown section of the Palace and into the nobles' suites. And those are the two that really run it. Countess Bryerly is distantly related to the Brendewhins, so that made everything fine. Lady Gellwin took Treesa under her wing as a kind of protege, put her in charge of a lot of the younger girls once she found out that your mother did a lot of fostering.”
A month ago, Vanyel would have been deeply upset that he hadn't thought to make sure his mother was well settled in. Now he only said, “Thank you, Stef. I appreciate your helping her,” and continued to peer up the road.
That's not like him, Stef thought, worriedly. I've never seen him so obsessed before. If he thought we could make any better time by getting off 'Fandes and pushing her, he'd do it. I don't understand what's gotten into him.
The snow was getting thicker; there was no doubt about that. It still wasn't enough to stop them, or to slow them by too much, but Vanyel was obviously concerned. He spoke in an absent tone of voice whenever Stef asked him a direct question, but otherwise he was absolutely silent and inward-centered. The morning lengthened into afternoon, and Stef was afraid to ask him to stop for something to eat and a chance to warm up, even though they passed through three villages with inns that Stef eyed longingly. He was hungry, but worse than the hunger was the cold. Snow kept getting in under his hood and melting, sending runnels of icy water down the back of his neck. He could hardly feel his hands or his nose. There wasn't any wind, but they were creating their own breeze just by moving, and it kept finding its way in through the arm-slits of his cloak. And Melody was suffering, too; she walked steadily in Yfandes' wake with her head down and her eyes half-closed; she was tired, and probably missed her warm stable as much as Stefen missed his room and fireplace.
Finally Yfandes planted all four hooves in the middle of the road and refused to go any farther. Melody actually ran right into her rump before the filly realized the Companion had stopped.
Van seemed to come out of a trance. “All right,” he said crossly. “If that's the way you want it, I guess I don't have a choice.”
“What?” Stef said, startled.
“Not you, ashke, Yfandes. She says she's cold and hungry and she's stopping whether I like it or not.” He dismounted and led her and the chirra over to the side of the road, kicking his way through the soft snow. Stef had to make two tries at dismounting before he could get off; he'd never been so stiff and sore in his life, and he had the sinking feeling it was only going to get worse.
But when he got under the tree, he felt a little resistance in the air - and when he passed it, a breath of warmth melted the snow stuck to his hair. It was more than just a breath of warmth; the entire area beneath the branches was warm, about as warm as a summer day; what snow Van hadn't cleared away was melting, and Yfandes was looking very pleased with herself.
“Van -” Stef said hesitatingly. “Is this a good idea? I mean, I guess you used magic to do this, won't somebody spot it?”
Vanyel shook his head. “I used a Tayledras trick; it's how they shield their valleys. From the outside, even to Mage-Sight, this place looks absolutely the same as it did before we got here; snow-covered trees, and no humans. It'll stay that way until well after we've gone on.” He brushed snow from his cloak and grimaced. “There will still be a trace of magic-use here, though, and if my enemy knows I trained with the Tayledras he'll be able to track us by that, about two days behind our real trail. I'd rather not have done this, but 'Fandes said her joints were getting stiff and she had to get warm, so I didn't have much choice.”
Stef had a sneaking suspicion that 'Fandes had insisted as much for his sake as her own, and he gave her a look of gratitude he hoped she could read. To his astonishment, she turned to look right at him and gave him a slow, deliberate wink when Vanyel's back was turned, rummaging in the chirras' packs.
“Could we sort of change direction every once in a while to throw him off?” Stef said, hoping this meant Van was going to warm up their resting place every time they stopped.
“It won't do much good; he knows we're coming north after him, and there's only a limited number of ways we can travel.” Vanyel sighed, and looked over Stef's shoulder as if he wished they could get back on the road immediately.
Stefen ate his meal in silence. Yfandes sidled up to him and he leaned on her, grateful for the support and for her warmth. It looks like the best I can hope for is that he'll wait until I'm warm clear through before getting back on the road.
“At any rate, this is how we'll camp at night,” Vanyel continued, handing him cold meat, bread, and cheese, and two apples. “I don't want to stop at inns; there could be spies there, and I don't want this mage to know exactly where we are.”
Stef split his second apple and fed half to Yfandes and half to Melody. “Whatever you say, Van,” he replied, hoping he'd be able to get back on his horse when Vanyel wanted to leave. “As long as I can be with you.”
Snow fell, as it had fallen for the past three weeks, as it seemed it would continue to fall for the next three weeks. Not a blizzard; the wind, when there was one, was gentle, and the temperature relatively warm. But the snow was wet and heavy; good snow for playing in, as dozens of children making snow-beasts in their yards attested - but it increased their travel time fourfold. Ironically, considering how much stress Vanyel had put on the fact that he would leave Stef behind if he had to, the chirras were forcing a path through the snow for the two riding, and their progress was set by the chirras' pace.
“How many days can a snowstorm last?” Stef asked, huddled on Melody's back, shivering despite woolen underdrawers, a sweater and a shirt under his tunic, and two sweaters and his cloak over that.
“It's not the same storm, ashke,” Vanyel replied, as he consulted a map, then looked for landmarks. They were supposed to reach the last Guard outpost today, at least according to Vanyel's calculations. That outpost marked the end of the lands Valdemar claimed, and the beginning of territory held by no one except wolves - two and four - legged. And other things - the Pelagirs reached into that territory, and where they ended was anyone's guess. Probably only the Tayledras knew. It also marked the point at which Vanyel and Stefen's “easy” travel ended. They'd be leaving the chirras behind, and what little was left of the supplies, and going on with what Yfandes and Melody could carry - and what Vanyel could conjure up.
By now, Stef was no longer so sore in the morning that he would far rather have died than get up and remount his horse - but the cold never varied, and once out of their little shelter of mage-born warmth in the morning, he was chilled and miserable within a candlemark.
“What do you mean, it isn't one storm?” Stef asked. “It hasn't stopped snowing since we left Haven.”
“It's a series of storms, all coming out of the north,” Van replied, folding the map and storing it carefully in a special pocket on his saddle. “They generally blow out during the night, and a new one moves in just before dawn. The post isn't more than a couple of furlongs away; we should make it there by dusk.” He looked back critically at Stefen. “If they have it to spare, we should get you some warmer clothing. And a better cloak. If I had known you'd feel the cold this badly, I'd have gotten it for you before we left.”
Stefen held his peace.
“You're going to need it,” Vanyel continued, urging the chirra forward, with Yfandes following at its tail. “After this, when we leave the gear and the extra supplies, this trip is going to be much harder on you.”
And not on you? What are you made of, Van? Stone and steel? “I don't see how it can,” Stef replied, since for once, Van seemed to be waiting for an answer. “I'm already frozen most of the time.”
“Because we may be frozen and hungry most of the time,” Vanyel told him, looking back over his shoulder. “We'll eat what I can hunt. I refuse to use magic to bring helpless creatures to me unless I'm literally starving to death.”
“I'm probably a lot more used to being hungry than you are, Lord Vanyel Ashkevron,” Stefen snapped. “I spent most of my life being hungry! I may not be woods-wise, but I'm not as helpless as you keep trying to make me out to be!”
Vanyel recoiled a little; his mouth tightened, and he turned away. “I hope for your sake that's true, Stefen,” was all he said as he presented his back to the Bard.
Stef bit his lip and tasted the salt-sweet of blood. Bright move, Stef. Very bright move. What do you use for a mind, dried peas? He brushed snow and hair out of his eyes with a movement that had become habit, and stared at the snow-blanketed woods to his right and left. But dammit, I wish he'd give me credit for being something more than a useless piece of baggage. All right, I'm not a Herald, I don't know how to survive on my own in the woods - but I can help and I've been helping - when m'lord bothers to give me instructions.
Unhappiness, colder and more bitter than the cold, welled up in his throat. Maybe he was right. Maybe I shouldn't have come. Maybe this whole trip is just showing him how little he needs or wants me. Maybe I should stay behind at this Guard post -
Suddenly Yfandes stopped; Melody kept moving past the Companion until Vanyel reached over and caught her reins out of Stefen's hands.
Then he caught Stefen's hands, themselves. “I'm sorry, Stef,” he said, that same wounded-bird look back in his eyes. “I don't give you enough credit. 'Fandes just gave me an earful for some of the things I've been saying and doing to you.”
Stefen tried to smile. “It's all right, really it is -”
“No it's not, but I can't help myself, Stef,” the Herald said through clenched teeth. “I'll probably go right on doing this to you, making you hurt, making you feel like you wish you'd stayed behind. I just hope you can forgive me, because it isn't going to stop. Everything has to take second place to what I'm doing about this enemy of mine, can you understand that?”
“No,” Stefen said truthfully. “But I'll try.”
Vanyel dropped his eyes. “I'm glad you're with me, Stef,” he said, in a whisper. “I'm glad you're sticking this out with me. It would be a lot harder without you. You remind me I'm still human just by being here. You remind me there's something else besides the task I've been set. Something worth more than revenge . . . but I say things I shouldn't because sometimes I don't want to be reminded of that.”
Stefen couldn't think of anything profound to say, but the lump in his throat and stomach were gone, and he felt a great deal warmer than he had in weeks. He freed one hand from Vanyel's and touched his glove to Van's cheek. “I love you,” he said simply, as Vanyel's silver eyes met his again. “That's all that matters, isn't it?”
Vanyel smiled, a flicker of his old self, and patted Stefs hand. “Let's go,” he said, and let go of the Bard's other hand. “The sooner we get into shelter, the happier you'll be.”
The listening look crossed his face again, and he coughed. “'Fandes says, 'to the nine hells with you humans, you have cloaks. The sooner we get to the shelter, the happier I'll be.'“
Stefen smiled - and when Vanyel had turned his attention back to the trail ahead, exchanged winks with the Companion.
Lady, he thought at her, We may not be able to Mind-speak at each other, but I have the feeling you and I are communicating very well, lately.
The Guard post meant a real fire, a real bed, and hot food. And, almost as important, human voices, voices that weren't his and Vanyel's.
There was warmer clothing available, wool underclothes from the Guards' winter stores, sweaters one of the Guardswomen knitted from mixed sheep and chirra wool, the new, fur-lined cloak that had belonged (Stef tried not to think of the ill omen) to a Guardsman that had died of snow-fever before he could ever wear it.
And there was news of the North, news that was at odds with their own mission.
They sat by the fire, hot cider brewing in a kettle. Vanyel and the Post Commander slouched across a tiny table in the corner, while Stef warmed his bones right on the hearth.
“Lady bless, not a thing but the occasional bandit and a bout of snow-fever,” said the Commander, a handsome woman with iron-gray hair and a firm jaw. “Since last summer we haven't even seen the odd Pelagir critter coming over.”
“Not even rumors?” Vanyel asked, as Stef warmed his feet at the fire and played someone's old lute that had been found in the storeroom. The tone wasn't exactly pure, but the Guardsfolk were certainly enjoying it, so he tried not to wince at the occasional dull note. “No hint of activity up there at all?”
“Not a thing,” the Commander replied positively. “The only odd thing's this snow. Never seen it snow so much as it has in the past few weeks. Well, you can see for yourself; we shouldn't have more than one or two thumblengths on the ground right now, and we've got it up to our waists with no end in sight.”
“You mean this isn't normal winter weather?” Vanyel asked, sitting up straight. “I thought - my nephew was up here and carried on like the snow was above the rooftops by midwinter!”
“Hellfires, no, this isn't normal,” the woman laughed. “If your nephew was that young Journeyman Bard we had through here - poor lad, one snowfall and he thought the end of the world was coming in ice! But that was after some of my people scared him half to death with their tales. Normal winter gives us snow every couple of weeks, not day after day. Can't say as I mind it, though. Weather like this is harder on the bandits than it is on us. We got clearing crews; they don't, and it's damn difficult to move through woods this deep in soft snow.”
Stef knew that look, the one Vanyel was wearing now. He finished the song he was on, just about the same time as Van made a polite end to his conversation and headed back to their room.
He gave the lute back to its finder, claiming weariness, and ignoring the knowing looks as he hurried after the Herald.
The guest room did not have a fireplace, and it was in the area of the barracks farthest from the chimneys. Given his choice, this was not where Stef would have gone. The corridor was lit by a couple of dim, smoking lanterns, and Stef would have been willing to swear he saw the smoke freeze as it rose into the air. Vanyel was a dim white shape a little ahead of him; he managed to catch up with the Herald before he reached their door.
“What was it?” he asked, seizing Van's elbow. “What did she say?”
He was half afraid that Van would pull away from him, but the Herald only shook his head and swore under his breath.
“I can't believe how stupid I was,” he said quietly, as he opened the door to their room and motioned Stef to go inside. The candle beside the door and the one next to the bed sprang into life as they entered - the kind of casual use of magic that impressed Stef more than the nightly creation of their shelter, because the use of magic to light a candle implied that Van considered it no more remarkable than using a coal from the fire for the same purpose. That was frightening - that Van could afford to “waste” power that way. . . .
“How were you stupid?” Stef persisted. “What did she tell you other than the fact that they're having odd weather this winter?”
“Odd weather?” Vanyel grimaced. “That's rather like saying Randi's a little ill. You heard her, they've had weeks of snow, not the couple of days' worth they should have had.”
He took his cloak down from the hook next to the door and bundled himself up in it. “Do you still want to be useful?” he asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed and looking up at Stef with the candle flames reflecting in his eyes.
“Of course I want to be useful -” Stef said uncertainly.
“Good. Stand by the door and make sure nobody comes in.” Vanyel put his back against the wall, and pulled the cloak in tightly around himself. He cocked an eyebrow at Stef as the Bard shuffled his feet, hesitantly. “That's not a light request. I'm going into trance. I made the basic mistake of assuming that since I didn't sense any magic in the weather around us that it wasn't wizard weather. Obviously I was wrong.”
“Obviously,” Stef murmured, seeing nothing at all obvious about it.
“So, I'm going to be doing some very difficult weather-working, but I'm going to have to do it at some distance, where these snowstorms are being generated. When I do that, I'll be vulnerable.” He waited for Stefen to respond. After a moment, light did dawn. “Oh - so if there're any agents here -”
“Right. This would be the time for them to act. And since my magical protections are pretty formidable, the easiest thing would be to come after me physically.” Vanyel settled back and closed his eyes.
“Van, what do you want me to do if somebody forces their way in here?” Stef asked, feeling for the hilt of his knife.
Vanyel opened his eyes again. “I want you to stop them however you have to,” he said, his eyes focusing elsewhere. “This is one place where your street-fighting skill is going to do us some good. Take them alive if you can, but don't let them touch me. One of those leech-blades just has to touch the skin to be effective.”
“All right,” Stefen replied, feeling both a little frightened, and better than he had since this trip started. At least now he was doing something. And Van had admitted to needing him to do it. “You can count on me.”
“If I didn't think I could,” Van told him, closing his eyes again, “I wouldn't have asked you, lover.”
Stef started at another noise; the candle had long since burned down to nothing, but he hadn't dared light another. Several times he'd thought he'd heard something outside the locked shutters on the room's single window, but nothing had ever happened.
The sound came again, but this time he realized it was coming from the bed. He groped his way over and sat down; the shapeless bundle of Van moved, and the cloak parted, letting out a faint mist of golden light. Stef gaped in surprise; his present, the amber mage-focus around Van's neck, was glowing ever so slightly. The light it gave off was just enough to see by.
“Anything happen?” Van asked, shaking long, silver-streaked hair out of his eyes. He looked like the old Vanyel; his face had lost some of that hard remoteness. And he sounded like the old Van, as well, his voice held concern for Stef as well as need to know if anything had gone wrong.
“I thought I heard something a couple of times, but other than that, nothing,” Stef told him, still staring at the pendant. “Does it always do that?”
“Does - oh, yes, at least it has for a while. That's the best gift anyone's ever given me, especially now,” Van said, his eyes and voice both warming. He stretched, throwing his cloak back a little and reaching high over his head, ending with one hand lying lightly on Stef's knee. “Having the focus to feed raw power through has made a lot of this much easier on me. I don't always have time to use it, but when I do, it extends my reach and my strength. I'm glad you cared enough about me to find it for me, ashke.” He smiled, and Stef warmed all through. “The snow should stop in about a candlemark, and it won't start again the way it has been.”
The abrupt change of subject didn't confuse Stef as much a it might have this time. “So it was wizard weather, then. Did you find out where it was coming from?”
“Vaguely. On the other side of this forest; possibly up in the mountains.” Van massaged his right hand with his left. “That's the strange part, Stef, I've never heard of a powerful mage coming out of that area before. A few tribal shamans, certainly, but never an Adept-class mage.”
“Who says he has to have come from there?” Stef replied, taking Van's hand and massaging it for him. He's treating me like a partner now, and not like a liability. “He could have come from somewhere else, the Pelagirs or Iftel, maybe, and moved in there because there's no one there. That's what I would do if I were a mage and wanted to build myself up before I took on the world. I'd go up where there aren't any mages. No rivals, no competition.”
“That's reasonable, I suppose,” Van admitted. “Listen, lover, how upset would you be at not staying the couple of days we planned here - at leaving at first light?”
“I told you I wasn't going to hold you back,” Stefen said, with a purely internal sigh of regret. “I'm not going to start now by breaking that promise. If you want to leave, we'll leave.”
“I was hoping you'd say that,” Van replied, kicking off his boots. Stef took his cloak from him, and started peeling off his own clothing, expecting that, as usual, the use of magery would have left Vanyel too tired to do anything but sleep.
Until he felt Van's hands sliding under his shirt.
“Here,” the Herald breathed in his ear. “Let me help you with that. This may be our last real bed for a while...”
In the morning, that brief glimpse of the old Vanyel was gone. Van was back to his new patterns; remote, silent, face unreadable, eyes wary. Stef sighed, but he hadn't really expected anything different. At least I know that down under the obsession, he's still the same person, he thought, dressing quickly in a room so cold that his breath frosted. So when this is over, I'll have him back again the way he was. It was beginning to look like I'd lost the Van I love. . . .
They saddled up and rode out without more than a cursory farewell. Stef had learned how to take care of Melody entirely on his own while they'd been on the road, now he didn't even think twice about getting her brushed down and saddled, he just did it without waiting for the groom's help.
Most of what they were carrying was food for Yfandes and Melody. There was a certain amount of provender out here, even in the depth of winter, and Vanyel could, if he chose, force-grow more overnight in their shelters. He could even Fetch a limited amount every night from the stores here at the Guard post, which was probably what he was going to do. But the fact was it was harder to feed the horse and the Companion out here in the winter woods than it was to feed the humans, so their needs took priority over Van and Stef's.
Stef was very glad for his new clothing, motley though it was, the moment they got out of the shelter of the palisade around the Guard post. Though the sky was as clear as Van had promised - in fact, for the first time in weeks, Stef saw the Morning Stars, Lythan and Leander, on the eastern horizon-it was colder than it had been while it was snowing.
A lot colder. Already Stefs nose was numb, and he was very glad of the wool scarf wrapped around his ears under the hood of his cloak.
Vanyel looked to the east, where the sky was just beginning to turn pink, and frowned a little. But he said nothing, only urged Yfandes on, into the marginally clearer place between the trees that marked what passed for a road up here.
The sun rose - and at the moment it got above the tree-tops, Stef knew what had caused Van to frown. Though weak by summer standards, the clear sunlight poured through the barren branches and reflected off of every surface, doubling, even tripling its effect on the eyes. The ground was a blinding, undulating expanse of white, bushes and undergrowth were mounds of eye-watering whiteness - in fact, Stef pulled his head completely inside the hood of his cloak and rode with his eyes squinted partly shut after a few moments. The only relief was when they passed through sections of conifers that overshadowed the road and blocked the sunlight. Once out of their shade, the reflected sunlight seemed twice as painful as before.
Still Vanyel pressed on, even though Melody and even Yfandes tripped and stumbled because they couldn't see where they were going, and couldn't guess at obstacles under the cover of snow. The farther they got from the Border, the thinner the snow-cover became, but the snow and the light reflected from it were still there, still a problem, even past midday - and they did not take their usual break to eat and rest. Finally Stef pulled Melody to a halt. She hung her head, breath steaming, sweating, obviously grateful for a chance to stop. Yfandes went on for a few more lengths, then paused. It took Vanyel several moments to notice that Stef was no longer behind him.
He turned and peered back through the snow-glare; hooded, White-clad Herald on his white Companion, he was hard to make out against the snow, and he looked like an ice-statue.
His voice was as cold as the chill air. “Why did you stop?”
“Because Melody and Yfandes need the rest you didn't take,” Stef told him bluntly. “Look at Yfandes, look at how heavily she's breathing, how she's sweating! They don't have the chirras in front of them to break a path, Van, they need their rest at noon more than ever -”
“We don't have the time,” Vanyel snapped, interrupting him.
“We don't have a choice,” Stef countered. “Yfandes will carry you until she drops, but what good are you going to be able to do if you kill her?” He nudged Melody with his heels, and she covered the few steps between them stiffly and reluctantly. He gestured at Yfandes, who had taken the same posture as Melody; head down, eyes closed, sides heaving. “Van, look at her, look at what you're doing to her. Hellfires, look at what you're doing to yourself! You can't see, you haven't eaten or had anything to drink since before dawn, and for what? This enemy of yours isn't going anywhere - he's going to be right where he's been all along!”
“But he knows we're coming -” Vanyel began.
“So what difference does that make?” Stefen sniffed, fighting back that traitorous lump that kept getting in the way of what he wanted to say, and rubbed his nose with the back of his glove. “He hasn't done much except throw a little snow at us so far, and that snow might not even have been thrown at us. Van, you're forgetting everything that makes you someone special, that makes you a Herald, every time you start focusing in on this enemy of yours. I mean, that's really it, he isn't an enemy of Valdemar anymore, he's a personal enemy, someone you want to take on by yourself - and you're running over everything and everybody in your path to get at him! Me, Randale, even Yfandes; none of us matter, as long as you can personally destroy this mage! Don't you see that? Don't you see what you're becoming?”
“You -” Vanyel's expression hardened still more, and he drew himself up, stiffly. “You have no idea of what you're talking about. You aren't a Herald, Stefen - you wouldn't even stand by Randale. How can you presume to judge -”
That was as far as he got. Yfandes jerked her head up, and trumpeted an alarm, but it was too late.
Men - hundreds, it seemed-burst through the snow-covered bushes on either side of the road. Melody started awake at Yfandes' scream, then shied violently at the shouting creatures running toward her. Stef clung to her saddle, bewildered -
Ambush? he thought, trying to hold onto Melody as she bucked and shied again, while Vanyel did something with his hands and balls of fire appeared from nowhere to burst in their attackers faces. But -
The exploding fire was the last straw so far as Melody was concerned. She screamed and fled, stumbling, down their backtrail, and bucked Stef off before they had gone more than two lengths.
Stefen went flying headfirst into a snowdrift, and came up, scraping snow out of his eyes, just in time to see Vanyel cut an axe-wielding attacker in half with his sword, while Yfandes mashed in a second man's face with her hindfeet.
At that moment Stef forget everything he ever was, and everything he ever knew. He was no longer thinking, only feeling - and the only thing he felt was fear.
And the only thing of any importance in the entire world was getting away from there.
He turned and ran. Ran as hard as he'd ever run in his life, with fear driving him and nipping at his heels. Ran along the backtrail and then off into the bushes, with branches lashing at him and buried protrusions tripping him.
Ran until he simply couldn't run anymore, until the sounds of fighting were lost in the distance, until he ran out of breath and strength and collapsed into the snow, lungs on fire, mouth parched, sides an agony, legs too weak to hold him.
He lay where he fell, waiting for one of the ambushers to come after him and kill him, fear making him whimper and tremble, but too spent even to crawl.
But nothing happened.
He pulled in great shuddering breaths of air, sobbing with fright, while his body finally stopped shaking with exhaustion and began shivering with cold. And still nothing happened.
He levered himself up out of the snow, and there was nothing in sight; no enemies, not even a bird. Only the snow-covered bushes he had fallen into, blue sky, bare tree-branches making a pattern of interlace across it, and the churned-up mess of snow and dead leaves of his backtrail through the undergrowth.
He listened, while fear ebbed and sense returned, slowly. He heard nothing, nothing whatsoever.
And finally thought returned as well. Van! Dear gods - I left him alone back there -
He struggled to his feet, and fought his way back through the bushes, staring wildly about. Still there was neither sight nor sound of anything.
Dearest gods, how could I do that -
Once again he ran, this time driven by guilt, along the swath his flight had cut through the snow and the forest undergrowth. He burst through a cluster of bushes onto the road, and literally stumbled onto the site of the ambush.
There was blood everywhere; blood, and churned-up snow and dirt, and bits of things that made Stef sick when he saw them - bits of things that looked like they had belonged to people.
Then his eyes focused on the center of the mess, on something he had first taken for a heap of snow.
Yfandes. Down, lying in a crumpled heap, like a broken toy left by a careless child, blood oozing from the stump where her tail had been chopped off.
No sign of Vanyel.
No -
Stef stumbled to Yfandes' side, afraid of what he would find. But there was nothing, no body, nothing. Yfandes had been stripped of her harness and saddle, and a trail of footprints and bloody snow led away from where she lay.
No -
His legs wouldn't hold him. His mind could not comprehend what had happened. In all the endless things he had imagined, there had been nothing like this. Vanyel had never been defeated - he never could be defeated.
No, no, no -
His heart tried to deny what his eyes were telling him; his mind was caught between the two in complete paralysis. He touched Yfandes' flank with a trembling hand, but she did not move, and Vanyel did not reappear to tell him that it was all a ruse.
His heart cracked in a thousand pieces.
NO!
He flung back his head, and howled.
“Damen!”
The boy started, fear so much a part of him that he no longer noticed it, and looked up from the pot he was tending on the hearth across the smoke-filled hall to the doorway.
The Lord. He cringed into the ashes on the hearthstones, expecting Lord Rendan to stalk over and deliver a blow or a kick. The men had gone out every day for the past two weeks on the orders of Master Dark, and had always come back empty-handed. Tempers were short, and Damen was usually the one who bore the brunt of those tempers.
But nothing happened, and his fear ebbed a little; he coughed and took a second look, raking his hair out of his eyes with a greasy hand and peering through a thicker puff of smoke and soot that an errant breeze sent down the half-choked chimney. Lord Rendan stood blocking the open doorway, arms laden with something bulky, a scowl on his face. But it wasn't the scowl Damen had come to dread these past two weeks, the one that told of failure on Rendan's part and punishment to come for Damen -
The boy scrambled to his bare feet, slipping a little on a splash of old tallow, and scuttled through the rotting straw and garbage that littered the floor to the lord's side. “Here,” Rendan growled, thrusting the bundle at him. Damen took it in both arms, the weight making him stagger, as Rendan grabbed his shoulder and turned him toward the hearth. “Put it over there, on the bench,” the lord snapped, as his fingers dug into Damen's shoulder, leaving one more set of bruises among the rest. The boy stumbled obediently toward the bench and dropped his burden, only then seeing that it was a saddle and harness, blood-spattered, but of fine leather and silver-chased steel.
A saddle? But we don't have any horses -
The lord threw something else atop the pile; white and shining, a cascade of silver hair -
A horse's tail; a white horse's tail, the raw end still bloody.
Before Damen could stir his wits enough to wonder what that meant, the rest of the men crowded in through the keep door, cursing and shouting, bringing the cold and snow in with them. Damen rubbed his nose on his sleeve, then scuttled out of the way. He stood as close to the fire as he could, for in his fourth-hand breeches and tattered shirt he was always cold. He counted them coming in, as he always did, for the number varied as men were recruited or deserted and may the gods help him if he didn't see that all of them had food and drink.
One hand's-worth, two hands, three and four hands - and five limp bodies, carried by the rest. One cut nearly in half; Gerth the Axe -
An' no loss there, Damen thought, with a smirk he concealed behind a cough. One less bastard t' beat me bloody when 'e's drunk, an' try an' get into me breeches when 'e's sober.
The others dropped Gerth's hacked-up body beside the door. Two more bodies joined his, bodies blackened and burned; Heverd and Jess. Damen dismissed them with a shrug; they were no better and no worse than any of the others, quite forgettable by his standards.
A fourth with the face smashed in was laid beside the rest, and Damen had to take account of the other faces before he decided it must be Resley the Liar. A pity, that - the Liar could be counted on to share a bit of food when the pickings were thin and there wasn't enough to go around, provided a lad had something squirreled away to trade.
But there was a fifth body, white-clad and blood-smeared; certainly no one Damen recognized. And that one was thrown down beside the pile of harness, not next to the door. An old man, he thought, seeing the long, silver-threaded hair; but that was before they dumped him unceremoniously beside the bench. Then the face came into the flickering firelight, and Damen blinked in confusion, for the face was that of a young man, not an old one, and a very handsome young man at that, quite as pretty as a girl. He was apparently unconscious, and tied hand and foot, and it occurred to Damen that this might be what Master Dark had set them all a-hunting these past two weeks.
He didn't have any time to wonder about the prisoner, for a few of the men set to stripping the bodies of their fellows and quarreling over the spoils, while the rest shouted for food and drink.
Damen gathered up the various bowls and battered cups that served as drinking vessels, and balanced them in precarious stacks in his arms. He passed among the men while they grabbed whatever was uppermost on the pile in his arms and filled their choice from the barrel atop the slab table in the center of the hall. Drink always came first in Lord Rendan's hall; sour and musty as the beer always was, it was still beer and the men drank as much of it as they could hold. Damen returned to the hearth, wrapped the too-long sleeves of his cast-off shirt around his hands and grabbed the end of the spit nearest him, heaving the half-raw haunch of venison off the fire. It fell in the fire, but the men would never notice a little more ash on the burned crust of the meat. He staggered back to the table under his burden of flesh, and heaved it with a splatter of juices up onto the surface beside the barrel, on top of the remains of last night's meal. Those that weren't too preoccupied with gulping down their second or third bowl of beer staggered over to the table to hack chunks off with their knives.
Now the last trip; the boy picked up whatever remained of the containers that hadn't been claimed as drinking vessels, and filled them one at a time from the pot of pease-pottage he'd been tending. He brought them, dripping, to the table, and slopped them down beside the venison, saving only one for himself. He was not permitted meat until the last of the men had eaten their fill, and he was not permitted beer at all.
He sat on his heels next to the hearth, and watched the others warily, gobbling his food as fast as he could, cleaning the bowl with his fingers and then licking it and them bare of the last morsel. Too many times in the past, one or more of the men had thought it good sport to kick his single allotted bowl of porridge out of his hands before he'd eaten more than half of it. Now he tried always to finish before any of the rest of them did.
But tonight the men had other prey to occupy them. As Damen tossed his bowl to the side and wrapped his arms around his skinny legs, Lord Rendan got up, still chewing, and strolled over to the side of the prisoner. The man was showing some signs of life now; moaning a little, and twitching. The Lord kicked him solidly in the side, and Damen winced a little, grateful that he wasn't on the receiving end of the blow.
Then Rendan reached down and untied the man, who didn't seem to understand that he'd been freed. The man acted a great deal like Rendan's older brother had, after his skull had been broken. Lord Gelmar hadn't died, not right away, but he couldn't walk or speak, and he'd acted as if he was falling-down drunk for more than a week before Rendan got tired of it and had him “taken outside.”
“Careful, Rendan, he's like t' do ye -” one of the men called out.
“Not with that spell on 'im,” the Lord laughed. “That powder Master Dark sent down with his orders was magicked. This 'un can hear and see us, but he can't do nothing.” He kicked the man again, and the prisoner cried out, scrabbling feebly in the dirt of the floor.
“Just what is this beggar, anyway?” Kef Hairlip asked. “What's so bleedin' important 'bout him that the Master wants 'im alive an' talkin'? 'Ow come 'e 'ad us an' ever' other bunch 'twixt 'ere an' the mountains lookin' fer 'im?”
Tan Twoknives answered before the Lord could, standing up with a leaky mug in one hand and one of his knives in the other. “Kernos' balls, boy, haven't you never seen a Herald before?” He hawked and spat a gobbet of phlegm that fell just short of the prisoner's leg. “Bloody bastards give us more trouble'n fifty Kingsmen 'cross the Border, an' stick their friggin' noses inta ever'body's business like they got nothin' else t'do.”
He shoved his knife back into his belt and swigged the last of his beer, then slammed the mug down on the table and strode forward to prod the prisoner himself.
Some of the others muttered; they all looked avid, greedy. More than half the band had long-standing grudges against Heralds; Damen knew that from the stories they told - though few of them had ever actually seen one. Mostly they'd been on the receiving end of Herald - planned ambushes or counter-raids, or been kicked in the teeth by Herald magic, without ever seeing their foe face-to-face. Heralds, Damen had reckoned (at least until now) were like the Hawkmen of the deep woods. You heard plenty of stories about them, and maybe even saw some of what they did to others that crossed their path, but if you were lucky, you never encountered one yourself.
Well, now they had one, and he didn't seem quite so formidable...
“So, what's the Master's orders about this bastard, Rendan?” Tan asked prodding the prisoner with his toe again. “He's gotta be alive and talkin', but what else?”
Rendan crossed his arms, and looked down at the man, who had gone very silent and stopped moving. “He hasta be alive,” Rendan said after a moment. “But the Master didn't say no more than that. The reward's th' same whether or not he's feelin' chipper.”
Tan smiled crookedly, his yellowed and broken teeth flashing as he tucked his thumbs into his belt. “Well, if that's all he said - what'dye say t' gettin' some of our own back, eh?”
Damen nodded to himself, and tucked himself back farther next to the fireplace in the damp corner that he called his own. He knew that smile, knew that tone of voice. He blanked what had followed the last time he heard it out of his mind. He did not want to remember.
“I think that's a very good idea, Tan,” Lord Rendan replied with a matching smile. He hauled the prisoner up by the front of his tunic, and threw him to Tan, who held him up until he stood erect -
Then punched him in the stomach with all his considerable strength.
The man doubled over and staggered backward toward Rendan, who leaned back against the table and kicked him toward one of the other men.
This amused them for a while, but after everyone had a turn or two, the novelty of having a victim who couldn't fight back and couldn't really react properly to the pain he was in began to bore them - as Damen had known it would, eventually. The only thing that actually did fight back was the thing the man had around his neck - it had burned whoever tried to take it, and eventually they left it on him.
Tan was the last to give up; he kneed the man in the groin and let him drop to the ground, limbs twitching. He stared at the Herald for a long time, before another slow smile replaced the scowl he'd been wearing.
He picked up a piece of the fancy horse-harness, a blue-leather strap embellished with silver brightwork, and turned it around and around in his hands. The prisoner moaned, and tried to crawl away, but succeeded only in turning over onto his back. He opened blind-looking silver eyes and stared right at Damen, though there was no sign that he actually saw the boy. There was a bruise purpling one cheekbone, and his right eye was just beginning to swell - but those injuries were nothing at all. Most of the blows had been to the vulnerable parts of the body, and Damen knew of men who'd died from less than the Herald had taken.
The Herald closed his eyes again, and made a whimpering sound in the back of his throat. That seemed to make up Tan's mind for him.
He reached for the man's hair with one hand, still holding the harness-strap in the other.
“Ah . . . y'sweet little horsey! Hah!” Tan rose from his knees, breathing heavily, refastening his breeches. “Who's next?” he asked, laughing. “Which o' ye stallion's gon' mount our little white mare? Little pup's's good's a woman!”
Damen couldn't watch. He'd been in that position before, when they'd first lured him out here, and away from another band, with promises of gold and feasting. Exactly the same position, except that he'd been forced over the bench, not a saddle, and he'd been whipped and brutally tied with rope-ends instead of harness. That was what he had tried hard not to remember -
He curled up in his corner, and buried his head in his arms, trying to block it all out. He could hide his eyes, but there was nowhere to hide from the sounds; the weak cries of pain, the rhythmic grunts, the soft wet sounds and throaty howls of pleasure, the creak of leather and jingle of harness.
It ain't me this time, he said to himself, over and over. It don't matter. It ain't me. He rubbed his wrists and stared in frightened paralysis at the floor, remembering how the ropes had torn into his skin, and how the men had laughed at his cries of agony.
And finally, he managed to convince himself, though he waited with shivering apprehension for the ones who hadn't yet had a turn to remember that he was in the hearth-corner, and that the bench was still unoccupied.
Not everyone had a taste for Tan's sport, though - either they weren't drunk enough, or the man wasn't young enough to tempt them, or any other of a dozen possible reasons, including that they still secretly feared the Herald despite his present helplessness.
Or they weren't convinced that Master Dark would be pleased with the results of this little diversion.
They all forgot Damen was even there - those that joined Tan in the helpless man's rape and those that simply watched and laughed, then wandered off to drink themselves stuporous and fall into one of the piles of old clothing, straw, and rags that most of them used for beds. Finally even Tan had enough; the noises stopped, except for a dull sound that could have been the Herald's moaning, or the wind.
Damen dozed off then, only to feel the toe of a boot prodding the sore spot on his rib cage from the last kick he'd gotten. He leapt to his feet, cowering back against the wall, blinking and shivering.
It was Lord Rendan again. “Go clean that mess up, boy,” he said, jerking his chin at the huddled, half-clothed shape just at the edge of the firelight. “Clean him up, then lock him in the storeroom.”
Damen edged past the Lord, then fumbled his way across the drunk and snoring bodies to where the prisoner still lay.
He'd been trussed and gagged with the harness, knees strapped to either end of the saddle, and as a kind of cruel joke, the silvery-white horse-tail had been fastened onto his rump. He was very thin, even fragile-looking, and his pale skin was so mottled with purple bruises he looked like the victim of some kind of strange plague.
Damen struggled with the strange straps and buckles and finally got him free of the saddle, but even after the boy had gotten him completely loose, the prisoner wouldn't - or maybe couldn't - do anything but thrash feebly and moan deep in his chest. Damen tugged his clothing more-or-less back into place, but the Herald didn't even notice he was there.
Get 'im inta the storeroom, 'e says. 'Ow'm I s'pposed t' do that? Damen spat in disgust, squatted on his heels to study the situation, and finally seized the man by the collar and hauled him across the floor and through the storeroom door.
The Lord lit a torch at the fire and brought it over, examining the prisoner by its light. The Herald had curled upon his side in a fetal position, and even Damen could tell he was barely breathing.
They did 'im, fer sure, he thought. 'It 'im too hard one way or 'tother. 'E don' look like 'e's gonna last th' night.
Evidently Lord Rendan came to the same conclusion. He cursed under his breath, then threw the torch to the ground, where it sputtered and went out. Damen waited for the accustomed kick or slap, but the Lord had more important matters to worry about.
When Lord Rendan wanted to make the effort, he could have even hardened animals like Tan jumping to his orders. Before Damen could blink, he had a half dozen men on their feet, shaking in their patched and out-at-heel boots. Before the boy had any idea what the Lord had in mind, those men were out the door and into the cold and dark of the night.
The Lord returned to the storeroom with another torch, and stuck it into the dirt of the floor. And to Damen's utter surprise, Lord Rendan wrapped the prisoner in his own cloak, and forced a drink of precious brandywine down his throat.
“Stay with him, boy,” the Lord ordered, laying the man back down again. “Keep him breathing. Because if he don't last till the Healer gets here - Master Dark is goin' t' be real unhappy.”
Damen began shivering, and squatted down beside the man, piling everything that could pass for a covering atop him. He remembered what had happened to Lord Rendan's younger brother, the last time Master Dark had been unhappy with the band.
Sometimes you could hear him screaming when the wind was right. Master Dark had decided to recreate a legend, about a demigod whose eyes were torn out, and whose flesh was food for the birds by day and regrew every night. . . .
Not even Tan ate crewlie-pie after that, though the carrion-birds grew sleek and fat and prospered as never before.
No, Damen did not want Master Dark to be unhappy. Not ever.
Old Man Brodie bent over and ran his hands along the roan colt's off foreleg. He let his Healing senses extend – carefully - into the area of the break, just below the knee.
And let the energy flow.
A few moments later, he checked his progress. Bone callus; good. And under if ... hmm . . . knitting nicely. No more running about creekbeds for you, my lad; I'll bet you learned your lesson this time.
He withdrew - as carefully as his meager skills would allow him to. The horse shuddered and champed at the unexplainable twinge in its leg, sidled away from the old man, then calmed. Ach ... too rough on leaving. He regretted his lack of polish every day of his life since he'd failed as a Healer, the way he'd barely get a job done, never completely or with anything approaching style.
And never without causing as much pain to his patient as he was trying to cure-pain which he shared, and pain which he could, after several years of it, bear no longer.
His teachers had told him that he was his own worst enemy, that his own fear of the pain was what made it worse and made him clumsy. He was willing to grant that, but knowing intellectually what the problem was and doing something about it proved to be two different matters.
And that hurt, too.
Finally he just gave up; turned in his Greens and walked north until the road ran out. Here, where no one knew of his failure and his shame, he set himself up as an animal Healer, making a great show of the use of poultices and drenches, purges and doses, to cover the fact that he was using his Gift. His greatest fear had been that someday, someone would discover his deception, and uncover what he had been.
He stood up, cursing his aching back; and the colt, with the ready forgiveness of animals, sidled up to him and nibbled his sleeve. Brodie's breath steamed, illuminated by the wan light from the cracked lantern suspended from the beam over his head. He was glad the farmer had brought the colt into the barn; it would have been hellish working on a break kneeling in the snow. “That'll do him, Geof,” Brodie said, slinging the bag that held his payment-a fat, smoke-cured ham-over his shoulder. The farmer nodded brusquely, doing his best to mask his relief at not having to put down a valuable animal. “He won't be any good for races, and I'd keep him in the barn over winter if I was you, but he'll be pulling the plow like his dam come spring, and a bad foreleg isn't going to give him trouble at stud.”
The colt sniffed at the straw at his feet.
“Thankee, Brodie,” Geof Larimar said, abandoning his pretense at calm. “When I found 'im, allus I could think of was that 'is dam's over twenty, an' what was I gonna do come spring if she failed on me? I 'predate your comin' out in th' middle of th' night an' all.”
“I appreciate the ham -” Brodie replied, scratching the colt's ears, “and I'd rather you called me when the injuries are fresh, it's easier to treat 'em that way.”
“I coulda swore that leg was broke, though,” Geof went on inexorably, and Brodie went cold all over. “He couldn't put a hair worth o' weight on it -”
“Bad light and being hailed out of bed are enough to fool any man,” Brodie interrupted. “Here - feel the swelling?” he guided the farmer's hand to the area he'd just treated, still swollen and hot to the touch from the increased blood flow he'd forced there. “Dislocation, and a hell of a lot easier to put back in when it's just happened than if he'd had it stiffen overnight.”
“Ah,” the farmer said, nodding sagely. “That'd be why 'e couldn't put weight on it.”
“Exactly.” Brodie relaxed; once again he'd managed to keep someone off the track. He yawned hugely. “Well, I'd best be on my way. Could stand a bit more sleep.”
Geof showed him out and walked with him as far as the gate. From there Brodie took the lonely little path through the creek-bottom to his isolated hut.
Not isolated enough, he brooded. That Dark bastard managed to find me. . . .
For he hadn't been able to keep his secret from everyone. Three years ago, a handsome young man had come strolling up to his very door and proceeded to tell him, with an amused expression, everything he didn't want anyone to know. Then informed him that he would make all this public - unless Brodie agreed to “do him a favor now and again.”
The “favors” turned out to be Healing an endless stream of ruffians and bandits who came to his door by night, each bearing “Master Dark's” token. Their injuries were always the kind gotten in combat - Brodie asked no questions, and they never said anything. But after the first two, when it became evident that these patients were never better, than thieves and often worse, Brodie began taking a twisted sort of satisfaction in his lack of skill where they were concerned. It only seemed right that in order to be Healed these cutthroats suffered twice the pain they would have if they'd recovered naturally.
Brodie was altogether glad that it was the dead of winter. He seldom saw more than two or three of them during the coldest months. ...
He squinted up at the sky; first quarter moon, and the sky as clear as crystal. It would be much colder, come dawn.
He heaved himself up the steep, slippery side of the cut, and onto the path that led to his hut.
And froze at the sound of a voice.
“About time, ye ol' bastid,” growled a shadow that separated itself from a tree trunk and strode ruthlessly toward him. “Time t' pay yer rent agin. Th' Master needs ye.”
“What in Kernos' name did you do to him?” Brodie spluttered, white and incoherent with rage. Having to patch up one of these bastards was bad enough - but being called on to save one of their half-dead victims, presumably so that they could deliver similar treatment to him again - it was more than Brodie was willing to take silently.
The man was catatonic and just barely alive. Raped, beaten to unconsciousness, a cursory examination told Brodie he was bleeding internally in a dozen places, and only a wiry toughness that gave the lie to his fragile appearance had saved him from death before Brodie ever got there.
The so-called “Lord” Rendan shrugged. “It's none of your concern, Healer,” he growled. “Master Dark wants this man, and he wants him alive and able to talk. You Heal him; that's all you need to know. You'd better do a good job, too, or else. . . .”
Rendan smirked, showing a set of teeth as rotten as his soul, and his less-than-subtle threat chilled Brodie's heart. This was more than simple risk of exposure, then, this was his life that was in danger now.
But if he showed his fear . . . working with beasts had taught him that displaying fear only makes the aggressor more inclined to attack.
“Get out of here, and let me work in peace,” he growled, hoping the flickering of the single candle Rendan had brought into the storeroom hid the shaking of his hands. “Animals, the lot of you. Worse than animals, not even a rabid pig would do something like this! Go on, get out, and I'll see if anything can be done. And leave the damned candle! You think I'm an owl? And send in the boy - I may need him. He's practically useless, but the rest of you are worse.”
Rendan lost his smirk, confronted by defiance where he didn't expect it, demands where he expected acquiescence, and reluctantly sidled out, leaving Brodie alone with his desperate work.
Gods of light - Brodie didn't have to touch the man to know that it was a good thing he was unconscious. Every nerve was afire with pain. Brodie removed the heap of rags covering him carefully, all too aware of how the least little movement would make what was agony into torture for both of them.
The man was already a strange one; hair streaked with silver as any old gaffer, yet plainly much younger, and under the bruises was a face that would set maidens swooning. When Brodie got down to his clothing he frowned, trying to remember where he'd heard of white garments like this man wore.
Something out of Valdemar wasn't it? Kingsmen of some kind. Not Harpers-Heralds? What's a Kingsman of Valdemar doing outside his borders?
Well, it didn't much matter; the man's labored breathing told Brodie that if he didn't do something quickly, this particular Kingsman would be serving from under the sod.
All right, you poor lad, Brodie thought, nerving himself for the plunge. Let's see how bad you really are. . . .
Stef's throat was raw, and his eyes swollen when he finally got control of himself again. He scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand, and carefully slowed his breathing.
Oh, gods, control yourself. Look at the facts, Stef; Van's gone. This isn't doing anybody any good. He's not dead, or there'd be a body. Besides, I'd know if he was dead. That means they took him away somewhere. They left a trail even I can follow, which means wherever they took him, I can find him. And if I can find him, maybe I can get him loose.
He took steady, deep breaths of air so cold it made his lungs ache, and looked up at the dark, star-strewn sky. Night had fallen while he'd cried himself senseless; there was a clear quarter-moon, so he should have no trouble reading the trail the ambushers had left. The moon was amazingly bright for the first quarter; so bright he had no trouble making out little details, like the drops of blood slowly oozing from the stump where poor Yfandes' tail had been chopped off -
Suddenly his breath caught in his throat. She's bleeding! Dead things don't bleed!
But if she isn't dead, why does she look dead?
Magic - has to be. And magic's the only way they'd have taken Van down . . . like the magic that got Savil and the others. And since I didn't see anything that acted like a mage before I - Well, that means it was probably a magic weapon, something any fool could use. Probably something still here.
Galvanized by the thought, he began searching Yfandes' body meticulously, thumblength by thumblength, searching for something - anything that might qualify as a weapon. He wasn't certain what it would be, except that he had a vague notion it might be something very like that leech-dagger - the ploy had worked once, and people tended to repeat themselves . . . another dagger, maybe, or an arrow.
Almost a candlemark later, he found what he thought might be what he was looking for; a tiny dart, hardly longer than the first joint of his index finger, buried in Yfandes' shoulder, hidden by her mane. It tingled when he touched it, in the way he'd come to associate with magic. Maybe it wasn't what he thought it was -
But he gripped it as carefully as he could, and pulled, praying he wasn't leaving anything behind.
Yfandes drew a great, shuddering breath. Then another.
And suddenly Stefen was bowled over backward into a heap of bloodstained snow as she surged to her feet, and pivoted on her hindquarters, teeth bared, eyes rolling, looking for a target.
Her eyes met his.
Brodie ignored the aches of his body, the noisy breathing of the child beside him. He found himself doing things he never thought he could, driven by a rage that increased with every new injury he uncovered.
The young man had some slight Gift of Healing, and a boundless store of energy, which was certainly what had kept him alive all this time.
The Feel of blue-green Healing power was unmistakable, and Brodie approached the man's injuries cautiously after he first passed the man's low-level shields and encountered it. It was well that he did so. ...
Dear gods- Everywhere he looked there was Healing magic; low-level, but comprehensive. There was a fine net of Healing holding each critical hurt stable, sealing off the worst of the bleeding, keeping the swelling down. Brodie had to insinuate himself delicately into that net, replacing its energies with his own. But once he did that, he found that he now had an awesome amount of power available to him - such a tremendous amount that it was frightening.
He isn't a Healer - and I can't See that he's a mage, much less an Adept-class - but where in the gods' names did he get this reservoir of power from? What is he? And why is it Dark wants him?
But there was something subtly interfering with Brodie's own powers, and keeping the man from doing anything effective about his hurts. Then Brodie identified what it was - when he finally had a breath to spare and could take a more leisurely look at the major repair work he had ahead of him.
For when he probed into the man's abilities, beneath a shell of external blockage was something that Brodie suspected had to be Mage-Gift, though the blockage had it so sealed off that until then the Healer had not seriously considered that the man might be a mage. But Mage-Gift tied in and integrated with all the others in quite a remarkable way, so that interference with it rendered the rest of the man's abilities ineffective or impaired.
Brodie smiled, withdrew a little, and contemplated the external matrix of the spellblock. From within it was perfectly smooth, perfectly created to leave no crack and no opening that a mage so entrapped could use to break it open.
But from the outside - that was a different story entirely. The outside of the thing was rutted, creviced and full of weak spots. Brodie had no doubt that even a simple Healer like himself could find some way to break it open. After all, if a Healer could get through another person's shields to treat him, he ought to be able to break into a blocking-spell providing he could find something his power could work on. Half the battle was being able to See what was wrong; or so his teachers had always told him. “If you can See it, you can act on it -” was the rule.
Brodie had never heard of a Healer breaking a spell, but after all the things he'd done so far, things he'd have sworn that he, at least couldn't do, he was willing to try this one.
The spell probably accounted for the man's catatonia - and no one had ordered Brodie not to interfere with it. Rendan had, in fact, told him to do “whatever it takes.” He actually had permission, if oblique, to do exactly what he wanted to do.
He smiled again, seeing the perfect revenge for everything Rendan and Master Dark had done to him within reach, for when this man came back to himself again and found he was no longer blocked. . . .
“I just can't Heal him without cracking this thing,” he said aloud to the boy, just on the chance that the child might be a spy for his master. He savored the words as he spoke them. “My goodness, I can't imagine what it could be for, but it's certainly keeping me from doing my job.”
The boy scratched his head, then caught and killed a flea crawling across his forehead. He looked at the wall beyond the Healer incuriously. Brodie smiled again. The child's no more than he seems. No one is going to interfere.
And with that, he set himself to examining the spell-net, energy-pulse by energy-pulse. And found, much sooner than he expected, the point of vulnerability.
The spell was also tied into the man's physical condition, rendering his sense of balance useless and confusing his other senses, so that sight and sound were commingled and impossible to sort out. The man would be seeing speech as well as hearing it, for instance, and hearing color as well as seeing it.
But where the spell touched on the physical, the Healer had a point where his power could affect it. And since the spell was an integrated unit, once a weakness was exploited, the rest could be disintegrated and destroyed from within.
Brodie laughed out loud, formed his power into a bright green stiletto-point, and set to work, chiseling his way into the spell.
Stef froze. Yfandes' eyes were glowing, a deep, angry red that cast a faint red light on the white skin around them. He'd never seen or heard of anything like it; it was a reflection of rage he guessed, and he wasn't sure she even recognized him. He'd seen what those hooves could do-
:Where is he?: growled a female voice, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere.
He couldn't help himself; he gasped and looked wildly around, wondering how anyone had come up on him without him noticing.
:It's me, Bard.: Yfandes stalked stiffly up to him, and shoved his shoulder with her nose, knocking him over sideways. :What happened to Van? Where is he? All I remember is being darted.:
He stared at Yfandes, stunned. She must be Mindspeaking me, but how? I don't have the Gift- “I don't know,” he said aloud. “I - I ran away -”
:I know that, boy,: she snorted, mentally and physically. :Which was exactly what Van told you to do, if you'll exercise your damned memory and stop having a crisis of conscience. And I can speak anyone I choose to, it's one of the abilities Companions try not to use if there's any way around it. Now how much time have you been wasting? Were the bastards still around, or were they gone when you came back here?:
“I – uh - they were gone,” he stammered, clambering to his feet. “But they didn't exactly try to hide their trail -”
He pointed at the trampled snow just beyond her. She swung her head around then turned back to him. :How long?: she demanded again.
“It isn't much past sunset now -” he gulped, and continued bravely, “It was late afternoon when I found you. I thought you were dead. I just sort of -”
:Tyreena's blessed ass, you went into shock, Bard, you've never seen combat, you've never lost a beloved, and you went into thrice-damned shock. You pulled yourself together, which is more than I would have given you credit for being able to do. Now, are you ready to come with me and save him?:
He nodded, unable to speak.
:Then tie off my tail-slump so I don't leave a track for the wolves to follow, and let's get on with it, shall we?: She raised her head, and her eyes continued to glow with that strange crimson light. :I can't Sense him, which probably means they had more than just the dart and he's spellblocked from me. But he's not dead. They couldn't kill him without my knowing.:
Stefen searched what little had been left behind, and found a thong tied to the handle of a broken axe. He approached her flank with trepidation, the thong held out stiffly in front of him.
She swung her head in his direction and snorted again. :Pelias' tits, Bard, I'm not a horse, I'm not going to kick you.' Get on with it!:
He stumbled over the lumps of frozen snow in his haste, but managed not to fall too heavily against her. He could feel her muscles stiffening, bracing herself to keep him erect until he regained his balance. He tied the bleeding stump of her tail off as hard as he could; felt her wincing a little, but didn't quit binding it until the bleeding stopped.
She craned her neck and rump around to survey his handiwork, and nodded with approval. :Good. Gods, that hurts, though. Now, have you ever ridden bareback?:
“No -” he replied.
:Well, you're about to learn.:
Vanyel prowled the dark, sheltered corner of his mind that was the only place free of pain, the only place that was still his and his rage seethed with all the red-hot, pent fury of a volcano about to erupt. Periodically he tested his bonds, but they never yielded, and he was forced to retreat again. He wanted revenge; he wanted to feel those others die beneath the lash of his anger as the construct had died. He wanted to hear them shriek in pain and fear; he wanted to destroy them so utterly that there would not even be a puff of ash to blow away on the breeze when he was finished.
And there was nothing he could do. The spell confusing his senses was too strong to break out of; even when they'd freed his hands and feet, he'd been unable to act on that freedom. Whoever had sent that spell powder had known what Van was capable of, and had integrated magic-blocking with Mind-magic-blocking, until there was nothing he could use to lever himself out of his encapsulation.
Whoever? No - this could only be the work of his enemy. No one else knew him so well, knew his weaknesses as well as his strengths. And Vanyel had tipped his hand by using Fetching to retrieve the construct, telling his enemy, in effect, exactly what he was dealing with.
He cursed himself for having the stupidity to play right into his enemy's hands.
And his anger built until that was all there was - white rage and the hunger to kill.
Then, suddenly, one of the walls he had been flinging himself against vanished, giving him the opening he needed.
He burst his mage-born bonds and roared up out of himself, wild as a rabid beast, every deadly weapon in his arsenal sharp and ready, and looking only for a target.
Any target.
Stef found that riding bareback - at least on Yfandes - was not as hard as he'd thought it would be. Moon or no, in broad daylight Melody had stumbled and missed paces, and he had no idea how Yfandes was finding her way in the near-darkness. She flowed along the rough ground like a scent-hound, nose to the ground, relying on him to keep watch for enemies. What he was supposed to do about those enemies, he had no idea -
Snow had blown over the tracks they were following once they got up out of the sheltered hollow where they'd been ambushed. That didn't seem to bother Yfandes, much. Only once did she cast about herself for the trail, when they came up on a large meadow, silver and seamless under the moonlight, with a stiff breeze still scudding snow across it in sinuously snaking lines.
She looked out over the white expanse, and circled around the edge under the trees until she came to a place where she could pick the trail up again.
Stef felt entirely useless, just a piece of baggage on Yfandes' back.
:You won't be useless when we find them,: came the dry, unsolicited voice in his head. :You may be more involved than you'd prefer. Now will you kindly think of snow, please?:
“What?” he replied, startled.
:You're broadcasting distress to anyone able to pick up thoughts, and that distress is very much centered on Van. I don't think they have a real mage or Mind-Gifted with them, but we daren't take the chance. So will you please think about snow? Or concentrate on how cold you are. Those are ordinary enough thoughts that they shouldn't give us away.:
He huddled down a little farther into his cloak, and did as he was told, looking up at the thin clouds drifting over the moon, shivering every time the breeze found its way down the back of his neck or in the arm-slit of his cloak. He tried very hard to concentrate on how miserable he was feeling, on how he wished he was sitting beside a roaring fire, with wine mulling on the hearth, and Vanyel -
Dammit.
With wine mulling on the hearth and nowhere to go. Or sinking into a warm featherbed -
He stopped that one before it started.
Or standing before a feasting-hall crowded with adoring listeners, his stomach full of a fine dinner and better wine, and his ears full of praise -
He managed to dwell on that image for quite some time, until a particularly sharp gust of wind cut right through his cloak and gave him more thoughts of cold and misery to dwell on.
He managed to feel quite sorry for himself before too very long, and dwelling on his own unhappiness made it a lot easier to “forget” Van, and what their attackers might be doing to him.
It seemed as if they'd been traveling for an awfully long time, though.
:It's nearly dawn,: 'Fandes said. :But that's not too surprising. I hardly expected them to ambush us too near their own stronghold. The trail is getting very fresh, though, and -:
She stopped, suddenly, and flung her head up to catch the breeze, hitting him in the face with the back of her skull, and nearly knocking his front teeth out.
:Sorry. They're near. I smell woodsmoke, heated stone, burned venison, and them. Get down, and we'll take this quietly. There's bound to be a sentry, but whether it'll be on the walls or outside them-:
Let's hope it's outside, Stef thought, flexing his stiff hands, then sliding off her back to land knee-deep in snow. We won't be able to get past him if there's a sentry on the wall, and I don't know the first thing about taking one out.
He let Yfandes lead the way, picking his feet up carefully to keep from falling over anything. Finally she stopped, right on the edge of a screening of bushes.
:Careless, lazy, or stupid,: she said, and for a moment he wondered if she meant him -
:They've let all this undergrowth spring up on the edge of their clearing,: she continued, her mind-voice thick with contempt. :We can come right up to the walls without anyone ever seeing us. Ah, there he is. Stef, look up there, just above the door. See him?:
Stef picked his way up to the bushes and looked - sure enough, there was something there, pacing back and forth a little. A shadow among shadows, on the top of a wall that even in the dim moonlight showed severe neglect. The square-built keep would not have lasted a candlemark in a siege.
:That's the sentry and that's the only one they have.: She paused a moment. :Now what that means is that this is probably the only way into the building, which is not very good for us.:
“I could just walk up there,” he offered. “I'm a Bard, I could just pretend I'm a traveling minstrel -”
:In the dead of winter, the middle of nowhere? Minstrels don't travel in winter if they can help it. How the blazes did you get out here, and why did you come? They may be stupid, but they're probably suspicious bastards.:
“Uh - I could say I was turned out of my post -”
She snorted. :Have you seen any Great Houses since three days before the Border?:
“My inn, then - the innkeeper's wife and I -”
:Why here? This isn't a very promising place. It's all but falling to pieces.:
“I'm cold and hungry, and I wouldn't care if it was the first place I saw with people and food and fire -”
:Wait.: She raised her head to look over his. :Something's happening.:
With no more warning than that, the center of the building went up with an ear-numbing roar in a sheet of red and green flames.
Stef squeaked, and hid his eyes with his forearm, then peeked under the crook of his elbow. The entire front of the building had burst outward in the time he'd hidden his eyes; the door was splinters, and the right side of the keep had already collapsed outward. There were screams, but no sign of fire, and Stef realized then that what he'd just seen was an explosion of mage-power.
:Get on!: Yfandes ordered, and he scrambled onto her back. She didn't even wait this time until he'd settled himself; she just leapt through the bushes with the Bard clinging to her mane and trying desperately to get a grip on her with his legs.
She raced across the small expanse of clear ground between the bushes and the keep, and crashed through what was left of the door, coming to an abrupt halt just inside. He blinked, his eyes burning from the foul smoke blowing into them, and tried to make out what was going on. Here, inside the building, there were fires, small ones. Furniture burning. Piles of rags, smoldering -
Men.
With horror and nausea, Stefen realized that fully half of what he had thought were burning piles of flotsam were actually burning bodies, aflame with the same blood-red fires Van had used to destroy the raven-thing. And some of the piles were thrashing and screaming.
He tumbled from Yfandes' back as she pivoted, lashing out with hooves and teeth at a man running by. He tried to make some sense of the confusion, looking, without consciously realizing he was doing so, for Van.
And then the fires rose higher, reflecting off a single figure, the red glare concealing until this moment the fact that the man wore shredded Whites. Scarlet mage-fires turned his white-streaked hair into a cascade of ripping shadow threaded with blood. Just beyond, a group of terrified men crouched against the far wall, cowering away from him; some pleading, some simply trying to melt into the stone of the wall in numb fear.
“Vanyel!” Stef shouted. The Herald turned around for a moment, but a movement by one of the men he had cornered made him turn back to face them. It was Vanyel, but not a Van that Stefen recognized. Like Yfandes, his eyes and the mage-focus around his neck glowed an identical, angry red, and beneath the glow the eyes were not sane. His clothing was tattered and bloodstained, and his face disfigured with bruises, but it was not that mistreatment that made him impossible to identify. It was those furious, mad eyes, eyes which held nothing in common with humanity at all.
Vanyel gestured, and one of the men shivering against the wall jerked upright, and stumbled toward him. As he did so, the last of the screaming stopped, though the fires continued to burn in eerie silence. In that silence, the man's whimpering pleas for mercy were sickeningly clear.
Vanyel laughed. “What mercy did you grant me, scum?” he replied in a soft, conversational voice. “It seems to me that I remember you. It seems to me that you were the first and the last to sate yourself. 'Little white mare,' I believe you called me.” He gestured again, and the bandit stooped, like a clumsily-controlled marionette, and picked something up from the floor.
It was the splintered end of a spear-shaft, ragged, but as sharp as anything of metal. The bandit's arms jerked again, and the jagged end of it was placed against his stomach.
The bandit's eyes widened; his mouth opened, but nothing emerged. There was a popping sound, and as the point of the wood penetrated the bandit's clothing, Stefen realized with horror that Vanyel was forcing the brigand to disembowel himself, controlling his body with Mind-magic. “No!” he screamed. “Van, no!”
He flung himself between the two, and faced that frightening mask of insanity, his hands held out in pleading. “Van, you're a Herald, no matter what they did to you, you can't do that to him!”
The red glow died from Van's eyes for a moment; then his jaw hardened, and something like an invisible hand pushed Stefen out of the way. The Bard stumbled and fell to the filthy floor, but was up again in a breath, and right back between the Herald and his victim. The brigand fell onto his back, writhing, then stiffened as Vanyel stepped forward.
“Van - Van, don't! If you do this, you'll be just as bad as he is. Don't let him do that to you! Don't let them make you into something like they are!” Vanyel froze, with his hand still outstretched. Then the angry red glow faded, first from his eyes, then from the pendant at his breast. He blinked, and sanity returned to his face.
He looked around at the carnage he caused, and his face spasmed; his mouth twisted as if he was going to be sick, but his eyes went to two bodies beside a storeroom door, and stayed there. One of those bodies was that of an old man, with the kind of pouch an herb-Healer often carried spilled out on the floor beside him. The other body was too small to be an adult; it had to be a child.
Van's posture betrayed him - tense, and legs slightly bent.
He's going to bolt - Stef realized, wondering if he could tackle the Herald before he broke and ran.
:No, he's not,: Yfandes said firmly, and interposed herself between Vanyel and the door. Something - broke open. And suddenly Stef felt what Vanyel was feeling. Absolute revulsion at the deaths, the massacre he had caused. Despair at the knowledge that he had killed at least one innocent; two if the boy could be counted in that category. Contemptible. Worse than contemptible . . . hateful. Insane. . . .
Under the self-loathing, the fear that Yfandes and Stef would both repudiate him, would hate him for what he'd done, and cast him out of their lives and hearts.
“No – Van -” Stef walked carefully toward him, slowly, with Yfandes maneuvering to keep Van's escape blocked. “Listen to me, it's not your fault. You were in pain, your mind was confused, you weren't able to think of anything except hurting them back. That's part of you - everybody has that as a part of them. You're not a god, above mistakes! It's just a part of you that you lost control of for a little. If it had been me, I'd probably have done a lot worse things than you did -”
'Fandes herded the Herald in close enough that Stef could get Vanyel in his arms. He did so, before Van could evade his embrace. The Herald shuddered all over his body, like a terrified animal.
:We've a problem, Bard: Yfandes said grimly. .-There's a lot worse damage than we thought.: And through her powers, she permitted him a glimpse of a little of what had been done to Van, a glimpse that suddenly made Van's speech about being “sated” and “little white mares” understandable. Stefen choked - and then had to make a conscious effort to start breathing again.
The bandits seemed to realize that Vanyel was no longer a threat, and began slipping past the three of them to vanish into the thin, gray light of dawn beyond the walls. Stef ignored them; they didn't matter. What mattered was Van.
He held Vanyel, but not in a way that would confine him - lightly - and tried to send back love along the link between them. The last of the brigands, the man who'd nearly impaled himself at Vanyel's command, crawled toward the shattered door, leaving a blood-smeared trail. He scrambled to his feet when he reached it, and tumbled out of sight beyond a pile of toppled stone blocks. I don't think he'll live long out there, Stefen thought. I can't really admit to caring much if he does.
Gray light filled the hollow of the wrecked hall, and the mage-fires died and went out, leaving smears of black ash where the burning bodies had been. Vanyel stood shivering and tense in Stefen's arms, while the sun rose over the walls of the keep. Finally, as the sun touched his blood-soaked, tangled hair, he collapsed into Stef's embrace.
Yes, Stefen thought. We've won the first round -
:It won't be the last,: Yfandes said, smoldering anger beneath her words. :They've broken him.:
Then it's up to us to put him back together.
“Come on, Vanyel -,” he said softly. “Let's go. Let's get you somewhere warm and safe.”
Stef found the tack, and the configurations it had been twisted into made him tight with anger. He managed to get it all untangled, got Yfandes saddled and bridled, then she knelt and Van practically fell into her saddle.
:l'd ask you to put the supports on him,: she said after she stood up again, :- but -:
“I have a pretty good idea,” Stef answered her, wishing that the bandit Van had nearly impaled hadn't gotten away. “I'm nowhere near as innocent as Van still thinks I am. He'd just get thrown back to last night if he felt restraints.”
Vanyel had fallen into a half-stupor; shock, Stef guessed. And at this point, the last thing he wanted to do was rouse him.
“I can walk beside, and steady him in the saddle, if you don't go too fast,” he told the Companion.
:Good. Thank you.: She moved off a few steps. :How's that?:
“That will do.” He kept one hand in the small of Vanyel's back, holding his sword-belt, and one clutching the front of Van's saddle. Now, if Stefen tripped, he wouldn't fall and take Van with him. “Where are we going?” he asked, as she led him through the wreckage of the doorway and into the sunlight. Several trails of footprints led away from the place, and she looked around for a moment.
:Anywhere except where those lead,: she replied, finally. :Other than that, I really don't know. . .:
:Perhaps, white sister,: said a strange, very dry voice, .you should determine a direction before setting out.:
The bushes directly ahead of them rustled, and something large-very large-stepped out from among them.
:Perhaps I can help,: the voice continued.
Stef groped after a knife, his eyes fixed on the creature, his heart right in his throat. This beast - whatever it was - looked something like a wolf, but was much bigger than any wolf Stef had ever heard of or seen. Its shoulder was as tall as his waist; it had a thin, rangy body with long legs, and a head with a very broad, rounded forehead, forward-facing eyes, and jaws -
Dear gods, that thing could bite my arm in half and never notice -
:I could, singer, but I won't.: The thing lolled out its tongue in a canine grin. :I see you recognize my Folk, white sister. Tell him:
:That's a kyree, Stef. A neuter, I think.: Yfandes bowed her head to the creature, and Stef relaxed marginally. :One with a very powerful Gift of Mindspeech, or you wouldn't be able to hear him . . . er, it.:
:Indeed, right on all counts.: The kyree padded elegantly across the snow toward them. :I am the FarRanger for the Hot Springs Clan. I felt the magic, and I came. We are like in power, white sister, and you know my kind. Can I give you a direction?:
:Do you know the Tayledras?: she asked. The kyree nodded. :We have a treaty with them, all Clans of the Folk.:
:This one is Wingbrother to k'Treva.: She tossed her head at her rider.
He raised his head and peered keenly at Vanyel. :Then we are honor-bound to give you more than direction, we must give you aid and shelter. Though of my own will,: he added over his shoulder as he turned, :I would have done so anyway.: His lip lifted as he sniffed audibly. :The things here were a foul, uncleanly folk, and the world is well rid of them. In time, they might have been a danger to my Clan.:
Yfandes followed the kyree beneath the trees, where it turned northward. :I am Yfandes, this is Stefen, and my Chosen is Vanyel,: she said formally.
The kyree looked back over its shoulder for a moment. :I am Aroon,: he replied, just as formally. :There is deep mind-hurt with the one you call your Chosen.:
Stef felt Yfandes' shoulder muscles relax a little. :Yes. Have you a MindHealer among your Clan?:
:I fear not,: Aroon replied, regretfully. :Yet the talents of the singer and yourself, and the safety of our caves may suffice. Do not count the prey escaped until it wings into the sky.:
“I think you should know, sir,” Stef said hesitantly, “That the men that were here served someone who is our enemy. He's killed a lot of people, and he's a very powerful mage.”
:Adept-class, easily: Yfandes interjected.
“I doubt very much that he'll be pleased with the way things have turned out. And he won't hesitate to kill you if you give us shelter and protection.” Stef took a deep breath, afraid this would mean the creature would change its mind, yet feeling better that he'd told the kyree about the dangers involved.
The dry voice warmed a great deal. :We have often been called insular, and isolationist,: Aroon replied. :And there is some truth to that. But if the one you speak of would indeed kill those of whom he knows nothing to achieve his vengeance on you, then he is our enemy as well, and you are well deserving of our protection. And as the Tayledras and the white sister will tell you, that is not inconsiderable, particularly for a Clan with a Winged One.:
Yfandes heaved a great sigh. :You have a shaman, then?:
:Indeed,: the kyree chuckled. :Comparable to your Adept-class. And I doubt me that this enemy of yours has ever encountered the magic of the Folk. If he can even find you on this continent, I would be greatly surprised. So - tell me all that you know of him. Warned ahead is armed ahead.:
Yfandes touched Van's leg with her nose before answering. :They called him Master Dark-:
Sunset saw them entering the mouth of the cave-complex that the kyree called home, in the foothills of the very mountains Vanyel had been aiming for. To Stefen's considerable amazement, the caves were not dark; they were lit by glowing balls of light of many colors - each one, so Aroon told them, representing the last life-energy of a kyree shaman, created before he, she, or it passed out of the world.
:The blue are those that were mages,: he told them, as he led them through a gathering crowd of curious kyree that had gotten word of their arrival. The kyree didn't press about them, or hinder them in any way, but Stef felt their eyes on him, alight with a lively curiosity. :The green,: Aroon continued, :those that were Healers. The yellow, those that were god-touched, and the red, those that had mostly Mind-magic.: The globes of softly glowing light showed Stef wonders he'd have been glad to stop and examine more closely, if he hadn't been so worried about Van. Stone icicles grew toward stone tree trunks; stone pillars flowed toward the ceiling on either hand. Stone curtains, as rippling and fluid as real fabric, cloaked off farther chambers-light from globes behind them showed that, and the light passing through them made Stef catch his breath in wonder at their beauty.
And it was warm down here, and getting warmer.
“What's making it so warm?” Stef asked, throwing his cloak back and taking off his scarf.
:The springs,: Aroon told him. :We have both hot and cold springs here. I shall ask you while you stay here that you light no fires - the smoke will be trapped, you see, and cause us difficulties. But do not fear the winter's cold, or that you must eat your food raw. There is one spring fully hot enough that you may cook meat in it. And as for the white sister, I think we can provide -:
:I'd worried about that,: she admitted.
:Tubers, grain that we shall Fetch from those humans greedy enough to deserve being robbed, and mushrooms that we grow ourselves.: He laughed silently. :We are not wholly carnivores. :
:I'm relieved to hear it,: Yfandes began, when they passed beneath a smooth, nearly circular arch and into an enormous cavern centered with a stone formation so incredible Stef could hardly take it in. The kyree apparently appreciated it as well, for it was surrounded by glowing lights, placed to display it best. The thing looked like some kind of incredible temple, but one that had grown rather than been built. . . .
At the foot of this enormous structure lay a snow-white kyree, one with eyes as blue as Yfandes', Stef saw when they approached her closely.
:Forgive me for not rising,: the kyree whispered into their thoughts, :But I am fatigued from cloaking your arrival.: She chuckled. :'Something I am sure you appreciate. I am Hyrryl, the shaman of the Hot Springs Clan. Be welcome.:
Yfandes bowed as deeply as she could without dislodging Van.
“Our thanks, gracious Lady,” Stef said for them both.
:My thanks for your honesty with Aroon. I think that first, to warm you from your journey and to cleanse you, the springs would be the best place for all of you.: She looked up at the semi-conscious Herald appraisingly. :You have one deeply hurt; the Healing will not be easy.:
Stef finally blurted out what he'd been thinking since they met Aroon. “Lady - I don't think I can! I'm just a Bard, I don't know anything about - about Healing something like this! I -”
:You are one who loves, and is beloved,: she replied gravely. :That is not the answer to everything, but it will give you a beginning. You are a Bard, and you are practiced with words. Use that. Words can Heal - words and love together can more often achieve what magic cannot.:
Aroon bowed and moved away then; Yfandes followed, and Stef had no choice but to go along. As they left that cavern for another, Stef noticed it was getting hotter-and there was a great deal of moisture in the air. Shortly after that, he knew why, as they emerged into a cave filled with multileveled hot springs.
Yfandes stopped beside one that steamed invitingly, lit from above by a globe as yellow as sunshine. :Get him down, Stef. Strip him, and get him into the water. And get into there yourself. Then - do what seems best.:
“Why?” he asked, doing as he was told.
:I'm going with Aroon. Hyrryl is a Healer, and I need that Gift right now. Don't worry, I'll be back - and if Van starts having problems, I'll be there in a blink.:
He stripped Vanyel of his boots, shirt, and tunic - hesitated over the underbreeches, and decided to leave them on. Yfandes turned and headed wearily back toward the cavern entrance, and Stef saw how she limped - the cuts he hadn't noticed before in his anxiety for Van - how worn and exhausted she looked, and decided not to ask her to stay, even though he felt badly in need of her support.
“All right, ashke,” he said quietly, as he slipped Van down into the hot water, and the Herald started to revive from the stupor he'd been in. “Let's see if words and love really are enough.”
Life in the kyree caverns had a curious, dreamlike quality to it. Stef ate when he was hungry, slept when he was weary, and forced himself to put all thoughts of time and urgency out of his mind. Any weakness in Vanyel would be fatal once he left the caverns - Master Dark would surely be eager to have them in his hands, and sooner or later, they had to leave the protection and hospitality the kyree Clan was providing them. Yfandes helped, helped a great deal, in fact - but it became very obvious that since most of Van's mental and emotional trauma stemmed from the brutal serial rape he'd suffered, it was his lover that would have to be the prime mover in helping him become whole again.
Stef discovered a patience in himself that he had never once suspected. He took things so slowly that it was frequently Yfandes who fretted at the pace he was setting. Sometimes Van needed to be alone more than he needed either of them - when that happened, Stef took himself off to some other cavern, and made Yfandes come with him. There he usually found himself surrounded by kyree, all as hungry for music as any group of humans he'd ever encountered. He didn't have an instrument, but they considered his voice instrument enough. They'd accompany him with surprisingly complex rhythms tapped out on skin drums made for the use of paws and tails, and a low crooning drone they sang deep in their chests. Their sound was so unique, it filled him with a compulsion he would never have expected: it made him want to compose something for them, something to use their distinct sound.
He soaked with Vanyel in the hot springs, Yfandes lying in the heat nearby. It was days before Van could bear to have Stef touch him. . . .
And far longer for anything more.
And sometimes Stef was so tied up inside with frustration, longing, and emotions so confused he couldn't sort them out himself that he'd go off to some dark corner and cry himself hoarse. Hyrryl would find him there, and when he was ready he would talk to her, for hours, as Van talked to him, never minding that his was the only voice, and she ran on four feet instead of two. She spoke to him in strong, affectionate terms, and gently encouraged him to continue his “song-carving” with the kyree. He was flattered, and admitted that it actually seemed to be helping him more than it was entertaining the Clan. Hyrryl closed her eyes and chuckled silently, assuring him wordlessly not to be too sure about that. Stefen found himself telling her everything about his life over the “days,” many things he had never told Vanyel, and some things he'd never before thought of as significant. He often wondered if Van ever confided in her as well, but if he did, Stef never learned of it.
Then, one “night,” Van sought his solitary bed. Not for loving - but for comfort, which was by far the harder for him to need again - the comfort of arms around him, and the trust to sleep in the same bed as someone else.
And from that moment, there was no turning back.